The Twilight Zone: Complete Stories Read Online Free

is,” he said, “it’s hard to be chronological when discussing Casey’s age. Because he’s only been in existence for three weeks. What I mean is—he has the physique and mind of roughly a twenty-two-year-old, but in terms of how long he’s been here—the answer to that would be about three weeks.”
    The words had poured out of Dr. Stillman’s mouth and McGarry had blinked through the whole speech.
    “Would you mind going over that again?” he asked.
    “Not at all,” Dr. Stillman said kindly. “It’s really not too difficult. You see I made Casey. I built him.” He smiled a big, beatific smile. “Casey’s a robot,” he said. The old man took a folded and creased document from his vest pocket and held it out to Mouth. “These are the blueprints I worked from,” he said.
    Mouth swatted the papers out of the old man’s hand and dug his gnarled knuckles into the sides of his head. That goddamn Beasley. There were no depths to which that sonofabitch wouldn’t go to make his life miserable. He had to gulp several times before he could bring himself to speak to the old man and when finally words came, the voice didn’t sound like his at all.
    “Old friend,” his voice came out in a wheeze. “Kind, sweet old man. Gentle grandfather, with the kind eyes, I am very happy that he’s a robot. Of course, that’s what he is.” He patted Stillman’s cheek. “That’s just what he is, a nice robot.” Then there was a sob in his voice as he glared up at the roof of the dugout. “Beasley, you crummy sonofabitch !” A robot yet. This fruity old man and that miserable ball club and the world all tumbling down and it just never ended and it never got any better. A robot!
    Dr. Stillman scurried after Mouth who had walked up the steps of the dugout and out on to the field. He paused along the third-base line and began to chew grass again. Over his shoulder Casey was throwing pitches into the catcher at home plate, but Mouth didn’t even notice him.
    “I dunno!” he said to nobody in particular. “I don’t even know what I’m doing in baseball.”
    He looked uninterested as Casey threw a curve ball that broke sharply just a foot out in front of home plate and then shrieked into the catcher’s mitt like a small, circular, white express train.
    “That Beasley,” Mouth said to the ground. “That guy’s got as much right in the front office as I’ve got in the Alabama State Senate. This guy is a nothing, that’s all. Simply a nothing. He was born a nothing. He’s a nothing now!”
    On the mound Casey wound up again and threw a hook that screamed in toward home plate, swerved briefly to the left, shot back to the right, and then landed in the catcher’s mitt exactly where it had been placed as a target. Monk stared at the ball wide-eyed and then toward the young pitcher on the mound. He examined the ball, shook his head, then threw it back to him, shaking his head slowly from side to side.
    Meanwhile Mouth continued his daily analysis of the situation to a smiling Dr. Stillman and an empty grandstand. “I’ve had bum teams before,” he was saying. “Real bad outfits. But this one!” He spat out the piece of grass. “These guys make Abner Doubleday a criminal! You know where I got my last pitcher? He was mowing the infield and I discovered that he was the only guy on the club who could reach home plate from the pitcher’s mound on less than two bounces. He is now ensconced as my number two starter. That’s exactly where he’s ensconced!”
    He looked out again at Casey to see him throw a straight, fast ball that landed in Monk’s glove and sent smoke rising from home plate. Monk whipped off the glove and held his hand agonizedly. When the pain subsided he stared at the young pitcher disbelievingly. It was then and only then that picture and sound began to register in Mouth McGarry’s mind. He suddenly thought about the last two pitches that he’d seen and his eyebrows shot up like elevators.