The Martian Chronicles. Ray Bradbury

to open a door and shut a door. And here we are …’

      ‘Where are we, sir?’

      The captain exhaled. ‘In an insane asylum.’

      It was night. The large hall lay quiet and dimly illuminated by hidden light sources in the transparent walls. The four Earth Men sat around a wooden table, their bleak heads bent over their whispers. On the floor, men and women lay huddled. There were little stirs in the dark corners, solitary men or women gesturing their hands. Every half-hour one of the captain’s men would try the silver door and return to the table. ‘Nothing doing, sir. We’re locked in proper.’

      ‘They think we’re really insane, sir?’

      ‘Quite. That’s why there was no hullabaloo to welcome us. They merely tolerated what, to them, must be a constantly recurring psychotic condition.’ He gestured at the dark sleeping shapes all about them. ‘Paranoids, every single one! What a welcome they gave us! For a moment there’ – a little fire rose and died in his eyes – ‘I thought we were getting our true reception. All the yelling and singing and speeches. Pretty nice, wasn’t it – while it lasted?’

      ‘How long will they keep us here, sir?’

      ‘Until we prove we’re not psychotics.’

      ‘That should be easy.’

      ‘I hope so.’

      ‘You don’t sound very certain, sir.’

      ‘I’m not. Look in that corner.’

      A man squatted alone in darkness. Out of his mouth issued a blue flame which turned into the round shape of a small naked woman. It flourished on the air softly in vapours of cobalt light, whispering and sighing.

      The captain nodded at another corner. A woman stood there, changing. First she was embedded in a crystal pillar, then she melted into a golden statue, finally a staff of polished cedar, and back to a woman.

      All through the midnight hall people were juggling thin violent flames, shifting, changing, for night-time was the time of change and affliction.

      ‘Magicians, sorcerers,’ whispered one of the Earth Men.

      ‘No, hallucination. They pass their insanity over into us so that we see their hallucinations too. Telepathy. Auto-suggestion and telepathy.’

      ‘Is that what worries you, sir?’

      ‘Yes. If hallucinations can appear this “real” to us, to anyone, if hallucinations are catching and almost believable, it’s no wonder they mistook us for psychotics. If that man can produce little blue fire women and that woman there melt into a pillar, how natural if normal Martians think we produce our rocket ship with our minds’.

      ‘Oh,’ said his men in the shadows.

      Around them, in the vast hall, flames leaped blue, flared, evaporated. Little demons of red sand ran between the teeth of sleeping men. Women became oily snakes. There was a smell of reptiles and animals.

      In the morning everyone stood around looking fresh, happy, and normal. There were no flames or demons in the room. The captain and his men waited by the silver door, hoping it would open.

      Mr Xxx arrived after about four hours. They had a suspicion that he had waited outside the door, peering in at them for at least three hours before he stepped in, beckoned, and led them to his small office.

      He was a jovial, smiling man, if one could believe the mask he wore, for upon it was painted not one smile, but three. Behind it, his voice was the voice of a not so smiling psychologist. ‘What seems to be the trouble?’

      ‘You think we’re insane, and we’re not,’ said the captain.

      ‘Contrarily, I do not think all of you are insane.’ The psychologist pointed a little wand at the captain. ‘No. Just you, sir. The others are secondary hallucinations.’

      The captain slapped his knee. ‘So that’s it! That’s why Mr Iii laughed when I suggested my men sign the papers too!’

      ‘Yes, Mr Iii told me.’ The psychologist laughed out of the carved, smiling mouth. ‘A good joke. Where was I? Secondary hallucinations, yes. Women come to me with snakes crawling from their ears. When I cure them, the snakes vanish.’

      ‘We’ll be glad to be cured. Go right ahead.’

      Mr Xxx seemed surprised. ‘Unusual. Not many people want to be cured. The cure is drastic, you know.’

      ‘Cure ahead! I’m confident you’ll find we’re all sane.’

      ‘Let me check your papers to be sure they’re in order for a “cure”.’ He checked a file. ‘Yes. You know, such cases as yours need special “curing”. The people in the hall are simpler forms. But once you’ve gone this far, I must point out, with primary, secondary, auditory, olfactory, and labial hallucinations, as well as tactile and optical fantasies, it is pretty bad business. We have to resort to euthanasia.’

      The captain leaped up with a roar. ‘Look here, we’ve stood quite enough! Test us, tap our knees, check our hearts, exercise us, ask questions!’

      ‘You are free to speak.’

      The captain raved for an hour. The psychologist listened.

      ‘Incredible,’ he mused. ‘Most detailed dream fantasy I’ve ever heard.’

      ‘God damn it, we’ll show you the rocket ship!’ screamed the captain.

      ‘I’d like to see it. Can you manifest it in this room?’

      ‘Oh, certainly. It’s in that file of yours, under R.’

      Mr Xxx peered seriously into his file. He went ‘Tsk’ and shut the file solemnly. ‘Why did you tell me to look? The rocket isn’t there.’

      ‘Of course not, you idiot! I was joking. Does an insane man joke?’

      ‘You find some odd senses of humour. Now, take me out to your rocket. I wish to see it.’

      

      It was noon. The day was very hot when they reached the rocket.

      ‘So.’ The psychologist walked up to the ship and tapped it. It gonged softly. ‘May I go inside?’ he asked slyly.

      ‘You may.’

      Mr Xxx stepped in and was gone for a long time.

      ‘Of all the silly, exasperating things.’ The captain chewed a cigar as he waited. ‘For two cents I’d go back home and tell people not to bother with Mars. What a suspicious bunch of louts.’

      ‘I gather that a good number of their population are insane, sir. That seems to be their main reason for doubting.’

      ‘Nevertheless, this is all so damned irritating.’

      The psychologist emerged from the ship after half an hour of prowling, tapping, listening, smelling, tasting.

      ‘Now do you believe!’ shouted the captain, as if he were deaf.

      The psychologist shut his eyes and scratched his nose. ‘This is the most incredible example of sensual hallucination and hypnotic suggestion I’ve ever encountered. I went through your “rocket”, as you call it.’ He tapped the hull. ‘I hear it. Auditory fantasy.’ He drew a breath. ‘I smell it. Olfactory hallucination, induced by sensual telepathy.’ He kissed the ship. ‘I taste it. Labial fantasy!’

      He shook the captain’s hand. ‘May I congratulate you? You are a psychotic genius! You have done a most complete job! The task of projecting your psychotic image into the mind of another via telepathy and keeping the hallucinations from becoming sensually weaker is almost impossible. Those people in the House usually concentrate on visuals or, at the most, visuals and auditory fantasies combined. You have balanced the whole conglomeration! Your insanity is beautifully complete!’