YOU ARE FORBIDDEN!

By JERRY SHELTON

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Thrilling Wonder Stories, June 1947.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


Dr. Jules Craig, P.L.L., was unhappy. He was famous. He was young. He
was talented, healthy, successful. He carried the distinguished degree
of P.L.L. He had everything!

But he was unhappy.

He sat at his tastefully furnished desk, shuffling the Life-Line
charts of the patient seated across from him. The patient awaiting the
diagnosis was nervous.

Poor devil! Craig thought. This man is going to die. He doesn't know
it--and I can't tell him.

A wave of pity swept through him, intensifying his own brooding
unhappiness. Despite the fact he had instructed his psycho-color
experts to design his inner consultation office in as soothing a
shade as scientifically possible, the patient was sweating profusely,
awaiting the verdict. The room was comfortably air-conditioned.

The patient was a little fat man. The face was putty-white. Eyes
shifty, breathing rapid, voice shaky and twisting of the hat. This
man would be dead in three weeks, and he, Dr. Jules Craig, had to lie
to the man. With an unpleasant sensation, he summoned his resolution,
looked at the name near the upper left-hand corner of the charts, and
spoke.

"You have no cause for worry, Elder Wayman," he said. He forced his
voice to sound as smoothly professional as possible. "The diagnosis of
your Predictable Life-Lines are clear and definite. I know this matter
has been a strain upon you, but you cooperated well. Your own reports,
and the necessary Crystaleen Cell you have been wearing during these
last three months gave all the details I needed."

He began to shuffle the Life-Line charts again as if reading them. He
heard his voice go into the routine patter used on such unfortunate
cases as this.

The irony of what his professional voice was saying to this little fat
man burned another scar into his heart. The Predictograph had predicted
this man would be dead within three weeks--and that wondrous, complex
machine never erred. Yet, because of "Medical Ethics," he heard himself
giving this innocent patient the old conversation, professionally
used in such unhappy cases: "--everything is all right--" and, "your
Life-Lines show a happy future--" and, "--you will be successful--"
and, "--happy--" and, "--you should relax and enjoy yourself now that
you have your future Life-Lines completed." He also said other things.

       *       *       *       *       *

Craig felt sick. The Predictograph had predicted this little fat man
would be killed in three weeks--in an accident! A gyro crash, with fire
and an unpleasant death.

Outwardly, Dr. Craig knew he appeared cool and professional. But
inwardly, his brain seethed and raged with questions that lashed his
conscience.

If only the Supreme Medical Council would permit him to tell this man
_not_, on pain of death, to get into any gyro--perhaps this little fat
man wouldn't die. But, _Quote_:

"You are forbidden to tell a patient his true future when it is
unfortunate."

"You are forbidden!" the Supreme Medical Council said.

Craig gritted his teeth. He knew the Degree of Predictable Life-Lines
was the highest medical degree a human could attain. But cases like
this made him doubtful that he should have ever worked for his P.L.L.

Why couldn't this be prevented? The question reminded him of what he,
himself, was going to do today. He was going to break his oath! He
intended to do something that the Supreme Medical Council had said was
forbidden! His resolve, like a shot of adrenalin, strengthened him. He
would carry out his plan.

He heard his voice speaking.

"Since your charts predict a happy, successful and--" the untrue word
almost stuck in his throat, "--long life ahead of you, I suggest, now
that your Life-Lines are completed, you go home, forget about your
business, and the few little minor troubles I mentioned, and celebrate.
You have fulfilled the Galactic Federation requirements by completing
your Predictable Life-Lines and you are entitled to throw a real party."

He forced the professional twinkle into his eyes.

"Of course the Predictograph hinted you will have a
super-hangover--after your party."

As the little fat man's tension broke and he began to chuckle, Craig
nodded.

"You know the machine can't pick up small sensory lines like
hangovers," Dr. Craig said. "We can learn only the major facts of your
future with the usual possible ten-percent error of course."

He made himself smile.

