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
What thin partitions sense from thought divide."
When I opened the door to mysecretary's office, I could see herlooking up from her desk at theSwami's face with an expression offascinated skepticism. The Swami'sback was toward me, and on it hungflowing folds of a black cloak. Histurban was white, except where ithad rubbed against the back of hisneck.
"A tall, dark, and handsome manwill soon come into your life," hewas intoning in that sepulchral voicemen habitually use in their dealingswith the absolute.
Sara's green eyes focused beyondhim, on me, and began to twinkle.
"And there he is right now," shecommented dryly. "Mr. Kennedy,Personnel Director for ComputerResearch."
The Swami whirled around, hisheavy robe following the movementin a practiced swirl. His liquid blackeyes looked me over shrewdly, andhe bowed toward me as he vaguelytouched his chest, lips and forehead.I expected him to murmur, "Effendi,"or "Bwana Sahib," or something,but he must have felt silencewas more impressive.
I acknowledged his greeting bypulling down one corner of mymouth. Then I looked at his companion.
The young lieutenant was standingvery straight, very stiff, and aflush of pink was starting up fromhis collar and spreading around hisclenched jaws to leave a semicircleof white in front of his red ears.
"Who are you?" I asked thelieutenant.
"Lieutenant Murphy," he answeredshortly, and managed to open histeeth a bare quarter of an inch forthe words to come out. "Pentagon!"His light gray eyes pierced me to seeif I were impressed.
I wasn't.
"Division of Matériel and Supply,"he continued in staccato, as ifhe were imitating a machine gun.
I waited. It was obvious he wasn'tthrough yet. He hesitated, and Icould see his Adam's apple travelup above the knot of his tie and backdown again as he swallowed. Thepink flush deepened suddenly intobrilliant red and spread all over hisface.
"Poltergeist Section," he saiddefiantly.
"What?" The exclamation wasout before I could catch it.
He tried to glare at me, but hiseyes were pleading instead.
"General Sanfordwaithe said you'dunderstand." He intended to make itmatter of fact in a sturdy, confidentvoice, but there was the undertoneof a wail. It was time I lent a handbefore 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 theold shoulder-to-shoulder tradition.He straightened still more. I hadn'tbelieved it possible.
"Yes, sir!" He wanted to keepthe gratitude out of his voice, butit was there. It did not escape myattention that, for the first time, hehad spoken the habitual term ofrespect to me.
"Well, what do you have here,Lieutenant Murphy?" I nodded towardthe Swami who had beenwavering between a proud, freestance and that of a drooping supplicant.The lieutenant, whose qualityhad been recognized, even by acivilian, was restored unto h