The Fifth Harmonic by F. Paul Wilson Page A

what?”
    “You will see.”
    “These tines,” I said. “They aren't anything like crystals, are they?”
    A tiny smile. “You have a problem with crystals?”
    “I do,” said, thinking of the mythology that had grown up around them. “But let me ask first. What do crystals mean to you?”
    “The Mother forms them deep within her, putting sand and water under heat and pressure for millions of years, and then she pushes them to the surface. Some say they are her tears.”
    “You don't believe that do you?”
    She shrugged. “I feel it is a bit romantic, but who is to say?”
    “Do you believe they have mystical powers?”
    “What do you believe?”
    Remembering the crystals hanging in her office, I chose my words carefully.
    “I'm not looking to offend you, Maya, but I've got real problems with that whole crystal business.”
    “You will not offend me. Ask—ask anything you want. I will tell you what I know. That is the only way you will learn, the only way blind Cecil will learn to see.”
    “I can question anything and everything? I can speak bluntly and you won't mind?”
    “I insist.”
    “Oh-ho,” I said, grinning. “You may regret that.”
    She returned the smile. “Yes, I am sure I will.”
    “Okay. Crystals. They're just rocks. All rocks except meteorites come from the earth—‘the Mother,’ as you call her. So why should crystals have more powers or healing properties than, say, slate? Or granite?”
    “If you had to guess, how would you answer?”
    “I'd say it was because they're prettier and make nicer jewelry than slate or granite, and therefore command a better price.”
    Another smile. “So, you are a cynic as well as a skeptic.”
    I shrugged. “You haven't been dealing with HMOs and the other zillion breeds of managed care companies like I have.”
    “No,” she said. “Insurance companies would never approve of my methods.”
    “Yeah, well, they were never too crazy about mine either. I tended to ignore their guidelines. I can't tell you what it did to me to hear of their CEOs taking home millions of bucks a year—I read of one guy getting eight million in cash and stock one year—while the care and services their companies offered were cut to the bone. Make the patients crawl for days through a bureaucratic maze to get an antibiotic that's less than ten years old, but keep that bottom line where it does the most for the stock. And on the doctor side, build in disincentives to actually treat people. Squeeze the doctors, squeeze the patients so that some MBA can get a bigger year-end bonus, because God knows eight million isn't enough—he's got to have more. I know doctors saving lives every day who don't make one twentieth—one fortieth of that. And how many lives has this CEO saved?”
    My voice was getting hoarse. I stopped and cleared my throat.
    “You are very angry,” Maya said.
    “Yes. I am.” I hadn't realized just how angry. Dealing with managed care companies was one part of my practice I didn't miss. “So maybeyou can understand why I get an attack of cynicism when I see lots of money being made in medicine, established or ‘alternative.’ And believe me, somebody's making a killing on all those zillions of crystal pendants being sold because of their supposed healing powers.”
    “Yes, that is true. Wherever there is a need, profiteers are sure to rush in. But that says more about the sellers than what they are selling. Crystals are indeed rocks, but not ‘just’ rocks.”
    “Basically we're talking about quartz, right?”
    “Yes. You have heard of a quartz radio, yes?”
    “Of course.”
    “Have you ever heard of a slate radio or a granite radio?”
    “Touché,” I said.
    She had me. No slate or granite or any other rock I could think of had piezoelectric properties.
    Obviously she'd had this conversation before. How many times? Lots, I'd bet. She seemed so very comfortable with it. And with whom? I watched her long slim fingers on the steering