Fred's eyes were large and round. "I've got to find the mechanism. I've
got to go where they've vanished to and show them how to get back!" He
turned his eyes on Curt. "Don't you hate me?" he pleaded. "I'm just the
same as a murderer!"
"No, my son," Curt said gently. "Wherever your father is, your mother is
with him now. If--" A startled expression appeared on his face. "So
_that's_ it," he almost whispered.
"_What's_ it?" Fred asked. "Tell me. Please tell me. I've got to know,
you know. You promised!"
Curt frowned in a visible effort to jerk himself back. His eyes, holding
a faraway look, rested on Fred's face, looked at it, and through it.
"You promised!" Fred screamed. "Tell me!"
Curt opened his mouth as though to speak. His lips smiled.
And--he was no longer there.
Fred was alone, with the picnic lunch on the white square of tablecloth,
with the gleaming Cadillac a few yards away, with the two white and
black spotted cows grazing a short distance away, with the noisy little
brook nearby.
Alone....
* * * * *
He became aware of a police siren growing louder. He became aware he was
behind a wheel, that there were cars in front of him veering wildly out
of his way. The speedometer needle pointed at ninety.
How had he arrived here? He took his foot off the gas. He was driving a
Cadillac. Curt's. But Curt was gone. That was it! He had started out to
look for the police.
He pulled over to the side of the road as the police car came screaming
up. Shakily he told them about the disappearances. Any doubts they might
have had were held in reserve by the obvious sincerity of his grief.
He led them back to the picnic grove. The tablecloth with the food on it
was still there, untouched. One of the cows was grazing beside it.
They listened while he told again of his mother and Curt vanishing
before his eyes. Their reserved skepticism was thrust out of their minds
when he identified himself as the son of Dr. Martin Grant, who had
disappeared.
They used their car radio. In a surprisingly short time several other
cars were coming through the gate into the pasture.
Fred, his mind paralyzed with grief, stood forlornly near the Cadillac.
He answered the questions they put to him. He wasn't aware of the news
cameras that took shots of him which were to appear in the evening
papers all over the country.
Eventually it was over. The police gathered up the picnic lunch, his
mother's purse, and everything else. A gray-haired man in a dark brown
suit who introduced himself as Captain Waters told him to get into the
Cadillac. "I'll drive," Waters said.
Entirely submissive, Fred obeyed. On the way into town Captain Waters
said he would take Fred home if he wanted to go there, but it would be
really better if he accepted an invitation to stay at the Waters home
for a few days until things were straightened out.
"All right," Fred said.
Eternities later he was in a house with comfortable furnishings. A
motherly old lady was hovering around him. Captain Waters was on the
phone calling someone.
There was a steaming dinner on blue design Swedish dishes. Under coaxing
Fred nibbled. Door chimes sounded. Captain Waters pushed back his chair
and went away. He came back with another gray-haired man who pressed a
thumb against Fred's cheek, listened to words Captain Waters was saying,
then ordered Fred to roll up his sleeve.
He swabbed a spot with alcohol and inserted a hypo needle. Fred watched
with listless eyes.
"Get him undressed and to bed," the doctor said. "Poor kid. Suffering
from shock. Have to watch him the next few days...."
_Shock_.... Fred tried to concentrate on the meaning of the word.
The bed was an enormous expanse of fresh smelling sheets and luxurious
blankets. The pillows were mountainous ... and so soft....
The sun was streaming in through open French doors, filtered through
bronze screen doors. An electric clock on the dresser pointed at
eleven.
He lay there without moving, remembering everything that had happened
the day before. And he had a feeling that, in his sleep, he had been
doing a lot of thinking. Or was it dreaming?
"Poor boy," a melodious voice purred.
He opened his eyes. It was the motherly woman, with a tray of toast and
eggs and steaming coffee. The sight of it made him aware that there was
a huge emptiness in his stomach.
He ate, gratefully. Mrs. Waters busied herself about the room, humming
soft tunes, smiling at him whenever he looked at her. When he had
finished, she took the tray.
"You just relax and sleep some more," she said. "The bathroom is through
that door over there. If you want me for anything just call. I'll hear
you. And if you want to get up and wander about the house just do so."
She departed, leaving the door part way open in invitation.
Fred sighed and closed his eyes. In that moment of relaxation the
thinking he had done during the night rose into consciousness.
For he knew now what he had to do. There was no other avenue of
exploration. It might not even be possible. But if it was possible he
was going to do it.
He was going to vanish.
* * * * *
There alone lay the solution. He should have realized it. Once he
vanished as had the others, he would have experience with the mystery.
