The Sun Ray stood like an altar at one end. About thirty-five folding chairs were lined up in rows facing the Ray. That was all.
Blekeke was doing something to the lamp part of the Ray when we came in—tightening the bulb, apparently. It was a very simple contraption. Nothing but a padded, white-sheeted reclining table suspended over the full length of which was the lamp. The thing was operated by a bank of controls wired up a few feet away from the table.
"Infra-red heat lamp," Maxwell whispered.
"Sure," I said. "But don't say so."
Blekeke saw us and jumped down from the platform and greeted us with open arms, apologizing for his rude behavior on the beach.
I told him to forget about it; that I just wanted to ask him a few questions so I could write up my story about SRI—give him a little free publicity.
Blekeke beamed. Said he'd be glad to help all he could.
But before I had a chance to ask any questions, he was blabbering: "Give treatment. New, improve. Much healthier. Give try." And he was pushing us toward the machine.
I was not the least bit interested in taking a treatment, and I tried to tell him so, as kindly as I could. But he was insistent.
Finally we agreed to take the treatment, hoping he would get it out of his system. I handed the defense mech to Maxwell and lay down. Couldn't tell a damn bit of difference. Ten minutes of warmth and dozy relaxation, and that's it. You don't feel a bit different after it's over than you did before.