t. She laid hands on him and stood there for many minutes with her
eyes closed.

"I'm doing it," she said at last. "I have sort of peeled off the top,
and I can shred it away, a little at a time."

"How long will this take?" Maragon grumbled, already beginning to
sound more like his old self.

"A couple hours," she said. "And hush!"

At Doc Swartz's suggestion I stayed there with Pheola. "She depends on
you, Lefty," he whispered.

Toward the end of the two hours they were giving Pete anti-coagulant
injections. "No sense letting another clot form just as soon as Pheola
breaks up this one," Swartz said. "This way we have a good chance that
the open wound will form some scar tissue. Sure, the artery will have
lost some flexibility, but the danger of another coronary will be
past."

They consider the first six days the danger time. At the end of that
period Pheola confirmed that the open sore was gone and that both
areas of clotting had been repaired by Maragon's body's own
restorative processes. They let him out of the hospital at the end of
another week.

* * * * *

I went to see him with Pheola the first day that he spent back at his
desk. He didn't seem in any way changed by his ordeal. I suppose, when
you live as close to all the manifestations of Psi as Pete does, that
very little can surprise you.

"Well, young woman," he said to her, getting up to bring her one of
his Bank of England chairs. "The sawbones tell me I have you to thank
for my life. And better than that, they feel there are a number of
delicate TK's around who can be trained in your diagnostic techniques.
This ought to be quite a thing in preventing coronaries."

"Thank you," she said. "I was so frightened that I would let Lefty
down a second time."

"A second time?" he said.

"I was wrong about your dying," she reminded him. "I'm wrong so much
in my predictions. I guess I'll just have to forget about that."

* * * * *

He looked over at me. "What about it, Lefty? Can we consider Pheola a
PC, or is she merely a TK?"

I grinned at him. "She is probably the most accurate PC in the Lodge,"
I said to him. His eyebrows went up, and Pheola shook her head.

"Accurate," I repeated, "if you'll let me define accuracy."

"Define it."

"According with some definite series of future events," I said.
"That's my definition."

"But I thought you said she's only right now and then,"