His gown had been pushed down from his shoulders for Doc Swartz's stethoscope work, and the mat of graying hair on his chest was exposed. Pheola laid a hand on his chest--she seemed to have a better feel after a touch, just as I do with the weights. There was a dead silence in the room as she stood there, eyes closed, and slowly ran her fingers over his rib cage. After some minutes her eyes opened, and she came back to my side. "Still the same," she said. I nodded and looked over at Swartz. "Well," Maragon growled, "have you ill-assorted characters agreed on a diagnosis?" "In a sense," I told him. "It's nothing that every doctor in this room couldn't have guessed at without bothering to examine you. You're sixty years old, and you've got sixty-year-old arteries. That's all." [Illustration] "Great," he said, reaching for the thin blanket that covered his chunky legs. "Then I can...." He stopped, and a spasm crossed his face. It went away, and he slowly turned to face Pheola, a sort of angry consternation coloring his features. "You witch!" he whispered. Then the pain hit him much harder. "My arm!" he said. There were doctors around him in a flash. He was still wired to the EKG machine. "That's it!" the technician said. "The T-waves have gone inverted!" That meant damage--typical coronary damage. They chased us out, and we sat in a kind of death watch in a waiting room, while Pheola cried softly. "Stop it," I said after a while. "Simply because you could foretell it doesn't mean you caused it!" But it was no use. In the afternoon Doc Swartz came out to tell us that the attack had been mild. "Do you suppose Pheola could make another diagnosis?" he asked. "We'd like to know exactly what is going on in there." I looked over at her. Her eyes were red, and her pointed nose showed too frequent use of her handkerchief, but she nodded, and followed us back to Maragon's room. Maragon was resting quietly, and didn't have a word to say as Pheola ran her hands carefully over his chest. It was the only time I could remember when the old goat hadn't had some sharp word for me. Pheola opened her eyes and led us out into the corridor. "The smaller bump is gone," she said. "The other one feels very soft. It sort of sways every time his heart beats." "Absolute quiet," was Doc Swartz's answer. "There's a chance that clot will dwindle, erode, and harden up. But obviously we want to keep him as quiet as possible to make that take place." "You had better know," I said quietly. "Pheola predicts it will break loose in a couple days and kill him." "How accurate is she?" he said, looking sideways at where my witch stood crying. "We'll get some ideas on that yet today," I told him. "Evaleen Riley, another one of our PC's, doesn't agree on the death part, and she's pretty good." I turned to Pheola. "We had better go over to see Norty Baskins," I told her. "We _have_ to know if you're right or not." "I'm right," she said, wiping her eyes.