Captain Webber turned and his mouth dropped open.
"I hadn't been expecting you, gentlemen, to be perfectly honest," the
little man clucked, then: "Oh dear, see what you've done to Mr.
Bellefont's park. I do hope you haven't hurt him--no, I see that he is
all right."
Captain Webber followed the direction of the man's eyes and perceived an
old man with red hair seated at the base of a tree, apparently reading a
book.
"We are from Earth," said Captain Webber.
"Yes, yes."
"Let me explain: my name is Webber, these are my men."
"Of course," said the little man.
Mr. Chitterwick came closer, blinking. "Who is this that knows our
language?" he asked.
"Who--Greypoole, Mr. Greypoole. Didn't _they_ tell you?"
"Then you are _also_ from Earth?"
"Heavens yes! But now, let us go where we can chat more comfortably."
Mr. Greypoole struck out down a small path past scorched trees and
underbrush. "You know, Captain, right after the last consignment
something happened to my calendar. Now, I'm competent at my job, but I'm
no technician, no indeed: besides, no doubt you or one of your men can
set the doodad right, eh? Here we are."
They walked onto a wooden porch and through a door with a wire screen;
Lieutenant Peterson first, then Captain Webber, Mr. Friden and the rest
of the crew. Mr. Greypoole followed.
"You must forgive me--it's been a while. Take chairs, there, there. Now,
what news of--home, shall I say?" The little man stared.
Captain Webber shifted uncomfortably. He glanced around the room at the
lace curtains, the needle-point tapestries and the lavender wallpaper.
"Mr. Greypoole, I'd like to ask some questions."
"Certainly, certainly. But first, this being an occasion--" the little
man stared at each man carefully, then shook his head "--ah, do you all
like wine? Good wine?"
He ducked through a small door.
Captain Webber exhaled and rose.
"Now, don't start talking all at once," he whispered. "Anyone have any
ideas? No? Then quick, scout around--Friden, you stay here; you others,
see what you can find. I'm not sure I like the looks of this."
The men left the room.
* * * * *
Mr. Chitterwick made his way along a hedgerow, feeling cautiously and
maintaining a delicate balance. When he came to a doorway he stopped,
squinted and entered.
The room was dark and quiet and odorous. Mr. Chitterwick groped a few
steps, put out his hand and encountered what seemed to be raw flesh; he
swiftly withdrew his hand. "Excuse," he said, then, "Oh!" as his face
came against a slab of moist red meat. "Oh my!"
Mr. Chitterwick began to tremble and he blinked furiously, reaching out
and finding flesh, cold and hard, unidentifiable.
When he stepped upon the toe of a large man with a walrus mustache, he
wheeled, located the sunlight and ran from the butcher shop....
* * * * *
The door of the temple opened with difficulty, which caused Mr. Milton
to breathe unnaturally. Then, once inside, he gasped.
Row upon row of people, their fingers outstretched, lips open but
immobile and silent, their bodies prostrate on the floor. And upon a
strange black altar, a tiny woman with silver hair and a long thyrsus in
her right hand.
Nothing stirred but the mosaic squares in the walls. The colors danced
here; otherwise, everything was frozen, everything was solid.
Even the air hung suspended, stationary.
Mr. Milton left the temple....
* * * * *
There was a table and a woman on the table and people all around the
woman on the table. Mr. Goeblin did not go a great distance from the
doorway: he rubbed his eyes and stared.
It was an operating room. There were all the instruments, some old, most
old, and the masked men and women with shining scissors and glistening
saws in their hands. And up above, the students' aperture: filled seats,
filled aisles.
Mr. Goeblin put his other hand about the doorknob.
A large man stood over the recumbent figure, his lusterless eyes
regarding the crimson-puce incision, but he did not move. The nurses did
not move, or the students. No one moved, especially the smiling
middle-aged woman on the table.
Mr. Goeblin moved....
* * * * *
"Hello!" said Lieutenant Peterson, after he had searched through eight
long aisles of books, "Hello!"
He pointed his gun menacingly.
There were many books with many titles and they all had a fine grey dust
about them. Lieutenant Peterson paused to examine a bulky volume, when
he happened to look above him.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
The mottled, angular man perched atop the ladder did not respond. He
clutched a book and looked at the book and not at Lieutenant Peterson.
"Come down--I want to talk with you!"
The man on the ladder did nothing unusual: he remained precisely as he
had been.
Lieutenant Peterson climbed up the ladder, scowling; he reached the man
and jabbed with a finger.
Lieutenant Peterson looked into the eyes of the reading man and
descended hastily and did not say goodbye....
* * * * *
Mr. Greypoole reentered the living room with a tray of glasses. "This is
apricot wine," he announced, distributing the glasses, "But--where are
the others? Out for a walk? Ah well, they can drink theirs later.
