Beyond were other nurses and doctors in white uniforms, scattered like lonely ghosts among the five hundred and more patients. Hilda wondered what had induced these people to voluntarily leave the comforts of civilization. Were they derelicts of time, idealists, or just out of work?
"There is one difference in this colony," went on Dr. Henderson in a lower tone. "If any of you find it too difficult to exist under the new conditions, euthanasia will be permitted—a sleeping pill in the white room—and your troubles are over."
"Yeah—and the state saves money!" snarled the white faced man who had rebelled at the hospital entrance before them.
"It will be purely voluntary," said Dr. Henderson calmly.
"Oh, I'll bet they'll use hypnotics!" whispered Hilda, in a shocked voice, "They'll make them want to—What a twisted code of ethics. They don't dare to face their own attitudes. Such hypocrisy! Why not just line us up and use the ray guns?"
Doctor Henderson ended his address with additional promises and then stepped down. In a few minutes the crowd was broken up into small units. John and Hilda walked with the group of alcoholics and arrested mental cases. They began to talk and sought acquaintanceship to cancel fear. It was almost a relief to leave the congregation of pain behind them.
There was only one doctor with this group, Old Doctor Smithson, a retired psychiatrist who had begun working at the district hospital after losing his fortune in the stock market. He was now too old for general practice. His thin, bent shoulders straightened as he walked. His words became crisp and cheerful as if he welcomed the adventure. With him were two nurses, Mary, the blonde girl Hilda had noticed, and a little, red headed, freckled faced woman of indeterminate years.
Near Hilda and John walked Major Henry Mattson, a psychiatric casualty of the war of 1960, seemingly cured. The rebellious one, twice noticed by the reporters before, walked ahead. He said his name was Tony Pacina. A tall, white haired man with thick glasses, recently cured of a cataract, introduced himself as Mark Hemingway and said that he was a chemist and had been in the surgery at the hospital for his operation because of confidence in Dr. Henderson. If this should prove true his accidental presence might be helpful.
Around them were the others they would seek to know later. The group tramped briskly behind Dr. Smithson. They were the "cured" ones. With health, happiness is possible anywhere. They felt themselves beginning a strange comradeship, even cheerfulness.