The Twilight Zone: Complete Stories by Rod Serling Page B

came shrieking from the bedroom. “Ethel! There’s a draft in here and I feel a coma coming on!”
    “Yes, darling,” Ethel hurriedly called. “I’ll be right in.”
    “Don’t forget about the vitamins,” said the doctor, wincing a little at the sound of Bedeker’s voice. “Good-by, Mrs. Bedeker.”
    Ethel shut the door behind him and rushed back into the bedroom. Bedeker lay on the bed, his head off the pillow, and waved weakly toward the window to his left. “Ethel,” he whined at her, “there’s freezing air blasting into the room!”
    The window was open about a fifth of an inch. As she put it down, Bedeker half rose in bed.
    “Do you know how many germs come in one cubic foot of air, Ethel?”
    Under her breath she repeated the figure as he called it out. “Eight million, nine hundred thousand!” He lowered his head back to the pillow. “I know you want me gone and that’s why you leave windows open all over the place, but as a point of decency, Ethel, couldn’t you do it more subtly?”
    Ethel smoothed out his blankets. “The doctor said you needed some air. He said it was stuffy in here.” She patted his hand which he drew away sharply.
    He suddenly saw the prescription in her other hand. “What’s this?” Bedeker said, yanking it out of her fingers. “Where’d you get this? I’m not sick, but he gives you a prescription for medicine for me. Nothing wrong with me and while I lie here helpless, he’s out there telling you that I’ve got a life expectancy of twenty minutes.” He puckered up his mouth like a prune. “Don’t deny it, Ethel. Kindly don’t deny it. I smelled the collusion the moment he left the room!”
    Ethel’s eyes closed as a wave of weakness hit her. Then she took a deep breath. “It is for vitamins, Walter, for me.”
    Bedeker bolted upright in bed. “Vitamins? For you .” Then he turned to the wall and spoke to it, nodding familiarly at it. “I lie here while the life seeps out of me, and that quack prescribes medicines for my wife. See? I’m dying and she gets vitamins!” He broke into a spasm of coughing. When Ethel tried to pat his back he pushed her away, then very limply and weakly he lay back down on the bed, shook his head and closed his eyes.
    “Never mind, Ethel. Go on, get out of here. Let me die in peace.”
    “All right, Walter,” Ethel said softly.
    “ What ?” Bedeker shouted.
    This time it was Ethel’s eyes that closed. “I meant,” she whispered, “I’ll let you alone, Walter, so you can take a little nap.”
    He lay there quietly for a moment and then suddenly jumped up and sat on the edge of the bed. “I can’t nap,” he squealed. “Why does a man have to die anyway? I asked you a question, Ethel. Why does a man have to die?” He got out of bed and went to the window, feeling the sash at the bottom for any errant air that might intrude. “The world goes on for millions and millions of years and how long is a man’s life?” He held up two fingers. “This much! A drop. A microscopic fragment. Why can’t a man live five hundred years? Or a thousand years? Why does he have to die almost the minute he’s born?”
    “I’m sure I don’t know, dear.”
    “No, you wouldn’t. Go on, get out of here, Ethel.”
    “Yes, dear,” she said, and escaped into the living room with the tremendous sense of relief she always felt after getting out of Walter Bedeker’s presence. Today had been one of the worst days. He had called the doctor four times that morning, then had Ethel phone the hospital to check on the availability of an oxygen tent. He had insisted right after lunch that she phone the janitor to come and check the heating pipes. The janitor had arrived and Walter had immediately engaged him with a running broadside from the bed as the janitor pounded on the hot water pipes and steam and damp heat floated into the room.
    “You want heat, Mr. Bedeker?” the janitor had said to him gleefully. “In about twenty minutes,