"So perhaps you won't have a hangover. But if you react to such a
splendid report as this, as most of my patients do, then you will throw
a real brawl that should give you that super-hangover." He extended
his hand. "Good-by! Speak to my secretary, Miss Evans, on your way out
about the balance on your account. And congratulations."

The door closed behind the patient. Craig's head dropped. One more
hopeless case he had lied to. He sat motionless at his desk. He let
the lids close over his eyes, as his broad forehead wrinkled with
conflicting thoughts. Unpleasant thoughts.

The Predictograph _never_ missed! For the trained operator like
himself, it picked up everything down to the slightest detail. He
shouldn't have worked so long, so hard, to earn his P.L.L. He was
beginning to realize he wasn't the psycho-type for this sometimes
unhappy business. Patients with happy futures made him happy in turn.
But when he diagnosed a future full of heartbreak, he couldn't remain
cool and impersonal.

He continued to sit there, thinking of what he intended to do this day.
He noticed the palms of his hands were becoming slippery with sweat. He
could feel his heart beginning to hammer as if it were terrified. His
breathing felt cramped and smothered.

Today was _his_ day! He was going to learn his own future. Not in
sugar-coated, pink-pill form, with any future horrible happenings
omitted. He was going to know his _true_ future. If the Supreme Medical
Council found out that he was violating his doctor's oath, they would
break him without mercy. But if he succeeded with his plan, it would
forever guide humanity along paths of happiness undreamed.

       *       *       *       *       *

He tried to pick up a cigarette. His hands were shaking so badly he had
to make three attempts before he got it into his mouth. He puffed it
alight. He managed a short laugh. Like all patients about to receive
the diagnosis concerning their future life, he was nervous too. And
patients were always told nice little "medical white-lies," if their
futures were hopelessly unfortunate, instead of the truth.

But if there were bad times ahead of him, he would know them, down to
the slightest horrible detail, before this day had crawled by. The
cigarette was dry and tasteless.

"Doctor Craig?"

He jumped, startled. A blurred image before him sharpened into focus.
It was his secretary, Miss Evans, crisp in her cool white uniform,
standing across the desk from him.

"I plugged my call light into your interphone minutes ago," she said.
"You didn't answer." She glanced at the brightly glowing signal on the
desk, then at the doctor. "Is there anything wrong?"

He shook his head, switched off the light and mashed the life out of
the tasteless cigarette.

Miss Evans pressed her lips together. "Electro-Transport just sent over
your reservation. Your passage is arranged at Grand Terminus, through
Booth Two-Seventeen. You'll be transmitted at Hour Eleven Hundred.
Here is your ticket. I got you a round trip." Her voice, usually so
impersonal, trembled on the last word. "Can I do anything else, Doctor
Craig? Your face is so pale."

"Everything's fine," he mumbled. "After I leave, I want you to check
on that last patient. Find out about his family, his insurance and all
that. Be discreet of course. He has about three weeks left."

"Oh!" gasped Miss Evans. "Another one?"

"Yes, his lines are very definite. Find the usual angle, if you can,
to see that his family gets the medical fee back through some sort
of anonymous donation. If the family needs it in your opinion, add a
thousand credits."

"But, Doctor Craig!" She hesitated. "You can't afford to keep giving
away your money."

"Don't worry, Freckle-nose," he said, uttering the pet name before he
thought.

The girl burst into tears. "Oh, Jules," she sobbed. "I know it's still
business hours, but I can't stand it any longer." Her brown eyes wet
with the long pent-up tears, blinked at him pleadingly. "Please, honey!
Can't you tell me? Can't I help you? Why are you going to Mars? I'm so
worried about you."

"Freckle-nose!" He moved from behind the desk and pulled her to him.
"Don't worry. After today, I promise we'll have a lot of fun together.
Just don't worry. That's all I can say until tonight when I return.
I've got an idea, and if it works out, it might change the destiny of
the human race." He lifted her chin and kissed her on the tip of her
freckled nose. He forced his voice to sound cheerful. "You got another
freckle there since this time yesterday."

