Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Jeannie Howse and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://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 Midwestern
coffin manufacturer slipped a cog, or blew a transistor, or something.
It was fantastic that the error--one of two decimal places--should
enjoy a straight run of okays, human and mechanical, clear down the
line; but when the figures clacked out at the last clacking-out
station, there it was. The figures were now sacred; immutable; and it
is doubtful whether the President of the concern or the Chairman of
the Board would have dared question them--even if either of those two
gentlemen had been in town.

As for the Advertising Manager, the last thing he wanted to do was
question them. He carried them (they were the budget for the coming
fiscal year) into his office, staggering a little on the way, and
dropped dazedly into his chair. They showed the budget for his own
department as exactly one hundred times what he'd been expecting. That
is to say, fifty times what he'd put in for.

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

       *       *       *       *       *

With one thing and another, the economy hadn't been exactly in
overdrive that year, and predictions for the Christmas season were
gloomy. Early retail figures bore them out. Gift buying dribbled
along feebly until Thanksgiving, despite brave speeches by the
Administration. The holiday passed more in self-pity than in
thankfulness 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 saw
feverishly-working crews (at holiday rates!) slapping up posters on
billboards. The first poster was a dilly. A toothy and toothsome young
woman leaned over a coffin she'd been unwrapping. She smiled as if
she'd just received overtures of matrimony from an eighty-year-old
billionaire. There was a Christmas tree in the background, and the
coffin was appropriately wrapped. So was she. She looked as if she had
just gotten out of bed, or were ready to get into it. For amorous
young men, and some not so young, the message was plain. The motto,
"_The Gift That Will Last More Than a Lifetime_", seemed hardly to the
point.

Those at home were assailed on TV with a variety of bright and clever
skits of the same import. Some of them hinted that, if the young
lady's gratitude were really precipitous, and the bedroom too far
away, the coffin might be comfy.

Of course the more settled elements of the population were not
neglected. For the older married man, there was a blow directly
between the eyes: "_Do You Want Your Widow to Be Half-Safe?_" And, for
the spinster without immediate hopes, "_I Dreamt I Was Caught Dead
Without My Virginform Casket!_"

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

Christmas was not going to be a failure after all. Department store
managers who had, grudgingly and under strong sales pressure, made
space for a single coffin somewhere at the rear of the store, now
rushed to the telephones like touts with a direct pronouncement from a
horse. Everyone who possibly could got into the act. Grocery
supermarkets put in casket departments. The Association of
Pharmaceutical Retailers, who felt they had some claim to priority,
tried to get court injunctions to keep caskets out of service
stations, but were unsuccessful because the judges were all out buying
caskets. Beauty parlors showed real ingenuity in merchandising. Roads
and streets clogged with delivery trucks, rented trailers, and
whatever else could haul a coffin. The Stock Market went completely
mad. Strikes were declared and settled within hours. Congress was
called into session early. The President got authority to ration
lumber and other materials suddenly in starvation-short supply. State
laws were passed against cremation, under heavy lobby pressure. A new
racket, called boxjacking, blossomed overnight.

The Advertising Manager who had put the thing over had been fighting
with all the formidable weapons of his breed to make his plant
managers build up a stockpile. They had, but it went like a toupee in
a 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 of
the demand could be met. Jet passenger planes were stripped of their
seats, supplied with Yankee gold, and sent to plunder the world of its
coffins.

It might be supposed that Christmas goods other than caskets would
take a bad dumping. That was not so. Such was the upsurge of
prosperity, and such was the shortage of coffins, that nearly
everything--with a few exceptions--enjoyed the biggest season on
record.

On Christmas Eve the frenzy slumped to a crawl, though on Christmas
morning there were still optimists out prowling the empty stores. The
nation sat down to breathe. Mostly it sat on coffins, because there
wasn'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 choose
from. As for the rest of the world, it had better not die just now or
it would be literally a case of dust to dust.

[Illustration]

       *       *       *       *       *

Of course everyone expected a doozy of a slump after Christmas. But
our Advertising Manager, who by now was of course Sales Manager and
First Vice President also, wasn't settling for any boom-and-bust. He'd
been a frustrated victim of his choice of industries for so many years
that now, with his teeth in something, he was going to give it the old
bite. He gave people a short breathing spell to arrange their coffin
payments and move the presents out of the front rooms. Then, late in
January, his new campaign came down like a hundred-megatonner.

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

The auto industry was of course demolished. Even people who had enough
money to buy a new car weren't going to trade in the old one and let
the new one stand out in the rain. The garages were full of coffins.
Petroleum went along with Autos. (Though there were those who
whispered knowingly that the same people merely moved over into the
new 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 caskets were true works of art. Others--well, there
was variety. Compact models appeared, in which the occupant's feet
were to be doubled up alongside his ears. One manufacturer pushed a
circular model, claiming that by all the laws of nature the foetal
position was the only right one. At the other extreme were virtual
houses, ornate and lavishly equipped. Possibly the largest of all was
the "_Togetherness_" model, triangular, with graduated recesses for
Father, Mother, eight children (plus two playmates), and, in the far
corner beyond the baby, the cat.

The slump was over. Still, economists swore that the new boom couldn't
last either. They reckoned without the Advertising Manager, whose eyes
gleamed brighter all the time. People already had coffins, which they
polished and kept on display, sometimes in the new "Coffin-ports"
being added to houses. The Advertising Manager's reasoning was direct
and to the point. He must get people to use the coffins; and now he
had all the money to work with that he could use.

