Fritharik put his head in. "That so-called physician is here again."
"Tell him just a moment," said Padway. God, he was tired. "Thanks a lot, Father. It's nice to have seen you."
The priest went out, shaking his head over the blindness of mortals who trusted in materia medica.
Vekkos came in with an accusing look. Padway said: "Don't blame me. The girl brought him."
Vekkos sighed. "We physicians spend our lives in hard scientific study, and then we have to compete with these alleged miracle-workers. Well, how's my patient today?"
While he was still examining Padway, Thomasus the Syrian appeared. The banker waited around nervously until the Greek left. Then Thomasus said: "I came as soon as I heard you were sick, Martinus. Prayers and medicines are all very well, but we don't want to miss any bets. My colleague, Ebenezer the Jew, knows a man, one of his own sect named Jeconias of Naples, who is pretty good at curative magic. A lot of these magicians are frauds; I don't believe in them for a minute. But this man has done some remarkable—"
"I don't want him," groaned Padway. "I'll be all right if everybody will stop trying to cure me . . ."
"I brought him along, Martinus. Now do be reasonable. He won't hurt you. And I couldn't afford to have you die with those notes outstanding—of course that's not the only consideration; I'm fond of you personally . . ."
Padway felt like one in the grip of a nightmare. The more he protested, the more quacks they sicked on him.
Jeconias of Naples was a little fat man with a bouncing manner, more like a high-pressure salesman than the conventional picture of a magician.