The girl was trembling. She held him tightly a moment, then pushed
herself from his arms. She straightened her hair and assumed her
secretary manner.

"Right, Doctor Craig. When shall I expect you?"

"That's the girl!" He knuckled her under the chin. "I'll be back
late--at about Seventeen Thirty Hours. Wait for me and we'll find a
nice noisy spot somewhere, where we can resume our usual discussion
about who is going to ask who to marry whom, and when and where. Okay?"

He stepped through the door, picking up his hat in the outer room. A
thought swung him around.

"When a report is transported from Doctor Praggor concerning a patient
named Bradbury, don't file it. I will want to see it first, tonight!
It's a special case." He watched the door close slowly, shutting out
the framed vision of a freckle-nosed girl in a crisp white uniform
watching him with worried eyes.

He took a lift to the roof and signaled a cruising gyrocab. He climbed
in, giving the Electro-Transport Grand Terminus address stamped on
his reservation. As soon as they were air-borne, the cabbie pulled up
to the two thousand-foot level and since traffic was light, they made
good time. Below, the city drifted slowly behind like a chessboard of
rioting colors, studded with gargantuan chessmen.

       *       *       *       *       *

Craig settled back into the pneumatic seat and tried to relax. His
muscles refused to obey. They shrieked their nervous alarm at him now
that he was beginning to carry out the long-awaited, final phase of his
plan.

There was no turning back. It was too late to hesitate now. His own
life, his reputation and perhaps the happiness of countless billions of
humans, yet unborn, depended on his courage.

A sickening doubt raced through him. How ironical it would be, if, when
he appeared before his old classmate, Dr. William Praggor, P.L.L.,
presenting again the false name of William Bradbury as he had done
three months previously, Praggor should suddenly recognize him as Dr.
Jules Craig, P.L.L. Praggor would be compelled to report he had broken
his oath! The Supreme Medical Council would be merciless.

If he were recognized, he wouldn't get a chance to finish the last,
most important part of the experiment. And this experiment would force
him to risk far more than his career--risk his own sanity!

Perhaps Praggor wouldn't recognize him this time either. They had
changed during the long busy years since graduation. Praggor had become
soft and fat, while he, Craig, still possessed the lean hard body of
his youth. But his thick dark hair was graying at the temples. That
graduation day had been only eleven years ago.

He remembered the silver-haired speaker, the head doctor whose name
he couldn't even recall, walking to the center of the raised platform
adjusting his glasses.

"Youngers, I congratulate you. You are about to receive the degree of
P.L.L., the most sacred degree ever intrusted to man! The road behind
you has been mind-racking. But now you hold in your brains the ability
to determine the Predictable Life-Lines of any patient who, having
received his order from the Galactic Federation when they have decided
his life lines are necessary, will come to you for his diagnosis.

"The Galactic Foundation has its own vast Bureau of Public Records
which, in combination with our services, has succeeded in keeping
peace in our system for two centuries. Our work is vital to the proper
functioning of their methods. But their own investigations are not to
be put aside lightly.

"Their departments of mass psychology, propaganda, environmental and
racial trends and all the rest of their methods, so necessary to keep
a Galactic Empire running smoothly, are at your disposal to make an
accurate diagnosis of the particular individual. Where the Federation
deals in masses--you in turn have been trained to deal with the
individual."

The doctor had paused to clear his throat impressively.

"Youngers--I know all of you have wondered about your own futures," he
had continued. "What I am about to say now is such a top-secret matter
that it is only revealed at this last moment of graduation. All men
want to know their futures. That is their natural right." His voice had
become firm. "But when you accept this degree of Doctor of Predictable
Life-Lines, you will have forever severed yourself from normal humanity
and the right to know your future. You are now declared a breed of man
apart. You will never learn your own future. There is a reason for
this, and the Galactic Federation is confident you will never cause
trouble. No man who has ever stood in this room a Younger and walked
out a doctor, has ever violated his oath. You have been investigated
far more than you know. But all of you are human."