Personal experience. He would have all the data he required, instead of
just data from the world he was in. If he had the ability to solve the
problem of reappearance he would then be able to return, and go back
again and show the others how to return.
The key to vanishing was belief, that quality of thought which his
father had systematically weeded from his mind since earliest infancy.
It might take time to overcome that, but it should be possible.
Already he believed some things. Or did he? Was it merely a realization
that those things had a probability that approached certainty?
His patterns of thinking were too ingrained. His mind was too well
integrated. If he became irritated the irritation immediately brought up
the memories of the factors that made him react that way. If he became
happy he consciously knew the pattern, stretching back to early infancy.
It was ingrained within him.
He began to realize with a sinking sensation that he didn't actually
know what belief was. If, in some way, it was present anywhere in his
makeup, he didn't know how to recognize it.
His mental pattern was one of unbelief. Not disbelief, the believing
that something isn't true; but unbelief, the using of something in the
pragmatic sense for its workability.
He let his thoughts wander in the past. He could remember vaguely a
moment when he had felt unreasoning terror, a sense of being lost. He
could remember his father saying many times, "Belief is the lazy
assuming that something is true." It is or it isn't, and the fundamental
postulate of inductive logic tells us that its truth or lack of it is
forever beyond our reach. So why reach for it? Use a theory if it works
for you. Discard it if it doesn't. Don't use it even to the point of
absurdity while clinging to a belief that it's true.
It was that way with facts, too. Something that happened or seemed to
happen, needed no tag of belief attached to it. If you saw it happen it
didn't necessarily happen. There was such a thing as illusion. Accept it
as though it had happened--until events pointed otherwise.
His playmates and teachers had been frankly skeptical of this point of
view, doubting he could actually have attained it. They were quick to
agree it was desirable. They just thought no one could use a thing
without attaching a degree of belief or unbelief to it.
Now, what should he believe? As in the attempts to reach the basic
matrix by conscious extension, he had to start somewhere.
* * * * *
It was midafternoon when Captain Waters entered the bedroom with a
cheery, "Hello!"
"Hi," Fred said. He had been lying in bed with his eyes closed.
"Did I wake you?" Waters said. "Sorry." He grinned. "You can go back to
sleep again. I'll drop in later."
Captain Waters ducked out. He started to close the door, then left it
open. A few minutes later the rumble of his voice came from another part
of the house. Fred tried to catch what he was saying, but couldn't.
Half an hour later he heard the front door chimes. The rumble of deep
voices came again. The doctor appeared in the doorway.
"Well, well," he said, smiling. "I hear you had a very restful night.
How do you feel today? Better?" He was advancing toward the bed as he
talked. Setting his black bag down, he reached out and took Fred's
pulse. "A little rapid," he said, putting his watch away. Reaching
inside his coat, he took out a thermometer. He put it under Fred's
tongue. "Had anything to eat or drink in the past fifteen minutes?" he
asked. Fred shook his head.
The doctor stood quietly. After a while he lifted the thermometer,
glanced at it, and put it away.
"Looks like you're going to be fit as a fiddle," he said. "I'll be back
in a few minutes. Mrs. Waters told me on the way in she was pouring me a
cup of coffee."
Fred remained motionless until the doctor had left the room. Then he
slipped out of bed and went to the door. On the other side of it was a
living room. A swinging door of the type that opens into kitchens was
just swinging closed. No one was in sight. Quickly Fred stole across to
the door. He put his ear close to it and listened.
"Dr. Harvey speaking," he heard the doctor say. "Connect me with
thirteen please."
"Is he going to be all right?" Mrs. Waters' anxious voice sounded.
"I think so," the doctor said calmly. "Hello? Thirteen? Who's speaking?
Oh, hello, Giles. Dr. Harvey. Do you have a vacancy? Observation, yes."
"Oh dear," Mrs. Waters said unhappily.
"It will be for the best," Captain Waters said. "They'll know how to
take care of him."
Fred waited for no more. He went back to the bedroom. His clothes were
in the closet. In seconds he had them on. He could tie his shoes and
button up later.
He unfastened one of the screen doors and stepped out onto a flagstone
path that wound around the corner of the house toward the front. There
were people on the sidewalk, but none very near. It would be hours
before dark, and there was no place to hide.
There were two cars parked at the curb. One was a police car, the other
a black Chrysler sedan, probably the doctor's car. The police car had
the key in the ignition. Fred didn't hesitate. He jerked open the door
and slid behind the wheel. Mrs. Waters' anxious voice sounded, calling,
"Fred! Where are you?" Then the starter was whirring. The motor caught.
