The Right Time Part 1

The Right Time.

by Walter Bupp.

The trouble with prophets is that if they're accurate, the news won't do you any good, and if they aren't accurate, they're no good. Unless, of course, they're more than just prophets....

WALTER BUPP

"Don't let the old goat rattle you, Pheola," I said as we rode the elevator to the penthouse. "He'll try. Just remember, he is the one who has to say O.K. if we are to give you some training."

Her eyes rolled and she moaned softly, clinging to my arm. "Oh, Billy Joe!" she whispered. "I _don't_ want to fail you!"

Maragon has some pretty creepy types in his office and the receptionist that day was no exception. She was one of those twitchy hyper-thyroid clairvoyants that he likes to test.

"Don't tell me," the receptionist twitched proudly as we came in. "I know!" She got up from behind her desk and led us to the Grand Master's private office.

I intended to make her guess whom I had with me, but that didn't bother her. "Dr. Walter Bupp and Pheola Rountree," she announced smugly. Clairvoyants live in a condition of perpetual thrill with their powers.

Maragon's penthouse office has gla.s.s walls on two sides. He was prowling back and forth in front of his desk, sharply lit by the bright sunlight that streamed in. His gray shock of hair glistened, and his bushy eyebrows shaded his face. He radiated impatience, 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 s.p.u.n.k, 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

"Mostly small ailin'," she said, squinting and backing away from his desk defensively. "Never nothin' as big as findin' the weak spot in Billy Joe's haid. But I _told_ you I had the power of prophecy and the gift of healin'."

I suppose her degree of humility decided him. "She can stay," Maragon said. "Look into this healing thing, Lefty. But, for the love of Mike, don't waste time with her precognition."

Pheola moaned, then keened, and waved her hands in front of her face, as if to ward off a swarm of bees. "My healin' won't do you much good, you nasty old man!" she said in a shrill voice. "You'll git a pain, _sich_ a pain," she insisted, pressing her hand to her heart. "It will like to kill you, and it nearly will!"

Maragon laughed at her again. "A young witch!" he proclaimed. "I'll bet you scared half of Posthole County into fits with dark remarks like that. Take her away, Lefty!"

Pheola didn't break her silence until I showed her into the apartment adjoining mine in the Chapter House. The Lodge Building is a hundred stories high, and most of it is devoted to offices that we rent out to doctors, lawyers and the like. We only use a part of the place--there just aren't that many Psis around--and save a few floors for apartments for members permanently a.s.signed, as I am, to Lodge duties.

Pheola stood stiff and unseeing in the apartment, her fists clenched at her sides, plainly in no shape to appreciate her rooms. They were in the usual good taste I always a.s.sociate with a Psi decorator.

"How could I let you down, Billy Joe!" she said to me, as soon as the door to the corridor had closed behind us.

"Oh, stop it!" I snapped, giving her a shake. "Weren't you ever wrong in a prophecy before?"

She squinted to see me better. "Does it make you hate me?" she asked.

"Yes, I've been wrong lots of times," she admitted. "But not about marryin' you. How does he know I'm wrong?"

"He doesn't," I growled. "He just doesn't believe in precognition.

What little we see of it in the Lodge is so erratic that you can't count it as a proven Psi power."

"Then maybe I _am_ right," she pressed me.

"Not if I can help it," I said sourly. "I'm in no mood to get married.

Mostly I want to give you some advice. O.K.?"

She made cow eyes at me. "You know you can, Billy Joe," she said.