"Who are you?" I asked the lieutenant.

"Lieutenant Murphy," he answered shortly, and 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, as if he
were 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 suddenly into
brilliant red and spread all over his face.

"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 before his forces were routed and
left him shattered in hopeless defeat.

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

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