Sense from Thought Divide | Page 3

here at Computer Research, discovered a way to
create antigravity. I was told you claimed you had to have a poltergeist
in the process. You told General Sanfordwaithe that you needed six of
them, males. That's about all, sir. So the Poltergeist Division discovered
the Swami, and I was assigned to bring him out here to you."
"Well then, Lieutenant Murphy, you go back to the Pentagon and tell
General Sanfordwaithe that--" I could see by the look on his face that
my message would probably not get through verbatim. "Never mind,
I'll write it," I amended disgustedly. "And you can carry the message."
Lesser echelons do not relish the task of repeating uncomplimentary
words verbatim to a superior. Not usually.
I punched Sara's button on my intercom.
"After all the exposure out there to the Swami," I said, "if you're still
with us on this crass, materialistic plane, will you bring your book?"
"My astral self has been hovering over you, guarding you, every

minute," Sara answered dreamily.
"Can it take shorthand?" I asked dryly.
"Maybe I'd better come in," she replied.
When she came through the door the lieutenant gave her one
appreciative glance, then returned to his aloof pedestal of indifference.
Obviously his pattern was to stand in majestic splendor and allow the
girls to fawn somewhere down near his shoes. These lads with a
glamour boy complex almost always gravitate toward some occupation
which will require them to wear a uniform. Sara catalogued him as
quickly as I did, and seemed unimpressed. But you never can tell about
a woman; the smartest of them will fall for the most transparent poses.
"General Sanfordwaithe, dear sir," I began as she sat down at one
corner of my desk and flipped open her book. "It takes more than a
towel wrapped around the head and some mutterings about infinity to
get poltergeist effects. So I am returning your phony Swami to you
with my compliments--"
"Beg your pardon, sir," the lieutenant interrupted, and there was a
certain note of suppressed triumph in his voice. "In case you rejected
our applicant for the poltergeist job you have in mind, I was to hand
you this." He undid a lovingly polished button of his tunic, slipped his
hand beneath the cloth and pulled forth a long, sealed envelope.
I took it from him and noted the three sealing-wax imprints on the flap.
From being carried so close to his heart for so long, the envelope was
slightly less crisp than when he had received it. I slipped my letter
opener in under the side flap, and gently extracted the letter without, in
anyway, disturbing the wax seals which were to have guaranteed its
privacy. There wasn't any point in my doing it, of course, except to
demonstrate to the lieutenant that I considered the whole deal as a silly
piece of cloak and dagger stuff.
After the general formalities, the letter was brief: "Dear Mr. Kennedy:
We already know the Swami is a phony, but our people have been

convinced that in spite of this there are some unaccountable effects. We
have advised your general manager, Mr. Henry Grenoble, that we are in
the act of carrying out our part of the agreement, namely, to provide
you with six male-type poltergeists, and to both you and him we are
respectfully suggesting that you get on with the business of putting the
antigravity units into immediate production."
I folded the letter and tucked it into one side of my desk pad. I looked
at Sara.
"Never mind the letter to General Sanfordwaithe," I said. "He has
successfully cut off my retreat in that direction." I looked over at the
lieutenant. "All right," I said resignedly, "I'll apologize to the Swami,
and make a try at using him."
I picked up the letter again and pretended to be reading it. But this was
just a stall, because I had suddenly been struck by the thought that my
extreme haste in scoring off the Swami and trying to get rid of him was
because I didn't want to get involved again with poltergeists. Not any,
of any nature.
The best way on earth to avoid having to explain psi effects and come
to terms with them is simply to deny them, convince oneself that they
don't exist. I sighed deeply. It looked as if I would be denied that little
human privilege of closing my eyes to the obvious.
* * * * *
Old Stone Face, our general manager, claimed to follow the philosophy
of building men, not machines. To an extent he did. His favorite phrase
was, "Don't ask me how. I hired you to tell me." He hired a man to do a
job, and I will say for him, he left