“A thread!” one of the engineers shouted, almost with relief, and they all laughed along with him.

  “Too bad, ” the head project physicist said, “I was hoping that a little Space Wave Tapping could help us out. Let me try a flight with it. “

  “Teddy Kaner first, ” Biff announced. “He spotted it while you were all watching the flashing lights, only he didn’t say anything. “

  Kaner slipped the ring with the black thread over his finger and started to step back.

  “You have to turn the switch on first, ” Biff said.

  “I know, ” Kaner smiled. “But that’s part of illusion—the spiel and the misdirection. I’m going to try this cold first, so

  I can get it moving up and down smoothly, then go through it with the whole works.”

  He moved his hand back smoothly, in a professional manner that drew no attention to it. The model lifted from the table—then crashed back down.

  “The thread broke,” Kaner said.

  “You jerked it, instead of pulling smoothly,” Biff said, and knotted the broken thread. “Here, let me show you how to do it.”

  The thread broke again when Biff tried it, which got a good laugh that made his collar a little warm. Someone mentioned the poker game.

  This was the only time that poker was mentioned or even remembered that night. Because very soon after this they found that the thread would lift the model only when the switch was on and one and a half volts flowed through the joke coils. With the current turned off the model was too heavy to lift. The thread broke every time.

  “I still think it’s a screwy idea,” the young man said. “I have spent one week getting fallen arches, demonstrating those toy ships for every brat within a thousand miles. Then selling the things for three bucks when they must have cost at least a hundred dollars apiece to make.”

  “But you did sell the ten of them to people who would be interested?” the older man asked.

  “I think so. I caught a few air force officers and a colonel in missiles one day. Then there was one official I remembered from the Bureau of Standards. Luckily he didn’t recognize me. Then those two professors you spotted from the university.”

  “Then the problem is out of our hands and into theirs. All we have to do now is sit back and wait for results.”

  “What results?! These people weren’t interested when we were hammering on their doors with the proof. We’ve patented the coils and can prove to anyone that there is a reduction in weight around them when they are operating.”

  “But a very small reduction. And we don’t know what is causing it. No one can be interested in a thing like that—a fractional weight decrease in a clumsy model. Certainly not enough power to lift the weight of the generator. No one wrapped up in massive fuel consumption, tons of lift, and such is going to have time to worry about a crackpot who thinks he has found a minor slip in Newton’s laws.”

  “You think they will now?” the young man asked, cracking his knuckles impatiently.

  “I know they will. The tensile strength of that thread is correctly adjusted to the weight of the model. The thread will break if you try to lift the model with it. Yet you can lift the model—but only after a small increment of its weight has been removed by the coils. This is going to bug these men. Nobody is going to ask them to solve the problem or concern themselves with it. But it will nag at them because they know this effect can’t possibly exist. They’ll see at once that the magnetic-wave theory is nonsense. Or perhaps true? We don’t know. But they will all be thinking about it and worrying about it. Someone is going to experiment in his basement— just as a hobby, of course—to find the cause of the error. And he or someone else is going to find out what makes those coils work, or maybe a way to improve them!”

  “And we have the patents…”

  “Correct. They will be doing the research that will take them out of the massive-lift-propulsion business and into the field of pure spaceflight.”

  “And in doing so they will be making us rich—whenever the time comes to manufacture,” the young man said cynically.

  “We will all be rich, son,” the older man said, patting him on the shoulder. “Believe me, you’re not going to recognize this old world ten years from now.”

  NOT ME, NOT AMOS CABOT!

  The morning mail had arrived while Amos Cabot was out shopping and had been thrown onto the rickety table in the front hall. He poked through it even though he knew there would be nothing for him; this wasn’t the right day. On the thirteenth his Social Security check came and on the twenty-fourth the union check. There never was anything else except for a diminishing number of cards every Christmas. Nothing, he knew it.

  A large blue envelope was propped against the mirror but he couldn’t make out the name. Damn that skinflint Mrs. Peavey and her two-watt bulbs. He bent over and blinked at it—then blinked again. By God, it was for him, and no mistake! Felt like a thick magazine or a catalog: he wondered what it could possibly be and who might have sent it to him. Clutching it to his chest with a knobby and liver-spotted hand, he began the long drag up the three flights of stairs to his room. He dropped his string bag with the two cans of beans and the loaf of day-old white bread onto the drainboard and sat down heavily in his chair by the window. Unsealing the envelope, he saw that it was a magazine, a thick glossy one with a black cover. He slid it out onto his lap and stared at it with horrified eyes.

