He shook himself and took a deep gulp of the drink. "I don't follow."
"The way he sized up the situation immediately as mass hysteria and put it to good use: the enormity of placebo effect in medicine has never been fully appreciated, even to this day. There were a lot of chronically ill patients in that plaza who had heard of a man who performed a miraculous cure and they all wanted a piece of that miracle for themselves."
"But how did they find out?"
El laughed. "The grapevine through these wards could challenge a subspace laser for speed of transmission!"
Webst flicked off the viewphone from which he had been receiving a number of hurried reports, and turned to them, grinning. "Well, the blind see, the deaf hear, and the lame walk," he announced, then burst out laughing at the horrified expression on Dalt's face. "No, nothing as dramatic as that, I'm afraid, but we have had a few remarkable symptomatic remissions."
"Not because of me!" Dalt snapped, his tone betraying annoyance. "I didn't do a thing—those people only think I did."
"Exactly! You didn't cure them per se, but you did act as a catalyst through which the minds of those people could gain some leverage on their bodies."
"So I'm a faith-healer, in other words."
"Out in the plaza, you were—and still are, now more than ever. We have a rare opportunity here to study the phenomenon of the psychosomatic cure, something which fascinates the student of behavior more than anything else. It's the power of the mind over the body in action ... we know almost nothing of the dynamics of the relationship."
("I could tell them a few things about that,") Pard muttered.
You've said quite enough tonight, friend.
"And you're a perfect focal point," Webst added. "You have a genuine healing ability in a certain area, and this along with an undeniably unique appearance evidently works to give you an almost messianic aura in susceptible minds."
("Defensively worded in the best scientific tradition.")
Webst continued in lowered tones, talking to himself more than to anyone else. "You know, I don't see why the same phenomenon couldn't be duplicated on any other planet in the human system, and on a much larger scale. Every planet has its share of horrors cases and they're all looking for a way to handle them. If we limit the amount of information we release—such as keeping your identity a secret—the inevitable magnification that occurs with word-of-mouth transmission will have you raising the dead by the time you finish your work here. And by then every human planet will be clamoring for your services. And while you're reconstructing sick minds, Dr. Lettre and I will be carefully observing the epiphenomena."
"Meaning the psychosomatic cures?"
El nodded, getting caught up in Webst's vision. "Right. And it would be good for Tolive, too. He-Who-Heals-Minds—pardon the dramatic phrasing—will come from Tolive, and that should counteract some of the smears being spread around."
"How does that sound, Mr. Dalt ... or should I say, 'Healer'?"
What do you think?
("Sounds absolutely wonderful to me, as long as we don't start to believe what people will be saying about us.")
"Interesting," Dalt replied slowly, "very interesting. But why don't we see how things go here on Tolive before we start star-hopping." He had a lot of adjustments to make, physically and intellectually, if he was going to spend any time here.
"Right!" Webst said, and headed back to the view-phone. "And I'm sure it's been a long day for you. I'll have the plaza cleared and you can return to your hotel as soon as you like."
"That's not the place I had in mind," Dalt muttered to El, "but I guess the sunset's long gone by now out there on the plain."
El shrugged warmly. "The sunrise is just as good."
Interlude:
A SOLILOQUY FOR TWO
Can't you do anything?
("I've already tried ... a number of times. And failed.")
I didn't know that. Why didn't you tell me?
("I know how much she means to you, so I made the attempts on my own. The most recent was yesterday. When you entered her body, I entered her mind—that seems to be her most vulnerable moment.")
And?
("The cells won't respond. I'm unable to exert any influence over the components of another body. They simply will not respond.")
Oh.
A long pause, then an audible sigh. All things must pass, eh? ("Except us.") Yeah. Except us.
YEAR 271
The Healer's advent coincided with a period of political turmoil within the Federation. The Restructurist movement was agitating with steadily increasing influence for a more active role by the Federation in planetary and interplanetary affairs. This attitude directly contradicted the laissez-faire orientation of the organization's charter.
His departure from human affairs occurred as political friction was reaching its peak and was as abrupt as his arrival. Certain scholars claim that he was killed in a liner crash off Tarvodet, and there is some evidence to support this.
His more fanatical followers, however, insist that he is immortal and was driven from his calling by political forces. Their former premise is obviously ridiculous, but the latter may well have some basis in fact.
from The Healer: Man & Myth by Emmerz Fent
X
The Healer, the most recognizable figure in the human galaxy, stood gloved, cloaked, cowled, and unrecognized amid the small group of mourners as the woman's body was tenderly placed within the machine that would reduce it to its component elements. He felt no need for tears. She had lived her life to the fullest, the latter half of it at his side. And when the youth treatments had finally become ineffective and she'd begun to notice a certain blurring on the perimeters of her intellectual function, she ended her life, calmly and quietly, to insure that she'd be remembered by her lover as the proud woman she had always been, not the lesser person she might become. And only The Healer, her lover, knew how she had died.
The wrinkled little man next to him suspected, of course. And approved. They and the others watched in silence as the machine swallowed her body, and all drank deeply of the air about them as it became filled with her molecules, each witness trying to incorporate into himself a tiny part of a cherished friend.
The old man looked at his companion, who had never deigned to show a year's worth of aging in all the time he had known him—at least not on the surface. But there had been strain and fatigue growing behind the eyes during the past few years. A half century of sickness and deformity of mind and body, outstretched hands and blank eyes lay behind him and possibly endless years of the same awaited him.
"You look weary, my friend."
"I am." The others began to drift away. "It all seems so futile. For every mind I open, two more are reported newly closed. The pressure continually mounts—'come to us'—'no, come to us, we need you more!' Everywhere I go I'm preceded by arguments, threats, and bribes between vying clinics and planets. I seem to have become a commodity."
The old man nodded with understanding. "Where to now?"
"Into private practice of some sort, I suppose. I've stayed with IMC this long only because of you ... and her. As a matter of fact, a certain sector representative is waiting for me now. DeBloise is the name."
"A Restructurist. Be careful."
"I will." The Healer smiled. "But I'll hear what he has to say. Stay well, friend," he said and walked away.