What Thin Partitions

by Mark Clifton

  But my mood did not last. I had a job to do. This was no time to grow soft, sentimental, wavering.

  The fact that Jennie was outwardly changing from the strange little creature which excited no sympathy to a bewildered and hurt little girl who very definitely called for compassion changed the facts not at all.

  The prime necessity was to activate more of the cylinders. Jennie was the only means at hand by which that could be done. I wasn't sure that even she could do it, but I had to find out. I had to see if down beneath the surface she wasn't still the same wild instrument of an even wilder talent.

  Basic character doesn't change that fast, not just because somebody says it ought to change, not unless there is a violent and traumatic shock jolting the individual completely out of his framework and into another.

  I had to go ahead and try.

  I spent more, quite a bit more, of the funds at my disposal. The controller O.K.'d my vouchers as if the dollars were individual drops of his blood, and read the legends on the vouchers with a firm conviction that I had really lost my mind.

  Old Stone Face asked no questions. He was not one to assign a job to a man and then nag him about the details. He wanted results. But there was puzzlement in his face when he saw no building wings being converted, no assembly lines and moving belts being constructed, no supervisors, cost accountants, production control people assigned to the new work.

  Instead, I spent money on animated cartoons, three-dimensional cartoons. A director, experimenting in that new medium, had told me the most difficult job was to keep the action behind the screen, give it depth without illusion that it was projecting out into the audience-to give a stage depth effect without getting a poke in the eye effect.

  I wanted the oppostite. I wanted my audience, an audience of one, to get the illusion of a poke in the eye. I caused a special nursery to be built, just for Jennie. I had a studio make a short but elaborate sequence which only one person would view.

  I placed Auerbach's total supply of new cylinders in various spots around the room, a dozen or so of them. I had the projectors installed in an adjoining room, and a tiny window, lost in some decoration effects, where I could watch through.

  I went to the nursery and got Jennie. She was neither glad nor protesting. The nursery teacher objected a little. Jennie was doing such a fine job of adjusting to the other children now. They had had no more trouble. Apparently all that had been wrong was that Jennie had been starved for attention and affection. But now she was becoming a perfectly normal little girl. Didn't I think so too, Mr. Kennedy? And, are you ill, Mr. Kennedy? You don't look well at all! How kind you are, ill and everything, to think of little Jennie!

  I led Jennie out of the nursery over to the new room built especially for her. I did not react. I did not react! I did not react! I could not react, I was one solid mass of self-contempt and loathing.

  I put Jennie in the room, wordlessly, and she stood near the door, where I left her. I walked into the adjoining projection room, closed the door behind me, and started punching buttons. It was a form of punishment to make myself walk over to my little window and watch when the automatic machinery took over.

  Darkness blotted out the room, then an eerie blue light began to glow over the complex meshes of the screen in front and to the sides of Jennie. Trees, vines, bushes took on form, swayed a little, seemed alive. Knots on the trunks of the trees suggested faces, not kind faces. Limbs and twigs stirred and seemed to reach toward Jennie.

  I saw her take a small step backward until she had her back to the door. She turned and pulled at the knob, but the door wouldn't open. She turned back then and faced the growing light, the clearer scene all around her. I saw her lips move stiffly, and though I could not hear her, they seemed to form the words, “Good girl now."

  Far in the distance in front of her a deep red glow appeared, took form, part animal, part reptile and even more horrible, part man. Slowly it seemed to become aware of her-its very deliberateness, its sureness was its greatest horror.

  The room was a pandemonium then. The cylinders flew through the air toward the trees, toward the monster, crashing through the screen, tearing it to shreds, crashing against the padded walls.

  On the floor, in a crumpled heap, lay Jennie. She was still and lifeless. I punched a control button to bring the room back to normalcy, and ran into the room to her. Her heart was beating faintly, her pulse a thin string of fluttering.

  I shouted into the hall, “Get a doctor!"

  I ran back and began to administer first aid for acute shock. It was not until the doctor came from our hospital room and carried Jennie away that I looked around me.

  Most of the cylinders lay on the floor, inert, but five of them pushed against the ceiling at the back of the room. The experiment had been a success!

  I went to see Jennie in the hospital room. She had come out of her faint and was sobbing brokenly now. As soon as I came into the room, she reached out her hands, grabbed mine.

  "I got scared,” she said. “You went away and left me. The lights went out. But I didn't do anything, really I didn't. I just got scared."

  The suspicion and anger smoothed out of the faces of the nurse and doctor. Her unaccountable reaction of being glad to see me after what I had done to her, her words seeming to carry a completely normal conviction of what might happen to any imaginative little girl who was afraid of the dark, closed off their possibility of searching into what really happened.

  But I knew that I would never use Jennie again, no matter what the urgency for antigravity. Some other way would have to be found. I would not do it again. And I doubted now, after this shock-the surface shock of normal fear, the deeper shock of conflict in using the wild talents which made her a bad girl against the affection she was getting for being a good girl-whether she could ever use her framework again, even if I would.

