It seemed to remind him of the old shoulder-to-shoulder tradition. 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. It did not escape my attention that, 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. The lieutenant, whose quality had been recognized, even by a civilian, was restored unto himself. He was again ready to do or die. "According to my orders, sir," he said formally, "you have requested the Pentagon furnish you with one half dozen, six, male-type 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 me on 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. He looked at me as if I'd insulted him, and I could anticipate some reply to the effect that he was not applying for domestic service. But the humble supplicant rather than the proud and fierce hill man won. He started 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 to TK it over to me. What's the matter? Can't you even TK a simple ash tray?" The lieutenant's eyes were getting bigger and bigger. "Didn't your Poltergeist Section test this guy's aptitudes for telekinesis before you brought him from Washington all the way out here to Los Angeles?" I snapped at him. * * * * * The lieutenant's lips thinned to a bloodless line. Apparently I, a civilian, was criticizing the judgment of the Army. "I am certain he must have qualified adequately," he said stiffly, and this time left off the "sir." "Well, I don't know," I answered doubtfully. "If he hasn't even enough telekinetic ability to float me an ash tray across the room--" The Swami recovered himself first. He put the tips of his long fingers together in the shape of a sway-backed steeple, and rolled his eyes upward. "I am an instrument of infinite wisdom," he intoned. "Not a parlor magician." "You mean that with all your infinite wisdom you can't do it," I accused flatly. "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 Western world--" he intoned. "All right," I interrupted, "we'll go to India, then. Sara, call up and book tickets to Calcutta on the first possible plane!" Sara's mouth had been gradually closing, but it unhinged again. "Perhaps not even India," the Swami murmured, hastily. "Perhaps Tibet."