 I'm now 630. Tired of the everyday routine? Ever dream of a life of romantic adventure? Want to get away from it all? We offer you Escape! Escape! Designed to free you from the four walls of today for a half hour of high adventure. Tonight, we escape into the mind of a man who has been sentenced to die. A man who attempts to refuse the bitter fate society has imposed upon him. As James Poe tells it in his seething tale of violent death, present tense, starring Vincent Price. Through the dim pain, the cold dark land wheels away, and the hills beyond below the stars are black and sharp. Dead hills, dark sky. Cold steel below my feet, cold as the face of the officer at my side, cold as the cuffs which link my arm to his, which join us on this journey to the prison where I die. Want a cigarette? No. Take one. No, I don't use them. Oh. Has this happened to you before? What? Being handcuffed to a murderer. Has it happened to you before? Sure, plenty of times. To an axe murderer? Yeah, there's nothing special, brother. Lots of guys ax their wives, lots of them. I could have escaped after it happened, but I didn't and now it's too late. Late. Late ever too late. Never too late. Too late. Too late. Escape. Escape. If the train were to be wrecked, if the detective were to be killed. Late. Late. The sweet escape. The light escape. The crash escape. The darkness. Where am I? The cars must have gone down the gully. No license. The people in pain. This thing fastened to my wrist. Went halfway through the glass of the door. Keep back, keep back. From his blood eyes. I don't seem to be hurt. No broken bones. The pain. Now the key in his pocket. His bloody pocket and the cuffs are off. His gun and the wallet. His feet. His face was gone. His own mother wouldn't know him. I'm free. Fire. Fuel oil. I must get away. Here. My ring on the hit finger. There. That completes it. Actually, mister. Yes. A family gland above the sunset. I'll show you where. Got you. Read about the big train wreck. Yes. Understand almost a hundred were killed. Here you are. Keep the chain. Thanks. I hope. It looks so small, so shabby. No one took care of it during the trial. No one cared. No one. No one cares now. But that's good. I like that. I'll be alone and I won't let the neighbors see me and I'll sleep and figure out where I go next. The light. Someone's in there. What? Will, baby. No, no, it can't be. She's dead. I know she's dead. Want another bottle of beer, honey? Yeah, sure. It's cold. He said it's cold. He said a mouthful of it. His husband and I were never able to make you feel like this. Take some rest, baby. He could sit around and write those poems all the time. We framed it so good that even he thought he killed you. What was that? Mice. You're funny, you know that? You're real funny. Open the kitchen door so quietly and walk softly here on the wall by the stove. The cleaver. How did I do something? I'm nervous, baby. Relax just a little bit. See them now. It is she. How did they do it? How did they trick me into imagining the murder? I am innocent. The pig in his dirty undershirt, soft, weak, white neck fat on his armpit. Rip the cleaver and walk like a feather. He shall be very happy. Like a feather. He shall be very thought-white neck. Mice. Honest, I hear something. What's the matter, sweet maids? What's the matter? And now you. I was innocent and I thought myself guilty and now I am truly guilty and never in my life have I felt so innocent. Like a dream, like a nightmare, the confession, the conviction, the sentence. And now, once more, dark night, cold steel, the sound of wheels just as I lived it before. Or even the cold face of the silent officer at my side. Hard cold face so much like that other face. Want a cigarette? No. Go on, take one. No, I don't use them. Oh. Has this happened to you before? What? Being handcuffed to a murderer. Has it happened to you before? Sure, plenty of times. To an ax murderer? Yeah, you're nothing special, brother. Lots of guys ax their wives, lots of them. The way you ever cuffed to an ax murderer who killed two people, two people at once? What are you talking about? My sin, my crime, what I did, I killed them both. Clam. Take it easy, brother. They only kill your wife. Just her, just one, that's all. It has been raining for some days now. And beyond the barred window, the leaden sky bleeds sorrow on the barren land. The lonely land, the land beyond the prison wall. The sky was blue when first had came here, blue, so blue. And now it has become as the walls of my cell of all our cells. Dark cheerless cells, these lifeless cells, these cells of men awake to die. That wet sky, gray sky, cheerless sky. But it is beautiful. I have 12 hours left of life, 12 hours left to live, beautiful sky, beautiful, beautiful, wet and fresh and alive. Oh, rather would I send eternity at a well's bottom but with one patch of that to gaze upon. Then leave this life, then leave this earth, then leave this sky. Believe that I must. The God told me no man has ever escaped San Quentin's death row. Blocks and bars, guards and guns lie between me and the world beyond no escape, not from here. Wouldn't it be nobler to gamble my life in bold attempts and lay it down in reckless resignation, eh? Now to get out of this super guarded area. What's wrong? What's the matter with you? My gut! Here! It's killing me. Oh, gut, eh? I'll call a medic. As I press you, tell me where it hurts. Everywhere, you know. Oh, all over down here. Oh, don't touch that place again. Call the ambulance. All right. This man's got appendicitis. Oh, do something. Well, what do I do? Why didn't they send