Night Gallery 1

by Rod Serling

  "I'm supposed to be in Washington Sunday night. President's Scientific Council is having a three-day meeting. The whole Apollo crew is supposed to be there."

  Appleby sucked on his pipe. "What's it like?" he asked. "The celebrity thing. Please you, does it?"

  Evans shrugged. "Sometimes not so bad. Sometimes a pain in the rump."

  Appleby nodded. "I've no doubt," he said. "The price of fame."

  "I was the first."

  Appleby looked up sharply. Evans had just suddenly blurted it out. And at the moment he looked confused. "I'm sorry," Appleby said, his eyes suddenly clinical. "What did you say?"

  Evans shook his head. "Nothing."

  "You were the 'first'—isn't that what you said?"

  Evans wet his lips. "I . . . I guess I said that."

  "Why?"

  "'Why' what?"

  "Why did you say that just then?" asked Appleby. Evans looked unnerved for the first time. "I . . . I wasn't actually conscious of saying it. I guess it was just a . . . just an instinctive thing."

  Appleby was like a hound dog on a scent. "Kind of odd, though, isn't it? I mean—suddenly you come out with a statement like that." There was a silence; then Appleby pointed to the chair. "Why don't you sit down for a couple of more minutes? Let's talk about that last thing."

  Evans slowly sank back into the chair, looking off in another direction. "I say that in my sleep, too. My wife says I . . . I end the dream that way."

  Appleby nodded, his face very serious. He tapped the folder. "I have that in here. I'm wondering if it relates."

  Evans looked at him questioningly.

  "The name Grimsby . . . and that thing you just said. About being 'the first.'" He opened up the folder again, turned a couple of pages, his finger darting around the typewritten lines, then stopped and poked at one of them. " 'The first. I'm the first. Nobody before me. Nobody ahead of me. I'm the first.' " He looked up from the folder. "That's what you say in your dream." There was another silence. "That's important to you, isn't it, Evans.

  "What?"

  "Being first. Being first at anything."

  "You tell me." It wasn't defiance. It was just that he could no longer fence with the man. And he suddenly felt very tired.

  "You were the first kid in your high school," Appleby said, "to run a four-and-a-half-minute mile. You were the first in your town to get an Annapolis appointment. You were the first in your Annapolis class to get your wings. And you were the first in your group to apply for astronauts. See a pattern there?"

  Evans tried to smile. "Aggressive bastard, I guess."

  Appleby looked down at the file again. "It is a pattern. And you were the first man to land on the moon." He looked up. "Let's talk about that."

  Once again Evans rose from the chair. "Colonel," he said very evenly, "there are two hundred astronauts who would've cut off an arm to be the first. Now, that's not an aberration. That's a character trait peculiar to astronauts. That's why we joined the program. Or, at least, it's one of the reasons."

  Appleby nodded. "I'll buy that," he said. "But in your case—"

  "In my case, what?

  "In your case—it suggests something a little bit more than an ambition. It suggests, perhaps . .. a preoccupation. A kind of . . . a kind of desperation."

  Evans turned and started toward the door.

  "Coming back Monday?"

  Evans turned to him. "I don't think so."

  "Whatever you say," Appleby said. "But I'll be here."

  "At the risk of sounding a little paranoiac," Evans said, "I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't keep this backyard line open to my wife. If she's got any concerns about me . . . or if you do . . . why don't we just make it a threesome?"

  Appleby rose from behind the desk. "You want everything out in the open—right?"

  "That'Il be S.O.P. from now on," Evans said.

  Appleby nodded. "That's the way it shall be." He pointed a pencil toward Evans. "But now hear this, Commander. I'm the project medicine man. Your job is to walk on the moon. Mine is to observe how you walk when you come back. Said observation will continue."

  "A little after the fact, isn't it?"

  Appleby shook his head. "After your fact, maybe—-but there'll be several hundred more of you blasting off from here over the years. We're going to want to know what happens to that Inner Ear, the Respiratory System, the Arteries—and the Mind!"

  "The mind?" Evans nearly shouted it.

  Grimsby.

  "The mind, Commander."

  Grimsby.

  "Well, you can sure as hell bring a notary in here right now, Colonel—and I'll get this down on paper that there's not one Goddamned thing wrong with my mind."

  Grimsby.

  "Now you're acting paranoiac," Appleby said.

  Grimsby.

  "I'm being treated like one."

  Grimsby.

  "Not at all. Nobody brought up the subject of paranoia except you, yourself."

