by Rod Serling
"You're right as rain, Jonathan," Pamela said. "Right as rain. And in heaven you can do anything you want. Now, my being a social woman, an extrovert, you might say—a person who enjoys communicating—well, I shall spend the rest of my eternity talking. And you, Jonathan you pusher of wives down staircases while I talk through eternity . . . you'll listen."
Again he found himself staring at her mouth. "Eternity?'' he whispered. He pointed to himself. "Me?" He pointed to her. "Listening to you?"
Someplace deep within him he accepted. He knew. It was no nightmare. At least it was no sleeping nightmare. This nightmare lived and breathed and existed.
He cleared his throat. "That's grossly unfair, Pamela,'' he announced. "You just said that in heaven one can do anything one wishes."
Pamela's beady lizard eyes shone with triumphant pleasure. "In heaven, Jonathan indeed. But I'm afraid the organization to which you've been assigned is not quite so accommodating."
And he knew. Oh, yes, indeed—he knew. He remembered his death then, as he remembered hers. The sharp pain in his chest, the clammy wereess of his gray skin seen in the bedroom mirror as he fell forward against it, and watched the ceiling converge with walls as he landed on the floor. His death was a matter of record, and he knew it. And he knew something else. Pamela was quite correct. No theological abstraction here. Not angels and devils. Not clouds and brimstone pits. Eternity was tailored for the individual. And as he watched her mouth move and heard the staccato, ceaseless, remorseless, unending shrillness of her voice, he knew all about his eternity.
"Now, what was I saying?" Pamela asked. "Oh, yes. As I was commenting before, Jonathan, just before you pushed me down those stairs—it's always been my feeling that you can judge a man by the way he listens."
Jonathan stood there helplessly, hopelessly. His ears began to twitch and burn. His head began to ache.
And still Pamela's voice continued. "Not the way a man dresses, Jonathan. Mind you, that's important. It's the way a man listens. Now, if a man is responsive . . . if he's attentive . . . if a man really has an interest in what you're saying—"
The grandfather clock in the corner of the room ticked away in perfect cadence to Pamela's voice. Tick-tick-tick.
"And, Jonathan, I want to discuss something else with you—"
Tick-tick-tick.
"This cigarette-smoking thing. You know that tobacco is a miserable poison. And it fouls up the air."
Tick-tick-tick.
"And another thing, Jonathan—"
Tick-tick-tick.
The wave of noise smashed over his brain like pounding surf. He felt a wetness and looked down at the tears on his transparent hands. There were two things he knew for certain. Ghosts could cry.
"Now, let me tell you this, Jonathan—"
And ghosts could hear.
The grandfather clock and Pamela's voice went on . . . and on . . . and on . . .
Does the Name Grimsby
Do Anything to You?
For the second time that night, he had the Dream. Once again he was in Falcon, heading downward toward the surface of the moon. The voice of Capcom, 200,000 miles away, filtered into his earphones.
"Houston, you're go for landing. Over."
Aloud, in his dark bedroom, Lt. Commander Jonathan Cornelius Evans relived the moment. "Roger,
understand. Go for landing. 3,000 feet," he said aloud.
"Copy," Capcom responded.
The voices jumbled together. A mental mosaic of memory. And his own voice continued to document the descent. "We're go. Hang tight. We're go. 2,000 feet. 2,000 feet into the AGS. 47 degrees. 35 degrees. 750, coming down at 23. 700 feet, 21 down. 33 degrees. 600 feet, down at 19. 540 feet, down at 30—down at 15. 400 feet, down at 9."
And the Dream went on. A Xerox copy of the way it had been. Just the way it had been. Falcon, the lunar module, on its way to the moon. With Lt. Commander Evans at the controls.
Alongside of him his wife stirred and opened her eyes, turned toward the sleeping face and the mumbled monologue.
His voice went on. "Lights on. Down 2½. Forward. Forward. Good. 40 feet, down 2½. Picking up some dust. 30 feet, 2½ down. Faint shadow. 4 forward. 4 forward, dipping to the fight a little. 6."
