Sense from Thought Divide | Page 7

darkness for the development of the
Swami's effects.
Neither could I object to the Swami's insistence that he sit with his back
to the true North. When he came into the room, accompanied by
Lieutenant Murphy, his thoughts seemed turned in upon himself, or
wafted somewhere out of this world. He stopped in mid-stride, struck
an attitude of listening, or feeling, perhaps, and slowly shifted his body

back and forth.
"Ah," he said at last, in a tone of satisfaction, "there is the North!"
It was, but this was not particularly remarkable. There is no confusing
maze of hallways leading to the Personnel Department from the outside.
Applicants would be unable to find us if there were. If he had got his
bearings out on the street, he could have managed to keep them.
He picked up the nearest chair with his own hands and shifted it so that
it would be in tune with the magnetic lines of Earth. I couldn't object.
The Chinese had insisted upon such placement of household articles,
particularly their beds, long before the Earth's magnetism had been
discovered by science. The birds had had their direction-finders attuned
to it, long before there was man.
Instead of objecting, the lieutenant and I meekly picked up the table
and shifted it to the new position. Sara and Auerbach came in as we
were setting the table down. Auerbach gave one quick look at the
Swami in his black cloak and nearly white turban, and then looked
away.
"Remember semantics," I murmured to him, as I pulled out Sara's chair
for her. I seated her to the left of the Swami. I seated Auerbach to the
right of him. If the lieutenant was, by chance, in cahoots with the
Swami, I would foil them to the extent of not letting them sit side by
side at least. I sat down at the opposite side of the table from the Swami.
The lieutenant sat down between me and Sara.
The general manager came through the door at that instant, and took
charge immediately.
"All right now," Old Stone Face said crisply, in his low, rumbling voice,
"no fiddle-faddling around. Let's get down to business."
The Swami closed his eyes.
"Please be seated," he intoned to Old Stone Face. "And now, let us all

join hands in an unbroken circle."
Henry shot him a beetle-browed look as he sat down between Auerbach
and me, but at least he was coöperative to the extent that he placed both
his hands on top of the table. If Auerbach and I reached for them, we
would be permitted to grasp them.
I leaned back and snapped off the overhead light to darken the room in
an eerie, blue glow.
We sat there, holding hands, for a full ten minutes. Nothing happened.
* * * * *
It was not difficult to estimate the pattern of Henry's mind. Six persons,
ten minutes, equals one man-hour. One man-hour of idle time to be
charged into the cost figure of the antigrav unit. He was staring fixedly
at the cylinders which lay in random positions in the center of the table,
as if to assess their progress at this processing point. He apparently
began to grow dissatisfied with the efficiency rating of the
manufacturing process at this point. He stirred restlessly in his chair.
The Swami seemed to sense the impatience, or it might have been
coincidence.
"There is some difficulty," he gasped in a strangulated, high voice. "My
guides refuse to come through."
"Harrumph!" exclaimed Old Stone Face. It left no doubt about what he
would do if his guides did not obey orders on the double.
"Someone in this circle is not a True Believer!" the Swami accused in
an incredulous voice.
In the dim blue light I was able to catch a glimpse of Sara's face. She
was on the verge of breaking apart. I managed to catch her eye and
flash her a stern warning. Later she told me she had interpreted my
expression as stark fear, but it served the same purpose. She smothered

her laughter in a most unladylike sound somewhere between a snort
and a squawk.
The Swami seemed to become aware that somehow he was not holding
his audience spellbound.
"Wait!" he commanded urgently; then he announced in awe-stricken
tones, "I feel a presence!"
There was a tentative, half-hearted rattle of some castanets--which
could have been managed by the Swami wiggling one knee, if he
happened to have them concealed there. This was followed by the thin
squawk of a bugle--which could have been accomplished by sitting
over toward one side and squashing the air out of a rubber bulb
attached to a ten-cent party horn taped to his thigh.
Then there was nothing. Apparently his guides had made a