Charles Beaumont: Selected Stories Page 10

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  Introduction to

  LAST RITES by Richard Matheson

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  I have referred (in print) to Chuck Beaumont's stories with such phrases as "alight with the magic of a truly extraordinary imagination," "shot through with veins of coruscating wit," "feather light and dancing on a wind of jest" and "flashes of the wondrous and delightful." All true; and this may well be the over-riding image of his work. But there is more. Other stories which cut deeper. Which move the reader and speak of things profound. Such a story is "Last Rites." I don't know whether Chuck was raised as a Catholic. I don't think so but I'm not positive. I know he married a woman who was deeply committed to Catholicism. Perhaps his knowledge-and insight-into the religion came from his relationship with his wife Helen. Wherever it came from, there is a sense of truth to it. For my money, Graham Greene never wrote a story any more perceptive about Catholicism than "Last Rites." I find it extremely moving, shot through not with "veins of coruscating wit" but with a deep vein of humanity and love. What more could any reader ask of a story? What greater legacy could any writer leave?

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  LAST RITES

  by Charles Beaumont

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  Somewhere in the church a baby was shrieking. Father Courtney listened to it, and sighed, and made the Sign of the Cross. Another battle, he thought, dismally. Another grand tug of war. And who won this time, Lord? Me? Or that squalling infant, bless its innocence? "In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen." He turned and made his way down the pulpit steps, and told himself, Well, you ought to be used to it by now, Heaven knows. After all, you're a priest, not a monologist. What do you care about "audience reaction?" And besides, who ever listens to these sermons of yours, anyway-even under the best of conditions? A few of the ladies in the parish (though you're sure they never hear or understand a word), and, of course, Donovan. But who else? Screech away, little pink child! Screech until you-no. No, no. Ahhh! He walked through the sacristy, trying not to think of Donovan, or the big city churches with their fine nurseries, and sound-proof walls, and amplifiers that amplified . One had what one had: it was God's will. And were things really so bad? Here there was the smell of forests, wasn't there? And in what city parish could you see wild flowers growing on the hills like bright lava? Or feel the earth breathing? He opened the door and stepped outside. The fields were dark-silver and silent. Far above the fields, up near the clouds, a rocket launch moved swiftly, dragging its slow thunder behind it. Father Courtney blinked. Of course things were not so bad. Things would be just fine, he thought, and I would not be nervous and annoyed at little children, if only- Abruptly he put his hands together. "Father," he whispered, "let him be well. Let that be Your will!" Then, deciding not to wait to greet the people, he wiped his palms with a handkerchief and started for the rectory. The morning was very cold. A thin film of dew coated each pebble along the path, and made them all glisten like drops of mercury. Father Courtney looked at the pebbles and thought of other walks down this path, which led through a woods to Hidden River, and of himself laughing; of excellent wine and soft cushions and himself arguing, arguing; of a thousand sweet hours in the past. He walked and thought these things and did not hear the telephone until he had reached the rectory stairs. A chill passed over him, unaccountably. He went inside and pressed a yellow switch. The screen blurred, came into focus. The face of an old man appeared, filling the screen. "Hello, Father." "George!" the priest smiled and waved his fist, menacingly. "George, why haven't you contacted me?" He sputtered. "Aren't you out of that bed yet?" "Not yet, Father." "Well, I expected it, I knew it. Now will you let me call a doctor?" "No-" The old man in the screen shook his head. He was thin and pale. His hair was profuse, but very white, and there was something in his eyes. "I think I'd like you to come over, if you could." "I shouldn't," the priest said, "after the way you've been treating all of us. But, if there's still some of that Chianti left…" George Donovan nodded. "Could you come right away?" "Father Yoshida won't be happy about it." "Please. Right away." Father Courtney felt his fingers