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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/29643-h.zip b/29643-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..8c0269f --- /dev/null +++ b/29643-h.zip diff --git a/29643-h/29643-h.htm b/29643-h/29643-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..fda612d --- /dev/null +++ b/29643-h/29643-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1957 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of Death of a Spaceman, by Walter M. Miller, Jr. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> + + p {margin-top: .75em; text-align: justify; margin-bottom: .75em;} + h1,h2 {text-align: left; font-weight: normal;} + h1 {float: left; width: auto;} + h2 {clear: left;} + hr {width: 45%; margin: 2em auto; visibility: hidden;} + body {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + .figright {float: right; clear: right; margin: 0 0 1em 1em; padding: 0; width: 377px; text-align: right;} + .poem {margin: 0 auto; text-align: left; width: 15em;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em auto;} + .poem br {display: none;} + .poem span.i0 {display: block; margin-left: 0em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + img {border: none;} + a:link,a:visited {text-decoration: none;} + p.cap:first-letter {float: left; margin-right: .05em; padding-top: .05em; font-size: 300%; line-height: .8em; width: auto;} + .figt {float: left; clear: left; margin: 15px; padding: 0; width: 144px;} + .trn {border: solid 1px; margin: 3em 15%; min-height: 230px;} + .trn p {margin: 15px;} + .ml2 {margin-left: 2em;} + .ml4 {margin-left: 4em;} + .bk1 {margin: 2em auto 2em 0; width: 25em;} + + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Death of a Spaceman, by Walter M. Miller + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Death of a Spaceman + +Author: Walter M. Miller + +Illustrator: Ernest Schroeder + +Release Date: August 9, 2009 [EBook #29643] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DEATH OF A SPACEMAN *** + + + + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<div class="figright"><small><b>Illustrator: Ernest Schroeder</b></small> +<img src="images/001.png" width="377" height="500" alt="" title="" /></div> + +<h1><big>DEATH<br /> +<span class="ml2">OF A</span><br /> +<span class="ml4">SPACEMAN</span></big></h1> + +<h2>BY WALTER M. MILLER, JR.</h2> + +<div class="bk1"><p><i><big>The manner in which a man has lived is often the +key to the way he will die. Take old man Donegal, +for example. Most of his adult life was spent in +digging a hole through space to learn what was on +the other side. Would he go out the same way?</big></i></p></div> + +<p class="cap"><span class="smcap">Old Donegal</span> was dying. They +had all known it was coming, +and they watched it come—his +haggard wife, his daughter, and +now his grandson, home on emergency +leave from the pre-astronautics +academy. Old Donegal +knew it too, and had known it +from the beginning, when he had +begun to lose control of his legs +and was forced to walk with a +cane. But most of the time, he +pretended to let them keep the +secret they shared with the doctors—that +the operations had all +been failures, and that the cancer +that fed at his spine would gnaw +its way brainward until the paralysis +engulfed vital organs, and +then Old Donegal would cease to +be. It would be cruel to let them +know that he knew. Once, weeks +ago, he had joked about the approaching +shadows.</p> + +<p>"Buy the plot back where people +won't walk over it, Martha," +he said. "Get it way back under +the cedars—next to the fence. +There aren't many graves back +there yet. I want to be alone."</p> + +<p>"Don't <i>talk</i> that way, Donny!" +his wife had choked. "You're not +dying."</p> + +<p>His eyes twinkled maliciously. +"Listen, Martha, I want to be +buried face-down. I want to be +buried with my back to space, +understand? Don't let them lay +me out like a lily."</p> + +<p>"Donny, <i>please</i>!"</p> + +<p>"They oughta face a man the +way he's headed," Donegal +grunted. "I been up—<i>way</i> up. +Now I'm going straight down."</p> + +<p>Martha had fled from the room +in tears. He had never done it +again, except to the interns and +nurses, who, while they insisted +that he was going to get well, +didn't mind joking with him about +it.</p> + +<p>Martha can bear my death, he +thought, can bear pre-knowledge +of it. But she couldn't bear thinking +that he might take it calmly. +If he accepted death gracefully, it +would be like deliberately leaving +her, and Old Donegal had decided +to help her believe whatever +would be comforting to her in such +a troublesome moment.</p> + +<p>"When'll they let me out of +this bed again?" he complained.</p> + +<p>"Be patient, Donny," she +sighed. "It won't be long. You'll +be up and around before you +know it."</p> + +<p>"Back on the moon-run, +maybe?" he offered. "Listen, +Martha, I been planet-bound too +long. I'm not too old for the moon-run, +am I? Sixty-three's not so +old."</p> + +<p>That had been carrying things +too far. She knew he was hoaxing, +and dabbed at her eyes again. +The dead must humor the mourners, +he thought, and the sick must +comfort the visitors. It was always +so.</p> + +<p>But it was harder, now that the +end was near. His eyes were +hazy, and his thoughts unclear. +He could move his arms a little, +clumsily, but feeling was gone +from them. The rest of his body +was lost to him. Sometimes he +seemed to feel his stomach and +his hips, but the sensation was +mostly an illusion offered by +higher nervous centers, like the +"ghost-arm" that an amputee +continues to feel. The wires were +down, and he was cut off from +himself.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>He lay wheezing on the hospital +bed, in his own room, in his own +rented flat. Gaunt and unshaven, +gray as winter twilight, he lay +staring at the white net curtains +that billowed gently in the breeze +from the open window. There was +no sound in the room but the +sound of breathing and the loud +ticking of an alarm clock. Occasionally +he heard a chair scraping +on the stone terrace next door, +and the low mutter of voices, +sometimes laughter, as the servants +of the Keith mansion arranged +the terrace for late afternoon +guests.</p> + +<p>With considerable effort, he +rolled his head toward Martha +who sat beside the bed, pinch-faced +and weary.</p> + +<p>"You ought to get some sleep," +he said.</p> + +<p>"I slept yesterday. Don't talk, +Donny. It tires you."</p> + +<p>"You ought to get more sleep. +You never sleep enough. Are you +afraid I'll get up and run away if +you go to sleep for a while?"</p> + +<p>She managed a brittle smile. +"There'll be plenty of time for +sleep when ... when you're well +again." The brittle smile fled and +she swallowed hard, like swallowing +a fish-bone. He glanced down, +and noticed that she was squeezing +his hand spasmodically.</p> + +<p>There wasn't much left of the +hand, he thought. Bones and ugly +tight-stretched hide spotted with +brown. Bulging knuckles with +yellow cigaret stains. My hand. +He tried to tighten it, tried to +squeeze Martha's thin one in +return. He watched it open and +contract a little, but it was like +operating a remote-control mechanism. +Goodbye, hand, you're +leaving me the way my legs did, +he told it. I'll see you again in +hell. How hammy can you get, +Old Donegal? You maudlin ass.</p> + +<p>"Requiescat," he muttered +over the hand, and let it lie in +peace.</p> + +<p>Perhaps she heard him. +"Donny," she whispered, leaning +closer, "won't you let me call the +priest now? Please."</p> + +<p>He rattled a sigh and rolled his +head toward the window again. +"Are the Keiths having a party +today?" he asked. "Sounds like +they're moving chairs out on the +terrace."</p> + +<p>"Please, Donny, the priest?"</p> + +<p>He let his head roll aside and +closed his eyes, as if asleep. The +bed shook slightly as she quickly +caught at his wrist to feel for a +pulse.</p> + +<p>"If I'm not dying, I don't need +a priest," he said sleepily.</p> + +<p>"That's not right," she scolded +softly. "You know that's not +right, Donny. You know better."</p> + +<p>Maybe I'm being too rough on +her? he wondered. He hadn't +minded getting baptized her way, +and married her way, and occasionally +priest-handled the way +she wanted him to when he was +home from a space-run, but when +it came to dying, Old Donegal +wanted to do it his own way.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>He opened his eyes at the sound +of a bench being dragged across +the stone terrace. "Martha, what +kind of a party are the Keiths +having today?"</p> + +<p>"I wouldn't know," she said +stiffly. "You'd think they'd have +a little more respect. You'd think +they'd put it off a few days."</p> + +<p>"Until—?"</p> + +<p>"Until you feel better."</p> + +<p>"I feel fine, Martha. I like +parties. I'm glad they're having +one. Pour me a drink, will you? +I can't reach the bottle anymore."</p> + +<p>"It's empty."</p> + +<p>"No, it isn't, Martha, it's still a +quarter full. I know. I've been +watching it."</p> + +<p>"You shouldn't have it, Donny. +Please don't."</p> + +<p>"But this is a party, Martha. +Besides, the doctor says I can +have whatever I want. Whatever +I want, you hear? That means +I'm getting well, doesn't it?"</p> + +<p>"Sure, Donny, sure. Getting +well."</p> + +<p>"The whiskey, Martha. Just a +finger in a tumbler, no more. I +want to feel like it's a party."</p> + +<p>Her throat was rigid as she +poured it. She helped him get the +tumbler to his mouth. The liquor +seared his throat, and he gagged +a little as the fumes clogged his +nose. Good whiskey, the best—but +he couldn't take it any more. +He eyed the green stamp on the +neck of the bottle on the bed-table +and grinned. He hadn't had +whiskey like that since his space-days. +Couldn't afford it now, not +on a blastman's pension.