Death of a Spaceman Read online

her head. "Don't talk, Donny, please."

  "A man makes his own soul, Martha."

  "That's not true. You shouldn't say things like that."

  "A man makes his own soul, but it dies with him, unless he can pour itinto his kids and his grandchildren before he goes. I lied to myself.Ken's a yellow-belly. Nora made him one, and the boots won't fit."

  "Don't, Donny. You'll excite yourself again."

  "I was going to give him the boots--the over-boots with magnasoles. Butthey won't fit him. They won't ever fit him. He's a lily-liveredlap-dog, and he whines. Bring me my boots, woman."

  "Donny!"

  "The boots, they're in my locker in the attic. I want them."

  "What on earth!"

  "Bring me my goddam space boots and put them on my feet. I'm going towear them."

  "You can't; the priest's coming."

  "Well, get them anyway. What time is it? You didn't let me sleep throughthe moon-run blast, did you?"

  She shook her head. "It's half an hour yet ... I'll get the boots if youpromise not to make me put them on you."

  "I want them on."

  "You can't, until Father Paul's finished."

  "Do I have to get my feet buttered?"

  She sighed. "I wish you wouldn't say things like that. I wish youwouldn't, Donny. It's sacrilege, you know it is."

  "All right--'anointed'," he corrected wearily.

  "Yes, you do."

  "The boots, woman, the boots."

  She went to get them. While she was gone, the doorbell rang, and heheard her quick footsteps on the stairs, and then Father Paul's voiceasking about the patient. Old Donegal groaned inwardly. After thepriest, the doctor would come, at the usual time, to see if he were deadyet. The doctor had let him come home from the hospital to die, and thedoctor was getting impatient. Why don't they let me alone? he growled.Why don't they let me handle it in my own way, and stop making a fussover it? I can die and do a good job of it without a lot of outsideinterference, and I wish they'd quit picking at me with syringes andsacraments and enemas. All he wanted was a chance to listen to theorchestra on the Keith terrace, to drink the rest of his whiskey, and tohear the beast blast-away for the satellite on the first lap of the runto Luna.

  * * * * *

  It's going to be my last day, he thought. My eyes are going fuzzy, and Ican't breathe right, and the throbbing's hurting my head. Whether helived through the night wouldn't matter, because delirium was comingover him, and then there would be the coma, and the symbolic fight tokeep him pumping and panting. I'd rather die tonight and get it overwith, he thought, but they probably won't let me go.

  He heard their voices coming up the stairs ...

  "Nora tried to get them to stop it, Father, but she couldn't get in tosee anybody but the butler. He told her he'd tell Mrs. Keith, butnothing happened. It's just as loud as before."

  "Well, as long as Donny doesn't mind--"

  "He just says that. You know how he is."

  "What're they celebrating, Martha?"

  "Young Ronald's leaving--for pre-space training. It's a going-awayaffair." They paused in the doorway. The small priest smiled in atDonegal and nodded. He set his black bag on the floor inside, winkedsolemnly at the patient.

  "I'll leave you two alone," said Martha. She closed the door and herfootsteps wandered off down the hall.

  Donegal and the young priest eyed each other warily.

  "You look like hell, Donegal," the padre offered jovially. "Feelingnasty?"

  "Skip the small talk. Let's get this routine over with."

  The priest humphed thoughtfully, sauntered across to the bed, gazed downat the old man disinterestedly. "What's the matter? Don't want the'routine'? Rather play it tough?"

  "What's the difference?" he growled. "Hurry up and get out. I want tohear the beast blast off."

  "You won't be able to," said the priest, glancing at the window, nowclosed again. "That's quite a racket next door."

  "They'd better stop for it. They'd better quiet down for it. They'llhave to turn it off for five minutes or so."

  "Maybe they won't."

  It was a new idea, and it frightened him. He liked the music, and theparty's gaiety, the nearness of youth and good times--but it hadn'toccurred to him that it wouldn't stop so he could hear the beast.

  "Don't get upset, Donegal. You know what a blast-off sounds like."

  "But it's the last one. The last time. I want to hear."

  "How do you know it's the last time?"

  "Hell, don't I know when I'm kicking off?"

  "Maybe, maybe not. It's hardly your decision."

  "It's not, eh?" Old Donegal fumed. "Well, bigawd you'd think it wasn't.You'd think it was Martha's and yours and that damfool medic's. You'dthink I got no say-so. Who's doing it anyway?"

  "I would guess," Father Paul grunted sourly, "that Providence mightappreciate His fair share of the credit."

  Old Donegal made a surly noise and hunched his head back into the pillowto glower.

  "You want me?" the priest asked. "Or is this just a case of wifelyconscience?"

  "What's the difference? Give me the business and scram."

  "No soap. Do you want the sacrament, or are you just being kind to yourwife? If it's for Martha, I'll go _now_."

  Old Donegal glared at him for a time, then wilted. The priest broughthis bag to the bedside.

  "Bless me, father, for I have sinned."

  "Bless you, son."

  "I accuse myself ..."

  * * * * *

  Tension, anger, helplessness--they had piled up on him, and now he wasfeeling the after-effects. Vertigo, nausea, and the black confetti--abad spell. The whiskey--if he could only reach the whiskey. Then heremembered he was receiving a Sacrament, and struggled to get on withit. Tell him, old man, tell him of your various rottennesses and viletransgressions, if you can remember some. A sin is whatever you're sorryfor, maybe. But Old Donegal, you're sorry for the wrong things, and thisyoung jesuitical gadget wouldn't like listening to it. I'm sorry Ididn't get it instead of Oley, and I'm sorry I fought in the war, andI'm sorry I can't get out of this bed and take a belt to my daughter'sbackside for making a puny whelp out of Ken, and I'm sorry I gave Marthasuch a rough time all these years--and wound up dying in a cheap flat,instead of giving her things like the Keiths had. I wish I had been asharpster, contractor, or thief ... instead of a common laboring spacer,whose species lost its glamor after the war.

  Listen, old man, you made your soul yourself, and it's yours. This youngdispenser of oils, substances, and mysteries wishes only to help youscrape off the rough edges and gouge out the bad spots. He will notsteal it, nor distort it with his supernatural chisels, nor make fun ofit. He can take nothing away, but only cauterize and neutralize, hesays, so why not let him try? Tell him the rotten messes.

  "Are you finished, my son?"

  Old Donegal nodded wearily, and said what he was asked to say, and heardthe soft mutter of Latin that washed him inside and behind his ghostlyears ... _ego te absolvo in Nomine Patris_ ... and he accepted the restof it lying quietly in the candlelight and the red glow of the sunsetthrough the window, while the priest anointed him and gave him bread,and read the words of the soul in greeting its spouse: "I was asleep,but my heart waked; it is the voice of my beloved calling: come to me mylove, my dove, my undefiled ..." and from beyond the closed window camethe sarcastic wail of a clarinet painting hot slides against a rhythmicbackground.

  It wasn't so bad, Old Donegal thought when the priest was done. He feltlike a schoolboy in a starched shirt on Sunday morning, and it wasn't abad feeling, though it left him weak.

  The priest opened the window for him again, and repacked his bag. "Tenminutes till blast-off," he said. "I'll see what I can do about theracket next door."

  When he was gone, Martha came back in, and he looked at her face and wasglad. She was smiling when she kissed him, and she looked less tired.

  "Is i
t all right for me to die now?" he grunted.

  "Donny, don't start that again."

  "Where's the boots? You promised to bring them?"

  "They're in the hall. Donny, you don't want them."

  "I want them, and I want a drink of whiskey, and I want to hear themfire the