The director shrugged. "Well, it's tranquil and dignified, I suppose," he conceded finally. Then the practical streak in his nature came to the forefront and his mind ran quickly over the possibilities. "If I remember correctly, Socrates died in the company of a number of good friends. They discussed philosophy." "I'll have my family instead. I've no idea what we'll talk about. Their names are on this list." "It's irregular--" "Nevertheless, I want them here." "All right," said Mr. Hoode, disappointed. "I'll send for them today. I'll also see the lab about some hemlock and something authentic to hold it in--an amphora or whatever the Greeks used. By the way, I'm not too well acquainted with Socrates. Are there any unusual details?" "If there are, forget them," Mr. Sims said. "The family and the hemlock will be sufficient." Mr. Hoode sniffed peevishly. "As you wish. Be ready tomorrow." * * * * * The rough woven garment was a concession to Mr. Hoode, who said it was Grecian, and Mr. Sims wore it to make up for any annoyance he may have caused the director. It was rather itchy and much too warm, he thought, as he waited by the fountain at the far end of the park. The hemlock was in a bronze goblet on the parapet beside him. The family would be here soon. He wondered how they would feel about being dragged way out here. They arrived a half hour later: Cousin Nat, his two nephews, George and Alec, their wives, and George's five-year-old, Mike. Mr. Hoode was also with them, but he left the party as soon as he had shown them where Mr. Sims was waiting. The meeting was restrained. Clearly they were not happy about making the trip. There were no smiles of greeting; only young Mike showed any distinct interest. He sat down at Mr. Sims' feet, playing havoc with the lawn with a toy dagger. "Where's the poison, Grandpa?" he asked eagerly. Mr. Sims lifted the boy up on to his knee and rumpled his hair playfully in a feeble attempt to ease the tension. The others stood around silently watching. No one made any move to sit down. It was their way of telling him they hoped they wouldn't have to wait too long. Mr. Sims suddenly wished he were in one of the quiet rooms of the palace, alone. Cousin Nat was the first one to break the awkward silence. "Who in hell was that madman who brought us over here?" "That's Mr. Hoode, the director," Mr. Sims explained. "He's quite an artist in his way." "He's insane!" Nat said flatly. "All the way over, he talked about nothing but dying. Told us we could come here and die any way we wanted. If any of us wanted to go out like Early Christians, he would be only too happy to set up an arena for us. He even asked me if I wanted to put my name down for a rehash of Custer's Last Stand for 2013. With real bullets!" He passed his hand nervously through his thinning hair. "For God's sake, he must think I _want_ to get scalped!"