"He's very busy getting the New Year's debut ready. He's also got a set of offices for the company in Los Angeles and he's engaged me to write an introduction to Cave… but I suppose you knew that when he wired you I was coming."
"It was my idea."
"My coming? or the introduction?"
"Both. I talked to him about it just before we came up here."
"And I thought he picked it out of the air while listening to me majestically place Cave among the philosophers."
Iris smiled. "Paul's not obvious. He enjoys laying traps and, as long as they're for one's own good, he's very useful."
"Implying he could be destructive?"
"Immensely. So be on your guard even though I don't think he'll harm any of us."
"How is Cave?"
"I'm worried, Gene. He hasn't got over that accident. He talks about it continually."
"But the man didn't die."
"It would be better if he did… as it is there's a chance of a lawsuit against Cave for damages."
"But he has no money."
"That doesn't prevent them from suing. Worst of all, though, would be the publicity. The whole thing has depressed John terribly. It was all I could do to keep him from announcing to the press that he had almost done the old man a favor."
"You mean by killing him?"
Iris nodded, quite seriously. "That's actually what he believes and the reason why he drove on."
"I'm glad he said nothing like that to the papers."
"But it's true; his point of view is exactly right."
"Except that the old man might regard the situation in a different light and, in any case, he was badly hurt and did not receive Cave's gift of death."
"Now you're making fun of John." She frowned and drove fast on the empty road.
"I'm doing no such thing. I'm absolutely serious. There's a moral problem involved which is extremely important and if a precedent is set too early, a bad one like this, there's no predicting how things will turn out."
"You mean the… the gift as you call it should only be given voluntarily?"
"Exactly… if then, and only in extreme cases. Think what might happen if those who listened to Cave decided to make all their friends and enemies content by killing them."
"Well, I wish you'd talk to him." She smiled sadly. "I'm afraid I don't always see things clearly when I'm with him. You know how he is… how he convinces."
"I'll talk to him tactfully. I've also got to get a statement of belief from him."
"But you have it already. We all have it."
"Then I'll want some moral application of it. We have so much ground to cover yet."
"There's the farm, up there on the hill." A white frame building stood shining among elms on a low hill at the foot of blue sharp mountains. She turned up a dirt road and, in silence, we arrived at the house.
An old woman, the cook, greeted us familiarly and told Iris that he could be found in the study.
In a small warm room, sitting beside a stone fireplace empty of fire, Cave sat, a scrapbook on his knees, his expression vague, unfocused. Our arrival recalled him from some dense reverie. He got to his feet quickly and shook hands; "I'm glad you came," he said.
"I wanted to see you," I said awkwardly: it was Cave's particular gift to strike a note of penetrating sincerity at all times, even in his greetings which became, as a result, disconcertingly like benedictions. Iris excused herself and I sat beside him in front of the fireplace.
"Have you seen these?" he asked, pushing the scrapbook toward me.
I took it and nodded when I saw, neatly pasted and labeled, the various newspaper stories concerning the accident. It had got a surprisingly large amount of space as though, instinctively, the editors had anticipated a coming celebrity for "Hit-and-Run Prophet."
"Look what they say about me."
"I've read them all," I said, handing the scrapbook back to him, a little surprised that, considering his unworldliness, he had bothered to keep such careful track of his appearance in the press. It showed a new, rather touching side to him: he was like an actor hoarding his notices, good and bad. "I don't think it's serious: after all you were let off by the court, and the man didn't die."
"It was an accident of course yet that old man nearly received the greatest gift a man can have, a quick death. I wanted to tell the court that. I could've convinced them, I'm sure, but Paul said no. It was the first time I've ever gone against my own instinct and I don't like it." Emphatically, he shut the book.
We watched the cook who came into the room and lit the fire. When the first crackling filled the room and the pine had caught, she left, observing that we were to eat in an hour.
"You want to wash up?" asked Cave mechanically, his eyes on the fire, his hands clasped in his lap like those dingy marble replicas of hands which decorate medieval tombs: that night there was an unhuman look to Cave: pale, withdrawn, inert… his lips barely moving when he spoke, as though another's voice spoke through senseless flesh.
"No thanks," I said, a little chilled by his tone, by his remoteness. I got him off the subject of the accident as quickly as possible and we talked until dinner of the introduction I was to write. It was most enlightening. As I suspected, Cave had read only the Bible and that superficially, just enough to be able, at crucial moments, to affect the seventeenth-century prose of the translators and to confound thereby simple listeners with the familiar authority of his manner. His knowledge of philosophy did not even encompass the names of the principals. Plato and Aristotle rang faint, unrelated bells and with them the meager carillon ended.
"I don't know why you want to drag in those people," he said, after I had suggested Zoroaster as a possible point of beginning. "Most people have never heard of them either. And what I have to say is all my own. It doesn't tie in with any of them or, if it does, it's a coincidence because I never picked it up anywhere."
"I think, though, that it would help matters if we did provide a sort of family tree for you, to show…"
"I don't." He gestured with his effigy-hands. "Let them argue about it later. For now, act like this is a new beginning, which it is. I have only one thing to give people and that is the way to die without fear, gladly… to accept nothing for what it is, a long and dreamless sleep."
I had to fight against that voice, those eyes which as always, when he chose, could dominate any listener. Despite my close association with him, despite the thousands of times I heard him speak, I was never, even in moments of lucid disenchantment, quite able to resist his power. He was a magician in the great line of Simon Magus and the Faust of legend. That much, even now, I will acknowledge… his divinity, however, was and is the work of others, shaped and directed by the race's recurrent need.
I surrendered in the name of philosophy with a certain relief, and he spoke in specific terms of what he believed and what I should write in his name.
It was not until after dinner that we got around, all three of us, to a problem which was soon to absorb us all, with near-disastrous results.
We had been talking amiably of neutral things and Cave had emerged somewhat from his earlier despondency. He got on to the subject of the farm where we were, of its attractiveness and remoteness, of its owner who lived in Spokane. "I always liked old Smathers. You'd like him too. He's got one of the biggest funeral parlors in the state. I used to work for him and then, when I started on all this, he backed me up to the hilt. Lent me money to get as far as San Francisco. After that of course it was easy. I paid him back every cent."
"Does he get here often?"
Cave shook his head. "No, he lets me use the farm but he keeps away. He says he doesn't approve of what I'm doing. You see he's Catholic."
"But he still likes John," said Iris who had been stroking a particularly ugly yellow cat beside the fire. So it was John now, I thought. Iris was the only person ever to call him by his first name.