[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 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 Matériel 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 characteristicallyrectangular 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. Most people cling too desperately tothe ego-saving formula: Man cannot know man. "Look, lieutenant, " I said, with an idea that we'd better get down tobusiness. "Have you been checked out on what this is all about?" "Well, sir, " he answered, as if he were answering a question in class, "I was cleared for top security, and told that a few months ago you andyour Dr. Auerbach, here at Computer Research, discovered a way to createantigravity. I was told you claimed you had to have a poltergeist in theprocess. You told General Sanfordwaithe that you needed six of them, males. That's about all, sir. So the Poltergeist Division discovered theSwami, and I was assigned to bring him out here to you. " "Well then, Lieutenant Murphy, you go back to the Pentagon and tellGeneral Sanfordwaithe that--" I could see by the look on his face thatmy message would probably not get through verbatim. "Never mind, I'llwrite it, " I amended disgustedly. "And you can carry the message. "Lesser echelons do not relish the task of repeating uncomplimentarywords 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'restill with us on this crass, materialistic plane, will you bring yourbook?" "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 appreciativeglance, then returned to his aloof pedestal of indifference. Obviouslyhis pattern was to stand in majestic splendor and allow the girls tofawn somewhere down near his shoes. These lads with a glamour boycomplex almost always gravitate toward some occupation which willrequire them to wear a uniform. Sara catalogued him as quickly as I did, and seemed unimpressed. But you never can tell about a woman; thesmartest of them will fall for the most transparent poses. "General Sanfordwaithe, dear sir, " I began as she sat down at one cornerof my desk and flipped open her book. "It takes more than a towelwrapped around the head and some mutterings about infinity to getpoltergeist effects. So I am returning your phony Swami to you with mycompliments--" "Beg your pardon, sir, " the lieutenant interrupted, and there was acertain note of suppressed triumph in his voice. "In case you rejectedour applicant for the poltergeist job you have in mind, I was to handyou this. " He undid a lovingly polished button of his tunic, slipped hishand 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 wasslightly less crisp than when he had received it. I slipped my letteropener in under the side flap, and gently extracted the letter without, in anyway, disturbing the wax seals which were to have guaranteed itsprivacy. There wasn't any point in my doing it, of course, except todemonstrate to the lieutenant that I considered the whole deal as asilly 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 convincedthat in spite of this there are some unaccountable effects. We haveadvised your general manager, Mr. Henry Grenoble, that we are in the actof carrying out our part of the agreement, namely, to provide you withsix male-type poltergeists, and to both you and him we are respectfullysuggesting that you get on with the business of putting the antigravityunits into immediate production. " I folded the letter and tucked it into one side of my desk pad. I lookedat Sara. "Never mind the letter to General Sanfordwaithe, " I said. "He hassuccessfully cut off my retreat in that direction. " I looked over at thelieutenant. "All right, " I said resignedly, "I'll apologize to theSwami, and make a try at using him. " I picked up the letter again and pretended to be reading it. But thiswas just a stall, because I had suddenly been struck by the thought thatmy extreme haste in scoring off the Swami and trying to get rid of himwas because I didn't want to get involved again with poltergeists. Notany, of any nature. The best way on earth to avoid having to explain psi effects and come toterms with them is simply to deny them, convince oneself that they don'texist. I sighed deeply. It looked as if I would be denied that littlehuman privilege of closing my eyes to the obvious. * * * * * Old Stone Face, our general manager, claimed to follow the philosophy ofbuilding men, not machines. To an extent he did. His favorite phrasewas, "Don't ask me how. I hired you to tell me. " He hired a man to do ajob, and I will say for him, he left that man alone as long as the jobgot done. But when a man flubbed a job, and kept on flubbing it, thenMr. Henry Grenoble stepped in and carried out his own job--generalmanaging. He had given me the assignment of putting antigrav units intoproduction. He had given me access to all the money I would need for thepurpose. He had given me sufficient time, months of it. And, in spite ofall this coöperation, he still saw no production lines which spewed outantigrav units at some such rate as seventeen and five twelfths persecond. Apparently he got his communication from the Pentagon about the time Igot mine. Apparently it contained some implication that ComputerResearch, under his management, was not pursuing the cause ofmanufacturing antigrav units with diligence and dispatch. Apparently hedid not like this. I had no more than apologized to the Swami, and received his martyredforgiveness, and arranged for a hotel suite for him and the lieutenant, when Old Stone Face sent for me. He began to manage with diligence anddispatch. "Now you look here, Kennedy, " he said forcefully, and his use of my lastname, rather than my first, was a warning, "I've given you every chance. When you and Auerbach came up with that antigrav unit last fall, Ididn't ask a lot of fool questions. I figured you knew what you weredoing. But the whole winter has passed, and here it is spring, and youhaven't done anything that I can see. I didn't say anything when youtold General Sanfordwaithe that you'd have to have poltergeists to carryon the work, but I looked it up. First I thought you'd flipped your lid, then I thought you were sending us all on a wild goose chase so we'dleave you alone, then I didn't know what to think. " I nodded. He wasn't through. "Now I think you're just pretending the whole thing doesn't existbecause you don't want to fool with it. " Perhaps he had come to the right decision after all. I'd resolutelywashed the whole thing out of my mind. But I wasn't going to get awaywith it. I could see it coming. "For the first time, Kennedy, I'm asking you what happened?" he saidfirmly, but his tone was more telling than asking. So I was going tohave to discuss frameworks with Old Stone Face, after all. "Henry, " I asked slowly, "have you kept up your reading in theoreticalphysics?" He blinked at me. I couldn't tell whether it meant yes or no. "When we went to school, you and I--" I hoped my putting us both in thesame age group would tend to mollify him a little, "physics was allsnug, secure, safe, definite. A fact was a fact, and that's all therewas to it. But there's been some changes made. There's the coördinatesystems of Einstein, where the relationships of facts can change fromframework to framework. There's the application of multivalued logic tophysics where a fact becomes not a fact any longer. The astronomers talkabout the expanding universe--it's a piker compared to man's expandingconcepts about that universe. " He waited for more. His face seemed to indicate that I was beatingaround the bush. "That all has a bearing on what happened, " I assured him. "You have tounderstand what was behind the facts before you can understand the factsthemselves. First, we weren't trying to make an antigrav unit at all. Dr. Auerbach was playing around with a chemical approach to cybernetics. He made up some goop which he thought would store memory impulses, theway the brain stores them. He brought a plastic cylinder of