"Stop acting like an old goat, you old goat," I snapped at him. "I'll give you a prediction of my own: You'll be sick enough to die, but we'll find a way to do something about it." "Well, now _you're_ a PC!" he huffed. I like to think I have a little, now and then. It's ever so short in range, and highly erratic, but I have had my flashes. "Just one thing," I said to him. "As a surgeon who has done a lot of heart work, I want you in the heart clinic on the day these witches say you're going to be sick. It will certainly make a lot of us feel better, and the worst that can happen is that you can tell both those witches they don't know the right time." I didn't get to first base. "Now I'll tell you something, Wally Bupp!" he said loudly. "I was fool enough to pay attention to what that witch of yours said, and I've had a complete checkup. The heart people can't find a thing the matter with my heart. The devil you say! I won't go near your hospital. Now get out of here and don't give me another word about the PC powers of that fraud." * * * * * I let a week go by after that, not quite able to figure out what I should do. One night, after a dinner that Pheola had cooked for me as part of her transparent scheme to convince me she was God's own gift to Lefty Bupp, I raised a question with her. "You are still sure," I said, loading the dishwasher, "about Pete Maragon?" "Yes," she said. "He'll have a heart attack." "All right. Exactly when?" "The nineteenth. Thursday," she said. "We've got to pin point this thing," I said as we went back to her living room. "Do you think you are ready to do some serious diagnosis?" "Of the Grand Master?" she asked me. "Sure. I can get you into his office without too much trouble. What I want you to do is feel around inside his heart. The sawbones from the clinic can't find anything out of line, and I think you can. Can you PC that?" She smiled at me. "Of course," she said. "You'll take me there in the morning." I did, of course. Maragon gave us an appointment when I assured him that I wanted to show him some aspects of Pheola's healing powers and that PC wasn't going to enter into the discussion. His spooky clairvoyant let us in with a knowing smile and we found the old goat pouring over some papers in front of him on the big slab of walnut. He was really quite nice to Pheola. "Well, well, young woman," he said, "Lefty tells me that you are coming along." "I hope so, Mr. Maragon," she said. "Well, Lefty," he said, after he had shown us both into the handsome chairs he had drawn up in front of his desk, "you were going to have Pheola give me some kind of a demonstration." "Sure," I said. "First off I want you to know that she can qualify as a TK. Her healing powers are a subtle form of that. But as proof, she'll give a demonstration with weights." I drew the carrying case from my pocket and laid four pith balls on his desk, as well as a ten-gram standard TK weight.