"I asked someone for clothes and they gave these things to me. Darned
nice of them."
"You'll find that's how we are in this world. All you have to do is
ask."
McClure shut up again. His eyes moved. Only his eyes and nothing else.
Once or twice he lifted his drink.
A little clock ticked somewhere in the distance.
"Tell me about yourself, Mr. Lantry."
"Nothing much to tell."
"You're modest."
"Hardly. You know about the past. I know nothing of the future, or I
should say 'today' and day before yesterday. You don't learn much in a
coffin."
McClure did not speak. He suddenly sat forward in his chair and then
leaned back and shook his head.
They'll never suspect me, thought Lantry. They aren't superstitious,
they simply _can't_ believe in a dead man walking. Therefore, I'll be
safe. I'll keep putting off the physical checkup. They're polite. They
won't force me. Then, I'll work it so I can get to Mars. After that,
the tombs, in my own good time, and the plan. God, how simple. How
naive these people are.
* * * * *
McClure sat across the room for five minutes. A coldness had come
over him. The color was very slowly going from his face, as one sees
the color of medicine vanishing as one presses the bulb at the top
of a dropper. He leaned forward, saying nothing, and offered another
cigarette to Lantry.
"Thanks." Lantry took it. McClure sat deeply back into his easy chair,
his knees folded one over the other. He did not look at Lantry, and
yet somehow did. The feeling of weighing and balancing returned.
McClure was like a tall thin master of hounds listening for something
that nobody else could hear. There are little silver whistles you can
blow that only dogs can hear. McClure seemed to be listening acutely,
sensitively for such an invisible whistle, listening with his eyes
and with his half-opened, dry mouth, and with his aching, breathing
nostrils.
Lantry sucked the cigarette, sucked the cigarette, sucked the
cigarette, and, as many times, blew out, blew out, blew out. McClure
was like some lean red-shagged hound listening and listening with a
slick slide of eyes to one side, with an apprehension in that hand that
was so precisely microscopic that one only sensed it, as one sensed
the invisible whistle, with some part of the brain deeper than eyes or
nostril or ear. McClure was all chemist's scale, all antennae.
The room was so quiet the cigarette smoke made some kind of invisible
noise rising to the ceiling. McClure was a thermometer, a chemist's
scales, a listening hound, a litmus paper, an antennae; all these.
Lantry did not move. Perhaps the feeling would pass. It had passed
before. McClure did not move for a long while and then, without a word,
he nodded at the sherry decanter, and Lantry refused as silently. They
sat looking but not looking at each other, again and away, again and
away.
McClure stiffened slowly. Lantry saw the color getting paler in those
lean cheeks, and the hand tightening on the sherry glass, and a
knowledge come at last to stay, never to go away, into the eyes.
Lantry did not move. He could not. All of this was of such a
fascination that he wanted only to see, to hear what would happen next.
It was McClure's show from here on in.
McClure said, "At first I thought it was the finest psychosis I have
ever seen. You, I mean. I thought, he's convinced himself, Lantry's
convinced himself, he's quite insane, he's told himself to do all these
little things." McClure talked as if in a dream, and continued talking
and didn't stop.
"I said to myself, he purposely doesn't breathe through his nose. I
watched your nostrils, Lantry. The little nostril hairs never once
quivered in the last hour. That wasn't enough. It was a fact I filed.
It wasn't enough. He breathes through his mouth, I said, on purpose.
And then I gave you a cigarette and you sucked and blew, sucked and
blew. None of it ever came out your nose. I told myself, well, that's
all right. He doesn't inhale. Is that terrible, is that suspect? All
in the mouth, all in the mouth. And then, I looked at your chest. I
watched. It never moved up or down, it did nothing. He's convinced
himself, I said to myself. He's convinced himself about all this.
He doesn't move his chest, except slowly, when he thinks you're not
looking. That's what I told myself."
The words went on in the silent room, not pausing, still in a dream.