it over tome, so I could discuss it with you. I laid it on my desk while I went onwith my personnel management business at hand. " Old Stone Face opened a humidor and took out a cigar. He lit it slowlyand deliberately and looked at me sharply as he blew out the first puffof smoke. * * * * * "The nursery over in the plant had been having trouble with a littlegirl, daughter of one of our production women. She'd been throwingthings, setting things on fire. The teachers didn't know how she did it, she just did it. They sent her to me. I asked her about it. She threw atantrum, and when it was all over, Auerbach's plastic cylinder of goopwas trying to fall upward, through the ceiling. That's what happened, " Isaid. He looked at his cigar, and looked at me. He waited for me to tie thefacts to the theory. I hesitated, and then tried to reassure myself. After all, we were in the business of manufacturing computers. Thegeneral manager ought to be able to understand something beyond primaryarithmetic. "Jennie Malasek was a peculiar child with a peculiar background, " I wenton. "Her mother was from the old country, one of the Slav races. There'sthe inheritance of a lot of peculiar notions. Maybe she had passed themon to her daughter. She kept Jennie locked up in their room. The kidnever got out with other children. Children, kept alone, never seeinganybody, get peculiar notions all by themselves. Who, knows what kind ofa coördinate system she built up, or how it worked? Her mother wouldcome home at night and go about her tasks talking aloud, half to thedaughter, half to herself. 'I really burned that foreman up, today, 'she'd say. Or, 'Oh, boy, was he fired in a hurry!' Or, 'She got herselfthrown out of the place, ' things like that. " "So what does that mean, Ralph?" he asked. His switch to my first nameindicated he was trying to work with me instead of pushing me. "To a child who never knew anything else, " I answered, "one who hadnever learned to distinguish reality from unreality--as we would defineit from our agreed framework--a special coördinate system might be builtup where 'Everybody was up in the air at work, today, ' might be takenliterally. Under the old systems of physics that couldn't happen, ofcourse--it says in the textbooks--but since it has been happening allthrough history, in thousands of instances, in the new systems ofmultivalued physics we recognize it. Under the old system, we alreadyhad all the major answers, we thought. Now that we've got our smugcertainties knocked out of us, we're just fumbling along, trying to getsome of the answers we thought we had. "We couldn't make that cylinder activate others. We tried. We're stilltrying. In ordinary cybernetics you can have one machine punch a tapeand it can be fed into another machine, but that means you first have toknow how to code and decode a tape mechanically. We don't know how tocode or decode a psi effect. We know the Auerbach cylinder will store apsi impulse, but we don't know how. So we have to keep working with psigifted people, at least until we've established some of the basic lawsgoverning psi. " I couldn't tell by Henry's face whether I was with him or away from him. He told me he wanted to think about it, and made a little motion withhis hand that I should leave the room. I walked through the suite of executive offices and down a soundrebuffing hallway. The throbbing clatter of manufacture of metallicparts made a welcome sound as I went through the far doorway into thefactory. I saw a blueprint spread on a foreman's desk as I walked past. Good old blueprint. So many millimeters from here to there, made of suchand such an alloy, a hole punched here with an allowance offive-ten-thousandths plus or minus tolerance. Snug, secure, safe. Iwondered if psi could ever be blue-printed. Or suppose you put a holehere, but when you looked away and then looked back it had moved, orwasn't there at all? [Illustration] Quickly, I got myself into a conversation with a supervisor about therising rate of employee turnover in his department. That was somethingalso snug, secure, safe. All you had to do was figure out human beings. * * * * * I spent the rest of the morning on such pursuits, working with things Iunderstood. On his first rounds of the afternoon, the interoffice messenger broughtme a memorandum from the general manager's office. I opened it with somemisgivings. I was not particularly reassured. Mr. Grenoble felt he should work with me more closely on the antigravproject. He understood, from his researches, that the most positive psieffects were experienced during a seance with a medium. Would I kindlyarrange for the Swami to hold a seance that evening, after office hours, so that he might analyze the man's methods and procedures to see howthey could fit smoothly into Company Operation. This was not to beconstrued as interference in the workings of my department but in theinterests of pursuing the entire matter with diligence and dispatch-- The seance was to be held in my office. I had had many peculiar conferences in this room--from union leadersstripping off their coats, throwing them on the floor and stomping onthem; to uplifters who wanted to ban cosmetics on our women employees sothe male employees would not be tempted to think Questionable Thoughts. I could not recall ever having held a seance before. My desk had been moved out of the way, over into one corner of the largeroom. A round table was brought over from the salesmen's report writingroom (used there more for surreptitious poker playing than for writingreports) and placed in the middle of my office--on the grounds that ithad no sharp corners to gouge people in their middles if it got tocavorting about recklessly. In an industrial plant one always has toconsider the matter of safety rules and accident insurance rates. In the middle of the table there rested, with dark fluid gleamingthrough clear plastic cases, six fresh cylinders which Auerbach hadprepared in his laboratory over in the plant. Auerbach had shown considerable unwillingness to attend the seance; hepleaded being extra busy with experiments just now, but I gave him thatlook which told him I knew he had just been stalling around the last fewmonths, the same as I had. If the psi effect had never come out in the first place, there wouldn'thave been any mental conflict. He could have gone on with his processesof refining, simplifying and increasing the efficiency ratings of hisgoop. But this unexpected side effect, the cylinders learning anddemonstrating something he considered basically untrue, had tied hishands with a hopeless sort of frustration. He would have settled gladlyfor a chemical compound which could have added two and two upon request;but when that compound can learn and demonstrate that there's no suchthing as gravity, teaching it simple arithmetic is like ashes in themouth. I said as much to him. I stood there in his laboratory, leaned upagainst a work bench, and risked burning an acid hole in the sleeve ofmy jacket just to put over an air of unconcern. He was perched on theedge of an opposite work bench, swinging his feet, and hiding theexpression in his eyes behind the window's reflection upon his polishedglasses. I said even more. "You know, " I said reflectively, "I'm completely unable to understandthe attitude of supposedly unbiased men of science. Now you take allthat mass of data about psi effects, the odd and unexplainablehappenings, the premonitions, the specific predictions, the accuratedescriptions of far away simultaneously happening events. You take thatwhole mountainous mass of data, evidence, phenomena--" * * * * * A slight turn of his head gave me a glimpse of his eyes behind theglasses. He looked as if he wished I'd change the subject. In his dry, undemonstrative way, I think he liked me. Or at least he liked me when Iwasn't trying to make him think about things outside his safe and securelittle framework. But I didn't give in. If