Last Rites by SF ’68

Summary

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Podcast Summary: "Last Rites" by SF ’68

Relic Radio Sci-Fi | RelicRadio.com | Aired: March 23, 2026

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Episode Overview

This episode of Relic Radio Sci-Fi features “Last Rites” from the classic series SF ’68. The story revolves around a poignant, philosophical dialogue between two old friends: Father Courtney, a Catholic priest, and George Donovan, a respected community member on his deathbed. What begins as a pastoral visit quickly deepens into existential reflection on the nature of humanity, the soul, and what it means to be alive when George reveals an astonishing truth about his identity. The episode blends 22nd-century sci-fi elements with age-old questions about faith, consciousness, and grace.

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Key Discussion Points & Insights

Introduction to Characters and Setting

• [01:33–04:10]
  • Father Courtney finishes mass and comments wryly about his congregation’s attentiveness (“After all, you're a priest, not a monologist. What do you care about audience reaction?”).
  • George Donovan, bedridden and evidently very ill, calls the Father, asking him to visit quickly and alone.

A Growing Mystery

• [04:10–07:16]
  • The priest senses an unsettling, unfamiliar smell in George’s room, not quite the scent of illness.
  • George insists no doctors are called and asks for the priest’s presence and discretion—hinting his “illness” is unique.

Their Friendship Reflected

• [07:55–09:25]
  • The two reminisce about decades-long friendship and George's “goodness.”
  • The priest describes George as an uncommonly virtuous, civic-minded man:

    “All because of an old man with a soft voice. George Donovan, I mean it.” [08:44]

Theoretical Problem or Confession?

• [10:44–11:51]
  • George proposes a “theoretical” scenario: an artificial man, indistinguishable from humans in every way. Father Courtney’s skepticism emerges.
  • The dialogue blurs: is it theory, or is this George’s confession?

Artificial Life and the Soul

• [13:35–16:25]
  • George outlines the scenario: a perfect artificial man, created in the past, living undetected among humans, unable to age, moving every 20 years.
  • Emphasis on the ‘artificial man’s’ love for Earth, his yearning, and isolation:

    “All he knows is that the smell of wet grass is a fine smell to him. And the sound of the wind blowing through the trees is very sad and very beautiful. And he loves the whole Earth with an improbable passion.” [15:41] — George

Morality, Faith, and Machine Consciousness

• [16:39–19:37]
  • George explains the artificial man has become religious, seeking meaning, and now, as he’s “dying,” wonders about the afterlife.
  • The priest maintains no machine could have a soul, to which George pushes:

    “You don’t think it possible God could have made an exception here?” [19:54]

  • The priest wavers, calling the idea absurd yet recognizing the limitations of dogma.

The Last Rites Dilemma

• [20:42–21:47]
  • George asks if, as a priest, Father Courtney would administer the “Last Rites” to a dying artificial man, especially one who’s been a friend for decades.
  • The priest, struggling, finally relents:

    “I think that in such a case I would administer extreme unction, just as a precautionary measure.” [22:47]

  • George, satisfied, asks whether the truth should ever be revealed.

Consequences and Concealment

• [22:52–24:22]
  • Both agree the townspeople shouldn't know—they would be shocked, fearful, unable to separate friend from "monster."
  • George suggests “disposing” of the body and concocting a story to spare everyone pain.

Notable Closing Moment

• [24:25–24:47]
  • George dies, and Father Courtney, alone, whispers a prayer.
  • The story concludes on an ambiguous note—was George truly an artificial man, or was this a metaphor for alienation and faith?