Incidentally, Captain, how many Guests did you bring? Last time it was
only twelve. Not an extraordinary shipment, either: they all preferred
the ordinary things. All but Mrs. Dominguez--dear me, she was worth the
carload herself. Wanted a zoo, can you imagine--a regular zoo, with her
put right in the bird-house. Oh, they had a time putting that one up!"
Mr. Greypoole chuckled and sipped at his drink.
"It's people like Mrs. Dominguez who put the--the life?--into Happy
Glades. Or do you find that disrespectful?"
Captain Webber shook his head and tossed down his drink.
Mr. Greypoole leaned back in his chair and crossed a leg. "Ah," he
continued, "you have no idea how good this is. Once in a while it does
get lonely for me here--no man is an island, or how does it go? Why, I
can remember when Mr. Waldmeyer first told me of this idea. 'A grave
responsibility,' he said, 'a _grave_ responsibility.' Mr. Waldmeyer has
a keen sense of humor, needless to say."
Captain Webber looked out the window. A small child on roller skates
stood still on the sidewalk. Mr. Greypoole laughed.
"Finished your wine? Good. Explanations are in order, though first
perhaps you'd care to join me in a brief turn about the premises?"
"Fine. Friden, you stay here and wait for the men." Captain Webber
winked a number of times and frowned briefly, then he and Mr. Greypoole
walked out onto the porch and down the steps.
Mr. Friden drummed his fingers upon the arm of a chair, surveyed his
empty glass and hiccoughed softly.
* * * * *
"I do wish you'd landed your ship elsewhere, Captain. Mr. Bellefont was
quite particular and, as you can see, his park is hopelessly
disfigured."
"We were given no choice, I'm afraid. The fuel was running out."
"Indeed? Well then, that explains everything. A beautiful day, don't you
find, sir? Fortunately, with the exception of Professor Carling, all the
Guests preferred good weather. Plenty of sunshine, they said, or crisp
evening. It helps."
They walked toward a house of colored rocks.
"Miss Daphne Trilling's," said Mr. Greypoole, gesturing. "They threw it
up in a day, though it's solid enough."
When they had passed an elderly woman on a bicycle, Captain Webber
stopped walking.
"Mr. Greypoole, we've _got_ to have a talk."
Mr. Greypoole shrugged and pointed and they went into an office building
which was crowded with motionless men, women and children.
"Since I'm so mixed up myself," the captain said, "maybe I'd better
ask--just who do you think _we_ are?"
"I'd thought you to be the men from the Glades of course."
"I don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about. We're from
the planet Earth. They were going to have another war, the 'Last War'
they said, and we escaped in that rocket and started off for Mars. But
something went wrong--fellow named Appleton pulled a gun, others just
didn't like the Martians--we needn't go into it; they wouldn't have us
so Mars didn't work out. Something else went wrong then, soon we were
lost with only a little store of fuel and supplies. Then Mr. Friden
noticed this city or whatever it is and we had enough fuel to land so we
landed."
Mr. Greypoole nodded his head slowly, somehow, sadder than before.
"I see.... You say there was a war on Earth?"
"They were going to set off X-Bomb; when they do, everything will go to
pieces. Or everything has already."
"What dreadful news! May I inquire, Captain, when you have learned where
you are--what do you intend to do?"
"Why, live here, of course!"
"No, no--try to understand. You could not conceivably fit in here with
us."
Captain Webber glanced at the motionless people. "Why not?" Then he
shouted, "What is this place? _Where am I?_"
Mr. Greypoole smiled.
"Captain, you are in a cemetery."
* * * * *
"Good work, Peterson!"
"Thanks, sir. When we all got back and Friden didn't know where you'd
gone, well, we got worried. Then we heard you shouting."
"Hold his arms--there. You heard this, Friden?"
Mr. Friden was trembling slightly. He brushed past a man with a van Dyke
beard and sat down on a leather stool. "Yes sir, I did. That is, I think
I did. What shall we do with him?"
"I don't know, yet. Take him away, Lieutenant, for now. I want to think
a bit. We'll talk to Mr. Greypoole later on."
Lieutenant Peterson pulled the smiling little man out into the street
and pointed a gun at him.
Mr. Chitterwick blinked into the face of a small child.
"Man's insane, I guess," said Mr. Milton, pacing.
"Yes, but what about all _this_?" Mr. Goeblin looked horrified at the
stationary people.
"I think I can tell you," Mr. Friden said. "Take a look, Captain."
The men crowded about a pamphlet which Mr. Friden had placed on the
stool.
Toward the top of the pamphlet and in the center of the first page was a
photograph, untinted and solemn; it depicted a white cherub delicately
poised on a granite slab. Beneath the photograph, were the words: HAPPY
GLADES.
Captain Webber turned the pages and mumbled, glancing over his shoulder
every once in a while.