"And then I offered you a drink but you don't drink and I thought, he
doesn't drink, I thought. Is _that_ terrible? And I watched and watched
you all this time. Lantry holds his breath, he's fooling himself. But
now, yes, now, I understand it quite well. Now I know everything the
way it is. Do you know how I know? I do not hear breathing in the room.
I wait and I hear nothing. There is no beat of heart or intake of lung.
The room is so silent. Nonsense, one might say, but I know. At the
Incinerator I know. There is a difference. You enter a room where a
man is on a bed and you know immediately whether he will look up and
speak to you or whether he will not speak to you ever again. Laugh if
you will, but one can tell. It is a subliminal thing. It is the whistle
the dog hears when no human hears. It is the tick of a clock that has
ticked so long one no longer notices. Something is in a room when a man
lives in it. Something is not in the room when a man is dead in it."
* * * * *
McClure shut his eyes a moment. He put down his sherry glass. He waited
a moment. He took up his cigarette and puffed it and then put it down
in a black tray.
"I am alone in this room," he said.
Lantry did not move.
"You are dead," said McClure. "My mind does not know this. It is not a
thinking thing. It is a thing of the senses and the subconscious. At
first I thought, this man _thinks_ he is dead, risen from the dead,
a vampire. Is that not logical? Would not any man, buried as many
centuries, raised in a superstitious, ignorant culture, think likewise
of himself once risen from the tomb? Yes, that is logical. This man
has hypnotized himself and fitted his bodily functions so that they
would in no way interfere with his self-delusion, his great paranoia.
He governs his breathing. He tells himself, I cannot hear my breathing,
therefore I am dead. His inner mind censors the sound of breathing.
He does not allow himself to eat or drink. These things he probably
does in his sleep, with part of his mind, hiding the evidences of this
humanity from his deluded mind at other times."
McClure finished it. "I was wrong. You are not insane. You are not
deluding yourself. Nor me. This is all very illogical and--I must
admit--almost frightening. Does that make you feel good, to think you
frighten me? I have no label for you. You're a very odd man, Lantry.
I'm glad to have met you. This will make an interesting report indeed."
"Is there anything wrong with me being dead?" said Lantry. "Is it a
crime?"
"You must admit it's highly unusual."
"But, still now, is it a crime?" asked Lantry.
"We have no crime, no criminal court. We want to examine you,
naturally, to find out how you have happened. It is like that chemical
which, one minute is inert, the next is living cell. Who can say where
what happened to what. You are that impossibility. It is enough to
drive a man quite insane."
"Will I be released when you are done fingering me?"
"You will not be held. If you don't wish to be examined, you will not
be. But I am hoping you will help by offering us your services."
"I might," said Lantry.
"But tell me," said McClure. "What were you doing at the morgue?"
"Nothing."
"I heard you talking when I came in."
"I was merely curious."
"You're lying. That is very bad, Mr. Lantry. The truth is far better.
The truth is, is it not, that you are dead and, being the only one of
your sort, were lonely. Therefore you killed people to have company."
"How does that follow?"
McClure laughed. "Logic, my dear fellow. Once I _knew_ you were really
dead, a moment ago, really a--what do you call it--a vampire (silly
word!) I tied you immediately to the Incinerator blasts. Before that
there was no reason to connect you. But once the one piece fell into
place, the fact that you were dead, then it was simple to guess your
loneliness, your hate, your envy, all of the tawdry motivations of a
walking corpse. It took only an instant then to see the Incinerators
blown to blazes, and then to think of you, among the bodies at the
morgue, seeking help, seeking friends and people like yourself to work
with--"
"You're too damned smart!" Lantry was out of the chair. He was half way
to the other man when McClure rolled over and scuttled away, flinging
the sherry decanter. With a great despair Lantry realized that, like
a damned idiot, he had thrown away his one chance to kill McClure.
He should have done it earlier. It had been Lantry's one weapon, his
safety margin. If people in a society never _killed_ each other, they
never _suspected_ one another. You could walk up to any one of them and
kill him.
