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!
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!
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