The speaker softened his voice.

"In a few moments you will be issued your own personal Predictograph.
It will be your life-long companion. It is attuned and geared to you
personally. It is part of you. While you have been students you worked
with standard models to learn their functions.

"But the machine you will receive will be different. Do not think for a
moment you can tell your own future with your own Predictograph. You
cannot! It has a built-in principle guarding against that unfortunate
possibility should you ever try to violate your oath.

"We have never tried to foretell your futures for you, since once
you have worn the Crystaleen amplifier-recorder cell necessary for a
Life-Line diagnosis for the required three months, the Supreme Medical
Council has decided it upsets the delicate attunement of a Doctor of
P.L.L. to his own Predictograph, upsets it to a degree which interferes
with accurate diagnosis.

"It is unwise for any man to know his own exact future. Danton Marko,
the inventor of the Predictograph, proved that two centuries ago when
he diagnosed his own future and went hopelessly insane in three weeks."

       *       *       *       *       *

The voice boomed suddenly like the clang of metal upon metal, and
gathered itself into a rising crescendo of sound.

"Mankind has enjoyed peace for two centuries. The peace has proven that
the Galactic Federation is right in compelling each human to submit,
at the proper age of his development, to a Predictable Life-Line
diagnosis. Consequently, no single human, has been able to succeed in
planning disorder and chaos to a serious degree before being stopped.

"I admit that seems to be a paradox. I admit your logical minds may
question this paradox and ask: If a human is forced to have a Life-Line
made and his future indicates he is going to try to breed trouble
and unrest, he must be executed. This fact will naturally show up
in his diagnosis, which immediately must be filed with the Galactic
Federation. Therefore, are you, as a doctor of P.L.L., responsible for
the man's death, since you revealed he would cause trouble?" He raised
his hand as if to stifle any sudden comment.

"It is a puzzling question, Youngers. The same as which was first--the
chicken or the egg? There are things concerning the phenomena we deal
with which we do not understand as fully as we some day hope to. But
you have your sacred trust and obligation to file with the Council and
Federation all Life-Lines you diagnose.

"Mankind has had no war for centuries. But mankind's massed life force
and intelligence is a terrible, powerful blind energy that could wreck
the entire Universe if it were not guided and controlled into the
proper channels.

"Isn't it better to sacrifice a few--instead of a billion?" The lines
in the lecturer's face became grim. "Youngers, as the years slip by,
and you find yourself with a patient whose future is although not
dangerous but full of misery and agony--always remember your training
and your oath: You are forbidden to tell him his unhappy future and
you are forbidden to tamper with your machine to tell your own future.
Those are your medical ethics. Younger Praggor, step forward!"

Craig remembered how Praggor had mounted the platform a Younger and
stepped down a Doctor, P.L.L. Like himself, minutes later. Eleven years
ago. Eleven years of stepping aside and permitting men and women to
walk blindly ahead to their doom. Eleven years of lies. Of cheating
himself of his own self-respect.

These were some of the reasons he had decided to break his oath! He
would make himself a guinea-pig. He would have his own future diagnosed
in a way that he would know beyond the shadow of a doubt if he could
actually _change_ his own Predictable Life-Lines. That was why he had
sent Praggor that letter three months ago:

                                                 25, Augusti, 243 G. T.
                                              Stanton-Greenstone Center
                                                 5th, Wing, 82nd, Level
                                                    Greater NYC--EARTH.

    TO: Dr. William Praggor, P.L.L.
        Manya Clinic
        New Paris, MARS

    Dear Bill:

    Sending you patient, Earthian rank of Younger, Ben Bradbury. Would
    run case myself but since he is friend, feel he has been too close
    to me for that. Suggested he see you for more impersonal diagnosis.
    He will probably request appointment pre-lim consultation within
    week. Send his charts to my secretary before you file them with
    Council.

