by Various
"I haven't read the book," Mr. Browne said. "The reader reported it was far better than Dr. Grant's first one. That was good enough for me. The reader is no longer with us." He frowned in irritation at the memory. "Left us without giving notice. But he was a good man. Excellent judgment. I'd like to go ahead with the book unless you object."
"I don't know," Mrs. Grant hesitated. "If he didn't want it published--"
"But he's gone now," Browne reminded her.
"I know, but--" She wept softly into a crumpled kerchief.
The publisher remained silent. After a moment she pulled herself together. "He was always so absent-minded. I was sure he had mislaid the check. Used it to scribble some problem on. He did that once several years ago."
Browne reached into his breast-pocket and brought out a long envelope and extended it toward her.
"I had another check made out for advance royalties," he said, "if you decide to let me go ahead with the book."
"I don't think I should, Mr. Browne." She withdrew the check from the envelope and looked at it, her eyebrows lifting at the size of the figure.
"It's substantially more than the original check," Browne said. "I thought perhaps you might be in need of money, and I feel confident the book will sell exceptionally well."
"It is a lot of money," Mrs. Grant said. "But I'm so confused. I wish I knew what to do."
Browne leaned forward. "Your husband was a great man. I feel it as an obligation on my part to make public his last work."
Mrs. Grant nodded slowly. "You may be right. I hadn't thought of it that way."
"And you can undoubtedly use the money," Browne added. "There'll be more. How much more depends on how the book sells. It may be a steady income for a few years."
"All right," Mrs. Grant said, making up her mind. "I'll let you publish it."
"Fine!" Mr. Browne said heartily. "I felt you would. And any time you need money just call me."
* * * * *
Fred's birthday came in February. He was seventeen now, and the knowledge filled him with dismay. It had been months since his father had vanished.
Or had his father vanished? Maybe his memory of those people vanishing was as wrong as his memory of which way his door opened! To check it he spent an afternoon in a newspaper office searching back papers until he found the accounts. He read them all carefully. They were as he remembered them.
And in him, slowly, grew the realization that he was going to use someone. He was going to choose someone and try to make that person disappear. More, he knew that that person was going to be Curt Gaard. He decided against calling and making an appointment. He would go to the man's office and put over the sixteen-year-old act.
With a great deal of shyness he confided to the receptionist that Curt was a very special friend of his mother's. She talked into the inter-office phone, did a lot of listening and yessing. Finally she told Fred that Dr. Gaard wanted him to wait a few moments. Then she dialed an outside number. Fred listened to the clicks and knew it was his home phone. The psychiatrist was going to talk to his mother. He hadn't wanted that, but it wouldn't matter materially.
The wait lasted almost half an hour. Then, with heart pounding, Fred was walking toward the dark walnut door to the inner office. Inside, he caught a comprehensive glimpse of the rumored couch, luxurious desk and chairs, thick expensive rug, and an assortment of floor-lamps and oil paintings. Then the psychiatrist was upon him, heartily welcoming him.
There were time-marking conversational exchanges about school, the hot rod, and life in general. There was the pause while each sized the other up.
Then, "I'm glad you dropped in, Fred," Dr. Gaard smiled casually.
"I'm all mixed up," Fred said. "I know something's wrong with me. I wanted someone to talk to, now that Dad is gone. I thought of you. I didn't want to bother Mom. Do you really straighten out crazy people?"
"Not exactly," Curt chuckled. "A psychologist finds most of his patients among people who are just upset about things. They aren't insane. They just need someone who has experience to help them get their thoughts straightened out."
"Maybe that's all I need," Fred said. "I don't think I'm crazy."
"Of course you aren't. You're a very healthy-minded young man."
"I don't want Mom to know about this...."
Curt frowned, jotted something down on a notepad. It was, Fred guessed, a notation to call his mother and warn her to keep quiet.
"Don't worry about your mother. Now tell me, just what seems to be the trouble?" Curt smiled encouragingly.
