SENSE FROM THOUGHT DIVIDE

_What is a "phony"? Someone who believes he can do X, when
he can't, however sincerely he believes it? Or someone who can
do X, believes he can't, and believes he is pretending he can?_

Illustrated by van Dongen


"Remembrance and reflection, how allied;
What thin partitions sense from thought divide."

Pope

When I opened the door to my secretary's office, I could see her looking
up from her desk at the Swami's face with an expression of fascinated
skepticism. The Swami's back was toward me, and on it hung flowing folds
of a black cloak. His turban was white, except where it had rubbed
against the back of his neck.

"A tall, dark, and handsome man will soon come into your life," he was
intoning in that sepulchral voice men habitually use in their dealings
with the absolute.

Sara's green eyes focused beyond him, on me, and began to twinkle.

"And there he is right now," she commented dryly. "Mr. Kennedy,
Personnel Director for Computer Research."

The Swami whirled around, his heavy robe following the movement in a
practiced swirl. His liquid black eyes looked me over shrewdly, and he
bowed toward me as he vaguely touched his chest, lips and forehead. I
expected him to murmur, "Effendi," or "Bwana Sahib," or something, but
he must have felt silence was more impressive.

I acknowledged his greeting by pulling down one corner of my mouth. Then
I looked at his companion.

The young lieutenant was standing very straight, very stiff, and a flush
of pink was starting up from his collar and spreading around his
clenched jaws to leave a semicircle of white in front of his red ears.

"Who are you?" I asked the lieutenant.

"Lieutenant Murphy," he answered shortly, and managed to open his teeth
a bare quarter of an inch for the words to come out. "Pentagon!" His
light gray eyes pierced me to see if I were impressed.

I wasn't.

"Division of Matériel and Supply," he continued in staccato, as if he
were imitating a machine gun.

I waited. It was obvious he wasn't through yet. He hesitated, and I
could see his Adam's apple travel up above the knot of his tie and back
down again as he swallowed. The pink flush deepened suddenly into
brilliant red and spread all over his face.

"Poltergeist Section," he said defiantly.

"_What?_" The exclamation was out before I could catch it.

He tried to glare at me, but his eyes were pleading instead.

"General Sanfordwaithe said you'd understand." He intended to make it
matter of fact in a sturdy, confident voice, but there was the undertone
of a wail. It was time I lent a hand before his forces were routed and
left him shattered in hopeless defeat.

"You're West Point, aren't you?" I asked kindly.

It seemed to remind him of the old shoulder-to-shoulder tradition. He
straightened still more. I hadn't believed it possible.

"Yes, sir!" He wanted to keep the gratitude out of his voice, but it was
there. It did not escape my attention that, for the first time, he had
spoken the habitual term of respect to me.

"Well, what do you have here, Lieutenant Murphy?" I nodded toward the
Swami who had been wavering between a proud, free stance and that of a
drooping supplicant. The lieutenant, whose quality had been recognized,
even by a civilian, was restored unto himself. He was again ready to do
or die.

"According to my orders, sir," he said formally, "you have requested the
Pentagon furnish you with one half dozen, six, male-type poltergeists. I
am delivering the first of them to you, sir."

Sara's mouth, hanging wide open, reminded me to close my own.

So the Pentagon was calling me on my bluff. Well, maybe they did have
something at that. I'd see.