white. A window, or what seemed to be a window, was closed. There was a distant hum of power. He was alone. Experimentally, he raised his head. There was no soreness. He moved each limb in turn, sat up, put his feet off the edge of the bed. He felt good. He looked around for his clothing. The door opened. He scrambled back under the sheet as the woman came in crisply. «Well, look at us. All bright and chipper.» Luke swallowed, his face flushing. «Hey, how about my clothes?» «Ah, we feel that good, do we?» The woman, smiling, walked on padded feet to what he'd thought was a window but what was actually a small door which opened outward into the room. The woman removed a folded, white garment, tossed it onto the bed. «Here. Try that for size.» Luke crouched under the sheet. «Well, put it on!» Luke squirmed uncomfortably. «Oh, all right,» the woman laughed. She paced out of the room. Luke stood. His legs almost gave way. He had little strength. He lifted the one-piece coverall. It seemed to weigh a ton. He managed to step into it and sat down, exhausted. The door flew open. The bouncy woman was back. «Ah, not so chipper after all, huh?» «I'm all right,» Luke said. «Feel like walking?» «I don't know,» Luke admitted. «Just sit tight.» She was gone again. She came back with a wheelchair. Luke sat. She moved him briskly out of the room, down a hall. There were no windows anywhere. The air, however, was clean and fresh. The lighting was recessed into the ceilings. People passed, nodding, brisk, moving about their business as if it were of some importance. Nearing a door, the woman turned, backed into it, pulled Luke and the chair through after her, wheeled him around with a swiftness which made his head go dizzy for a moment. The white-haired man sat behind a huge desk. There was a nameplate on the front on the cluttered desk top. Dr. Zachary Wundt. He
looked up, smiled. In the clear light of the office Luke could see dark spots on the skin of this man's face. «How do you feel?» «Fine,» Luke said. «Sore.? Weak?» «Yes,» Luke said. Behind him the woman shifted from foot to foot. «That will pass,» Wundt said. «I imagine you have some questions.» «Well, gee…» Luke said, not knowing where to start. «OK,» Wundt said. «You're two hundred feet below the surface of the Earth. Never mind what particular section of the Earth. You're with friends. You were brought here from Old Town under the influence of a drug with an unpronounceable name which made your metabolism slow down to a crawl. To the naked eye of one not experienced in medicine, you were dead. You're here because you did something the other night in Old Town which interested the Brothers—and us.» «The healing—» Luke had not understood it all, but he knew the man in the white coat was talking about the healing, about his power. «The healing. We want to know how you did it.» «Oh, God,» Luke said. «I told them. I've told you.» Wundt smiled. «Sure, son. You've told us. We believe you. It's not unknown, you know. Others have healed with a certain—power. Not as spectacularly as you did, I'll admit. But the phenomenon is not unknown to us. A fellow named Jesus.'—-Luke caught a quick breath, shocked by the casual reference to the Lord—'did it. Some of his people did it. Preachers from time to time have healed, in minor ways. We just want to talk with you about the—power. Maybe have you try to use it again. OK?» «I guess so,» Luke said. «Can I ask you something'?» «Shoot,» Wundt said. «Are you a—a—doctor'?» «I am.» «You can heal?» «Some things,» Wundt said. «We can heal some things. We can't make a belly wound close up instantaneously, however.» «And you took me away from that place,» Luke said. «Why?» «Hummm,» Wundt mused. «There's no simple answer to that, my boy.
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
