The Twilight Zone: Complete Stories (4 page)

“That’s very nice of you, Dr. Stillman,” Mouth said. “I appreciate it.”

“Don’t mention it. Now shall we go out on the field?”

Mouth opened the door for him. “After you,” he said.

Dr. Stillman went out and Mouth was about to follow him when he stopped dead, one eyebrow raised. “Wait a minute, dammit,” he shouted. “The worst?” He started out after the old man. “You should have seen the Phillies in 1903!” he yelled after him.

An umpire screamed, “Play ball!” and the third baseman took a throw from the catcher then, rubbing up the ball, he carried it over to Casey on the mound, noticing in a subconscious section of his mind this kid with the long arms and the vast shoulders had about as much spirit as a lady of questionable virtue on a Sunday morning after a long Saturday night. A few moments later, the third baseman cared very little about the lack of animation on Casey’s features. This feeling was shared by some fourteen thousand fans, who watched the left-hander look dully in for a sign, then throw a side-arm fast ball that left them gasping and sent the entire dugout of the St. Louis Cardinals to their feet in amazement.

There are fast balls and fast balls, but nothing remotely resembling the white streak that shot out of Casey’s left hand, almost invisibly toward the plate, had ever been witnessed. A similar thought ran through the mind of the St. Louis batter as he blinked at the sound of the ball hitting the catcher’s mitt and took a moment to realize that the pitch had been made and he had never laid eyes on it.

This particular St. Louis batter was the first of twenty-five men to face Casey that evening. Eighteen of them struck out and only two of them managed to get to first base, one on a fluke single that was misjudged over first base. By the sixth inning most of the people in the stadium were on their feet, aware that they were seeing something special in the tall left-hander on the mound. And by the ninth inning when Brooklyn had won its first game in three weeks by a score of two to nothing, the stadium was in a frenzy.

There was also a frenzy of a sort in the Brooklyn dugout. The corners of Mouth McGarry’s mouth tilted slightly upward in a grimace which the old team trainer explained later to a couple of mystified ballplayers was a “smile.” Mouth hadn’t been seen to smile in the past six years.

Bertram Beasley celebrated the event by passing out three brand new cigars and one slightly used one (to McGarry). But the notable thing about the Brooklyn dugout and later the locker room was that the ball team suddenly looked different. In the space of about two a half hours, it had changed from some slogging lead-footed, aging second-raters to a snappy, heads-up, confident looking crew of ballplayers who had a preoccupation with winning. The locker room resounded with laughter and horse play, excited shouting drifted out from the showers. All this in a room that for the past three years had been as loud and comical as a funeral parlor.

While wet towels sailed across the room and cleated shoes banged against locker doors, one man remained silent. This was the pitcher named Casey. He surveyed the commotion around him with a mild interest, but was principally concerned with unlacing his shoes. The only emotion he displayed was when Doc Barstow, the team trainer, started to massage his arm. He jumped up abruptly and yanked the arm away, leaving Barstow puzzled. Later on Barstow confided to Mouth McGarry that the kid’s arm felt like a piece of tube steel. McGarry gulped, smiled nervously and asked Doc how his wife had been feeling. All this happened on the night of July 1st.

Three weeks later the Brooklyn Dodgers had moved from the cellar to fifth place in the National League. They had won twenty-three games in a row, seven of them delivered on a platter by one left-handed pitcher named Casey. Two of his ball games were no-hitters and his earned run average was by far the lowest not only in either League, but in the history of baseball. His name was on every tongue in the nation, his picture on every sports page, and contracts had already been signed so that he would be appearing on cereal boxes before the month was out. And as in life itself, winning begot winning. Even without Casey, the Dodgers were becoming a feared and formidable ball club. Weak and ineffectual bat-slappers, who had never hit more than 200 in their lives, were becoming Babe Ruths. Other pitchers who had either been too green or too decrepit were beginning to win ball games along with Casey. And there was a spirit now—an aggressiveness, a drive, that separated the boys from the pennant-winners and the Brooklyn Dodgers were potentially the latter. They looked it and they played it.

