It was normal. Completely clean. Even the emphysema and fibrosis were gone.
They're having me on! Charles told himself. They're pissed at being called in at night so they've stuck in a ringer to give me a scare!
He checked the name and date on the third film: Jake Knopf—known to Bulmer as Mr. K—and today's date were printed in the upper right corner. Then he checked the film again and noticed an irregularity of the left clavicle in the third film—an old fracture that had healed at a sharper than normal angle. A glance at the other two studies almost froze his blood—the same clavicle abnormality was in all three!
"Wait a minute now," he said to himself in a gentle tone.
"Just wait a minute. No use getting your knickers in a twist just yet. There's got to be an explanation."
"Did you say something, Doctor?" a voice said from behind him.
Charles swiveled his chair around. Two men, one blond, one dark haired, both in white lab coats that were tight across their shoulders, stood inside the door.
"Who are you?"
"We're your new assistants."
Assistants, my ass! These two were goons. He recognized one of them from the senator's personal security team.
"The hell you are. I don't need any assistants and didn't ask for any."
The blond fellow shrugged. "This is where we've been assigned. This is where we'll stay. Personally, I'd rather be out on the town, but the orders came straight from the senator's office."
"We'll see about that." He jabbed at the intercom. Here he was, faced with the most astounding puzzle of his medical career, and he had to put up with interference from McCready. "Marnie—get me the senator. Now." He was glad he had had her stay tonight; it would save him the trouble of tracking McCready down.
"Uh, Dr. Axford?" she said, uncertainly. "He's already on the line. He called about a minute ago and said you'd be calling him very shortly and he'd hold until you did."
Despite his anger, Charles had to laugh. That sly bastard!
"He's on 06, Doctor," Marnie said.
"Right." He picked up the handset.
"I was expecting your call," McCready said without preamble. "Here's why I must insist on Henly and Rossi staying with you: You are aware no doubt of Dr. Bulmer's penchant for publicity; I want to make sure that none of his test results leak out until you are completely finished. I will not have him use the Foundation and some inconclusive data as a springboard to greater heights of notoriety. And I won't have any of the staff tempted into leaking some of these results to the outside.
"Therefore, Henly and Rossi will be on hand to see that all—and I do mean all—records of Dr. Bulmer's stay remain locked in your office files until you and the Foundation are ready to issue a statement."
"You really think all this is necessary?"
"I do. And I ask you to cooperate with me."
Charles thought a moment. It would be a pain in the ass to have these two characters traipsing around after him, but if all the data were to be confined to his office, where he could have access to it at any time, then how could he object?
"All right. As long as they don't get in my way."
"Thank you, Charles. I knew I could count on you. Any results yet?"
"Of course not! I've only just begun!"
"Very well. Keep me informed."
Charles grunted and hung up. He edited Henly and Rossi from his mind and studied the X rays again. There had to be a mistake there. Somewhere along the line somebody had either screwed up or was trying to make a fool out of him.
He'd find out which, and heads would roll.
Charles just missed Mr. Knopf at the EEG lab.
"He's on his way to radiology," the tech told him.
Charles picked up the thick, fan-folded EEG record and spread part of it out on a desk. He felt his mouth go dry as he pulled more and more of it across the desk.
It was normal. None of the typical irregularities signifying an underlying mass, no hint of a recent grand mal seizure.
He had the tech pull out a previous tracing. Yes, all the usual signs of brain tumor had been there. All gone now.
He rushed down to radiology, idly noting Henly and Rossi entering the EEG lab after him and gathering up all the tracings he had been reading.
Knopf was already in the CT scanner. Charles paced the floor in front of the developer. He was sweating, whether from the extra heat thrown off by the machine or from tension, he didn't know. The radiologist wouldn't be in until morning, but that didn't matter. Charles could read the scans himself. As the films rolled out of the developer, each with four radiographic cuts of Knopfs brain, he grabbed them one by one and slapped them up on the view box.
Normal! One after the other: Normal!
He was almost frantic now. This was a nightmare! Things like this just didn't happen in the real world! Everything had an explanation, a cause and an effect! Primary tumors and their metastases simply didn't disappear because some balmy faith healer put his hands on a head!
He saw that the red light over the door was out so he rushed into the scanner room. Jake Knopf was sitting on the edge of the roller table.
"What's up, Doc?" he said. "You look like you need a transfusion."
I do! Charles thought. Straight vodka!
"Just want to check your neck, Jake."
"Sure. Check away."
Charles pressed his fingers above Knopfs right clavicle where the lymph nodes had been swollen and knotty. They were gone now. The area was clean.
Nausea rose up like a wave. He felt as if his world were coming apart. He lurched away and hurried toward Bulmer's quarters.
It was true! Knopf was cured! And Bulmer had done it! But how? Jesus H. bloody fucking Christ—!
He cut himself off with a bitter laugh. If Bulmer's power was possible, then anything was possible. Even Jesus Christ was possible. Better watch his tongue. He might really be up there. Or out there. Or somewhere. Listening.
"Nope," Bulmer said with a slow, deliberate shake of his head from where he sat by his room window. "Can't do it."
"Why the bloody hell not?"
"Too late. It only lasts for an hour and then it's gone."
"How convenient."
"I've got no control over it."
"So when will it be back?"
He glanced at his watch. "Sometime tomorrow morning, probably, but definitely somewhere around eight tomorrow evening."
Axford sat down on the bed. He suddenly felt exhausted.
"You're so sure?"
"Been keeping track of it for months." He indicated a manila envelope.
"Records?" Charles said, feeling his lethargy lift slightly. "You've kept records?"
"Sporadically at first, but pretty consistently lately. You want to use them, you can have them. I mean borrow them. I want them back."
"Of course." Axford sifted through the contents—there were index cards, scratch pad sheets emblazoned with the logos of various pharmaceutical companies, even prescription blanks with notes jotted on the back. There were a few audio microcassettes, too. "What is all this?"
"Names, dates, times. Who, what, where, when—when the Hour of Power started and when it ended."
The Hour of Power—sounded like one of those Sunday-morning gospel shows. Charles could feel his excitement growing. Here was something he could deal with—dates, times, data! He could work with these. He could understand and toy with and analyze these. But Jake Knopf…
How could he deal with what had happened to Jake Knopf today?
"You never asked about Mr. K," he said to Bulmer.
"Who?" Bulmer looked genuinely puzzled.