w he is."

"What're they celebrating, Martha?"

"Young Ronald's leaving--for pre-space training. It's a going-away
affair." They paused in the doorway. The small priest smiled in at
Donegal and nodded. He set his black bag on the floor inside, winked
solemnly at the patient.

"I'll leave you two alone," said Martha. She closed the door and her
footsteps wandered off down the hall.

Donegal and the young priest eyed each other warily.

"You look like hell, Donegal," the padre offered jovially. "Feeling
nasty?"

"Skip the small talk. Let's get this routine over with."

The priest humphed thoughtfully, sauntered across to the bed, gazed down
at the old man disinterestedly. "What's the matter? Don't want the
'routine'? Rather play it tough?"

"What's the difference?" he growled. "Hurry up and get out. I want to
hear the beast blast off."

"You won't be able to," said the priest, glancing at the window, now
closed again. "That's quite a racket next door."

"They'd better stop for it. They'd better quiet down for it. They'll
have to turn it off for five minutes or so."

"Maybe they won't."

It was a new idea, and it frightened him. He liked the music, and the
party's gaiety, the nearness of youth and good times--but it hadn't
occurred to him that it wouldn't stop so he could hear the beast.

"Don't get upset, Donegal. You know what a blast-off sounds like."

"But it's the last one. The last time. I want to hear."

"How do you know it's the last time?"

"Hell, don't I know when I'm kicking off?"

"Maybe, maybe not. It's hardly your decision."

"It's not, eh?" Old Donegal fumed. "Well, bigawd you'd think it wasn't.
You'd think it was Martha's and yours and that damfool medic's. You'd
think I got no say-so. Who's doing it anyway?"

"I would guess," Father Paul grunted sourly, "that Providence might
appreciate His fair share of the credit."

Old Donegal made a surly noise and hunched his head back into the pillow
to glower.

"You want me?" the priest asked. "Or is this just a case of wifely
conscience?"

"What's the difference? Give me the business and scram."

"No soap. Do you want the sacrament, or are you just being kind to your
wife? If it's for Martha, I'll go _now_."

Old Donegal glared at him for a time, then wilted. The priest brought
his bag to the bedside.

"Bless me, father, for I have sinned."

"Bless you, son."

"I accuse myself ..."

* * * * *

T