Mouth McGarry was now described as “that master strategist” and “a top field general” and, frequently, “the winningest manager of the year” in sports columns which had previously referred to him as “that cement-headed oaf who handles a ball club like a bull would handle a shrimp cocktail.” The team was drawing more customers in single games than they’d garnered in months at a time during previous seasons. And the most delightful thing to contemplate was the fact that Casey, who had begun it all, looked absolutely invulnerable to fatigue, impervious to harm, and totally beyond the normal hazards of pitchers. He had no stiff arms, no sore elbows, no lapses of control, no nothing. He pitched like a machine and while it was mildly disconcerting, it was really no great concern that he also walked, talked and acted like a machine. There was no question about it. The Dodgers would have been in first place by mid-August at the very latest, if a shortstop on the Philadelphia Phillies had not hit a line ball directly at Casey on the mound which caught him just a few inches above his left eye.

The dull, sickening thud was the shot heard all around the borough and if anyone had clocked Mouth McGarry’s run from the dugout to the mound where his ace left-hander was now sprawled face downward, two guys named Landy and Bannister would have been left in eclipse. Bertram Beasley, in his box seat in the grandstand, simply chewed off one quarter of his cigar and swallowed it, then fell off his seat in a dead faint.

The players grouped around Casey and Doc Barstow motioned for a stretcher. McGarry grabbed his arm and whispered at him as if already they were in the presence of the dead.

“Will he pull through, Doc? Will he make it?”

The team doctor looked grim. “I think we’d better get him to a hospital. Let’s see what they say about him there.”

Half the team provided an escort for the stretcher as it moved slowly off the field. It looked like a funeral cortege behind a recently deceased head of state with Mouth McGarry as the principal mourner. It was only then that he remembered to motion into the bullpen for a new pitcher, an eager young towhead out of the Southern Association League who had just been called up.

The kid ambled toward the mound. It was obvious that at this moment he wished he were back in Memphis, Tennessee, sorting black-eyed peas. He took the ball from the second baseman, rubbed it up, then reached down for the rosin bag. He rubbed his hands with the bag then rubbed the ball, then rubbed the bag then put down the ball, wound up and threw the rosin bag. As it turned out, this was his best pitch of the evening. Shortly thereafter he walked six men in a row and hit one man in the head. Luckily, it was a hotdog vendor in the bleachers so that no harm was done in terms of moving any of the men on base. This was taken care of by his next pitch to the number-four batter on the Philadelphia Phillies squad, who swung with leisurely grace at what the kid from Memphis referred to as his fast ball, and sent it on a seven-hundred-foot trip over the center field fence, which took care of the men on the bases. The final score was thirteen to nothing in favor of the Phillies, but Mouth McGarry didn’t even wait until the last out. With two outs in the ninth, he and Beasley ran out of the park and grabbed a cab. Beasley handed the driver a quarter and said, “Never mind the cops. Get to the hospital.”

The hackie looked at the quarter then back toward Beasley and said, “This better be a rare mint, or I’ll see to it that you have your baby in the cab!”

They arrived at the hospital twelve minutes later and pushed their way through a lobby full of reporters to get to an elevator and up to the floor where Casey had been taken for observation. They arrived in his room during the last stages of the examination. A nurse shushed them as they barged into the room.

“Booby,” McGarry gushed, racing toward the bed.

The doctor took off his stethoscope and hung it around his neck. “You the father?” he asked Mouth.

“The father,” McGarry chortled. “I’m closer than any father.”

He noticed now for the first time that Dr. Stillman was sitting quietly in the corner of the room looking like a kindly old owl full of wisdom hidden under his feathers.

“Well, gentlemen, there’s no fracture that I can see,” the doctor announced, professionally. “No concussion. Reflexes seem normal—”

Beasley exhaled sounding like a strong north wind. “I can breathe again,” he told everyone.

“All I could think of,” Mouth said, “was there goes Casey! There goes the pennant! There goes the Series!” He shook his head forlornly, “And there goes my career.”

The doctor picked up Casey’s wrist and began to feel for the pulse.

