"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."