"What about their guardians?"
"These patients have no guardians, no identity. And a guardian would be irrelevant as far as the ethical question is concerned – that is up to you. In the physician role, you’ve got to decide whether an experimental procedure – or even an established procedure – will have a greater chance of benefiting the patient than doing harm to him, and whether the possible benefits are worth the risk. And the patient must come first; not humanity, not science, but the patient. Only you can decide."
"I made that decision before I invaded Sally," Dalt replied with a touch of acid. "The gains were mutual: I would learn something, she would, hopefully, receive therapeutic value. The risks, as far as I could foresee, would all be mine."
Webst considered this. "Mr. Dalt," he said finally, "I think you and I are going to get along just fine." He extended his hand and Dalt grasped it firmly.
El came to his side and hooked her arm around his. "Welcome to the department," she said with a half smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "This is quite a turnaround from the man who swore a few hours ago that he was taking the next shuttle out."
"I haven’t forgotten that episode, believe me. I can’t quite accept the code you Tolivians live by as yet, but I think I’d like to stick around and see if it works as well as you say it does."
The viewphone had beeped again while they were talking. Webst took the call, then suddenly headed for the door. "That was Big Blue – Sally just woke up and asked for a drink of water!" Nothing more needed to be said; El and Dalt immediately fell in behind him as he made his way to the carport.
The last sanguine rays of the sun slipping into the plaza found the ambulatory patients clustered in hushed, muttering knots. And all eyes suddenly became riveted on the car that held Webst, Dalt, and El as it pulled up beside Big Blue. An elderly woman broke away from a small group and came forward, squinting at the trio in the waning light.
"It’s him!" she cried hoarsely as she reached the car. "He’s got the silver patch of hair, the flamestone, and the golden hand that heals!"
She clutched the back of Dalt’s suit as he turned away. "Touch me with your healing hand!" she cried. "My mind is sick and only you can help me! Please! I’m not as sick as Sally was!"
"No, wait!" Dalt said, whirling and shrinking away. "It doesn’t work that way!"
But the woman seemed not to hear him, repeating, "Heal me! Heal me!" And over he shoulder he could see the other patients in the plaza crowding forward.
Webst was suddenly at his side, his face close, his eyes shining in the fading darkness. "Go ahead," he whispered excitedly, "touch her. You don’t have to do anything else, just reach out that left hand and lay it on her head."
Dalt hesitated; then, feeling foolish, pressed the heel of his palm against her forehead. The woman covered her face at his touch and scurried away, muttering, "Thank you, thank you," through her hands.
With that, it was as if a dam had burst. The patients were suddenly swirling all around him and Dalt found himself engulfed by a torrent of outstretched hands and cries of, "Heal me! Heal me! Heal me! Heal me!" He was pushed, pulled, his clothes and limbs were plucked at, and it was only with great difficulty that El and Webst managed to squeeze him through the press of supplicants and into the quiet of Big Blue.
"Now you know why he’s at the top of his profession," El said softly, nodding her head toward Webst as she pressed a drink into Dalt’s hand, a hand that even now, in the security of Big Blue, betrayed a slight but unmistakable tremor. The experience in the plaza had unnerved him – the hands, the voices, reaching and crying for him in the twilight, seeking relief from the psychological and physiological afflictions burdening them; the incident, though only moments past, was becoming increasingly surreal in retrospect.
He shook himself and took a deep gulp of the drink. "I don’t follow."
"The way he sized up the situation immediately as mass hysteria and put it to good use: the enormity of placebo effect in medicine has never been fully appreciated, even to this day. There were a lot of chronically ill patients in that plaza who had heard of a man who performed a miraculous cure and they all wanted a piece of that miracle for themselves."
"But how did they find out?"
El laughed. "The grapevine through these wards could challenge a subspace laser for speed of transmission!"
Webst flicked off the viewphone from which he had been receiving a number of hurried reports, and turned to them, grinning. "Well, the blind see, the deaf hear, and the lame walk," he announced, then burst out laughing at the horrified expression on Dalt’s face. "No, nothing as dramatic as that, I’m afraid, but we have had a few remarkable symptomatic remissions."
"Not because of me!" Dalt snapped, his tone betraying annoyance. "I didn’t do a thing – those people only think I did."
"Exactly! You didn’t cure them per se, but you did act as a catalyst through which the minds of those people could gain some leverage on their bodies."
"So I’m a faith-healer, in other words."
"Out in the plaza, you were – and still are, now more than ever. We have a rare opportunity here to study the phenomenon of the psychosomatic cure, something which fascinates the student of behavior more than anything else. It’s the power of the mind over the body in action… we know almost nothing of the dynamics of the relationship."
("I could tell them a few things about that,") Pard muttered.
You’ve said quite enough tonight, friend.
"And you’re a perfect focal point," Webst added. "You have a genuine healing ability in a certain area, and this along with an undeniably unique appearance evidently works to give you an almost messianic aura in susceptible minds."
("Defensively worded in the best scientific tradition.")