men of science are not goingto take up the evidence and work it over, then where are we? And arethey men of science? "Before Rhine came along, and brought all this down to the level oflaboratory experimentation, " I pursued, "how were those things to beexplained? Say a fellow had some unusual powers, things that happenedaround him, things he knew without any explanation for knowing them. I'll tell you. There were two courses open to him. He could express itin the semantics of spiritism, or he could admit to witchcraft andsorcery. Take your pick; those were the only two systems of semanticswhich had been built up through the ages. "We've got a third one now--parapsychology. If I had asked you to attendan experiment in parapsychology, you'd have agreed at once. But when Iask you to attend a seance, you balk! Man, what difference does it makewhat we call it? Isn't it up to us to investigate the evidence whereverwe find it? No matter what kind of semantic debris it's hiding in?" Auerbach shoved himself down off the bench, and pulled out a beat-uppackage of cigarettes. "All right, Kennedy, " he had said resignedly, "I'll attend your seance. " * * * * * The other invited guests were Sara, Lieutenant Murphy, Old Stone Face, myself, and, of course, the Swami. This was probably not typical of theSwami's usual audience composition. Six chairs were placed at even intervals around the table. I had foundsoft white lights overhead to be most suitable for my occasional nightwork, but the Swami insisted that a blue light, a dim one, was mostsuitable for his night work. I made no objection to that condition. One of the elementary basics ofscience is that laboratory conditions may be varied to meet thenecessities of the experiment. If a red-lighted darkness is necessary toan operator's successful development of photographic film, then I couldhardly object to a blue-lighted darkness for the development of theSwami's effects. Neither could I object to the Swami's insistence that he sit with hisback to the true North. When he came into the room, accompanied byLieutenant Murphy, his thoughts seemed turned in upon himself, or waftedsomewhere out of this world. He stopped in mid-stride, struck anattitude of listening, or feeling, perhaps, and slowly shifted his bodyback 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 confusingmaze of hallways leading to the Personnel Department from the outside. Applicants would be unable to find us if there were. If he had got hisbearings 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 thatit 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 beendiscovered by science. The birds had had their direction-finders attunedto it, long before there was man. Instead of objecting, the lieutenant and I meekly picked up the tableand shifted it to the new position. Sara and Auerbach came in as we weresetting the table down. Auerbach gave one quick look at the Swami in hisblack cloak and nearly white turban, and then looked away. "Remember semantics, " I murmured to him, as I pulled out Sara's chairfor her. I seated her to the left of the Swami. I seated Auerbach to theright of him. If the lieutenant was, by chance, in cahoots with theSwami, I would foil them to the extent of not letting them sit side byside at least. I sat down at the opposite side of the table from theSwami. The lieutenant sat down between me and Sara. The general manager came through the door at that instant, and tookcharge immediately. "All right now, " Old Stone Face said crisply, in his low, rumblingvoice, "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 alljoin hands in an unbroken circle. " Henry shot him a beetle-browed look as he sat down between Auerbach andme, but at least he was coöperative to the extent that he placed bothhis hands on top of the table. If Auerbach and I reached for them, wewould be permitted to grasp them. I leaned back and snapped off the overhead light to darken the room inan 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. Sixpersons, ten minutes, equals one man-hour. One man-hour of idle time tobe charged into the cost figure of the antigrav unit. He was staringfixedly at the cylinders which lay in random positions in the center ofthe table, as if to assess their progress at this processing point. Heapparently began to grow dissatisfied with the efficiency rating of themanufacturing process at this point. He stirred restlessly in his chair. The Swami seemed to sense the impatience, or it might have beencoincidence. "There is some difficulty, " he gasped in a strangulated, high voice. "Myguides 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 anincredulous voice. In the dim blue light I was able to catch a glimpse of Sara's face. Shewas on the verge of breaking apart. I managed to catch her eye and flashher a stern warning. Later she told me she had interpreted my expressionas stark fear, but it served the same purpose. She smothered herlaughter in a most unladylike sound somewhere between a snort and asquawk. The Swami seemed to become aware that somehow he was not holding hisaudience 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--whichcould have been managed by the Swami wiggling one knee, if he happenedto have them concealed there. This was followed by the thin squawk of abugle--which could have been accomplished by sitting over toward oneside and squashing the air out of a rubber bulb attached to a ten-centparty horn taped to his thigh. Then there was nothing. Apparently his guides had made a tentativeappearance and were, understandably, completely intimidated by Old StoneFace. We sat for another five minutes. "Harrumph!" Henry cleared his throat again, this time louder and morecommanding. "That is all, " the Swami said in a faint, exhausted voice. "I havereturned to you on your material plane. " * * * * * The handholding broke up in the way bits of metal, suddenly chargedpositive and negative, would fly apart. I leaned back again and snappedon the white lights. We all sat there a few seconds, blinking in whatseemed a sudden glare. The Swami sat with his chin dropped down to his chest. Then he raisedstricken, liquid eyes. "Oh, now I remember where I am, " he said. "What happened? I never know. " Old Stone Face threw him a look of withering scorn. He picked up one ofthe cylinders and hefted it in the palm of his hand. It did not flyupward to bang against the ceiling. It weighed about what it ought toweigh. He tossed the cylinder contemptuously, back into the pile, scattering them over the table. He pushed back his chair, got to hisfeet, and stalked out of the room without looking at any of us. The Swami made a determined effort to recapture the spotlight. "I'm afraid I must have help to walk to the car, " he whispered. "I amcompletely exhausted. Ah, this work takes so much out of me. Why do I goon with it? Why? Why? Why?" He drooped in his chair, then made a valiantly brave effort to riseunder his own power when he felt the lieutenant's hands lifting him up. He was leaning heavily on the lieutenant as they went out the door. Sara looked at me dubiously. "Will there be anything else?" she asked. Her tone suggested that sincenothing had been accomplished, perhaps we should get some work outbefore she left. "No, Sara, " I answered. "Good night. See you in the morning. " She nodded and went out the door. Apparently none of them had seen what I saw. I wondered if Auerbach had. He was a trained observer. He was standing beside the table looking downat the cylinders. He reached over and poked at one of them with hisforefinger. He was pushing it back and forth. It gave him no resistancebeyond normal inertia. He pushed it a little farther out of parallelwith true North. It did not try to swing back. So he had seen it. When I'd laid the cylinders down on the table theywere in random positions. During the seance there had been no jarring ofthe table, not even so much as a rap or quiver which could have beencaused by the Swami's lifted knee. When we'd shifted the table, afterthe Swami had changed his chair, the cylinders hadn't been disturbed. When Old Stone Face had been staring at them during the seance--seance?, hah!