The Twilight Zone: Complete Stories Read Online Free Page A

Monk approached him, holding his injured hand.
    “You see him?” Monk asked in an incredulous voice. “That kid? He picks up where Feller left off, I swear to God! He’s got a curve, hook, knuckler, slider and a fast ball that almost went through my palm! He’s got control like he uses radar. This is the best pitcher I ever caught in my life, Mouth!”
    Mouth McGarry stood there as if mesmerized, staring at Casey who was walking slowly away from the mound. Monk tucked his catcher’s mitt under his arm and started toward the dugout.
    “I swear,” he said as he walked, “I never seen anything like it. Fantastic. He pitches like nothing human! ”
    Mouth McGarry and Dr. Stillman looked at one another. Dr. Stillman’s quiet blue eyes looked knowing and Mouth McGarry chewed furiously down the length of a piece of grass, his last bite taking in a quarter inch of his forefinger. He blew on it, waved it in the air and stuck it in his mouth as he turned toward Stillman, his voice shaking with excitement.
    “Look, Grampa,” Mouth said, “I want that boy! Understand? I’ll have a contract drawn up inside of fifteen minutes. And don’t give me no tough talk either. You brought him here on a try-out and that gives us first option.”
    “He’s a robot, you know,” Stillman began quietly.
    Mouth grabbed him and spoke through clenched teeth. “Grampa,” he said in a quiet fury, “don’t ever say that to nobody! We’ll just keep that in the family here.” Then suddenly remembering, he looked around wildly for the blueprint, picked it up from the ground and shoved it in his shirt pocket. He saw Stillman looking at him.
    “Would that be honest?” Stillman said, rubbing his jaw.
    Mouth pinched his cheek and said, “You sweet old guy, you’re looking at a desperate man. And if the baseball commissioner ever found out I was using a machine—I’d be dead. D-E-D! Dead, you know?” Mouth’s face brightened into a grimace which vaguely brought to mind a smile when he saw Casey approaching. “I like your stuff, kid,” Mouth said to him. “Now you go into the locker room and change your clothes.” He turned to Stillman. “He wears clothes, don’t he?”
    “Oh, by all means,” Stillman answered.
    “Good,” Mouth said, satisfied. “Then we’ll go up to Beasley’s office and sign the contract.” He looked at the tall pitcher standing there and shook his head. “If you could pitch once a week like I just seen you pitch, the only thing that stands between us and a pennant is if your battery goes dead or you rust in the rain! As of right now, Mr. Casey—you’re the number one pitcher of the Brooklyn Dodgers!”
    Stillman smiled happily and Casey just looked impassive, no expression, no emotion, neither satisfied nor dissatisfied. He just stood there. Mouth hurried back to the dugout, took the steps three at a time and grabbed the phone.
    “General Manager’s office,” he screamed into it. “Yeah!” In a moment he heard Beasley’s voice. “Beasley?” he said. “Listen, Beasley, I want you to draw up a contract. It’s for that left-hander. His name is Casey. That’s right. Not just good, Beasley. Fantastic. Now you draw up that contract in a hurry.” There was an angry murmur at the other end of the line. “Who do you think I’m giving orders to,” Mouth demanded. He slammed the phone down then turned to look out toward the field.
    Stillman and Casey were heading toward the dugout. Mouth rubbed his jaw pensively. Robot-shmobot, he said to himself. He’s got a curve, knuckler, fast ball, slider, change of pace and hallelujah—he’s got two arms!
    He picked up one of Bertram Beasley’s cigars off the ground, smoothed out the pleats and shoved it into his mouth happily. For the first time in many long and bleak months Mouth McGarry had visions of a National League pennant fluttering across his mind. So must John McGraw have felt when he got his first look at Walter Johnson or Muller Higgins, when