provide alarge and ready-made audience for him. She would be glad to talk to himabout it.
Annie hurriedly said that she would be glad to talk to him about it,too; that she could get up a large audience, too. So, even before it gotstarted, I had my rival factions at work. I egged them both on, andpromised that I'd get Army Intelligence to work with the local boys inblue to hold off making any raids.
Annie told me again what a kind man I was. My interviewer spoke upquickly and said how glad she was to find an opportunity for expressinghow grateful she was for the privilege of working right in the samedepartment with such an understanding, really intellectually developedadult. She eyed Annie sidelong, as if to gauge the effects of herattempts to set me up on a pedestal, out of Annie's reach.
I hoped I wouldn't start believing either one of them. I hoped I wasn'tas inaccurate in my estimates of people as was my interviewer. Iwondered if she were really qualified for the job she held. Then Irealized this was a contest between two women and I, a mere male, wassimply being used as the pawn. Well, that worked both ways. In a fairbargain both sides receive satisfaction. I felt a little easier about mytactical maneuvers.
But the development of rivalry between factions of the audience gave mean additional idea. Perhaps that's what the Swami really needed, alittle rivalry. Perhaps he was being a little too hard to crack becausehe knew he was the only egg in the basket.
I called Old Stone Face and told him what I planned. He responded thatit was up to me. He'd stepped in and got things under way for me, gotthings going, now it was my job to keep them going. It looked as if hewere edging out from under--or maybe he really believed that.
Before I settled into the day's regular routine, I wired GeneralSanfordwaithe, and told him that if he had any more prospects readywould he please ship me one at once, via air mail, special delivery.
* * * * *
The recital hall, hired for the Swami's Los Angeles debut, was largeenough to accommodate all the family friends and relatives of any littleMaribel who, having mastered "Daffodils In May," for four fingers, wasbeing given to the World. It had the usual small stage equipped withpull-back curtains to give a dramatic flourish, or to shut off from viewthe effects of any sudden nervous catastrophe brought about by stagefright.
I got there, purposely a little late, in hopes the house lights wouldalready be dimmed and everything in progress; but about a hundred andfifty people were milling around outside on the walk and in thecorridors. Both factions had really been busy.
Most of them were women, but, to my intense relief, there were a fewmen. Some of these were only husbands, but a few of the men wore a lookwhich said they'd been far away for a long time. Somehow I got theimpression that instead of looking into a crystal ball, they would bemore inclined to look out of one.
It was a little disconcerting to realize that no one noticed me, orseemed to think I was any different from anybody else. I supposed Ishould be thankful that I wasn't attracting any attention. I saw myinterviewer amid a group of Older Girls. She winked at me roguishly, andpatted her heavy handbag significantly. As per instructions, she wascarrying a couple of the Auerbach cylinders.
I found myself staring in perplexity for a full minute at another woman,before I realized it was Annie. I had never seen her before, exceptdressed in factory blue jeans, man's blue shirt, and a bandanna wrappedaround her head. Her companion, probably another of the factoryassemblers, nudged her and pointed, not too subtly, in my direction.Annie saw me then, and lit up with a big smile. She started toward me,hesitated when I frowned and shook my head, flushed with the thoughtthat I didn't want to speak to her in public; then got a flash of bettersense than that. She, too, gave me a conspiratorial wink and patted herhandbag.
My confederates were doing nicely.
Almost immediately thereafter a horse-faced, mustached old gal startedrounding people up in a honey sweet, pear shaped voice; and herded theminto the auditorium. I chose one of the wooden folding chairs in theback row.
A heavy jowled old gal came out in front of the closed curtains and gavea little introductory talk about how lucky we all were that the Swamihad consented to visit with us. There was the usual warning to anyonewho was not of the esoteric that we must not expect too much, thatsometimes nothing at all happened, that true believers did not attendjust to see effects. She reminded us kittenishly that the guides werecapricious, and that we must all help by merging ourselves in the greatflowing currents of absolute infinity.
She finally faltered, realized she was probably saying all the thingsthe Swami would want to say--in the manner of people who introducespeakers everywhere--and with a girlish little flourish she waved atsomeone off stage.
The house lights dimmed. The curtains swirled up and back.
* * * * *
The Swami was doing all right for himself. He was seated behind a smalltable in the center of the stage. A pale violet light diffused through ahuge crystal ball on the table, and threw his dark features into sharprelief. It gave an astonishingly remote and inscrutable wisdom to hisfeatures. In the pale light, and at this distance, his turban lookedquite clean.
He began to speak slowly and sonorously. A hush settled over theaudience, and gradually I felt myself merging with the mass reaction ofthe rest. As I listened, I got the feeling that what he was saying wasof tremendous importance, that somehow his words contained great andrevealing wonders--or would contain them if I were only sufficientlyadvanced to comprehend their true meanings. The man was good, he knewhis trade. All men search for truth at one level or another. I began torealize why such a proportionate few choose the cold and impersonallaboratory. Perhaps if there were a way to put science to music--
The Swami talked on for about twenty minutes, and then I noticed hisvoice had grown deeper and deeper in tone, and suddenly, without anyapparent transition, we all knew it was not really the Swami's voice wewere hearing. And then he began to tell members of the audience littleintimate things about themselves, things which only they should know.
He was good at this, too. He had mastered the trick of making universalssound like specifics. I could do the same thing. The patterns ofpeople's lives have multiple similarities. To a far greater extent thangenerally realized the same things happen to everyone. The idea was totake some of the lesser known ones and word them so they seemed to applyto one isolated individual.
For instance, I could tell a fellow about when he was a little boy therewas a little girl in a red dress with blond pigtails who used to scrapwith him and tattle things about him to her mother. If he were inclinedto 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 withblond pigtails? What blond little girl didn't occasionally wear a reddress? What little girl didn't tattle to her mother about the naughtythings the boys were doing?
The Swami did that for a while. The audience was leaning forward in arapture of ecstasy. First the organ tones of his voice soothed andsoftened. The phrases which should mean something if only you had thecomprehension. The universals applied as specifics. He had his audiencein the palm of his hand. He didn't need his crystal ball to tell himthat.
But he wanted it to be complete. Most of the responses had been fromwomen. He gave them the generalities which didn't sound likegeneralities. They confirmed with specifics. But most were women. Hewanted the men, too. He began to concentrate on the men. He made iteasy.
"I have a message," he said. "From ... now let me get it right ... fromR. 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'tplanned to participate, but, on impulse, since none of the other menwere cooperating, I spoke up.
"Robert Smith!" I exclaimed. "Good old Bob!"
Several of the women sitting near me looked at me and beamed theirapproval. One of the husbands scowled at me.
"I can tell by your tone," t
he Swami said, and apparently he hadn'trecognized my tone, "that you have forgiven him. That is the message. Hewants you to know that he is happy. He is much wiser now. He knows nowthat he was wrong."
One of the women reached over and patted me on the shoulder, giving memotherly encouragement.
But the Swami had no more messages for men. He was smart enough to knowwhere to stop. He'd tried one of the simplest come-ons, and there hadbeen too much of a pause. It had almost not come off.
I wondered who good old Bob Smith was? Surely, among the thousands ofapplicants I'd interviewed, there must have been a number of them. And,being applicants, of course some of them had been wrong.
The Swami's tones, giving one message after another--faster and fasternow, not waiting for acknowledgment or confirmation--began to sink intoa whisper. His speech became ragged, heavy. The words becameindistinguishable. About his head