You unlock this door with the key of imagination.
Beyond it is another dimension.
A dimension of sound.
A dimension of sight. A dimension of mind.
You're moving into a land of both shadow and substance, of things and ideas.
You've just crossed over into the twilight zone.
Yes?
Is this major kuchenko?
Who is calling?
This is major kuchenko, isn't it?
Who is calling?
Major you don't know me, but I've heard of your recent arrival here, and I wanted you to know that you have friends.
Who is this speaking?
Is this a friend also?
Yes. A good friend, major.
Not known to you yet, perhaps, but soon to become acquainted.
May I impose upon you to remain in your room?
And why? Why do I have to stay in my room?
We'll be making contact with you very soon, major.
Your well being is our deep concern.
Now, commissar?
Major, may I count on you to show good sense?
For your own safety, remain in your room.
You'll be seeing your friends before long.
Goodbye.
Now, commissar.
The fox is in the trap.
I could make his head leave his body from this distance.
That would give you pleasure, wouldn't it?
A great deal of pleasure, commissar.
Tell me when.
Even when he lies down, I can still aim for his head.
Yes, I believe it, Boris. I know of your prowess.
Oh, put that g*n away for a bit.
Put it away?
Oh, lay it aside.
What, are we not going to k*ll him?
The impatience of the bourgeois.
They do not sip wine.
They gulp it down like a soft drink.
They do not caress women. They devour them.
They do not sniff at the essence of a rare perfume. No.
They try to jam it into their nostrils.
Boris, the gentleman will die. Indeed, he will.
But I want him to die with finesse, with subtlety and a degree of thought.
That is a good death.
I did not know there was a-a good death and a bad death.
Uh-huh.
A good death is the death of art.
A bad one is the death of a butcher.
You, Boris, are a butcher. I am an artist.
You will have your death tonight, Boris, within a few hours, but we will have k*lled with artistry and not with a meat cleaver or an expl*sive b*llet or any other of the butcher's tools.
No, no. This death will be like a ballet.
The cast of characters: A cat and a mouse.
This is the latter. The intended victim who may or may not know that he is to die, be it by butchery or ballet.
His name is major Ivan kuchenko.
He has, if events go according to certain plans, perhaps three or four more hours of living.
But an ignorance shared by both himself and his executioner is of the fact that both of them have taken a first step into the twilight zone.
Yes?
Major kuchenko?
Who is it?
A friend. Don't worry.
You can turn off the lights if you want to, find a hiding place.
I'll come in with my hands up.
I've got my palms open.
Major kuchenko?
And you are?
A friend.
May I come in?
Thank you.
You are the one I spoke to on the telephone?
Mm-hm. We had a brief chat earlier.
Well, well, it's quite a place you have here.
Who occupied it before you?
A rat?
I had no luxury of choices.
No, indeed, you have not.
In that respect, you are a very poor man, major.
But, then again, you have a bed, pictures on the wall, a carpet. Such as it is.
Well, quite an adequate accommodation.
Ah. And a most wonderful view of a brick building alongside.
Well, major, there are worse places to spend an evening in.
I know. I have been to many of them.
Indeed. Indeed, you have.
Siberia is quite cold, isn't it?
I've been told it has a most unfortunate climate.
You have been told right.
It is a freezing jungle.
A freezing jungle.
Oh, that's marvelous. Lovely imagery.
Siberia as a freezing jungle.
You make reference, of course, to the people.
I make reference to some people.
Oh.
It must have been unpleasant for you.
Sufficiently unpleasant to motivate you to renounce your native country and to try and seek asylum elsewhere, which brings us up to date.
You were a political prisoner.
You escaped. You served a term of 12 years, and now you arrived here in a neutral country, and you are desperately trying to get an aircraft to take you out of here to a western nation.
But, uh, you feel you are under surveillance?
I know I am under surveillance.
Well, do you know by whom?
Very well.
Well, tell me. Who are they?
Look in the mirror, commissar.
Discerning, major.
You remember faces.
I remember pain.
I remember some interrogations that went on for many months.
I remember one particular man who smoked a long cigarette in a holder, stood in a corner, nodding and smiling while I went from agony to agony.
So, major, may we dispense with the amenities, the masquerades, the little give and take between two strangers feeling each other out?
Now we get to the point.
Did you honestly think we would permit you to book passage on an aircraft out of here? Impossible.
As a former member of the m*llitary, even as far back as 12 years ago, you possess information that we would find embarrassing to have released elsewhere.
So, it's not really to our advantage that you leave here.
Of course, it would be simpler and more convenient to accompany me back to our embassy.
I am sick, tired and torn, commissar, but I am not insane.
I would sooner cut my wrists over a sink and bleed to death!
No, major.
I am afraid we are of two minds about that kind of death.
Gently, gently, major.
Here. I brought some amontillado.
Quite rare and most pleasing to the palate.
I'm afraid I will have to repeat what I said before, commissar.
I am not insane. I'm quite aware of what will happen to me if I were to drink any of that.
With your indulgence, major, if you assume this to contain cyanide or some other poison, you're quite wrong. You see, I don't share your death wish.
I'm quite a healthy man with excellent expectations as to my longevity.
No, no, no, no, no. I was only proposing a social drink between the two of us.
I will drink first.
Such a ritual.
Such a tribal rite.
