The Stork Factor

by Zach Hughes

  then, far off, he saw the face. An old face. White hair. A man's face close to his. Fingers at one eye, lifting the lid. «Can you see me?» «Yes,» Luke said. «Good. Now I'm going to let you sleep.» When he awoke the soreness was there. Not much pain as long as he didn't try to move, but flaming soreness when he lifted his hand and let it

  fall back weakly. The face He could see it more clearly. «Just take it easy, boy. You won't be able to move for a long time. You see, they hit you so hard it tore down all the muscle fiber. It's as if you had exercised every muscle in your body for ten hours at maximum potential.» Bite of needle at his arm. «Just something to help you.» Numbness. Later. «Do you feel like talking?» The man's face was close. He had blue eyes, a beard, wrinkles, gray hair. «Yes,» Luke said. «It was faith. God gave me a sign.» «Easy. They're not here.» He could see clearly. The man was dressed in white. The room was white. A table nearby was laden with strange, gleaming instruments bottles, containers. «I had the power,» Luke said. «I know, I know. Now listen to me. They'll be back for you soon.» «Oh God—» «Just listen. I'm a friend. What did you use to heal that Fare?» «Oh, God,» Luke said. «It was the power.» «I'm your friend. Tell me. Did you have tools?» «No,» Luke said. «God gave me a sign.» «Medicines?» «No.» «This is important,» the man in white said. «Very important. I'm not the one who put you on the rack, boy. I'm your friend. Tell me, exactly, how you did it. Tell me how you felt. Tell me everything you can remember.» Luke told him. He told him about the healing, how, at times, he had the feeling he could see inside people. He told him about knowing that there was something wrong inside the woman's side when he put his hand on it, how he straightened things in there, how the pain left her, how he felt. He told how the Fare's stomach was cut, how he stuffed the things, the coils, the pulpy, hot wet things back in with his hands, how he saw the light in the heavens. How he felt the power. «Where did you feel it?» the man in white asked. «Here,» Luke said, holding his stomach. «It shot into me there and—» «Burn?» «Kinda,» Luke said. «Funny. But I knew it was the power And I could feel the way the things were supposed to be inside the Fare and I put them together with my mind—» «With your mind?» «—the power,» Luke said. «Do you think you could do it again'?» «I don't know,» Luke said. «All right,» the man in white said. «They're going to be coming back for you soon.» «Oh, God, no.» Luke said. «I couldn't stand it.» «No, you couldn't,» the old man said, «not with that maniac jolting it to you at three-quarters power.» He lifted Luke's hand, held it for a long moment, his fingers looped loosely around Luke's wrist. «Hummm.» «Why are they doing this to me?» Luke asked. He felt a strange warmth for the white-haired man in the white coat. «Because you're rocking the boat, boy.» «Huh?» He started to add that he didn't understand, but the white-haired man put his finger to his lips. «You just lie here,» the white-haired man said. «Don't open your eyes and don't make a sound no matter what you hear, do you understand?»

