Chapter 05 Using Supply and Demand

Macroeconomics 9th Edition

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Chapter 5 Using Supply and Demand

Questions and Exercises

1. If price and quantity both rose, the simplest cause would be a shift of the demand
curve to the right.

2. If price fell and quantity remained constant, a possible cause would be a shift out
to the right of the supply curve and a shift of the demand curve in to the left.
Another possibility would be a shift of the demand curve in to the left with a
vertical supply curve.

3. Computer pricing of roads could end bottlenecks and rush hour congestion by
means of price rationing. Currently, at zero price, at certain times the quantity
demanded greatly exceeds the quantity supplied, resulting in congestion. Raising
prices during those times could eliminate excess demand and reduce the congestion.
This technological change will spread out congestions over wider geographic areas
and over the day as individuals with more flexibility with respect to route and
timing will choose to demand less of the current high-demand route at rush hour.

4. a. This would represent a shift in demand to the left, assuming that the decline in
Cookie Monster’s popularity represents a decline in the popularity of cookies.
The price and quantity of cookies would probably fall, as shown in the
accompanying graph.

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whole or part.
Chapter 05 Using Supply and Demand

b. This is represented by a shift in demand for bread (high in carbohydrates) to the

left. Equilibrium price and quantity fall, as the graph shows. (Note: This is the
same graph used for part a.)

5. a. Both the shift in demand to the right and the shift of supply to the left lead to a
higher equilibrium price of oil. The effect on equilibrium is indeterminate.
Although the shift in demand to the right would lead to a rise in equilibrium
quantity, the shift in supply to the left would reduce it. Whether equilibrium
quantity rises or falls depends on the relative size of the shifts. The
accompanying graph shows no effect on equilibrium quantity and a significant
increase in equilibrium price.

b. The increase in the oil production of Libya back to its original level shifted supply
to the right, reducing the price of oil and increasing the equilibrium quantity, as is
shown in the accompanying graph.

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whole or part.
Chapter 05 Using Supply and Demand

6. a. This represents a shift of the supply curve to the left because the offended decide
not to supply organs, increasing the legal price significantly and perhaps reducing
the equilibrium quantity to a quantity that is below the amount currently provided
at zero cost. This is shown in the accompanying graph.

b. How responsive quantity supplied is to price affects the slope of the supply curve.
If quantity supplied is very responsive to price, the equilibrium price might be
quite low and legalizing organ sales would have significant benefits to society. In
fact, the authors of the study estimate the equilibrium price of kidneys to be less
than $1,000. In the accompanying graph, S1 is much more responsive to price than
is S0.

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distribution in any manner. This document may not be copied, scanned, duplicated, forwarded, distributed, or posted on a website, in
whole or part.
Chapter 05 Using Supply and Demand

7. A drought in Australia shifted the supply curve for rice to the left. The equilibrium
price rose from $0.12 to $0.24 a pound, and quantity fell, as the accompanying
graph shows.

8. See the accompanying graph. A price ceiling of PC below equilibrium price will
cause a shortage shown by the difference between QD and QS

9. As you can see in the accompanying graph, the rent controls create a situation in
which demanders are willing to pay much more than the controlled price and
much more than the equilibrium price. These payments are sometimes known as
key money. In this graph, landlords are willing to supply QS at the current

5-4
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distribution in any manner. This document may not be copied, scanned, duplicated, forwarded, distributed, or posted on a website, in
whole or part.
Chapter 05 Using Supply and Demand

controlled rent, PC. Consumers are willing to pay up to PB for the quantity QS.
Key money can be an amount up to the difference between PB and PC.

10. See the accompanying graph. A price floor of PF above the equilibrium price will
cause a surplus shown by the difference between QS and QD.

11. A minimum wage is a price floor. A Pmin above the equilibrium wage will result in
the quantity of laborers looking for work increasing to QS and the quantity of
employers looking to hire decreasing to QD. The difference between the two is a
measure of the number of the unemployed.

