"I had to do something. She didn't know where she was, who she was,
or how she'd gotten here. I told her that I thought she came from the
planet Mars, and that there was evidently some sort of time stress in
the field I'd constructed accidentally since she appeared to be only a
child a few minutes before, and that it was my fault, and I'd try to
help her.
"I tried to bring back Mars," he went on, "but I found I couldn't.
In fact, I discovered that these things were evidently accidental,
depending upon a frame of mind or something. Anyway, I slept on the
couch that night, went out the next day and bought her some clothes at
a store in town."
"Was she--er--constructed like Earth women," the psychiatrist asked,
at a sudden thought.
Moore blushed. "Yes," he said, "very definitely like Earth women.
Except for one thing--she had six fingers on each hand."
The psychiatrist had been toying with the pencil. At that revelation he
froze briefly. Then he tried to laugh it off mentally. No, it couldn't
be.
"Weeks passed, and she didn't appear to be able to get adjusted," Moore
said. "That's when I suggested she go to you."
Dr. Rawlings dropped the pencil completely. "The woman from Mars," he
exclaimed. "_You_ sent her here?"
Moore nodded soberly. "Yes, and I'd like to get her back. I'm in love
with her."
"I haven't got her." He began to wish he did.
"I know. She was picked up in a rocket ship. Everyone else around here
thinks it was a meteorite, but she told me before she left that they'd
traced her by brainwaves or something, and would pick her up."
"And just what do you expect me to do?" the psychiatrist wanted to
know. He picked up the pencil and made black lines over the 'h' in
'hallucinations.'
"I want you to help me discover what frame of mind must be cultivated
to recreate Mars. I've got a hunch it's a subconscious problem. I've
been accidentally creating all sorts of alien worlds behind doors when
I least expect them. That's why I hesitated outside your office, to
make certain when I opened the door the office would really be here.
"Why, only last week I opened a door to the men's rest room at the
University and found myself staring down into the Great Nebula in
Andromeda. If I'd stepped through...." He shuddered. "I don't know if
going through would change me, but if I ever see Mars again--"
"Well, I think we can help you there," the psychiatrist told him.
"Suppose you come around Wednesday, at two o'clock. That satisfactory?"
* * * * *
Moore rose, smiling. "Fine," he said. "And thanks a lot, doctor. You'll
never know how much this means to me."
"Quite all right, quite all right. See you Wednesday."
Moore went to the door, opened it, went through to the outer office.
Well, thank goodness that was over. The psychiatrist breathed a sigh of
relief. One of these days that chicken farm was going to be a reality.
If this kept up....
He pressed a button on the intercom. "When's the next patient, Miss
Austin?"
"Not until tomorrow, Dr. Rawlings," she cooed. "You have plenty of time
for Mr. Moore yet."
"Plenty of time for--What are you talking about? He went through that
door about a minute ago."
The receptionist was silent for a minute, then she said, "He couldn't
have. No one's come out of your office. I've been here all the time."
The psychiatrist flicked off the intercom. For a moment he stared out
the window at the sky and the building tops. Then he went to the door,
knelt, and saw a small amount of red sand, just a few grains that might
have been kicked under the door by someone in a hurry.
He returned to Freud on the shelf, located the bottle and the glass,
and poured himself a stiff one without waiting to transport the
equipment to the desk. Then he went to the desk, and flipped on the
intercom again.
"Miss Austin, do you like chicken farms?" he said.
"I love them, doctor," the honey voice answered. "But--"
"Never mind," he told her. "Just come in here. I've got a question to
ask you."
He poured himself another drink.