"Are you married?" Fred asked with teen-age frankness.
"No," Curt smiled.
"Would you marry my mother?" Fred asked bluntly. "I would like for you to be my father."
Curt Gaard stared at him a moment. "I really believe you mean that," he said slowly. "You know, don't you, that it will be two years before she can be free to marry? Your father can't be declared legally, ah, departed, for two years."
"No. I didn't know," Fred said, real dismay on his face. He hadn't known about that. He thought rapidly. "Then can I come live with you? Just until Mom can marry you?" Inwardly he was enjoying this. And he hoped he wasn't overdoing it.
"We can't do that," Curt said. "I'll tell you what we can do, though. I'll invite myself out to dinner tomorrow evening. Don't say anything. I'll surprise your mother. And we'll see a lot of each other from now on. Okay?"
Fred nodded. It was definitely okay. He wanted to be present when Curt Gaard disappeared into thin air, and this way he had a chance.
* * * * *
He left Curt's office highly exhilarated, almost drunk with the emotion of things working right. It lasted until the following evening when the doctor showed up and he and Fred's mother put on their little act. Then his emotions swung the other way. He experienced a reluctance to go through with his plans. There was too much that was likeable about the man. And his mother did like him.
"Poor Dad," Fred thought.
After dinner the next evening, Curt kept the conversation on Fred's father. It was, Fred sensed, the right time to bring up the theory. Curt would do anything to please him, to draw him out.
But he hesitated. Stretching elaborately, he said, "I'm sleepy. Why don't you and Mom play Canasta or something?"
"I'm going to be much too busy," his mother said. "I have to finish proofreading your father's book for the publisher. Mr. Browne is finally going to print it, and wants it back right away."
"When did that happen?" Fred demanded. "Can I read it?"
"You can read it when it comes out. Now you and Curt go into the study and leave me alone." She herded them out of the room.
This interlude had served to strengthen Fred's resolve. Alone with the psychiatrist, he let slip that he knew of a wonderful theory his father had originated, then tried to cover up.
Curt used flattery. Fred took his cue and slyly bragged that it was a theory few college professors could understand even, but he understood it.
More coaxing and he was ready to start in. But his conscience got the better of him. He balked, and even as he tried to squirm out of it he realized that it was too late. Dr. Gaard would never rest until the theory had been told.
"I'll tell you the next time you come," he suggested as a last retreat.
"Tonight," Curt said. "Even if it takes all night. You can miss school tomorrow." He winked. "I can okay it with the teacher."
"All right," Fred said in sudden crystallization of decision. "But only if you agree to master every step of it, stopping me until you have." Curt agreed. He started in.
After half an hour it settled into serious listening on Curt's part, and pertinent questions that made Fred realize he was dealing with a mind of more than average keenness.
Fred's mother wandered in occasionally, and out again, without being noticed by either of them.
An hour passed. Two. The final steps were drawing nearer. At times Curt was even anticipating some of them. It was midnight w
hen it was finished. The mind of Curt Gaard held the entire pattern.
Fred couldn't take his eyes off the man's face. The face that was mirroring the rapid flow of thoughts as it reviewed and attacked every brick in the structure, finding it solid, and solidly cemented to its neighbors.
Then he saw a change come over the man's face. He had accepted the theory. Now he was trying to integrate it into the problem of Fred Grant. He hadn't yet seen the connection between the theory and the mysterious disappearances.
And perhaps he wouldn't. If he did he might go the final step and realize what was going to happen to him. Fred hoped that wouldn't happen. He didn't want his victim to be conscious of being a victim.
"You are intelligent, Fred," Curt probed, "to be able to master such an advanced theory." He glanced at his watch. "It's getting pretty late. I'll tell you what. After school tomorrow drop down to my office. We'll come out for dinner here together."