  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.”

  “Are you telling me I’m going to die inside the next two years?” Amos shrieked hoarsely, flushing with anger.

  “I’m not telling you, sir, no indeed!” Mercer drew away a bit and wiped some of the old man’s spittle from his glasses with his handkerchief. “That is the actuaries’ job. Their computer has come up with your name and sent it to me. They say you will die within two years. As a public service we send you Hereafter. A service—nothing more.”

  “I ain’t going to die in two years, not me! Not Amos Cabot!”

  “That is entirely up to you, sir. My position here is just a routine one. Your subscription has been entered and will be canceled only when a copy is returned with the imprint addressee DECEASED.”

  “I’m not going to die!”

  “That might possibly happen, though I can’t recall any cases offhand. But since it is a two-year subscription I imagine it will expire automatically at the end of the second year. If it is not canceled beforehand. Yes, that’s what would happen.”

  It ruined Amos’s day, and though the sun was shining warmly he never noticed it. He went home and thought so much about the whole thing that he couldn’t sleep. The next day was no better, and he began to wonder if this was part of the message the dreadful magazine had conveyed. If death was close by—they were so sure of it!—why did he not relax and

  agree with them? Send in his will, order the plot, tomb, gravestone, Last Message forms, and quietly expire.

  “No! They’ll not do it to me!”

  At first he thought he would wait for next month’s copy and write addressee deceased and send it back to them. That would stop the copies coming sure enough. Then he remembered fat little Mercer and could see his happy expression when the cancellation crossed his desk. Right again, dead on schedule as always. Old fool should’ve known you can’t lick statistics. Old fool indeed! He would show them. The Cabots were a long-lived family no matter what the records said, and he was a hardheaded one, too. They weren’t going to kill him off that easily.

  After much wheedling he got in to see the doctor at his old union and talked him into making a complete and thorough physical checkup.

  “Not bad, not bad at all for an old boy,” the doctor told him while he was buttoning his shirt.

  “I’m only eighty-two; that’s not old.”

  “Of course it’s not,” the doctor said soothingly. “Just statistics, you know; a man of your age with your background …”

  “I know all about those damned statistics. I didn’t come to you for that. What’s the report say?”

  “You can’t complain about your physical shape, Amos,” he said, scanning the sheet. “Blood pressure looks all right, but you’re leaning toward anemia. Do you eat much liver and fresh greens?”

  “Hate liver. Greens cost too much.”

  “That’s your choice. But remember—you can’t take it with you. Spend some more money on food. Give your heart a break—don’t climb too many stairs.”

  “I live three flights up—so how do I avoid stairs?”

  “That’s your choice again. If you want to take care of the

  old ticker move to the ground floor. And Vitamin D in the winter and …”

  There was more, and after he had swallowed his first anger Amos made notes. There were food and vitamins and sleep and fresh air and a whole list of nonsense as long as your arm. But there was also the two-year subscription of Hereafter: he bent back over his notes.

  Without his realizing why, the next months passed quickly. He was busy, finding a room on the ground floor, changing his eating habits, getting settled into his new place. At first he used to throw out Hereafter whenever its gloomy bulk shadowed his mail slot, but when a year had passed he grew bolder. There was an ad for mausoleums and one of the finest had a big tag on it labeled in red reserved for you. not for me!!! he scrawled above it and tore it from the magazine and mounted it on the wall. He followed it with other pictures; friendly gravediggers beckoning toward raw openings in the earth, cut-to-order coffins with comfortable padding, and all the rest. When eighteen months had passed he enjoyed himself throwing darts at “A Photograph of the Founder of Incino-Top-Rate, the Urn for Eternity,” and carefully checked off the passing days on the calendar.

  Only in the final few months did he begin to worry. He felt fine and the union doctor congratulated him for being a great example, but this didn’t matter. Were the actuaries right—had his time almost run out? He could have worried himself to death, but that was not the way Cabots died! He would face this out and win.

  First there were weeks left, then only days. The last five days before the copy was due he locked himself in his room and had the delicatessen send up food. It was expensive but he wasn’t going to risk any accidents in the street, not now. He had received his twenty-four copies and his subscription should have expired. The next morning would tell. He could not fall asleep at all that night, even though he knew that regular sleep was important. Just lay there until the sky brightened. He dozed for a bit then, but woke up as soon as he heard the postman’s footsteps outside. This was the day, would the magazine be there? His heart was pounding and he made himself go slow as he got into the bathrobe. His room was the first on the ground floor, right next to the entrance, and all he had to do was step out into the hall and open the front door.