The Best of Electric Velocipede by John Klima Read Free Book Online

the developmental process was not without its difficulties.
    “Observe,” he remarked, as we stood in the echoing confines of his warehouse. He made a gesture with one of his crutches. “The lid of the coffin is spring-loaded; should you awake in the mortuary and find yourself incarcerated, you merely touch this switch and the lid will open. So!”
    He pulled a small string, connected to the coffin’s interior. The lid shot forth as if fired from a cannon, immediately felling my unfortunate brother. When we had ascertained that he was not in imminent danger of becoming the coffin’s first occupant, and had brought him round with the application of smelling salts and water, Jonathan informed us angrily that the device must undergo modification.
    “Besides,” he pointed out. “It is useless if one is already buried when one discovers the sorry fact of incarceration. Not even a force sufficient to render a man unconscious can shift six feet of earth.”
    Eben Frame sighed. “I fear you are right. I suspect that will also be a difficulty with my second patent.”
    We went to look at the alternative model. This coffin possessed the addition of a spring-loaded hammer which, when set in motion via a small knob, would smash a glass panel on the front of the coffin, thus allowing the influx of air. The drawbacks were immediately apparent.
    “But this is no good either,” I protested. “The occupant, in addition to his mental distress, will receive not only a shower of glass into the face, but a forceful blow between the eyes. And again, as you have noted, it is only of use whilst the coffin is still above ground. No, what is needed is a rope, attached to a bell or a whistle. Or a little flag. So that if you woke and found yourself in your coffin, you could pluck the rope and be assured of rescue. Some kind of air hose might also be necessary—after all, one might awake in the middle of the night. I am sure such a device would be popular—set the public mind at rest, so to speak.”
    A week later, Frame had come up with a third device: a coffin attached to a flag, with a loud electric bell and an air hose running up through the earth to the base of the flagpole. After some trivial modifications, we felt that this was the most effective variant, and production commenced. We placed advertisements in the Times , sat back, and waited.
    Gradually, orders began to trickle in, and soon they grew to a flood. Jonathan had his practice to run, but he tried to persuade me to take over the business side of the Device. He was somewhat put out when I refused to do so: I did not endure all the hardships of becoming a poet, I told him, merely to take up a post as a salesman.
    “But your work—” Jonathan began, then stopped short.
    “What of it?”
    “The penny papers, monthly poetry journals—it is hardly great literature, Richard. Could you not put your talents to some more lucrative end? Could you not try to be more—well, respectable?”
    “A poet lies beyond common society and everyday morality,” I replied, stiffly. And Jonathan sighed, but did not say anything more. We hired a keen young gentleman by the name of Sayers to run the day-to-day dealings of the business, and returned to our respective professions.
    There came a week near to the end of November, however, when Richard took to his bed with a filthy chill and Sayers pleaded for a day off. He had an aged mother in Bognor, he said, and he wished to visit her. With extreme reluctance, I agreed to mind the funeral parlor for a day or so. And it was upon that day that I first met Madame Greco.
    She was waiting for me, so the housekeeper told me, in the parlor; she had requested it especially, claiming that she felt the cold. When I entered the room, she was sitting in front of the fire with her hands folded in her lap. I had the impression of an elegant figure, clad in the appropriate purple and black of mourning, necklaced with jet. The only curious note was the lily