The Right Time
Page 1
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Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from Analog Science Fact & Fiction December 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
THE RIGHT TIME
The trouble with prophets is that if they're accurate, the news won't do you any good, and if they aren't accurate, they're no good. Unless, of course, they're more than just prophets....
WALTER BUPP
Illustrated by George Schelling
* * * * *
"Don't let the old goat rattle you, Pheola," I said as we rode theelevator to the penthouse. "He'll try. Just remember, he is the onewho has to say O.K. if we are to give you some training."
Her eyes rolled and she moaned softly, clinging to my arm. "Oh, BillyJoe!" she whispered. "I _don't_ want to fail you!"
Maragon has some pretty creepy types in his office and thereceptionist that day was no exception. She was one of those twitchyhyper-thyroid clairvoyants that he likes to test.
"Don't tell me," the receptionist twitched proudly as we came in. "Iknow!" She got up from behind her desk and led us to the GrandMaster's private office.
I intended to make her guess whom I had with me, but that didn'tbother her. "Dr. Walter Bupp and Pheola Rountree," she announcedsmugly. Clairvoyants live in a condition of perpetual thrill withtheir powers.
Maragon's penthouse office has glass walls on two sides. He wasprowling back and forth in front of his desk, sharply lit by thebright sunlight that streamed in. His gray shock of hair glistened,and his bushy eyebrows shaded his face. He radiated impatience, fromthe grinding of his square jaw to the fists he had rammed into hiships.
"Lefty," he greeted me, "do they all have to _look_ alike? Where didyou get _this_ scarecrow?"
I could feel Pheola stiffen. I guess no woman, no matter how plain,likes to be reminded of it.
"Same place you dig up those twitchy CV types you have spooking upyour outer office," I snapped. "There's nothing the matter with Pheolathat three square meals won't cure in a month!"
Maragon grunted. "And just what wonderful power do _you_ have, youngwoman, that makes it worth while for the Lodge to fatten you up?" hedemanded.
She had plenty of spunk, I'll say that for her. "I have the power ofprophecy, and the gift of healin'," Pheola said, squinting at him.
He barked a laugh at her and went across the thick carpet to sit inhis swivel chair. It was a beauty of dark green morocco that matchedhis Bank of England chairs and leather sofa that was against one ofthe walls. "What's your favorite prophecy, young woman?" he wanted toknow.
Pheola smiled over at me. "Oh, no!" I groaned, but she nodded.
"Billy Joe and I are gettin' married," she told Maragon.
"Billy Joe?" he asked, scowling at me across his desk.
"That's me," I said. "Don't ask me where the name comes from."
"I couldn't care less," Maragon grumped. "Is it true? Are you going tomarry this bag of bones?"
I could feel my face getting red. "Not that I know of," I said.
He swung around in his chair to face her. "Young woman, someone hastold you how much the Lodge is interested in precognition. Youwouldn't walk in here claiming the power if you didn't know we want tofind it, and rarely can. But you certainly came ill-prepared. Going tomarry Lefty, eh? Why, you can't predict the right time!" He banged hisfist on the big slab of walnut. "You're a fake!" he said.
"I _ain't_ a fake!" Pheola protested. "We _will_ get married!"
"Drag her out, Lefty," Maragon said wearily, with a limp wave of hishand.
"Come on, Pheola," I said, taking her arm with my right hand. I saw nopoint talking with him any further.
"Lefty!" Maragon exclaimed.
"Yes?"
"You used your right arm! You can't _move_ it!"
"I can now," I told the old goat with relish. "Pheola told you she wasa healer. Well, she healed me a ... a couple days ago!"
He went for the jugular: "Have you ever done anything like thatbefore, Pheola?" he demanded.
"Mostly small ailin'," she said, squinting and backing away from hisdesk defensively. "Never nothin' as big as findin' the weak spot inBilly Joe's haid. But I _told_ you I had the power of prophecy and thegift of healin'."
I suppose her degree of humility decided him. "She can stay," Maragonsaid. "Look into this healing thing, Lefty. But, for the love of Mike,don't waste time with her precognition."
Pheola moaned, then keened, and waved her hands in front of her face,as if to ward off a swarm of bees. "My healin' won't do you much good,you nasty old man!" she said in a shrill voice. "You'll git a pain,_sich_ a pain," she insisted, pressing her hand to her heart. "It willlike to kill you, and it nearly will!"
Maragon laughed at her again. "A young witch!" he proclaimed. "I'llbet you scared half of Posthole County into fits with dark remarkslike that. Take her away, Lefty!"
* * * * *
Pheola didn't break her silence until I showed her into the apartmentadjoining mine in the Chapter House. The Lodge Building is a hundredstories high, and most of it is devoted to offices that we rent out todoctors, lawyers and the like. We only use a part of the place--therejust aren't that many Psis around--and save a few floors forapartments for members permanently assigned, as I am, to Lodge duties.
Pheola stood stiff and unseeing in the apartment, her fists clenchedat her sides, plainly in no shape to appreciate her rooms. They werein the usual good taste I always associate with a Psi decorator.
"How could I let you down, Billy Joe!" she said to me, as soon as thedoor to the corridor had closed behind us.
"Oh, stop it!" I snapped, giving her a shake. "Weren't you ever wrongin a prophecy before?"
She squinted to see me better. "Does it make you hate me?" she asked."Yes, I've been wrong lots of times," she admitted. "But not aboutmarryin' you. How does he know I'm wrong?"
"He doesn't," I growled. "He just doesn't believe in precognition.What little we see of it in the Lodge is so erratic that you can'tcount it as a proven Psi power."
"Then maybe I _am_ right," she pressed me.
"Not if I can help it," I said sourly. "I'm in no mood to get married.Mostly I want to give you some advice. O.K.?"
She made cow eyes at me. "You know you can, Billy Joe," she said.
"Well," I snarled, "my first suggestion is that you cut out this'Billy Joe' stuff. My name is Wally Bupp. You can call me Lefty if youwant to. I'm not your darlin' Billy."
"I tole the truth and you hate me for it!" she said hotly. "I wasafeered of that."
"'Afeered!'" I sneered. "All that corn pone and chitterlin's dialect!You can cut that out, too, can't you? Wasn't that just part of yourlocal color?"
"Sort of," she admitted, switching to the neutral American dialect."Yes, I can cut that out, too, Lefty."
"Good. I'm willing to take a couple of chances with that old goat,because I believe in you. I saw you in action in Nevada, and you soldme that you have some Psi powers. We'll work on your healing, asMaragon suggested. But I want to have your precognition tested. Justkeep your mouth shut about it here in the Lodge, do you hear?"
She nodded.
"All right," I said. "I'll have to make some arrangements, or Maragonwill have my scalp. In the meantime, why don't you fix up so we can goout to dinner?"
She gave me a look of adoration that would have curdled fresh milk."Oh, Lefty, I'd love that." And then her face fell. "But I don't havea thing to wear!"
&nbs
p; I don't think she was exactly a moocher. She _didn't_ have anything towear, when I thought of it. "Sure," I said more mildly. "Well, that'sthe good part of getting some training here. The Lodge will take careof your needs. Just call the girl on the desk and say you need someclothes. She'll send somebody over from one of the