Sense from Thought Divide

from Thought Divide, by Mark
Irvin Clifton

Project Gutenberg's Sense from Thought Divide, by Mark Irvin Clifton
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
Title: Sense from Thought Divide
Author: Mark Irvin Clifton
Illustrator: van Dongen
Release Date: September 5, 2007 [EBook #22513]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SENSE
FROM THOUGHT DIVIDE ***

Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

[Illustration]

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
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.
* * * * *
"Float me over that ash tray there on the desk," I said casually to the
Swami.
He looked at me as if I'd insulted him, and I could anticipate some
reply to the effect that he was not