"Not on PC," he said, hot at once.
"That remains to be seen, Pete. The lab has been tracking her predictions for better than two weeks now, and in a couple more weeks Norty will give us some stix on her scope, range and accuracy."
He glowered at me, his bushy brows down about his eyes. "I thought I told you to concentrate on her healing," he said.
"I have," I told him. "But I saw no harm in seeing what she is like with precognition," I said.
"Flat on her face, that's what she's like," he said testily. "One of these days I'll have to convince you that what I say around here goes, do you hear?"
"One of these days," I said. "But not when you're being a sour old goat. You're just sore at her because she said you'd have a heart attack."
"Nonsense!" he bristled.
"I've had Evaleen Riley doing a little PC work on you, too," I confessed, and saw his face get dark with anger. "Now hold your tongue, you old goat. I'm trying to help you," I cut in, to keep him from bellowing at me. "Evaleen is worried, too. But she's a little more cheerful than Pheola. She doesn't think you'll die."
"Well," he growled. "That's nice. I won't write my will."
"Stop acting like an old goat, you old goat," I snapped at him. "I'll give you a prediction of my own: You'll be sick enough to die, but we'll find a way to do something about it."