DEATH
OF A
SPACEMAN
BY WALTER M. MILLER, JR.
The manner in which a man has lived is often thekey to the way he will die. Take old man Donegal,for example. Most of his adult life was spent indigging a hole through space to learn what was onthe other side. Would he go out the same way?
Old Donegal was dying. Theyhad all known it was coming,and they watched it come—hishaggard wife, his daughter, andnow his grandson, home on emergencyleave from the pre-astronauticsacademy. Old Donegalknew it too, and had known itfrom the beginning, when he hadbegun to lose control of his legsand was forced to walk with acane. But most of the time, hepretended to let them keep thesecret they shared with the doctors—thatthe operations had allbeen failures, and that the cancerthat fed at his spine would gnawits way brainward until the paralysisengulfed vital organs, andthen Old Donegal would cease tobe. It would be cruel to let themknow that he knew. Once, weeksago, he had joked about the approachingshadows.
"Buy the plot back where peoplewon't walk over it, Martha,"he said. "Get it way back underthe cedars—next to the fence.There aren't many graves backthere yet. I want to be alone."
"Don't talk that way, Donny!"his wife had choked. "You're notdying."
His eyes twinkled maliciously."Listen, Martha, I want to beburied face-down. I want to beburied with my back to space,understand? Don't let them layme out like a lily."
"Donny, please!"
"They oughta face a man theway he's headed," Donegalgrunted. "I been up—way up.Now I'm going straight down."
Martha had fled from the roomin tears. He had never done itagain, except to the interns andnurses, who, while they insistedthat he was going to get well,didn't mind joking with him aboutit.
Martha can bear my death, hethought, can bear pre-knowledgeof it. But she couldn't bear thinkingthat he might take it calmly.If he accepted death gracefully, itwould be like deliberately leavingher, and Old Donegal had decidedto help her believe whateverwould be comforting to her in sucha troublesome moment.
"When'll they let me out ofthis bed again?" he complained.
"Be patient, Donny," shesighed. "It won't be long. You'llbe up and around before youknow it."
"Back on the moon-run,maybe?" he offered. "Listen,Martha, I been planet-bound toolong. I'm not too old for the moon-run,am I? Sixty-three's not soold."
That had been carrying thingstoo far. She knew he was hoaxing,and dabbed at her eyes again.The dead must humor the mourners,he thought, and the sick mustcomfort the visitors. It was alwaysso.
But it was harder, now that theend was near. His eyes werehazy, and his thoughts unclear.He could move his arms a little,clumsily, but feeling was gonefrom them. The rest of his bodywas lost to him. Sometimes heseemed to feel his stomach andhis hips, but the sensation wasmostly an illusion offered byhigher nervous centers, like the"ghost-arm" that an amputeecontinues to feel. The wires weredown, and he was cut off fromhimself.
He lay wheezing on the hospitalbed, in his own room, in his ownrented flat. Gaunt and unshaven,gray as winter twilight, he laystaring at the white net curtainsthat billowed gently in the breezefrom the open window. There wasno sound in the room but t