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At the far end of the galaxy an old man is dying of an incurable disease. In the normal course of events it would not matter, just one more death among countless millions who die each and every hour of every day. Ben Gars, however, is no ordinary man, and thus his death will have significance beyond the statistical. He is the founder of Galactic Consolidated and its largest shareholder, which means that he is the richest man in The City On Stilts, perhaps in the entire galaxy. Many people have a vested interest in keeping Ben Gars alive.
The disease is unknown, contracted during a hunting expedition to a distant and largely unexplored world. The call for assistance goes out from The City On Stilts and the galaxy’s most renowned physicians respond, tempted by a promise of wealth beyond imagination. They do everything that is in their power. Numberless scans and tests are performed. New drugs are found to ease the dying man’s pain. Life supports prolong the agony of his death. Yet not all the physicians’ science and skill can vanquish the grinning spectre. They are helpless to cure Ben Gars, unable to heal the ugly blue sore on his chest through which the man’s life is slowly ebbing away.
There comes a time when Gars realises that he is going to die and accepts it as a thing already accomplished. He asks for his wife and his three sons. Summoned into his presence they stand silent and fight to hold back the tears.
“Father,” the youngest whispers.
The old man’s eyes seek out his favourite. “Yes Ramon. What is it? Speak up boy. I can hardly hear you.”
“Father, I have heard stories of a man who lives in the undercity. They say he can heal the sick with a touch of his hand. They say that he can restore the dead to life.”
The famous doctors start to scoff, but a look of rebuke from Ben Gars is enough to silence them. Ramon is not to be mocked. “Find this man. Bring him to me.”
And with those words vast machinery is set in motion. A thousand agents scour the many levels of the undercity, spurred on in their endeavours by the thought of the reward to be had. The healer is sought and eventually the healer is found. They bring him to the Gars’ citadel on the uppermost level of The City On Stilts. Ramon himself ushers the healer into the dying man’s sick room.
The healer is an old man, thin and emaciated. He is dressed in sackcloth. His skin is white from never having seen the sun. All his life has been spent in the depths of the undercity. There is madness in his eyes. The famous doctors stare at each other and shake their heads in sorrow at the illness which has reduced their patient to clutching at such unlikely straws.
The healer stands beside the bed. He looks down at the dying man and sighs, rolling up the sleeves of his black robe to expose scrawny arms. Family and doctors lean forward to catch his every move. Only the patient seems disinterested, as if already resigned to an unhappy outcome. The healer places a gnarled hand on the dying man’s chest directly over the blue sore. He starts to chant in the ugly patois of the undercity dwellers, a harsh sound that sets the teeth on edge. His face is screwed up in total concentration. The veins bulge on his forehead and beads of sweat trickle down his features. The fierceness of his will holds them all spellbound as the moment stretches uncomfortably. Finally it is Ben Gars himself who pushes the hand aside and murmurs, “Enough.”
The effort has drained the healer. He doubles up, clutching at his stomach and moaning in pain. Ramon pulls him back from the bed and clears a space for him. Water is brought and pressed to the healer’s cracked and bloody lips. Once he is recovered the healer turns to Ramon, speaking in the musical language of the upper city, his pronunciation and delivery perfect.
“There is nothing I can do for this man. He does not believe in my power to heal him and so I am helpless.”
The famous doctors smile at each other, unable to hide their relief at this admission. For a moment it had seemed that their rival might succeed where they had all failed, but now the crisis is past. Science has been vindicated and superstition put to rout. The patient is theirs again and the healer is exposed as a charlatan, an object of ridicule. It seems silly to have ever regarded him otherwise.
Ramon whispers urgently to the healer, who nods his head in agreement. He rises and moves to the bed again. The doctors try to bar him from their patient, but the look in the healer’s eyes is warning enough and they fall back in confusion.
“Ben Gars!” The words are like the sudden crack of a whip. The dying man looks up. His frail body seems to snap to attention.
The healer’s voice is strong and confident. “Ben Gars, I can heal you. But you must meet my price.”
And then he names a sum so enormous that the doctors’ mouths drop open in astonishment. Even Ramon turns pale. Only the richest man in The City On Stilts is unperturbed, nodding his acceptance of the outrageous demand.
The sore has begun to fade even before the healer lays on his hand.
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