“Yes, Mr. Casey,” he smiled benevolently down into the expressionless face and unblinking eyes, “I think you’re in good shape. I’ll tell you though, when I heard how the ball hit you in the temple I wondered to myself how—”

The doctor stopped talking. His fingers compulsively moved around the wrist. His eyes went wide. After a moment he opened up Casey’s pajamas and sent now shaking fingers running over the chest area. After a moment he stood up, took out a handkerchief and wiped his face.

“What’s the matter?” Mouth asked nervously. “What’s wrong?”

The doctor sat down in a chair. “There’s nothing wrong, he said softly. “Not a thing wrong. Everything’s fine. It’s just that—”

“Just that what? Beasley asked.

The doctor pointed a finger toward the bed. “It is just that this man doesn’t have any pulse. No heart beat.” Then he looked up toward the ceiling. “This man,” he said in a strained voice, “this man isn’t alive.”

There was absolute silence in the room marred only by the slump of Beasley’s body as he slid quietly to the floor. No one paid any attention to him. It was Dr. Stillman who finally spoke.

“Mr. McGarry,” he said in a quiet, firm voice, “I do believe it’ll have to come out now.”

Beasley opened his eyes. “All right, you sonofabitch, McGarry, what are you trying to pull off?”

Mouth looked around the room as if searching for an extra bed. He looked ill. “Beasley,” he said plaintively, “you ain’t gonna like this. But it was Casey or it was nothing. God, what a pitcher! And he was the only baseball player I ever managed who didn’t eat nothing—”

Stillman cleared his throat and spoke to the doctor. “I think you should know before you go any further that Casey has no pulse or heart beat...because he hasn’t any heart. He’s a robot—”

There was the sound of another slump as Bertram Beasley fell back unconscious. This time he didn’t move.

“A what?” the doctor asked incredulously.

“That’s right,” Stillman said. “A robot.”

The doctor stared at Casey on the bed who stared right back at him. “Are you sure?” the doctor asked in a hushed voice.

“Oh, by all means. I built him.”

The doctor slowly removed his coat and then took off his tie. He marched toward the bed with his eyes strangely wide and bright. “Casey,” he announced, “get up and strip. Hear me? Get up and strip.”

Casey got up and stripped and twenty minutes later the doctor had opened the window and was leaning out breathing in the evening air. Then he turned, removed his stethoscope from around his neck and put it in his black bag. He took the blood pressure equipment from the night-stand and added this to the bag. He made a mental note to check the X rays as soon as they came out, but knew this would be gratuitous because it was all very, very evident. The man on the bed wasn’t a man at all. He was one helluva specimen, but a man he wasn’t! The doctor lit a cigarette and looked across the room.

“Under the circumstances,” he said, “I’m afraid I must notify the baseball commissioner. That’s the only ethical procedure.”

“What do you have to be ethical about it for?” McGarry challenged him. “What the hell are you—a Giants fan?”

The doctor didn’t answer. He took the twenty or thirty sheets of paper that he’d been making notes on and rammed them in his pocket. He mentally ran down the list of medical societies and organizations that would have to be informed of this. He also devised the opening three or four paragraphs to a monumental paper he’d write for a medical journal on the first mechanical man. He was in for a busy time. He carried his black bag to the door, smiled and went out, wondering just how the American Medical Association would react to this one. The only sound left in the room was Beasley’s groaning, until McGarry walked over to Casey on the bed.

“Casey,” he said forlornly, “would you move over?”

The Daily Mirror
had it first because one of the interns in the maternity ward was really a leg man for them. But the two wire services picked it up twenty minutes later and by six the following morning the whole world knew about Casey—the mechanical man. Several scientists were en route from Europe, and Dr. Stillman and Casey were beleaguered in a New York hotel room by an army of photographers and reporters. Three missile men at Cape Canaveral sent up a fabulous rocket that hit the moon dead eye only to discover that the feat made page twelve of the afternoon editions because the first eleven pages were devoted exclusively to a meeting to be held by the commissioner of baseball, who had announced he would make a decision on the Casey case by suppertime.

At four-thirty that afternoon the commissioner sat behind his desk, drumming on it with the end of a pencil. A secretary brought him a folder filled with papers and in the brief moment of the office door opening, he could see the mob of reporters out in the corridor.

“What about the reporters?” the secretary asked him.