isfied with his own normal skills.
"Well, this girl is a very delicate telekinetic," I told him. "She is
the one who brought my right arm back to life. She's good."

"She must be," he agreed. "I know that stumped every neurologist over
here."

"Right," I said, "She has been exploring the insides of Maragon's
heart."

"What!"

"Sense of perception--light TK touch--anything you want to call it. I
can get her to demonstrate, if you insist. But you can take my word
for it. She can feel her way around inside your body the way you can
feel your way around the outside."

"And what is her diagnosis?" he said, irritated now. _He_ was the
heart expert.

I told him about the clots, and he nodded as he got the picture. "A
classic description," he agreed. "But what can we do about it? Clots
like that are next to impossible to break down. If they flake away in
too big a chunk, they can kill."

"I know," I agreed. "But there is more to the story. Pheola is a
precog as well. She says that one of the clots will break loose on the
nineteenth, and that Maragon will have an attack. I want to make sure
he is over here, in a hospital bed, with you on hand, when it
happens."

"You Psi's!" he said. "Do I have to take this seriously, that this
woman can tell the future?"

"Yes, you do," I said. "One of our other PC's confirms it."

"That just doubles the creepiness," he said. "How can I manage it,
even if it's true?"

"Tell the old goat that more detailed examination of his EKG makes you
want him in for observation. Even Maragon listens to doctors. Tell him
whatever it takes to get him to bed that morning. You might even bring
him in the night before."

Doc Swartz shrugged. "I guess I'll have to play your game," he
decided. "But this had better be good!"

* * * * *

I never did learn what Doc Swartz told the Grand Master, or how much
the old goat suspected. But I learned from my hospital sources that
Maragon was scheduled to enter the heart clinic the night of the
eighteenth for "tests."

I let Pheola set the timing for us, and we showed up at his room
around ten on the morning of the nineteenth, shortly before Pheola
predicted his heart attack would occur.

The old goat was sitting up in bed as he was being examined by Doc
Swartz and another sawbones. Leads from the EKG led from his chest and
wrists. He fired one scorching glance at the two of us.

"What is this?" he demanded. "Get out of