will stand open for all those who shall in the course of the past year
have reached the age-limit. You figure the wide streets filled all day
long with little solemn processions--solemn and yet not in the least
unhappy.... You figure the old man walking with a firm step in the
midst of his progeny, looking around him with a clear eye at this dear
world which is about to lose him. He will not be thinking of himself.
He will not be wishing the way to the lethal chamber was longer. He
will be filled with joy at the thought that he is about to die for
the good of the race--to 'make way' for the beautiful young breed
of men and women who, in simple, artistic, antiseptic garments, are
disporting themselves so gladly on this day of days. They pause
to salute him as he passes. And presently he sees, radiant in the
sunlight, the pleasant white-tiled dome of the lethal chamber. You
figure him at the gate, shaking hands all round, and speaking perhaps
a few well-chosen words about the Future...."


§5.

It was enough. The old broom hadn't lost its snap. It had swept clean
the chambers of Perkins' soul--swished away the whole accumulation of
nasty little cobwebs and malignant germs. Gone were the mean doubts
that had formed in him, the lethargy, the cheap cynicism. Perkins was
himself again.

He saw now how very stupid it was of him to have despaired just
because his own particular panacea wasn't given a chance. That
Provisional Government plan of his had been good, but it was only
one of an infinite number of possible paths to the Dawn. He would
try others--scores of others....