"What is it, sir?" asked Mr. Chitterwick of a frozen man in a blue suit
with copper buttons.
"It's one of those old level cemeteries!" cried Mr. Milton. "I remember
seeing pictures like it, sir."
Captain Webber read aloud from the pamphlet.
"For fifty years," he began, "an outstanding cultural and spiritual
asset to this community, HAPPY GLADES is proud to announce yet another
innovation in its program of post-benefits. NOW YOU CAN ENJOY THE
AFTER-LIFE IN SURROUNDINGS WHICH SUGGEST THE HERE-AND-NOW. Never before
in history has scientific advancement allowed such a plan."
Captain Webber turned the page.
"For those who prefer that their late departed have really _permanent,
eternal_ happiness, for those who are dismayed by the fragility of all
things mortal, we of HAPPY GLADES are proud to offer:
"1. The permanent duplication of physical conditions identical to those
enjoyed by the departed on Earth. Park, playground, lodge, office
building, hotel or house, etc., may be secured at varying prices. All
workmanship and materials specially attuned to conditions on ASTEROID
K_{7} and guaranteed for PERMANENCE.
"2. PERMANENT conditioning of late beloved so that, in the midst of
surroundings he favored, a genuine Eternity may be assured.
"3. Full details on HAPPY GLADES' newest property, Asteroid K_{7}, may be
found on page 4."
The captain tossed the pamphlet to the floor and lit a cigarette. "Did
anyone happen to notice the date?"
Mr. Milton said, "It doesn't make any sense! There haven't been
cemeteries for ages. And even if this were true, why should anyone want
to go all the way through space to a little asteroid? They might just as
well have built these things on Earth."
"Who would want all this when they're dead, anyway?"
"You mean all these people are dead?"
For a few moments there was complete and utter silence in the lobby of
the building.
* * * * *
"Are those things true, that we read in your booklet?" asked Captain
Webber after Lieutenant Peterson had brought in the prisoner.
"Every word," said the little man bowing slightly, "is monumentally
correct."
"Then we want you to begin explaining."
Mr. Greypoole tushed and proceeded to straighten the coat of a
middle-aged man with a cigar.
Mr. Goeblin shuddered.
"No, no," laughed Mr. Greypoole, "_these_ are only imitations. Mr.
Conklin upstairs was head of a large firm; absolutely in love with his
work, you know--that kind of thing. So we had to duplicate not only the
office, but the building and even replicas of all the people in the
building. Mr. Conklin himself is in an easy chair on the twentieth
story."
"_And?_"
"Well, gentlemen, as you know, Happy Glades is the outstanding mortuary
on Earth. And, to put it briefly, with the constant explorations of
planets and moons and whatnot, our Mr. Waldmeyer hit upon this scheme:
Seeking to extend the ideal hereafter to our Guests, we bought out this
little asteroid. With the vast volume and the tremendous turnover, as it
were, we got our staff of scientists together and they offered this
plan--to duplicate the exact surroundings which the Guest most enjoyed
in Life, assure him privacy, permanence (a _very_ big point, as you can
see), and all the small things not possible on Earth."
"Why here, why cart off a million miles or more when the same thing
could have been done on Earth?"
"My communication system went bad, I fear, so I haven't heard from the
offices in some while--but, I am to understand there is a war beginning?
_That_ is the idea, Captain; one could never really be sure of one's
self down there, what with all the new bombs and things being
discovered."
"Hmm," said Captain Webber.
"Then too, Mr. Waldmeyer worried about those new societies with their
dreadful ideas about cremation--you can see what that sort of thing
could do to the undertaking business? His plan caught on, however, and
soon we were having to turn away Guests."
"And where do you fit in, Mr. Greypoole?"
The little man seemed to blush; he lowered his eyes. "I was head
caretaker, you see. But I wasn't well--gastric complaints, liver, heart
palpitations, this and that; so, I decided to allow them to ... _change_
me. They turned all manner of machines on my body and pumped me full of
fluids and by the time I got here, why, I was almost, you might say, a
machine myself! Fortunately, though, they left a good deal of Greypoole.
All I know is that whenever the film is punctured, I wake and become a
machine, do my prescribed duties in a complex way and--"
"The film?"
"The covering that seals in the conditioning. Nothing can get out,
nothing get in--except things like rockets. Then, it's self-sealing,
needless to say. But to get on, Captain. With all the technical
advancements, it soon got to where there was no real work to be done
here; they threw up the film and coated us with their preservative or,
as they put it, Eternifier, and--well, with the exception of my calendar
and the communications system, everything's worked perfectly, including
myself."
* * * * *
No one said anything for a while. Then Captain Webber said, with great
slowness, "You're lying. This is all a crazy, hideous plot." The little
man chuckled at the word plot.
"In the first place, no cemetery or form of cemetery has existed on
Earth for--how long, Friden?"