Where does belief become necessary?"
"Do you believe your son will become a success in life?" Horace asked.
"No. I've done everything I could think of to increase the probabilitythat he will. One of the things I've done is to instill in him therealization that belief is unnecessary in thinking. Surely, as ascientist, you realize that nothing we use in science finds its value orvalidity from human belief. If, tomorrow, evidence were brought forththat trigonometry is based on fallacy I'm sure that mathematicians woulduse that evidence to revise their entire field."
"But belief is instinctive; as instinctive as thought itself."
"I admit it's a natural way of thinking. It has to be weeded out."
"So you're sure you don't believe in anything," Horace said slyly.
"Such statements are verbal traps," Martin said. "They mean nothing. Youwant me to imply that I believe I believe nothing, and therefore I haveat least one belief. But as a matter of fact I've built up a sort ofmental mechanism for discovering beliefs in my thinking and dispellingthem by going to the roots and showing myself why I believed. Beliefsprings up in the mind like weeds in a garden. Constant weeding is theonly solution." He glanced at his watch and frowned uneasily. "Eleveno'clock. We'd better break this up and join the women. We'll have to gettogether again soon. By the way, do you and your wife play Canasta? Mywife loves it."
They had been moving toward the door. Now they entered the living room,to find the two women playing the game.
"Time we were going, dear," Martin said. "And sometime soon make plansto have Horace and Ethel over for an evening of four-handed Canasta."
At the front door vows of an early reunion were repeated. But they werenever to be fulfilled. On the following Tuesday Horace vanished.
* * * * *
This time there were no actual eye witnesses. The time was somewherebetween seven and seven-ten Tuesday morning; the place; Horace Smith'sbathroom.
Ethel Smith was in the kitchen preparing breakfast. Horace was in thebathroom. He called out, "Ethel! I've got it!"
"What have you got?"
But even as Ethel called out, she heard the sound of the electric razorfalling to the tile floor, and there was no answer from the bathroom.Nothing but silence and, as she described it later, a feeling that shewas alone in the house.
At the time, however, she wasn't alarmed. She half expected somemuttered profanity over the dropping of the razor. She didn't wait forit exactly. Instead, she picked up the spatula and expertly scooped theeggs onto their two plates and carried them to the breakfast nook. Nextshe poured the coffee. Then, placing some bread in the toaster, shestarted back to the stove, calling, "Come and get it, Horace!"
At the stove she started to pick up the aluminum dish containing thebacon. She paused and repeated her call. "Horace!"
It wasn't until then that it occurred to her the falling of the razormight have been an ominous sound. Her mind filled with worried images,she rushed out of the kitchen into the hall leading to the bathroom.
The door was locked.
"Horace!" she called. "Are you all right?" When there was no answer shepounded on the door. "Horace! Speak to me!"
After that she ran outside and around to the bathroom window. It wasshut and locked, as she already knew. Not only that, it had been stuckfor years.
With an urgency born of a realization that every second might mean thedifference between life and death, she ran back into the house andcalled the fire department. Also the family doctor.
By nine-thirty the police had been called in. By eleven o'clock they hadseen the parallel between this disappearance and that of John Henderson.
Martin Grant's first reaction was concern for Ethel. His second reactionwas that, twice, he had presented his theory to someone and that personhad vanished. His third was accompanied by a twinge of fear. He had justfinished presenting his theory to the senior physics class!
This was followed by an amazing realization. He was conceding that theremight be a connection between his theory and the disappearances. Helaughed it off, but it returned. It disturbed him.
It continued to bother him on Wednesday, so he began to search his mindfor reasons. Eventually he found them. There was a distinct analogybetween a theory that didn't agree with observable reality, and a pairof disappearances which violated known methods of disappearing.
The analogy was so clear that he began to feel there might be afunctional relation between the two. Of course, he concluded, it wouldbe reasonably certain if a large number of the students in the seniorgroup were to vanish also.
This intellectual conclusion became an anxiety neurosis.
So, on Wednesday--after he had scanned the room anxiously to see howmany students were absent and discovered to his intense relief that theywere all there--he spent the full hour lecturing on the necessity--the_vital_ necessity--of unbelief in all things, especially scientifictheories.
But would it work? He vaguely remembered giving Horace a similarlecture.
Wednesday night just before retiring he had another disturbing thought.He had explained the theory to his son. But that had been weeks before,and Fred was steeped in the mechanism of unbelief. Good thing, or hemight have been the first to disappear.