Webst continued in lowered tones, talking to himself more than to anyone else. "You know, I don’t see why the same phenomenon couldn’t be duplicated on any other planet in the human system, and on a much larger scale. Every planet has its share of horrors cases and they’re all looking for a way to handle them. If we limit the amount of information we release – such as keeping your identity a secret – the inevitable magnification that occurs with word-of-mouth transmission will have you raising the dead by the time you finish your work here. And by then every human planet will be clamoring for your services. And while you’re reconstructing sick minds, Dr. Lettre and I will be carefully observing the epiphenomena."
"Meaning the psychosomatic cures?"
El nodded, getting caught up in Webst’s vision. "Right. And it would be good for Tolive, too. He-Who-Heals-Minds – pardon the dramatic phrasing – will come from Tolive, and that should counteract some of the smears being spread around."
"How does that sound, Mr. Dalt… or should I say, ‘Healer’?"
What do you think?
("Sounds absolutely wonderful to me, as long as we don’t start to believe what people will be saying about us.")
"Interesting," Dalt replied slowly, "very interesting. But why don’t we see how things go here on Tolive before we start star-hopping." He had a lot of adjustments to make, physically and intellectually, if he was going to spend any time here.
"Right!" Webst said, and headed back to the viewphone. "And I’m sure it’s been a long day for you. I’ll have the plaza cleared and you can return to your hotel as soon as you like."
"That’s not the place I had in mind," Dalt muttered to El, "but I guess the sunset’s long gone by now out there on the plain."
El shrugged warmly. "The sunrise is just as good."
INTERLUDE
A Soliloquy for Two
Can’t you do anything?
("I’ve already tried…a number of times. And failed.")
I didn’t know that. Why didn’t you tell me?
("I know how much she means to you, so I made the attempts on my own. The most recent was yesterday. When you entered her body, I entered her mind – that seems to be her most vulnerabl
e moment.")
And?
("The cells won’t respond. I’m unable to exert any influence over the components of another body. They simply will not respond.")
Oh.
A long pause, then an audible sigh.
All things must pass, eh?
("Except us.")
Yeah. Except us.
The Man with the Anteater
No discussion of galactic business, of course, would be complete without mention of Interstellar Business Advisers. Armed with the tried-and-true maxims of a free-market economy and a number of new and daring precepts for the conduct of business on an interstellar scale, IBA played an important part in shaping the course of trade in the galaxy.
The company was founded by one Joseph Finch, a man whose figure has taken on an almost mythical air in the annals of galactic trade. The most farfetched stories concern the period before the founding of IBA, when
Finch was still a resident of Earth–
Excerpt from Galactic Business: A History
by Emmerz Fent
ON A STEAMY SUMMER MORNING, Joe and Andy the anteater stepped out into their backyard and surveyed their domain. Thirty-eight, slight of frame and a bit on the homely side, Joe Finch didn’t exactly cut a heroic figure. But he was looked up to as a hero by many nonetheless. And there were, of course, many who thought of him as a stupid, eccentric, thick-headed, bull-headed reactionary. But they seemed to be in the minority.
You see, in a world that functions with the smoothness of a well-oiled machine, the man who insists on deciding when to shift his own gears becomes a hero of sorts. A man with few friends, who had yet to meet his wife, whose sister and brother-in-law, unable to cope with Earth any longer, were living as splinter colonists on a planet called Dasein II somewhere out in nowhere,
Finch was a loner. And in a highly collectivized, planned and patented society, loners, if they can avoid being swallowed whole and digested, become heroes.
Finch was mentally running through his plan to manipulate Arthur Gordon, Chief Administrator of Earth. Gordon was either a social idealist or a power-monger – the two not always distinguishable – and Finch knew from certain sources that Gordon was planning to manipulate him. The thing to do was to make Gordon show his hand before he was completely ready, and the strike going on at the Finch House plant right now could be the perfect lever.
“Stay here, Andy,” he told his pet. “And if you get hungry, help yourself.” Andy scanned the dry, virtually grassless yard and trotted off in the direction of a promising mound with his huge, furry tail held straight out behind him and his agile tongue seemingly licking his snout in anticipation.
“Don’t overdo it or you’ll have to go back on synthe-meat and formic acid,” Finch warned. Andy glanced over his shoulder and stuck out his tongue.
Finch went out front, started up an old transporter with the words Finch House printed on the sides and back, and drove off toward Pete Farnham’s machine shop.
AS THE LAST OF THE new equipment was being loaded, Farnham turned to Finch. “You sure you want to go through with this, Joe?”
“Look, Pete,” Finch said, wiping his forehead on his sleeve, “you designed this stuff so I’d be able to increase my output by about another half without increasing my overhead or labor costs.”
Farnham looked annoyed. “I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about the union… it’s on strike, remember? They’re very unhappy about losing their overtime.”
“If the union had its way,” Finch growled, “I’d still be using Gutenberg presses.”
“But it’s against the law to cross a picket line! Why don’t you just wait it out as usual or maybe bribe the union president? All hell’s going to break loose if you go through with this.”
