What Thin Partitions by Mark Clifton Read Free Book Online Page A

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 corner 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