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>He remembered how he and +Caid used to smuggle a couple of +fifths aboard for the moon-run. +If they caught you, it meant suspension, +but there was no harm +in it, not for the blastroom men +who had nothing much to do from +the time the ship acquired enough +velocity for the long, long coaster +ride until they started the rockets +again for Lunar landing. You +could drink a fifth, jettison the +bottle through the trash lock, and +sober up before you were needed +again. It was the only way to pass +the time in the cramped cubicle, +unless you ruined your eyes trying +to read by the glow-lamps. Old +Donegal chuckled. If he and Caid +had stayed on the run, Earth +would have a ring by now, like +Saturn—a ring of Old Granddad +bottles.</p> + +<p>"You said it, Donny-boy," said +the misty man by the billowing +curtains. "Who else knows the +gegenschein is broken glass?"</p> + +<p>Donegal laughed. Then he wondered +what the man was doing +there. The man was lounging +against the window, and his unzipped +space rig draped about him +in an old familiar way. Loose +plug-in connections and hose-ends +dangled about his lean body. He +was freckled and grinning.</p> + +<p>"Caid," Old Donegal breathed +softly.</p> + +<p>"What did you say, Donny?" +Martha answered.</p> + +<p>Old Donegal blinked hard and +shook his head. Something let go +with a soggy snap, and the misty +man was gone. I'd better take it +easy on the whiskey, he thought. +You got to wait, Donegal, old +lush, until Nora and Ken get here. +You can't get drunk until they're +gone, or you might get them +mixed up with memories like +Caid's.</p> + +<p>Car doors slammed in the street +below. Martha glanced toward the +window.</p> + +<p>"Think it's them? I wish they'd +get here. I wish they'd hurry."</p> + +<p>Martha arose and tiptoed to +the window. She peered down +toward the sidewalk, put on a +sharp frown. He heard a distant +mutter of voices and occasional +laughter, with group-footsteps +milling about on the sidewalk. +Martha murmured her disapproval +and closed the window.</p> + +<p>"Leave it open," he said.</p> + +<p>"But the Keiths' guests are +starting to come. There'll be such +a racket." She looked at him +hopefully, the way she did when +she prompted his manners before +company came.</p> + +<p>Maybe it wasn't decent to listen +in on a party when you were +dying, he thought. But that +wasn't the reason. Donegal, your +chamber-pressure's dropping off. +Your brains are in your butt-end, +where a spacer's brains belong, but +your butt-end died last month. +She wants the window closed for +her own sake, not yours.</p> + +<p>"Leave it closed," he grunted. +"But open it again before the +moon-run blasts off. I want to +listen."</p> + +<p>She smiled and nodded, glancing +at the clock. "It'll be an hour +and a half yet. I'll watch the +time."</p> + +<p>"I hate that clock. I wish you'd +throw it out. It's loud."</p> + +<p>"It's your medicine-clock, +Donny." She came back to sit +down at his bedside again. She +sat in silence. The clock filled the +room with its clicking pulse.</p> + +<p>"What time are they coming?" +he asked.</p> + +<p>"Nora and Ken? They'll be +here soon. Don't fret."</p> + +<p>"Why should I fret?" He +chuckled. "That boy—he'll be a +good spacer, won't he, Martha?"</p> + +<p>Martha said nothing, fanned at +a fly that crawled across his pillow. +The fly buzzed up in an angry +spiral and alighted on the +ceiling. Donegal watched it for a +time. The fly had natural-born +space-legs. I know your tricks, he +told it with a smile, and I learned +to walk on the bottomside of +things before you were a maggot. +You stand there with your magnasoles +hanging to the hull, and +the rest of you's in free fall. You +jerk a sole loose, and your knee +flies up to your belly, and reaction +spins you half-around and near +throws your other hip out of +joint if you don't jam the foot +down fast and jerk up the other. +It's worse'n trying to run through +knee-deep mud with snow-shoes, +and a man'll go nuts trying to +keep his arms and legs from taking +off in odd directions. I know your +tricks, fly. But the fly was born +with his magnasoles, and he +trotted across the ceiling like +Donegal never could.</p> + +<p>"That boy Ken—he ought to +make a damn good space-engineer," +wheezed the old man.</p> + +<p>Her silence was long, and he +rolled his head toward her again. +Her lips tight, she stared down at +the palm of his hand, unfolded his +bony fingers, felt the cracked +calluses that still welted the +shrunken skin, calluses worn there +by the linings of space gauntlets +and the handles of fuel valves, and +the rungs of get-about ladders +during free fall.</p> + +<p>"I don't know if I should tell +you," she said.</p> + +<p>"Tell me what, Martha?"</p> + +<p>She looked up slowly, scrutinizing +his face. "Ken's changed +his mind, Nora says. Ken doesn't +like the academy. She says he +wants to go to medical school."</p> + +<p>Old Donegal thought it over, +nodded absently. "That's fine. +Space-medics get good pay." He +watched her carefully.</p> + +<p>She lowered her eyes, rubbed +at his calluses again. She shook +her head slowly. "He doesn't +want to go to space."</p> + +<p>The clock clicked loudly in the +closed room.</p> + +<p>"I thought I ought to tell you, +so you won't say anything to him +about it," she added.</p> + +<p>Old Donegal looked grayer than +before. After a long silence, he +rolled his head away and looked +toward the limp curtains.</p> + +<p>"Open the window, Martha," +he said.</p> + +<p>Her tongue clucked faintly as +she started to protest, but she +said nothing. After frozen seconds, +she sighed and went to open it. +The curtains billowed, and a +babble of conversation blew in +from the terrace of the Keith +mansion. With the sound came +the occasional brassy discord of a +musician tuning his instrument. +She clutched the window-sash as +if she wished to slam it closed +again.</p> + +<p>"Well! Music!" grunted Old +Donegal. "That's good. This is +some shebang. Good whiskey and +good music and you." He chuckled, +but it choked off into a fit of +coughing.</p> + +<p>"Donny, about Ken—"</p> + +<p>"No matter, Martha," he said +hastily. "Space-medic's pay is +good."</p> + +<p>"But, Donny—" She turned +from the window, stared at him +briefly, then said, "Sure, Donny, +sure," and came back to sit down +by his bed.</p> + +<p>He smiled at her affectionately. +She was a man's woman, was +Martha—always had been, still +was. He had married her the year +he had gone to space—a lissome, +wistful, old-fashioned lass, with +big violet eyes and gentle hands +and gentle thoughts—and she +had never complained about the +long and lonely weeks between +blast-off and glide-down, when +most spacers' wives listened to the +psychiatrists and soap-operas and +soon developed the symptoms +that were expected of them, either +because the symptoms were <i>chic</i>, +or because they felt they should +do something to earn the pity +that was extended to them. "It's +not so bad," Martha had assured +him. "The house keeps me busy +till Nora's home from school, and +then there's a flock of kids around +till dinner. Nights are a little +empty, but if there's a moon, I +can always go out on the porch +and look at it and know where +you are. And Nora gets out the +telescope you built her, and we +make a game of it. 'Seeing if +Daddy's still at the office,' she calls +it."</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>"Those were the days," he +muttered.</p> + +<p>"What, Donny?"</p> + +<p>"Do you remember that Steve +Farran song?"</p> + +<p>She paused, frowning thoughtfully. +There were a lot of Steve +Farran songs, but after a moment +she picked the right one, and sang +it softly ...</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"O moon whereo'er the clouds fly,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beyond the willow tree,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There is a ramblin' space guy<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I wish you'd save for me.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"<i>Mare Tranquillitatis</i>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O dark and tranquil sea,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Until he drops from heaven,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rest him there with thee ..."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Her voice cracked, and she +laughed. Old Donegal chuckled +weakly.</p> + +<p>"Fried mush," he said. "That +one made the cats wilt their ears +and wail at the moon.</p> + +<p>"I feel real crazy," he added. +"Hand me the king kong, fluff-muff."</p> + +<p>"Keep cool, Daddy-O, you've +had enough." Martha reddened +and patted his arm, looking +pleased. Neither of them had +talked that way, even in the old +days, but the out-dated slang +brought back memories—school +parties, dances at the Rocketport +Club, the early years of the war +when Donegal had jockeyed an +R-43 fighter in the close-space +assaults against the Soviet satellite +project. The memories were +good.</p> + +<p>A brassy blare of modern +"slide" arose suddenly from the +Keith terrace as the small orchestra +launched into its first +number. Martha caught an angry +breath and started toward the +window.</p> + +<p>"Leave it," he said. "It's a +party. Whiskey, Martha. Please—just +a small one."</p> + +<p>She gave him a hurtful glance.</p> + +<p>"Whiskey. Then you can call +the priest."</p> + +<p>"Donny, it's not right. You +know it's not right—to bargain +for such as that."