Read The Twilight Zone: Complete Stories for Free Online Page A

that hour.
    Mouth spread out his palms. “So he’s a robot,” he said simply.
    Once again the commissioner picked up a large manual. “Article six, section two, the Baseball Code,” he said pontifically. “I quote: ‘A team should consist of nine men’ end of quote. Men, understand, McGarry? Nine men . Not robots.”
    Beasley’s voice was a thin little noise from the couch. “Commissioner,” he said weakly. “To all intents and purposes—he is human.” Then he looked across the room at the tall pitcher who stood in the shadows practically unnoticed. “Casey, talk to him. Tell him about yourself.”
    Casey swallowed. “What—what should I say?” he asked hesitantly.
    “See,” Mouth shouted. “He talks as good as me. And he’s a whole helluva lot smarter than most of the muttonheads I got on my ball team!”
    The commissioner’s fist pounded on the desk. “He is not human!”
    Again the weak voice of desperation from the couch. “How human do you want him?” the general manager asked. “He’s got arms, legs, a face. He talks—”
    “And no heart,” the commissioner shouted. “He doesn’t even own a heart. How could he be human without a heart?”
    McGarry’s voice absolutely dripped with unassailable logic and fundamental truth. “Beasley don’t have a heart neither,” he said, “And he owns forty percent of the club.”
    The commissioner pushed the papers away from him and put the flat of his hands down on the desk. This was a gesture of finality and it fitted perfectly the judicial tone of his voice. “That’s it, gentlemen,” he announced. “He doesn’t have a heart. That means he isn’t human, and that’s a clear violation of the baseball code. Therefore he doesn’t play.”
    The door opened and Dr. Stillman walked quietly into the room in time to hear the last words of this proclamation. He waved at Casey who waved back. Then he turned to the commissioner.
    “Mr. Commissioner,” he said.
    The commissioner stopped halfway to his feet and looked at the old man. “Now what?” he asked tiredly.
    Stillman walked over to the desk. “Supposing,” he asked, “we gave him a heart? If that essentially is the only thing that makes him different from the norm, I believe I could operate and supply him with a mechanical heart.”
    “That’s thinking!” McGarry shrieked into the room.
    Beasley inched forward on the couch and took out a cigar. The commissioner sat back and looked very, very thoughtful. “This is irregular. This is highly irregular.” Then he picked up the telephone and asked to speak to the examining physician who had sent in the report in the first place. “Doctor,” he asked, “relative to the Casey matter, if he were to be given a mechanical heart—would you classify him as—what I mean is—would you call him a—” Then he held the phone close to his face, nodding into it. “Thank you very much, Doctor.”
    The commissioner looked across the room at Casey. He drummed on the desk top with the pencil, puckered up his lips and made smacking sounds inside of his mouth. McGarry took out his bottle of pills and plopped three of them into his mouth.
    “All right,” the commissioner announced. “ With a heart, I’ll give him a temporary okay until the League meeting in November. Then we’ll have to take it up again. The other clubs are gonna scream bloody murder!”
    Beasley struggled to his feet. The look of massive relief on his face shone like a beacon. “It’s all settled then,” he said. “Casey here needs an accreditation as being human and this requires a simple—” He stopped, looking over toward Stillman. “Simple?” he asked.
    “Relatively,” Stillman answered.
    Beasley nodded. “A simple operation having to do with a mechanical heart.” He walked across the room to the door and opened it. The reporters, milling around, stopped talking instantly. “Gentlemen,” Beasley called out to them, “you may quote me.”
    The reporters made a