12. a. A $4 per-unit tax on suppliers shifts the supply curve up by $4, which is shown as
a shift in the supply curve from S0 to S1. The equilibrium price will rise by $4 only
if the demand curve is perfectly vertical. In the case of a vertical demand curve,
quantity would not change. Otherwise, the equilibrium price rises by less than $4
and the equilibrium quantity falls, as shown in the accompanying graph. In this
example, the price increases by less than $4 to P1 and quantity declines to Q1. The
price that suppliers receive falls to P2.

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK YOU ARE

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YOU ARE FORBIDDEN!
 By JERRY SHELTON

[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. He
was talented, healthy, successful. He carried the distinguished degree of
P.L.L. He had everything!
But he was unhappy.
He sat at his tastefully furnished desk, shuffling the Life-Line charts of
the patient seated across from him. The patient awaiting the diagnosis
was nervous.
Poor devil! Craig thought. This man is going to die. He doesn't know it
—and I can't tell him.
A wave of pity swept through him, intensifying his own brooding
unhappiness. Despite the fact he had instructed his psycho-color experts
to design his inner consultation office in as soothing a shade 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. Eyes shifty,
breathing rapid, voice shaky and twisting of the hat. This man would be
dead in three weeks, and he, Dr. Jules Craig, had to lie to the man. With
an unpleasant sensation, he summoned his resolution, looked at the name
near the upper left-hand corner of the charts, and spoke.
"You have no cause for worry, Elder Wayman," he said. He forced his
voice to sound as smoothly professional as possible. "The diagnosis of
your Predictable Life-Lines are clear and definite. I know this matter has
been a strain upon you, but you cooperated well. Your own reports, and
the necessary Crystaleen Cell you have been wearing during these last
three months gave all the details I needed."
He began to shuffle the Life-Line charts again as if reading them. He
heard his voice go into the routine patter used on such unfortunate cases
as this.
The irony of what his professional voice was saying to this little fat man
burned another scar into his heart. The Predictograph had predicted this
man would be dead within three weeks—and that wondrous, complex
machine never erred. Yet, because of "Medical Ethics," he heard himself
giving this innocent patient the old conversation, professionally used in
such unhappy cases: "—everything is all right—" and, "your Life-Lines
show a happy future—" and, "—you will be successful—" and, "—
happy—" and, "—you should relax and enjoy yourself now that you
have your future Life-Lines completed." He also said other things.