</p> + +<p>"All right. Whiskey. Forget +the priest."</p> + +<p>She poured it for him, and +helped him get it down, and then +went out to make the phone-call. +Old Donegal lay shuddering over +the whiskey taste and savoring +the burn in his throat. Jesus, but +it was good.</p> + +<p>You old bastard, he thought, +you got no right to enjoy life +when nine-tenths of you is dead +already, and the rest is foggy as a +thermal dust-rise on the lunar +maria at hell-dawn. But it wasn't +a bad way to die. It ate your +consciousness away from the feet +up; it gnawed away the Present, +but it let you keep the Past, until +everything faded and blended. +Maybe that's what Eternity was, +he thought—one man's subjective +Past, all wrapped up and +packaged for shipment, a single +space-time entity, a one-man microcosm +of memories, when nothing +else remains.</p> + +<p>"If I've got a soul, I made it +myself," he told the gray nun at +the foot of his bed.</p> + +<p>The nun held out a pie pan, +rattled a few coins in it. "Contribute +to the Radiation Victims' +Relief?" the nun purred softly.</p> + +<p>"I know you," he said. "You're +my conscience. You hang around +the officers' mess, and when we +get back from a sortie, you make +us pay for the damage we did. +But that was forty years ago."</p> + +<p>The nun smiled, and her luminous +eyes were on him softly. +"Mother of God!" he breathed, +and reached for the whiskey. His +arm obeyed. The last drink had +done him good. He had to watch +his hand to see where it was going, +and squeezed the neck until his +fingers whitened so that he knew +that he had it, but he got it off the +table and onto his chest, and he +got the cork out with his teeth. +He had a long pull at the bottle, +and it made his eyes water and his +hands grow weak. But he got it +back to the table without spilling +a bit, and he was proud of himself.</p> + +<p>The room was spinning like the +cabin of a gyro-gravved ship. By +the time he wrestled it to a standstill, +the nun was gone. The blare +of music from the Keith terrace +was louder, and laughing voices +blended with it. Chairs scraping +and glasses rattling. A fine party, +Keith, I'm glad you picked today. +This shebang would be the younger +Keith's affair. Ronald Tonwyler +Keith, III, scion of Orbital Engineering +and Construction Company—builders +of the moon-shuttle +ships that made the run +from the satellite station to Luna +and back.</p> + +<p>It's good to have such important +neighbors, he thought. He +wished he had been able to meet +them while he was still up and +about. But the Keiths' place was +walled-in, and when a Keith came +out, he charged out in a limousine +with a chauffeur at the wheel, and +the iron gate closed again. The +Keiths built the wall when the +surrounding neighborhood began +to grow shabby with age. It had +once been the best of neighborhoods, +but that was before Old +Donegal lived in it. Now it consisted +of sooty old houses and +rented flats, and the Keith place +was really not a part of it anymore. +Nevertheless, it was really +something when a pensioned blastman +could say, "I live out close +to the Keiths—you know, the +<i>Ronald</i> Keiths." At least, that's +what Martha always told him.</p> + +<p>The music was so loud that he +never heard the doorbell ring, but +when a lull came, he heard Nora's +voice downstairs, and listened +hopefully for Ken's. But when +they came up, the boy was not +with them.</p> + +<p>"Hello, skinny-britches," he +greeted his daughter.</p> + +<p>Nora grinned and came over to +kiss him. Her hair dangled about +his face, and he noticed that it +was blacker than usual, with the +gray streaks gone from it again.</p> + +<p>"You smell good," he said.</p> + +<p>"You don't, Pops. You smell +like a sot. Naughty!"</p> + +<p>"Where's Ken?"</p> + +<p>She moistened her lips nervously +and looked away. "He +couldn't come. He had to take a +driver's lesson. He really couldn't +help it. If he didn't go, he'd lose +his turn, and then he wouldn't +finish before he goes back to the +academy." She looked at him +apologetically.</p> + +<p>"It's all right, Nora."</p> + +<p>"If he missed it, he wouldn't +get his copter license until summer."</p> + +<p>"It's okay. Copters! Hell, the +boy should be in jets by now!"</p> + +<p>Several breaths passed in silence. +She gazed absently toward +the window and shook her head. +"No jets, Pop. Not for Ken."</p> + +<p>He glowered at her. "Listen! +How'll he get into space? He's +got to get his jet licenses first. +Can't get in rockets without 'em."</p> + +<p>Nora shot a quick glance at her +mother. Martha rolled her eyes +as if sighing patiently. Nora went +to the window to stare down toward +the Keith terrace. She +tucked a cigaret between scarlet +lips, lit it, blew nervous smoke +against the pane.</p> + +<p>"Mom, can't you call them +and have that racket stopped?"</p> + +<p>"Donny says he likes it."</p> + +<p>Nora's eyes flitted over the +scene below. "Female butterflies +and puppy-dogs in sport jackets. +And the cadets." She snorted. +"Cadets! Imagine Ron Keith the +Third ever going to space. The +old man buys his way into the +academy, and they throw a brawl +as if Ronny passed the Compets."</p> + +<p>"Maybe he did," growled Old +Donegal.</p> + +<p>"Hah!"</p> + +<p>"They live in a different world, +I guess," Martha sighed.</p> + +<p>"If it weren't for men like +Pops, they'd never've made their +fortune."</p> + +<p>"I like the music, I tell you," +grumbled the old man.</p> + +<p>"I'm half-a-mind to go over +there and tell them off," Nora +murmured.</p> + +<p>"Let them alone. Just so they'll +stop the racket for blast-away."</p> + +<p>"Look at them!—polite little +pattern-cuts, all alike. They take +pre-space, because it's the thing to +do. Then they quit before the +pay-off comes."</p> + +<p>"How do you know they'll +quit?"</p> + +<p>"That party—I bet it cost +six months' pay, spacer's pay," +she went on, ignoring him. "And +what do real spacers get? Oley +gets killed, and Pop's pension +wouldn't feed the Keiths' cat."</p> + +<p>"You don't understand, girl."</p> + +<p>"I lost Oley. I understand +enough."</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>He watched her silently for a +moment, then closed his eyes. It +was no good trying to explain, no +good trying to tell her the dough +didn't mean a damn thing. She'd +been a spacer's wife, and that was +bad enough, but now she was a +spacer's widow. And Oley? Oley's +tomb revolved around the sun in +an eccentric orbit that spun-in +close to Mercury, then reached +out into the asteroid belt, once +every 725 days. When it came +within rocket radius of Earth, it +whizzed past at close to fifteen +miles a second.</p> + +<p>You don't rescue a ship like +that, skinny-britches, my darling +daughter. Nor do you salvage it +after the crew stops screaming for +help. If you use enough fuel to +catch it, you won't get back. You +just leave such a ship there forever, +like an asteroid, and it's a +damn shame about the men +trapped aboard. Heroes all, no +doubt—but the smallness of the +widow's monthly check failed to +confirm the heroism, and Nora +was bitter about the price of +Oley's memory, perhaps.</p> + +<p>Ouch! Old Donegal, you know +she's not like that. It's just that +she can't understand about space. +You ought to make her understand.</p> + +<p>But did he really understand +himself? You ride hot in a roaring +blastroom, hands tense on the +mixer controls and the pumps, +eyes glued to instruments, body +sucked down in a four-gravity +thrust, and wait for the command +to choke it off. Then you float free +and weightless in a long nightmare +as the beast coasts moonward, a +flung javelin.</p> + +<p>The "romance" of space—drivel +written in the old days. +When you're not blasting, you +float in a cramped hotbox, crawl +through dirty mazes of greasy +pipe and cable to tighten a lug, +scratch your arms and bark your +shins, get sick and choked up because +no gravity helps your gullet +get the food down. Liquid is +worse, but you gag your whiskey +down because you have to.</p> + +<p>Stars?—you see stars by +squinting through a viewing lens, +and it's like a photo-transparency, +and if you aren't careful, you'll +get an eyeful of Old Blinder and +back off with a punch-drunk +retina.</p> + +<p>Adventure?—unless the skipper +calls for course-correction, +you float around in the blast-cubicle +with damn little to do between +blast-away and moon-down, +except sweat out the omniscient +accident statistics. If the beast +blows up or gets gutted in space, a +statistic had your name on it, +that's all, and there's no fighting +back. You stay outwardly sane +because you're a hog for punishment; +if you weren't, you'd never +get past the psychologists.</p> + +<p>"Did you like horror movies +when you were a kid?" asked the +psych. And you'd damn well better +answer "yes," if you want to +go to space.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>Tell her, old man, you're her +pop. Tell her why it's worth it, +if you know. You jail yourself in a +coffin-size cubicle, and a crazy +beast thunders berserk for uncontrollable +seconds, and then +you soar in ominous silence for the +long, long hours. Grow sweaty, +filthy, sick, miserable, idle—somewhere +out in Big Empty, +where Man's got no business +except the trouble he always +makes for himself wherever he +goes. Tell her why it's worth it, +for pay less than a good bricklayer's. +Tell her why Oley would +do it again.</p> + +<p>"It's a sucker's run, Nora," he +said. "You go looking for kicks, +but the only kicks you get to keep +is what Oley got. God knows why—but +it's worth it."</p> + +<p>Nora said nothing. He opened +his eyes slowly. Nora was gone. +Had she been there at all?