"Have you come to any decision yet?"
Mr. Sims nodded. "Yes, I looked at the book last night and decided on Socrates. Just a simple cup of hemlock."
A slight frown shadowed the director's features. Was it contempt, Mr. Sims wondered, or disappointment because he had failed in his attempts to make poisoning seem a socially inferior way of dying? Nothing glamorous about such a departure, he realized. No disdainful refusal of the blindfold when gazing bravely into the leveled muzzles of the firing squad. No bullfight, armed combat, duel or ferocious carnivores.
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."