Monica Evans, now wideawake, looked through the darkness at the silhouetted face of her husband and wished she might enter that dream or whatever it was—whatever was that recurring night journey he traveled each night since his return.
But Lt. Commander Evans was on the moon.
"Contact light. Okay, engines stopped. ACA out of detent. Modes control both auto, descent engine command override off. Engine arm, off. 413 is in."
"We copy you down, Falcon," said Capcom.
He was there on the surface of the moon, the panel of red lights in front of him glowing in the darkness of the little cabin.
"Houston, Tranquillity base here. Falcon has landed. Repeat. Falcon has landed."
His wife watched him as he slowly rose to a sitting position in the bed, his eyes now wide open, staring across the room at the dresser mirror. She tried to look at his eyes as if in their vision might be something to be shared. But the eyes eluded her. They were looking out of a small circular window, clouded and pitted, but revealing the surface of the moon. The incredibly black sky. The lonely, virgin nothingness of the cratered landscape outside.
And then, in the manner of dreams, time was telescoped. He stood on the top rung of the ladder and heard Capcom's voice in his earphones.
"Okay, Jonny, we can see you coming down the ladder now."
"Okay," he said. "I just checked—getting back up to that first step. It's not even collapsed too far, but it's adequate to get back up."
"Roger, we copy," said Capcom.
Slowly he turned his head in the little glass-cubed world of his space helmet and looked down. His heavily encased feet started down the ladder, touching each rung as he moved.
"I'm at the foot of the ladder," he said. "The LM foot pads are only depressed in the surface . . . about one or two inches. The surface appears to be very, very fine-grained as you get close to it. It's almost like powder. Now and then, it's very fine."
There was a silence then. A silence of the space night spread out from the moon to the earth; the silence of that earth waiting, staring up at the golden disk and marveling that it had been reached and was now being occupied; the tense silence of the collective bated breaths of the thousands of technicians hunched over panels and viewing devices and screens.
Then Lt. Commander Evans took the final step, and first one foot and then the other touched the surface.
Aloud he said, "I'm on the moon." But to himself—a roaring, exulting thing tippled through him. The first! He was the first! Nobody before him. Nobody ahead of him. The first!
His wife listened to the changed cadence of his breathing. The garbled sounds were irregular and faster, and she thought she caught the word "first."
Then, at this point, as it had for weeks, he turned quiet. He just sat there on the bed, eyes wide open, but saying nothing further. This was the part of the Dream that mystified her. He drew a curtain over this part. But in his mind . . . in his sleeping mind, this was the most vivid. Carrying the brass plaque across the powdery terrain in the strange, too-bright illumination of the module spotlights. And he was about to place it down on the surface of the moon. Man's claim to outer space. Officially designated by the President of the United States and so written on the plaque.
"Here men from the planet Earth first set foot upon the Moon. July, 1969. A. D. We came in peace for all mankind." And signed by the President of the United States. He remembered looking down at that fragment of dusty ground where he would place the plaque.
And then he woke up.
"Grimsby." This came aloud from his mouth—suddenly lifted out in clarity from the rest of the mumbling. "Grimsby." He repeated it.
His wife reached out and touched his perspiring cheek. "Jonny? Jonny, are you all fight?"
He turned to her, his eyes now seeing. He was back on earth. Back at his house. Back in his bedroom. He now saw walls and a dresser mirror and the silhouetted lovely form of his wife's face in the darkness. His pajama top clung to his soggy body like some kind of massive leech.
"What's the matter?" he asked her.
She kept staring at him.
"Grimsby," she said.
He blinked at her. "Grimsby? What about Grimsby?"
"That's the name you just said, Jonny. Grimsby."
He just stared at her. He couldn't focus. The name hung out there in front of him like a giant mobile.
"Grimsby," he murmured. "Grimsby." He shook his head. "I'll be damned if I know where that name came from."
Then he got out of the bed, walked over to the dresser, felt around for some cigarettes, got one and lit it, then turned to her. "Want a smoke?"
