Sense from Thought Divide

by Mark Clifton

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 cooeperative. 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 cooeperate."

  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 cooeperate," he agreed meekly.

  * * * * *

  For three days there was nothing. The Swami seemed cooeperative 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 ...