Judith Merril by The Best of the Best

Author:The Best of the Best [Best, The Best of the]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2011-08-29T00:04:02+00:00

SENSE FROM THOUGHT DIVIDE

Mark Clifton

"Remembrance and reflection, how allied; What thin partitions sense from thought divide."

Pope

Alarfc Clifton (1911—1962) had an impact an science fiction entirely out of proportion to the quantity of his published work. His first two stories, "Star, Bright" and "What Have I Done?", appeared almost simultaneously early in 1952 in Astounding and Galaxy, followed by nine more in rapid succession. Between 1954 and 1962 there were, altogether, another nine, and four novels. Yet at one time he seemed to dominate the pages of Astounding (then the leading magazine in the field) so completely that some disgruntled fans began referring to it as the "Clifton House Organ."

Born in Oklahoma, Clifton was teaching rural school when he was thirteen; got fired for teaching evolution; went to the city and worked his way through college-equivalency by ghosting papers and theses for enrolled students. He spent 20 years in personnel work and industrial engineering, retired at forty-one after a serious illness, and turned to science fiction. His last novel was Eight Keys to Eden (1960), and he wrote one nonficlion book for college students. Opportunity Unlimited (1959).

"Sense from Thought Divide" first appeared in Astounding, March, 1955, in a slightly longer version; it is reprinted here from the 1st SF Annual. His story, "What Now, Little Man?" was in the 5th Annual, and "Hang Head, Vandall" in the 8th.

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When i opened the door to my secretary's office, I could see her looking up from her desk at the Swami's face with an expression of fascinated skepticism. The Swami's back was toward me, and on jt hung flowing folds of a black cloak. His turban was white, except where it had rubbed against the back of his neck.

"A tall, dark, and handsome man will soon come into your life," he was intoning in that sepulchral voice men

habitually use in their dealings with the absolute.

Sara's green eyes focused beyond him, on me, and began to twinkle.

"And there he is right now," she commented dryly. "Mr. Kennedy, Personnel Director for Computer Research."

The Swami whirled around, his heavy robe following the movement in a practiced swirl. His liquid black eyes looked me over shrewdly, and he bowed toward me as he vaguely touched his chest, lips and forehead. I expected him to murmur, "Effendi," or "Bwana Sahib," or something, but he must have felt silence was more impressive.

I acknowledged his greeting by pulling down one corner of my mouth. Then I looked at his companion.

The young lieutenant was standing very straight, very stiff, and a flush of pink was starting up from his collar and spreading around his clenched jaws to leave a semicircle of white in front of his red ears.

"Who are you?" I asked.

"Lieutenant Murphy." He 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 Matériel and Supply," he continued in staccato, imitating a machine gun.

I waited. It was obvious he wasn't through yet.

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