"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 beautiful, 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. W
ithout 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 leapt 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.
* * *
Introduction to THE HOWLING MAN
(by Harlan Ellison)
* * *
No one--not critics or savants of semiotics or even readers of the most sensitive sort--can know how good Chuck Beaumont was at putting words on paper. Only other writers can feel the impulse that beats in his work as strongly as it beats in themselves. Good writers love him and what he did; mediocre writers envy and marvel and even hate him a little because he heard the music denied them; bad writers are simply overwhelmed and are left desolate at the realization that, like Salieri, they can never be Mozart. Charles Beaumont was truly one in a million. A million men and women fighting that battle waged every time they sit down to work, on a battlefield 8 1/2 x 11, in conflict not only with themselves and the best they've ever done personally, but with all the best who went before.
We try to avoid such statements, bec
ause they reek of the worst pronouncements of Hemingway getting into the ring with Chekhov (that snappy little counterpuncher). But any writer worth the name, unless he or she is totally daft, knows that it's true: comparisons will eventually be made, and one has to go up against the highest standards of literature if one hopes to be read fifteen minutes after final blackout. Even John Simon knows it: ". . . there is no point in saying less than your predecessors have said."
So we pick our icons. And we pick them carefully, in hopes that we haven't been spotted so many balls that beating the competition is a hollow victory. Mine have been Kafka and Poe and Borges . . . and Beaumont. (Arrogance had long been my prime character flaw.) Thus far I don't think their shades need worry.
And though I know the former three only through their work, Chuck Beaumont was my friend for about nine years, and I had the honor of buying and publishing quite a bit of his stuff.
From April Fool's Day 1959, my separation date from the U.S. Army, till August of 1960, yoked with the excellent novelist Frank M. Robinson, I was editor of Rogue, a slick men's magazine published out of Evanston, Illinois--only a few miles and even fewer dissimilarities from Playboy's offices on Ohio Street in Chicago's Loop. The magazine was published by one of the industry's great characters, William L. Ham ling.
Now, Mr. Ham ling, early in his publishing career, circa 1950, had worked in Skokie, Illinois for a man named George von Rosen, publisher of (among other titles, such as Art Photography, which Bill worked on) Modern Man, arguably the first true men's magazine.
(Let me backtrack for a moment. I hadn't really intended to get into this much ancient history, simply to make a point about origins, but it occurs to me that this is the kind of publishing history minutiae that gets lost forever unless someone accidentally manages to commit it to paper before the memories blur. Some archivist may one day need this series of linkages, which are kinda sorta fascinating in/of themselves, so excuse the digression.
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