She shook her head, watching the little flare of match light and then the red glow at the end of the cigarette.
"You've had a dream every night, Jonny. Every night since you've come back."
She felt his smile in the dark room.
He moved back toward the bed and sat down, reaching out to touch her. Through the silk of her nightgown he felt her tremble. "What have I been saying in my sleep?" he asked her. "Incriminating names of broads?" He laughed.
She reached up and took his hand, holding tight to lt. "You never dreamed before," she said. "You never talked in your sleep."
He laughed—that rich, warm, male laugh of his. "Honey," he said, "I never took a walk on the moon before."
She looked at his face as he turned away, seeing the outline of the profile illuminated in the cigarette light—thoughtful now, reflective.
"You know something?" he said softly. "No matter what happens—it's in the book. That one they can't take away from me. I was the first."
She looked at his silhouette—that familiar jutting iron jaw, the deep-set, searching eyes, the strength of the man. She's always felt an exciting, throbbing pride in her husband. There was not (though she would never admit this even to herself) so much passion in the marriage as there was a respect. She had married courage and will and dedication. Jonny Evans had worn a white uniform on their wedding day. Jonny Evans had never discarded that uniform through eleven years of marriage. No, there had not been much passion, but there had always been gentleness. And there had always been sharing. Until . . . and this was suddenly part of her vague fear . . . until Apollo. Until she had looked at him on the television screen and seen him lifted onto the deck of the carrier. So incredibly triumphant. And even then—in those first moments—against a background of television cameras, White House luncheons, worldwide adulation—some disquieting thing had taken hold. Not just his intensity. he had always been intense. And not just his preoccupation—this had always been a part of Jonny Evans. When he tested a jet; when he first joined the astronaut program; during all those long months, preparing for the landing on the moon. He was not the kind of man who could compartmentalize. Jonny Evans was Navy. He was space. He was a fine-honed instrument of man at his scientific best. He had never rejected her—just gently put her aside. And she had understood. This had always been the nature of the man. One thing at a time. One job. Do that job.
But as of the moment they had let him and the others out of quarantine and he had returned home—through the round of banquets, through the noisy, insane maze of personal appearances—meetings with heads of state—the trip to Moscow—the whole unbelievable crowded calendar of the Most Important Man on Earth, she had sensed something . . . something. The dreams weren't it. The dreams were a manifestation of whatever it was. And whatever it was loomed giant and yet formless in their bed at night—a barrier between the man and woman.
He rose from the bed and walked back over to the dresser to butt his cigarette out in an ashtray.
Moaica felt concerned. But he felt something else again. Was it fear? He had never felt afraid. Screaming down on a MIG over Seoul—there had never been fear. Sitting in the command module at the Cape and feeling the thunderous power of the surge skyward—that had not come with fear either. The descent toward the moon, actively conscious of the hundreds of malfunctions that could have swallowed them up at the moment—this had not frightened him. But as he stood there, looking into his dark faceless reflection, he knew that he had brought back something other than rock samples from that distant barren body. He carried that something with him day and night. It began to show itself in his dreams, but upon awakening—it scurried away to hide behind the wall of his unconscious. And God, he wanted to know what it was.
He butted out the cigarette, peered at the luminous dial of his wristwatch, which he never took off, then smiled across at his wife. "3:30," he said. "I think it's getting light out."
"Moon Man," Moaica said, "come back down to earth and get back to bed."
She held out her arms to him. He climbed in beside her and held her very close. He felt the soft long length of her and smelled the woman sweetness of her, but even at that moment the "something" stuck its grotesque head around the corner of his consciousness and made him sweat.
"Grimsby."
She felt his body grow taut. "What, Jonny?" she whispered. "What is it?"
He shook his head. "Nothing," he answered. "Nothing. Just that . . . just that damned name—Grimsby!"
"Does the name Grimsby do anything to you?" Colonel Appleby tacked it on as the twenty-fifth question, deliberately trying to sandwich it in, so that it would not appear to be especially weighted. But Evans, sitting in front of him, understood. He lit a cigarette and then looked across at the doctor. "Is it supposed to?" he asked.