"Say! That'd be swell!" Fred enthused. "I'll get right to bed so I can get enough sleep." He leaped up and called, "Mom! I'm going to bed now." He winked broadly at Curt to let him know he was getting out of his way so they could be alone together a few minutes.
And that was that. The die was cast, and all that remained was to try and use it to make progress, rather than letting it be just another disappearance that pointed to nothing constructive.
There was no way of telling how fast it would work. The next afternoon and evening there was little to provide an indication, other than an occasional look that came over Curt for moments at a time.
A date was made for Saturday. It was to be a picnic in the country. That meant skipping Friday. Fred violently objected, but Curt and his mother overrode his objections. So in the end it had to be Saturday, unless Curt disappeared before then.
He didn't.
* * * * *
But ten minutes before school was out Friday a note was brought into the classroom from the principal's office. Curt had called to ask Fred to come to his office directly from school.
Torn between excited anticipation that the psychiatrist had made an important discovery, and fear that the man would have vanished before he could get to him, Fred ran from the school building and caught the bus.
At Curt's office the receptionist smiled and told him to go right in. His sigh of relief was genuine. Curt was sitting at his desk.
"Come in, son," he said.
There were the amenities. "How did school go today?" "Okay." "Anything happen?" Fred waited impatiently. Then: "I've been thinking a lot about your father's theory, Fred, and I would like to ask a few questions--if it won't upset you."
"Of course not!" Fred said.
"Okay, here's a question," Curt said. "Or rather, a statement. You can answer yes or no. You believe the theory is at the root of the disappearances, that in some unknown fashion knowing the theory will cause a person to vanish."
So there it was. Fred debated rapidly in his mind. It might be better to admit it.
"Yes," he said.
"Hmm. Then let me ask you this. How do you account for the fact that you know it, and haven't disappeared?"
Fred decided to be completely truthful and see what happened. "It's because I don't let belief form a part of my thinking, sir. Dad instilled that in me. With those that disappeared, logic was their groundwork of belief."
"But you believe knowing the theory caused them to vanish?"
Fred smiled. "I see what you mean. No, I don't. It's just that no other alternative seems probable, so...."
"So you work with the one that does," Curt said, nodding. "All right, let's work with it for the moment. You have probably done some thinking on what mechanism might be involved in the process of vanishing. Would you care to tell me about it?"
"There's no reason why not, sir. It takes time for conscious beliefs to sink into the subconscious and integrate there. The time varies with the person and the emotions involved."
"That makes sense," Curt said, nodding.
"I postulated that down underneath even the subconscious, at the very roots of being, is what I named the basic thought matrix. In order for us to be here in this existence at all it must have a certain form. Change that form and, presto, the person slips out of this existence, perhaps into another."
"I see." Curt drummed his fingers on the desk for a long minute. "I see," he repeated. "Has it occurred to you that you have already rejected your theory? It's quite obvious you have, you know."
"How is it obvious?" Fred asked, wondering what Curt meant.
"Because you told me the theory. You wouldn't have, of course, if you believed it would cause me to vanish like the others."
Fred opened and closed his mouth several times, unable to cope with this. It was unexpected.
"We've gotten to the root of your trouble," Curt went on. "It was a real trouble, to you. In a few months you will look back on it and marvel at it. Right now it seems real. You feel that somewhere your father still exists. You would like to go to him, or perhaps bring him back. Believe me, such mysterious vanishings aren't uncommon. The history of the world is full of such incidents. In some cases whole groups have vanished. Authenticated cases. In southeast Asia the people of an entire city of over a million inhabitants vanished overnight. In the last century an entire trainload of people, including the train, vanished while going from one city to another a few miles away. And there have been vanishments with reappearances, too. In England there was an old woman who suddenly vanished before the eyes of her family. At the same instant she reappeared in a room in London, miles away, in front of other people. Did she know your father's theory? Did the train that vanished know that theory?" Curt was smiling. "No. You see, it's something unrelated to your father's theory."
Fred was nodding. "You may be right," he said. "I didn't know about those."
