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 reallythink 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. Amillion cold miles up. See all the flickering stars? Look at my handstremble. Feel my heart whirling like a hot pinwheel!
The captain comes toward me, a stunned expression on his small, tightface. 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 lookat all that space! Standing here a moment ago, I stared down at Earthso round and cloud-covered and asleep on a mat of stars, and my braintore 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 acrew of fourteen others! I can hardly stand up, my knees, my hands, myheart, are shaking apart. Hold me up, sir.
What are hysterics like? The captain unprongs the inter-deck audioand speaks swiftly, scowling, into it. I hope he's phoning thepsychiatrist. I need something. Oh, dammit, dammit!
The psychiatrist descends the ladder in immaculate salt-white uniformand 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 hereand 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 hismuscles when we land."
"With the crew as small as it is, every man's worth his weight inuranium. 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 ofthe expedition."
The captain explodes, saying that is impossible. Blood drums in myhead. The doctor moves closer, smelling clean, sharp and white.
"Please, understand, captain, this man is definitely psychotic aboutgoing home. His talk is almost a reversion to childhood. I can'trefuse 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 popcornexploding into a buttered avalanche inside a glass cube, I want toroller skate, I want to climb into the old cool wet ice-wagon and gochikk-chikk-chikk on the ice with a sharp pick, I want to take longsweating hikes in the country, see big brick buildings and bright-facedpeople, 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 itsound?"
I'm not not so scared now. We're going down on the moving ladder andhere 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