</p> + +<p>He blinked around at the fuzzy +room, and dissolved the shifting +shadows that sometimes emerged +as old friendly faces, grinning at +him. He found Martha.</p> + +<p>"You went to sleep," said Martha. +"She had to go. Kennie called. +He'll be over later, if you're not +too tired."</p> + +<p>"I'm not tired. I'm all head. +There's nothing much to get tired."</p> + +<p>"I love you, Old Donegal."</p> + +<p>"Hold my hand again."</p> + +<p>"I'm holding it, old man."</p> + +<p>"Then hold me where I can feel +it."</p> + +<p>She slid a thin arm under his +neck, and bent over his face to +kiss him. She was crying a little, +and he was glad she could do it +now without fleeing the room.</p> + +<p>"Can I talk about dying now?" +he wondered aloud.</p> + +<p>She pinched her lips together +and shook her head.</p> + +<p>"I lie to myself, Martha. You +know how much I lie to myself?"</p> + +<p>She nodded slowly and stroked +his gray temples.</p> + +<p>"I lie to myself about Ken, and +about dying. If Ken turned spacer, +I wouldn't die—that's what I +told myself. You know?"</p> + +<p>She shook her head. "Don't +talk, Donny, please."</p> + +<p>"A man makes his own soul, +Martha."</p> + +<p>"That's not true. You shouldn't +say things like that."</p> + +<p>"A man makes his own soul, +but it dies with him, unless he can +pour it into 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."</p> + +<p>"Don't, Donny. You'll excite +yourself again."</p> + +<p>"I was going to give him the +boots—the over-boots with magnasoles. +But they won't fit him. +They won't ever fit him. He's a +lily-livered lap-dog, and he whines. +Bring me my boots, woman."</p> + +<p>"Donny!"</p> + +<p>"The boots, they're in my locker +in the attic. I want them."</p> + +<p>"What on earth!"</p> + +<p>"Bring me my goddam space +boots and put them on my feet. +I'm going to wear them."</p> + +<p>"You can't; the priest's coming."</p> + +<p>"Well, get them anyway. What +time is it? You didn't let me sleep +through the moon-run blast, did +you?"</p> + +<p>She shook her head. "It's half +an hour yet ... I'll get the +boots if you promise not to make +me put them on you."</p> + +<p>"I want them on."</p> + +<p>"You can't, until Father Paul's +finished."</p> + +<p>"Do I have to get my feet +buttered?"</p> + +<p>She sighed. "I wish you wouldn't +say things like that. I wish you +wouldn't, Donny. It's sacrilege, +you know it is."</p> + +<p>"All right—'anointed'," he +corrected wearily.</p> + +<p>"Yes, you do."</p> + +<p>"The boots, woman, the boots."</p> + +<p>She went to get them. While she +was gone, the doorbell rang, and +he heard her quick footsteps on +the stairs, and then Father Paul's +voice asking about the patient. +Old Donegal groaned inwardly. +After the priest, the doctor would +come, at the usual time, to see if +he were dead yet. The doctor had +let him come home from the hospital +to die, and the doctor 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 fuss +over it? I can die and do a good +job of it without a lot of outside +interference, and I wish they'd +quit picking at me with syringes +and sacraments and enemas. All +he wanted was a chance to listen +to the orchestra on the Keith terrace, +to drink the rest of his +whiskey, and to hear the beast +blast-away for the satellite on the +first lap of the run to Luna.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>It's going to be my last day, he +thought. My eyes are going fuzzy, +and I can't breathe right, and the +throbbing's hurting my head. +Whether he lived through the +night wouldn't matter, because +delirium was coming over him, +and then there would be the coma, +and the symbolic fight to keep him +pumping and panting. I'd rather +die tonight and get it over with, +he thought, but they probably +won't let me go.</p> + +<p>He heard their voices coming up +the stairs ...</p> + +<p>"Nora tried to get them to stop +it, Father, but she couldn't get in +to see anybody but the butler. He +told her he'd tell Mrs. Keith, but +nothing happened. It's just as +loud as before."</p> + +<p>"Well, as long as Donny doesn't +mind—"</p> + +<p>"He just says that. You know +how he is."</p> + +<p>"What're they celebrating, +Martha?"</p> + +<p>"Young Ronald's leaving—for +pre-space training. It's a going-away +affair." They paused in the +doorway. The small priest smiled +in at Donegal and nodded. He set +his black bag on the floor inside, +winked solemnly at the patient.</p> + +<p>"I'll leave you two alone," said +Martha. She closed the door and +her footsteps wandered off down +the hall.</p> + +<p>Donegal and the young priest +eyed each other warily.</p> + +<p>"You look like hell, Donegal," +the padre offered jovially. "Feeling +nasty?"</p> + +<p>"Skip the small talk. Let's get +this routine over with."</p> + +<p>The priest humphed thoughtfully, +sauntered across to the bed, +gazed down at the old man disinterestedly. +"What's the matter? +Don't want the 'routine'? Rather +play it tough?"</p> + +<p>"What's the difference?" he +growled. "Hurry up and get out. I +want to hear the beast blast off."</p> + +<p>"You won't be able to," said +the priest, glancing at the window, +now closed again. "That's quite a +racket next door."</p> + +<p>"They'd better stop for it. +They'd better quiet down for it. +They'll have to turn it off for five +minutes or so."</p> + +<p>"Maybe they won't."</p> + +<p>It was a new idea, and it frightened +him. He liked the music, and +the party's gaiety, the nearness of +youth and good times—but it +hadn't occurred to him that it +wouldn't stop so he could hear the +beast.</p> + +<p>"Don't get upset, Donegal. You +know what a blast-off sounds +like."</p> + +<p>"But it's the last one. The last +time. I want to hear."</p> + +<p>"How do you know it's the last +time?"</p> + +<p>"Hell, don't I know when I'm +kicking off?"</p> + +<p>"Maybe, maybe not. It's hardly +your decision."</p> + +<p>"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'd think I +got no say-so. Who's doing it anyway?"</p> + +<p>"I would guess," Father Paul +grunted sourly, "that Providence +might appreciate His fair share of +the credit."</p> + +<p>Old Donegal made a surly noise +and hunched his head back into +the pillow to glower.</p> + +<p>"You want me?" the priest +asked. "Or is this just a case of +wifely conscience?"</p> + +<p>"What's the difference? Give +me the business and scram."</p> + +<p>"No soap. Do you want the +sacrament, or are you just being +kind to your wife? If it's for +Martha, I'll go <i>now</i>."</p> + +<p>Old Donegal glared at him for a +time, then wilted. The priest +brought his bag to the bedside.</p> + +<p>"Bless me, father, for I have +sinned."</p> + +<p>"Bless you, son."</p> + +<p>"I accuse myself ..."</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>Tension, anger, helplessness—they +had piled up on him, and now +he was feeling the after-effects. +Vertigo, nausea, and the black +confetti—a bad spell. The whiskey—if +he could only reach the +whiskey. Then he remembered he +was receiving a Sacrament, and +struggled to get on with it. Tell +him, old man, tell him of your +various rottennesses and vile transgressions, +if you can remember +some. A sin is whatever you're +sorry for, maybe. But Old Donegal, +you're sorry for the wrong +things, and this young jesuitical +gadget wouldn't like listening to +it. I'm sorry I didn't get it instead +of Oley, and I'm sorry I fought in +the war, and I'm sorry I can't get +out of this bed and take a belt to +my daughter's backside for making +a puny whelp out of Ken, and +I'm sorry I gave Martha such 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 +a sharpster, contractor, or thief ... instead +of a common laboring +spacer, whose species lost its +glamor after the war.</p> + +<p>Listen, old man, you made your +soul yourself, and it's yours. This +young dispenser of oils, substances, +and mysteries wishes only to help +you scrape off the rough edges and +gouge out the bad spots. He will +not steal it, nor distort it with his +supernatural chisels, nor make +fun of it. He can take nothing +away, but only cauterize and neutralize, +he says, so why not let +him try? Tell him the rotten +messes.</p> + +<p>"Are you finished, my son?"</p> + +<p>Old Donegal nodded wearily, +and said what he was asked to +say, and heard the soft mutter of +Latin that washed him inside and +behind his ghostly ears ... <i>ego +te absolvo in Nomine Patris</i> ... and +he accepted the rest of it lying +quietly in the candlelight and +the red glow of the sunset through +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 my love, my dove, my undefiled ..." +and from beyond +the closed window came the sarcastic +wail of a clarinet painting +hot slides against a rhythmic background.</p> + +<p>It wasn't so bad, Old Donegal +thought when the priest was done. +He felt like a schoolboy in a +starched shirt on Sunday morning, +and it wasn't a bad feeling, though +it left him weak.</p> + +<p>The priest opened the window +for him again, and repacked his +bag. "Ten minutes till blast-off," +he said. "I'll see what I can +do about the racket next door."</p> + +<p>When he was gone, Martha +came back in, and he looked at +her face and was glad. She was +smiling when she kissed him, and +she looked less tired.</p> + +<p>"Is it all right for me to die +now?" he grunted.</p> + +<p>"Donny, don't start that +again."</p> + +<p>"Where's the boots? You promised +to bring them?"</p> + +<p>"They're in the hall. Donny, +you don't want them."</p> + +<p>"I want them, and I want a +drink of whiskey, and I want to +hear them fire the beast." He said +it slow and hard, and he left +no room for argument.