                                                    Jules Craig, P.L.L.

He had been nervous, three months ago, when he had presented himself
to Praggor's secretary with the false name of Bradbury. He had hoped
the report he would turn in would be complete enough that Praggor
would not have to go to the Federation's files for more data. If that
happened, since the name of Ben Bradbury wouldn't be found in the
files, he would be exposed immediately and all chance of making the
experiment lost forever to him.

       *       *       *       *       *

But Praggor's secretary had seemed cold and indifferent, like a
machine. And although he had sweated out the fear Praggor would
recognize him when he was admitted to the inner office, he saw that
Praggor hardly even looked at him. Just another patient....

The sudden whine of the vanes of the gyrocab as it began to drop
toward the landing-stage snapped him back to the present, and its
new problems. He gradually pulled himself together as he saw Grand
Terminus swell and expand in size beneath him. He felt the landing
gear bump. He climbed out, paid the cabbie and walked to the
information desk presenting his reservation for transport.

In a bored voice, the clerk issued instructions for finding Booth
217. Down the corridor, through the hall, down the lift, and into the
booth. The attendant ripped off the receipt, opened the door. Craig
entered and sat down in the metal chair. He waited.

His hands still felt wet. He tried to reason with himself that there
was no sense in getting nervous now. That could come _after_ he
diagnosed his own charts.

Distantly, he heard the attendant drone:

"Grand Terminus, Earth--calling New Paris, Mars. Reservation
Twenty-six B. Doctor Jules Craig, Earthian, awaiting transport, Booth
Two-Seventeen to New Paris. Please verify. Over."

The lights inside the booth were bright, hot and dazzling. He
could hear the vague hum and whir of the scanners as the invisible
technicians adjusted the transmitting beam in relationship to his
mass. The spacial chit-chat, with no time lag since it was sub-ether
stuff, was incomprehensible to the layman. It continued:

"New Paris, Mars, to Booth Two-Seventeen, Grand Terminus, Earth.
Doctor Jules Craig, Earthian, in sync for transport. Will adjust.
Over."

Craig felt a tingle sweep through him, and as it continued, he puffed
a cigarette alight. He blew a swirling cloud of smoke.

"New Paris to Grand Terminus. Adjustment complete on Two-Seventeen. Go
ahead. Over."

Craig tensed himself against the unpleasant sensation of a bad
transport. But he felt nothing. He waited until the "All Clear" signal
flashed, and stood up. It had been a smooth trip. Even the puff of
smoke had come along with him.

He waited half a minute until the lights blinked off and walked
through the opposite door. It had been as simple as that. No
sensation. Good transport.

The air was thin and cold. His breathing quickened, and since he
felt a bit dizzy he made his way slowly to the nearest move-walks.
He noticed, however, that he could breathe more easily than the last
time he had come to Mars to see Praggor. That meant the Federation,
at last, was beginning to get some results with the new oxygen-output
machines.

The Manya Clinic swarmed with patients. The lift shot him up to
Praggor's office. The waiting room was crowded and the unsmiling
secretary took his false name without comment. He found a place to
sit, and began to wait.

Irritated, Craig pulled out a cigarette and tried to smoke, but his
hands shook so noticeably and the cigarette tasted so muggish, he
threw it away.

The waiting was nerve-racking. Good grief! he thought. Is this the
refined mental torture all _his_ patients went through in his own
waiting room? Is this why all his patients were so nervous despite his
efforts to assure them worrying wouldn't help things? Is this the way
they felt while waiting for his diagnosis--with the mind building up
possible or imaginary terrible future happenings?

Craig noticed his hands were sweating more than ever, and furious with
himself, he tried to clench them together as if to push the cold,
clammy moisture back where it came from. He had never considered this
part of a diagnosis so seriously before.

       *       *       *       *       *

Without warning, the nasty little thought he had been trying to fight
down and out of his consciousness ever since he had started the
experiment struck him like a blow from an invisible fist.