"What's the matter with you, Martin? Can't you even answer when--" Therest of what his wife was saying faded in the startled realization thathe was eating dinner.
"Sorry, dear," he murmured. "I was thinking." He was trying to recallsomething that might tell him what day it was. It was obviously eveningor they wouldn't be eating dinner. "Uh," he said casually, "what day istoday?"
"Saturday," Fred said.
"Now Fred, don't tease your father about his absent-mindedness. This isThursday."
Thursday! That was right. He had given the lecture on the necessity ofunbelief today. There was tomorrow, when he could see if any of theclass had disappeared yet. He couldn't be certain, of course. Justbecause a student didn't show up didn't mean he or she had vanished.
He fixed his eyes on Fred, across the table, and smiled. Fred, at least,was a source of comfort. He knew the theory and hadn't vanished.
"Dad," Fred said. "I've been wondering if you saw a point of similarityin the two disappearances?"
Martin thought, good heavens, does he have any inkling of what I've beenthinking? Of course not! He's just fumbling. Better to discourage him."Sorry, son. There aren't any similarities except accidental ones. I'vehad the confidence of the police on this. The cases are quiteunrelated."
Fred refused to be sidetracked. "Dr. Henderson's face lit up as though asudden idea had struck him. I talked with some of his students. That'swhat they all thought. And Horace Smith shouted to his wife, 'Ethel!I've got it!' The next instant in each case they vanished into thinair."
"But that doesn't mean a thing."
* * * * *
In the privacy of his study Martin Grant allowed himself to becomeexcited. Fred had unwittingly come upon the vital clue to the twodisappearances.
"Let's be clear about this," he said to himself, drumming on his desknervously with his fingers. "Undoubtedly there's a connection betweenthe vanishing and my theory. Both Horace and John arrived at somethingI've missed. And since my theory is exhaustive it can't be there. Itmust be--yes--it _must_ be that they went a step farther." He ponderedthis a moment and added grudgingly, "A step I have missed." Then evenmore grudgingly, "An obvious step."
Automatically he opened a drawer and brought out a sheet of paper and apencil. He wrote:
_The theory contains within itself the proof that the universe must, bylogical necessity, be constructed according to said theory. Butobservation and experience say this is not true._
He frowned at what he had written. This was the conclusion to which hehad led both men. It was the conclusion upon which he had rested. They,obviously, had not rested there. They had gone on.
Under what he had written he wrote "_Either_:" on the left han
d margin.Two inches under it he wrote, "_Or_:" Then he frowned at them. Suddenlyhe began writing rapidly after the _Either_: "_The universe is notconstructed according to logical necessity._"
He hesitated, studying what he had written. Then, pursing his lips, heslowly wrote after the _Or_: "_The observable universe is not theuniverse._"
He nodded to himself. That hit at the core of the matter. A was X. B wasnot X. Therefore B was not A. Even though A and B were both calleduniverse.
The question was, then--did the universe-of-logical-necessity exist? Ifso, what relationship did it have to the observable universe which quiteobviously did exist?
Was that the question, the answer to which, gained in a moment ofinsight, had caused two men to utterly vanish?
He sighed with real regret. There was no way of knowing. Possibly amechanical brain of the most advanced type could come out with acomprehensive picture after solving thousands of successive equations.Knowledge of simple basics was a far cry from a fully expanded system.
He pushed the sheet of paper away with a show of irritation. He wasmissing something. He was on the wrong track. Neither John nor Horacehad the mental equipment to make more than a simple step beyond what hehad accomplished. That was certain. It was equally certain that he couldand would make it.
A startled expression appeared on his face. "Oh good lord!" he groaned."My book. I must do something about that the first thing tomorrow. I--"He opened the drawer of his desk and took out an oblong of paper, thecheck against advance royalties. "I'll return this and not let thempublish it. First thing in the morning. And from now on I resolve not tothink of my theory or what caused John and Horace to vanish."
Folding the check neatly, he stuck it in his billfold and then startedto read a book that interested him. He became engrossed in it. Half anhour later he came to enough to realize he was on safe ground, sigh withrelief, and sink back into the trains of thought of the book.
It was a nice feeling to know he was safe.
* * * * *
It was Friday. The sun was shining brightly and the monotony of the bluesky was relieved here and there by filmy white clouds that gave it apleasing three-dimensionalness.
But to Martin Grant there was something unreal about things. He decidedit must be the light. Things stood out with too sharp clarity.
