The Twilight Zone: Complete Stories (27 page)

The other nodded in agreement. “Typical Earth men.” The antenna atop his head vibrated slightly. “Not all of them, though,” the head continued. “The one in the middle. The one who’s just suffered the physical damage. Now this might be the very one we’re looking for. Sssh,” he added hurriedly after a pause. “I’m receiving his waves now.”

The two heads remained motionless for a moment as the “waves” left Mr. Dingle’s battered little frame.

“He’s referred to as a Dingle,” Head Two announced. “He’s an abject coward. He doesn’t even possess what the Earth creatures call ‘minimum muscles.’ He’s a decidedly subphysical type.” He turned to his companion head and announced positively, “I believe we have found our subject!”

“You intend to give him the additional strength?”

“We haven’t found anyone weaker, have we? Yes, this one will make an exceptional subject. I would think...oh, about eleven secograms, atomic weight. That should make him roughly three hundred times as strong as the average man.” He paused, staring across the room at “the Dingle.” “Yes,” he continued with a nod, “I believe that ought to do it. We’d better check with central laboratories. Tell them we’ve picked a subject and they can start observing him now.” He turned to the other head. “You may proceed.”

At this moment the bartender was patting Luther Dingle’s face, mumbling something about just why the hell Dingle couldn’t learn to be neutral. “Luther,” he said into the blinking eyes of the vacuum cleaner salesman, “you don’t got to answer this guy at all. Just because he didn’t happen to like the Phillies—”

“Let him tell me,” Kransky interrupted. “You got a brain, don’t you, Dingle? You got a point of view? All right, what did you think of the Phillies in 1953?”

Dingle looked from one to the other. “The Phillies in 1953,” he repeated dully.

“That’s right,” Kransky prodded him. “You tell me for example if you think Robin Roberts was one half the pitcher that Clem Labine was that year.”

The bartender closed his eyes and shook his head, waiting for the sound of Dingle’s voice and then the inevitable crack of knuckle against face.

“Well,” Dingle began, clearing his throat. “Of the two...I’d be inclined to take...” He looked up wistfully. “Roberts,” he whispered.

Kransky’s bloodshot eyes narrowed. “Buddy,” he said softly, “why alla time you got to fight me? Now let’s run through it one more time. You say that Robin Roberts had more stuff than Clem Labine?”

Dingle’s smile was a pathetic grimace. “To be perfectly honest,” Dingle said, simply because he could be nothing else, “as to the two men, as good as they both are, all things being equal—”

“So c’mon awready,” Kransky interrupted. “Who do you pick?”

Dingle’s voice was a frail murmur. “Roberts?”

The bartender flinched and looked away as once again Mr. Dingle landed spread-eagle on the floor, a small, dark mouse appearing under his right eye. And while O’Toole helped Dingle to his feet he informed Kransky, “I’m tellin’ you for the last time, you pull any more rough stuff around here and I ain’t gonna let you in that front door.” He slapped Dingle’s cheeks. “How do you feel, Dingle?” he asked with concern.

“Clem Labine was definitely superior,” Luther Dingle announced, though his eyes were atilt and it was quite obvious he had no idea where he was.

“You see,” Kransky shouted triumphantly, “all I’m doin’ is makin’ him see things clearer!”

As Dingle felt consciousness slowly stream back into him he became aware of yet another odd and indefinable sensation. It was a warm tingle that ran through and through him and it lasted for perhaps three or four glowing minutes. The ray of light that shot across the room from the invisible two-headed creature could not be seen by any of the sports enthusiasts, but it had landed directly on Dingle’s face and remained on him for several minutes.

“How do you feel, Dingle,” O’Toole asked again, patting his cheeks. “You doin’ O.K. now?”

Dingle blinked his eyes and looked across at Kransky. “Definitely Clem Labine!”

Kransky looked satisfied and Dingle allowed himself to be helped to his feet once more by the bartender, who picked up the vacuum cleaner and the accessories and crammed them into Dingle’s arms. At the same time he gently urged the little man toward the door.

“Dingle,” the bartender said to him confidentially as they walked, “you mind a word of advice? There’s some guys in this world that are gonna get punched in the nose no matter who they pick in a ball game, who they vote for, or the color of the tie they put on in the morning.”