--they were laying in inert, random positions. But when the lights came back on, and just before Henry had picked oneup and tossed it back to scatter them, every cylinder had been laying inorderly parallel--and with one end pointing to true North! I stood there beside Auerbach, and we both poked at the cylinders somemore. They gave us no resistance, nor showed that they had any ideasabout it one way or the other. "It's like so many things, " I said morosely. "If you do just happen tonotice anything out of the ordinary at all, it doesn't seem to meananything. " "Maybe that's because you're judging it outside of its own framework, "Auerbach answered. I couldn't tell whether he was being sarcastic orspeculative. "What I don't understand, " he went on, "is that once thecylinders having been activated by whatever force there was inaction--all right, call it psi--well, why didn't they retain it, the waythe other cylinders retained the antigrav force?" I thought for a moment. Something about the conditional setup seemed togive me an idea. "You take a photographic plate, " I reasoned. "Give it a weak exposure tolight, then give it a strong blast of overexposure. The first exposureis going to be blanked out by the second. Old Stone Face was feelingpretty strongly toward the whole matter. " Auerbach looked at me, unbelieving. "There isn't any rule about who can have psi talent, " I argued. "I'mjust wondering if I shouldn't wire General Sanfordwaithe and tell himto cut our order for poltergeists down to five. " * * * * * I spent a glum, restless night. I knew, with certainty, that Old StoneFace was going to give me trouble. I didn't need any psi talent forthat, it was an inevitable part of his pattern. He had made up his mindto take charge of this antigrav operation, and he wouldn't let one bogusseance stop him more than momentarily. If it weren't so close to direct interference with my department, I'dhave been delighted to sit on the side lines and watch him try tocommand psi effects to happen. That would be like commanding some randomcopper wire and metallic cores to start generating electricity. For once I could have overlooked the interference with my department ifI didn't know, from past experience, that I'd be blamed for theconsequent failure. That's a cute little trick of top executives, generally. They get into something they don't understand, really louseit up, then, because it is your department, you are the one who failed. Ordinarily I liked my job, but if this sort of thing went too far-- But more than saving my job, I had the feeling that if I were allowed togo along, carefully and experimentally, I just might discover a few ofthe laws about psi. There was the tantalizing feeling that I was on theverge of knowing at least something. The Pentagon people had been right. The Swami was an obvious phony ofthe baldest fakery, yet he had something. He had something, but how wasI to get hold of it? Just what kind of turns with what around what didyou make to generate a psi force? It took two thousand years for man tomove from the concept that amber was a stone with a soul to the conceptof static electricity. Was there any chance I could find some shortcutsin reducing the laws governing psi? The one bright spot of my morningwas that Auerbach hadn't denied seeing the evidence of the cylinderspointing North. It turned out to be the only bright spot. I had no more than got to myoffice and sorted out the routine urgencies which had to be handledimmediately from those which could be put off a little longer, when Saraannounced the lieutenant and the Swami. So I put everything else off, and told her to send them right in. The Swami was in an incoherent rage. The lieutenant was contracting hiseyebrows in a scowl and clenching his fists in frustration. In a voice, soaring into the falsetto, the Swami demanded that he be sent back toBrooklyn where he was appreciated. The lieutenant had orders to staywith the Swami, but he didn't have any orders about returning either toBrooklyn or the Pentagon. I managed, at last, to get the lieutenantseated in a straight chair, but the Swami couldn't stay still longenough. He stalked up and down the room, swirling his slightly odorousblack cloak on the turns. Gradually the story came out. * * * * * Old Stone Face, a strong advocate of Do It Now, hadn't wasted any time. From his home he had called the Swami at his hotel and commanded him toreport to the general manager's office at once. Apparently they both gotthere about the same time, and Henry had waded right in. Apparently Henry, too, had spent a restless night. He accused the Swamiof inefficiency, bungling, fraud, deliberate insubordination, and a fewother assorted faults for having made a fool out of us all at theseance. He'd as much as commanded the Swami to cut out all thisshilly-shallying and get down to the business of activating antigravcylinders, or else. He hadn't been specific about what the "or else"would entail. It was up to me to pick up the pieces, if I could. "Now I'm sure he really didn't mean--" I began to pour oil on thetroubled waters. "With your deep insight, Swami--The fate of greatmartyrs throughout the ages--" Gradually the ego-building phrases calmedhim down. He grew willing to listen, if for no more than theanticipation of hearing more of them. He settled down into the crying chair at last, and I could see hisvalence shifting from outraged anger to a vast and noble forgiveness. This much was not difficult. To get him to coöperate, consciously andenthusiastically, well that might not be so easy. Each trade has its own special techniques. The analytical chemist has aseries of routines he tries when he wishes to reduce an unknown compoundto its constituents. To the chemically uneducated, this may appear to bea fumbling, hit or miss, kind of procedure. The personnel man, too, hashis series of techniques. It may appear to be no more than random, pointless conversation. I first tried the routine process of reasoning. I didn't expect it towork; it seldom does, but it can't be eliminated until it has beentested. * * * * * "You must understand, " I said slowly, soothingly, "that our intentionsare constructive. We are simply trying to apply the scientific method tosomething which has, heretofore, been wrapped in mysticism. " The shocked freezing of his facial muscles told me that reasoning hadmissed its mark. It told me more. "Science understands nothing, nothing at all!" he snapped, "Sciencetries to reduce everything to test tubes and formulae; but I am theinstrument of a mystery which man can never know. " "Well, now, " I said reasonably. "Let us not be inconsistent. You saythis is something man was not meant to know; yet you, yourself, havedevoted your life to gaining a greater comprehension of it. " "I seek only to rise above my material self so that I might placemyself in harmony with the flowing symphony of Absolute Truth, " helectured me sonorously. Oh well, his enrapturement with such terminologydiffered little from some of the sciences which tended to grow equallyesoteric. And maybe it meant something. Who was I to say that mine earsalone heard all the music being played? It did mean one thing very specifically. There are two basic approachesto the meaning of life and the universe about us. Man can know: That isthe approach of science, its whole meaning. There are mysteries whichman was not meant to know: That is the other approach. There is noreconciling of the two on a reasoning basis. I represented the former. Iwasn't sure the Swami was a true representative of the latter, but atleast he had picked up the valence and the phrases. I made a mental note that reasoning was an unworkable technique withthis compound. Henry, a past master at it, had already