  It had been a severe thing, a terrible thing I had done; but no worse than the methods used constantly in mental hospitals to transfer the minds of patients from one framework to another.

  I went back to my office, took the cylinder out of my desk, and sat, holding it in my hands, for a long time.

  Through the days that passed I became more distant, overwhelmed by the insolubility of my problem. My staff still handled the bulk of my work, for it was obvious to them that my interest was far from the petty conflicts and situations of normal plant operation. Department heads became cool toward me, for Sara managed to turn them away before they got in to me.

  I wandered the corridors searching faces for some hint of a wild talent beneath the too tame eyes. I thought of advertising for poltergeists in the help wanted columns, and then realized what would happen if some alert reporter happened to pick up the item. I thought of contacting various universities and shuddered at the reception I would get. I even found myself visiting the nursery again, hoping for the improbable coincidence of another poltergeist. But all the little children were being good little fairies and elves and brownies.

  The announcement that a full complement of high-ranking military men were going to visit us and assist us in our lagging production of the antigrav cylinders did not reassure me. I had dealt with the military mind, singly and in coveys, before.

  I hadn't told Old Stone Face the problem, either. His total framework seemed to consist of “Get out production. Give me no alibis.” This was hardly conducive to philosophical meandering.

  The day came when staff cars carried generals, admirals, colonels and captains from the airport to our plant. Word filtered over the intercom system that they had been closeted in the big conference room with Stone Face for an hour-apparently playing with the five cylinders.

  I hoped they wouldn't scratch the varnish of the big conference table against the ceiling of the room. I hoped they wouldn't try to ride around in buoyant chairs. Learning to balance, doing that, was tricky and if they tilted, a big blob of blubber would find the floor hard and unyielding.

  Finally they sent for
me.

  I left my cylinder locked in my desk and walked up to the conference room under normal gravity, hoping the weight would pull me down to a worried, heavy, lugubrious frame of mind so stylish in the real-world framework.

  The conference room was an aroma of dignity, an overpowering impressiveness of brass and braid. Thin faces, fat faces, long faces, squeezed up faces, but Pinky was not there. Apparently he was off on some other dangerous mission. The faces did not, could not, live up to the scrambled eggs and fruit salad of their caps and collars and sleeves and chest.

  I thought of Emerson's dissertations on compensation and giggled. What they lacked in those faces they tried to make up for in decorations. I knew that I would not discuss frameworks in this room.

  They pressed me for explanations. They bored in deeper and deeper. I could not help it. My mood began to lighten, become irresponsible. I hung on to what dignity I could muster for the sake of the apprehension and alarm in Old Stone Face's eyes. He wasn't such a bad guy. At least he didn't depend on uniforms to make him impressive.

  "The first cylinder was an accident,” I said to the blur of faces down the long table. “Sometimes accidents are hard to duplicate. So many factors, gentlemen."

  "But you did duplicate it,” the commanding general pointed out. “You activated five more. We have questioned Dr. Auerbach at length. He knows absolutely nothing of the method you use in activating these cylinders. Apparently no one knows but you. It is imperative that we know."

  I was in for it now. I had to explain somehow, or something.

  "But, gentlemen,” I protested hesitantly, and then heard myself saying, “I spoiled my poltergeist in making this half dozen, and I don't have another."

  There was a sigh of relief around the table, relaxation, suppressed contempt. I had not realized before how tense they all were.

  "I'm certain,” the commanding general said placatingly as if he were trying to reason with a small child, “that it can be replaced."

  "They're hard to get,” I faltered.

  "We will get them,” he stated pompously, confidently. “Difficult perhaps for you personally, yes, or even Computer Research.” He smiled patiently, “But for the military it is another matter entirely.” He turned and waved down the table toward another member of the brass trust.

  "General Sanfordwaithe is Supply and Materiel. I am sure it is within the power of the combined armed forces to get you all the whatever-it-is you may need."

  I looked down the table at General Sanfordwaithe with a question in my eyes. He looked smugly back at me.

  "Do you know what a poltergeist is?” I asked.

  He looked slightly piqued.

  "I am administrative,” he reproved gently and patiently, as only a military man can put a civilian in his place. “I do not pretend to be personally familiar with the specifications of every one of the several million items under my jurisdiction.” He smiled, and his voice became almost waggish. “But I am certain you will find our poltergeist division sympathetic to your needs."

  That did it.

  "Oh goodie,” I exclaimed. “Then maybe you'd better send me a half dozen to start with."

  "And is that all that's been holding you up?” the commanding general asked, softly reproving.

  "And this time, make them little boy poltergeists,” I urged. “Mine was a little girl poltergeist, and maybe that was what was wrong-just too delicate for the job."

  I could see by their faces they assumed I was talking about some gadget similar to a male and female electrical plug, and was being cute in my terminology.

