one level or another. I began to
realize why such a proportionate few choose the cold and impersonal
laboratory. Perhaps if there were a way to put science to music--

The Swami talked on for about twenty minutes, and then I noticed his
voice had grown deeper and deeper in tone, and suddenly, without any
apparent transition, we all knew it was not really the Swami's voice we
were hearing. And then he began to tell members of the audience little
intimate things about themselves, things which only they should know.

He was good at this, too. He had mastered the trick of making universals
sound like specifics. I could do the same thing. The patterns of
people's lives have multiple similarities. To a far greater extent than
generally realized the same things happen to everyone. The idea was to
take some of the lesser known ones and word them so they seemed to apply
to one isolated individual.

For instance, I could tell a fellow about when he was a little boy there
was a little girl in a red dress with blond pigtails who used to scrap
with him and tattle things about him to her mother. If he were inclined
to be credulous, this was second sight I had. But it is a universal.
What average boy didn't, at one time or another, know a little girl with
blond pigtails? What blond little girl didn't occasionally wear a red
dress? What little girl didn't tattle to her mother about the naughty
things the boys were doing?

[Illustration]

The Swami did that for a while. The audience was leaning forward in a
rapture of ecstasy. First the organ tones of his voice soothed and
softened. The phrases which should mean something if only you had the
comprehension. The universals applied as specifics. He had his audience
in the palm of his hand. He didn't need his crystal ball to tell him
that.

But he wanted it to be complete. Most of the responses had been from
women. He gave them the generalities which didn't sound like
generalities. They confirmed with specifics. But most were women. He
wanted the men, too. He began to concentrate on the men. He made it
easy.

"I have a message," he said. "From ... now let me get it right ... from
R. S. It is for a man in this audience. Will the man who knew R. S.
acknowledge?"

There was a silence. And that was such an easy one, too. I hadn't
planned to participate, but, on impulse, since none of the other men
were cooperating, I spoke up.

"Robert Smith!" I exclaimed. "Good old Bob!"

Severa