Appleby looked down at the pile of papers on his desk. "You brought the name back with you."
"My wife's gotten to you," Evans said.
Appleby looked up. "Gotten to me?" He shook his head. "Nobody 'got to me,' Commander. This isn't a conspiracy."
"What is it?" Evans' voice was blunt.
Colonel Appleby looked down at the file again. "Hopefully, it's an unpeeling of the layers of your unconscious." He looked up and grinned. "We're kind of in the same boat, Commander. You're pioneering on the moon. And some of us down here are pioneerlng in a most inexact science called 'Space Medicine.' You worry about orbiting—we worry about prolonged weightlessness, atmospheric pressure, radiation, body heat, increased gravity or decreased gravity, and a couple of dozen other items that we're still groping around with."
Evans leaned back in his chair. "Not the least of which is psychiatry," he said.
Appleby studied him. "If this will put you any more at ease, Commander, nobody thinks you're a candidate for analysis. Far from it."
"Then why the questions?" Evans asked.
"Then why the constant repetition of the obscure name?" Appleby asked.
Evans reached across to butt his cigarette out in the ashtray on Appleby's desk. "It's just a . . . a name."
"A name you repeat in your sleep."
"I could be dredging it up from twenty . . . thirty years ago.
Appleby nodded. "Altogether possible . . . decidedly probable." He half-turned in his chair to look out the window—the long line of launching pads stretched out across the sand. "But let me ask you this, Commander. The name is of sufficient import for you to hang on to it and research it. Why?"
Evans started. "What do you mean, 'research it'?"
"You've been trying to track it down," Appleby said, "in a couple of libraries."
"My wife again," Evans said.
Appleby shrugged. "What the hell difference does it make? So your wife told me. Now you tell me. What did you find out in the library?"
Evans' voice became more hesitant. "I . . . I checked out the name. I wondered if . . . if I'd come across it somewhere. In school maybe."
"Did you?"
Evans shook his head. "I found three Grimsbys in the encyclopedia. 'John J. Grimsby. Oil painter. 1838.' 'Walter Grimsby. Educator—South
Carolina. 1840's'. And a 'Franklin Grimsby. Union Army Officer. Under Lincoln. Expert on Fortifications.' "
"Ever run across them before?"
"Not that I know of."
"But the name persists."
Evans nodded. "The name persists."
Appleby lit his pipe; then he looked down at the file. "You want to go on with this?" He raised his eyes to Evans' face. "I mean, do you want to come in here periodically and . . . and talk about it?"
Evans took out the pack of cigarettes again. "Talk about what?" he asked. "Hell, I'm ready to let loose of it right now."
"Fine," Appleby said. "I'm ready to let you. With this proviso. If you don't let loose of it—I want you to come in here and continue to talk about it. I'll tell you something, Commander. You let a little item like this take hold it can grow into a big item, and it can raise hell with you."
"Fixation." The single word was a question.
Appleby nodded. "It works that way sometimes. Small, insignificant little aberration. You don't check it, it starts to take over."
Evans slowly rose from the chair, looking down at the unlit cigarette in his hand. "I can't figure it out. I'd let loose of it right now, except"
"Except?"
Evans looked at him. "Except that I relate it to . . . to Apollo. It has something to do with being on the moon." He shook his head. "But I can't get a fix on
it?"
"In the dream," Appleby said, "you're carrying a plaque. You start to put it down. Is that when the name comes up?"
Evans started to perspire. "I don't know. I start to put the plaque down, and then I draw a blank on it. I don't remember what happened then. I remember walking back to the module. I remember everything else about the mission. But there's a period of . . . oh . . . maybe just a minute. That's what I draw a blank on. But I'm not conscious of the name Grimsby coming in then. It's just that . . . there's that . . . there's that blackout period."
Appleby closed the folder and looked at his watch. "I think that ought to do it for today, Commander. This is Thursday. Come on back on Monday if that's convenient." He looked up. "Free on Monday?"