draw into fists. "Why?" he asked, holding onto the conversational tone. "Is anything the matter?" "Not really," Donovan said. His smile was brief. "It's just that I'm dying." "And I'm going to call Doctor Ferguson. Don't give me any argument, either. This nonsense has gone far-" The old man's face knotted. "No," he said, loudly. "I forbid you to do that." "But you're ill, man. For all we know, you're seriously ill. And if you think I'm going to stand around and watch you work yourself into the hospital just because you happen to dislike doctors, you're crazy." "Father, listen-please. I have my reasons. You don't understand them, and I don't blame you. But you've got to trust me. I'll explain everything, if you'll promise me you won't call anyone." Father Courtney breathed unsteadily; he studied his friend's face, Then he said, "I'll promise this much. I won't contact a doctor until I've seen you." "Good." The old man seemed to relax. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes." "With your Little Black Bag?" "Certainly not. You're going to be all right." "Bring it, Father. Please. Just in case." The screen blurred and danced and went white. Father Courtney hesitated at the blank telephone. Then he walked to a table and raised his fists and brought them down hard, once. You're going to get well, he thought. It isn't going to be too late. Because if you are dying, if you really are, and I could have prevented it… He went to the closet and drew on his overcoat. It was thick and heavy, but it did not warm him. As he returned to the sacristy he shivered and thought that he had never been so cold before in all his life. The Helicar whirred and dropped quickly to the ground. Father Courtney removed the ignition key, pocketed it, and thrust his bulk out the narrow door, wheezing. A dull rumbling sifted down from the sky. The wake of fleets a mile away, ten miles, a hundred. It's raining whales in our backyard, the priest thought, remembering how Donovan had described the sound once to a little girl. A freshet of autumn leaves burst against his leg, softly, and for a while he stood listening to the rockets' dying rumble, watching the shapes of gold and red that scattered in the wind, like fire. Then he whispered, "Let it be Your will," and pushed the picket gate. The front door of the house was open. He walked in, through the living-room, to the study. "George." "In here," a voice answered. He moved to the bedroom, and twisted the knob. George Donovan lay propped on a cloudbank of pillows, his thin face white as the linen. He was smiling. "I'm glad to see you, Father," he said, quietly. The priest's heart expanded and shrank and began to thump in his chest. "The Chianti's down here in the night-table," Donovan gestured. "Pour some: morning's a good enough time for a dinner wine." "Not now, George." "Please. It will help." Father Courtney pulled out the drawer and removed the half-empty bottle. He got a glass from the bookshelf, filled it. Dutifully, according to ritual, he asked, "For you?" "No," Donovan said. "Thank you all the same." He turned his head. "Sit over there, Father, where I can see you." The priest frowned. He noticed that Donovan's arms were perfectly flat against the blanket, that his body was rigid, outlined beneath the covering. No part of the old man moved except the head, and that slowly, unnaturally. "That's better. But take off your coat-it's terribly hot in here. You'll catch pneumonia." The toom was full of cold winds from the open shutters. Father Courtney removed his coat. "You've been worried, haven't you?" Donovan asked. The priest nodded. He tried to sense what was wrong, to smell the disease, if there was a disease, if there was anything. "I'm sorry about that." The old man seemed to sigh. His eyes were misted, webbed with distance, lightly. "But I wanted to be alone. Sometimes you have to be alone, to think, to get things straight. Isn't that true?" "Sometimes, I suppose, but-" "No. I know what you're going to say, the questions you want to ask. But there's not enough time…" Father Courtney arose from the chair, and walked quickly to the telephone extension. He jabbed a button. "I'm sorry, George," he said, "but you're going to have a doctor." The screen did not flicker. He pressed the button again, firmly. "Sit down," the tired voice whispered. "It doesn't work. I pulled th
