Alan's thoughts were ranging in all directions as he leaned closer over Stu's back. This thing had to be removed, probably with a wide excision, and as soon as possible, too. He was trying to think of a way to phrase his suspicions without shooting Stu's blood pressure through the ceiling when he lightly touched a fingertip to the dark area.
The now-familiar feeling raced up his arm as Stu arched his back.
"Shit, Doc!"
"Sorry," Alan said quickly. "Just seeing how sensitive it is."
Alan stared at the man's back. The lesion was gone! There was no trace of pigment left in the area.
He looked at his hand. So many unanswered questions, but they sank in the exultation of knowing that he still had the power.
"Well, now that you know," Stu said, "what are you going to do—amputate my back?" The tone was sarcastic but Alan sensed the fear beneath.
"No," Alan said, thinking fast. "I'm just going to burn off that ugly little wart you've got there, and then you can try out for Mr. Universe."
"A wart? Is that all?" There was profound relief in his voice.
"It's nothing," Alan said, realizing he was literally telling the truth. "I'll get the hyfrecator and we'll have this done in a minute."
Alan stepped outside the room and took a deep breath. All he had to do was anesthetize the area, make a little burn where the lesion had been, and send the unsuspecting Stuart Thompson home cured of a malignant melanoma. That way he could avoid any difficult questions.
Then he heard Stu's voice from the other side of the door.
"Hey! It's gone! Hey, Doc! It's gone!"
Alan stuck his head back into the room and saw Stu examining his back in the mirror.
"What are you? Some kinda miracle worker?"
"Naw," Alan said, swallowing and trying to smile. "It must have fallen off. That's the way it is with warts sometimes… they just… fall off."
Alan brushed off the ensuing questions, all the while minimizing what had happened, and ushered the puzzled but happy man from the examining room.
He ran to the next examining room—empty! The ceiling light was off and the room was clean and ready for the afternoon patients.
But the afternoon would be too late! He needed somebody now, not later! He was hot! The power was on and he wanted to use it before it left him again! Denise and Connie were getting ready to go for lunch. Both were in excellent health. There was nothing he could do for them.
He turned in a slow circle, wanting to laugh, wanting to shout his frustration. He felt like a millionaire who had decided to give his fortune to the needy but could find only other millionaires.
For want of anything better to do, he rushed into his office and picked up the microcassette recorder. He had to get all the details down while they were fresh. He thumbed the record button, opened his mouth… and stopped.
Funny… he couldn't think of the patient's name. He could picture his face perfectly, but his name was lost. He glanced down at the appointment sheet. There it was in the last slot: Stuart Thompson. Of course. Amazing how a little excitement could jumble the mind.
He began dictating—time, age and condition of the patient, his own feelings at the time. Everything.
He was going to cage this power, learn everything there was to know about it, train it, bend it to his will, and make damn good use of it.
In the back of his head he heard Tony Williams of The Platters singing, "You-oo-oo've got the maaaaagic touch!"
MAY
___11.___
Charles Axford
McCready had invited him to the upper office for another of what the senator liked to call "informal chats." Charles called them pumping sessions. Which was just what they were. As namesake of the Foundation, McCready seemed to feel it was his prerogative to sit down with his director of neurological research and quiz him on the latest developments in the field. Perhaps it was. But Charles knew the Foundation was the furthest thing from the senator's mind when he asked about neurological diseases. The interest was strictly personal.
As he waited for the senator, he wandered to the huge windows that formed the outer walls of the corner office. If he leaned his head against the panes of the left wall, he could see Park Avenue and its flowering islands twenty stories below.
The door opened and McCready hobbled in. He fell into the big padded chair behind his desk. He wasn't looking good at all these days. His features sagged more than usual, and he had to tilt his head back in order to see past his drooping upper eyelids. Charles made a quick mental calculation: Six months and he'll be in a wheelchair.
He had known the man all these years; he owed his present economic security and prestigious position to him; yet he found he could not dredge up a bloody ounce of pity for James A. McCready. He wondered why. Perhaps it was because he knew what drove the man who had been born with more money than he could spend in two lifetimes. He had been present during some of the senator's most unguarded moments, and had seen the naked power lust shine through. Here was a man who could be President merely by choosing to run. Yet he could not run, and Charles was one of the few people in the world who knew the reason.
Maybe it was all for the best. Men like McCready had brought Great Britain to the edge of economic ruin; perhaps Charles' adoptive country was lucky that this particular senator had an incurable disease.
He seated himself and listened to the questions: Always the same: Any new developments? Any promising lines of research we can encourage?
Charles gave his usual answer: No. He used the Foundation computers to keep tabs on all the medical literature worldwide. As soon as anything of the slightest potential interest to the senator showed up in the most obscure medical journal in the remotest backwater, it was flagged and brought to his attention. The senator could access the information as readily—perhaps more readily; after all, they were his computers—but preferred "a personal touch" from Charles.
In other words, he wanted Charles to predigest it and spoonfeed it to him.
Well and good. Charles kept up on the field anyway. Small price to pay for the latitude he was given in his research at the Foundation.
The conversation followed its usual course to its customary dead end, and Charles was getting ready to make his exit when the senator shifted to a new topic.
"What did you think of Dr. Alan Bulmer when you met him?" His voice was getting weaker and raspier as the afternoon wore on.
"Who?" Charles drew a complete blank on the name for a second.
McCready prompted him: "You met him at that Nash woman's party last month."
"Oh, the G.P.! I don't—" And then it occurred to Charles: "How did you know I met him?"
"There's been some talk about him."
"What kind of talk? This wouldn't have anything to do with his testimony before the committee, would it?" Charles knew that it was not good to get on the bad side of Senator James McCready.
"Not at all, not at all. That's over and done with, gone and forgotten. This talk has to do with healings. Cures. That sort of thing."
Charles groaned mentally. Here we go again: another try for a bloody miracle cure.
McCready smiled. The expression seemed to take a lot of effort. "Now, now, my esteemed Dr. Axford—don't get that cynical look on your face. You know I like to investigate every one of these faith healers. One of these days—"
"Buhner's no faith healer. He's a bloody ordinary family practitioner. And I stress the word ordinary. You're going to drive us both dotty if you keep looking for a miracle!"