  Evans stood at the door, conscious of an unreasonable hostility. He forced his voice down an octave. "I'm not sure when I'll be back from Washington. There's a banquet Sunday night. There's another press conference Monday morning."

  "Just let me know," Appleby said softly. "I'll be here. And I'll be here on Tuesday and also on Wednesday. Thursday, I like to play golf. But that can wait until Friday. In short, why don't you just come back whenever the spirit moves?"

  Evans went out the door, saying nothing further. He felt shaken for some reason—and insecure. And the most foreign of all emotions—panic—followed him down the corridor and out into the sunny afternoon. He paused by a wire mesh fence to stare out at one of the launching pads.

  Grimsby.

  I'll be a son of a bitch, he thought. To get so . . . so hung up by an obscure name. Stupid and meaningless and unrelated. And so totally pointless. Just a name.

  But down deep, he knew. The ordered, logical, reasoned pattern of his thinking was altogether explicit on this point. It wasn't just a name. The name was the symptom. The sickness . . . the compulsion, or whatever it was that was the hang-up.

  He walked across the graveled parking lot to his car. He got in and started the engine, then turned on the radio. Loud. Rock 'n' roll. He left it on as he pulled out of the parking lot. Let it drown out the name. Let the Mamas and the Papas twang out a pattern of noise to occupy his mind.

  Good-bye, Grimsby—wherever you are. I hearby drum you out of my psyche. I cashier you out of my thought patterns. That frigging, intrusive little gremlin—I take leave of you.

  He drove down the Coast Highway toward his home. He looked at the line of launching pads and the skeletal structures of the space ventures still on the boards. And the music stayed on, loud and persistent. But alongside of him, in the passenger seat—perched there, omniscient and lasting—was Grimsby. And by the time he pulled his car into the driveway, Lt. Commander Evans could barely control the shaking of his hands, and he felt sobs of panic rising up in his chest like nausea.

  He entered the house and went directly upstairs to the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

  Monica, down below in the kitchen, heard his footsteps entering and then the bedroom door closing. She listened then to the silence and finally walked over to the telephone and dialed a number. She asked for Colonel Appleby at the base.

  "Colonel Appleby," she said when she heard his voice at the other end, "this is Monica Evans. What . . . what happened? What do you think?"

  Appleby, on the other end, said, "I can't tell you what happened, Mrs. Evans. I can only tell you that something happened and I have a feeling it may take us awhile to find out what it was."

  He sat stiffly in his dress-whites at the speaker's table, flanked by the other astronauts. A scientist was at the rostrum—a German—his voice a droning Prussian beehive of scientific jargon. And as he sat there, Evans thought about paranoia. Had Charlie Willmers, his partner in Falcon, looked at him oddly? Had Jimmy Webster, the command-module pilot, pounded
him on the back too forcefully—and wasn't that smile painted on? And hadn't they been looking at him all evening out of the sides of their eyes?

  He took a sip of the lukewarm coffee in front of him and thought to himself that he'd sure as hell better snap out of it. Such was the stuff of one helluva neurosis. "Good morning, Commander"—and what the hell did they mean by that? He shook his head and put the coffee cup down and tried to take a fix on the ponderous broken-English address of the scientist. A few of the words filtered in.

  "Zo you zee zat we owe a tremendous debt of gratitude to zose space pioneers who in makeshift laboratories, und with primitive tools, established zee fundamental principles that unlocked zee doors to our own exploration of space—"

  The droning voice went on. Willmers leaned over to him and whispered, "How the hell long does this last?"

  Evans formed a smile in return and shook his head, then checked his watch, looked out over the banquet hall, aware of eyes returning his look—the congressmen and their wives; scientists; a sprinkling of military personnel. The Vice-President sat at an oval table in the corner, whispering something to a cabinet member, whose wife was sound asleep at his elbow. The affair had gone on too long. The room was much too hot. The enthusiasm had sneaked out after the third address of the evening. And the little German, currently occupying the front of the microphones, had a voice like Miltown.

  "To zee Chinese we owe much. Und in zee middle of zee thirteenth century, zee name Marcus Graecus comes to mind; he made an extract from zee works of Albertus Magnus, und zee 'English power-monk,' Roger Bacon—zis work appeared in zee Greek language, but it is now available only in zee Latin translation under zee subtitle 'Lieber Ignium Ad Zomburendum Hostes' und zere are ozzer names zat come to mind. Sir William Congreve. William Hale. Dr. Robert Goddard. C. N. Hickman—"

  Evans rubbed his eyes, battling against fatigue and boredom. The coffee cup was empty, and he turned to see if any water were still on the platform.

