Sense from Thought Divide

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  SENSE FROM THOUGHT DIVIDE

  BY MARK CLIFTON

  _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 lookingup from her desk at the Swami's face with an expression of fascinatedskepticism. The Swami's back was toward me, and on it hung flowing foldsof a black cloak. His turban was white, except where it had rubbedagainst the back of his neck.

  "A tall, dark, and handsome man will soon come into your life," he wasintoning in that sepulchral voice men habitually use in their dealingswith 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 apracticed swirl. His liquid black eyes looked me over shrewdly, and hebowed toward me as he vaguely touched his chest, lips and forehead. Iexpected him to murmur, "Effendi," or "Bwana Sahib," or something, buthe must have felt silence was more impressive.

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

  The young lieutenant was standing very straight, very stiff, and a flushof pink was starting up from his collar and spreading around hisclenched 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 teetha bare quarter of an inch for the words to come out. "Pentagon!" Hislight gray eyes pierced me to see if I were impressed.

  I wasn't.

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

  I waited. It was obvious he wasn't through yet. He hesitated, and Icould see his Adam's apple travel up above the knot of his tie and backdown again as he swallowed. The pink flush deepened suddenly intobrilliant 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 itmatter of fact in a sturdy, confident voice, but there was the undertoneof a wail. It was time I lent a hand before his forces were routed andleft 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. Hestraightened still more. I hadn't believed it possible.

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

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

  "According to my orders, sir," he said formally, "you have requested thePentagon furnish you with one half dozen, six, male-type poltergeists. Iam 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 havesomething at that. I'd see.

  * * * * *

  "Float me over that ash tray there on the desk," I said casually to theSwami.

  He looked at me as if I'd insulted him, and I could anticipate somereply to the effect that he was not applying for domestic service. Butthe humble supplicant rather than the proud and fierce hill man won. Hestarted to pick up the ash tray from Sara's desk with his hand.

  "No, no!" I exclaimed. "I didn't ask you to hand it to me. I want you toTK it over to me. What's the matter? Can't you even TK a simple ashtray?"

  The lieutenant's eyes were getting bigger and bigger.

  "Didn't your Poltergeist Section test this guy's aptitudes fortelekinesis before you brought him from Washington all the way out hereto Los Angeles?" I snapped at him.

  * * * * *

  The lieutenant's lips thinned to a bloodless line. Apparently I, acivilian, was criticizing the judgment of the Army.

  "I am certain he must have qualified adequately," he said stiffly, andthis time left off the "sir."

  "Well, I don't know," I answered doubtfully. "If he hasn't even enoughtelekinetic ability to float me an ash tray across the room--"

  The Swami recovered himself first. He put the tips of his long fingerstogether in the shape of a sway-backed steeple, and rolled his eyesupward.

  "I am an instrument of infinite wisdom," he intoned. "Not a parlormagician."

  "You mean that with all your infinite wisdom you can't do it," I accusedflatly.

  "The vibrations are not favorable--" he rolled the words sonorously.

  "All right," I agreed. "We'll go somewhere else, where they're better!"

  "The vibrations throughout all this crass, materialistic Westernworld--" he intoned.

  "All right," I interrupted, "we'll go to India, then. Sara, call up andbook tickets to Calcutta on the first possible plane!" Sara's mouth hadbeen gradually closing, but it unhinged again.

  "Perhaps not even India," the Swami murmured, hastily. "Perhaps Tibet."

  "Now you know we can't get admission into Tibet while the Communistscontrol it," I argued seriously. "But how about Nepal? That's a faircompromise. The Maharajadhiraja's friendly now. I'll settle for Nepal."

  The Swami couldn't keep the triumphant glitter out of his eyes. Thesudden worry that I really would take him to India to see if he could TKan ash tray subsided. He had me.

  "I'm afraid it would have to be Tibet," he said positively. "Nowhereelse in all this troubled world are the vibrations--"

  "Oh go on back to Flatbush!" I interrupted disgustedly. "You know aswell as I that you've never been outside New York before in your life.Your accent's as phony as the pear-shaped tones of a Midwestern gardenclub president. Can't even TK a simple ash tray!"

  I turned to the amazed lieutenant.

  "Will you come into my office?" I asked him.

  He looked over at the Swami, in doubt.

  "He can wait out here," I said. "He won't run away. There isn't anysubway, and he wouldn't know what to do. Anyway, if he did get lost,your Army Intelligence could find him. Give G-2 something to work on.Right through this door, lieutenant."

  "Yes, sir," he said meekly, and preceded me into my office.

  I closed the door behind us and waved him over to the crying chair. Hefolded at the knees and hips, as if he were hinged only there, as ifthere were no hinges at all in the ramrod of his back. He sat upstraight, on the edge of his chair, ready to spring into instant chargeof battle. I went around back to my desk and sat down.

  "Now, lieutenant," I said soothingly, "tell me all about it."

  * * * * *

  I could have sworn his square chin quivered at the note of sympathy inmy voice. I wondered, irrelevantly, if the lads at West Point all sleptwith their faces confined in wooden frames to get that characteristicallyr
ectangular look.

  "You knew I was from West Point," he said, and his voice held a note ofawe. "And you knew, right away, that Swami was a phony from Flatbush."

  "Come now," I said with a shrug. "Nothing to get mystical about.Patterns. Just patterns. Every environment leaves the stamp of itsmatrix on the individual shaped in it. It's a personnel man's trade torecognize the make of a person, just as you would recognize the make ofa rifle."

  "Yes, sir. I see, sir," he answered. But of course he didn't. And therewasn't much use to make him try.