Halloway stared down at Earth, and his brain
tore loose and screamed, Man, man, how'd you
get in a mess like this, in a rocket a
million miles past the moon, shooting for
Mars and danger and terror and maybe death.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Spring 1946.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Oh, my god, do you realize how far from Earth we are? Do you really
_think_ about it? It's enough to scare the guts from a man. Hold me up.
_Do_ something. Give me sedatives or hold my hand or run call mama. A
million cold miles up. See all the flickering stars? Look at my hands
tremble. Feel my heart whirling like a hot pinwheel!
The captain comes toward me, a stunned expression on his small, tight
face. He takes my arm, looking into my eyes. Hello, captain. I'm sick,
if that's what you want to know. I've a right to be scared--just look
at all that space! Standing here a moment ago, I stared down at Earth
so round and cloud-covered and asleep on a mat of stars, and my brain
tore loose and screamed, man, man, how'd you get in a mess like this,
in a rocket a million miles past the moon, shooting for Mars with a
crew of fourteen others! I can hardly stand up, my knees, my hands, my
heart, are shaking apart. Hold me up, sir.
What are hysterics like? The captain unprongs the inter-deck audio
and speaks swiftly, scowling, into it. I hope he's phoning the
psychiatrist. I need something. Oh, dammit, dammit!
The psychiatrist descends the ladder in immaculate salt-white uniform
and walks toward me in a dream. Hello, doctor. You're the one for me.
Please, sir, turn this damned rocket around and fly back to New York.
I'll go crazy with all this space and distance!
The psychiatrist and the captain's voices murmur and blend, with here
and there an emphasis, a toss of head, a gesture:
"Young Halloway here's on a fear-jag, doctor. Can you help him?"
"I'll try. Good man, Halloway is. Imagine you'll need him and his
muscles when we land."
"With the crew as small as it is, every man's worth his weight in
uranium. He's _got_ to be cured."
The psychiatrist shakes his head.
"Might have to squirt him full of drugs to keep him quiet the rest of
the expedition."
The captain explodes, saying that is impossible. Blood drums in my
head. The doctor moves closer, smelling clean, sharp and white.
"Please, understand, captain, this man is definitely psychotic about
going home. His talk is almost a reversion to childhood. I can't
refuse his demands, and his fear seems too deeply based for reasoning.
However, I think I've an idea. Halloway?"
Yes, sir? Help me, doctor. I want to go home. I want to see popcorn
exploding into a buttered avalanche inside a glass cube, I want to
roller skate, I want to climb into the old cool wet ice-wagon and go
_chikk-chikk-chikk_ on the ice with a sharp pick, I want to take long
sweating hikes in the country, see big brick buildings and bright-faced
people, fight the old gang, anything but this--_awful_!
The psychiatrist rubs his chin.
"All right, son. You can go back to Earth, now, tonight."
Again the captain explodes.
"You can't tell him _that_. We're landing on Mars _today_!"
The psychiatrist pats down the captain patiently.
"Please, captain. Well, Halloway, back to New York for you. How does it
sound?"
I'm not not so scared now. We're going down on the moving ladder and
here is the psychiatrist's cubicle.
He's pouring lights into my eyes. They revolve like stars on a disc.
Lots of strange machines around, attachments to my head, my ears.
Sleepy. Oh, so sleepy. Like under warm water. Being pushed around.
Laved. Washed. Quiet. Oh, gosh. Sleepy.
"--listen to me, Halloway--"
Sleepy. Doctor's talking. Very soft, like feathers. Soft, soft.
"--you're going to land on earth. No matter what they tell you, you're
landing on Earth ... no matter what happens you'll be on Earth ...
everything you see and do will be like on Earth ... remember that ...
remember that ... you won't be afraid because you'll be on Earth ...
remember that ... over and over ... you'll land on Earth in an hour ...
home ... home again ... no matter what anyone says...."
Oh, yes, sir, home again. Sleepy. Home again. Drifting, sleeping, oh
thank you, sir, thank you from the bottom of my drowsy, sleepy soul.
Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Sleepy. Drifting.
* * * * *
I'm awake!
Hey, everybody, come look! Here comes Earth! Right at us, like a green
moss ball off a bat! Coming at us on a curve!
"Check stations! Mars landing!"
"Get into bulgers! Test atmosphere!"
Get into your _what_ did he say?
"Your baseball uniform, Halloway. Your baseball uniform."
Yes, sir. My baseball uniform. Where'd I put it? Over here. Head into,
legs into, feet into it. There. Ha, this is great! Pitch her in here,
old boy, old boy! _Smack!_ Yow!
Yes, sir, it's over in that metal locker. I'll take it out. Head, arms,
legs into it--I'm dressed. Baseball uniform. Ha! This is great! Pitch
'er in here, ole boy, ole boy! _Smack!_ Yow!
"Adjust bulger helmets, check oxygen."
What?
"Put on your catcher's mask, Halloway."
Oh. The mask slides down over my face. Like that. The captain comes
rushing up, eyes hot green and angry.
"Doctor, what's this infernal nonsense?"
"You wanted Halloway able to do his work, didn't you, captain?"
"Yes, but what in hell've you done to him?"
Strange. As they talk, I hear their words flow over my head like a wave
dashed on a sea-stone, but the words drain off, leaving no imprint. As
soon as some words invade my head, something eats and digests them and
I think the words are something else entirely.
The psychiatrist nods at me.
"I couldn't change his basic desire. Given time, yes, a period of
months, I could have. But you need him _now_. So, against all the known
ethics of my profession, which say one must never lie to a patient,
I've followed along in his own thought channel. I didn't dare frustrate
him. He wanted to go home, so I _let_ him. I've given him a fantasy.
I've set up a protective defense mechanism in his mind that refuses
to believe certain realities, that evaluates all things from its own
desire for security and home. His mind will automatically block any
thought or image that endangers that security."
The captain stares wildly.
"Then, then Halloway's insane!"
"Would you have him mad with fear, or able to work on Mars hindered by
only a slight 'tetched' condition? Coddle him and he'll do fine. Just
remember, we're landing on Earth, _not_ Mars."
"Earth, Mars, you'll have _me_ raving next!"
The doctor and the captain certainly talk weirdly. Who cares? Here
comes Earth! Green, expanding like a moist cabbage underfoot!
"Mars landing! Air-lock opened! Use bulger oxygen."
Here we go, gang! Last one out is a pink chimpanzee!
"Halloway, come back, you damn fool! You'll kill yourself!"
Feel the good sweet Earth! Home again! Praise the Lord! Let's dance,
sing off-key, laugh! Ha! Oh, boy!
In the door of the house stands the captain, his face red and wrinkled,
waving his fists.
"Halloway, come back! Look behind you, you fool!"