When he reached his office at the university he made arrangements for asubstitute to take his ten o'clock class. Then he called the publishingcompany and made an appointment for ten-fifteen.
The hour from nine to ten seemed interminably long. He found it almostimpossible to concentrate on such an unimportant subject as theapplication of tensor analysis to electronic circuits.
Ten o'clock came. He hurried to the parking lot and got in his car. Itwas real and comforting. But once again everything outside thewindshield seemed too sharply defined.
He timed himself on the way across town to the publishing house. Hewould have to allow himself the same time to return for his eleveno'clock class. It took twelve minutes, plus another two to find aparking place. Two minutes from the car to the eleventh floor. He wasfrowning at his watch as he entered the publisher's office.
"Well, well, Dr. Grant! Glad to see you. I suppose you're anxious to seeyour book ready for market. It's coming very well. Just came back fromthe typesetters and is going into its first printing right away."
"Huh?" Martin said, completing his mental arithmetic and jerking into anawareness of his surroundings. "Oh, hello Mr. Browne," he said. "I wasjust figuring my time. I have an eleven o'clock class. I can only staytwenty-seven minutes. That gives me a three minute margin of error fortraffic delays."
"I see," the publisher said, a twinkle in his eye. "As I was justsaying, your book--"
"Oh yes, my book," Martin interrupted. "Just a minute." He took out hisbillfold and extracted the check, handing it to Mr. Browne.
"What's this for?" Mr. Browne asked, unfolding it. "Oh, the advanceroyalty check. Is something wrong with it?"
"I'm returning it," Martin said. "I can't let you publish my book."
"Can't let me publish it!" Browne exclaimed. "Why not? Don't tell me itinfringes on someone else's copyright!"
"No. Nothing like that. I've merely decided I don't want it published.I'm returning your check."
"Well now, look!" Browne said. "We're a business establishment. Yousigned a contract. We signed one too. It protects both of us againstjust this sort of thing, you know." He studied Martin thoughtfully. "Sitdown and relax," he invited. "I'm human. Tell me why you don't want itpublished. Maybe I might agree with you. We have over a thousand dollarstied up already in typesetting, but--"
Martin took the seat and glanced nervously at his watch to make sure thetwenty-seven minutes hadn't elapsed.
"I've just changed my mind," he said curtly. "There are certainthings--I'm the head of a department, you know. I must watch myreputation. That's it, my reputation. On due reflection I believe thebook might hurt my standing."
"In what way?" Browne asked. "To tell you the truth, your other bookdid so well I didn't bother reading this one."
"There's a--" Martin brought himself up short. So Browne hadn't read it.So much the better. At least he wouldn't vanish. "I'm afraid," he addedwith a self-conscious chuckle that he hoped was genuine enough to pass,"the subject matter is a little too crackpottish in spots. That's thewhole thing. It would reflect on my reputation."
"Maybe we could do a little editing on it," Browne said. "Cut out theparts you think crackpottish and substitute something else in thosepages. I'll get the galleys and we can look at them."
"No!" Martin said. "No, I'm afraid we would have to cut out at leasthalf of the book. No. The best thing is to forget it, but I'll make goodyour typesetting loss. I can pay you two hundred dollars right away andfifty dollars a month."
Browne lit a cigarette slowly, his eyes on Martin. "You're serious,aren't you," he said. "I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll let the wholething ride for the present. Maybe later--"
"No!" Martin said. "It must never be published! It's very vital that itnever be published."
"Okay," Browne said. "We won't publish it. We have the contract, but--wewon't publish it."
"Thanks, very much," Martin said. "I must hurry back."
The publisher stared thoughtfully at the closed door after Martin hadgone. He glanced down at the check.
* * * * *
Lecture room 304 was very large, capable of holding four hundredstudents in its successive tiers of seats, plus the teacher on hisraised platform immediately in front of the large blackboard. Inprevious years there had been instances of students slipping out afterroll call. In spite of everything, it had happened.
Therefore a new system had been inaugurated. Before roll call Martinmarched to the back of the room to the only exit and locked it.Pocketing the key, he returned to his podium. It had been going on thisway for two years, and was now automatic.
The day watchman, making his rounds, approached this door at preciselytwo thirty-four. He heard violent pounding. Along with the poundingthere was a loud, hoarse voice, gasping, "Lemme out! Lemme out!"