"You may go now, son," Curt said. "I'll be out around eleven o'clock in the morning."
Fred rose quickly. "Okay, Curt," he said. "I'll see you." He hurried out. It was too much of an effort to hide the sudden trembling. He hadn't known about other cases of vanishing. They provided data to expand the whole thing, while not in the slightest detracting from the validity of anything else.
And if the talk had been prolonged much more Curt would have inevitably tumbled to his motive for telling him the theory.
* * * * *
Promptly at eleven Curt arrived. Fred's mother had already prepared the large basket of food. There were ten minutes of last-minute bustle, then they were off, with Curt skillfully tooling his Cadillac in and out of traffic until they were on the open highway.
"I know just the place," he told them. "Woods, meadow, brook. Even a couple of cows." And he did. When they arrived shortly before twelve-thirty it was all that.
Fred relaxed as the car came to a stop. Every second of the trip he had been ready to seize the wheel and keep the car from crashing if Curt vanished.
"Still a little nervous?" Curt asked him as they got out.
"No. No, of course not!" Fred said.
Curt didn't pursue the subject. Instead, he became something utterly different than he had been before, a carefree thoroughly likeable man, full of humor.
Fred began to regret that he had chosen him as his victim. He began to hope that the process might not be automatic, that Curt wouldn't vanish. But he stayed close to him and listened to his every word and watched his face as much as he dared without staring, so that if the moment came he could get whatever there was to get of value from it.
For the first time in years his mother began to be carefree. She even joked back at Curt occasionally, something she had never done with Martin in Fred's memory. Her joking was clumsy and uncertain. Fred laughed uproariously to encourage her and to hide his uncomfortable feeling.
"Oh, I haven't felt so good in ages," she said when they were seated around the tablecloth spread with sandwiches and salads and cakes. "It's wonderful getting out like this. We'll have to do it often."
"We wi
ll," Curt said. "At least once a week."
Fred's mother picked up a sandwich. She started to raise it to her mouth. She was smiling at Curt and about to say something to him. Both Curt and Fred were watching her.
Abruptly she wasn't there. The sandwich seemed to remain stationary for a long second. Then it dropped to the tablecloth.
Curt was holding a paper cup filled with hot coffee. His hand constricted. The cup collapsed, spilling steaming coffee over his legs.
Fred stared at the space his mother had just occupied. Abruptly he squawked, "No!" He turned accusing eyes on Curt. "You told her!"
Something seemed to go out of the man. He seemed to become visibly smaller. "Yes," he whispered, "I told her."
Fred was crying. "But you shouldn't have," he sobbed. "I told you because I wanted you to vanish. I didn't want her to, and now she has. And nothing happened that I could use."
Curt blinked at him, absorbing this new bit of information. "You wanted me to vanish?" he echoed. "Yes, I can see that now. I didn't know. It seemed too absurd. I thought you were just imagining things. Yes, I went out while you were at school and spent the whole morning teaching her every step. It was fairly easy. We had planned on coaxing you to explain it to her. Knowing it ahead of time she could pretend to grasp it that much more easily. We were planning on coaxing you into a more social relationship. Actually, she had already read the theory in your father's book she was reading for the publisher." A glassy look came into his eyes. "The book. If the theory is at the root of the disappearances the book shouldn't be published. Yes, by God. That's what your father was driving at. Your mother told me the publisher had told her your father tried to get him not to publish it."
"The book has the theory in it?" Fred said. "It mustn't get published. Why--thousands of people would read it and vanish. We've got to stop them!"
Curt was shaking his head in bewilderment. "But we can't be sure. It must be something else, though what I don't know."
"No," Fred said bitterly.
There was a long silence. Curt broke it by saying, "What did you expect to accomplish by my vanishing?"
Fred told him of Horace's shouting to his wife, "Ethel! I've got it!", and the others seeming to have a flash of divination or insight just before they vanished.
