And All the Earth a Grave Read online

  Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Jeannie Howse and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

  * * * * *

  +-----------------------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Note: | | | | Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. For | | a complete list, please see the end of this document. | | | | This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction, | | December 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any | | evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication | | was renewed. | | | +-----------------------------------------------------------+

  * * * * *

  AND ALL THE EARTH A GRAVE

  BY C.C. MacAPP

  ILLUSTRATED BY GAUGHAN

  There's nothing wrong with dying--it just hasn't ever had the proper sales pitch!

  It all began when the new bookkeeping machine of a large Midwesterncoffin manufacturer slipped a cog, or blew a transistor, or something.It was fantastic that the error--one of two decimal places--shouldenjoy a straight run of okays, human and mechanical, clear down theline; but when the figures clacked out at the last clacking-outstation, there it was. The figures were now sacred; immutable; and itis doubtful whether the President of the concern or the Chairman ofthe Board would have dared question them--even if either of those twogentlemen had been in town.

  As for the Advertising Manager, the last thing he wanted to do wasquestion them. He carried them (they were the budget for the comingfiscal year) into his office, staggering a little on the way, anddropped dazedly into his chair. They showed the budget for his owndepartment as exactly one hundred times what he'd been expecting. Thatis to say, fifty times what he'd put in for.

  When the initial shock began to wear off, his face assumed anexpression of intense thought. In about five minutes he leaped fromhis chair, dashed out of the office with a shouted syllable or two forhis secretary, and got his car out of the parking lot. At home, hetossed clothes into a travelling bag and barged toward the door,giving his wife a quick kiss and an equally quick explanation. Hedidn't bother to call the airport. He meant to be on the next planeeast, and no nonsense about it....

  * * * * *

  With one thing and another, the economy hadn't been exactly inoverdrive that year, and predictions for the Christmas season weregloomy. Early retail figures bore them out. Gift buying dribbledalong feebly until Thanksgiving, despite brave speeches by theAdministration. The holiday passed more in self-pity than inthankfulness among owners of gift-oriented businesses.

  Then, on Friday following Thanksgiving, the coffin ads struck.

  Struck may be too mild a word. People on the streets sawfeverishly-working crews (at holiday rates!) slapping up posters onbillboards. The first poster was a dilly. A toothy and toothsome youngwoman leaned over a coffin she'd been unwrapping. She smiled as ifshe'd just received overtures of matrimony from an eighty-year-oldbillionaire. There was a Christmas tree in the background, and thecoffin was appropriately wrapped. So was she. She looked as if she hadjust gotten out of bed, or were ready to get into it. For amorousyoung men, and some not so young, the message was plain. The motto,"_The Gift That Will Last More Than a Lifetime_", seemed hardly to thepoint.

  Those at home were assailed on TV with a variety of bright and cleverskits of the same import. Some of them hinted that, if the younglady's gratitude were really precipitous, and the bedroom too faraway, the coffin might be comfy.

  Of course the more settled elements of the population were notneglected. For the older married man, there was a blow directlybetween the eyes: "_Do You Want Your Widow to Be Half-Safe?_" And, forthe spinster without immediate hopes, "_I Dreamt I Was Caught DeadWithout My Virginform Casket!_"

  Newspapers, magazines and every other medium added to the assault,never letting it cool. It was the most horrendous campaign, for sheerconcentration, that had ever battered at the public mind. The publicreeled, blinked, shook its head to clear it, gawked, and rushed out tobuy.

  Christmas was not going to be a failure after all. Department storemanagers who had, grudgingly and under strong sales pressure, madespace for a single coffin somewhere at the rear of the store, nowrushed to the telephones like touts with a direct pronouncement from ahorse. Everyone who possibly could got into the act. Grocerysupermarkets put in casket departments. The Association ofPharmaceutical Retailers, who felt they had some claim to priority,tried to get court injunctions to keep caskets out of servicestations, but were unsuccessful because the judges were all out buyingcaskets. Beauty parlors showed real ingenuity in merchandising. Roadsand streets clogged with delivery trucks, rented trailers, andwhatever else could haul a coffin. The Stock Market went completelymad. Strikes were declared and settled within hours. Congress wascalled into session early. The President got authority to rationlumber and other materials suddenly in starvation-short supply. Statelaws were passed against cremation, under heavy lobby pressure. A newracket, called boxjacking, blossomed overnight.

  The Advertising Manager who had put the thing over had been fightingwith all the formidable weapons of his breed to make his plantmanagers build up a stockpile. They had, but it went like a toupee ina wind tunnel. Competitive coffin manufacturers were caught napping,but by Wednesday after Thanksgiving they, along with the original one,were on a twenty-four hour, seven-day basis. Still only a fraction ofthe demand could be met. Jet passenger planes were stripped of theirseats, supplied with Yankee gold, and sent to plunder the world of itscoffins.

  It might be supposed that Christmas goods other than caskets wouldtake a bad dumping. That was not so. Such was the upsurge ofprosperity, and such was the shortage of coffins, that nearlyeverything--with a few exceptions--enjoyed the biggest season onrecord.

  On Christmas Eve the frenzy slumped to a crawl, though on Christmasmorning there were still optimists out prowling the empty stores. Thenation sat down to breathe. Mostly it sat on coffins, because therewasn't space in the living rooms for any other furniture.

  There was hardly an individual in the United States who didn't have,in case of sudden sharp pains in the chest, several boxes to choosefrom. As for the rest of the world, it had better not die just now orit would be literally a case of dust to dust.

  * * * * *

  Of course everyone expected a doozy of a slump after Christmas. Butour Advertising Manager, who by now was of course Sales Manager andFirst Vice President also, wasn't settling for any boom-and-bust. He'dbeen a frustrated victim of his choice of industries for so many yearsthat now, with his teeth in something, he was going to give it the oldbite. He gave people a short breathing spell to arrange their coffinpayments and move the presents out of the front rooms. Then, late inJanuary, his new campaign came down like a hundred-megatonner.

  Within a week, everyone saw quite clearly that his Christmas modelswere now obsolete. The coffin became the new status symbol.

  The auto industry was of course demolished. Even people who had enoughmoney to buy a new car weren't going to trade in the old one and letthe new one stand out in the rain. The garages were full of coffins.Petroleum went along with Autos. (Though there were those whowhispered knowingly that the same people merely moved over into thenew industry. It was noticeable that the center of it became Detroit.)A few trucks and buses were still being built, but that was all.

  Some of the new c
askets were true works of art. Others--well, therewas variety. Compact models appeared, in which the occupant's feetwere to be doubled up alongside his ears. One manufacturer pushed acircular model, claiming that by all the laws of nature the foetalposition was the only right one. At the other extreme were virtualhouses, ornate and lavishly equipped. Possibly the largest of all wasthe "_Togetherness_" model, triangular, with graduated recesses forFather, Mother, eight children (plus two playmates), and, in the farcorner beyond the baby, the cat.

  The slump was over. Still, economists swore that the new boom couldn'tlast either. They reckoned without the Advertising Manager, whose eyesgleamed brighter all the time. People already had coffins, which theypolished and kept on display, sometimes in the new "Coffin-ports"being added to houses. The Advertising Manager's reasoning was directand to the point. He must get people to use the coffins; and now hehad all the money to work with that he could use.

  The new