Craig felt sick. The Predictograph had predicted this little fat man would
be killed in three weeks—in an accident! A gyro crash, with fire and an
unpleasant death.
Outwardly, Dr. Craig knew he appeared cool and professional. But
inwardly, his brain seethed and raged with questions that lashed his
conscience.
If only the Supreme Medical Council would permit him to tell this man
not, on pain of death, to get into any gyro—perhaps this little fat man
wouldn't die. But, Quote:
"You are forbidden to tell a patient his true future when it is unfortunate."
"You are forbidden!" the Supreme Medical Council said.
Craig gritted his teeth. He knew the Degree of Predictable Life-Lines
was the highest medical degree a human could attain. But cases like this
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! He
intended to do something that the Supreme Medical Council had said
was forbidden! His resolve, like a shot of adrenalin, strengthened him.
He would carry out his plan.
He heard his voice speaking.
"Since your charts predict a happy, successful and—" the untrue word
almost stuck in his throat, "—long life ahead of you, I suggest, now that
your Life-Lines are completed, you go home, forget about your business,
and the few little minor troubles I mentioned, and celebrate. You have
fulfilled the Galactic Federation requirements by completing your
Predictable Life-Lines and you are entitled to throw a real party."
He forced the professional twinkle into his eyes.
"Of course the Predictograph hinted you will have a super-hangover—
after your party."
As the little fat man's tension broke and he began to chuckle, Craig
nodded.
"You know the machine can't pick up small sensory lines like
hangovers," Dr. Craig said. "We can learn only the major facts of your
future with the usual possible ten-percent error of course."
He made himself smile.
"So perhaps you won't have a hangover. But if you react to such a
splendid report as this, as most of my patients do, then you will throw a
real brawl that should give you that super-hangover." He extended his
hand. "Good-by! Speak to my secretary, Miss Evans, on your way out
about the balance on your account. And congratulations."
The door closed behind the patient. Craig's head dropped. One more
hopeless case he had lied to. He sat motionless at his desk. He let the lids
close over his eyes, as his broad forehead wrinkled with conflicting
thoughts. Unpleasant thoughts.
The Predictograph never missed! For the trained operator like himself, it
picked up everything down to the slightest detail. He shouldn't have
worked so long, so hard, to earn his P.L.L. He was beginning to realize
he wasn't the psycho-type for this sometimes unhappy business. Patients
with happy futures made him happy in turn. But when he diagnosed a
future full of heartbreak, he couldn't remain cool and impersonal.
He continued to sit there, thinking of what he intended to do this day. He
noticed the palms of his hands were becoming slippery with sweat. He
could feel his heart beginning to hammer as if it were terrified. His
breathing felt cramped and smothered.
Today was his day! He was going to learn his own future. Not in sugar-
coated, pink-pill form, with any future horrible happenings omitted. He
was going to know his true future. If the Supreme Medical Council
found out that he was violating his doctor's oath, they would break him
without mercy. But if he succeeded with his plan, it would forever guide
humanity along paths of happiness undreamed.
He tried to pick up a cigarette. His hands were shaking so badly he had
to make three attempts before he got it into his mouth. He puffed it
alight. He managed a short laugh. Like all patients about to receive the
diagnosis concerning their future life, he was nervous too. And patients
were always told nice little "medical white-lies," if their futures were
hopelessly unfortunate, instead of the truth.
But if there were bad times ahead of him, he would know them, down to
the slightest horrible detail, before this day had crawled by. The cigarette
was dry and tasteless.
"Doctor Craig?"
He jumped, startled. A blurred image before him sharpened into focus. It
was his secretary, Miss Evans, crisp in her cool white uniform, standing
across the desk from him.
"I plugged my call light into your interphone minutes ago," she said.
"You didn't answer." She glanced at the brightly glowing signal on the
desk, then at the doctor. "Is there anything wrong?"
He shook his head, switched off the light and mashed the life out of the
tasteless cigarette.
Miss Evans pressed her lips together. "Electro-Transport just sent over
your reservation. Your passage is arranged at Grand Terminus, through
Booth Two-Seventeen. You'll be transmitted at Hour Eleven Hundred.
Here is your ticket. I got you a round trip." Her voice, usually so
impersonal, trembled on the last word. "Can I do anything else, Doctor
Craig? Your face is so pale."
"Everything's fine," he mumbled. "After I leave, I want you to check on
that last patient. Find out about his family, his insurance and all that. Be
discreet of course. He has about three weeks left."
"Oh!" gasped Miss Evans. "Another one?"
"Yes, his lines are very definite. Find the usual angle, if you can, to see
