ience, from
the grinding of his square jaw to the fists he had rammed into his
hips.

"Lefty," he greeted me, "do they all have to _look_ alike? Where did
you get _this_ scarecrow?"

I could feel Pheola stiffen. I guess no woman, no matter how plain,
likes to be reminded of it.

"Same place you dig up those twitchy CV types you have spooking up
your outer office," I snapped. "There's nothing the matter with Pheola
that three square meals won't cure in a month!"

Maragon grunted. "And just what wonderful power do _you_ have, young
woman, that makes it worth while for the Lodge to fatten you up?" he
demanded.

She had plenty of spunk, I'll say that for her. "I have the power of
prophecy, and the gift of healin'," Pheola said, squinting at him.

He barked a laugh at her and went across the thick carpet to sit in
his swivel chair. It was a beauty of dark green morocco that matched
his Bank of England chairs and leather sofa that was against one of
the walls. "What's your favorite prophecy, young woman?" he wanted to
know.

Pheola smiled over at me. "Oh, no!" I groaned, but she nodded.

"Billy Joe and I are gettin' married," she told Maragon.

"Billy Joe?" he asked, scowling at me across his desk.

"That's me," I said. "Don't ask me where the name comes from."

"I couldn't care less," Maragon grumped. "Is it true? Are you going to
marry this bag of bones?"

I could feel my face getting red. "Not that I know of," I said.

He swung around in his chair to face her. "Young woman, someone has
told you how much the Lodge is interested in precognition. You
wouldn't walk in here claiming the power if you didn't know we want to
find it, and rarely can. But you certainly came ill-prepared. Going to
marry Lefty, eh? Why, you can't predict the right time!" He banged his
fist on the big slab of walnut. "You're a fake!" he said.

"I _ain't_ a fake!" Pheola protested. "We _will_ get married!"

"Drag her out, Lefty," Maragon said wearily, with a limp wave of his
hand.

"Come on, Pheola," I said, taking her arm with my right hand. I saw no
point talking with him any further.

"Lefty!" Maragon exclaimed.

"Yes?"

"You used your right arm! You can't _move_ it!"

"I can now," I told the old goat with relish. "Pheola told you she was
a healer. Well, she healed me a ... a couple days ago!"

He went for the jugular: "Have you ever done anything like that
before, Pheola?" he demanded.

[Illustration]

"Mostly small a