  The Vice-President chuckled audibly from his table.

  And at the podium, the German scientist continued his monotone acknowledgment of space pioneers. "We must, uff course, never forget zee debt owed to Sir Isaac Newton. To every action on any object, zere is trod equal opposite reaction on zum ozzer object. Thus, if 'M' is zee mass of a rocket und 'V' is zee velocity und if 'M' is zee mass of zee propellent und 'V' is zee velocity, zen it can be shown zat 'V' equals V LOGe. Now zis latter equation is reasonably accurate for rockets where 'M' is not more zan fifty percent of 'M.' I refer to large 'M' und small 'm,' und utt course—we cannot forget zose obscure und littleheralded pioneers of space like . . . Franklin Grimsby."

  A fly buzzed around the empty coffee cup in front of the Vice-President.

  A waiter rattled a tray of dishes on his way back into the kitchen.

  The wife of the cabinet member dozed on.

  Lt. Commander Evans rose to his feet, his skin clammy, his heart suddenly smashing against his rib cage.

  Grimsby. Franklin Grimsby.

  The little German scientist suddenly looked up over his steel-rimmed glasses. "Just zink of zee incredible vision of men like Grimsby. Now zis dates back to zee middle of zee nineteenth century when zee principles of rocket propulsion had hardly even been touched. Und yet . . . here was zis altogether obscure engineer who—"

  "No!"

  The audience looked up, staring at Evans. He had pounded his fist on the table, smashing it against the coffee cup. He stood there, swaying left and fight, his eyes fever-bright in a chalk face.

  "No, Goddamn it," he screamed, "I was the first. I swear to God I was the first!"

  The nightmare run across the room, past the staring, bewildered faces—smashing against a waiter at the door, tripping over the foot of a senator as he was reentering the room. And then out in the street—a hot, muggy Washington night—heavy air descending in wet waves—and Evans ran. He ran past the giant Lincoln sitting serenely on his chair and past the partly lit stiletto of the Washington Monument and past the stately pillared tribute to Jefferson. And still he ran. He hit a lamppost with stunning, bone-breaking force and found himself on his face on concrete.

  And then he was back on the moon. The concrete had turned into fine-grained ash. It was the black night of the moon. In his hand he carried the plaque. He cradled it like Moses. And he looked down at the spot where it was to go.

  And then he saw it.

  A piece of rock with the deeply embedded scrawl made by some metal tool, half-buried in the ground weathered and pitted and aged. But it could be read.

  "To That Generation of Man Who Will Follow Me Here. Welcome To The Moon On This 11 th Day of July, 1865. I, Franklin Grimsby, Major, Army of the Republic, set foot on this barren place. I claim it for the United States of America at the behest of Abraham Lincoln, President of the United States."

  Two lines had been worn smooth and obliterated. And then another line close to the sand could be partially read.

  " . . . And since it is impossible to bring a message of our success back to Earth, I ask that whoever follows us here—at whatever time—bring back the message of our success to the people of a—"

  The rest of the rock was buried in the sand, but already Commander Evans' heavily encased space boot had begun to destroy it. He kicked at it three times, splitting the rock; then he stomped on it until it began to dissolve like a mummified piece of parchment. And when he was finished, nothing was left. Just little clumps of rock. And nothing more.

  They found him lying on the sidewalk, body stiff, eyes fixed and open, fingernails embedded in his palms and drawing blood.

  In his office a week later, Colonel Appleby read the letter for the dozenth time. It was from Professor Hans Wuer, the eminent German rocket expert who made occasional speeches in Washington, D.C. Appleby looked down at the last paragraph.

  " . . . so I can assure you, Colonel Appleby, I am at a loss to understand the reaction of Lt. Commander Evans. In my research, the name 'Franklin Grimsby' has come up only sporadically, and usually very briefly. As I indicated to you on the phone, he is an altogether obscure, mid-nineteenth century engineer who believed that by the use of a highly concentrated gun powder, primed and exploded in stages, a vehicle could be blasted out of the earth's gravitational pull. There is no record that he ever advanced beyond a rather primitive hypothesise—"

  Appleby put the letter down and looked at his watch. He was due at the Bethesda Naval Hospital that afternoon—a sixth visit to a patient named Evans, lying in a catatonic state in isolation. He folded the letter up and inserted it into the Evans file, put it back into his desk, and locked the drawer.

