He looked out the window at the sky and the tops of buildings, and recalled with bitterness the patient who had claimed that he could fly, and who had tried to jump to the street forty floors below solely to prove it. It would have made a nasty splash, he thought. _All the king's horses and all the king's men_--Unless, of course, the patient really _could_ fly.... He looked up, annoyed, and discovered that the door had not opened. Furiously, he jabbed the buzzer again. "Isn't Mr. Moore here yet?" he demanded, consulting his watch. "He was supposed to be here five minutes ago." "He's here, Doctor," the receptionist's silk-and-satin tones came. "He's trying to get up enough courage to open the door." "Oh," the psychiatrist said. He felt like adding something unprofessional, but he controlled himself. With an effort he shut off the intercom and just waited. He looked up at the door and saw the knob turning slowly, ever so slowly. He watched its glistening facets turn in the dim natural lighting of the room, rotating as though in the slowest of slow motions. He sighed and turned his attention to his desk top, where he discovered he had abstractedly pencilled on the blotter a four letter word not normally used in polite society. Hastily, annoyed with himself, he grabbed the pencil and used its erasing head to rub off the offending word. When he looked up again, the door had opened the slightest crack. _Damn_, he thought, _this job is going to drive me whacky yet_. He recalled an episode of a few weeks earlier. He didn't want to, but the thought came just the same. Some of his patients had delusions so logical and systematized it was hard to prove to them that they were wrong. Sometimes it was hard to prove to yourself they were not right after all. The woman from Mars, for example. She had actually believed that she was from the fourth planet, was really a Martian stranded here unaccountably. She had told a good straight story, but he had managed to convince her that she was not from Mars. He had persuaded her that she was an Earthling like everybody else, and that space travel of any sort was utterly impossible anyway. He had been about to prove that there was probably no such planet as Mars when she'd decided not to come back. That was close to the time the meteorite landed a few miles away, the one that had never been found. After all, while not a usual occurrence, over-developed lungs and six fingers on each hand didn't mean-- The door edged open slightly, and an eye peered fearfully into the room. Then it swung wide, and the young man standing in the doorway let out a blastfurnace sigh that could be heard in surrounding offices. "Come in, Mr. Moore," the psychiatrist said, "come in, close the door, sit down."