As he shot away from the curb, Fred caught a glimpse in the rear view
mirror of Captain Waters running down the walk from the house.
As he took the first corner, touching the siren button briefly, he
wondered why he had run. It had been an impulse. Maybe it was the wrong
one. Maybe he could accomplish what he had to do better in some kind of
institution. Maybe not.
He compressed his lips grimly. The die was cast now. He would abandon
the police car someplace, then slip quietly out of town on foot. He
would be caught if he tried to go home. He had no money except a few
dollars in change.
Maybe this was all part of the new pattern that seemed to possess him.
He kept the siren going, not trusting his ability to avoid traffic. Its
mad scream blended into his thoughts. He was the hunted. He was sane,
but the truth would brand him as insane. Or was he sane? Had anyone
vanished? Was his father at home, sitting in his chair in his study,
expounding his theories to his colleagues? Was his mother at home, in
the kitchen, preparing dinner?
His lip trembled. Homesickness welled up in him.
He was near a bus line that went to the outskirts of the city. He shut
off the siren and slowed down. After a few blocks and two turns he felt
safe in ditching the car. He pulled quietly to the curb. He tied his
shoelaces, buttoned his shirt, combed his hair. Then he got out. No one
paid any attention to him.
He walked to the corner. Two minutes later the bus stopped.
* * * * *
The night sky was clear. The moon was a lesser sun whose light made
things visible and somehow unreal and mysterious. In the ditch to the
right of the road two bright points of light blinked on, held for a
moment, and vanished. A cat.
A silent dog appeared out of the gloom, wagged its tail and half of its
body in friendliness. "Nice doggy," Fred said nervously. It sniffed his
trouser leg, lost interest, and moved off into the darkness.
It was after midnight. How long after, he didn't know. Once a police
car had come speeding by, its red lights ogling insanely, its spotlight
weaving into the bushes at the side of the road. He had lain very still
in the ditch until it passed. It hadn't slowed down. Later it had come
back and he had again pressed his body into the earth beside the road.
Off to the right now he saw the silhouette of the giant tree that had
been the landmark of the picnic spot. A few minutes later he could see
the gate that led to the meadow.
He squeezed through it and picked out the path worn by the cars the day
before. Some winged creature dipped down, shied away from him, and swept
off into the darkness.
A soft gurgling sound became audible. The brook. The spot where his
mother and Curt had vanished, was ahead.
He reached it. He wasn't quite sure until he studied the ground and went
back in memory to check on little details. Then he was certain.
He had reached his goal.
He knew why he had come, of course. Here he was closer to his mother
than anyplace else. Here, in some unguessed way, he might get to her.
What would he do when morning came? He sat down and pulled his knees up
under his chin, wrapping his arms around them. Morning was far away. It
might never come--for him. If and when it did he would cope with it.
"Mom," he whispered. "Mom...."
_Crrroak!_ The sound of the frog broke the silence. The croak of a frog
that was part of the universe--the universe that was basically
illogical. More....
Fred sobbed.
The universe was insane. Police looking for you. Doctors with their
standards of sanity and insanity. Right now they were looking for him to
protect him from himself. They didn't want to know why things were done.
To them even the reason would be part of the insanity. They dealt in
tags. Words. Their science was an illusion within an illusion.
Meaningless inside a universe of meaninglessness.
_Crrroak_, the frog said cautiously. And a night creature came down on
silent wings, to weave back into the darkness.
That was the reason for pragmatism. He could see it now. He had always
thought his father made pragmatism his God because it was the
intellectual thing to do. But now he could see the reason for it.
Reality was a jungle in which Reason had to cope with Unreason, and
there was no criterion except workability. Belief was an instinctive way
of thought. It was like the appendix. Scientists claimed that long ago
man ate tree bark. And the appendix had had a use. If so, that use was
gone, but the appendix remained. Before surgery had become a common
thing, thousands of people died from appendicitis. The organ that had
once been necessary had become a hazard to living. Belief was something
like that.
He jerked out of his thoughts to listen to a car on the road. It slowed
down. It stopped by the gate. A car door slammed. A man appeared briefly
in the light of the headlamps. Captain Waters--alone.
He loomed a moment later inside the pasture in the light of a
flashlight. He occasionally flashed it on his face so he would be
recognizable.
Fred felt an impulse to slip away into the darkness. He hadn't been
seen. Captain Waters was just hoping he might be here.
A stronger impulse made him remain as he was. The entire pattern of
Captain Waters' approach indicated understanding--or at least the
willingness to understand.
The bobbing flashlight came closer. It speared out and touched him; then
abruptly went out. Footsteps approached. A dark form emerged from the
gloom.
