Ray Bradbury Stories Volume 1. Ray Bradbury

of course. It would be just like Charlie to suck his riches into his grave with himself, leaving Richard with not a cent to buy a bottle with. The old bastard!

      He raised the glass lid and felt about, but found no hidden buttons. There was a small sign studiously inked on white paper, thumbtacked to the side of the satin-lined box. It said:

      THE BRALING ECONOMY CASKET. Copyright, April, 1946. Simple to operate. Can be used again and again by morticians and families with an eye to the future.

      Richard snorted thinly. Who did Charlie think he was fooling? There was more writing:

      DIRECTIONS: SIMPLY PLACE BODY IN COFFIN—

      What a fool thing to say. Put body in coffin! Naturally! How else would one go about it? He peered intently and finished out the directions:

      SIMPLY PLACE BODY IN COFFIN – AND MUSIC WILL START.

      ‘It can’t be—’ Richard gaped at the sign. ‘Don’t tell me all this work has been for a—’ He went to the open door of the shop, walked out upon the tiled terrace and called to the gardener in his greenhouse. ‘Rogers!’ The gardener stuck his head out. ‘What time is it?’ asked Richard. ‘Twelve o’clock, sir,’ replied Rogers. ‘Well, at twelve-fifteen, you come up here and check to see if everything is all right. Rogers,’ said Richard. ‘Yes, sir,’ said the gardener. Richard turned and went back into the shop. ‘We’ll find out—’ he said, quietly.

      There would be no harm in lying in the box, testing it. He noticed small ventilating holes in the sides. Even if the lid were closed down there’d be air. And Rogers would be up in a moment or two. SIMPLY PLACE BODY IN COFFIN – AND MUSIC WILL START. Really, how naive of old Charlie! Richard hoisted himself up.

      He was like a man getting into a bathtub. He felt naked and watched over. He put one shiny shoe into the coffin and crooked his knee and eased himself up and made some little remark to nobody in particular, then he put in his other knee and foot and crouched there, as if undecided about the temperature of the bath-water. Edging himself about, chuckling softly, he lay down, pretending to himself (for it was fun pretending) that he was dead, that people were dropping tears on him, that candles were fuming and illuminating and that the world was stopped in mid-stride because of his passing. He put on a long pale expression, shut his eyes, holding back the laughter in himself behind pressed, quivering lips. He folded his hands and decided they felt waxen and cold.

      Whirr. Spung! Something whispered inside the box-wall. Spung!

      The lid slammed down on him!

      From outside, if one had just come into the room, one would have imagined a wild man was kicking, pounding, blathering, and shrieking inside a closet! There was a sound of a body dancing and cavorting. There was a thudding of flesh and fists. There was a squeaking and a kind of wind from a frightened man’s lungs. There was a rustling like paper and a shrilling as of many pipes simultaneously played. Then there was a real fine scream. Then – silence.

      Richard Braling lay in the coffin and relaxed. He let loose all his muscles. He began to chuckle. The smell of the box was not unpleasant. Through the little perforations he drew more than enough air to live on, comfortably. He need only push gently up with his hands, with none of this kicking and screaming, and the lid would open. One must be calm. He flexed his arms.

      The lid was locked.

      Well, still there was no danger. Rogers would be up in a minute or two. There was nothing to fear.

      The music began to play.

      It seemed to come from somewhere inside the head of the coffin. It was green music. Organ music, very slow and melancholy, typical of Gothic arches and long black tapers. It smelled of earth and whispers. It echoed high between stone walls. It was so sad that one almost cried listening to it. It was music of potted plants and crimson and blue stained-glass windows. It was late sun at twilight and a cold wind blowing. It was a dawn with only fog and a faraway fog horn moaning.

      ‘Charlie, Charlie, Charlie, you old fool you! So this is your odd coffin!’ Tears of laughter welled into Richard’s eyes. ‘Nothing more than a coffin which plays its own dirge. Oh, my sainted grandma!’

      He lay and listened critically, for it was beautiful music and there was nothing he could do until Rogers came up and let him out. His eyes roved aimlessly, his fingers tapped soft little rhythms on the satin cushions. He crossed his legs idly. Through the glass lid he saw sunlight shooting through the French windows, dust particles dancing on it. It was a lovely blue day.

      The sermon began.

      The organ music quieted and a gentle voice said:

      ‘We are gathered together, those who loved and those who knew the deceased, to give him our homage and our due—’

      ‘Charlie, bless you, that’s your voice!’ Richard was delighted. ‘A mechanical funeral, by God. Organ music and lecture. And Charlie giving his own oration for himself!’

      The soft voice said. ‘We who knew and loved him are grieved at the passing of—’

      ‘What was that?’ Richard raised himself, startled. He didn’t quite believe what he had heard. He repeated it to himself just the way he had heard it:

      ‘We who knew and loved him are grieved at the passing of Richard Braling.’

      That’s what the voice had said.

      ‘Richard Braling,’ said the man in the coffin. ‘Why. I’m Richard Braling.’

      A slip of the tongue, naturally. Merely a slip. Charlie had meant to say ‘Charles’ Braling. Certainly. Yes. Of course. Yes. Certainly. Yes. Naturally. Yes.

      ‘Richard was a fine man,’ said the voice, talking on. ‘We shall see no finer in our time.’

      ‘My name again!’

      Richard began to move about uneasily in the coffin.

      Why didn’t Rogers come?

      It was hardly a mistake, using that name twice. Richard Braling. Richard Braling. We are gathered here. We shall miss – We are grieved. No finer man. No finer in our time. We are gathered here. The deceased. Richard Braling. Richard Braling.

       Whirrrr. Spung!

      Flowers! Six dozen bright blue, red, yellow, sun-brilliant flowers leaped up from behind the coffin on concealed springs!

      The sweet odor of fresh-cut flowers filled the coffin. The flowers swayed gently before his amazed vision, tapping silently on the glass lid. Others sprang up until the coffin was banked with petals and color and sweet odors. Gardenias and dahlias and daffodils, trembling and shining.

      ‘Rogers!’

      The sermon continued.

      ‘—Richard Braling, in his life, was a connoisseur of great and good things—’

      The music sighed, rose and fell, distantly.

      ‘Richard Braling savored of life, as one savors of a rare wine, holding it 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