e wires ten minutes ago." "Then I'll fly over to Milburn-" "If you do, I'll be dead when you get back. Believe this: I know what I'm talking about." The priest clenched and unclenched his stubby fingers, and sat down in the chair again. Donovan chuckled. "Drink up," he said. "We can't have good wine going to waste, can we?" The priest put the glass to his lips. He tried to think clearly. If he rushed out to Milburn and got Doctor Ferguson, perhaps there'd be a chance. Or-He took a deep swallow. No. That wouldn't do. It might take hours. Donovan was talking now; the words lost-a hum of locusts in the room, a far-off murmuring; then, like a radio turned up: "Father, how long have we been friends, you and I?" "Why… twenty years," the priest answered. "Or more." "Would you say you know me very well by now?" "I believe so." "Then tell me first, right now, would you say that I've been a good man?" Father Courtney sniieci. "There've been worse," he said and thought of what this man had accomplished in Mount Vernon, quietly, in his own quiet way, over the years. The building of a decent school for the children-Donovan had shamed the people into it. The new hospital-Donovan's doing, his patient campaigning. Entertainment halls for the young; a city fund for the poor; better teachers, better doctors-all, all because of the old man with the soft voice, George Donovan. "Do you mean it?" "Don't be foolish. And don't be treacly, either. Of course I mean it." In the room, now, a strange odor fumed up, suddenly. The old man said, "I'm glad." Still he did not move. "But, I'm sorry I asked. It was unfair." "I don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about." "Neither do I, Father, completely. I thought I did, once, but I was wrong." The priest slapped his knees, angrily. "Why won't you let me get a doctor? We'll have plenty of time to talk afterwards." Donovan's eyes narrowed, and curved into what resembled a smile. "You're a doctor," he said. "The only one who can help me now." "In what way?" "By making a decision." The voice was reedy: it seemed to waver and change pitch. "What sort of a decision?" Donovan's head jerked up. He closed his eyes and remained this way for a full minute, while the acrid smell bellied and grew stronger and whorled about the room in invisible currents. ". . . the gentleman lay braveward with his furies…' Do you remember that, Father?" "Yes," the priest said. "Thomas, isn't it?" "Thomas, He's been here with me, you know, really; and I've been asking him things. On the theory that poets aren't entirely human. But he just grins. 'You're dying of strangers,' he says; and grins. Bless him." The old man lowered his head. "He disappointed me." Father Courtney reached for a cigarette, crumpled the empty pack, laced and unlaced his fingers. He waited, remembering the times he had come to this house, all the fine evenings. Ending flow? Yes, Whatever else he would learn, he knew that, suddenly: they were ending. "What sort of a decision, George?" "A theological sort." Father Courtney snorted and walked to a window. Outside, the sun was hidden behind a curtain of gray. Birds sat black and still on the telephone lines, like notes of music; and there was rain. "Is there something you think you haven't told me?" he asked. "Yes." "I don't think so, George." Father Courtney turned. "I've known about it for a long time." The old man tried to speak. "I've known very well. And now I think I understand why you've refused to see anyone." "No," Donovan said. "You don't. Father, listen to me: it isn't what you think." "Nonsense." The priest reverted to his usual gruffness. "We've been friends for too many years for this kind of thing. It's exactly what I think. You're an intelligent, well-read, mule-stubborn old man who's worried he won't get to Heaven because sometimes he has doubts." "That isn't-" "Well, rubbish! Do you think I don't ask questions, myself, once in a while? Just because I'm a priest, do you think I go blindly on, never wondering, not even for a minute?" The old man's eyes moved swiftly, up and down. "Every intelligent person doubts, George, once in a while. And we all feel terrible about it, and we're terribly sorry. But I assure you, if this were enough to damn us, Heaven would be a wilderness." Father Courtney reached again for a cigarette. "So you've shut yourself up like a hermit and worried and stewed and endangered your life, and all for nothing." He coughed. "Well, that's it, isn't it?" "I wish it were," Donovan said, sadly. His eyes kept dancing. There was a long pause; then he said, "Let me pose you a theoretical problem, Father. Something I've been thinking about lately." Father Courtney recalled the sentence, and how many times it had begun the evenings of talk-wonderful talk! These evenings, he realized, were part of his life now. An important part. For there was no one else, no one of Donovan's intelligence, with whom you