upon the lips—’
A small panel in the side of the box flipped open. A swift bright metal arm snatched out. A needle stabbed Richard in the thorax, not very deeply. He screamed. The needle shot him full of a colored liquor before he could seize it. Then it popped back into a receptacle and the panel snapped shut.
‘Rogers!’
A growing numbness, Suddenly he could not move his fingers or his arms or turn his head. His legs were cold and limp.
‘Richard Braling loved beautiful things. Music. Flowers,’ said the voice.
‘Rogers!’
This time he did not scream it. He could only think it. His tongue was motionless in his anaesthetized mouth.
Another panel opened. Metal forceps issued forth on steel arms. His left wrist was pierced by a huge sucking needle.
His blood was being drained from his body.
He heard a little pump working somewhere.
‘—Richard Braling will be missed among us—’
The organ sobbed and murmured.
The flowers looked down upon him, nodding their bright-petalled heads.
Six candles, black and slender, rose up out of hidden receptacles, and stood behind the flowers, flickering and glowing.
Another pump started to work. While his blood drained out one side of his body, his right wrist was punctured, held, a needle shoved into it, and the second pump began to force formaldehyde into him.
Pump , pause, pump , pause, pump , pause, pump , pause.
The coffin moved.
A small motor popped and chugged. The room drifted by on either side of him. Little wheels revolved. No pallbearers were necessary. The flowers swayed as the casket moved gently out upon the terrace under a blue clear sky.
Pump , pause, Pump , pause.
‘Richard Braling will be missed—’
Sweet soft music.
Pump , pause.
‘Ah, sweet mystery of life, at last—’ Singing.
‘Braling, the gourmet—’
‘Ah, at last I have the secret of it all—’
Staring, staring, his eyes egg-blind, at the little card out of the corners of his eyes:
THE BRALING ECONOMY CASKET …
DIRECTIONS SIMPLY PLACE BODY IN COFFIN—AND MUSIC WILL START.
A tree swung by overhead. The coffin rolled gently through the garden, behind some bushes, carrying the voice and the music with it.
‘Now it is the time when we must consign this part of this man to the earth—’
Little shining spades leaped out of the sides of the casket.
They began to dig.
He saw the spades toss up dirt. The coffin settled. Bumped, settled, dug, bumped and settled, dug, bumped and settled again.
Pulse , pause, pulse , pause. Pump , pause.
pulse , pump , pause.
‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust—’
The flowers shook and jolted. The box was deep. The music played.
The last thing Richard Braling saw was the spading arms of the Braling Economy Casket reaching up and pulling the hole in after it.
‘Richard Braling, Richard Braling, Richard Braling, Richard Braling, Richard Braling…’
The record was stuck.
Nobody minded. Nobody was listening.
The Crowd
Mr Spallner put his hands over his face.
There was the feeling of movement in space, the beautifully tortured scream, the impact and tumbling of the car with wall, through wall, over and down like a toy, and him hurled out of it. Then—silence.
The crowd came running. Faintly, where he lay, he heard them running. He could tell their ages and their sizes by the sound of their numerous feet over the summer grass and on the lined pavement, and over the asphalt street; and picking through the cluttered bricks to where his car hung half into the night sky, still spinning its wheels with a senseless centrifuge.
Where the crowd came from he didn’t know. He struggled to remain aware and then the crowd faces hemmed in upon him, hung over like the large glowing leaves of down-bent trees. They were a ring of shifting, compressing, changing faces over him, looking down, looking down, reading the time of his life or death by his face, making his face into a moon-dial, where the moon cast a shadow from his nose out upon his
A small panel in the side of the box flipped open. A swift bright metal arm snatched out. A needle stabbed Richard in the thorax, not very deeply. He screamed. The needle shot him full of a colored liquor before he could seize it. Then it popped back into a receptacle and the panel snapped shut.
‘Rogers!’
A growing numbness, Suddenly he could not move his fingers or his arms or turn his head. His legs were cold and limp.
‘Richard Braling loved beautiful things. Music. Flowers,’ said the voice.
‘Rogers!’
This time he did not scream it. He could only think it. His tongue was motionless in his anaesthetized mouth.
Another panel opened. Metal forceps issued forth on steel arms. His left wrist was pierced by a huge sucking needle.
His blood was being drained from his body.
He heard a little pump working somewhere.
‘—Richard Braling will be missed among us—’
The organ sobbed and murmured.
The flowers looked down upon him, nodding their bright-petalled heads.
Six candles, black and slender, rose up out of hidden receptacles, and stood behind the flowers, flickering and glowing.
Another pump started to work. While his blood drained out one side of his body, his right wrist was punctured, held, a needle shoved into it, and the second pump began to force formaldehyde into him.
Pump , pause, pump , pause, pump , pause, pump , pause.
The coffin moved.
A small motor popped and chugged. The room drifted by on either side of him. Little wheels revolved. No pallbearers were necessary. The flowers swayed as the casket moved gently out upon the terrace under a blue clear sky.
Pump , pause, Pump , pause.
‘Richard Braling will be missed—’
Sweet soft music.
Pump , pause.
‘Ah, sweet mystery of life, at last—’ Singing.
‘Braling, the gourmet—’
‘Ah, at last I have the secret of it all—’
Staring, staring, his eyes egg-blind, at the little card out of the corners of his eyes:
THE BRALING ECONOMY CASKET …
DIRECTIONS SIMPLY PLACE BODY IN COFFIN—AND MUSIC WILL START.
A tree swung by overhead. The coffin rolled gently through the garden, behind some bushes, carrying the voice and the music with it.
‘Now it is the time when we must consign this part of this man to the earth—’
Little shining spades leaped out of the sides of the casket.
They began to dig.
He saw the spades toss up dirt. The coffin settled. Bumped, settled, dug, bumped and settled, dug, bumped and settled again.
Pulse , pause, pulse , pause. Pump , pause.
pulse , pump , pause.
‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust—’
The flowers shook and jolted. The box was deep. The music played.
The last thing Richard Braling saw was the spading arms of the Braling Economy Casket reaching up and pulling the hole in after it.
‘Richard Braling, Richard Braling, Richard Braling, Richard Braling, Richard Braling…’
The record was stuck.
Nobody minded. Nobody was listening.
The Crowd
Mr Spallner put his hands over his face.
There was the feeling of movement in space, the beautifully tortured scream, the impact and tumbling of the car with wall, through wall, over and down like a toy, and him hurled out of it. Then—silence.
The crowd came running. Faintly, where he lay, he heard them running. He could tell their ages and their sizes by the sound of their numerous feet over the summer grass and on the lined pavement, and over the asphalt street; and picking through the cluttered bricks to where his car hung half into the night sky, still spinning its wheels with a senseless centrifuge.
Where the crowd came from he didn’t know. He struggled to remain aware and then the crowd faces hemmed in upon him, hung over like the large glowing leaves of down-bent trees. They were a ring of shifting, compressing, changing faces over him, looking down, looking down, reading the time of his life or death by his face, making his face into a moon-dial, where the moon cast a shadow from his nose out upon his
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