by Various
"I wanted," he explained dully, "to be with you when it happened, in the hopes I could get something more than I have to go on. In that way I might be able to find out something so I could bring my father back. And Mom." He began to cry.
"I see," Curt said, calm and a little subdued. "It's possible that may come. After what I've seen happen I can admit it as a possibility."
"Then you will make every effort to tell me?" Fred asked.
Curt smiled wryly. "You make it sound inevitable. But--yes, I will."
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 shou
ld 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 indicate
d 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.