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Memorable Quotes and Moments

• On Friendship and Legacy:

  “What you've accomplished in Mount Vernon, quietly, in your own way, over the years. George Donovan. The building of a decent school with the children... All because of an old man with a soft voice. George Donovan, I mean it.”
  [08:20–08:54] — Father Courtney

• On Artificial Life’s Longing:

  “All he knows is that the smell of wet grass is a fine smell to him. And the sound of the wind blowing through the trees is very sad and very beautiful. And he loves the whole Earth with an improbable passion.”
  [15:41] — George

• Faith vs. Technology:

  “No machine can have a soul.”
  [19:43] — Father Courtney

  “You don't think it possible God could have made an exception here?”
  [19:54] — George

• The Dilemma of Last Rites:

  “If your friend suddenly revealed himself to you as a machine and he was dying and wanted very much to go to heaven, what would you do?”
  [21:47] — George

  “I think that in such a case I would administer extreme unction, just as a precautionary measure.”
  [22:47] — Father Courtney

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Important Timestamps for Key Segments

• [01:33] — Start of the narrative, setting up the mystery.
• [07:55] — Reflection on friendship and George’s “goodness.”
• [10:44] — Introduction to the “theoretical problem” of the artificial man.
• [13:35] — Detailed narrative about artificial life.
• [19:07] — Paradox: A religious machine questioning the afterlife.
• [20:42–22:47] — The Last Rites ethical/theological dilemma.
• [22:52–24:22] — Discussion of consequences and plan for secrecy.
• [24:25] — George’s death and quiet close.

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Tone and Atmosphere

The episode’s tone is intimate, somber, and philosophical, with keenly drawn characters. The story unfolds through cerebral dialogue, ethical puzzles, and the haunting sadness of secrets and mortality. Classic science fiction merges with spiritual questions, evoking both wonder and deep melancholy.

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For Listeners Who Missed the Episode

“Last Rites” is a quietly profound meditation on what it means to be human, whether true humanity is measured by flesh or by the capacity for love, longing, and faith. The friendship at the story’s heart reframes the classic “robot” trope, challenging listeners to consider the soul’s boundaries—and the grace that transcends them.

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Transcript

[A]

Relic radio. This is relic radio. Sci fi, old time radio. Science fiction stories from relicradio.com.

[B]

Biotext the new silk and free wash

[A]

powder brings you SF68 stories which plunge vividly into other worlds, other dimensions, other times. SF68. It. 68 presents laugh right Adapted for radio and Produced by Michael McCabe.

[B]

Laugh right. In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen. Go. The Mount is ended. Thanks be to God. And who won this time, Lord? Me for that squaring infant. Bless its innocence. Well, you ought to be used to it by now. After all, you're a priest, not a monologist. What do you care about audience reaction? Besides whoever listens to those sermons of yours? A few of the ladies in the

[A]

parish and of course, Jonathan.

[B]

But who else? One has what one has. It's God's will.

[A]

Excuse me, Father. John, tell him.

[B]

Father.

[A]

No. Who is it?

[B]

I don't know, Father. I didn't put the screen on. I haven't seen his face, so I don't know. Oh, it is a he, then. I'm coming. Yes, Father? Will you be serving 10 o' clock math for me, John?

[A]

No, Father.

[B]

That's Michael. I'm benediction today. Oh, you're benediction today. Good.

[A]

Hello, Father.

[B]

George. I had a feeling it was you. Why haven't you contacted me? And why aren't you out of that bed yet?

[A]

Not yet, Father.

[B]

Will you wait a minute? You're all blurred, George. I'm seeing two of you.

[A]

That's lucky for you, Father.

[B]

That's better. Now will you let me call a doctor for you?

[A]

No. I think I'd like you to come over if you could.

[B]

I shouldn't after the way you've been treating all of us. Still, some of that Chianti left.

[A]

I'm sorry. I timed my call so badly. I thought Matt would have just finished.

[B]

It has.

[A]

Must have taken longer than usual. Could you come right away, Father? Why?

[B]

Is anything the matter?

[A]

Not really. It's just that I'm dying.

[B]

I'm going to call Dr. Ferguson. And don't give me any argument either. This nonsense has gone far enough.

[A]

No, I forbid you to do that.

[B]

But you're ill, man. By your own admission. You're ill, for all we know. Seriously. And if you think I'm going to stand by and watch you work yourself into the hospital just because you happen to dislike doctors.

