And that, of course, never would have done. It would have been exhibitionism, disgraceful and humiliating— the sort of a thing a Webster could not do.
After all, he told himself, a trip to Mars was no great adventure, not any longer.
There had been a day when it had been, but that day was gone forever. He, himself, in his earlier days had made a trip to Mars, had stayed there for five long years. That had been—he gasped when he thought of it—that had been almost thirty years ago.
The babble and hum of the lobby hit him in the face as the robot attendant opened the door for him, and in that babble ran a vein of something that was almost terror.
For a moment he hesitated, then stepped inside. The door closed softly behind him.
He stayed close to the wall to keep out of people's way, headed for a chair in one corner. He sat down and huddled back, forcing his body deep into the cushions, watching the milling humanity that seethed out in the room.
Shrill people, hurrying people, people with strange, unneighborly faces.
Strangers—every one of them. Not a face he knew. People going places. Heading out for the planets. Anxious to be off. Worried about last details. Rushing here and there.
Out of the crowd loomed a familiar face. Webster hunched forward.
'Jenkins!' he shouted, and then was sorry for the shout, although no one seemed to notice.
The robot moved toward him, stood before him.
'Tell Raymond,' said Webster, 'that I must return immediately. Tell him to bring the 'copter in front at once.'
'I am sorry, sir,' said Jenkins, 'but we cannot leave at once. The mechanics found a flaw in the atomics chamber. They are installing a new one. It will take several hours.'
'Surely,' said Webster, impatiently, 'that could wait until some other time.'
'The mechanic said not, sir,' Jenkins told him. 'It might go at any minute. The entire charge of power—'
'Yes, yes,' agreed Webster, 'I suppose so.'
He fidgeted with his hat. 'I just remembered,' he said, 'something I must do.
Something that must be done at once. I must get home. I can't wait several hours.'
He hitched forward to the edge of the chair, eyes staring at the milling crowd.
Faces—faces—
'Perhaps you could televise,' suggested Jenkins. 'One of the robots might be able to do it. There is a booth —'
'Wait, Jenkins,' said Webster. He hesitated a moment. 'There is nothing to do back home. Nothing at all. But I must get there. I can't stay here. If I have to, I'll go crazy. I was frightened out there on the ramp. I'm bewildered and confused here. I have a feeling—a strange, terrible feeling. Jenkins, I—'
'I understand, sir,' said Jenkins. 'Your father had it, too.'
Webster gasped. 'My father?'
' 'Yes, sir, that is why he never went anywhere. He was about your age, sir, when he found it out. He tried to make a trip to Europe and he couldn't. He got halfway there and turned back. He had a name for it.'
Webster sat in stricken silence.
'A name for it,' he finally said. 'Of course there's a name for it. My father had it.
My grandfather—did he have it, too?'
'I wouldn't know that, sir,' said Jenkins. 'I wasn't created until after your grandfather was an elderly man. But he may have. He never went anywhere, either.'
'You understand, then,' said Webster. 'You know how it is. I feel like I'm going to be sick—physically ill. See if you can charter a 'copter—anything, just so we get home.'
'Yes, sir,' said Jenkins.
He started off and Webster called him back.
'Jenkins, does anyone else know about this? Anyone—'
'No, sir,' said Jenkins. 'Your father never mentioned it and I felt, somehow, that he wouldn't wish me to.'
'Thank you, Jenkins,' said Webster.
Webster huddled back into his chair again, feeling desolate and alone and misplaced.. Alone in a humming lobby that pulsed with life—a loneliness that tore at him, that left him limp and weak.
Homesickness. Downright, shameful homesickness, he told himself. Something that boys are supposed to feel when they first leave home, when they first go out to meet the world.
There was a fancy word for it—agoraphobia, the morbid dread of being in the midst of open spaces—from the Greek root for the fear— literally, of the market place.
If he crossed the room to the television booth, he could put in a call, talk with his mother or one of the robots—or, better yet, just sit and look at the place until Jenkins came for him.
He started to rise, then sank back in the chair again. It was no dice. Just talking to someone or looking in on the place wasn't being there. He couldn't smell the pines in the wintry air, or hear familiar snow crunch on the walk beneath his feet or reach out a hand and touch one of the massive oaks that grew along the path. He couldn't feel the heat of the fire or sense the sure, deft touch of belonging, of being one with a tract of ground and the things upon it.
And yet—perhaps it would help. Not much, maybe, but some. He started to rise from the chair again and froze. The few short steps to the booth held terror, a terrible, overwhelming terror. If he crossed them, he would have to run. Run to escape the watching eyes, the unfamiliar sounds, the agonizing nearness of strange faces.
Abruptly he sat down.
A woman's shrill voice cut across the lobby and he shrank away from it. He felt terrible. He felt like hell. He wished Jenkins would get a hustle on.
The first breath of spring came through the window, filling the study with the promise of melting snows, of coming leaves and flowers, of north-bound wedges of waterfowl streaming through the blue, of trout that lurked in pools waiting for the fly.
Webster lifted his eyes from the sheaf of papers on his desk, sniffed the breeze, felt the cool whisper of it on his cheek. His hand reached out for the brandy glass, found it empty, and put it back.
He bent back above the papers once again, picked up a pencil and crossed out a word.
Critically, he read the final paragraphs:
The fact that of the two hundred fifty men who were invited to visit me, presumably on missions of more than ordinary importance, only three were able to come, does not necessarily prove that all but those three are victims of agoraphobia.
Some may have had legitimate reasons for being unable to accept my invitation. But it does indicate a growing unwillingness of men living under the mode of Earth existence set up following the breakup of the cities to move from familiar places, a deepening instinct to stay among the scenes and possessions which in their mind have become associated with contentment and graciousness of life.
What the result of such a trend will be, no one can clearly indicate since it applies to only a small portion of Earth's population. Among the larger families economic pressure forces some of the sons to seek their fortunes either in other parts of the Earth or on one of the other planets. Many others deliberately seek adventure and opportunity in space while still others become associated with professions or trades which make a sedentary existence impossible.
He flipped the page over, went on to the last one.
It was a good paper, he knew, but it could not be published, not just yet. Perhaps after he had died. No one, so far as he could determine, had ever so much as realized the trend, had taken as matter of course the fact that men seldom left their homes.
Why, after all, should they leave their homes?
Certain dangers may be recognized in—
The televisor muttered at his elbow and he reached out to flip the toggle.
The room faded and he was face to face with a man who sat behind a desk, almost as if he sat on the opposite side of Webster's desk. A gray-haired man with sad eyes behind heavy lenses.
For a moment Webster stared, memory tugging at him.