Commissar, you have only one purpose with me.
Why don't you try to get it over with?
If you want to disarm me to get rid of this, it will take more than a social wine.
Yes, indeed.
As to my business with you, we both know what that is.
I am to see to it that you are dead by tomorrow morning, and you shall be, major.
With a certain degree of immodesty, I can tell you I have k*lled 800 times you, but I've done it with subtlety, with interest, with ingenuity.
I am the last of the imaginative executioners.
And how do you intend to k*ll me?
Let me tell you what, major.
Let's have a drink of wine first, and then I'll tell you.
Sante.
Ah. Excellent.
Flavor, bouquet, just the proper amount of dryness.
It's really a most exceptional wine.
Join me, major.
Very well, commissar.
I will have a drink of wine and then I may k*ll you.
Yes, you may very well try.
And now let me tell you something about us.
Let me explain the difference between you and me.
You are a malcontent, major.
You can never accept that which is ordained.
I, on the other hand, I adapt to my situations.
I don't have a very large salary, and my job, at least the way it's laid out, is rather a dull one.
Finding traitors and defectors and doing away with them.
And in your case...
In my case?
In your case, I choose to prolong it.
And in the process of this prolongation, I have come up with, with something that I think is a most bizarre and novel method of execution.
One designed to challenge your talents, for we both are worthy adversaries. You and me.
I feel... very weak.
You-you, monster.
You drugged me.
Oh.
Greetings, major kuchenko.
First of all, to clear up one pint.
As must be evident to you, I've been imbibing this particular drug for many years and have reached a point where I can drink it by the gallon and the quite unaffected.
As you've probably perceived, I'm rather a gamesman when it comes to k*lling.
I have my own ruled and ethics that apply, and, major kuchenko, and listen to the following quite carefully.
This is the game, and these are the rules.
You have been asleep for roughly three hours.
During that time, I have placed a booby trap in this room it is not visible, but it is attached to a very common object.
If you trigger this object, you will immediately be blown up.
Now the following proposition.
If during the next three hours you are able to find this booby trap and cut the wire, you'll be permitted to leave the room alive.
This is a guarantee, but the following conditions are of the essence, major.
You must actively search for this booby trap, and you must find it and render it unusable.
Attempt to turn out the lights, and you'll be sh*t at once.
The moment you stop an active search, you will be sh*t.
Or if you are unable to find the trap at the end of three hours or attempt to leave the room during that time, I'm afraid the same conditions apply.
You will receive a b*llet in the head.
So, there you have it, major.
As a fellow expert in the art of booby traps, I think you will admit, major, that this situation has its own special imaginative quality.
The doorknob.
Interesting idea.
That bible that looks as if it's been pulled out.
Possible.
I think he's found it.
I doubt it.
The dresser drawer.
Wait and see.
You seem so sure. That he'll find the trap.
Not at all. That's not what I'm sure about. What I mean to say is that I'm reasonably sure he'll find it, but he'll find it when it's too late.
Is he at the table?
He's stripping the bed.
That's where you put it, isn't it? In the bed.
Warm now, Boris. Extremely warm, but not hot.
Then where?
Please, commissar, tell me!
What's he doing now?
Well, what's he doing now?
He's at the telephone.
I thought for a minute...
You thought what?
The telephone.
Hot, Boris. Extremely hot.
The telephone?
Precisely. The telephone.
But...
But he just lifted the receiver.
Indeed. He lifted the receiver to call out.
If, on the other hand, the major's phone were to ring and he were to answer it...
That's it! That's it.
If he picks it up after it rings.
Ah, you've got it now, my friend.
If the major's phone rings and he answers it, I've placed a tiny plastic b*mb inside the mechanism.
The expl*si*n, the expl*si*n will only occur after the ring and the lifting of the receiver, at which point, major kuchenko will not even have time to say hello.
Vassiloff! sh**t me!
sh**t me, vassiloff!
sh**t me! Why don't you k*ll me, vassiloff?
sh**t me, vassiloff.
What's the time, Boris?
Ten minutes to five.
Almost dawn, commissar.
He's got another ten minutes.
Well, I think it's time to, uh, how shall we say, "implement" the thing?
Yes, would you ring room 963, please?
Thank you.
Now, commissar?
No, no, no, no, no!
Hello.
Hello! Yes-yes, would you, uh, would you ring room 963 again, please?
Commissar?
It would have been better, wouldn't it?
It's all right.
I'll get him in the next city.
Now that I know that he is a most resourceful adversary.
No, Boris!
I'm sorry, sir.
The line seems to be disconnected.
I'm unable to reach your party.
It's all right, operator, I...
I have reached them.
Flight 17, trans ocean airways now departing for new york city via Belgrade, Rome, London.
All aboard, please.
Major Ivan kuchenko, on his way west, on his way to freedom.
A freedom bought and paid for by a most stunning ingenuity.
And exit one commissar vassiloff, who forgot that there are two sides to an argument and two parties on the line.
This has been the twilight zone.
And now, Mr. Serling.
Next time out on the twilight zone, we enlist the talented typewriter of earl hamner, jr.
And present a stunningly conceived show called stopover in a quiet town.
It will star Barry nelson and Nancy Malone, and it will provide the kind of shock ending that punches the emotional eye with unexpected force.
Next time, stopover in a quiet town.