fore the Spaniards gave up. He had been the
hard-bitten captain of a hard-bitten company, fighting Moros in the
jungles of Mindanao. Then, through the early years of the Twentieth
Century, after his father's death, he had been that _rara avis_ in the
American service, a really wealthy professional officer. He had played
polo, and served a turn as military attache at the Paris embassy. He had
commanded a regiment in France in 1918, and in the post-war years, had
rounded out his service in command of a regiment of Negro cavalry, before
retiring to "Greyrock." Too old for active service, or even a desk at the
Pentagon, he had drilled a Home Guard company of 4-Fs and boys and paunchy
middle-agers through the Second World War. Then he had been an old man,
sitting alone in the sunlight ... until a wonderful thing had happened.

"Get him to tell you about this invisible playmate of his," Stephen
suggested. "If that won't satisfy you, I don't know what will."

* * * * *

It had begun a year ago last June. He had been sitting on a bench on the
east lawn, watching a kitten playing with a crumpled bit of paper on the
walk, circling warily around it as though it were some living prey,
stalking cautiously, pouncing and striking the paper ball with a paw and
then pursuing it madly. The kitten, whose name was Smokeball, was a
friend of his; soon she would tire of her game and jump up beside him to
be petted.

Then suddenly, he seemed to hear a girl's voice beside him:

"Oh, what a darling little cat! What's its name?"

"Smokeball," he said, without thinking. "She's about the color of a
shrapnel-burst...." Then he stopped short, looking about. There was
nobody in sight, and he realized that the voice had been inside his head
rather than in his ear.

"What the devil?" he asked himself. "Am I going nuts?"

There was a happy little laugh inside of him, like bubbles rising in a
glass of champagne.

"Oh, no; I'm really here," the voice, inaudible but mentally present,
assured him. "You can't see me, or touch me, or even really hear me, but
I'm not something you just imagined. I'm just as real as ... as
Smokeball, there. Only I'm a different kind of reality. Watch."

The voice stopped, and something that had seemed to be close to him left
him. Immediately, the kitten stopped playing with the crumpled paper and
cocked her head to one side, staring fixedly as at something above her.
He'd seen cats do t