  "Mr. Kennedy hasn't been feeling well lately,” Old Stone Face put in hurriedly. “He's been working very hard. Much too hard. I would have sent him on a long rest weeks ago had this not been so urgent."

  They looked at me with some pity beneath their contempt-a soft civilian.

  From there on it was no more than a diplomatic and tactical withdrawal of forces. I withdrew early, to allow Old Stone Face further time for excuses of my behavior.

  But they would be back.

  The order would go out from General Sanfordwaithe's office to supply me with a half dozen male type poltergeists immediately. It would flow down through the echelons of command, getting sterner and terser. There would be some scrambling around trying to find the poltergeist division, but no one would become alarmed that it had been lost. That was customary.

  There would be days, perhaps weeks when the orders would be pigeonholed, on the theory that if you just forget to do anything about it, the need will pass. But General Stanfordwaithe would not let them forget this time. There would be memorandums, each one dredging a little farther down the chain of command before it, in turn, became pigeonholed.

  And finally, somewhere down the line, some clerk would know what a poltergeist was. He would first go to the source books and look it up, so that he could have the paragraphs to substantiate him when he tried to tell his commanding officer what was wanted. From there the explanations would flow back up through the echelons of command. Faces would get redder and redder, angrier and angrier.

  Yes, they would be back. But until then, I could go back to being a personnel director. I thought, this time with genuine pleasure, of the simple little problems waiting for me back at my office. Nothing more than imminent strikes, lockouts, legal tangles, visits from the Industrial Welfare Commission, and Miss Jones won't let Miss Smith have a fresh pencil until she brings the stub of her old one to supply room.

  I walked on down the corridors of the plant and nodded pleasantly to department heads and key personnel who caught my eye. I saw their faces break with relief, and then grow tart with, “Well, it's about time you came off your high horse and noticed us."

  I would have a lot of ruffled feathers to smooth down in the next few days.

  Much to their surprise, I spoke pleasantly to the members of my staff when I came into the outer rooms of the personnel department, and ruefully saw them start to dig down into stacks of papers for problems they had been hoarding until I got in a good mood again.

  I walked on into Sara's office and quipped something at her. She almost fell out of her chair in astonishment, and began to sniffle. Her feelings had been badly bruised.

  "There are handkerchiefs in my desk,” I said drily. Her sniffles stopped instantly.

  "Now,” I said. “Take a letter. General Sanfordwaithe, Pentagon. Confirming our conference of this date, production on the implement in question will not proceed until your Division of Supply and Materiel furnishes us with one half dozen, six, male-type poltergeists."

  "Are you feeling all right?” Sara interrupted me with wide eyes.

  "I feel wonderful,” I answered. “I have learned something from our employees. I have shifted the responsibility for my problem onto other shoulders. I feel swell!"

  "But what if they should supply them to you after all?” she asked.

  PART TWO

  SENSE FROM THOUGHT DIVIDE

  When I opened the door to my secretary's office, I could see her looking up from her desk at the Swami's face with an expression of fascinated skepticism. The Swami's back was toward me, and on it hung flowing folds of a black cloak. His turban was white, except where it had rubbed against the back of his neck.

  "A tall, dark, and handsome man will soon come into your life,” he was intoning in that sepulchral voice men habitually use in their dealings with 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 a practiced swirl. His liquid black eyes looked me over shrewdly, and he bowed toward me as he vaguely touched his chest, lips and forehead. I expected him to murmur, “Effendi,” or “Bwana Sahib,” or something, but he must have felt silence was more impressive.

  I acknowledged his greeting by pulling down one co
rner of my mouth. Then I looked at his companion.

  The young lieutenant was standing very straight, very stiff, and a flush of pink was starting up from his collar and spreading around his clenched jaws to leave a semicircle of white in front of his red ears.

  "Who are you?” I asked.

  "Lieutenant Murphy.” He managed to open his teeth a bare quarter of an inch for the words to come out. “Pentagon!” His light gray eyes pierced me to see if I were impressed.

  I wasn't.

  "Division of Materiel and Supply,” he continued in staccato, imitating a machine gun.

  I waited. It was obvious he wasn't through yet. He hesitated, and I could see his Adam's apple travel up above the knot of his tie and back down again as he swallowed. The pink flush deepened into brilliant red.

  "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 it matter of fact in a sturdy, confident voice, but there was the undertone of a wail. It was time I lent a hand.

  "You're West Point, aren't you?” I asked kindly.

  He straightened still more. I hadn't believed it possible.

  "Yes, sir!” He wanted to keep the gratitude out of his voice, but it was there. And for the first time, he had spoken the habitual term of respect to me.

  "Well, what do you have here, Lieutenant Murphy?” I nodded toward the Swami who had been wavering between a proud, free stance and that of a drooping supplicant.

  "According to my orders, sir,” he said formally, “you have requested the Pentagon furnish you with one half dozen, six, maletype poltergeists. I am 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 my bluff. Well, maybe they did have something at that. I'd see.

  "Float me over that ash tray there on the desk,” I said casually to the Swami.