could argue any subject under the sun-from Frescobaldi to baseball, from colonization on Mars to the early French symbolists, to agrarian reforms, to wines, to theology… The old man shifted in the bed. As he did, the acrid odor diminished and swelled and pulsed. "You once told me," he said, "that you read imaginative fiction, didn't you?" "I suppose so." "And that there were certain concepts you could swallow-such as parallel worlds, mutated humans, and the like-, but that other concepts you couldn't swallow at all. Artificial life, I believe you mentioned, and time travel, and a few others." The priest nodded. "Well, let's take one of these themes for our problem. Will you do that? Let's take the first idea." "All right. Then the doctor." "We have this man, Father," Donovan said, gazing at the ceiling. "He looks perfectly ordinary, you see, and it would occur to no one to doubt this; but he is not ordinary. Strictly speaking, he isn't even a man. For, though he lives, he isn't alive. You follow? He is a thing of wires and coils and magic, a creation of other men. He is a machine…" "George!" The priest shook his head. "We've gone through this before: it's foolish to waste time. I came here to help you, not to engage in a discussion of science fiction themes!" "But that's how you can help me," Donovan said. "Very well," the priest sighed. "But you know my views on this. Even if there were a logical purpose to which such a creature might be put-and I can't think of any-I still say they will never create a machine that is capable of abstract thought. Human intelligence is a spiritual thing-and spiritual things can't be duplicated by men." "You really believe that?" "Of course I do. Extrapolation of known scientific advances is perfectly all right; but this is something else entirely." "Is it?" the old man said. "What about Pasteur's discovery? Or the X-Ray? Did Roentgen correlate a lot of embryonic data, Father, or did he come upon something brand new? What do you think even the scientist themselves would have said to the idea of a machine that would see through human tissue? They would have said it's fantastic. And it was, too, and is. Nevertheless, it exists." "It's not the same thing." "No… I suppose that's true. However, I'm not trying to convince you of my thesis. I ask merely that you accept it for the sake of the problem. Will you?" "Go ahead, George." "We have this man, then. He's artificial, but he's perfect: great pains have been taken to see to this. Perfect, no detail spared, however small. He looks human, and he acts human, and for all the world knows, he is human. In fact, sometimes even he, our man, gets confused. When he feels a pain in his heart, for instance, it's difficult for him to remember that he has no heart. When he sleeps and awakes refreshed, he must remind himself that this is all controlled by an automatic switch somewhere inside his brain, and that he doesn't actually feel refreshed. He must think, I'm not real, I'm not real, I'm not real! "But this becomes impossible, after a while. Because he doesn't believe it. He begins to ask, Why? Why am I not real? Where is the difference, when you come right down to it? Humans eat and sleep-as I do. They talk-as I do. They move and work and laugh-as I do. What they think, I think, and what they feel, I feel. Don't I? "He wonders, the mechanical man does, Father, what would happen if all the people on earth were suddenly to discover they were mechanical also. Would they feel any the less human? Is it likely that they would rush off to woo typewriters and adding machines? Or would they think, perhaps, of revising their definition of the word, 'Life'? "Well, our man thinks about it, and thinks about it, but he never reaches a conclusion. He doesn't believe he's nothing more than an advanced calculator, but he doesn't really believe he's human, either: not completely. "All he knows is that the smell of wet grass is a fine smell to him, and that the sound of the wind blowing through the trees is very sad and beau
