Free Healer by Peter Dickinson Page A

A on his maths exams, but the formulas were beyond him. All he could say was that they didn’t feel stupid. It was neat, he thought, having a missing energy. It gave the theory a sort of mysterious excitement which still smelled scientific, like the Periodic Table before all the elements had been discovered. And then Harmonic Energy, with its hint of Rings of Power—One Energy to rule them all, one Energy to find them—and all that.
    The pamphlet was written by Dr. John Q. Freeman, D.Sc. Barry wondered whether it was the same man. It didn’t have one whiff of the rich, poetical stuff he’d put out during the session. And it was funny him not calling himself Dr. Freeman. You’d have thought …
    Tyres scrunched on the gravel between the house and the lawn. The bus to take the one-day patients back to Winchester Station pulled up in front of the white-pillared portico. Barry rose, went inside, and found the office. Mrs. Elliott turned out to be the woman who had taken him to Mr. Freeman just after the Harmony Session. She smiled as he came in and handed him a white envelope with just his name on it.
    â€œSo you may be joining us?” she said.
    â€œUh … well …”
    â€œI hope you do. Sphere One—Mr. Freeman—often offers jobs to young people who show strong positive reactions during the Harmony Sessions. That’s how most of our best staff have come to us.”
    â€œOh? I suppose I’d been wondering …”
    â€œThey’re much more committed, you see. They know it’s real.”
    â€œRight,” said Barry.
    She smiled again. She thought he meant he agreed. In fact, she’d made up his mind for him. It was another Bear decision. He was coming.
    On the bus a woman a bit like his mum sat next to him and talked and talked about what a wonderful experience it had been. She particularly wanted him to know, she said, because he was the one who had obviously got the most out of it. Bear tried to make him snarl at her, but he kept control. It would be unfair on the poor cow, he thought. And it was good practice for the job, too, smiling and saying yes. Being what Mrs. Elliott called committed. The woman babbled on. He didn’t have to listen much. Thinking of Mrs. Elliott made him wonder whether Freeman had told her to say what she had. Were there other reasons for the job offer? Get him away from Mr. Stott? Get him on the side of the Foundation? As far as Barry knew, there’d been only three people who’d mattered much to Pinkie before she went south: her mother, Mr. Stott, and Barry. Did Freeman see them all as threats to his power over Pinkie? Mr. Stott he couldn’t do much about, so he kept him at arm’s length. Mrs. Proudfoot he’d married and sent to America. But Barry he was going to take on, suck in, own, too.
    Yeah? sneered Bear.

8
    It was June, so most of the plants were above ground now, and many in flower, but Mr. Stott’s plot still didn’t look like anyone else’s idea of a garden. You noticed the rows of white labels first. The plants were arranged not for looks but in botanical order, and the effect was that of a stamp collection. In the main area there was only one specimen of anything, though in a patch around the back Mr. Stott raised batches of seedlings or cuttings, either for replacements or to swap with some other alpine nut for something he hadn’t got, or to sell to a big garden centre over at Brant which had what it called a plantsman’s corner. Any spares he couldn’t use one of these ways he slung out, no matter how rare or beautiful. Rare was much more important than beautiful, of course.
    At the sound of the gate Mr. Stott swivelled round, ready to yell, saw who it was, and bent back to what he was doing. Barry locked the Galaxy to the gate. It was inconceivable that a bike thief was going to chance by, but all of Barry’s savings from last summer (the money he’d