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 it 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 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.