that his family gets the medical fee back through some sort of
anonymous donation. If the family needs it in your opinion, add a
thousand credits."
"But, Doctor Craig!" She hesitated. "You can't afford to keep giving
away your money."
"Don't worry, Freckle-nose," he said, uttering the pet name before he
thought.
The girl burst into tears. "Oh, Jules," she sobbed. "I know it's still
business hours, but I can't stand it any longer." Her brown eyes wet with
the long pent-up tears, blinked at him pleadingly. "Please, honey! Can't
you tell me? Can't I help you? Why are you going to Mars? I'm so
worried about you."
"Freckle-nose!" He moved from behind the desk and pulled her to him.
"Don't worry. After today, I promise we'll have a lot of fun together. Just
don't worry. That's all I can say until tonight when I return. I've got an
idea, and if it works out, it might change the destiny of the human race."
He lifted her chin and kissed her on the tip of her freckled nose. He
forced his voice to sound cheerful. "You got another freckle there since
this time yesterday."
The girl was trembling. She held him tightly a moment, then pushed
herself from his arms. She straightened her hair and assumed her
secretary manner.
"Right, Doctor Craig. When shall I expect you?"
"That's the girl!" He knuckled her under the chin. "I'll be back late—at
about Seventeen Thirty Hours. Wait for me and we'll find a nice noisy
spot somewhere, where we can resume our usual discussion about who is
going to ask who to marry whom, and when and where. Okay?"
He stepped through the door, picking up his hat in the outer room. A
thought swung him around.
"When a report is transported from Doctor Praggor concerning a patient
named Bradbury, don't file it. I will want to see it first, tonight! It's a
special case." He watched the door close slowly, shutting out the framed
vision of a freckle-nosed girl in a crisp white uniform watching him with
worried eyes.
He took a lift to the roof and signaled a cruising gyrocab. He climbed in,
giving the Electro-Transport Grand Terminus address stamped on his
reservation. As soon as they were air-borne, the cabbie pulled up to the
two thousand-foot level and since traffic was light, they made good time.
Below, the city drifted slowly behind like a chessboard of rioting colors,
studded with gargantuan chessmen.
Craig settled back into the pneumatic seat and tried to relax. His muscles
refused to obey. They shrieked their nervous alarm at him now that he
was beginning to carry out the long-awaited, final phase of his plan.
There was no turning back. It was too late to hesitate now. His own life,
his reputation and perhaps the happiness of countless billions of humans,
yet unborn, depended on his courage.
A sickening doubt raced through him. How ironical it would be, if, when
he appeared before his old classmate, Dr. William Praggor, P.L.L.,
presenting again the false name of William Bradbury as he had done
three months previously, Praggor should suddenly recognize him as Dr.
Jules Craig, P.L.L. Praggor would be compelled to report he had broken
his oath! The Supreme Medical Council would be merciless.
If he were recognized, he wouldn't get a chance to finish the last, most
important part of the experiment. And this experiment would force him
to risk far more than his career—risk his own sanity!
Perhaps Praggor wouldn't recognize him this time either. They had
changed during the long busy years since graduation. Praggor had
become soft and fat, while he, Craig, still possessed the lean hard body
of his youth. But his thick dark hair was graying at the temples. That
graduation day had been only eleven years ago.
He remembered the silver-haired speaker, the head doctor whose name
he couldn't even recall, walking to the center of the raised platform
adjusting his glasses.
"Youngers, I congratulate you. You are about to receive the degree of
P.L.L., the most sacred degree ever intrusted to man! The road behind
you has been mind-racking. But now you hold in your brains the ability
to determine the Predictable Life-Lines of any patient who, having
received his order from the Galactic Federation when they have decided
his life lines are necessary, will come to you for his diagnosis.
"The Galactic Foundation has its own vast Bureau of Public Records
which, in combination with our services, has succeeded in keeping peace
in our system for two centuries. Our work is vital to the proper
functioning of their methods. But their own investigations are not to be
put aside lightly.
"Their departments of mass psychology, propaganda, environmental and
racial trends and all the rest of their methods, so necessary to keep a
Galactic Empire running smoothly, are at your disposal to make an
accurate diagnosis of the particular individual. Where the Federation
deals in masses—you in turn have been trained to deal with the
individual."
The doctor had paused to clear his throat impressively.
"Youngers—I know all of you have wondered about your own futures,"
he had continued. "What I am about to say now is such a top-secret
matter that it is only revealed at this last moment of graduation. All men
want to know their futures. That is their natural right." His voice had