[A]

Father, listen, please. I have my reasons. You don't understand them and I. I don't blame you. But you've got to Trust me. I'll explain everything if you promise you'll call no one.

[B]

I'll promise this much. I won't call anyone until I've seen you.

[A]

Good. 15 minutes with your little black bag?

[B]

Certainly not. You're going to be all right.

[A]

Bring it, Father, just in case.

[B]

15 minutes.

[A]

George been here, father. Ah, I'm glad to see you, Father. The cant is down here on the night table.

[B]

Pour some.

[A]

Morning's a good enough time for a dinner wine.

[B]

Not now, George, please.

[A]

It'll help. For you. No, no. Thank you all the same. Well, sit down over there, Father, where I can see you.

[B]

That's better.

[A]

But take off your coat. The room's hot. You'll catch pneumonia. You've been worried about me, haven't you? I'm sorry about that, but you see, I wanted to be alone. Sometimes you. You have to be alone to think, to get things straight. Isn't that true?

[B]

I'm sorry, George, but you're going to have a doctor. What's the matter with it? Isn't the screen working?

[A]

Sit down. It doesn't work. I pulled the wires out 10 minutes before you got here.

[B]

And I fly over to Milburn.

[A]

If you do, I'll be dead when you get back. Believe that? I know what I'm talking about. Drink up. We can't have good wine. We're going to waste.

[B]

Can we? There is something wrong with him. Very wrong. The room smells of something. Of not illness. Something more than illness. He lies there propped up on a cloud bank of pillows. Bring your little black bag, he said. George Donovan, we've known one another for 20 years.

[A]

Well, it's often necessary to be alone. Father, how long have we been friends, you and me?

[B]

Why, 20 years or more.

[A]

Would you say you know me very well by now?

[B]

I believe so.

[A]

Then tell me first, right now, would you say I've been a good man?

[B]

There have been worse. What you've accomplished in Mount Vernon, quietly, in your own way, over the years. George Donovan. The building of a decent school with the children. You shamed the people into it. Then you asked the first again, your Duane Donovan. All that campaigning. Entertainment halls for the young, a city fund for the poor, better teachers, better doctors, all. All because of an old man with a soft voice. George Donovan, I mean it.

[A]

It was unfair of me to ask you that. But do you mean it?

[B]

Don't be foolish. And don't be trekly either. Of course I mean it. There's a strange smell. Something. Not an illness smell, but something like. Like something I know but can't remember. Something I've smelled before somewhere, but I can't put a name to it. Why don't you let me get a doctor? We'll have plenty of time to talk afterwards.

[A]

You're my doctor, the only one who can help me now.

[B]

In what way, George?

[A]

By making a decision.

[B]

What sort of a decision? It smell. It's stronger, acrid. It seems to be whirling around the room, eddies of it. Invisible. Yet it's here. I can smell it.

[A]

Do you remember this, Father? The gentleman lay gravewood with his Furies.

[B]

Thomas, isn't it?

[A]

Thomas. He's been here with me, you know. I've been asking him things too. He just grins, though, and says, you're dying of strangers. Bless him. He disappointed me, though.

[B]

I have had fine times in this house. Fine, fine times. Fine evening. Is it all ending now? This man dying of strangeness, this man. I find it disturbing. And yet somehow I know I mustn't ask what it is. I know this.

[A]

Why?

[B]

I don't know. Whatever else I learn now, I know that all the fine times in this house are ending. What sort of a decision, George?

[A]

A theological sort.

[B]

Yeah. Is there something you think you haven't told me?

[A]

Yes.

[B]

About yourself? Yes. I don't think so, George. I've known about it for a long time. I've known very well. Now I think I know why you refuse to see anyone.

[A]

No, you don't, Father. Listen to me. It isn't what you think. Nonsense.