  There were two other letters lost to sight and memory that still existed on the planet Earth. One was in a dusty trunk in the attic of a dairy farmer named Grimsby, just outside of Madison, Wisconsin. It read, in part: " . . . so you see, Major Grimsby, I cannot reemphasize enough the desperate need for secrecy in this venture. Neither the Congress nor the people would be sympathetic to such an expenditure of funds for a scientific project whose success or failure would never be known to them. The moneys allocated to you will come from a special fund. I have only this further to say to you: In the past year I have witnessed perhaps the best of man's courage. But your proposed voyage into the sky suggests a courage that is beyond language. You tell me that you hope to commence the building of the vehicle now and that the journey would begin sometime in April of next year. I can assure you of this. When our victory in this desperate war is completed, I shall make a public pronouncement that Major Franklin Grimsby has taken a giant step in the service of mankind. A. Lincoln. February, 1864."

  The other letter was wedged into a crack inside a Chippendale desk in the basement of the White House. It read, in part: " . . . so you see, Mr. President, even if I should land on the moon, there will be no way for this success to be made known. It is a one-way trip. But someday other men will make this journey and know whether or not I was a success. Your interest and good
wishes and your unquestioning support makes me proud, indeed. Your obedient servant, Franklin Grimsby. Major. Army of the Republic."

  In the small cubicle of a room in the Bethesda Naval Hospital, Lt. Commander Jonathan Cornelius Evans looked up at the ceiling. He saw neither the nurse nor Colonel Appleby nor the stricken, pinched white features of his wife hovering over him. Every now and then his teeth would clench.

  "I was the first," he murmured. "I swear to God I was the first. In the whole history of man . . . nobody was ahead of me."

  Then the glazed, empty eyes traversed the room. That little wraith of truth buried so deep, chained and broken-winged, fluttered briefly to the surface.

  "Does the name Grimsby do anything to you?" his voice asked, as if in a tomb. "Does it? Does it mean anything to you? Grimsby?"

  And at the Cape, Apollo II stood straight and tall in its launching pad . . .. an eager cylinder waiting to cut its bonds, waiting to carry yet a third man for a walk on the moon.

  Clean Kills and Other Trophies

  "After dinner," Colonel Dittman said to his son, sitting at the far end of the long, thirty-foot oaken table, "we'll show Mr. Pierce my Hunting Room."

  Dittman, Jr., pale, silent, simply nodded.

  Pierce, sitting halfway between the two, called on his poor stretched tired mouth to smile once again, as he'd been smiling all through the painful evening. The venison, tough, gamy, stringy, sat heavy inside of him, shoveled down with effort. The wine was a flinty Moselle—tart and too warm, but he'd had five glasses of it—and he felt his eyes heavy-lidded, his attention wandering out of sight. He looked from his host to his host's son and wondered vaguely about the genetic vagaries that produced offspring so different from their fathers.

  Colonel Archie Dittman sat there at the head of the table, lean and erect, white hair cropped over a long-jawed patrician face. He wore a smoking jacket, baroque, but perfectly tailored. Throughout the two-hour dinner he had kept the conversation moving—directing it like traffic—short sporadic thrusts into conversational areas, jabbed at, then left behind. Taxes. (They were confiscatory.) Campus dissent. (Kick those spoiled, self-indulgent weirdos in the ass and draft them.) Race relations. (The mistake had not been slavery—the black bastards shouldn't have been brought over here in the first place.) And through it all Pierce had sat there with a fixed, strained smile—as befitting the youngest member of a law firm that handled Colonel Dittman's legal affairs at fifty thousand dollars a year retainer. Pierce then turned to look in the opposite direction at the son. Dittman, Jr., had his father's lankiness, but there was no other resemblance. That he deferred to the father was altogether obvious. Only when the older Dittman used the word "nigger" did Dittman, Jr., seem to flinch perceptively, but he had not uttered a word during the entire meal. Earlier, Pierce had tried to draw him out, asking him about his graduation from college that spring, his plans, his interests. The pale, washed-out blue eyes simply fixed on Pierce—the broad but bony shoulders shrugging as if to say to Pierce that any and all decisions came from the other end of the table. Dittman, Sr., verified this. What was his son planning to do? They would think about this. What was his interest? He, Dittman, Sr., was currently taking that under advisement. How had he liked college? Colonel Dittman had allowed that college nowadays was obviously a monumental waste of time.