[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. Hewas talented, healthy, successful. He carried the distinguished degreeof P.L.L. He had everything!
But he was unhappy.
He sat at his tastefully furnished desk, shuffling the Life-Linecharts of the patient seated across from him. The patient awaiting thediagnosis was nervous.
Poor devil! Craig thought. This man is going to die. He doesn't knowit—and I can't tell him.
A wave of pity swept through him, intensifying his own broodingunhappiness. Despite the fact he had instructed his psycho-colorexperts to design his inner consultation office in as soothing ashade 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. Eyesshifty, breathing rapid, voice shaky and twisting of the hat. Thisman would be dead in three weeks, and he, Dr. Jules Craig, had to lieto the man. With an unpleasant sensation, he summoned his resolution,looked at the name near the upper left-hand corner of the charts, andspoke.
"You have no cause for worry, Elder Wayman," he said. He forced hisvoice to sound as smoothly professional as possible. "The diagnosis ofyour Predictable Life-Lines are clear and definite. I know this matterhas been a strain upon you, but you cooperated well. Your own reports,and the necessary Crystaleen Cell you have been wearing during theselast three months gave all the details I needed."
He began to shuffle the Life-Line charts again as if reading them. Heheard his voice go into the routine patter used on such unfortunatecases as this.
The irony of what his professional voice was saying to this little fatman burned another scar into his heart. The Predictograph had predictedthis man would be dead within three weeks—and that wondrous, complexmachine never erred. Yet, because of "Medical Ethics," he heard himselfgiving this innocent patient the old conversation, professionallyused in such unhappy cases: "—everything is all right—" and, "yourLife-Lines show a happy future—" and, "—you will be successful—"and, "—happy—" and, "—you should relax and enjoy yourself now thatyou have your future Life-Lines completed." He also said other things.
Craig felt sick. The Predictograph had predicted this little fat manwould be killed in three weeks—in an accident! A gyro crash, with fireand an unpleasant death.
Outwardly, Dr. Craig knew he appeared cool and professional. Butinwardly, his brain seethed and raged with questions that lashed hisconscience.
If only the Supreme Medical Council would permit him to tell this mannot, on pain of death, to get into any gyro—perhaps this little fatman wouldn't die. But, Quote:
"You are forbidden to tell a patient his true future when it isunfortunate."
"You are forbidden!" the Supreme Medical Council said.
Craig gritted his teeth. He knew the Degree of Predictable Life-Lineswas the highest medical degree a human could attain. But cases likethis 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! Heintended to do something that the Supreme Medical Council had said wasforbidden! His resolve, like a shot of adrenalin, strengthened him. Hewould carry out his plan.
...