</p> + +<p>When she had got the huge +boots over his shrunken feet, the +magnasoles clanged against the +iron bedframe and clung there, +and she rolled him up so that he +could look at them, and Old +Donegal chuckled inside. He felt +warm and clean and pleasantly +dizzy.</p> + +<p>"The whiskey, Martha, and for +God's sake, make them stop the +noise till after the firing. Please!"</p> + +<p>She went to the window and +looked out for a long time. Then +she came back and poured him +an insignificant drink.</p> + +<p>"Well?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know," she said. "I +saw Father Paul on the terrace, +talking to somebody."</p> + +<p>"Is it time?"</p> + +<p>She glanced at the clock, looked +at him doubtfully, and nodded. +"Nearly time."</p> + +<p>The orchestra finished a number, +but the babble of laughing +voices continued. Old Donegal +sagged. "They won't do it. They're +the Keiths, Martha. Why should +I ruin their party?"</p> + +<p>She turned to stare at him, +slowly shook her head. He heard +someone shouting, but then a +trumpet started softly, introducing +a new number. Martha sucked +in a hurt breath, pressed her +hands together, and hurried from +the room.</p> + +<p>"It's too late," he said after her.</p> + +<p>Her footsteps stopped on the +stairs. The trumpet was alone. +Donegal listened; and there was +no babble of voices, and the rest +of the orchestra was silent. Only +the trumpet sang—and it puzzled +him, hearing the same slow +bugle-notes of the call played at +the lowering of the colors.</p> + +<p>The trumpet stopped suddenly. +Then he knew it had been for +him.</p> + +<p>A brief hush—then thunder +came from the blast-station two +miles to the west. First the low +reverberation, rattling the windows, +then the rising growl as +the sleek beast knifed skyward +on a column of blue-white hell. +It grew and grew until it drowned +the distant traffic sounds and +dominated the silence outside.</p> + +<p><i>Quit crying, you old fool, you +maudlin ass ...</i></p> + +<p>"My boots," he whispered, +"my boots ... please ..."</p> + +<p>"You've got them on, Donny."</p> + +<p>He sank quietly then. He closed +his eyes and let his heart go up +with the beast, and he sank into +the gravity padding of the blastroom, +and Caid was with him, +and Oley. And when Ronald +Keith, III, instructed the orchestra +to play Blastroom Man, after +the beast's rumble had waned, +Old Donegal was on his last +moon-run, and he was grinning. +He'd had a good day.</p> + +<p>Martha went to the window to +stare out at the thin black trail +that curled starward above the +blast-station through the twilight +sky. Guests on the terrace were +watching it too.</p> + +<p>The doorbell rang. That would +be Ken, too late. She closed the +window against the chill breeze, +and went back to the bed. The +boots, the heavy, clumsy boots—they +clung to the bedframe, with +his feet half out of them. She +took them off gently and set them +out of company's sight. Then she +went to answer the door.</p> + +<div class="trn"><div class="figt"><a href="images/002-2.jpg"><img src="images/002-1.jpg" width="144" height="200" alt="" title="" /></a></div> + +<p><b><big>Transcriber's Note:</big></b></p> + +<p>This etext was produced from <i>Amazing Stories</i> March 1954. +Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. +copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and +typographical errors have been corrected without note.</p></div> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Death of a Spaceman, by Walter M. 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Miller + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Death of a Spaceman + +Author: Walter M. Miller + +Illustrator: Ernest Schroeder + +Release Date: August 9, 2009 [EBook #29643] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DEATH OF A SPACEMAN *** + + + + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + +[Illustration: Illustrator: Ernest Schroeder] + + + DEATH + OF A + SPACEMAN + +BY WALTER M. MILLER, JR. + + + _The manner in which a man has lived is often the key to the way he + will die. Take old man Donegal, for example. Most of his adult life + was spent in digging a hole through space to learn what was on the + other side. Would he go out the same way?_ + + +Old Donegal was dying. They had all known it was coming, and they +watched it come--his haggard wife, his daughter, and now his grandson, +home on emergency leave from the pre-astronautics academy. Old Donegal +knew it too, and had known it from the beginning, when he had begun to +lose control of his legs and was forced to walk with a cane. But most of +the time, he pretended to let them keep the secret they shared with the +doctors--that the operations had all been failures, and that the cancer +that fed at his spine would gnaw its way brainward until the paralysis +engulfed vital organs, and then Old Donegal would cease to be. It would +be cruel to let them know that he knew. Once, weeks ago, he had joked +about the approaching shadows. + +"Buy the plot back where people won't walk over it, Martha," he said. +"Get it way back under the cedars--next to the fence. There aren't many +graves back there yet. I want to be alone." + +"Don't _talk_ that way, Donny!" his wife had choked. "You're not dying." + +His eyes twinkled maliciously. "Listen, Martha, I want to be buried +face-down. I want to be buried with my back to space, understand? Don't +let them lay me out like a lily." + +"Donny, _please_!" + +"They oughta face a man the way he's headed," Donegal grunted. "I been +up--_way_ up. Now I'm going straight down." + +Martha had fled from the room in tears. He had never done it again, +except to the interns and nurses, who, while they insisted that he was +going to get well, didn't mind joking with him about it. + +Martha can bear my death, he thought, can bear pre-knowledge of it. But +she couldn't bear thinking that he might take it calmly. If he accepted +death gracefully, it would be like deliberately leaving her, and Old +Donegal had decided to help her believe whatever would be comforting to +her in such a troublesome moment. + +"When'll they let me out of this bed again?" he complained. + +"Be patient, Donny," she sighed. "It won't be long. You'll be up and +around before you know it." + +"Back on the moon-run, maybe?" he offered. "Listen, Martha, I been +planet-bound too long. I'm not too old for the moon-run, am I? +Sixty-three's not so old." + +That had been carrying things too far. She knew he was hoaxing, and +dabbed at her eyes again. The dead must humor the mourners, he thought, +and the sick must comfort the visitors. It was always so. + +But it was harder, now that the end was near. His eyes were hazy, and +his thoughts unclear. He could move his arms a little, clumsily, but +feeling was gone from them. The rest of his body was lost to him. +Sometimes he seemed to feel his stomach and his hips, but the sensation +was mostly an illusion offered by higher nervous centers, like the +"ghost-arm" that an amputee continues to feel. The wires were down, and +he was cut off from himself. + + * * * * * + +He lay wheezing on the hospital bed, in his own room, in his own rented +flat. Gaunt and unshaven, gray as winter twilight, he lay staring at the +white net curtains that billowed gently in the breeze from the open +window. There was no sound in the room but the sound of breathing and +the loud ticking of an alarm clock. Occasionally he heard a chair +scraping on the stone terrace next door, and the low mutter of voices, +sometimes laughter, as the servants of the Keith mansion arranged the +terrace for late afternoon guests. + +With considerable effort, he rolled his head toward Martha who sat +beside the bed, pinch-faced and weary. + +"You ought to get some sleep," he said. + +"I slept yesterday. Don't talk, Donny. It tires you." + +"You ought to get more sleep. You never sleep enough. Are you afraid +I'll get up and run away if you go to sleep for a while?" + +She managed a brittle smile. "There'll be plenty of time for sleep +when ... when you're well again." The brittle smile fled and she +swallowed hard, like swallowing a fish-bone. He glanced down, and +noticed that she was squeezing his hand spasmodically. + +There wasn't much left of the hand, he thought. Bones and ugly +tight-stretched hide spotted with brown. Bulging knuckles with yellow +cigaret stains. My hand. He tried to tighten it, tried to squeeze +Martha's thin one in return. He watched it open and contract a little, +but it was like operating a remote-control mechanism. Goodbye, hand, +you're leaving me the way my legs did, he told it. I'll see you again in +hell. How hammy can you get, Old Donegal? You maudlin ass. + +"Requiescat," he muttered over the hand, and let it lie in peace. + +Perhaps she heard him. "Donny," she whispered, leaning closer, "won't +you let me call the priest now? Please." + +He rattled a sigh and rolled his head toward the window again. "Are the +Keiths having a party today?" he asked. "Sounds like they're moving +chairs out on the terrace." + +"Please, Donny, the priest?" + +He let his head roll aside and closed his eyes, as if asleep. The bed +shook slightly as she quickly caught at his wrist to feel for a pulse. + +"If I'm not dying, I don't need a priest," he said sleepily. + +"That's not right," she scolded softly. "You know that's not right, +Donny. You know better." + +Maybe I'm being too rough on her? he wondered. He hadn't minded getting +baptized her way, and married her way, and occasionally priest-handled +the way she wanted him to when he was home from a space-run, but when it +came to dying, Old Donegal wanted to do it his own way. + + * * * * * + +He opened his eyes at the sound of a bench being dragged across the +stone terrace. "Martha, what kind of a party are the Keiths having +today?" + +"I wouldn't know," she said stiffly. "You'd think they'd have a little +more respect. You'd think they'd put it off a few days." + +"Until--?" + +"Until you feel better." + +"I feel fine, Martha. I like parties. I'm glad they're having one. Pour +me a drink, will you? I can't reach the bottle anymore." + +"It's empty." + +"No, it isn't, Martha, it's still a quarter full. I know. I've been +watching it." + +"You shouldn't have it, Donny. Please don't." + +"But this is a party, Martha. Besides, the doctor says I can have +whatever I want. Whatever I want, you hear? That means I'm getting well, +doesn't it?" + +"Sure, Donny, sure. Getting well." + +"The whiskey, Martha. Just a finger in a tumbler, no more. I want to +feel like it's a party." + +Her throat was rigid as she poured it. She helped him get the tumbler to +his mouth. The liquor seared his throat, and he gagged a little as the +fumes clogged his nose. Good whiskey, the best--but he couldn't take it +any more. He eyed the green stamp on the neck of the bottle on the +bed-table and grinned. He hadn't had whiskey like that since his +space-days. Couldn't afford it now, not on a blastman's pension. + + * * * * * + +He remembered how he and Caid used to smuggle a couple of fifths aboard +for the moon-run. If they caught you, it meant suspension, but there was +no harm in it, not for the blastroom men who had nothing much to do from +the time the ship acquired enough velocity for the long, long coaster +ride until they started the rockets again for Lunar landing. You could +drink a fifth, jettison the bottle through the trash lock, and sober up +before you were needed again. It was the only way to pass the time in +the cramped cubicle, unless you ruined your eyes trying to read by the +glow-lamps. Old Donegal chuckled. If he and Caid had stayed on the run, +Earth would have a ring by now, like Saturn--a ring of Old Granddad +bottles. + +"You said it, Donny-boy," said the misty man by the billowing curtains. +"Who else knows the gegenschein is broken glass?" + +Donegal laughed. Then he wondered what the man was doing there. The man +was lounging against the window, and his unzipped space rig draped about +him in an old familiar way. Loose plug-in connections and hose-ends +dangled about his lean body. He was freckled and grinning. + +"Caid," Old Donegal breathed softly. + +"What did you say, Donny?" Martha answered. + +Old Donegal blinked hard and shook his head. Something let go with a +soggy snap, and the misty man was gone. I'd better take it easy on the +whiskey, he thought. You got to wait, Donegal, old lush, until Nora and +Ken get here. You can't get drunk until they're gone, or you might get +them mixed up with memories like Caid's. + +Car doors slammed in the street below. Martha glanced toward the window. + +"Think it's them? I wish they'd get here. I wish they'd hurry." + +Martha arose and tiptoed to the window. She peered down toward the +sidewalk, put on a sharp frown. He heard a distant mutter of voices and +occasional laughter, with group-footsteps milling about on the sidewalk. +Martha murmured her disapproval and closed the window. + +"Leave it open," he said. + +"But the Keiths' guests are starting to come. There'll be such a +racket." She looked at him hopefully, the way she did when she prompted +his manners before company came. + +Maybe it wasn't decent to listen in on a party when you were dying, he +thought. But that wasn't the reason. Donegal, your chamber-pressure's +dropping off. Your brains are in your butt-end, where a spacer's brains +belong, but your butt-end died last month. She wants the window closed +for her own sake, not yours. + +"Leave it closed," he grunted. "But open it again before the moon-run +blasts off. I want to listen." + +She smiled and nodded, glancing at the clock. "It'll be an hour and a +half yet. I'll watch the time." + +"I hate that clock. I wish you'd throw it out. It's loud." + +"It's your medicine-clock, Donny." She came back to sit down at his +bedside again. She sat in silence. The clock filled the room with its +clicking pulse. + +"What time are they coming?" he asked. + +"Nora and Ken? They'll be here soon. Don't fret." + +"Why should I fret?" He chuckled. "That boy--he'll be a good spacer, +won't he, Martha?" + +Martha said nothing, fanned at a fly that crawled across his pillow. The +fly buzzed up in an angry spiral and alighted on the ceiling. Donegal +watched it for a time. The fly had natural-born space-legs. I know your +tricks, he told it with a smile, and I learned to walk on the bottomside +of things before you were a maggot. You stand there with your magnasoles +hanging to the hull, and the rest of you's in free fall. You jerk a sole +loose, and your knee flies up to your belly, and reaction spins you +half-around and near throws your other hip out of joint if you don't jam +the foot down fast and jerk up the other. It's worse'n trying to run +through knee-deep mud with snow-shoes, and a man'll go nuts trying to +keep his arms and legs from taking off in odd directions. I know your +tricks, fly. But the fly was born with his magnasoles, and he trotted +across the ceiling like Donegal never could. + +"That boy Ken--he ought to make a damn good space-engineer," wheezed the +old man. + +Her silence was long, and he rolled his head toward her again. Her lips +tight, she stared down at the palm of his hand, unfolded his bony +fingers, felt the cracked calluses that still welted the shrunken skin, +calluses worn there by the linings of space gauntlets and the handles of +fuel valves, and the rungs of get-about ladders during free fall. + +"I don't know if I should tell you," she said. + +"Tell me what, Martha?" + +She looked up slowly, scrutinizing his face. "Ken's changed his mind, +Nora says. Ken doesn't like the academy. She says he wants to go to +medical school." + +Old Donegal thought it over, nodded absently. "That's fine. Space-medics +get good pay." He watched her carefully. + +She lowered her eyes, rubbed at his calluses again. She shook her head +slowly. "He doesn't want to go to space." + +The clock clicked loudly in the closed room. + +"I thought I ought to tell you, so you won't say anything to him about +it," she added. + +Old Donegal looked grayer than before. After a long silence, he rolled +his head away and looked toward the limp curtains. + +"Open the window, Martha," he said. + +Her tongue clucked faintly as she started to protest, but she said +nothing. After frozen seconds, she sighed and went to open it. The +curtains billowed, and a babble of conversation blew in from the terrace +of the Keith mansion. With the sound came the occasional brassy discord +of a musician tuning his instrument. She clutched the window-sash as if +she wished to slam it closed again. + +"Well! Music!" grunted Old Donegal. "That's good. This is some shebang. +Good whiskey and good music and you." He chuckled, but it choked off +into a fit of coughing. + +"Donny, about Ken--" + +"No matter, Martha," he said hastily. "Space-medic's pay is good." + +"But, Donny--" She turned from the window, stared at him briefly, then +said, "Sure, Donny, sure," and came back to sit down by his bed. + +He smiled at her affectionately. She was a man's woman, was +Martha--always had been, still was. He had married her the year he had +gone to space--a lissome, wistful, old-fashioned lass, with big violet +eyes and gentle hands and gentle thoughts--and she had never complained +about the long and lonely weeks between blast-off and glide-down, when +most spacers' wives listened to the psychiatrists and soap-operas and +soon developed the symptoms that were expected of them, either because +the symptoms were _chic_, or because they felt they should do something +to earn the pity that was extended to them. "It's not so bad," Martha +had assured him. "The house keeps me busy till Nora's home from school, +and then there's a flock of kids around till dinner. Nights are a little +empty, but if there's a moon, I can always go out on the porch and look +at it and know where you are. And Nora gets out the telescope you built +her, and we make a game of it. 'Seeing if Daddy's still at the office,' +she calls it." + + * * * * * + +"Those were the days," he muttered. + +"What, Donny?" + +"Do you remember that Steve Farran song?" + +She paused, frowning thoughtfully. There were a lot of Steve Farran +songs, but after a moment she picked the right one, and sang it +softly ... + + "O moon whereo'er the clouds fly, + Beyond the willow tree, + There is a ramblin' space guy + I wish you'd save for me. + + "_Mare Tranquillitatis_, + O dark and tranquil sea, + Until he drops from heaven, + Rest him there with thee ..." + +Her voice cracked, and she laughed. Old Donegal chuckled weakly. + +"Fried mush," he said. "That one made the cats wilt their ears and wail +at the moon. + +"I feel real crazy," he added. "Hand me the king kong, fluff-muff." + +"Keep cool, Daddy-O, you've had enough." Martha reddened and patted his +arm, looking pleased. Neither of them had talked that way, even in the +old days, but the out-dated slang brought back memories--school parties, +dances at the Rocketport Club, the early years of the war when Donegal +had jockeyed an R-43 fighter in the close-space assaults against the +Soviet satellite project. The memories were good. + +A brassy blare of modern "slide" arose suddenly from the Keith terrace +as the small orchestra launched into its first number. Martha caught an +angry breath and started toward the window. + +"Leave it," he said. "It's a party. Whiskey, Martha. Please--just a +small one." + +She gave him a hurtful glance. + +"Whiskey. Then you can call the priest." + +"Donny, it's not right. You know it's not