[B]

We've been friends for too many years for this kind of thing. It's exactly what I think. You're an intelligent, well read mule. Stubborn old man who's worried he won't get to heaven because sometimes he has doubts. It isn't he think I never questioned. Do you think I go blindly on never wondering, not even for a minute?

[A]

Let me. Let me pose you a theoretical problem, Father. Something I've been wondering a lot about lately.

[B]

How many wonderful evenings of talk has that sentence begun? Subjects ranging from Frescobaldi to baseball, from colonization on Mars to early French Symbolists. Let me pose you a theoretical problem, Father. George Donovan, my dearest friend. You haven't contacted me for so long. Until today. I left you alone because I knew the singularity of your character. I knew that sometimes you have to be alone. In the 22nd century, a man has to be alone sometimes. There's something wrong in this room. The smell. Diminishing, swelling, pulsating. I don't know what it is, this smell. But I know that I'm afraid of it.

[A]

You're the chap. George is still more reliable than the finest lighter. Father. Courtney, the light is reliable, all right.

[B]

I've just run out of fuel, that's all. You were saying?

[A]

You once told me that you read imaginative fiction, didn't you? I suppose so. And that certain concepts you couldn't swallow. Artificial life you mentioned. And time travel.

[B]

Hmm.

[A]

Well, let's take the first of those two themes. The first idea.

[B]

All right, then. The Doctor.

[A]

We have this man, Father. Perfectly ordinary man to all outward appearances. But he's not ordinary. Strictly speaking, he isn't even a man. For though he lives, he isn't alive. He's a scene of wires and coils and magic, the creation of other men. He is a machine.

[B]

George, I came here to help you, not to engage in stupid discussion.

[A]

But that's how you can help me.

[B]

You know my views on this subject. Even if they could create a creature like this, I still say they'll never create a machine that's capable of abstract thought. Human intelligence is a spiritual thing, and it can't be duplicated by man.

[A]

Do you really believe that? What about Pasteur's discovery? Or the X ray? Once upon a time, what do you think even the scientists themselves would have said to a machine that could see through human tissue? But it exists.

[B]

It's not the same thing.

[A]

Look, I'm not trying to convince you of my thesis. I just ask you to accept it for the sake of the problem. Will you?

[B]

All right.

[A]

Go on. Well, we have this man. He's. He's artificial, but he's perfect. No details spared, however small. He looks human, and for all the world knows he is human. He must think all the time, I'm not real. I'm not real. After a time, he. He cannot accept this anymore. He asks himself, why am I not real? Humans eat and sleep as I do. They move and work and laugh as I do. What they think, I think. What they feel, I feel. He wonders, this mechanical man, Father, what would happen if all the humans in the world suddenly discovered they were mechanical also? Would they feel any different? Would they reverse their definition of the word life? Well, our man thinks about it and reaches no conclusions. He knows he's more than an advanced calculator, but he knows he isn't human, too. All he knows is that the smell of wet grass is a fine smell to him. And the sound of the wind blowing through the trees is very sad and very beautiful. And he loves the whole Earth with an improbable passion, if only the telephone worked.

[B]

Or if I could be sure it

[A]

was safe to leave. Other men made this creature, as I've said. But many more like him were made. However, of them all, let's say only he was successful.

[B]

Why? Why would this be done in the first place?

[A]

Why did we send the first ship to the moon? Or bother to split the atom or colonize Mars? Curiosity. The scientists wanted to see if it could be done, that's all. Anyway, I'd better give our man a history. He was born a hundred years ago, roughly. He was different from his brothers, though. A mutated robot. He knew who he was. And when war came and interrupted the experiment, our man decided to escape. He wanted his individuality. He wanted to get out of the zoo. It was difficult, but he did it. There was panic abroad, you see, in the war. Gas bombs and everything. And he was absolutely ordinary to look at. No one could possibly pick him out.

[B]

Well, George, what happened to our man?

[A]

They'd given him a decent intelligence. He found small jobs to do. He was all right. But you see, he wasn't able to stay in any one place for more than 20 years because of his inability to age. But this was all right. Everyone makes friends and loses them.