tried threats andabuse. That hadn't worked. I next tried one of the oldest forms in theteaching of man, a parable. I told him of my old Aunt Dimity, who was passionately fond of Rummy, but considered all other card games sinful. "Ah, how well she proves my point, " the Swami countered. "There is aninner voice, a wisdom greater than the mortal mind to guide us--" "Well now, " I asked reasonably, "why would the inner voice say thatRummy was O. K. , but Casino wasn't?" But it was obvious he liked thepoint he had made better than he had liked the one I failed to make. So I tried the next technique. I tried an appeal for instruction. Oftenan opponent will come over to your side if you just confess, honestly, that he is a better man than you are, and you need his help. What wasthe road I must take to achieve the same understanding he had achieved?His eyes glittered at that, and a mercenary expression underlay the toneof his answer. "First there is fasting, and breathing, and contemplating self, " hemurmured mendaciously. "I would be unable to aid you until you gave mefull ascendancy over you, so that I might guide your every thought--" I decided to try inspiration. In breaking down recalcitrant materials inthe laboratory of my personnel office, sometimes one method worked, sometimes another. "Do you realize, Swami, " I asked, "that the one great drawbackthroughout the ages to a full acceptance of psi is the lack of permanentevidence? It has always been evanescent, perishable. It always restssolely upon the word of witnesses. But if I could show you a film print, then you could not doubt the existence of photography, could you?" I opened my lower desk drawer and pulled out a couple of the Auerbachcylinders which we had used the night before. I laid them on top of thedesk. "These cylinders, " I said, "act like the photographic film. They willrecord, in permanent form, the psi effects you command. At last, for allmankind the doubt will be stilled; man will at once know the truth; andyou will take your place among the immortals. " [Illustration] I thought it was pretty good, and that, with his overweening ego, itwould surely do the trick. But the Swami was staring at the cylindersfirst in fascination, then fear, then in horror. He jumped to his feet, without bothering to swirl his robe majestically, rushed over to thedoor, fumbled with the knob as if he were in a burning room, managed toget the door open, and rushed outside. The lieutenant gave me a puzzledlook, and went after him. * * * * * I drew a deep breath, and exhaled it audibly. My testing procedureshadn't produced the results I'd expected, but the last one had revealedsomething else. The Swami believed himself to be a fraud! As long as he could razzle-dazzle with sonorous phrases, and depend uponcredulous old women to turn them into accurate predictions of things tocome, he was safe enough. But faced with something which would provedefinitely-- Well, what would he do now? And then I noticed that both cylinders were pointing toward the door. Iwatched them, at first, not quite sure; then I grew convinced by thechange in their perspective with the angles of the desk. Almost asslowly as the minute hand of a watch, they were creeping across the desktoward the door. They, too, were trying to escape from the room. I nudged them with my fingers. They hustled along a little faster, as ifappreciative of the help, even coming from me. I saw they were movingfaster, as if they were learning as they tried it. I turned one of themaround. Slowly it turned back and headed for the door again. I liftedone of them to the floor. It had no tendency to float, but it keptheading for the door. The other one fell off the desk while I wasfooling with the first one. The jar didn't seem to bother it any. It, too, began to creep across the rug toward the door. I opened the door for them. Sara looked up. She saw the two cylinderscome into view, moving under their own power. "Here we go again, " she said, resignedly. The two cylinders pushed themselves over the door sill, got clearoutside my office. Then they went inert. Both Sara and I tried nudgingthem, poking them. They just lay there; mission accomplished. I carriedthem back inside my office and lay them on the floor. Immediately bothof them began to head for the door again. "Simple, " Sara said dryly, "they just can't stand to be in the same roomwith you, that's all. " "You're not just whistling, gal, " I answered. "That's the whole point. " "Have I said something clever?" she asked seriously. I took the cylinders back into my office and put them in a desk drawer. I watched the desk for a while, but it didn't change position. Apparently it was too heavy for the weak force activating the cylinders. I picked up the phone and called Old Stone Face. I told him about thecylinders. "There!" he exclaimed with satisfaction. "I knew all that fellow neededwas a good old-fashioned talking to. Some day, my boy, you'll realizethat you still have a lot to learn about handling men. " "Yes, sir, " I answered. * * * * * Sara asked me if I were ready to start seeing people, and I told her Iwasn't, that I had some thinking to do. She quipped something aboutmaking the world wait, meaning that I should be occupying my time withpersonnel managing, and closed the door. At that, Old Stone Face had a point. If he hadn't got in and riledthings up, maybe the Swami would not have been emotionally upset enoughto generate the psi force which had activated these new cylinders. What was I saying? That psi was linked with emotional upheaval? Well, maybe. Not necessarily, but Rhine had proved that strength of desire hadan effect upon the frequency index of telekinesis. Was there anything atall we knew about psi, so that we could start cataloguing, sketching inthe beginnings of a pattern? Yes, of course there was. First, it existed. No one could dismiss the mountainous mass of evidenceunless he just refused to think about the subject. Second, we could, in time, know what it was and how it worked. You'dhave to give up the entire basis of scientific attitude if you didn'tadmit that. Third, it acted like a sense, rather than as something dependent uponthe intellectual process of thought. You could, for example--I argued tomy imaginary listener--command your nose to smell a rose, and byautosuggestion you might think you were succeeding; that is, until youreally did smell a real rose, then you'd know that you'd failed tocreate it through a thought pattern. The sense would have to beseparated from the process of thinking about the sense. So what was psi? But, at this point, did it matter much? Wasn't the mainissue one of learning how to produce it, use it? How long did we workwith electricity and get a lot of benefits from it before we formed sometheories about what it was? And, for that matter, did we know what itwas, even yet? "A flow of electrons" was a pretty meaningless phrase, when you stopped to think about it. I could say psi was a flow ofpositrons, and it would mean as much. I reached over and picked up a cigarette. I started fumbling around inthe center drawer of my desk for a matchbook. I didn't find any. Withoutthinking, I opened the drawer containing the two cylinders. They werepressing up against the side of the desk drawer, still trying to get outof the room. Single purposed little beasts, weren't they? I closed the drawer, and noticed that I was crushing out my cigarette inthe ash tray, just as if I'd smoked it. It was the first overtindication I'd had that maybe my nerves weren't all they should be thismorning. The sight of the cylinders brought up the fourth point. Experimentalpsychology was filled with examples of the known senses being unable tomake correct evaluations when confronted with a totally new object, color, scent, taste, sound, impression. It was necessary to have a pointof orientation before the new could be fitted into the old. What wereally lacked in psi was the ability to orient