"Is this experiment too big for one man, Doctor Craig?"

Would there be an inevitable punishment for trying to tamper with the
lines and forces of space and time? Were humans still too small and
insignificant and ignorant to try to sway the very basic structure of
the entire Universe?

Relentlessly, the long submerged, nasty little voice beat at his brain
with questions.

"Suppose, Doctor Jules Craig, by breaking your oath, you learn your
future is to be a fearsome thing crammed with disease, heartbreak,
disfigurement and an early painful death and that it is impossible to
change your future? Is that why Marko went mad? Can you keep your own
sanity?"

[Illustration: Chaotic thoughts rushed through Dr. Craig's mind and he
wondered whether he dared read his report from Praggor.]

He almost shouted aloud. He realized he was sitting stiff and tense on
the edge of his chair. He took a desperate grip on himself and forced
his body into a more relaxed pose.

He waited, with the sweat drenching his body.

"Younger Bradbury?" The secretary was calling him.

Wearily, he stood up and walked into the inner office. He saw Praggor
sitting behind his desk, fatter than the last time. He wondered if the
doctor would recognize him at this last moment.

Praggor didn't. Praggor hardly looked at him as he shuffled charts
importantly, looking professional.

"Younger Bradbury, your great day has come. You have finished your
P.L.L. Nice report. Notes you supplied my secretary were exact."
He looked oddly at Craig. "You know--your reports were almost as
complete as if a doctor himself had made them out. Usually it is
difficult to convince a patient of the importance of detailing every
movement, contact, every bit of food and drink, every thought so as
to enable the machine to get the Life-Lines well centered and to wear
the Crystaleen Cell at all times. But you followed my instructions
perfectly."

Praggor laughed and continued: "Of course your charts have the small
error of ten percent which we always have to allow for. Some of your
unimportant detail lines are fuzzy."

A blasting fear, like exploding petrol, swept through Craig. Here he
was sitting in front of a desk, waiting for a diagnosis, the most
important thing in his life--and he had to listen to this kind of
rubbish! Error of ten percent? The machine never missed! With the care
he had taken, checking his own behavior, he knew he had turned in
probably the most accurate report ever filed into any Predictograph.
He had wanted to be sure.

He listened, the fear inside of him growing and swelling until it was
choking him in the throat, as the doctor spouted off with medical
rubbish that sounded like Page 310, of Chapter IV, of Marko's "The
Necessity of Telling the Patient What He Wants to Hear."

This was a diagnosis like telling futures with tea-leaves and
palm-reading, when he wanted to _know_! And now Praggor was giving
him the old stuff about: "--you'll take a nice long trip--" and "make
money--nothing to worry about--celebrate--" and the chuckles about,
"--a beautiful blond with long legs--"

Praggor wasn't telling him the _truth_! There never would be a blond
with long legs. All he wanted was Freckle-nose. Praggor was lying to
him! The thought rose up monstrous in his mind. Good heavens! What did
it mean?

"I'll send these charts to Doctor Jules Craig tonight," Praggor was
saying. "He will give you additional lines in detail if you should so
desire. Don't bankrupt yourself on that celebration. Congratulations.
See my secretary about your account on the way out. Good-by."

In a daze he paid his bill, forced himself calmly to go down the lift,
onto the move-walks and into the Transport Building.

Dully, he noticed his hands hurt. His fists were clenched, his nails
had dug into the flesh, and his palms were bleeding. The spreading
flecks of crimson mingled splotchily with the sweat. He should go
somewhere and disinfect the wounds.

But that could wait. He had to get back to his office and read
the true report. Praggor was probably transporting the charts and
diagnosis at this instant.

       *       *       *       *       *

He entered Booth 217 and sat down. In minutes now he would know
whether his basic theory was correct--that man _could_ be master of
his own destiny, and _could_ change his predicted Life-Lines. His
theory _had_ to be correct!