At the door the bartender patted Dingle’s arm. “You’re one of those guys, Luther,” he said sadly. “So do you know what I think you ought to do from now on? Don’t talk. Just nod. If a guy asks you who you like in the third, you just smile at him. If somebody asks you who you’re votin’ for—you just nod. And if you’re sittin’ in the ballpark at some double-header and you hear some guy yellin’ for the Dodgers—you don’t go yellin’ for the Pirates. You just leave your seat and go buy a hot dog. Understand, Dingle?”

Dingle nodded and then suddenly looked surprised. He put down the vacuum cleaner, then held up his hands in front of him and studied his fingers.

“Whatsa matter?” the bartender asked.

“That’s odd.”

“What’s odd?”

“I feel...I feel so funny,” Dingle said in a strained voice.

Then he shook his head as if shrugging off the whole thing and bent over to pick up the vacuum cleaner. He did indeed lift it off the floor. As a matter of fact he lifted it high over his head, then—with the same look of surprise—juggled it in his arms.

“Now what do you suppose caused that?” he said.

“Caused what? the bartender asked him.

“The vacuum cleaner,” Dingle explained. “It feels as light as a feather.” With a hasty, apologetic smile he added, “Not that the machine
isn’t
light. It happens to be one of the lightest on the market. It’s a handy-dandy, jim-cracker, A-one piece of merchandise, guaranteed to lighten the labor and lengthen the life of the wonderful partner in the American home—the housewife!” He lifted the vacuum cleaner above his head several times. “But...” he stammered, “but I never thought it was
this
light!”

He looked at the vacuum cleaner, bewildered, then reached for the doorknob. A moment later he stood gaping at O’Toole. The doorknob was still in his hand, but the door was completely ripped off three metal hinges. Both Callahan and Kransky at the bar gulped their beers and examined the insides of the glasses. The door weighed a good eighty-five pounds and there stood Dingle holding it aloft as if it were a single sheet of balsa.

Dingle slowly put down the door and leaned it against the wall. He looked at Mr. Anthony O’Toole who quite obviously took a dim view of small vacuum cleaner salesmen pulling doors from their hinges.

“Dingle,” O’Toole said with vast hurt, ‘With all your faults—despite the fact that you cost me in iodine what I normally have to put out for the water bill—you’ve always been a nice type fellah who never gave me no trouble. Now why all of a sudden you got to wreck my front door?”

“Believe me, Mr. O’Toole,” Dingle said in a tone that would have convinced the most hardened skeptic, “I am mystified. I am absolutely mystified. The door just seemed to—to come off in my hand.” He reached over to touch the knob by way of illustration and then gasped as he heard the sound of wrenching wood. The doorknob was now in his hand and a large, gaping hole was in the door where it had been.

Kransky and Callahan goggled at one another and reached for a bottle of house whiskey from which they each gulped in turn. Dingle hurriedly went out through the opening where formerly had hung the heavy door, leaving behind him the incredulous Anthony O’Toole, his bar companions who kept on drinking and shaking their heads, and a two-headed Martian whose name was roughly translated as “Xurthya.”

A little later Mr. Dingle was walking briskly along an attractive tree-lined residential street, feeling younger and more exuberant than he could ever remember feeling before. He carried the vacuum cleaner and the attachments under his left arm and had almost forgotten their existence. Two small boys were playing catch with a football in front of one of the white picket-fenced yards. The smaller of the two boys, whose freckled face bore just a passing resemblance to that of John J. Dillinger, held the ball and turned to Dingle as he approached.

“You here again?” the boy asked. “Didn’t my old man say he was gonna punch you in the jaw if you came around here botherin’ us again?”

Dingle checked the jut of the little boy’s jaw, looked down at his notebook, then up at the numbered address on the house. Somewhat relieved, he nodded. “You’re quite right, little man,” he said, smiling. “Wrong address. I was heading next door.”

He continued to walk down the sidewalk past the picket fence. The freckled little gargoyle threw the football straight and unerringly at the back of Dingle’s head, knocking off his hat. Dingle smiled a little wanly, waggled a finger, retrieved his hat, then awkwardly picked up the ball.

“Now that’s not the best of all possible manners, is it?” he said gently.

The little boy leered at him and made some kind of indefinable sound with a tongue sticking out. “Aww, go peddle your vacuum cleaners, ya little creep! And throw my ball back.”