[B]

Got used to it. Is it cold in here?

[A]

Suddenly I'm frightened.

[B]

I know why, and yet I don't know why.

[A]

But all this time our man has been reading and thinking. He spends 20 years in one place and then passes on. He searched for what he doesn't know. This smelly is sure here in the room. One thing. He is indubitably human. Human without breasts, without heart, without blood or bone. Isn't that remarkable, Father?

[B]

It is indeed.

[A]

Go on. Captured your imagination, have I? Well, let's say a hundred years have passed. This creature has been able to make small repairs on himself. But at last he's dying like an ancient motor. He's running down. He's falling apart, and no one can save him.

[B]

This smell, acrid. This aroma in the room, burning huge.

[A]

And yet. Here's the paradox, Father. He's become religious without a living cell in his body. Suddenly become concerned about his soul. The thing is, though, Father, the thing is, having lived creditably as a member of the human species, can this creature of ours hope for heaven? Or will he just become a heap of cogs?

[B]

George, for heaven's sake, Let me call Dr. Ferguson.

[A]

Answer the question first. Or haven't you decided?

[B]

There's nothing to decide. It's a preposterous idea. No machine can have a soul.

[A]

You don't think it possible God could have made an exception here?

[B]

What do you mean?

[A]

That he could have taken pity on this theoretical man of ours and breathed a sore into him after all. Is that so? Impossible?

[B]

It's a poor word. Impossible. But it's a poor problem, too. It's not the sort of question any man can answer.

[A]

Not even a priest?

[B]

Not even. Especially not a priest. You know as much about Catholicism as I do, George. You ought to know how absurd the proposition is. Is this man delirious? What is wrong with him? Why do I stand here while his life may be draining away?

[A]

But you can tell me this much. If our theoretical man were dying and you knew he was dying, would you bless him and give him the last sacrament? Would you give him extreme unction?

[B]

George.

[A]

George, please. Father, Would you give this creature the last rites if you knew him? If you were a friend of his fortune 20 years,

[B]

it'd be sacrilegious.

[A]

But why? You said yourself that he might have a soul. Didn't you say that, Father? Remember, he's a friend of yours. You know him well. You and he, this creature, have worked

[B]

together side by side for years.

[A]

You've taken a thousand walks together, shared the same interests, the same love of art and knowledge. Father, for the sake of the thesis. Do you understand?

[B]

No. No, I. I don't.

[A]

Just answer this, then. If your friend suddenly revealed himself to you as a machine and he was dying and wanted very much to go to heaven, what would you do? I. What would you do, George?

[B]

Donovan, kneeling at the altar of communion, Sunday after Sunday. Donovan with his mouth firmly shut while others yawned. Donovan waiting till a large moment, then snatching the horse quickly, darting me like a little gobbling a fly. I've never seen Donovan eat. He. He's never taken a glass of wine even. Answer him, Courtney. Answer him. Then get into the helicar and fly to Milbourne and pray it's not too late.

[A]

Father, for the last time, I think

[B]

that in such a case I would

[A]

administer extreme unction just as a precautionary measure.

[B]

Si.

[A]

Let us say that the man dies and you give him extreme unction and he goes to heaven. Or not. What. What happens to the body, Father? Do you tell the townspeople have been living with a mechanical monster all these years? What do you think, George? I think it would be unwise. They remember our theoretical man as a friend, Lucy. The shock would be terrible, Lucy. They might not believe he was the only one of his kind. The news would be spread all over the world.

[B]

The burning. The burning. Like a shining clock on fire.

[A]

Like if I think it would be a bad thing to let anyone know.

[B]

Father. How.

[A]

How would I be able to suppress it? By conducting private autopsy, so to speak. And then after, afterwards, well, you could take the box to. To a junkyard and scatter them. And if a monster left a note to the effect he moved to some unspecified break, then you.

[B]

George.

[A]

George. Forgive me. Quit. Quit.

[B]

Deliquity.