Finch locked the back of the transporter with a solid click. “That might be just what I’m after. Besides, this is as good a time as any to challenge a rotten law. Gordon’s been pushing things a bit too…” His voice trailed off as he saw Farnham climbing into the cab. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“With you, of course,” Farnham replied and hefted a length of pipe. “I spent a lot of time designing that equipment and the only way it’ll ever get to prove itself is if you get to use it. Now let’s get moving.”
…the pickets/a truck in their midst/hey! /stop ’em! /get them! /Hold ’em/ don’t let ’em through! stop ’em!! Stomp ‘em!/but chain and bricks and barricades and bodies give way/a face looms/flail at it. /Someone fires a shot/miss! /The police arrive/made it!/The pickets are being held outside and the police will deal with you later…
JOE FINCH WATCHED the roiling crowds from atop the Earth Building. “You just can’t figure people, Andy,” he told the pet he had insisted on bringing with him. “They clamor for a law to be passed and then celebrate a man who breaks it.”
“I believe you’re oversimplifying the situation, Joe,” said a voice behind him.
Finch turned to see Arthur Gordon: big, graying, about sixty, the man on whose “invitation” he had come to the Earth Building. It was their first meeting and the Chief Administrator of Earth got things off on the wrong foot by calling him “Joe;” Finch believed first names were for personal friends only.
“Oh, how’s that, Arthur?” he replied, noting the CA’s wince.
“Well, I mean…it seems you’ve become a symbol to them–”
(My, what a phony smile you have, Arthur Gordon.)
“…a symbol of Individuality–”
(I’ll bet he uses a capital “I” when he spells that word.)
“And Individuality is something each of them feels he has lost.”
(Whose fault is that?)
“I imagine that some of them, deep in their hearts, actually hate you for maintaining a quality they’ve lost.”
(I can think of a few union roughnecks who won’t have to go that deep.)
“As a matter of fact–”
“Get to the point!” Finch finally interrupted. “Why did you ‘invite’ me here rather than have me arrested for breaking the picket law?”
Gordon’s fixed smile was replaced by one of a more genuine nature. “Okay, Mr. Finch, I will be more to the point, although what I’ve been saying isn’t far from it. Let’s go into my office.”
It was not until Finch was seated across the desk from him in the Chief Administrator’s spacious main office that Gordon began to speak.
“Mr. Finch, the reason I did not have you arrested is very simple: you are the only man on this planet who can be described as a hero.”
“I think you’ve got the wrong definition of a hero, Mr. CA. I’m not a hero. I’ve never done a heroic thing in my life. I may stand out in a crowd, but otherwise I think you’re overestimating me.”
Gordon frowned. “I don’t think I overestimate you at all. The public is hungry for an idol and you, unwilling as you may be, are the prime candidate. In fact your unwillingness to cooperate with the idol-seekers only increases your popularity. To them you’re the last of a rare species. Just look at you! You wander around with an antbear at your heels, you’re making a pile of money in an industry that should have been extinct shortly after the development of telestories, you had a shyster lawyer wheedle a private home for you so you could raise ants for that ridiculous pet of yours and now you’ve taken to busting picket lines!”
“Nobody keeps me out of my own business,” Finch stated flatly and finally.
“I wonder about that,” Gordon mused. “This is hardly the first strike at your plant… You’ve bargained with the union before, why did you choose to defy it this time? Planning to challenge the Picket Law?”
“Would it do me any good to try?” Finch replied in a noncommittal tone.
“Maybe. I never liked the law. Didn’t like it when it was passed and I like it even less at the moment.”
Finch cracked his knuckles. “The Picket Law is a natural consequence of legalizing the picket line. You see
, a picket line makes it possible to kidney-punch anyone trying to enter the building currently under siege and sooner or later you don’t cross a picket line if you know what’s good for you. Then, with typical political logic, crossing a picket line was declared illegal ‘in order to prevent violence during strikes.’”
Gordon snorted. “I’ve heard all this before, Mr. Finch. And I didn’t ask you here to reprimand your extralegal activities nor to discuss the Picket Law with you. Instead of having you arrested, I’d rather make a deal.”
“I had a feeling you’d find some use for me.”
The CA ignored the remark. “Look, Finch, here’s the situation: we’ve become an incredibly complex society here on Earth; the average man feels like a cog, feels a loss of worth. Oh, I know it sounds very trite but unfortunately it’s very true. We’ve been warned about this for centuries but it’s something that’s almost impossible to prevent, even when you can see it coming.
“You, however, have somehow overcome it all. You’ve bucked convention, legal restrictions… even technology! You’ve become a symbol of the Individuality people instinctively feel they’ve lost and want desperately to regain. And I’ve found a way to give it to them!”
Finch smirked. “How? Pills?”
Gordon was not in a light mood. “No, the plan’s a little more complicated than that. It’s a daring plan and will frighten people at first; they’ll want the end but they’ll balk at the means. Unless–”
“Unless what?”
“Unless someone they admire not only endorses it but actively pro- motes it.”
Finch shook his head as if to clear it. “Wait a minute. Let’s just go back a bit. You’re building up to the means and I don’t even know what the end really is supposed to be.”
Gordon strode to a bookshelf and pulled out a huge volume.