Dingle again moved his mouth around in the shape of a smile and, as pleasantly as he knew how, said, “Go out for a pass. Isn’t that what they say? Go out for a pass?”

He daintily, albeit inexpertly, hauled back and threw the ball toward the boy. It soared up into the air as if filled with helium and disappeared over a church steeple several blocks away. The tan underneath the boy’s freckles paled as he gaped toward the disappearing ball. His companion simply sat on the porch steps and closed his eyes. Three doors down the street a painter on a ladder looked up toward the sky, dropped his bucket, and slid halfway down the ladder before he could collect himself.

And some nine blocks away a man sat at a breakfast table eating grapefruit, feeling the desperate after effects of a sizable lodge meeting the night before. A football entered the open window, whizzed past his face, and plowed a hole through the kitchen wall, to go through a bathroom, a bedroom, and finally into a hall beyond.

Small Dillinger walked slowly up to Dingle, his voice softened by a sudden reverence. “Hey, mister,” he asked raptly, “where’d you learn to fling a ball like that?”

Dingle gulped, squirmed, and then stammered, “I...I really don’t know.” He looked up toward the sky and directed the question to nobody in particular. “What’s happening to me?” he asked. “
What in the world is happening to me
?”

He looked down at his undersized right hand. It was as small and weak-looking as it had ever been. He decided that he had better stop work for the day. A sufficient number of odd occurrences had happened to warrant his knocking off at least until the next morning.

A taxicab was just pulling away from the curb half a block away and Dingle waved his hand and shouted to it. “Taxi! Cab!”

The cab pulled to a stop across the way and Dingle hurriedly rushed over to it. He reached for the handle of the rear door and it was a moment before he realized that the door had suddenly become unattached from the cab. He was holding it out in midair. The cab driver stared at him, formulating in his mind a rather long and comprehensive speech, but quite incapable of saying anything.

“Believe me,” Dingle said in a whisper, “this is as much a mystery to me as it is to you.”

He scratched his jaw pensively, shook his head, looked around with a vast perplexity, then leaned against the cab. There was a wheezing, grinding, groaning noise, a wail of consternation from the driver, and suddenly the cab was lying on its side. The painter on the ladder three doors down dropped his bucket again and this time followed it to the ground.

At six-thirty in the evening, Mr. Dingle sat on a park bench, his vacuum cleaner at his feet like a faithful dog, as he stared across the park, past the thirty-foot statue of General Belvedere Washington Hennicutt, the hero of some obscure whiskey rebellion, and said nothing. A pretty nursemaid passed, wheeling a baby carriage. She looked at Dingle briefly and then, smiling, sat on the opposite end of the bench, gently rocking the carriage with a foot. After a suitable pause Dingle turned to her.

“Excuse me, miss,” he said diffidently.

“Yes?”

“I don’t want you to think that I’m a masher or anything like that. I’m certainly not a masher, but I wonder if you’d mind...I wonder if you’d mind answering a question?”

The nurse smiled. He was obviously harmless. “That depends.”

“What I mean is,” Dingle said, wetting his lips, “looking at me, would you say that at least upon a perfunctory, cursory, very initial surveyal...that I appear to be abnormal in any way?”

The nurse laughed. “Not at all.” She pointed to the vacuum cleaner. “Unless you plan to use that in the park.”

Dingle dismissed the handy-dandy, jim-cracker, A-one piece of merchandise with a perfunctory wave. “Oh
that
!” he said deprecatingly. “Up to a few hours ago I sold those things. Or at least I went through the motions.” He shook his head in dismal recollection of his lack of prowess as a salesman. “I was a miserably bad salesman. Just miserable. “Would you believe it?” he continued intently. “Last month I made exactly eighty-nine cents in commission. And that was for an attachment. An upholstery nozzle. And I sold it to a drunk who kept insisting it was a divining rod for alcohol.” He leaned forward wistfully. “I actually expected to be fired today. But that’s the least of my worries.” He cocked his head a little quizzically. “Would you be interested in listening to what are the
most
of my worries?”

“Go ahead.”

“Watch,” Dingle announced, as he left the bench and walked around behind it.

The nurse screamed as she felt the earth leaving her feet. Dingle, with one hand, had reached under the bench and lifted it eight feet into the air, then carefully set it down again as the nurse, eyes starting, stared at him in abject fear and utter amazement.