right--to bargain for such as +that." + +"All right. Whiskey. Forget the priest." + +She poured it for him, and helped him get it down, and then went out to +make the phone-call. Old Donegal lay shuddering over the whiskey taste +and savoring the burn in his throat. Jesus, but it was good. + +You old bastard, he thought, you got no right to enjoy life when +nine-tenths of you is dead already, and the rest is foggy as a thermal +dust-rise on the lunar maria at hell-dawn. But it wasn't a bad way to +die. It ate your consciousness away from the feet up; it gnawed away the +Present, but it let you keep the Past, until everything faded and +blended. Maybe that's what Eternity was, he thought--one man's +subjective Past, all wrapped up and packaged for shipment, a single +space-time entity, a one-man microcosm of memories, when nothing else +remains. + +"If I've got a soul, I made it myself," he told the gray nun at the foot +of his bed. + +The nun held out a pie pan, rattled a few coins in it. "Contribute to +the Radiation Victims' Relief?" the nun purred softly. + +"I know you," he said. "You're my conscience. You hang around the +officers' mess, and when we get back from a sortie, you make us pay for +the damage we did. But that was forty years ago." + +The nun smiled, and her luminous eyes were on him softly. "Mother of +God!" he breathed, and reached for the whiskey. His arm obeyed. The last +drink had done him good. He had to watch his hand to see where it was +going, and squeezed the neck until his fingers whitened so that he knew +that he had it, but he got it off the table and onto his chest, and he +got the cork out with his teeth. He had a long pull at the bottle, and +it made his eyes water and his hands grow weak. But he got it back to +the table without spilling a bit, and he was proud of himself. + +The room was spinning like the cabin of a gyro-gravved ship. By the time +he wrestled it to a standstill, the nun was gone. The blare of music +from the Keith terrace was louder, and laughing voices blended with it. +Chairs scraping and glasses rattling. A fine party, Keith, I'm glad you +picked today. This shebang would be the younger Keith's affair. Ronald +Tonwyler Keith, III, scion of Orbital Engineering and Construction +Company--builders of the moon-shuttle ships that made the run from the +satellite station to Luna and back. + +It's good to have such important neighbors, he thought. He wished he had +been able to meet them while he was still up and about. But the Keiths' +place was walled-in, and when a Keith came out, he charged out in a +limousine with a chauffeur at the wheel, and the iron gate closed again. +The Keiths built the wall when the surrounding neighborhood began to +grow shabby with age. It had once been the best of neighborhoods, but +that was before Old Donegal lived in it. Now it consisted of sooty old +houses and rented flats, and the Keith place was really not a part of it +anymore. Nevertheless, it was really something when a pensioned blastman +could say, "I live out close to the Keiths--you know, the _Ronald_ +Keiths." At least, that's what Martha always told him. + +The music was so loud that he never heard the doorbell ring, but when a +lull came, he heard Nora's voice downstairs, and listened hopefully for +Ken's. But when they came up, the boy was not with them. + +"Hello, skinny-britches," he greeted his daughter. + +Nora grinned and came over to kiss him. Her hair dangled about his face, +and he noticed that it was blacker than usual, with the gray streaks +gone from it again. + +"You smell good," he said. + +"You don't, Pops. You smell like a sot. Naughty!" + +"Where's Ken?" + +She moistened her lips nervously and looked away. "He couldn't come. He +had to take a driver's lesson. He really couldn't help it. If he didn't +go, he'd lose his turn, and then he wouldn't finish before he goes back +to the academy." She looked at him apologetically. + +"It's all right, Nora." + +"If he missed it, he wouldn't get his copter license until summer." + +"It's okay. Copters! Hell, the boy should be in jets by now!" + +Several breaths passed in silence. She gazed absently toward the window +and shook her head. "No jets, Pop. Not for Ken." + +He glowered at her. "Listen! How'll he get into space? He's got to get +his jet licenses first. Can't get in rockets without 'em." + +Nora shot a quick glance at her mother. Martha rolled her eyes as if +sighing patiently. Nora went to the window to stare down toward the +Keith terrace. She tucked a cigaret between scarlet lips, lit it, blew +nervous smoke against the pane. + +"Mom, can't you call them and have that racket stopped?" + +"Donny says he likes it." + +Nora's eyes flitted over the scene below. "Female butterflies and +puppy-dogs in sport jackets. And the cadets." She snorted. "Cadets! +Imagine Ron Keith the Third ever going to space. The old man buys his +way into the academy, and they throw a brawl as if Ronny passed the +Compets." + +"Maybe he did," growled Old Donegal. + +"Hah!" + +"They live in a different world, I guess," Martha sighed. + +"If it weren't for men like Pops, they'd never've made their fortune." + +"I like the music, I tell you," grumbled the old man. + +"I'm half-a-mind to go over there and tell them off," Nora murmured. + +"Let them alone. Just so they'll stop the racket for blast-away." + +"Look at them!--polite little pattern-cuts, all alike. They take +pre-space, because it's the thing to do. Then they quit before the +pay-off comes." + +"How do you know they'll quit?" + +"That party--I bet it cost six months' pay, spacer's pay," she went on, +ignoring him. "And what do real spacers get? Oley gets killed, and Pop's +pension wouldn't feed the Keiths' cat." + +"You don't understand, girl." + +"I lost Oley. I understand enough." + + * * * * * + +He watched her silently for a moment, then closed his eyes. It was no +good trying to explain, no good trying to tell her the dough didn't mean +a damn thing. She'd been a spacer's wife, and that was bad enough, but +now she was a spacer's widow. And Oley? Oley's tomb revolved around the +sun in an eccentric orbit that spun-in close to Mercury, then reached +out into the asteroid belt, once every 725 days. When it came within +rocket radius of Earth, it whizzed past at close to fifteen miles a +second. + +You don't rescue a ship like that, skinny-britches, my darling daughter. +Nor do you salvage it after the crew stops screaming for help. If you +use enough fuel to catch it, you won't get back. You just leave such a +ship there forever, like an asteroid, and it's a damn shame about the +men trapped aboard. Heroes all, no doubt--but the smallness of the +widow's monthly check failed to confirm the heroism, and Nora was bitter +about the price of Oley's memory, perhaps. + +Ouch! Old Donegal, you know she's not like that. It's just that she +can't understand about space. You ought to make her understand. + +But did he really understand himself? You ride hot in a roaring +blastroom, hands tense on the mixer controls and the pumps, eyes glued +to instruments, body sucked down in a four-gravity thrust, and wait for +the command to choke it off. Then you float free and weightless in a +long nightmare as the beast coasts moonward, a flung javelin. + +The "romance" of space--drivel written in the old days. When you're not +blasting, you float in a cramped hotbox, crawl through dirty mazes of +greasy pipe and cable to tighten a lug, scratch your arms and bark your +shins, get sick and choked up because no gravity helps your gullet get +the food down. Liquid is worse, but you gag your whiskey down because +you have to. + +Stars?--you see stars by squinting through a viewing lens, and it's like +a photo-transparency, and if you aren't careful, you'll get an eyeful of +Old Blinder and back off with a punch-drunk retina. + +Adventure?--unless the skipper calls for course-correction, you float +around in the blast-cubicle with damn little to do between blast-away +and moon-down, except sweat out the omniscient accident statistics. If +the beast blows up or gets gutted in space, a statistic had your name +on it, that's all, and there's no fighting back. You stay outwardly sane +because you're a hog for punishment; if you weren't, you'd never get +past the psychologists. + +"Did you like horror movies when you were a kid?" asked the psych. And +you'd damn well better answer "yes," if you want to go to space. + + * * * * * + +Tell her, old man, you're her pop. Tell her why it's worth it, if you +know. You jail yourself in a coffin-size cubicle, and a crazy beast +thunders berserk for uncontrollable seconds, and then you soar in +ominous silence for the long, long hours. Grow sweaty, filthy, sick, +miserable, idle--somewhere out in Big Empty, where Man's got no business +except the trouble he always makes for himself wherever he goes. Tell +her why it's worth it, for pay less than a good bricklayer's. Tell her +why Oley would do it again. + +"It's a sucker's run, Nora," he said. "You go looking for kicks, but the +only kicks you get to keep is what Oley got. God knows why--but it's +worth it." + +Nora said nothing. He opened his eyes slowly. Nora was gone. Had she +been there at all? + +He blinked around at the fuzzy room, and dissolved the shifting shadows +that sometimes emerged as old friendly faces, grinning at him. He found +Martha. + +"You went to sleep," said Martha. "She had to go. Kennie called. He'll +be over later, if you're not too tired." + +"I'm not tired. I'm all head. There's nothing much to get tired." + +"I love you, Old Donegal." + +"Hold my hand again." + +"I'm holding it, old man." + +"Then hold me where I can feel it." + +She slid a thin arm under his neck, and bent over his face to