somebody with you? The interns are all tied up. They're giving shots today. Oh, he's acting kind of crazy. Let's get him over to the hospital block. Don't worry. I can't drive any faster. My windshield steamed up. So wipe it. You got a rag? Yeah, here. You could use my hand. Okay, pal. Give him the handkerchief. Oh, my God! Keep right on driving. Through the gate. Or the top of your head comes off. You won't get away with this. I will. I'm betting my life that I will. How far back is the prison? About 15 miles, at least that. Okay, pull over. I'm taking her from here. And you two. I want your money, your clothes. And then you can walk back and explain about me. Explain about him? They won't find the ambulance for days. Not at the bottom of that canyon. Now I... I cross the border on foot. And into Mexico. Good drink, senor. Thank you. When does the next bus leave for Mexico City? At 12 o'clock, senor. A little card bought in a back room with no questions asked. And I become a tourist. Four days' growth of beard and I become poor. An empty suitcase with a butterfly net strapped to its outside and I become a source of amusement. I become a source of amusement. A funny dumb gringo. And who looks with suspicion on the funny dumb gringo tourist who is poor? Mexico City is beautiful. But not when you are hungry. Not when you are an American who is hungry. Americans aren't supposed to be hungry. What can I do? All I know is writing, the writing of poetry. There is one place I might sell some poem. Palin. This magazine prints some English stuff. Perhaps... Well, why not? I have three pesos left. Buy some paper, a pencil, sit in the park right and storm the bastion. Ah? Ja? This is good here. Do you like them, Mr. Palin? Well, I... Excuse me. Lucida. Yes, Palin? I have some poems here. Let me see. The river doubled. Dreaming doubled. Faster passion of my soul. Ah? Muy bueno. Muy bueno? Ja, ja, ja, that is just what I thought. You are too kind. The poet should read his own words. Well, the drip, sweet droplets, passions, goblets, feats, I roll. Ja, Lucida likes your stuff. Rare woman. And I like what Lucida likes. She says we do a book of your stuff. Oh, so he has an advantage. Too much. When the book... Got the poet. I'll get them. Your name is Miss. No good to doubt. So true. I'll make a new one. Please do. And so? Good day and I'll be back. Saturday. With the poet. America. Miles below. The bleak, brown mountains. The desert yellow and red. My home, my native land. My advance money went for a new clothing and a round-trip plane ticket to Los Angeles and a new lease on life. In a small file under the eaves of the little house in Beverly Glen, there are poems. More than a thousand of them. Poems which no one has ever seen. Poems written in the evenings after work and Sundays. Now with the beard and the hat and the glasses, no one will recognize me. A cane. I ought to carry a cane too. Get the poems. Did someone live there in the house? Did someone bought it? Get the poems and then get back to Mexico City. Hmm. Someone is living here, I wonder who. The hedge is trimmed. And my hammock. Someone put on a new canvas cover. Please tell baby I'm shaving. Yeah? Oh no, no, no it can't be. Well, what do you want? It's Mary, but I thought I killed her. What is it, baby? Well, what is it, mister? What do you want here? Are you the lady at the house? Ah, who sat at the door? Some creep with a bid. Yeah, I'm the lady at the house, but I don't want to buy anything. Well, what is it, Santa Claus? What do you want? Are you the man of the house? Yeah, I'm the man of the house. That's who he means. I'll say. So what of it? I'm making a survey. I'd like to have a few questions. May I come in? Well, I don't know. Ah, let him. What's the difference? Thank you. First, your name. Name? Yes, please. Press C. Hey, where's he going? Mister, what do you want in my kitchen? The cleaver, Mary. Don't you know me? Who are you, mister? The clothes, Mary. Put it down. Know me? Know the man you tricked into San Quentin? No, don't. Put down that... Yes, Mary. Yes. No! Confession, conviction, sentence, transportation and... Oh, again, again, the death cell as before. But when I came here, they promised I could keep the beard. They promised I could keep the beard. And it's gone. Gone. I can't remember when. Ready. It's time to go, my son. Time to go. You've refused my help up to now, but perhaps you'd like to walk with me. Rather beside you, Padre, than beside one of these mercenaries, my legs, the muscles quiver, not with fear, no, but with the desire to feel themselves moving, straining, acting. Well, yet there is time. I'm not afraid, but this body, I hate the thought of it being killed by these men. My beautiful body, soon it will be dead cold rotting. Dead it will rot. No, they must not do this to me. You must be brave, my son. My body. The years I spent with the great corporeal master, the yogi, learning my bodily purpose, my bodily care, the use of willpower to control my body, the yogi, my teacher, yes, I shall use yoga to spend my breathing and become invulnerable to their gas, to spend my body functions to the point of death and fool their doctor, of course. Oh, yes, the greatest escape of them all, and this time I must succeed. All right, here we are. The room is so small. Somehow I had imagined it would be larger. And here is the chair. Yes, it grabs. All right, now just sit down. And over there is a glass. I get a small pane with the dark faces seen dimly through. The witnesses lay their arms along these. The whole room is like some strange sort of time machine. A machine for launching a man