"Hello, Fred," Captain Waters said quietly. "I came to keep you company.
I'll just sit quiet and not bother you."
"Okay," Fred said.
* * * * *
There were movements. A small flame illuminated Captain Waters' features
as he lit his pipe. The flame went out. Then, only the occasional glow
of the pipe, briefly illuminating the police Captain's face.
_Crrroak!_ The frog greeted this newest arrival in his domain.
Fred could not think. He was too conscious of the man sitting near him.
He fought down the impulse to jump up and run away into the darkness. He
fought the desire to scream at the man to leave him alone.
Perhaps the police captain sensed this, or perhaps he could see Fred's
expression when the coal in his pipe glowed brightest. "Tell you what,"
he said suddenly, "You maybe would feel better alone. I'll wait in the
car. When you get ready you can come home. No more doctors. Mom gave me
a good talking to. She wants you to come back."
Waters got up and walked away into the night. Minutes later there was
the sound of a car door slamming shut. Fred was alone again.
Alone. It was a feeling, almost an emotion. Intellectually he knew that
nearby was a frog. A block away across the meadow was the police captain
sitting in his car.
Abruptly, without warning, a flash of insight spread through his entire
mind. He knew suddenly what belief was. He knew it instinctively and
without question.
And knowing it, he knew that his foundations of unbelief were a semantic
illusion that had been built up within him. The panorama of his mind,
his entire life, stood clearly before him.
The cute little tags of probability were superficial. They had a
pragmatic value in keeping the mind open, but their function was to
guide the judgment in tagging thoughts with belief or disbelief.
He retreated into his aloneness until there was nothing but himself. He
marveled at the unfoldment of this new understanding. He could see
things in this new light of understanding.
But then.... A question loomed. If that were so, why hadn't he vanished
like the others? Belief was an automatic process. Why hadn't it
permeated to the basic matrix of his mind as it had with the others?
Was he, then, still on the wrong track?
But there _was_ no other!
He saw the trap he had set for himself. He had believed with all his
being that belief was the key he was searching for!
He had been on the wrong track. His beautiful theory of belief that
spread downward into the subconscious, then down lower and lower into
the basic matrix that held a person in this reality, was wrong. The
evidence he had based it on was still there, but it was evidence of
something else.
Of what?
The eastern horizon was suffused with light. It grew stronger, dimming
the light of the moon.
From somewhere in the depths of his being rose a feeling that soon he
would know, and when he did he would be close to crossing the threshold.
He unclasped his arms and straightened out his legs, feeling stabs of
pain in his weary muscles. He got to his feet, tingling with weariness.
By the side of the road, he could see the police car he had
stolen--infinite ages ago. He walked toward it, and when he reached it
he climbed in and closed the door.
"Beautiful morning," Captain Waters said, starting the motor.
* * * * *
Fred awoke and opened his eyes. Across the room the French doors were
open. Sunlight was filtering through the copper screens. A breeze was
playing gently with the drapes. For a moment the flight, the long walk
into the country, his rendezvous with Aloneness, Captain Water's coming
to bring him back, all seemed the stuff of dreams. He had the feeling
that he had never left this enormous bed.
Then it returned. Reality. The miracle of his reorientation to belief,
the new vistas that went with it. The full realization of the true
nature of the vanishments.
He became aware of a figure in the doorway, watching him. It was Mrs.
Waters. "Awake?" she asked cheerfully.
"Yes," Fred said.
"Want some breakfast?"
He nodded. She went away.
He raised his head and looked about the room, at the homey touches, the
family pictures on the dresser and the walls, the hand sewed knickknacks
and frills. This was probably the Waters' own bedroom that they had
given up for him.
He could vanish while Mrs. Waters was away. She would come in with the
breakfast tray and find him gone.
When would the _moment of reorientation_ come?
He frowned in thought. That had stirred up something about what he had
dreamed, or thought, while he was asleep. Something that had the flavor
of being very important.
"Here you are!" Mrs. Waters said, sweeping into the room with the tray
and its Swedish design dishes and steaming coffee and hot cereal. As she
bent over to set the tray on the bed, there came the sound of the front
door opening. "There's Pa, home already." She smiled worriedly at Fred.
"Will you be all right? I'll tell Pa to come in and keep you company
while I fix his supper."
"Yes ma'am," Fred said, eyeing the food hungrily. "Only--" She was at
the door. She stopped and looked around questioningly. "I--I think I'd
like to be alone while I eat."
"All right," she said, and hurried away.
But Captain Waters had brushed in without giving her a chance to tell
him to stay away. "Hello, son," he said warmly. "Have a good sleep?"