The watchman consulted his clock--the one he used to make a record ofhis rounds--and determined that it was two thirty-four. He knew that itwas Dr. Grant's senior theoretical physics lecture period. He recalledthat a couple of years before Dr. Grant had had trouble with studentsslipping out after roll call. But it occurred to him that it was hardlypossible to sneak out, even on Dr. Grant, absent-minded as he was, bypounding on the door and shouting, "Lemme out!" in a terrified tone ofvoice.
He therefore stopped and knocked on the door, calling, "What's going onin there?"
Whoever was doing the pounding and shouting evidently didn't hear him.Waiting no longer, the day watchman used his master key on the door.
A smallish young man, later identified as Mark Smythe, attempted to runpast him into the hall. The watchman blocked Mark's escape
and lookedtoward the podium in an automatic appeal to Dr. Grant.
Dr. Grant was not there. The podium was unoccupied. So were all fourhundred seats. There was, in fact, no one in room 304 except the oneterrified student.
In due course the police arrived, along with the regents. By fiveo'clock it had become certain that the greatest mass disappearance ofall times had occurred, with Mark Smythe as the sole witness.
He stuck to his story through repeated detailed questionings, and in theend the police were stuck with it.
According to Smythe, class had begun as usual. Dr. Grant had waiteduntil one minute after the bell had sounded, then had marched back andlocked the door, and returned to the front. He had rapidly scanned theroom to see if there were any absences, quickly called half a dozennames he was uncertain of, and marked the attendance slip. The policefound it still resting on the table where he had placed it.
Then he had begun his lecture by remarking that they were behindschedule and would have to catch up. He had been speaking less than fiveminutes when a student by the name of Marvin Green jumped to his feet ingreat excitement, waving his hand and shouting, "Dr. Grant! Dr. Grant!"
Dr. Grant had stopped his lecture and frowned darkly, then said, "If youwill please take your seat--"
"But Dr. Grant!" Marvin Green had interrupted him excitedly. "I've gotit! I've got it!"
What had happened then was impossible for the mind to accept. MarvinGreen had simply ceased to be.
There had been a stunned silence. And in that silence, it went on.Student after student popping out of existence in what seemed to be achain reaction.
He wasn't aware when Dr. Grant vanished. All he knew was that when atlast he was alone he looked toward the podium and the professor was alsogone.
He kept waiting to go himself. When he didn't, he lost the fear that hadrooted him to the spot, and rushed to the exit where he at first triedto break down the door and make his escape, then subsided into poundingand shouting for help when he realized his physical strength wasinsufficient for the job.
Questioning didn't bring out any additional fact, nor alter anystatement. There had been no sound to the vanishing, no movement of theperson that could be considered significant, no flashes of light, nostrange odors. Nothing.
* * * * *
Fred Grant got the flash on his hot rod radio on the way home from highschool.
At the end of the report Fred wrote down Mark Smythe's address on ascrap of paper, and drove home to be with his mother. It was three daysbefore he could get away.
On the morning of the third day, his aunt Emily arrived to take chargeof things, and he was able to slip away. He drove immediately to MarkSmythe's address. It was one of the better class rooming houses near thecampus. The land-lady wasn't going to let him in nor announce him untilhe explained he was the son of the professor who had vanished. Sheimmediately swung to the other extreme and didn't bother to find out ifMark wanted to see him.
"My father was your teacher," Fred said.
"Oh? Come on in."
There were tennis rackets. On the bookshelves there were tennis books.On a table there was a tennis trophy. Otherwise there was just a bed, arug, and two or three chairs.
"I don't know what I can tell you more than I've already told the policeand the reporters," Mark said apologetically. "I guess it's tough,losing your father...."
"Yeah," Fred agreed. "I wanted to ask you something though. Dad gave alecture on his new theory a few days ago, didn't he?"
Mark looked at him blankly. Then, "Oh! I guess he did. As a matter offact I didn't pay much attention to it." He grinned. Then he rememberedhe should be solemn and stopped grinning. "I--I sort of slipped by it.He made the mistake of telling us ahead of time it was off the courseand no questions on it would be in the finals, so I more or less restedup during the period for a tennis match afterwards. Why?"
"Didn't you get any of what he said?" Fred persisted.
"Oh, a little," Mark admitted. "It was about some system of arriving atthe basic laws of nature by pure logic, only what you arrived at didn'tagree with facts. Some kind of intellectual curiosity." He thought aminute. "Oh," he said, "I see what you want. Didn't he leave any noteson it? It would be too bad if his theory was lost to the world nowthat--" He left the rest unsaid.