It was futile and useless to think that man was nothing more than a
helpless pawn--with his life laid out from birth until death by some
Unknown Great Factor in some Great Unknown Game. That would be a
devastating knowledge.

But no! He would learn his own future and change it! Then he would
take his evidence to the Supreme Medical Council and prove that
mankind could avoid certain unhappy paths of life if warned in
advance. Then doctors like himself would be able to lead people along
lines to ultimate happiness.

His tension increased as the technicians droned on and on with their
adjustments. If only his own future wasn't too bad! If only he could
keep his sanity!

The "All Clear" signal flashed, the lights winked off. He hurried out
of the booth and into a gyrocab, up to his office, through the door,
and saw Freckle-nose sitting at her desk, calmly powdering her nose.

"Well," she said, wrinkling her nose so the freckles quivered, "you're
seven minutes late. Why can't handsome young doctors ever be on time?"

"Sorry," he said breathlessly. "That report on Bradbury. Where is it?"

"Oh--that? It just came through. I put it on your desk. Let it wait
until tomorrow. I don't want you to get wrapped up in a P.L.L.
diagnosis for hours and hours when we've got a date. I've found a new
place to go."

"Sorry, honey," he muttered. "This is important."

He ran into his inner office and ripped open the report,

                                               26, Novemberi, 243 G. T.
                                                           Manya Clinic
                                                        New Paris, MARS

    TO: Dr. Jules Craig, P.L.L.
        Stanton-Greenstone Center
        5th., Wing, 82nd., Level
        Greater NYC--EARTH

    Dear Jules:

    Thanks for the patient. An interesting, but unfortunate case. Since
    he was a friend of yours I was extremely careful in the diagnosis.

    Younger Bradbury turned in excellent reports. But since I
    definitely did not like the diagnosis on the first run, I ran it
    through three times personally, to make sure. Inclosed you will
    find copies of all three charts. Since this man was a friend of
    yours I am deeply sorry. I advise you to stay away from him from
    this moment on.

    The energy line, in this patient's case, that I find bewildering is
    the sudden rise of the mental factor C3. You will notice on Chart
    II that it rises rapidly up and beyond Marko's Constant with an
    intensity of 3.017 degrees. I have never been confronted with a
    case of such extreme mental deterioration in such a short period
    of time. This man will soon become dangerously insane.

    You will see in his charts that from some unknown phobia buried
    in his own mind that this man is going quickly insane, and in his
    insanity will unknowingly commit three horrible murders before he
    is apprehended and executed. And one of these unfortunate murders
    will be the death of someone very close to him.

    Naturally, my medical ethics would not permit me to inform this man
    of his unhappy destiny. I gave him the usual, routine soothing talk
    so necessary in sad cases.

    In an attempt to account for his sudden mental breakdown, I traced
    the K4 and K5 lines, the physical and love factors, and found a
    sharp break which I interpreted as a sudden, unexplainable reversal
    of feeling, or intention, due to some hidden fear only apparent to
    himself, toward someone very dear in his emotional background.

    However, I don't understand how a physical factor or reversal of
    feeling, is strong enough to cause such a mental breakdown as
    indicated. I think these are secondary reactions from some hidden
    fear or else some sudden unexpected shock. I wish we knew more
    about this type of case. I wish I could have said something to this
    patient, but with his tragic future, as you know, it is forbidden.

    Be sure to attend the Medical Reunion. Like to see you.

    Sincerely, your old classmate,

                                                William Praggor, P.L.L.
                                                    Level 186--Bldg. 12
                                                           Manya Clinic
                                                        New Paris, MARS

Silently, the door opened.

"There you are, reading some of those old charts again." Freckle-nose
edged her slim body up on the desk and pulled the charts from his lax
fingers. "Tonight is my turn to ask you to marry me--remember?"

"No!" Dr. Craig said in a dull voice, and felt the first part of the
phobia steal slyly into his brain.

"You see?" it said mockingly, and hungrily began to eat away at his
brain.