strong hands. He was propelling the Swami along, mid air, in
Atlantic City Boardwalk style.

The Swami looked down at us with aloof disdain, then his eyes focused on
the old man. His glance wavered; he threw a startled and fearful look at
the cylinders holding up his bathmat. They did not fall. A vast relief
overspread his face, and he drew himself erect with more disdain than
ever. The old man was not so aloof.

"Harry Glotz!" he exclaimed. "Why you ... you faker! What are you doing
in that getup?"

The Swami took a casual turn about the room, leaning to one side on his
magic carpet as if banking an airplane.

"Peasant!" He spat the word out and motioned grandly toward the door.
Lieutenant Murphy pushed him through.

"Why, that no good bum!" the old man shouted at me. "That no-good from
nowhere! I'll fix him! Thinks he's something, does he? I'll show him!
Anything he can do I can do better!"

His rage got the better of him. He rushed through the door, shaking both
fists above his white head, shouting imprecations, threats, and pleading
to be shown how the trick was done, all in the same breath. The new
lieutenant cast a stricken look at us and then sped after his charge.

"Looks as if we're finally in production," I said to Sara.

"That's only the second one," she said mournfully. "When you get all six
of them, this joint's sure going to be jumping!"

I looked out of her window at the steel and concrete walls of the
factory. They were solid, real, secure; they were a symbol of reality,
the old reality a man could understand.

"I hope you don't mean that literally, Sara," I answered dubiously.

THE END

Transcriber's Note:

[Illustration]

This etext was produced from _Astounding Science Fiction_ March 1955.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright
on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors
have been corrected without note.

End of Project Gutenberg's Sense from Thought Divide, by Mark Irvin Clifton

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