"Come back here!" Lantry threw the knife.
McClure got behind a chair. The idea of flight, of protection, of
fighting, was still new to him. He had part of the idea, but there was
still a bit of luck on Lantry's side if Lantry wanted to use it.
"Oh, no," said McClure, holding the chair between himself and the
advancing man. "You want to kill me. It's odd, but true. I can't
understand it. You want to cut me with that knife or something like
that, and it's up to me to prevent you from doing such an odd thing."
"I _will_ kill you!" Lantry let it slip out. He cursed himself. That
was the worst possible thing to say.
Lantry lunged across the chair, clutching at McClure.
McClure was very logical. "It won't do you any good to kill me. You
_know_ that." They wrestled and held each other in a wild, toppling
shuffle. Tables fell over, scattering articles. "You remember what
happened in the morgue?"
"I don't care!" screamed Lantry.
"You didn't raise _those_ dead, did you?"
"I don't care!" cried Lantry.
"Look here," said McClure, reasonably. "There will never be any more
like you, ever, there's no use."
"Then I'll destroy all of you, all of you!" screamed Lantry.
"And then what? You'll still be alone, with no more like you about."
"I'll go to Mars. They have tombs there. I'll find more like myself!"
"No," said McClure. "The executive order went through yesterday. All of
the tombs are being deprived of their bodies. They'll be burned in the
next week."
They fell together to the floor. Lantry got his hands on McClure's
throat.
"Please," said McClure. "Do you see, you'll _die_."
"What do you mean?" cried Lantry.
"Once you kill all of us, and you're alone, you'll die! The hate will
die. That hate is what moves you, _nothing else_! That envy moves you.
Nothing else! You'll die, inevitably. You're not immortal. You're not
even alive, you're nothing but a moving hate."
"I don't care!" screamed Lantry, and began choking the man, beating his
head with his fists, crouched on the defenseless body. McClure looked
up at him with dying eyes.
The front door opened. Two men came in.
"I say," said one of them. "What's going on? A new game?"
Lantry jumped back and began to run.
"Yes, a new game!" said McClure, struggling up. "Catch him and you win!"
The two men caught Lantry. "We win," they said.
"Let me go!" Lantry thrashed, hitting them across their faces, bringing
blood.
"Hold him tight!" cried McClure.
They held him.
"A rough game, what?" one of them said. "What do we do _now_?"
* * * * *
The beetle hissed along the shining road. Rain fell out of the sky and
a wind ripped at the dark green wet trees. In the beetle, his hands
on the half-wheel, McClure was talking. His voice was a susurrant, a
whispering, a hypnotic thing. The two other men sat in the back seat.
Lantry sat, or rather lay, in the front seat, his head back, his eyes
faintly open, the glowing green light of the dash dials showing on his
cheeks. His mouth was relaxed. He did not speak.
McClure talked quietly and logically, about life and moving, about
death and not moving, about the sun and the great sun Incinerator,
about the emptied tombyard, about hatred and how hate lived and made
a clay man live and move, and how illogical it all was, it all was,
it all was. One was dead, was dead, was dead, that was all, all, all.
One did not try to be otherwise. The car whispered on the moving road.
The rain spatted gently on the windshield. The men in the back seat
conversed quietly. Where were they going, going? To the Incinerator, of
course. Cigarette smoke moved slowly up on the air, curling and tying
into itself in grey loops and spirals. One was dead and must accept it.
Lantry did not move. He was a marionette, the strings cut. There was
only a tiny hatred in his heart, in his eyes, like twin coals, feeble,
glowing, fading.
I am Poe, he thought. I am all that is left of Edgar Allan Poe, and
I am all that is left of Ambrose Bierce and all that is left of a
man named Lovecraft. I am a grey night bat with sharp teeth, and I
am a square black monolith monster. I am Osiris and Baal and Set. I
am the Necronomicon, the Book of the Dead. I am the house of Usher,
falling into flame. I am the Red Death. I am the man mortared into
the catacomb with a cask of Amontillado.... I am a dancing skeleton.