its phenomena. Thevarious psi gifted individuals tried to do this. If they believed inguides from beyond the veil, that's the way they expressed themselves. On the other hand, a Rhine card caller might not be able to give you amessage from your dear departed Aunt Minnie if his life depended uponit--yet it could easily be the same force working in both instances. Consequently, a medium, such as the Swami, whose basic belief was ThereAre Mysteries, would be unable to function in a framework where theobvious intent was to unveil those mysteries! That brought up a couple more points. I felt pretty sure of them. Ifelt as if I were really getting somewhere. And I had a situation whichwas ideal for proving my points. I flipped the intercom key, and spoke to Sara. "Will you arrange with her foreman for Annie Malasek to come to myoffice right now?" I asked. Sara is flippant when things are going alongall right, but she knows when to buckle down and do what she's asked. She gave me no personal reactions to this request. Yes, Annie Malasek would be a good one. If anybody in the plant believedThere Are Mysteries, it would be Annie. Further, she was exaggeratedlyloyal to me. She believed I was responsible for turning her littleJennie, the little girl who'd started all this poltergeist trouble, intoa Good Little Girl. In this instance, I had no qualms about takingadvantage of that loyalty. * * * * * While I waited for her I called the lieutenant at his hotel. He was in. Yes, the Swami was also in. They'd just returned. Yes, the Swami wasranting and raving about leaving Los Angeles at once. He had said heabsolutely would have nothing more to do with us here at ComputerResearch. I told Lieutenant Murphy to scare him with tales of thesecret, underground working of Army Intelligence, to quiet him down. AndI scared the lieutenant a little by pointing out that holding a civilianagainst his will without the proper writ was tantamount to kidnapping. So if the Army didn't want trouble with the Civil Courts, all broughtabout because the lieutenant didn't know how to handle his man-- The lieutenant became immediately anxious to coöperate with me. So thenI soothed him. I told him that, naturally, the Swami was unhappy. He wasused to Swami-ing, and out here he had been stifled, frustrated. What heneeded was some credulous women to catch their breath at hisawe-inspiring insight and gaze with fearful rapture into his eyes. Thelieutenant didn't know where he could find any women like that. I toldhim, dryly, that I would furnish some. Annie was more than coöperative. Sure, the whole plant was buzzing aboutthat foreign-looking Swami who had been seen coming in and out of myoffice. Sure, a lot of the Girls believed in seances. "Why? Don't you, Mr. Kennedy?" she asked curiously. I said I wasn't sure, and she clucked her tongue in sympathy. It must beterrible not to be sure, so . .. Well, it must be just terrible. And Iwas such a kind man, too. I didn't quite get the connection, until Iremembered there are some patterns which believe a human being would beincapable of being kind unless through hope of reward or fear ofpunishment. But when I asked her to go to the hotel and persuade the Swami to giveher a reading, she was reluctant. I thought my plan was going to befrustrated, but it turned out that her reluctance was only because shedid not have a thing to wear, going into a high-toned place like that. Sara wasn't the right size, but one of the older girls in the outeroffice would lend Annie some clothes if I would let her go see theSwami, too. It developed that her own teacher was a guest of Los AngelesCounty for a while, purely on a trumped-up charge, you understand, Mr. Kennedy. Not that she was a cop hater or anything like that. She wasperfectly aware of what a fine and splendid job those noble boys in bluedid for us all, but-- In my own office! Well, you never knew. Yet, what was the difference between her and me? We were both trying toget hold of and benefit by psi effects, weren't we? So I didn't comment. Instead, I found myself much farther ahead with my tentative plans thanI'd anticipated at this stage. Yes, my interviewer's teacher had quite a large following, and now theywere all at loose ends. If the Swami were willing, she could provide alarge and ready-made audience for him. She would be glad to talk to himabout it. Annie hurriedly said that she would be glad to talk to him about it, too; that she could get up a large audience, too. So, even before it gotstarted, I had my rival factions at work. I egged them both on, andpromised that I'd get Army Intelligence to work with the local boys inblue to hold off making any raids. Annie told me again what a kind man I was. My interviewer spoke upquickly and said how glad she was to find an opportunity for expressinghow grateful she was for the privilege of working right in the samedepartment with such an understanding, really intellectually developedadult. She eyed Annie sidelong, as if to gauge the effects of herattempts to set me up on a pedestal, out of Annie's reach. I hoped I wouldn't start believing either one of them. I hoped I wasn'tas inaccurate in my estimates of people as was my interviewer. Iwondered if she were really qualified for the job she held. Then Irealized this was a contest between two women and I, a mere male, wassimply being used as the pawn. Well, that worked both ways. In a fairbargain both sides receive satisfaction. I felt a little easier about mytactical maneuvers. But the development of rivalry between factions of the audience gave mean additional idea. Perhaps that's what the Swami really needed, alittle rivalry. Perhaps he was being a little too hard to crack becausehe knew he was the only egg in the basket. I called Old Stone Face and told him what I planned. He responded thatit was up to me. He'd stepped in and got things under way for me, gotthings going, now it was my job to keep them going. It looked as if hewere edging out from under--or maybe he really believed that. Before I settled into the day's regular routine, I wired GeneralSanfordwaithe, and told him that if he had any more prospects readywould he please ship me one at once, via air mail, special delivery. * * * * * The recital hall, hired for the Swami's Los Angeles debut, was largeenough to accommodate all the family friends and relatives of any littleMaribel who, having mastered "Daffodils In May, " for four fingers, wasbeing given to the World. It had the usual small stage equipped withpull-back curtains to give a dramatic flourish, or to shut off from viewthe effects of any sudden nervous catastrophe brought about by stagefright. I got there, purposely a little late, in hopes the house lights wouldalready be dimmed and everything in progress; but about a hundred andfifty people were milling around outside on the walk and in thecorridors. Both factions had really been busy. Most of them were women, but, to my intense relief, there were a fewmen. Some of these were only husbands, but a few of the men wore a lookwhich said they'd been far away for a long time. Somehow I got theimpression that instead of looking into a crystal ball, they would bemore inclined to look out of one. It was a little disconcerting to realize that no one noticed me, orseemed to think I was any different from anybody else. I supposed Ishould be thankful that I wasn't attracting any attention. I saw myinterviewer amid a group of Older Girls. She winked at me roguishly, andpatted her heavy handbag significantly. As per instructions, she wascarrying a couple of the Auerbach cylinders. I found myself staring in perplexity for a full minute at another woman, before I realized it was Annie. I had never seen her before, exceptdressed in factory blue jeans, man's blue shirt, and a bandanna wrappedaround her head. Her companion, probably another of the factoryassemblers, nudged her and pointed, not too subtly, in my direction. Annie saw me then, and lit up with