to any other human ability, and I wanted Pheola to be at her
best. But around lunch-time we dropped over to see Doc Swartz, and I
explained to him what I thought Pheola could do for Maragon.

"I doubt that clot has had time to get any better," he said. "If
Pheola examines him now and finds it as big as ever, and still soft
and flexible, I think we should entertain your idea."

Pheola made a trip up to Maragon's room, and returned. "Just the
same," she said. "He looks so tired."

"He's not so bad, better than he looks," Swartz said stoutly. "And you
can still feel the clot?"

"Yes."

He turned to me. "Pheola," I said. "Now the question is whether you
can help break it up. Maragon's blood stream is not eroding the clot.
Perhaps it has a sort of envelope of firmer fibrin around it,
something that keeps it from breaking down. The question is whether
you are sensitive enough, and have enough control, to get a good grip
on the clot, and start breaking it up by tearing away at its surface.
It certainly has very little mechanical strength, and you have several
grams of TK in the lab. What do you think?"

The whole idea scared the devil out of her, but we went back to
Maragon's room together, where she felt for the clot with a new
outlook on the problem. After some minutes she nodded, and we went out
in the corridor to put our heads together.

"I think I can do it, Lefty," she said. "But what if something goes
wrong?"

"It won't," I said. "Evaleen Riley says that he isn't going to die,
and I believe her."

"O.K.," said Doc Swartz. "I'll put it up to him."

"I'd put it this way," he said to Maragon, when we had gone back into
his room. "We can keep you here in bed for a while, but sooner or
later you are going to feel well enough to leave, and we won't be able
to make you stay. The first time you do anything that gets your heart
going a little faster than it does lying here, that clot will break
loose and kill you."

"The big thing," I reminded him, "is that Evaleen can't find that you
are going to die. That argues that we are going to succeed."

"And this witch?" Maragon asked, moving his head slightly to indicate
Pheola.

"No reading at all for the next couple days," I said. "She's a
periodic PC."

"I'll bet!" he said. He was beginning to feel better. "Well, go
ahead."

Pheola went over to his side, carefully pulled the blanket down, and
with help from the nurse, drew his gown down from over his hairy
ches