"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.
The wrinkled man gazed wistfully after him. "Ah, if only I had your talent for that."
Sector Representative DeBloise had for some time considered himself quite an important man, yet it took him a few minutes to adjust to the presence of the individual seated calmly across the desk from him, a man of unmistakable appearance who had gained almost mythical stature in the past few decades: The Healer.
"In brief, sir," DeBloise said with the very best of his public smiles, "we of the Restructurist movement wish to encourage you to come to our worlds. You seem to have made a habit of avoiding us in the past."
"That's because I worked through the IMC network in which the Restructurist worlds refuse to participate ... something to do with the corps' support of the LaNague charter, I'm told."
"That's part of it." The smile became more ingratiating as he said, "Politics seems to work its way into everything, doesn't it. But that's irrelevant now, since it was the news that you'd no longer be with IMC that brought me here to Tolive. I want you to come to Jebinose; our Bureau of Medicine and Research will pay all your fees."
"I'm sorry," The Healer said slowly, "but I deal only with patients, not with governments."
"Well, if you mean to come to Jebinose and practice independently of the Bureau, I'm afraid we couldn't allow that. You see, we've set very high and very rigid standards for the practice of medicine on our planet and I'm afraid allowing you such license, despite your reputation, would set a bad precedent."
"If a patient wishes my services, he or his guardian should be free to engage them. Why should some bureau have anything to say in the matter?"
"What you ask is impossible," DeBloise said with a shake of his head. "Our people must be protected from being duped by frauds."
The Healer's smile was rueful as he rose to his feet. "That is quite evident. And thus Jebinose is not for me."
DeBloise's face suddenly hardened, the smile forgotten. "It's quite evident to me, Healer"—he spat the word—"that you've spent too much time among these barbaric Tolivians. All right, play your game: but I think you should know that a change is in the wind and that we shall soon be running the entire Federation our way. And when we do, we'll see to it mat every planet gets its fair share of your services!"
"Perhaps there will be no Healer, then," came the quiet reply.
"Don't try to bluff me!" DeBloise laughed. "I know your type. You glory in the adulation that greets you everywhere you go. It's more addicting than Zemmelar." There was a trace of envy in his voice. "But Restructurists are not so easily awed. You are a man—a uniquely talented one, yes, but still just one man—and when the tide turns for us, you will join in the current or be swept under."
The Healer's eyes blazed but his voice was calm.
"Thank you, Mr. DeBloise. You have just clarified a problem and prompted a decision that has been growing increasingly troublesome over the past decade or so." He turned and strode from the room.