Read Online The Twilight Zone: Complete Stories by Rod Serling - Free Book Online
Authors: Rod Serling
Tags: Fiction, General, Science-Fiction, Fantasy, Fantasy Fiction; American, Occult fiction, supernatural, Performing Arts, Short Stories (Single Author), Film & Video, Fantastic fiction; American, History & Criticism, Television, Twilight Zone (Television Program : 1959-1964)
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gleefully. “In about twenty minutes, it’ll be about a hundred and five in here. So heat you’ll get!”
Livid with rage at the noise of the janitor’s pounding, Bedeker had shouted at him, “Ape! Get out of here. If I’m to die, at least I’ll die in comfort and peace. Go on, get out of here!”
The janitor surveyed his principal irritation in an apartment house of eighty-three families. “Well, if you do die, Bedeker,” he’d said, “and you go where you’re going—as far as the temperature goes, YOU ain’t gonna be able to tell the difference!”
Now Ethel felt the result of the janitor’s promise. The apartment was stuffy beyond belief. She opened up one of the living room windows and let the cool, fall air ripple over her hot, tired flesh. But she could still hear Walter Bedeker’s running monologue from the bedroom.
“It’s a crime for a man to live such a short span of years. An absolute crime,” Bedeker’s muffled voice said.
Ethel went into the tiny kitchen, shut the door and poured herself a cup of coffee.
Walter Bedeker sat propped up in bed looking at his reflection in the dresser mirror across the room. “A crime,” he repeated. “What I wouldn’t give! What I wouldn’t give to live a decent number of years. Two hundred. Three hundred.” He heaved a deep sigh and shook his head.
A voice, deep, resonant, with a chuckle in it, said, “Why not five or six hundred?”
Bedeker nodded agreeably. “Why not? Or a thousand. What a miserable thing to contemplate. A handful of years, then an eternity in a casket down under the ground. The dark, cold ground!”
“With worms yet,” the voice answered him.
“Of course, with worms,” Bedeker said. Then his eyes grew wide as suddenly across the room, materializing rather rapidly in the bedroom chair, he saw a large, fat man in a dark suit. Bedeker gulped, gaped, blinked his eyes and then just stared.
The gentleman smiled and nodded. “I subscribe to your views wholly, Mr. Bedeker,” he said. “I mean wholly.”
Bedeker continued to stare at him and said, “I’m delighted. And who might you be?”
“Cadwallader’s my name,” the gentleman answered. “At least I’m using it this month. It has a nice feeling on the tongue.”
Bedeker surreptitiously looked around the room, checking the door, the window, then took a quick look under the bed. Then he looked at the man accusingly. “How did you get in?”
“Oh, I’ve never been gone,” Cadwallader said. “I’ve been here for some time.” Then he leaned forward in the manner of a man about to start his business. “I’ll be brief, Mr. Bedeker,” he said. “You look like a man with a nose for a bargain. I’d like to make a proposition to you. We each have something the other wants, and that seems a relatively solid basis for a bargain.”
Bedeker’s voice was coolly appraising. “Do we? What in the world do you have that I could possibly want?”
The fat man smiled and lit a cigarette, then he sat back comfortably. “Oh, many things, Mr. Bedeker,” he said. “You’d be surprised. Many things. Varied and delightful.”
Bedeker studied the man’s face. An odd face, he reflected. Fat, but not unpleasant. Nice white teeth, even though the eyes were a little shiny and wild. Bedeker scratched his jaw thoughtfully. “What do I have that could remotely interest you?”
Cadwallader’s smile was deprecating. “Actually a minor item,” he said. “Smaller than minor. Insignificant. Microscopic.” He held up two fat, little fingers. “Teensy weensy!”
The two men’s eyes locked.
“What did you say your name was?” Bedeker asked.
“What’s in a name, Mr. Bedeker? Cadwallader replied ingratiatingly. “Just a question of semantics—language. A stretch of words, really. For example, what is it you want? You want an extended life span. You want a few hundred years to play around with. Now some people would call it immortality of a sort. But why give it that
Livid with rage at the noise of the janitor’s pounding, Bedeker had shouted at him, “Ape! Get out of here. If I’m to die, at least I’ll die in comfort and peace. Go on, get out of here!”
The janitor surveyed his principal irritation in an apartment house of eighty-three families. “Well, if you do die, Bedeker,” he’d said, “and you go where you’re going—as far as the temperature goes, YOU ain’t gonna be able to tell the difference!”
Now Ethel felt the result of the janitor’s promise. The apartment was stuffy beyond belief. She opened up one of the living room windows and let the cool, fall air ripple over her hot, tired flesh. But she could still hear Walter Bedeker’s running monologue from the bedroom.
“It’s a crime for a man to live such a short span of years. An absolute crime,” Bedeker’s muffled voice said.
Ethel went into the tiny kitchen, shut the door and poured herself a cup of coffee.
Walter Bedeker sat propped up in bed looking at his reflection in the dresser mirror across the room. “A crime,” he repeated. “What I wouldn’t give! What I wouldn’t give to live a decent number of years. Two hundred. Three hundred.” He heaved a deep sigh and shook his head.
A voice, deep, resonant, with a chuckle in it, said, “Why not five or six hundred?”
Bedeker nodded agreeably. “Why not? Or a thousand. What a miserable thing to contemplate. A handful of years, then an eternity in a casket down under the ground. The dark, cold ground!”
“With worms yet,” the voice answered him.
“Of course, with worms,” Bedeker said. Then his eyes grew wide as suddenly across the room, materializing rather rapidly in the bedroom chair, he saw a large, fat man in a dark suit. Bedeker gulped, gaped, blinked his eyes and then just stared.
The gentleman smiled and nodded. “I subscribe to your views wholly, Mr. Bedeker,” he said. “I mean wholly.”
Bedeker continued to stare at him and said, “I’m delighted. And who might you be?”
“Cadwallader’s my name,” the gentleman answered. “At least I’m using it this month. It has a nice feeling on the tongue.”
Bedeker surreptitiously looked around the room, checking the door, the window, then took a quick look under the bed. Then he looked at the man accusingly. “How did you get in?”
“Oh, I’ve never been gone,” Cadwallader said. “I’ve been here for some time.” Then he leaned forward in the manner of a man about to start his business. “I’ll be brief, Mr. Bedeker,” he said. “You look like a man with a nose for a bargain. I’d like to make a proposition to you. We each have something the other wants, and that seems a relatively solid basis for a bargain.”
Bedeker’s voice was coolly appraising. “Do we? What in the world do you have that I could possibly want?”
The fat man smiled and lit a cigarette, then he sat back comfortably. “Oh, many things, Mr. Bedeker,” he said. “You’d be surprised. Many things. Varied and delightful.”
Bedeker studied the man’s face. An odd face, he reflected. Fat, but not unpleasant. Nice white teeth, even though the eyes were a little shiny and wild. Bedeker scratched his jaw thoughtfully. “What do I have that could remotely interest you?”
Cadwallader’s smile was deprecating. “Actually a minor item,” he said. “Smaller than minor. Insignificant. Microscopic.” He held up two fat, little fingers. “Teensy weensy!”
The two men’s eyes locked.
“What did you say your name was?” Bedeker asked.
“What’s in a name, Mr. Bedeker? Cadwallader replied ingratiatingly. “Just a question of semantics—language. A stretch of words, really. For example, what is it you want? You want an extended life span. You want a few hundred years to play around with. Now some people would call it immortality of a sort. But why give it that
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