a big smile. She started toward me, hesitated when I frowned and shook my head, flushed with the thoughtthat I didn't want to speak to her in public; then got a flash of bettersense than that. She, too, gave me a conspiratorial wink and patted herhandbag. My confederates were doing nicely. Almost immediately thereafter a horse-faced, mustached old gal startedrounding people up in a honey sweet, pear shaped voice; and herded theminto the auditorium. I chose one of the wooden folding chairs in theback row. A heavy jowled old gal came out in front of the closed curtains and gavea little introductory talk about how lucky we all were that the Swamihad consented to visit with us. There was the usual warning to anyonewho was not of the esoteric that we must not expect too much, thatsometimes nothing at all happened, that true believers did not attendjust to see effects. She reminded us kittenishly that the guides werecapricious, and that we must all help by merging ourselves in the greatflowing currents of absolute infinity. She finally faltered, realized she was probably saying all the thingsthe Swami would want to say--in the manner of people who introducespeakers everywhere--and with a girlish little flourish she waved atsomeone off stage. The house lights dimmed. The curtains swirled up and back. * * * * * The Swami was doing all right for himself. He was seated behind a smalltable in the center of the stage. A pale violet light diffused through ahuge crystal ball on the table, and threw his dark features into sharprelief. It gave an astonishingly remote and inscrutable wisdom to hisfeatures. In the pale light, and at this distance, his turban lookedquite clean. He began to speak slowly and sonorously. A hush settled over theaudience, and gradually I felt myself merging with the mass reaction ofthe rest. As I listened, I got the feeling that what he was saying wasof tremendous importance, that somehow his words contained great andrevealing wonders--or would contain them if I were only sufficientlyadvanced to comprehend their true meanings. The man was good, he knewhis trade. All men search for truth at one level or another. I began torealize why such a proportionate few choose the cold and impersonallaboratory. Perhaps if there were a way to put science to music-- The Swami talked on for about twenty minutes, and then I noticed hisvoice had grown deeper and deeper in tone, and suddenly, without anyapparent transition, we all knew it was not really the Swami's voice wewere hearing. And then he began to tell members of the audience littleintimate things about themselves, things which only they should know. He was good at this, too. He had mastered the trick of making universalssound like specifics. I could do the same thing. The patterns ofpeople's lives have multiple similarities. To a far greater extent thangenerally realized the same things happen to everyone. The idea was totake some of the lesser known ones and word them so they seemed to applyto one isolated individual. For instance, I could tell a fellow about when he was a little boy therewas a little girl in a red dress with blond pigtails who used to scrapwith him and tattle things about him to her mother. If he were inclinedto be credulous, this was second sight I had. But it is a universal. What average boy didn't, at one time or another, know a little girl withblond pigtails? What blond little girl didn't occasionally wear a reddress? What little girl didn't tattle to her mother about the naughtythings the boys were doing? [Illustration] The Swami did that for a while. The audience was leaning forward in arapture of ecstasy. First the organ tones of his voice soothed andsoftened. The phrases which should mean something if only you had thecomprehension. The universals applied as specifics. He had his audiencein the palm of his hand. He didn't need his crystal ball to tell himthat. But he wanted it to be complete. Most of the responses had been fromwomen. He gave them the generalities which didn't sound likegeneralities. They confirmed with specifics. But most were women. Hewanted the men, too. He began to concentrate on the men. He made iteasy. "I have a message, " he said. "From . .. Now let me get it right . .. FromR. S. It is for a man in this audience. Will the man who knew R. S. Acknowledge?" There was a silence. And that was such an easy one, too. I hadn'tplanned to participate, but, on impulse, since none of the other menwere cooperating, I spoke up. "Robert Smith!" I exclaimed. "Good old Bob!" Several of the women sitting near me looked at me and beamed theirapproval. One of the husbands scowled at me. "I can tell by your tone, " the Swami said, and apparently he hadn'trecognized my tone, "that you have forgiven him. That is the message. Hewants you to know that he is happy. He is much wiser now. He knows nowthat he was wrong. " One of the women reached over and patted me on the shoulder, giving memotherly encouragement. But the Swami had no more messages for men. He was smart enough to knowwhere to stop. He'd tried one of the simplest come-ons, and there hadbeen too much of a pause. It had almost not come off. I wondered who good old Bob Smith was? Surely, among the thousands ofapplicants I'd interviewed, there must have been a number of them. And, being applicants, of course some of them had been wrong. The Swami's tones, giving one message after another--faster and fasternow, not waiting for acknowledgment or confirmation--began to sink intoa whisper. His speech became ragged, heavy. The words becameindistinguishable. About his head there began to float a pale, luminescent sphere. There was a subdued gasp from the audience and thencomplete stillness. As though, unbreathing, in the depths of a tomb, they watched the sphere. It bobbed about, over the Swami's head andaround him. At times it seemed as if about to float off stage, but itcame back. It swirled out over the audience, but not too far, and neverat such an angle that the long, flexible dull black wire supporting itwould be silhouetted against the glowing crystal ball. Then it happened. There was a gasp, a smothered scream. And over at oneside of the auditorium a dark object began bobbing about in the air upnear the ceiling. It swerved and swooped. The Swami's luminescent spherejerked to a sudden stop. The Swami sat with open mouth and stared at thedark object which he was not controlling. The dark object was not confined to any dull black wire. It went whereit willed. It went too high and brushed against the ceiling. There was a sudden shower of coins to the floor. A compact hit the floorwith a flat spat. A handkerchief floated down more slowly. "My purse!" a woman gasped. I recognized my interviewer's voice. Herpurse contained two Auerbach cylinders, and they were having themselvesa ball. In alarm, I looked quickly at the stage, hoping the Swami wasn't astuteenough to catch on. But he was gone. The audience, watching the bobbingpurse, hadn't realized it as yet. And they were delayed in realizing itby a diversion from the other side of the auditorium. "I can't hold it down any longer, Mr. Kennedy!" a woman gasped out. "It's taking me up into the air!" "Hold on, Annie!" I shouted back. "I'm coming!" * * * * * A chastened and subdued Swami sat in my office the following morning, and this time he was inclined to be coöperative. More, he was looking tome for guidance, understanding, and didn't mind acknowledging myascendancy. And, with the lieutenant left in the outer office, he didn'thave any face to preserve. Later, last night, he'd learned the truth of what happened after he hadrun away in a panic. I'd left a call at the hotel for the lieutenant. When the lieutenant had got him calmed down and returned my call, I'dinstructed the lieutenant to tell the Swami about the Auerbachcylinders; to tell the Swami he was not a fake after all. The Swami had obviously spent a sleepless night. It is a terrible thingto have spent years