tiful, and that he loves the whole earth with an impossible passion…" Father Courtney shifted uncomfortably in his chair. If only the telephone worked, he thought. Or if he could be sure it was safe to leave. ". . . other men made the creature, as I've said; but many more like him were made. However, of them all, let's say only he was successful." "Why?" the priest asked, irritably. "Why would this be done in the first place?" Donovan smiled. "Why did we send the first ship to the moon? Or bother to split the atom? For no good reason, Father. Except the reason behind all of science: Curiosity. My theoretical scientists were curious to see if it could be accomplished, that's all." The priest shrugged. "But perhaps I'd better give our man a history. That would make it a bit more logical. All right, he was born a hundred years ago, roughly. A privately owned industrial monopoly was his mother, and a dozen or so assorted technicians his father. He sprang from his electric womb fully formed. But, as the result of an accident-lack of knowledge, what have you-he came out rather different from his unsuccessful brothers. A mutant! A mutated robot, Father-now there's an idea that ought to appeal to you! Anyway, he knew who, or what, he was. He remembered. And so-to make it brief-when the war interrupted the experiment and threw things into a general uproar, our man decided to escape. He wanted his individuality. He wanted to get out of the zoo. "It wasn't particularly easy, but he did this. Once free, of course, it was impossible to find him. For one thing, he had been constructed along almost painfully ordinary lines. And for another, they couldn't very well release the information that a mechanical man built by their laboratories was wandering the streets. It would cause a panic. And there was enough panic, what with the nerve gas and the bombs." "So they never found him, I gather." "No," Donovan said, wistfully. "They never found him. And they kept their secret well: it died when they died." "And what happened to the creature?" "Very little, to tell the truth. They'd given him a decent intelligence, you see-far more decent, and complex, then they knew-so he didn't have much trouble finding small jobs. A rather old-looking man, fairly strong-he made out. Needless to say, he couldn't stay in the town for more than twenty years or so, because of his inability to age, but this was all right. Everyone makes friends and loses them. He got used to it." Father Courtney sat very still now. The birds had flown away from the telephone lines, and were at the window, beating their wings, and crying harshly. "But all this time, he's been thinking, Father. Thinking and reading. He makes quite a study of philosophy, and for a time he favors a somewhat peculiar combination of Russell and Schopenhauer-unbitter bitterness, you might say. Then this phase passes, and he begins to search through the vast theological and methaphysical literature. For what? He isn't sure. However, he is sure of one thing, now: He is, indubitably, human. Without breath, without heart, without blood or bone, artificially created, he thinks this and believes it, with a fair amount of firmness, too. Isn't that remarkable!" "It is indeed," the priest said, his throat oddly tight and dry. "Go on." "Well," Donovan chuckled, "I've caught your interest, have I? All right, then. Let us imagine that one hundred years have passed. The creature has been able to make minor repairs on himself, but-at last-he is dying. Like an ancient motor, he's gone on running year after year, until he's all paste and hairpins, and now, like the motor, he's falling apart. And nothing and no one can save him." The acrid aroma burned and fumed. "Here's the real paradox, though. Our man has become religious. Father! He doesn't have a living cell within him, yet he's concerned about his soul!" Donovan's eyes quieted, as the rest of him did. "The problem," he said, "is this: Having lived creditably for over a century as a member of the human species, can this creature of ours hope for Heaven? Or will he 'die' and become only a heap of metal cogs?" Father Courtney leaped from the chair, and moved to the bed. "George, in Heaven's name, let me call Doctor Ferguson!" "Answer the question first. Or haven't you decided?" "There's nothing to decide," the priest said, with impatience. "It's a preposterous idea. No machine can have a soul." Donovan made the sighing sound, through closed lips. He said, "You don't think it's conceivable, then, that God could have made an exception here?" "What do you mean?" "That He could have taken pity on this theoretical man of ours, and breathed a soul into him after all? Is that so impossible?" Father Courtney shrugged. "It's a poor word, impossible," he said. "But it's a poor problem, too. Why not ask me whether pigs ought to be allowed to fly?" "Then you admit it's conceivable?" "I admit nothing of the kind. It simply isn't the sort of question any man can answer." "Not even a priest?" "Especially not a priest. You know as much about Catholicism as I do, George; you ought to know how absurd the proposition is." "Yes," Donovan said. His eyes were closed. Father Courtney remembered the time they had argued furiously on what would happen if you