become firm. "But when you accept this degree of Doctor of Predictable
Life-Lines, you will have forever severed yourself from normal
humanity and the right to know your future. You are now declared a
breed of man apart. You will never learn your own future. There is a
reason for this, and the Galactic Federation is confident you will never
cause trouble. No man who has ever stood in this room a Younger and
walked out a doctor, has ever violated his oath. You have been
investigated far more than you know. But all of you are human."
The speaker softened his voice.
"In a few moments you will be issued your own personal Predictograph.
It will be your life-long companion. It is attuned and geared to you
personally. It is part of you. While you have been students you worked
with standard models to learn their functions.
"But the machine you will receive will be different. Do not think for a
moment you can tell your own future with your own Predictograph. You
cannot! It has a built-in principle guarding against that unfortunate
possibility should you ever try to violate your oath.
"We have never tried to foretell your futures for you, since once you
have worn the Crystaleen amplifier-recorder cell necessary for a Life-
Line diagnosis for the required three months, the Supreme Medical
Council has decided it upsets the delicate attunement of a Doctor of
P.L.L. to his own Predictograph, upsets it to a degree which interferes
with accurate diagnosis.
"It is unwise for any man to know his own exact future. Danton Marko,
the inventor of the Predictograph, proved that two centuries ago when he
diagnosed his own future and went hopelessly insane in three weeks."
The voice boomed suddenly like the clang of metal upon metal, and
gathered itself into a rising crescendo of sound.
"Mankind has enjoyed peace for two centuries. The peace has proven
that the Galactic Federation is right in compelling each human to submit,
at the proper age of his development, to a Predictable Life-Line
diagnosis. Consequently, no single human, has been able to succeed in
planning disorder and chaos to a serious degree before being stopped.
"I admit that seems to be a paradox. I admit your logical minds may
question this paradox and ask: If a human is forced to have a Life-Line
made and his future indicates he is going to try to breed trouble and
unrest, he must be executed. This fact will naturally show up in his
diagnosis, which immediately must be filed with the Galactic Federation.
Therefore, are you, as a doctor of P.L.L., responsible for the man's death,
since you revealed he would cause trouble?" He raised his hand as if to
stifle any sudden comment.
"It is a puzzling question, Youngers. The same as which was first—the
chicken or the egg? There are things concerning the phenomena we deal
with which we do not understand as fully as we some day hope to. But
you have your sacred trust and obligation to file with the Council and
Federation all Life-Lines you diagnose.
"Mankind has had no war for centuries. But mankind's massed life force
and intelligence is a terrible, powerful blind energy that could wreck the
entire Universe if it were not guided and controlled into the proper
channels.
"Isn't it better to sacrifice a few—instead of a billion?" The lines in the
lecturer's face became grim. "Youngers, as the years slip by, and you find
yourself with a patient whose future is although not dangerous but full of
misery and agony—always remember your training and your oath: You
are forbidden to tell him his unhappy future and you are forbidden to
tamper with your machine to tell your own future. Those are your
medical ethics. Younger Praggor, step forward!"
Craig remembered how Praggor had mounted the platform a Younger
and stepped down a Doctor, P.L.L. Like himself, minutes later. Eleven
years ago. Eleven years of stepping aside and permitting men and
women to walk blindly ahead to their doom. Eleven years of lies. Of
cheating himself of his own self-respect.
These were some of the reasons he had decided to break his oath! He
would make himself a guinea-pig. He would have his own future
diagnosed in a way that he would know beyond the shadow of a doubt if
he could actually change his own Predictable Life-Lines. That was why
he had sent Praggor that letter three months ago:
25, Augusti, 243 G. T.
Stanton-Greenstone Center
5th, Wing, 82nd, Level
Greater NYC—EARTH.
TO: Dr. William Praggor, P.L.L.
Manya Clinic
New Paris, MARS
Dear Bill:
Sending you patient, Earthian rank of Younger, Ben Bradbury. Would
run case myself but since he is friend, feel he has been too close to me
for that. Suggested he see you for more impersonal diagnosis. He will
probably request appointment pre-lim consultation within week. Send his
charts to my secretary before you file them with Council.
Jules Craig, P.L.L.
He had been nervous, three months ago, when he had presented himself
to Praggor's secretary with the false name of Bradbury. He had hoped the
report he would turn in would be complete enough that Praggor would
not have to go to the Federation's files for more data. If that happened,
since the name of Ben Bradbury wouldn't be found in the files, he would
be exposed immediately and all chance of making the experiment lost
forever to him.