into another dimension. They're true. I best begin to prepare myself. Relax, relax. Relax, it won't be easy. Have you any last words, my son? Yes, one request. Do not allow my poor body to be dissected or embalmed, but on the third day after my death, cremate it. That will be arranged as you desire. Thank you. God be with you, my son. Remember what Christ said to the two criminals, in this day shall thou be with me in heaven. Now, move your head forward a little. All right, put the hood down. Now, when you hear the pellets drop into the air, so don't try any tricks. Just breathe deeply, see? Fumes don't hurt, see? Just cooperate with us to make it easier on yourself, pal. You know what I mean? As the yogi taught me, and the lungs hold it, body limp, all muscles, tendons, joints. Relax, all slow, the bloodstream locks the breath. Hold, hold. Suspend all bodily functions. Hold suspended animation, because the mind on time is the beating of my heart. Time as a picture on the screen of my mind, slower. My perception is slower. The time seems to spin by now. Go slow. Clearing the air of the poisonous fumes. Now the doctor will come with his death as I will my limbs to stiffness my flesh to coldness. Clear, doctor. You can go on in. Let's see now. Desperation ceased. Heart stopped. By the authority vested in me by the state of California, I pronounce this man dead. I am myself to consciousness in six hours' time. Dark here and cold, so cold. I'm gonna get up and see. The prison morgue. It worked. But I'm cold, so cold. What's this on my toe? A tag? It's dark to read it, but I know what it says. It has my name, prison number, time of execution, yes. Now to look around. Because the next death must be played just right. This should be it. A coffin crate ready for shipping. Some cadaver being returned to a sentimental family. Well, it ought to be just right. With him on my slab, my tag on his toe, and the most perfect escape of all time underway. Here we go! I will my body to return from its state of suspended animation and to come immediately out of trance when next this coffin shall be opened. Ropala. Poor fellow. Must have a bad heart. Let's see. Now it's going, so let's hope he's out for a while. It must be the work room, light hanging over the work table and there are lockers with a suit. Fine. And here in the, in the desk might not be some sort of, yes, here, a petty cash box. It's quite full. The old boy apparently doesn't believe in banks. And now, and now that Lazarus is returned from the dead. This newspaper, state line. I was executed four days ago. Now I find myself resurrected in Indianapolis, Indiana. Los Angeles, California, this is Los Angeles. You can claim your baggage in the station or on the platform. I've returned to my home. Beautiful time to return home. My old hammock is there and my flowers, my yard. The house is empty. The lawyer said he had it cleaned up. Oh, my book, my pictures. Here's my old pipe. I haven't smoked it in years and here he didn't like it. But now she's gone. I don't hate her anymore. The back is still fairly fresh. Fill the pipe. There's that detective story I never got to finish. Now I'll have time. Now I'll have lots of time, time to smoke and read and write and rest. Sun's almost down. Wonderful time to get outside. Cool, sweet air. Wonder what kind of birds those are. My hammock. Oh, it's so nice. Light the pipe. And relax. Wish I could remember what page I was on. But no matter, I can begin again. I've got all the time in the world. The rest of my life. Birds. The sun is slipping out of sight. Death of a bird. I read the sky. How soft those clouds so lovely. Birds playing in the fish park. Because I'm a happy bird. The neighbor is turning on his lawn sprinkling system. Lion. Now the cool air. Evening coming on. Sky goes darker. Lion the gathering is twilight. Death of the day. Death of the night. Sweet softness. The summer night's coming. Soon the stars. Oh, it's lovely. Heavenly. Just. Lion. By the authority vested in me by the state of California, I want this man dead. Escape is produced and directed by William N. Robson. Tonight we have presented Present Tents by James Poe, starring Vincent Price as Roger. Featured in the cast were Charles McGraw as Fred Snead, Joan Banks as Mary, Harry Bartell as the Doctor, and Van Wright as Pollan. Also heard were Tom Telly, William Lallet, Jeff Corey and Paul Freese. Special music was arranged and conducted by Daryl Castillo. Next week. You are alone at the controls of an experimental rocket aircraft, about to be hurled 40 miles out from the Earth's surface into the limitless boundaries of space, into a nothingness from which there may be no escape. Next week we escape with Graham Doher's imaginative and widely discussed story of a rocket pilot who receives the strangest and most terrible warning in the history of man, the outer limit. Goodbye then until this same time next week, when once again we offer you escape. When Bob Hope visits Bing Crosby on Bing's CBS show Tomorrow Night, they'll be singing a duet called Have I Told You Lately. That's a good theme for Bing and Bob, for you know and I know that when the two lads get together, the gags about each other's shortcomings fly thick and fast. Tomorrow night with National Sour Crout Week as the springboard, Bing and Bob promise one of their most hilarious meetings. So don't miss the CBS Bing Crosby show, which is heard on most of these same stations. Now stay tuned for Pursuit, which follows immediately on most of these same CBS stations. This is CBS, where Wednesday night is Bing Crosby Night, the Columbia Broadcasting System.