"In two weeks, about."
"Hm-m-m," I said. "But it won't kill him?"
She picked up her cup and led me back to the sofa, sitting down beforeshe answered me. "Not exactly," she said. "I don't want to talk aboutit."
That's what all the witches say when you try to get them to do anylife-lining. "Have you told me all that you know?" I demanded.
Then she did a funny thing. She got up, went to the chest against thewall where her purse lay, and got out her glasses, racking them up onher long thin nose. She looked at me closely. "No, not all I know. AndI don't aim to," she said. She made no move to come back to sit withme.
"I'm sorry," I said, "but this is Lodge business. I know that you'renot a member yet, but you soon will be, and you might as well learnright now that you are subject to Lodge discipline. Tell me what youknow."
"No!"
They all have to learn it sooner or later. I rammed a good stiff liftin under her heart, and saw her knees buckle. She gasped, and then thelights went out.
Pheola was beside me on the loveseat when my consciousness started tostraggle back. Her hands were soothing my brow. That isn't where ithad hurt. She had struck back, only twice as hard as I had managed.Fool around with somebody who had a good grip on my nervous system,would I? I was lucky to be alive.
"Oh, darlin'!" she gasped, as my eyes opened. "You hurt me so, andbefore I knew it I had done it to you! Forgive me, Billy Joe! I'll_never_ do that again!"
"Better not," I groaned, trying to get my breath. "They'll carry meout in a pine box next time."
"I am so sorry," she said, beginning to cry.
"Then tell me," I said. "What else do you know?"
That only made her cry harder, but between sobs she got it out. "Hewon't die the first time," she said sniffling. "But the _next_ attackwill kill him."
"Soon after the first?"
She nodded. "A couple days," she said. "I wish you hadn't made me tellit."
"Good thing I did," I growled. "You're as nutty as a fruitcake.Maragon won't die. I've got it on good authority."
"I'm _right_!" she insisted.
* * * * *
I took it to Maragon the next morning. The city was shrouded in a lowlayer of cloud, and his glassed-in penthouse office was gloomy withthe morning. He motioned me to sit down. I dragged one of his Bank ofEngland chairs through the ankle-deep pile of his rug and set it downnext to his big desk.
"I have a progress report on Pheola, Pete," I told him.
"That skinny one you brought back from Nevada, Lefty?"
I nodded. "She's not quite so skinny, thanks to my expense account,"I said. "And she's ready to qualify."
"Not on PC," he said, hot at once.
"That remains to be seen, Pete. The lab has been tracking herpredictions for better than two weeks now, and in a couple more weeksNorty will give us some stix on her scope, range and accuracy."
He glowered at me, his bushy brows down about his eyes. "I thought Itold you to concentrate on her healing," he said.
"I have," I told him. "But I saw no harm in seeing what she is likewith precognition," I said.
"Flat on her face, that's what she's like," he said testily. "One ofthese days I'll have to convince you that what I say around here goes,do you hear?"
"One of these days," I said. "But not when you're being a sour oldgoat. You're just sore at her because she said you'd have a heartattack."
"Nonsense!" he bristled.
"I've had Evaleen Riley doing a little PC work on you, too," Iconfessed, and saw his face get dark with anger. "Now hold yourtongue, you old goat. I'm trying to help you," I cut in, to keep himfrom bellowing at me. "Evaleen is worried, too. But she's a littlemore cheerful than Pheola. She doesn't think you'll die."
"Well," he growled. "That's nice. I won't write my will."
"Stop acting like an old goat, you old goat," I snapped at him. "I'llgive you a prediction of my own: You'll be sick enough to die, butwe'll find a way to do something about it."
"Well, now _you're_ a PC!" he huffed. I like to think I have a little,now and then. It's ever so short in range, and highly erratic, but Ihave had my flashes.
"Just one thing," I said to him. "As a surgeon who has done a lot ofheart work, I want you in the heart clinic on the day these witchessay you're going to be sick. It will certainly make a lot of us feelbetter, and the worst that can happen is that you can tell both thosewitches they don't know the right time."
I didn't get to first base. "Now I'll tell you something, Wally Bupp!"he said loudly. "I was fool enough to pay attention to what that witchof yours said, and I've had a complete checkup. The heart people can'tfind a thing the matter with my heart. The devil you say! I won't gonear your hospital. Now get out of here and don't give me another wordabout the PC powers of that fraud."
* * * * *
I let a week go by after that, not quite able to figure out what Ishould do. One night, after a dinner that Pheola had cooked for me aspart of her transparent scheme to convince me she was God's own giftto Lefty Bupp, I raised a question with her.
"You are still sure," I said, loading the dishwasher, "about PeteMaragon?"
"Yes," she said. "He'll have a heart attack."
"All right. Exactly when?"
"The nineteenth. Thursday," she said.
"We've got to pin point this thing," I said as we went back to herliving room. "Do you think you are ready to do some seriousdiagnosis?"
"Of the Grand Master?" she asked me.
"Sure. I can get you into his office without too much trouble. What Iwant you to do is feel around inside his heart. The sawbones from theclinic can't find anything out of line, and I think you can. Can youPC that?"
She smiled at me. "Of course," she said. "You'll take me there in themorning."
I did, of course.
Maragon gave us an appointment when I assured him that I wanted toshow him some aspects of Pheola's healing powers and that PC wasn'tgoing to enter into the discussion. His spooky clairvoyant let us inwith a knowing smile and we found the old goat pouring over somepapers in front of him on the big slab of walnut.
He was really quite nice to Pheola. "Well, well, young woman," hesaid, "Lefty tells me that you are coming along."
"I hope so, Mr. Maragon," she said.
"Well, Lefty," he said, after he had shown us both into the handsomechairs he had drawn up in front of his desk, "you were going to havePheola give me some kind of a demonstration."
"Sure," I said. "First off I want you to know that she can qualify asa TK. Her healing powers are a subtle form of that. But as proof,she'll give a demonstration with weights."
I drew the carrying case from my pocket and laid four pith balls onhis desk, as well as a ten-gram standard TK weight.
"Ten grams?" he said, interested.
"Maybe," I grinned. "We haven't tried this outside our own company.Pretty big emotional quotient here, you know."
He shook his head. "It has to be reproducible, Lefty," he said, but ina kindly tone. "Let me see it, Pheola."
She was really pretty good, and the pith balls behaved quite well. Thefirst time around, the ten-gram weight stopped her cold, but by layingit on my palm, she got a good grip and thereafter was able to make itperform.
"Very nicely done," the old goat grumbled. He hadn't expected anythingof the kind. But I was only half through with him.
"Now," I said. "The more important part of the demonstration. Do youobject to a little minor pain?"
"I certainly do," he growled, bringing his bushy brows down.
"Well, the only way you can tell that Pheola is able to employ her TKwithin you is to give you a little sensation. It will only be sometwinges," I said.
He wanted to argue about it, and I dragged the conversation out untilI felt a little tug on my ear. Pheola had completed her scan ofMaragon's heart.
"Oof!" he said as she hit him lightly in the diaphragm. Then she madehis hands jump, first one an
d then the other. None of it felt realgood, I could see, from the flinching and lip biting that was going onacross the desk.
"That's enough!" he exclaimed as she went to work on his throat. Hishand flew up to massage his larynx. "Quite convincing, young
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