Free The Stories of Ray Bradbury by Ray Bradbury Page A

recorded time. And he knew how to hold his hands so his diamonds jangled in the light. But he had not bought the wine, the diamonds, the cigars—no! They were all gifts. He was never allowed to buy anything himself. It was always brought to him and given to him. He had to ask for everything, even writing paper. He considered himself quite a martyr to have put up with taking things from that rickety old brother for so long a time. Everything Charlie ever laid his hand to turned to money; everything Richard had ever tried in the way of a leisurely career had failed.
    And now, here was this old mole of a Charlie whacking out a new invention which would probably bring Charlie additional specie long after his bones were slotted in the earth!
    Well, two weeks passed.
    One morning, the old brother toddled upstairs and stole the insides out of the electric phonograph. Another morning he raided the gardener’s greenhouse. Still another time he received a delivery from a medicalcompany. It was all young Richard could do to sit and hold his long gray cigar ash steady while these murmuring excursions took place.
    ‘I’m finished!’ cried old Charlie on the fourteenth morning, and dropped dead.
    Richard finished out his cigar, and, without showing his inner excitement, he laid down his cigar with its fine long whitish ash, two inches long, a real record, and arose.
    He walked to the window and watched the sunlight playfully glittering among the fat beetlelike champagne bottles in the garden.
    He looked toward the top of the stairs where old dear brother Charlie lay peacefully sprawled against the banister. Then he walked to the phone and perfunctorily dialed a number.
    ‘Hello, Green Lawn Mortuary? This is the Braling residence. Will you send around a wicker, please? Yes. For brother Charlie. Yes. Thank you. Thank you.’
    As the mortuary people were taking brother Charles out in their wicker they received instructions. ‘Ordinary casket,’ said young Richard. ‘No funeral service. Put him in a pine coffin. He would have preferred it that way—simple. Good-by.’
    ‘Now!’ said Richard, rubbing his hands together. ‘We shall see about this coffin’ built by dear Charlie. I do not suppose he will realize he is not being buried in his “special” box. Ah.’
    He entered the downstairs shop.
    The coffin sat before some wide-flung French windows, the lid shut, complete and neat, all put together like the fine innards of a Swiss watch. It was vast, and it rested upon a long long table with rollers beneath for easy maneuvering.
    The coffin interior, as he peered through the glass lid, was six feet long. There must be a good three feet of false body at both head and foot of the coffin, then. Three feet at each end which, covered by secret panels that he must find some way of opening, might very well reveal—exactly what?
    Money, 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