perfecting the art of fakery, and then to realizeyou needn't have faked at all. More terrible, he had swallowed some ofhis own medicine, and was overcome with fear of the forces which he hadbeen commanding. All through the night he had shivered in fear of someinstant and horrible retaliation. For him it was still a case of ThereAre Mysteries. And it was of no comfort to his state of mind right now that the fourcylinders we had finally captured last night were, at this moment, bobbing about in my office, swooping and swerving around in the upperpart of the room, like bats trying to find some opening. I was givinghim the full treatment! The first two cylinders, down on the floor, werepressing up against my closed door, like frightened little things tryingto escape a room of horror. The Swami's face was twitching, and his long fingers kept twiningthemselves into King's X symbols. But he was sitting it out. He wasswallowing some of the hair of the dog that bit him. I had to give him Afor that. "I've been trying to build up a concept of the framework wherein psiseems to function, " I told him casually, just as if it were all aformularized laboratory procedure. "I had to pull last night's stunt toprove something. " He tore his eyes away from the cylinders which were over exploring onecorner of the ceiling, and looked at me. "Let's go to electricity, " I said speculatively. "Not that we know psiand electricity have anything in common, other than some similaranalogies, but we don't know they don't. Both of them may be justdifferent manifestations of the same thing. We don't really know why amagnetized core, turning inside a coil of copper wire, generateselectricity. "Oh we've got some phrases, " I acknowledged. "We've got a wholestructure of phrases, and when you listen to them they sound as if theyought to mean something--like the phrases you were using last night. Everybody assumes they do mean something to the pundits. So, since it ishuman to want to be a pundit, we repeat these phrases over and over, andcall them explanations. Yet we do know what happens, even if we do justtheorize about why. We know how to wrap something around something andget electricity. "Take the induction coil, " I said. "We feed a low-voltage current intoone end, and we draw off a high-voltage current from the other. Butanyone who wants, any time, can disprove the whole principle of theinduction coil. All you have to do is wrap your core with anonconductor, say nylon thread, and presto, nothing comes out. You see, it doesn't work; and anybody who claims it does is a faker and a liar. That's what happens when science tries to investigate psi by thestandard methods. "You surround a psi-gifted individual with nonbelievers, and probablynothing will come out of it. Surround him with true believers; and itall seems to act like an induction coil. Things happen. Yet even whenthings do happen, it is usually impossible to prove it. "Take yourself, Swami. And this is significant. First we have the northpoint effect. Then those two little beggars trying to get out the door. Then the ones which are bobbing around up there. Without the cylindersthere would have been no way to know that anything had happened at all. "Now, about this psi framework. It isn't something you can turn on andoff, at will. We don't know enough yet for that. Aside from somebelievers and those individuals who do seem to attract psi forces, wedon't know, yet, what to wrap around what. So, here's what you're to do:You're to keep a supply of these cylinders near you at all times. If anypsi effects happen, they'll record it. Fair enough? "Now, " I said with finality. "I have anticipated that you might refuse. But you're not the only person who has psi ability. I've wired GeneralSanfordwaithe to send me another fellow; one who will coöperate. " The Swami thought it over. Here he was with a suite in a good hotel;with an army lieutenant to look after his earthly needs; on the payrollof a respectable company; with a ready-made flock of believers; and nofear of the bunco squad. He had never had it so good. The side money, for private readings alone, should be substantial. Further, and he watched me narrowly, I didn't seem to be afraid of thecylinders. It was probably this which gave the clincher. "I'll coöperate, " he agreed meekly. * * * * * For three days there was nothing. The Swami seemed coöperative enough. He called me a couple times a day and reported that the cylinders justlay around his room. I didn't know what to tell him. I recommended heread biographies of famous mediums. I recommended fasting, andbreathing, and contemplating self. He seemed dubious, but said he'd tryit. On the morning of the third day, Sara called me on the intercom and toldme there was another Army lieutenant in her office, and another charac. .. Another gentleman. I opened my door and went out to Sara's office togreet them. My first glimpse told me Sara had been right the first time. He was a character. The new lieutenant was no more than the standard output from the sameproduction line as Lieutenant Murphy, but the wizened little old man hehad in tow was from a different and much rarer matrix. As fast as I hadmoved, I was none too soon. The character reached over and tilted upSara's chin as I was coming through the door. "Now you're a healthy young wench, " he said with a leer. "What are youdoing tonight, baby?" The guy was at least eighty years old. "Hey, you, pop!" I exclaimed in anger. "Be your age!" He turned around and looked me up and down. "I'm younger, that way, than you are, right now!" he snapped. A disturbance in the outer office kept me from thinking up a retort. There were some subdued screams, some scuffling of heavy shoes, thesounds of some running feet as applicants got away. The outer door toSara's office was flung open. Framed in the doorway, breast high, floated the Swami! * * * * * He was sitting, cross-legged, on a hotel bathmat. From both frontcorners, where they had been attached by loops of twine, there peekedAuerbach cylinders. Two more rear cylinders were grasped in LieutenantMurphy's strong hands. He was propelling the Swami along, mid air, inAtlantic City Boardwalk style. The Swami looked down at us with aloof disdain, then his eyes focused onthe old man. His glance wavered; he threw a startled and fearful look atthe cylinders holding up his bathmat. They did not fall. A vast reliefoverspread his face, and he drew himself erect with more disdain thanever. The old man was not so aloof. "Harry Glotz!" he exclaimed. "Why you . .. You faker! What are you doingin that getup?" The Swami took a casual turn about the room, leaning to one side on hismagic carpet as if banking an airplane. "Peasant!" He spat the word out and motioned grandly toward the door. Lieutenant Murphy pushed him through. "Why, that no good bum!" the old man shouted at me. "That no-good fromnowhere! I'll fix him! Thinks he's something, does he? I'll show him!Anything he can do I can do better!" His rage got the better of him. He rushed through the door, shaking bothfists above his white head, shouting imprecations, threats, and pleadingto be shown how the trick was done, all in the same breath. The newlieutenant cast a stricken look at us and then sped after his charge. "Looks as if we're finally in production, " I said to Sara. "That's only the second one, " she said mournfully. "When you get all sixof them, this joint's sure going to be jumping!" I looked out of her window at the steel and concrete walls of thefactory. They were solid, real, secure; they were a symbol of reality, the old reality a man could understand. "I hope you don't mean that literally, Sara, " I answered dubiously. THE END Transcriber's Note: [Illustration] This etext was produced from _Astounding Science Fiction_ March 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U. S. Copyrighton this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errorshave been corrected without note.