DEFENSE MECH By RAY BRADBURY 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?"