Zach Hughes - The Stork Factor

It opens up the entire subject and I don't think you're ready for it. Let me just say that not everyone feels about the world as the Brothers feel.» Luke was pushed away, back to his room. The woman was cheerful, talkative. However, when Luke questioned her about the place, about the man named Zachary Wundt, she merely laughed and told him he'd have his questions answered sooner or later. «The thing for you to do is get some rest,» she said, holding a glass of water and a small, round pill somewhat like Newasper. Luke swallowed. He slept. He awoke and was wheeled to a room with fantastic instruments all around a hard table. He

felt blissfully peaceful. He didn't mind at all their probings, pokings, the indignities which ordinarily would have made him livid with shame and outrage. They probed his anus. They told him to drink thick, milky liquid. Machines moved and hummed and clicked. He was suspended halfway between sleep and awareness. Their voices were quiet, and seemed to come from a great distance. Back in his room, he slept. The next day there was more. Small spots were shaved on his head, cold little plates attached. Wires ran in a bewildering array to winking, moving machines. And through it all the woman he'd first seen was there, pushing little capsules into his mouth from time to time, serving food, talking cheerfully about nothing. Then he was, once again, in the office of Zachary Wundt. He'd had no capsules that morning. He felt alert. His legs no longer threatened to collapse when he stood. He walked to Wundt's office, sat upright in a comfortable chair. «Well, my boy, has it been too bad?» «No, sir.» «You've had what is known as the works,» Wundt said. «The works?» «We know more about you than you do. Inside and out. We've got you down right here.» He held up a sheaf of papers. Luke looked puzzled. «You're in good shape, considering. A few cavities in your teeth, an irritated stomach lining, crud in your lungs, enlarged adrenal glands,

heart a bit oversize as a result of the overactive adrenals. The usual things

you find in a city dweller. Your brain is of normal size. You've got the usual crud in your bloodstream, potential disease and all. We're clearing that up. Can't do anything about the adrenals except advise long walks in the country—» He chuckled. «The country. Hah!» «I don't get it,» Luke said. «No. You wouldn't.» He frowned. «We've got more tests for you, I'm afraid. We've cut off the sedative—» It was all strange to Luke. All the words. He felt as if he'd been lifted into a foreign country. Nothing was familiar. He felt dizzy, uneasy. «—but you're recovering nicely from the shakeshock and after we run a few more tests on you we'll be able to get down to work.» Luke nodded. Somehow he felt he could trust the white haired man. And it didn't really matter. Now that he could think clearly again, he was confused. He'd found a great and valuable gift from God, his healing power. That gift should have gained him instant acceptance as a full Brother. Instead, it got him shakeshock, and not in therapeutic doses. Then this. «You won't be seeing me for a few days. I've got to get back to the city. It seems that Brother Murrel has a cold.» The name registered with Luke. But before he could question Wundt, the white-haired man went on. «You'll be looked after in good style by Miss Caster. If you need anything, just ask her.» He read letters and symbols from a chart on the wall. Listened to tones, telling them when he could hear and when he couldn't. He put little pegs into holes in a brightly painted board. For three more days he was shuttled from room to room, from efficient young man to efficient young

man. Then, in a pleasantly lit, white room, he sat in a plastic chair in front of a table. Wundt and some of the men he'd seen in the previous hectic days sat at the table. They talked about him and to him. He learned that the medical treatment, which was continuous, was clearing up the

irritation in his stomach, was dissolving the foreign material in his lungs.

He learned that he was of average intelligence. He started to question that, for he could read, and that was more than anyone he knew in Old Town could do. Wundt, as if sensing his objection, explained. The measure was of potential, not of learned matter. In short, he was merely a man, not a superman with hidden mental powers. Luke understood. They were trying to define his power. «It comes from God,» he said. «Yes,» Wundt said. «We know.» They wanted him to heal. «Here?» he asked. One of the men had a small cut on his hand. He extended it toward Luke, the hand, soft and clean, lying palm down on the table. «I can't,» he said. «Try.» He tried. He put his hand on the man's hand and said. «Heal!» He even prayed. But he didn't feel it. There was too much strangeness. The room

was too quiet. There were no traffic noises, no people, no Techs or Fares or Tired looking on with burning eyes, no muted «amens» from the audience, no feeling. «I—I have to preach,» Luke said. «Would you?» Wundt was leaning forward. «We'd very much like to hear.» He tried. But their calm faces stared at him. No feeling. He told the

story of the birth of Christ. He prayed. He told them that to be healed, one must have faith. He used his mind, but there was no feeling. «Heal.» Nothing happened. «That's all right, Luke. Don't worry.» «Conditions not right—» «Under field conditions, perhaps—» «—set up simulated conditions—» In a large space without windows people gathered. They were dressed as city people. Yet there was something wrong. The Tireds looked too robust, too healthy. None of them coughed blood from lung sickness. The Fares were too contented. The Techs too quiet. Luke, dressed in his own clothing, preached. He prayed. He put his hands on people with minor complaints. «Heal! Heal!» His hand shaking. Their heads held in his palm, shaking with his force. Nothing. «It's no use,» he told them. «I don't feel it.» He didn't say that he felt, also, their lack of faith. They had been kind to him. «He can't go back to Old Town, that's for sure.» «They think he's dead. His records will have been pulled and destroyed.» «We can't risk it.» «I agree,» Wundt said. «If one of his acquaintances recognized him and reported another miracle—a resurrection—» They were in the conference room. All the crisp young men and Wundt. And Luke. Being talked about, not to. «I think it's a waste of time.» «There were three dozen witnesses,» Wundt said. «They saw. Now if it had been healing a cancer or the lung sickness or menstrual disorders—» «They could have been mistaken. Ignorant people—» «It's hard to miss a belly wound,» Wundt said. «And at least three Fares saw the intestines hanging out.» «It's too risky.» «No one would know him in Middle City,» Wundt said. «If there's the faintest chance—» One of the crisp young men. «Luke,» Wundt said, speaking directly at him for a change, «do you think you could feel, the, uh, power if you went into the city and preached?» «I—I don't know,» Luke admitted. It seemed so long ago, the healing. And trying to create the feeling of power artificially had left him numb, left him feeling slightly guilty, as if he'd been asking God to perform on cue. «Would you be willing to try?» «I guess so.» «Then there's only the question of who will go with him,» Wundt said. «I'd like to go,» said the crisp young man who had indicated his willingness to experiment if there were the slightest chance of discovering Luke's power. «How about it, Luke? Is Carter all right with you?» «You mean you want him to go and watch me preach?» Luke asked. «Yes.» «I don't know,» Luke said, thinking about how he'd feel with the young man looking over his shoulder. No faith. Only what they called scientific interest. «I really don't think—» «What?» Wundt asked. «We want you to be perfectly frank.»