But Praggor's secretary had seemed cold and indifferent, like a machine.
And although he had sweated out the fear Praggor would recognize him
when he was admitted to the inner office, he saw that Praggor hardly
even looked at him. Just another patient....
The sudden whine of the vanes of the gyrocab as it began to drop toward
the landing-stage snapped him back to the present, and its new problems.
He gradually pulled himself together as he saw Grand Terminus swell
and expand in size beneath him. He felt the landing gear bump. He
climbed out, paid the cabbie and walked to the information desk
presenting his reservation for transport.
In a bored voice, the clerk issued instructions for finding Booth 217.
Down the corridor, through the hall, down the lift, and into the booth.
The attendant ripped off the receipt, opened the door. Craig entered and
sat down in the metal chair. He waited.
His hands still felt wet. He tried to reason with himself that there was no
sense in getting nervous now. That could come after he diagnosed his
own charts.
Distantly, he heard the attendant drone:
"Grand Terminus, Earth—calling New Paris, Mars. Reservation Twenty-
six B. Doctor Jules Craig, Earthian, awaiting transport, Booth Two-
Seventeen to New Paris. Please verify. Over."
The lights inside the booth were bright, hot and dazzling. He could hear
the vague hum and whir of the scanners as the invisible technicians
adjusted the transmitting beam in relationship to his mass. The spacial
chit-chat, with no time lag since it was sub-ether stuff, was
incomprehensible to the layman. It continued:
"New Paris, Mars, to Booth Two-Seventeen, Grand Terminus, Earth.
Doctor Jules Craig, Earthian, in sync for transport. Will adjust. Over."
Craig felt a tingle sweep through him, and as it continued, he puffed a
cigarette alight. He blew a swirling cloud of smoke.
"New Paris to Grand Terminus. Adjustment complete on Two-Seventeen.
Go ahead. Over."
Craig tensed himself against the unpleasant sensation of a bad transport.
But he felt nothing. He waited until the "All Clear" signal flashed, and
stood up. It had been a smooth trip. Even the puff of smoke had come
along with him.
He waited half a minute until the lights blinked off and walked through
the opposite door. It had been as simple as that. No sensation. Good
transport.
The air was thin and cold. His breathing quickened, and since he felt a
bit dizzy he made his way slowly to the nearest move-walks. He noticed,
however, that he could breathe more easily than the last time he had
come to Mars to see Praggor. That meant the Federation, at last, was
beginning to get some results with the new oxygen-output machines.
The Manya Clinic swarmed with patients. The lift shot him up to
Praggor's office. The waiting room was crowded and the unsmiling
secretary took his false name without comment. He found a place to sit,
and began to wait.
Irritated, Craig pulled out a cigarette and tried to smoke, but his hands
shook so noticeably and the cigarette tasted so muggish, he threw it
away.
The waiting was nerve-racking. Good grief! he thought. Is this the
refined mental torture all his patients went through in his own waiting
room? Is this why all his patients were so nervous despite his efforts to
assure them worrying wouldn't help things? Is this the way they felt
while waiting for his diagnosis—with the mind building up possible or
imaginary terrible future happenings?
Craig noticed his hands were sweating more than ever, and furious with
himself, he tried to clench them together as if to push the cold, clammy
moisture back where it came from. He had never considered this part of a
diagnosis so seriously before.

