Part 11 (2/2)

He explained, ”The usual thing after someone visits this way, is that the visitor goes out itching. In medical circles this is a form of what we call 'Soph.o.m.ore's Syndrome.' Ever heard of it?”

I nodded. ”That's during the first years at pre-med. Knowing all too little of medicine, every disease they study produces the same symptoms that the student finds in himself. Until tomorrow, when they study the next. Then the symptoms in the student change.”

”Right. So in order to prevent 'Soph.o.m.ore's Syndrome' among visitors we usually let them study the real thing. Also,” he added seriously, ”we'd like to have as many people as possible recognize the real thing as early as possible. Even though we can't do anything for them at the present time, someday we will.”

He stopped before a closed door. ”In here is a girl of eighteen, doomed to die in a month.” His voice trailed off as he tapped on the door of the room.

I froze. A few beads of cold sweat ran down my spine, and I fought myself into a state of nervous calmness. I put the observation away, buried it as deep as I could, tried to think around it, and so far as I knew, succeeded.

The tap of Scholar Phelps' finger against the door panel was the rap-rap-rap sound characteristic of hard-tanned leather tapping wood.

Scholar Phelps was a Mekstrom!

I paid only surface attention to the rest of my visit. I thanked my personal G.o.ds that esper training had also given me the ability to dissemble. It was impossible to not think of something but it is possible to keep the mind so busy with surface thoughts that the underlying idea does not come through the interference.

Eventually I managed to leave the Medical Center without exciting anyone, and when I left I took off like a skyrocket for Chicago.

VII

Nurse Gloria Farrow waved at me from the ramp of the jetliner, and I ran forward to collect her baggage. She eyed me curiously but said no more than the usual greetings and indication of which bag was hers.

I knew that she was reading my mind like a psychologist all the time, and I let her know that I wanted her to. I let my mind merely ramble on with the usual pile of irrelevancies that the mind uses to fill in blank s.p.a.ces. It came up with a couple of notions here and there but nothing definite. Miss Farrow followed me to my car without saying a word, and let me install her luggage in the trunk.

Then, for the first time, she spoke: ”Steve Cornell, you're as healthy as I am.”

”I admit it.”

”Then what is this all about? You don't need a nurse!”

”I need a competent witness, Miss Farrow.”

”For what?” She looked puzzled. ”Suppose you stay right here and start explaining.”

”You'll listen to the bitter end?”

”I've two hours before the next plane goes back. You'll have that time to convince me--or else. Okay?”

”That's a deal.” I fumbled around for a beginning, and then I decided to start right at the beginning, whether it sounded c.o.c.keyed or not.

Giving information to a telepath is the easiest thing in the world.

While I started at the beginning, I fumbled and finally ended up by going back and forth in a haphazard manner, but Miss Farrow managed to insert the trivia in the right chronological order so that when I finished, she nodded with interest.

I posed the question: #Am I nuts?#

”No, Steve,” she replied solemnly. ”I don't think so. You've managed to accept data which is obviously mingled truth and falsehood, and you've managed to question the validity of all of it.”

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