here!"

I shook my head. "Not me," I said. "I'm an accredited surgeon at this
hospital."

"What about her?" he growled, pushing Swartz away from him. "Get that
witch out of here!"

"A diagnosis is about to be made," I said, bringing Pheola to his
side. "And it would help if you shut up for a couple minutes."

He turned angrily to Swartz, but I had him pretty well cowed, and he
shook his head. "We could use some help, Mr. Maragon," he said. "There
are some anomalies in your EKG that this lady's Psi powers may help us
resolve. I should think that you, of all people, would want...."

"Oh, shut up!" he grumped. "You are ganging up on me. Go ahead," he
snapped at Pheola. "And get it over with!"

His gown had been pushed down from his shoulders for Doc Swartz's
stethoscope work, and the mat of graying hair on his chest was
exposed. Pheola laid a hand on his chest--she seemed to have a better
feel after a touch, just as I do with the weights. There was a dead
silence in the room as she stood there, eyes closed, and slowly ran
her fingers over his rib cage. After some minutes her eyes opened, and
she came back to my side.

"Still the same," she said. I nodded and looked over at Swartz.

"Well," Maragon growled, "have you ill-assorted characters agreed on a
diagnosis?"

"In a sense," I told him. "It's nothing that every doctor in this room
couldn't have guessed at without bothering to examine you. You're
sixty years old, and you've got sixty-year-old arteries. That's all."

[Illustration]

"Great," he said, reaching for the thin blanket that covered his
chunky legs. "Then I can...."

He stopped, and a spasm crossed his face.

It went away, and he slowly turned to face Pheola, a sort of angry
consternation coloring his features. "You witch!" he whispered. Then
the pain hit him much harder. "My arm!" he said.

There were doctors around him in a flash. He was still wired to the
EKG machine. "That's it!" the technician said. "The T-waves have gone
inverted!"

That meant damage--typical coronary damage. They chased us out, and we
sat in a kind of death watch in a waiting room, while Pheola cried
softly.

"Stop it," I said after a while. "Simply because you could foretell it
doesn't mean you caused it!" But it was no use.

In the afternoon Doc Swartz came out to tell us that the attack had
been mild. "Do you suppose Pheola could make another diagnosis?" he
asked. "We'd like to know exactly what is going on in t