went back in time and killed your own grandfather. This was like that argument. Exactly like it-exactly. It was no stranger than a dozen other discussions (What if Mozart had been a writer instead of a composer? If a person died and remained dead for an hour and were then revived, would he be haunted by his own ghost?) Plus, perhaps, the fact that Donovan might be in a fever. Perhaps and might and why do I sit here while his life may be draining away . . - The old man made a sharp noise. "But you can tell me this much," he said. "If our theoretical man were dying, and you knew that he was dying, would you give him Extreme Unction?" "George, you're delirious." "No, I'm not: please Father! Would you give this creature the Last Rites? If, say, you knew him? If you'd known him for years, as a friend, as a member of the parish?" The priest shook his head. "It would be sacriligious." "But why? You said yourself that he might have a soul, that God might have granted him this. Didn't you say that?" "Father, remember, he's a friend of yours. You know him well. You and he, this creature, have worked together, side by side, for years. You've taken a thousand walks together, shared the same interests, the same love of art and knowledge. For the sake of the thesis, Father. Do you understand?" "No," the priest said, feeling a chill freeze into him. "No, I don't." "Just answer this, then. If your friend were suddenly to reveal himself to you as a machine, and he was dying, and wanted very much to go to Heaven-what would you do?" The priest picked up the wine glass and emptied it. He noticed that his hand was trembling. "Why-" he began, and stopped, and looked at the silent old man in the bed, studying the face, searching for madness, for death. "What would you do?" An unsummoned image flashed through his mind. Donovan, kneeling at the altar for Communion, Sunday after Sunday; Donovan, with his mouth firmly shut, while the other's yawned; Donovan, waiting to the last moment, then snatching the Host, quickly, dartingly, like a lizard gobbling a fly. Had he ever seen Donovan eat? Had he seen him take one glass of wine, ever? Father Courtney shuddered slightly, brushing away the images. He felt unwell. He wished the birds would go elsewhere. Well, answer him, he thought. Give him an answer. Then get in the helicar and fly to Milburn and pray it's not too late… "I think," the priest said, "that in such a case, I would administer Extreme Unction." "Just as a precautionary measure?" "It's all very ridiculous, but-I think that's what I'd do. Does that answer the question?" "It does, Father. It does." Donovan's voice came from nowhere. "There is one last point, then I'm finished with my little thesis." "Yes?" "Let us say the man dies and you give him Extreme Unction; he does or does not go to Heaven, provided there is a Heaven. What happens to the body? Do you tell the towns-people they have been living with a mechanical monster all these years?" "What do you think, George?" "I think it would be unwise. They remember our theoretical man as a friend, you see. The shock would be terrible. Also, they would never believe he was the only one of his kind; they'd begin to suspect their neighbors of having clockwork interiors. And some of them might be tempted to investigate and see for sure. And, too, the news would be bound to spread, all over the world. I think it would be a bad thing to let anyone know, Father." "How would I be able to suppress it?" the priest heard himself ask, seriously. "By conducting a private autopsy, so to speak. Then, afterwards, you could take the parts to a junkyard and scatter them." Donovan's voice dropped to a whisper. Again the locust hum
. ". . . and if our monster had left a note to the effect he had moved to some unspecified place, you…" The acrid smell billowed, all at once, like a steam, a hiss of blinding vapor. "George." Donovan lay unstirring on the cloud of linen, his face composed, expressionless. "George!" The priest reached under the blanket and touched the heart-area of Donovan's chest. He tried to pull the eyelids up: they would not move. He blinked away the burning wetness. "Forgive me!" he said, and paused, and took from his pocket a small white jar and a white stole. He spoke softly, under his breath, in Latin. While he spoke, he touched the old man's feet and head with glistening fingertips. Then, when many minutes had passed, he raised his head. Rain sounded in the room, and swift winds, and far-off rockets. Father Courtney grasped the edge of the blanket. He made the Sign of the Cross, breathed, and pulled downward, slowly. After a long while he opened his eyes.