Without warning, the nasty little thought he had been trying to fight
down and out of his consciousness ever since he had started the
experiment struck him like a blow from an invisible fist.
"Is this experiment too big for one man, Doctor Craig?"
Would there be an inevitable punishment for trying to tamper with the
lines and forces of space and time? Were humans still too small and
insignificant and ignorant to try to sway the very basic structure of the
entire Universe?
Relentlessly, the long submerged, nasty little voice beat at his brain with
questions.
"Suppose, Doctor Jules Craig, by breaking your oath, you learn your
future is to be a fearsome thing crammed with disease, heartbreak,
disfigurement and an early painful death and that it is impossible to
change your future? Is that why Marko went mad? Can you keep your
own sanity?"

Chaotic thoughts rushed through Dr. Craig's mind and he wondered

whether he dared read his report from Praggor.

He almost shouted aloud. He realized he was sitting stiff and tense on the
edge of his chair. He took a desperate grip on himself and forced his
body into a more relaxed pose.
He waited, with the sweat drenching his body.
"Younger Bradbury?" The secretary was calling him.
Wearily, he stood up and walked into the inner office. He saw Praggor
sitting behind his desk, fatter than the last time. He wondered if the
doctor would recognize him at this last moment.
Praggor didn't. Praggor hardly looked at him as he shuffled charts
importantly, looking professional.
"Younger Bradbury, your great day has come. You have finished your
P.L.L. Nice report. Notes you supplied my secretary were exact." He
looked oddly at Craig. "You know—your reports were almost as
complete as if a doctor himself had made them out. Usually it is difficult
to convince a patient of the importance of detailing every movement,
contact, every bit of food and drink, every thought so as to enable the
machine to get the Life-Lines well centered and to wear the Crystaleen
Cell at all times. But you followed my instructions perfectly."
Praggor laughed and continued: "Of course your charts have the small
error of ten percent which we always have to allow for. Some of your
unimportant detail lines are fuzzy."
A blasting fear, like exploding petrol, swept through Craig. Here he was
sitting in front of a desk, waiting for a diagnosis, the most important
thing in his life—and he had to listen to this kind of rubbish! Error of ten
percent? The machine never missed! With the care he had taken,
checking his own behavior, he knew he had turned in probably the most
accurate report ever filed into any Predictograph. He had wanted to be
sure.
He listened, the fear inside of him growing and swelling until it was
choking him in the throat, as the doctor spouted off with medical rubbish
that sounded like Page 310, of Chapter IV, of Marko's "The Necessity of
Telling the Patient What He Wants to Hear."
This was a diagnosis like telling futures with tea-leaves and palm-
reading, when he wanted to know! And now Praggor was giving him the
old stuff about: "—you'll take a nice long trip—" and "make money—
nothing to worry about—celebrate—" and the chuckles about, "—a
beautiful blond with long legs—"
Praggor wasn't telling him the truth! There never would be a blond with
long legs. All he wanted was Freckle-nose. Praggor was lying to him!
The thought rose up monstrous in his mind. Good heavens! What did it
mean?
"I'll send these charts to Doctor Jules Craig tonight," Praggor was saying.
"He will give you additional lines in detail if you should so desire. Don't
bankrupt yourself on that celebration. Congratulations. See my secretary
about your account on the way out. Good-by."
In a daze he paid his bill, forced himself calmly to go down the lift, onto
the move-walks and into the Transport Building.
Dully, he noticed his hands hurt. His fists were clenched, his nails had
dug into the flesh, and his palms were bleeding. The spreading flecks of
crimson mingled splotchily with the sweat. He should go somewhere and
disinfect the wounds.
But that could wait. He had to get back to his office and read the true
report. Praggor was probably transporting the charts and diagnosis at this
instant.

