Hereafter, the title read in black, prickly Gothic letters against a field of greenish gray. Underneath, it was subtitled The Magazine of Preparedness. The rest of the cover was black, solid midnight black, except for an inset photograph shaped like a tombstone that had a cheerful view of a cemetery filled with flower blossoms, ranked headstones, and brooding mausoleums. Was this all a very bad joke? It didn't seem so as Amos flipped through the pages, catching quick glimpses of caskets, coffins, cemetery plots, and urns of mortal ashes. With a grunt of disgust he threw the magazine onto the table, and as he did so a letter fell out and drifted to the floor. It was addressed to him, on the magazine's stationery, there was no mistake.
My Dearest Sir:
Welcome to the contented family of happy readers of Hereafter — The Magazine of Preparedness that smooths the road ahead. You, who are about to die, we salute you! A long, happy life lies behind you and ahead the Gates of Eternity are swinging open to welcome you, to return you to the bosom of your loved ones long since passed on. Now, at this friendly final hour, we stand behind you ready to help you on your way. Have you settled your will? Bet you've been remiss — but that's no problem now. Just turn to page 109 and read the inspirational article "Where There's a Will" and learn all there is to know. And then, on page 114, you'll find a full-sized, fold-out will that can be torn out along the handy perforations. Just fill in the few blanks, sign your name, and have your local notary public (he's usually in the stationery store!) witness the signature. Don't delay! And have you considered cremation? There is a wonderfully inspirational message from Dr. Philip Musgrove of The Little Church Around the Corner from the Crematorium on page…
Amos picked up the magazine with shaking hands and threw it the length of the room, feeling slightly better when it tore in two.
"What do you mean I'm going to die — what do you say that for?" he shouted, then lowered his voice as Antonelli next door hammered on the wall. "What's the idea of sending a filthy thing like that to a person? What's the idea?"
What was the idea? He picked the two halves of the magazine up and smoothed them out on the table. It was all too good-looking, too expensive to be a joke — these were real ads. After some searching he found the contents page and worked his way through the fine print, which he had hardly read, until he came to the publisher's name: Saxon-Morris Publishers, Inc. They must have money because they were in the Saxon-Morris Building. He knew it, one of the new granite slabs on Park Avenue.
They weren't getting away with it! A spark of anger blazed bravely in Amos Cabot's thin bosom. He had made the Fifth Avenue Coach Company send him a letter of apology about the way that driver had talked to him on St. Patrick's Day. The Triborough Automatic Drink Company had refunded him fifty cents in stamps for coins their machines had consumed without giving refreshment in return. Now Saxon-Morris was going to find out that they couldn't get away with it either!
It had been warm out, but March was a changeable month: he put on his heavy wool muffler. A couple of dollars should more than cover the costs of the excursion, bus fares, and a cup of tea in the Automat. He took two wrinkled bills from behind the sugar can. Watch out, Saxon-Morris, you just watch out.
It was very difficult to see anyone at Saxon-Morris without an appointment. The girl with upswept red hair and layers of glazed makeup wasn't even sure that they had a magazine called Hereafter. There was a list of all the Saxon-Morris publications on the wall behind her red, kidney-shaped desk, but the gold letters on dark green marble were hard to read in the dim light. When he kept insisting, she searched through a booklet of names and telephone numbers and finally, reluctantly, agreed that it was one of their magazines.
"I want to see the editor."
"Which editor is it you want to see."
"Any editor, don't matter a damn." Her cold manner became even colder when the word touched her.
"Might I ask your business?"
"That's my business. Let me see the editor."
It was more than an hour before she found someone whom he could see, or perhaps she just grew tired of his sitting there and glowering at her. After a number of muffled conversations she hung up the phone.
"If you just go through that door there, first turn to the right then up one half flight, fourth door on the left, Mr. Mercer will see you Room seven eighty-two."
Amos was instantly lost in the maze of passages and gray doors. The second time he stumbled into a mail room one of the bored youths led him to 782. He pushed in without knocking.
"You Mercer, the editor of Hereafter?"
"Yes, I'm Mercer — but I'm not the editor." He was a chubby man with a round face and rounder glasses, squeezed behind a desk that filled the end of the tiny and windowless office. "This is circulation, not editorial. The girl at the front desk said you had a circulation problem."
"I got a problem all right — why you sending me your blasted magazine that I don't want?"
"Well — perhaps I can help you there, which publication are you referring to…?"
"Hereafter, that's the one."
"Yes, that's one in my group." Mercer opened two files before he found the right folder; then he scratched through it and came up with a sheet of paper. "I'm afraid I can't be of any help to you, Mr. Cabot, you must be on the free subscription list and we can't cancel them. Sorry."
"What do you mean, sorry! I don't want the filthy thing and you better stop sending it!"
Mercer tried to be friendly and succeeded in conjuring up an artificial smile. "Let's be reasonable, Mr. Cabot, that's a high-quality magazine and you are receiving it for nothing; why, a subscription costs ten dollars a year! If you have been lucky enough to be chosen for a free sub you shouldn't complain. "
"Who chose me for a free subscription? I didn't send anything in."
"No, you wouldn't have to. Your name probably appeared on one of the lists that we purchase from insurance companies, veterans hospitals, and the like. Hereafter is one of our throwaway magazines; of course I don't mean that we throw them away, on the contrary they go to very selected subscribers. We don't make our costs back from subscriptions but from the advertisers' fees. In a sense they underwrite the costs of these fine magazines, so you can say it is sort of a public service. For new mothers, for instance, we buy lists from all the hospitals and send out six-month subs of Your Baby, with some really fine advice and articles, and of course the ads, which are educational in themselves. "
"Well, I'm no new mother. Why you sending me your rag?"
"Hereafter is a bit different from Your Baby, but is still a service publication. It's a matter of statistics, sir. Every day just so many people die, of certain ages and backgrounds and that kind of thing. The people in the insurance companies, actuaries I think they call them, keep track of all these facts and figures and draw up plenty of graphs and tables. Very accurate, they assure me. They have life expectancy down to a fine art. They take a man, say, like yourself, of a certain age, background, physical fitness, environment, and so on, and pinpoint the date of death very exactly. Not the day and hour and that kind of thing — I suppose they could if they wanted to — but for our purposes a period of two years is satisfactory. This gives us a number of months and issues to acquaint the subscriber with our magazine and the services offered by our advertisers. By the time the subscriber dies the ad messages will have reached saturation."