  Actually, it was what Luke wanted to do, lie perfectly still, only his chest moving with his breathing, his heart pounding, blood flowing through his veins. There was a soreness in his chest which pulsed with the beat of heart, as if his very heart muscle were tired. He heard voices. He recognized the voice of the Brother who had put him on the rack. His pulse pounded, but he made no movement. «Have you not revived him?» «I'm a doctor, not a miracle worker.» «You will address me with the respect which is my due.» «Sir.» The word oozed with contempt. «You bastards think the universe turns around you. Remember, my friend, no one is indispensable.» «Indeed, Brother. I agree. And, so, I think it would be only democratic for you and the rest to realize that and take your chances with the general populace.» «I can put you on the rack, doctor.» «Sure you can. And sometimes I think that would be the best thing. It would be quick with me. I'm not young and strong like this fellow.» «The arrogance of these quacks—» «Who keep you and others like you alive—» «I order you to be silent.» «Yes, sir.» «This criminal. Why is he not revived?» «Because you've almost killed him.» «Nonsense. I want him aware. I want to question him.» «Then talk with your God. I have done all I can.» Luke held his breath. He'd never heard anyone talk to a Brother in such a manner. And the remark about God. It sounded, in tone, like rank sacrilege. He expected the wrath of the Brothers and of God to fall upon the old man. But there was a moment of silence. He heard movement, felt the nearness of someone, kept his eyes closed. «When will I be able to question this Lay?» «Do you mean put him back on the rack?» «If necessary.» «It may not be necessary. You may have killed him already.» Luke felt a touch of fear. But the man had told him he would be all right. «I want this man to talk!» The Brother's voice was hard. «I will do my best, but I'm afraid that his heart was damaged. I've told you that these people, who are beset by every pestilence known to medicine, who have never had the first minute's care, cannot survive under your methods of questioning. If you insist on sending a killing shock through them, I can only warn you again that they will not talk. You don't talk when you're dead.» Luke felt like crying out. They were talking about him. The man in white was talking about him! He was the one who was dying! But, with the great, exhausted numbness in him, he lay still, breathing evenly. «If you let this one die, I'll—» «You'll do what?» The old man laughed. «A long time ago a man said, there is no satisfaction in hanging a man who does not protest. All you can do, Brother, is kill me. And sometimes I think that wouldn't be too bad.» The Brother made an angry sound. «Let me know the minute he revives.» Then there was a movement. Silence. Then, «All right, son. He's gone.» Luke opened his eyes. «What you said—» «About you dying?» He chuckled. «Don't worry. You're strong as a horse. I don't understand why, but you're in better shape now than most who have not been shocked.» He put his hand on Luke's arm. «We're going to get you out of here .» Then, with a smile, «But you're going to have to die to do it. « «Huh?» Panic. His heart thudding. Soreness. Pain. «At least they'll think you're dead. You won't be, I assure you.» He was doing something with a long, gleaming needle. Luke watched fearfully. He flinched away. «You

  won't feel anything. You'll go to sleep. When you awaken you'll be in a safe

  place. You'll be able to hear but you won't be able to move.» The needle bit. «Relax. You're safe. Safe.» Safe. Safe. Safe. The word rebounded in his skull. A wave of dizziness came over him. Then a numbness spread. He felt himself going limp, felt his breathing slow, halt. Yet there was no panic. His heart thudded, bumped, slowed and then, seemingly, it stopped. Waves of peace billowed up, covered, engulfed him. And he was not breathing and his heart was stopped and the soreness no longer bothered him and he could hear the old man moving about, making a thin, whistling sound through his teeth,

  heard the clicks, the voice. «Tell your boss he won't be able to question this one. He's dead.» And long periods of silence and someone talking as he floated on a sea of softness and dim light and they were talking about him, about his body. «—keeping you alive—need subjects—train young doctors—-body—» and the time suspended and then a floating and other sounds, some known, some not known and traffic around him, ground-car movement and peace, peace. CHAPTER SEVEN «Where am I?» «You're safe. Safe.» Safe, safe, and safe safe safesafesafe… Coolness. The bite of a needle in his arm. A low sound of music. Clean air. Coolness at his lips. Swallowing. «Am I in heaven?» A low laugh. «Not quite.» Time passing endlessly. Coolness Comfort. Clean, sweet air. Chewing.

  Sweet taste. His eyes still closed. Soreness. Moving his arms. People lifting, moving, pushing, rubbing. He awoke. Light, a cool, early morning light. He could see. A form moved when he tried to raise his head. He was in a huge bed. «Ah, we're awake, are we?» A feminine voice. He turned his head. A female face near. He shrank. «How do we feel?» He was naked under a sheet. He felt ashamed. A woman close and him naked under the sheet. Coolness at his lips. «Drink this.» Swallowing. And when next he awoke, full awareness. The room was large, clean, white. A window, or what seemed t
o 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—» «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.»