"Maybe you can remember something," Fred coaxed. "Anything. Did he talkabout his theory again?"
"Next day he gave a lecture on the necessity of unbelief in modernscience. It was pretty good. He overemphasized it, though. Some of thekids thought he was making a religion of unbelief."
"What did they say about his theory?" Fred asked quickly.
"Oh, they were quite impressed. Two of them live--lived here in therooming house. They were up here that evening tossing it back and forth.I was too tired from the tag match. I let them talk."
"What did they think about it?"
Mark frowned in an effort to recall. "It had to do with this universebeing basically illogical, or at least seeming to be, because it didn'tagree with your father's theory. They started building up fantasies onit. One I remember was a good one."
"What was that?"
"I think it was Jimmy. He said it would be funny if we were herebecause we believed this universe was the only real one. Something aboutinherited memory. Our coming from a long line of people who believedthis was the only place, because all our ancestors who didn't believe itshot off into some other universe and had their children there. Utterlycrazy. You know."
"Yeah, I know," Fred agreed. "You going to be around in case I want tosee you again?"
"God! I hope so!" Mark said. "It makes me nervous."
"You're safe enough," Fred said. "Well--thanks. I'll be seeing you."
* * * * *
He smoothed out the crumpled sheet of paper and glanced at it.
"What do you hope to find, Fred," his mother asked.
"I don't know," he said. "Anything, I--maybe this is something. Look."
Together they read, "Either: the universe is not constructed accordingto logical necessity, Or: the observable universe is not the universe."There were doodlings along the right margin that meant nothing.
"What does it mean?" Mrs. Grant asked.
"Probably just something connected with his classes," Fred shrugged. Hewent on searching the waste basket, giving his mother no hint that hehad already found what he was searching for.
From the position of the paper in the waste basket he felt reasonablysure it had been recently written. It was probably a voicing of thoughtsgained from the disappearance of Horace and John, because up to thattime his father had assumed his theory was just an intellectualcuriosity.
His father couldn't have asked himself if the observable universe mightnot be the universe unless something had happened to raise a doubt, orsuggest an alternative as a possibility.
Mrs. Grant's interest lessened. She wandered about the room, perhapsreliving memories. It gave Fred a chance to put the piece of paper inhis pocket so that when he put everything back in the waste basket hismother would dismiss the whole search.
There was, of course, the file with the entire theory in it. He knew thetheory by heart, however, and had no need of that file.
"I think I'll go out for a while, Mom," he said.
"All right, Fred," she said disinterestedly.
Outside he climbed behind the wheel of his hot rod and sat there, makingno motion to start the motor. He was thinking.
Mark Smythe had said that he overheard two of his fellow class-mendiscussing the theory, one of them remarking that, "It would be funny ifwe were here just because we were descended from a long line of peoplewho believed this was the only place."
Could that be the key?
Take gravitation, for instance. If it were something that some vitalpart of you had to believe, and that vital part didn't believe, wouldthe entire person go flying off into space?
What about inanimate matt
er? Did it have to believe too? And what aboutother forms of life?
Or was everything except human beings just part of the props?
He shook his head. That didn't seem like quite the right track. He tookanother.
The human mind builds up a picture of the outside universe through itssenses. Sometimes its ideas are wrong. Right or wrong, inside everyone'smind is a universe, derived from the outside universe.
What if the outside universe were derived from something? Derived fromwhat? The real, logically necessary universe? That could be. At least itseemed to have some value as a starting point.
He tried to reason from that point. Frustration grew in him. He wishedhe were older, had his university education behind him. There were somany things he couldn't begin to deal with.
Maybe he could take the entire problem to some of his father's friends.He shook his head over this thought. From all that had gone on it wastoo likely that the minute one of them discovered something that wouldbe of help he would disappear before he could tell it!
That raised another point. Why didn't he himself vanish? What was theredifferent about him?
A lot. His father had instilled in him a lot of the things he himselfcould only aspire to. Unbelief was the major thing. Or perhaps it wasthe other major thing, remembrance.
His father's voice came into consciousness, saying something he had saidso many times it was grooved deeply in memory, even to the inflectionsof voice. "_All psychoses and mental troubles are caused by walled-offunpleasant memories. The child who trains himself to recall allunpleasant things and deliberately associate them with the feeling thatthey are valuable lessons, but harmless, will grow up in perfectbalance._"
He smiled. He could let flow through consciousness, dozens of incidentshe had taken up with his father.
He was definitely different than others around