Office Call By Charles E. Fritch Odd characters come tapping at a psychiatrist's chamber door. But Dr. Rawlings just couldn't seem to unscramble the woman from Mars. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe October 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] _Although Charles E. Fritch is a comparative newcomer to the science fiction fold he has the distinction of being so competent a craftsman that his veracity stands undisputed at every point. Who could doubt after reading this story the real existence of a Dr. Rawley, or deny a subconscious urge to at least date in a dream the charming Miss Austin?_ Dr. Rawlings sighed a long sigh born of frustration and impatience and went wearily to the bookcase. Almost methodically he removed a large gold-titled volume of Freud's _A General Introduction to Psychoanalysis_ and withdrew the bottle from its hiding place. The bottle was half filled with an amber fluid which jiggled pleasantly as he held it in an unsteady hand, observing with a practiced eye how gaily it sparkled in the late afternoon sunlight. Then from the cavity he also extracted a small whiskey glass. He took these tools to his desk, poured himself a stiff one, downed it, flopped into his swivel chair and closed his eyes. _Chicken farms_, he thought. He felt the fiery liquid seep through him, warming his insides with its silent flame, bringing a pleasant glow of satisfaction to his mind. He closed his eyes tighter and regarded the darkened world with a calmness that was somehow conducive to rational thought even in this irrational world. To thought and to sleep, he realized suddenly, as he found his head tilting. He rose quickly, blinking off the effects of the liquor, and carefully returned the utensils to their proper niche behind the volume of Freud on the bookshelf. _Good old Freud_, he thought, _always knew he'd come in handy one of these days_. Then he returned to his desk to consult a small pad, and silently cursed the cruel fates that had given him patients tumbling upon one another in a ridiculously mad haste to reach the jumbled sanity of the normal world. Why couldn't there have been a decent interval of time between them, so he could take a shower, or have a game of golf, or maybe even hang on a small one, or see a psychiatrist himself. Or maybe start that chicken farm he'd been talking about for the past two years. He jabbed a button, said into the intercom, "Miss Austin, will you please send in the file on Mr. Charles T. Moore?"--and without waiting for an answer snapped the machine off.