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 moved 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 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 spattered 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 gray 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
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 moved 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 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 spattered 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 gray 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
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