kiss him. +She was crying a little, and he was glad she could do it now without +fleeing the room. + +"Can I talk about dying now?" he wondered aloud. + +She pinched her lips together and shook her head. + +"I lie to myself, Martha. You know how much I lie to myself?" + +She nodded slowly and stroked his gray temples. + +"I lie to myself about Ken, and about dying. If Ken turned spacer, I +wouldn't die--that's what I told myself. You know?" + +She shook 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 it +into 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. But +they won't fit him. They won't ever fit him. He's a lily-livered +lap-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 to +wear them." + +"You can't; the priest's coming." + +"Well, get them anyway. What time is it? You didn't let me sleep through +the moon-run blast, did you?" + +She shook her head. "It's half an hour yet ... I'll get the boots if you +promise 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 you +wouldn'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 he +heard her quick footsteps on the stairs, and then Father Paul's voice +asking about the patient. Old Donegal groaned inwardly. After the +priest, the doctor would come, at the usual time, to see if he were dead +yet. The doctor had let him come home from the hospital to die, and the +doctor 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 fuss +over it? I can die and do a good job of it without a lot of outside +interference, and I wish they'd quit picking at me with syringes and +sacraments and enemas. All he wanted was a chance to listen to the +orchestra on the Keith terrace, to drink the rest of his whiskey, and to +hear the beast blast-away for the satellite on the first lap of the run +to Luna. + + * * * * * + +It's going to be my last day, he thought. My eyes are going fuzzy, and I +can't breathe right, and the throbbing's hurting my head. Whether he +lived through the night wouldn't matter, because delirium was coming +over him, and then there would be the coma, and the symbolic fight to +keep him pumping and panting. I'd rather die tonight and get it over +with, 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 to +see anybody but the butler. He told her he'd tell Mrs. Keith, but +nothing 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-away +affair." They paused in the doorway. The small priest smiled in at +Donegal and nodded. He set his black bag on the floor inside, winked +solemnly at the patient. + +"I'll leave you two alone," said Martha. She closed the door and her +footsteps wandered off down the hall. + +Donegal and the young priest eyed each other warily. + +"You look like hell, Donegal," the padre offered jovially. "Feeling +nasty?" + +"Skip the small talk. Let's get this routine over with." + +The priest humphed thoughtfully, sauntered across to the bed, gazed down +at 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 to +hear the beast blast off." + +"You won't be able to," said the priest, glancing at the window, now +closed again. "That's quite a racket next door." + +"They'd better stop for it. They'd better quiet down for it. They'll +have 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 the +party's gaiety, the nearness of youth and good times--but it hadn't +occurred 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'd +think I got no say-so. Who's doing it anyway?" + +"I would guess," Father Paul grunted sourly, "that Providence might +appreciate His fair share of the credit." + +Old Donegal made a surly noise and hunched his head back into the pillow +to glower. + +"You want me?" the priest asked. "Or is this just a case of wifely +conscience?" + +"What's the difference? Give me the business and scram." + +"No soap. Do you want the sacrament, or are you just being kind to your +wife? If it's for Martha, I'll go _now_." + +Old Donegal glared at him for a time, then wilted. The priest brought +his 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 was +feeling the after-effects. Vertigo, nausea, and the black confetti--a +bad spell. The whiskey--if he could only reach the whiskey. Then he +remembered he was receiving a Sacrament, and struggled to get on with +it. Tell him, old man, tell him of your various rottennesses and vile +transgressions, if you can remember some. A sin is whatever you're sorry +for, maybe. But Old Donegal, you're sorry for the wrong things, and this +young jesuitical gadget wouldn't like listening to it. I'm sorry I +didn't get it instead of Oley, and I'm sorry I fought in the war, and +I'm sorry I can't get out of this bed and take a belt to my daughter's +backside for making a puny whelp out of Ken, and I'm sorry I gave Martha +such 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 a +sharpster, 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 young +dispenser of oils, substances, and mysteries wishes only to help you +scrape off the rough edges and gouge out the bad spots. He will not +steal it, nor distort it with his supernatural chisels, nor make fun of +it. He can take nothing away, but only cauterize and neutralize, he +says, 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 heard +the soft mutter of Latin that washed him inside and behind his ghostly +ears ... _ego te absolvo in Nomine Patris_ ... and he accepted the rest +of it lying quietly in the candlelight and the red glow of the sunset +through 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 my +love, my dove, my undefiled ..." and from beyond the closed window came +the sarcastic wail of a clarinet painting hot slides against a rhythmic +background. + +It wasn't so bad, Old Donegal thought when the priest was done. He felt +like a schoolboy in a starched shirt on Sunday morning, and it wasn't a +bad feeling, though it left him weak. + +The priest opened the window for him again, and repacked his bag. "Ten +minutes till blast-off," he said. "I'll see what I can do about the +racket next door." + +When he was gone, Martha came back in, and he looked at her face and was +glad. She was smiling when she kissed him, and she looked less tired. + +"Is it 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 them +fire the beast." He said it slow and hard, and he left no room for +argument. + +When she had got the huge boots over his shrunken feet, the magnasoles +clanged against the iron bedframe and clung there, and she rolled him up +so that he could look at them, and Old Donegal chuckled inside. He felt +warm and clean and pleasantly dizzy. + +"The whiskey, Martha, and for God's sake, make them stop the noise till +after the firing. Please!" + +She went to the window and looked out for a long time. Then she came +back and poured him an insignificant drink. + +"Well?" + +"I don't know," she said. "I saw Father Paul on the terrace, talking to +somebody." + +"Is it time?" + +She glanced at the clock, looked at him doubtfully, and nodded. "Nearly +time." + +The orchestra finished a number, but the babble of laughing voices +continued. Old Donegal sagged. "They won't do it. They're the Keiths, +Martha. Why should I ruin their party?" + +She turned to stare at him, slowly shook her head. He heard someone +shouting, but then a trumpet started softly, introducing a new number. +Martha sucked in a hurt breath, pressed her hands together, and hurried +from the room. + +"It's too late," he said after her. + +Her footsteps stopped on the stairs. The trumpet was alone. Donegal +listened; and there was no babble of voices, and the rest of the +orchestra was silent. Only the trumpet sang--and it puzzled him, hearing +the same slow bugle-notes of the call played at the lowering of the +colors. + +The trumpet stopped suddenly. Then he knew it had been for him. + +A brief hush--then thunder came from the blast-station two miles to the +west. First the low reverberation, rattling the windows, then the rising +growl as the sleek beast knifed skyward on a column of blue-white hell. +It grew and grew until it drowned the distant traffic sounds and +dominated the silence outside. + +_Quit crying, you old fool, you maudlin ass ..._ + +"My boots," he whispered, "my boots ... please ..." + +"You've got them on, Donny." + +He sank quietly then. He closed his eyes and let his heart go up with +the beast, and he sank into the gravity padding of the blastroom, and +Caid was with him, and Oley. And when Ronald Keith, III, instructed the +orchestra to play Blastroom Man, after the beast's rumble had waned, Old +Donegal was on his last moon-run, and he was grinning. He'd had a good +day. + +Martha went to the window to stare out at the thin black trail that +curled starward above the blast-station through the twilight sky. Guests +on the terrace were watching it too. + +The doorbell rang. That would be Ken, too late. She closed the window +against the chill breeze, and went back to the bed. The boots, the +heavy, clumsy boots--they clung to the bedframe, with his feet half out +of them. She took them off gently and set them out of company's sight. +Then she went to answer the door. + + + + +Transcriber's Note: + + This etext was produced from _Amazing Stories_ March 1954. Extensive + research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on + this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical + errors have been corrected without note. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Death of a Spaceman, by Walter M. Miller + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DEATH OF A SPACEMAN *** + +***** This file should be named 29643.txt or 29643.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/6/4/29643/ + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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