"What?" The exclamation was out before I could catch it.
He tried to glare at me, but his eyes were pleading instead.
"General Sanfordwaithe said you'd understand." He intended to make it matter of fact in a sturdy, confident voice, but there was the undertone of a wail. It was time I lent a hand before his forces were routed and left him shattered in hopeless defeat.
"You're West Point, aren't you?" I asked kindly.
It seemed to remind him of the old shoulder-to-shoulder tradition. He straightened still more. I hadn't believed it possible.
"Yes, sir!" He wanted to keep the gratitude out of his voice, but it was there. It did not escape my attention that, for the first time, he had spoken the habitual term of respect to me.
"Well, what do you have here, Lieutenant Murphy?" I nodded toward the Swami who had been wavering between a proud, free stance and that of a drooping supplicant. The lieutenant, whose quality had been recognized, even by a civilian, was restored unto himself. He was again ready to do or die.
"According to my orders, sir," he said formally, "you have requested the Pentagon furnish you with one half dozen, six, male-type poltergeists. I am delivering the first of them to you, sir."
Sara's mouth, hanging wide open, reminded me to close my own.
So the Pentagon was calling me on my bluff. Well, maybe they did have something at that. I'd see.