The new note was woven in so gradually that it is not easy to put a
finger on any one ad and say, "It began here." One of the first was
surely the widely-printed one showing a tattooed, smiling young man
with his chin thrust out manfully, lying in a coffin. He was
rugged-looking and likable (not too rugged for the spindly-limbed to
identify with) and he oozed, even though obviously dead, virility at
every pore. He was probably the finest-looking corpse since Richard
the Lion-Hearted.

Neither must one overlook the singing commercials. Possibly the
catchiest of these, a really cute little thing, was achieved by
jazzing up the Funeral March.

It started gradually, and it was all so un-violent that few saw it as
suicide. Teen-agers began having "Popping-off parties". Some of their
elders protested a little, but adults were taking it up too. The
tired, the unappreciated, the ill and the heavy-laden lay down in
growing numbers and expired. A black market in poisons operated for a
little while, but soon pinched out. Such was the pressure of
persuasion that few needed artificial aids. The boxes _were_ very
comfortable. People just closed their eyes and exited smiling.

The Beatniks, who had their own models of coffin--mouldy, scroungy,
and without lids, since the Beatniks insisted on being seen--placed
their boxes on the Grant Avenue in San Francisco. They died with
highly intellectual expressions, and eventually were washed by the
gentle rain.

Of course there were voices shouting calamity. When aren't there? But
in the long run, and not a very long one at that, they availed naught.

       *       *       *       *       *

It isn't hard to imagine the reactions of the rest of the world. So
let us imagine a few.

The Communist Block immediately gave its Stamp of Disapproval,
denouncing the movement as a filthy Capitalist Imperialist Pig plot.
Red China, which had been squabbling with Russia for some time about a
matter of method, screamed for immediate war. Russia exposed this as
patent stupidity, saying that if the Capitalists wanted to die,
warring upon them would only help them. China surreptitiously tried
out the thing as an answer to excess population, and found it good. It
also appealed to the well-known melancholy facet of Russian nature.
Besides, after pondering for several days, the Red Bloc decided it
could not afford to fall behind in anything, so it started its own
program, explaining with much logic how it differed.

An elderly British philosopher endorsed the movement, on the grounds
that a temporary setback in Evolution was preferable to facing up to
anything.

The Free Bloc, the Red Bloc, the Neutral Bloc and such scraps as had
been too obtuse to find themselves a Bloc were drawn into the
whirlpool in an amazingly short time, if in a variety of ways. In less
than two years the world was rid of most of what had been bedeviling
it.

Oddly enough, the country where the movement began was the last to
succumb completely. Or perhaps it is not so odd. Coffin-maker to the
world, the American casket industry had by now almost completely
automated box-making and gravedigging, with some interesting assembly
lines and packaging arrangements; there still remained the jobs of
management and distribution. The President of General Mortuary, an
ebullient fellow affectionately called Sarcophagus Sam, put it well.
"As long as I have a single prospective customer, and a single
Stockholder," he said, mangling a stogie and beetling his brows at the
one reporter who'd showed up for the press conference, "I'll try to
put him in a coffin so I can pay him a dividend."

       *       *       *       *       *

Finally, though, a man who thought he must be the last living human,
wandered contentedly about the city of Denver looking for the coffin
he liked best. He settled at last upon a rich mahogany number with
platinum trimmings, an Automatic Self-Adjusting Cadaver-contour
Innerspring Wearever-Plastic-Covered Mattress with a built in bar. He
climbed in, drew himself a generous slug of fine Scotch, giggled as
the mattress prodded him exploringly, closed his eyes and sighed in
solid comfort. Soft music played as the lid closed itself.

From a building nearby a turkey-buzzard swooped down, cawing in
raucous anger because it had let its attention wander for a moment. It
was too late. It clawed screaming at the solid cover, hissed in
frustration and finally gave up. It flapped into the air again, still
grumbling. It was tired of living on dead small rodents and coyotes.
It thought it would take a swing over to Los Angeles, where the
pickings were pretty good.

As it moved westward over parched hills, it espied two black dots a
few miles to its left. It circled over for a closer look, then grunted
and went on its way. It had seen _them_ before. The old prospector and
his burro had been in the mountains for so long the buzzard had
concluded they didn't know _how_ to die.

The prospector, whose name was Adams, trudged behind his burro toward
the buildings that shimmered in the heat, humming to himself now and
then or addressing some remark to the beast. When he reached the
outskirts of Denver he realized something was amiss. He stood and
gazed at the quiet scene. Nothing moved except some skinny packrats
and a few sparrows foraging for grain among the unburied coffins.

"Tarnation!" he said to the burro. "Martians?"

A half-buried piece of newspaper fluttered in the breeze. He walked
forward slowly and picked it up. It told him enough so that he
understood.

"They're gone, Evie," he said to the burro, "all gone." He put his arm
affectionately around her neck. "I reckon it's up to me and you agin.
We got to start all over." He stood back and gazed at her with mild
reproach. "I shore hope they don't favor your side of the house so
much this time."--C.C. MacAPP


       *       *       *       *       *

    +-------------------------------------------------------------+
    | Typographical errors corrected in text:                     |
    |                                                             |
    | Page 127: "She looked as if had just" replaced with         |
    |           "She looked as if she had just"                   |
    | Page 131: immedately replaced with immediately              |
    | Page 131: affort replaced with afford                       |
    | Page 132: "It flapped into the air begin, still grumbling." |
    |           replaced with "It flapped into the air again,     |
    |           still grumbling."                                 |
    | Page 132: "the pickings yere pretty good." replaced with    |
    |           "the pickings were pretty good."                  |
    |                                                             |
    +-------------------------------------------------------------+

       *       *       *       *       *