I am a coffin, a shroud, a lightning bolt reflected in an old house
window. I am an autumn-empty tree, I am a rapping, flinging shutter. I
am a yellowed volume turned by a claw hand. I am an organ played in an
attic at midnight. I am a mask, a skull mask behind an oak tree on the
last day of October. I am a poison apple bobbling in a water tub for
child noses to bump at, for child teeth to snap.... I am a black candle
lighted before an inverted cross. I am a coffin lid, a sheet with eyes,
a footstep on a black stairwell. I am Dunsany and Machen and I am the
Legend of Sleepy Hollow. I am The Monkey's Paw and I am The Phantom
Rickshaw. I am the Cat and the Canary, The Gorilla, the Bat. I am the
ghost of Hamlet's father on the castle wall.
All of these things am I. And now these last things will be burned.
While I lived _they_ still lived. While I moved and hated and existed,
_they_ still existed. I am _all_ that remembers them. I am all of them
that _still_ goes on, and will _not_ go on after tonight. Tonight, all
of us, Poe and Bierce and Hamlet's father, we burn together. They will
make a big heap of us and burn us like a bonfire, like things of Guy
Fawkes' day, gasoline, torch-light, cries and all!
And what a wailing will we put up. The world will be clean of us, but
in our going we shall say, oh what is the world like, clean of fear,
where is the dark imagination from the dark time, the thrill and the
anticipation, the suspense of old October, gone, never more to come
again, flattened and smashed and burned by the rocket people, by the
Incinerator people, destroyed and obliterated, to be replaced by doors
that open and close and lights that go on or off without fear. If
only you could remember how once _we_ lived, what Hallowe'en was to
us, and what Poe was, and how we gloried in the dark morbidities. One
more drink, dear friends, of Amontillado, before the burning. All of
this, all, exists but in one last brain on earth. A whole world dying
tonight. One more drink, pray.
"Here we are," said McClure.
* * * * *
The Incinerator was brightly lighted. There was quiet music nearby.
McClure got out of the beetle, came around to the other side. He opened
the door. Lantry simply lay there. The talking and the logical talking
had slowly drained him of life. He was no more than wax now, with a
small glow in his eyes. This future world, how the men _talked_ to you,
how logically they reasoned away your life. They wouldn't believe in
him. The force of their disbelief froze him. He could not move his arms
or his legs. He could only mumble senselessly, coldly, eyes flickering.
McClure and the two others helped him out of the car, put him in a
golden box and rolled him on a roller table into the warm glowing
interior of the building.
I am Edgar Allan Poe, I am Ambrose Bierce, I am Hallowe'en, I am a
coffin, a shroud, a Monkey's Paw, a Phantom, a Vampire....
"Yes, yes," said McClure, quietly, over him. "I know. I know."
The table glided. The walls swung over him and by him, the music
played. You are dead, you are logically dead.
I am Usher, I am the Maelstrom, I am the MS Found In A Bottle, I am
the Pit and I am the Pendulum, I am the Telltale Heart, I am the Raven
nevermore, nevermore.
"Yes," said McClure, as they walked softly. "I know."
"I am in the catacomb," cried Lantry.
"Yes, the catacomb," said the walking man over him.
"I am being chained to a wall, and there is no bottle of Amontillado
here!" cried Lantry weakly, eyes closed.
"Yes," someone said.
There was movement. The flame door opened.
"Now someone is mortaring up the cell, closing me in!"
"Yes, I _know_." A whisper.
The golden box slid into the flame lock.
"I'm being walled in! A very good joke indeed! Let us be gone!" A wild
scream and much laughter.
"We know, we understand...."
The inner flame lock opened. The golden coffin shot forth into flame.
_"For the love of God, Montresor! For the love of God!"_