He entered Booth 217 and sat down. In minutes now he would know
whether his basic theory was correct—that man could be master of his
own destiny, and could change his predicted Life-Lines. His theory had
to be correct!
It was futile and useless to think that man was nothing more than a
helpless pawn—with his life laid out from birth until death by some
Unknown Great Factor in some Great Unknown Game. That would be a
devastating knowledge.
But no! He would learn his own future and change it! Then he would
take his evidence to the Supreme Medical Council and prove that
mankind could avoid certain unhappy paths of life if warned in advance.
Then doctors like himself would be able to lead people along lines to
ultimate happiness.
His tension increased as the technicians droned on and on with their
adjustments. If only his own future wasn't too bad! If only he could keep
his sanity!
The "All Clear" signal flashed, the lights winked off. He hurried out of
the booth and into a gyrocab, up to his office, through the door, and saw
Freckle-nose sitting at her desk, calmly powdering her nose.
"Well," she said, wrinkling her nose so the freckles quivered, "you're
seven minutes late. Why can't handsome young doctors ever be on
time?"
"Sorry," he said breathlessly. "That report on Bradbury. Where is it?"
"Oh—that? It just came through. I put it on your desk. Let it wait until
tomorrow. I don't want you to get wrapped up in a P.L.L. diagnosis for
hours and hours when we've got a date. I've found a new place to go."
"Sorry, honey," he muttered. "This is important."
He ran into his inner office and ripped open the report,
26, Novemberi, 243 G. T.
Manya Clinic
New Paris, MARS
TO: Dr. Jules Craig, P.L.L.
Stanton-Greenstone Center
5th., Wing, 82nd., Level
Greater NYC—EARTH
Dear Jules:
Thanks for the patient. An interesting, but unfortunate case. Since he was
a friend of yours I was extremely careful in the diagnosis.
Younger Bradbury turned in excellent reports. But since I definitely did
not like the diagnosis on the first run, I ran it through three times
personally, to make sure. Inclosed you will find copies of all three charts.
Since this man was a friend of yours I am deeply sorry. I advise you to
stay away from him from this moment on.
The energy line, in this patient's case, that I find bewildering is the
sudden rise of the mental factor C3. You will notice on Chart II that it
rises rapidly up and beyond Marko's Constant with an intensity of 3.017
degrees. I have never been confronted with a case of such extreme
mental deterioration in such a short period of time. This man will soon
become dangerously insane.
You will see in his charts that from some unknown phobia buried in his
own mind that this man is going quickly insane, and in his insanity will
unknowingly commit three horrible murders before he is apprehended
and executed. And one of these unfortunate murders will be the death of
someone very close to him.
Naturally, my medical ethics would not permit me to inform this man of
his unhappy destiny. I gave him the usual, routine soothing talk so
necessary in sad cases.
In an attempt to account for his sudden mental breakdown, I traced the
K4 and K5 lines, the physical and love factors, and found a sharp break
which I interpreted as a sudden, unexplainable reversal of feeling, or
intention, due to some hidden fear only apparent to himself, toward
someone very dear in his emotional background.
However, I don't understand how a physical factor or reversal of feeling,
is strong enough to cause such a mental breakdown as indicated. I think
these are secondary reactions from some hidden fear or else some sudden
unexpected shock. I wish we knew more about this type of case. I wish I
could have said something to this patient, but with his tragic future, as
you know, it is forbidden.
Be sure to attend the Medical Reunion. Like to see you.
Sincerely, your old classmate,
William Praggor, P.L.L.
Level 186—Bldg. 12
Manya Clinic
New Paris, MARS
Silently, the door opened.
"There you are, reading some of those old charts again." Freckle-nose
edged her slim body up on the desk and pulled the charts from his lax
fingers. "Tonight is my turn to ask you to marry me—remember?"
"No!" Dr. Craig said in a dull voice, and felt the first part of the phobia
steal slyly into his brain.
"You see?" it said mockingly, and hungrily began to eat away at his
brain.
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