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Spaceways, v. 3, issue 4, May 1941

Page 4

4    SPACEWAYS

DAR INTERLUDE 5
by
JACK CHAPMAN MISKE

Some rooms reflect the mood customary to their occupants. That is, very often they seem to radiate some emotion simply because their occupants do. And their conditions is no criterion either, since shabbiness or opulence fails to hide joy or gloom.
This one was of the gloomy type, most eloquent of all that is sordid. Even the bright sunlight arrowing through the window, the dust-motes swirling in its depths, seemed cold and pale in that room. From the moment he started up the stairs, the Young Man had known it would be like this.
Outside it was warm and clear, but the narrow hall, despite the day streaming in, was drab and chilly, the sunlight diluted and thin. The tread of many feet had long past obliterated the paint from the sagging steps. The banister was overlaid with grime so thick it could have been scraped off like wax. He saw too that the wallpaper had peeled away and hung forlornly from the walls and ceiling, the crumbling plaster showing dirtily beneath.
But carefully, impassively, he had mounted the weary stairs, and opened the single door at their head. Strangely, the steps had not creaked beneath his walk, though usually they squealed at the slightest pressure. And when the door swung open, it was more as though a vagrant breeze than a human hand had touched it. But the girl on the ancient, brass-poster bed had heard, and without turning her head, she spoke wearily.
"go away," she said huskily. "Not today. Come back next week--go away!" She stopped and sobbed tearlessly when the door closed. But the Young Man had not gone. He stood inside the room and looked at the girl. Her name was Laura. That was all we need to know.
There was a mixture of sorrow and joy, each equally unbearable, on the Young Man's face as he stood there, silently, and watched Laura die. That's what was happening--tuberculosis, a doctor would have said; but there was none there. There was nothing he could have done anyhow. The pillow was flecked with red, and a towel Laura held was soggy with life-substance she had coughed up. She was coughing now, great racking coughs that tore at her entire body, leaving her pale, exhausted, and gasping for breath.
It was terrible, the Young Man knew, to be dying alone and afraid in such surroundings. But there was a look of eager expectation in his eyes, so that he seemed almost anxious for her to die. His body leaned forward slightly as he watched. once when in pain she uttered a whimpering animal sound, he seemed to start toward her, as though to comfort and reassure her. But he did not.
Time dissolved into a state of flux for them. It meant nothing to her, and for him it was forgotten as he kept his death-watch. Finally, perhaps in an hour, perhaps two, the end came.
The girl writhed, and her whole body contorted. She mumbled a few unintelligible words, opened her eyes wide and staring as though seeing momentarily into some world for ever barred to ordinary sight. And then, as a torrent of red gushed from her lips, she fell back and lay still.
A shadow passed momentarily across the Young Man's face and was almost instantly replaced by a look of exultation so intense that any watcher would have shrunk from him in fear and awe.
He paused by a moment, then moved as if to leave, but was stopped by the loud clatter of footsteps on the rickety stairs outside. The door was pushed open and a reedfaced man in a blue uniform entered ponderously. He saw the Young Man first, and his mouth opened to speak. The words died unborn. He saw the girl. He took in the scene and grasped its import immediately. He advanced to the bed and stood above the still, pitiful figure for a moment. Then he returned to the door and spoke in the hushed voice people always use in the presence of the dead.
"Was--was you here when she passed away?" he asked, and added reverently, "God have mercy on her poor soul."

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4 SPACEWAYS DAR INTERLUDE 5 by JACK CHAPMAN MISKE Some rooms reflect the mood customary to their occupants. That is, very often they seem to radiate some emotion simply because their occupants do. And their conditions is no criterion either, since shabbiness or opulence fails to hide joy or gloom. This one was of the gloomy type, most eloquent of all that is sordid. Even the bright sunlight arrowing through the window, the dust-motes swirling in its depths, seemed cold and pale in that room. From the moment he started up the stairs, the Young Man had known it would be like this. Outside it was warm and clear, but the narrow hall, despite the day streaming in, was drab and chilly, the sunlight diluted and thin. The tread of many feet had long past obliterated the paint from the sagging steps. The banister was overlaid with grime so thick it could have been scraped off like wax. He saw too that the wallpaper had peeled away and hung forlornly from the walls and ceiling, the crumbling plaster showing dirtily beneath. But carefully, impassively, he had mounted the weary stairs, and opened the single door at their head. Strangely, the steps had not creaked beneath his walk, though usually they squealed at the slightest pressure. And when the door swung open, it was more as though a vagrant breeze than a human hand had touched it. But the girl on the ancient, brass-poster bed had heard, and without turning her head, she spoke wearily. "go away," she said huskily. "Not today. Come back next week--go away!" She stopped and sobbed tearlessly when the door closed. But the Young Man had not gone. He stood inside the room and looked at the girl. Her name was Laura. That was all we need to know. There was a mixture of sorrow and joy, each equally unbearable, on the Young Man's face as he stood there, silently, and watched Laura die. That's what was happening--tuberculosis, a doctor would have said; but there was none there. There was nothing he could have done anyhow. The pillow was flecked with red, and a towel Laura held was soggy with life-substance she had coughed up. She was coughing now, great racking coughs that tore at her entire body, leaving her pale, exhausted, and gasping for breath. It was terrible, the Young Man knew, to be dying alone and afraid in such surroundings. But there was a look of eager expectation in his eyes, so that he seemed almost anxious for her to die. His body leaned forward slightly as he watched. once when in pain she uttered a whimpering animal sound, he seemed to start toward her, as though to comfort and reassure her. But he did not. Time dissolved into a state of flux for them. It meant nothing to her, and for him it was forgotten as he kept his death-watch. Finally, perhaps in an hour, perhaps two, the end came. The girl writhed, and her whole body contorted. She mumbled a few unintelligible words, opened her eyes wide and staring as though seeing momentarily into some world for ever barred to ordinary sight. And then, as a torrent of red gushed from her lips, she fell back and lay still. A shadow passed momentarily across the Young Man's face and was almost instantly replaced by a look of exultation so intense that any watcher would have shrunk from him in fear and awe. He paused by a moment, then moved as if to leave, but was stopped by the loud clatter of footsteps on the rickety stairs outside. The door was pushed open and a reedfaced man in a blue uniform entered ponderously. He saw the Young Man first, and his mouth opened to speak. The words died unborn. He saw the girl. He took in the scene and grasped its import immediately. He advanced to the bed and stood above the still, pitiful figure for a moment. Then he returned to the door and spoke in the hushed voice people always use in the presence of the dead. "Was--was you here when she passed away?" he asked, and added reverently, "God have mercy on her poor soul."