by Rog Phillips
mightreflect on him in some way."
"Oh my goodness. He was always doing something like that, Mr. Browne. Heleaned over backwards. Scientific integrity was a fetish with him."
"I haven't read the book," Mr. Browne said. "The reader reported it wasfar better than Dr. Grant's first one. That was good enough for me. Thereader is no longer with us." He frowned in irritation at the memory."Left us without giving notice. But he was a good man. Excellentjudgment. 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 herselftogether. "He was always so absent-minded. I was sure he had mislaid thecheck. Used it to scribble some problem on. He did that once severalyears ago."
Browne reached into his breast-pocket and brought out a long envelopeand extended it toward her.
"I had another check made out for advance royalties," he said, "if youdecide to let me go ahead with the book."
"I don't think I should, Mr. Browne." She withdrew the check from theenvelope and looked at it, her eyebrows lifting at the size of thefigure.
"It's substantially more than the original check," Browne said. "Ithought perhaps you might be in need of money, and I feel confident thebook will sell exceptionally well."
"It is a lot of money," Mrs. Grant said. "But I'm so confused. I wish Iknew what to do."
Browne leaned forward. "Your husband was a great man. I feel it as anobligation on my part to make public his last work."
Mrs. Grant nodded slowly. "You may be right. I hadn't thought of it thatway."
"And you can undoubtedly use the money," Browne added. "There'll bemore. How much more depends on how the book sells. It may be a steadyincome for a few years."
"All right," Mrs. Grant said, making up her mind. "I'll let you publishit."
"Fine!" Mr. Browne said heartily. "I felt you would. And any time youneed money just call me."
* * * * *
Fred's birthday came in February. He was seventeen now, and theknowledge filled him with dismay. It had been months since his fatherhad vanished.
Or _had_ his father vanished? Maybe his memory of those people vanishingwas as wrong as his memory of which way his door opened! To check it hespent an afternoon in a newspaper office searching back papers until hefound the accounts. He read them all carefully. They were as heremembered them.
And in him, slowly, grew the realization that he was going to usesomeone. He was going to choose someone and try to make that persondisappear. More, he knew that that person was going to be Curt Gaard. Hedecided against calling and making an appointment. He would go to theman's office and put over the sixteen-year-old act.
With a great deal of shyness he confided to the receptionist that Curtwas a very special friend of his mother's. She talked into theinter-office phone, did a lot of listening and yessing. Finally she toldFred that Dr. Gaard wanted him to wait a few moments. Then she dialedan outside number. Fred listened to the clicks and knew it was his homephone. The psychiatrist was going to talk to his mother. He hadn'twanted that, but it wouldn't matter materially.
The wait lasted almost half an hour. Then, with heart pounding, Fred waswalking toward the dark walnut door to the inner office. Inside, hecaught a comprehensive glimpse of the rumored couch, luxurious desk andchairs, thick expensive rug, and an assortment of floor-lamps and oilpaintings. Then the psychiatrist was upon him, heartily welcoming him.
There were time-marking conversational exchanges about school, the hotrod, and life in general. There was the pause while each sized the otherup.
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. Iwanted someone to talk to, now that Dad is gone. I thought of you. Ididn't want to bother Mom. Do you really straighten out crazy people?"
"Not exactly," Curt chuckled. "A psychologist finds most of his patientsamong people who are just upset about things. They aren't insane. Theyjust need someone who has experience to help them get their thoughtsstraightened 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 thetrouble?" 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 youto be my father."
Curt Gaard stared at him a moment. "I really believe you mean that," hesaid slowly. "You know, don't you, that it will be two years before shecan 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 knownabout that. He thought rapidly. "Then can I come live with you? Justuntil Mom can marry you?" Inwardly he was enjoying this. And he hoped hewasn'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 nowon. Okay?"
Fred nodded. It was definitely okay. He wanted to be present when CurtGaard disappeared into thin air, and this way he had a chance.
* * * * *
He left Curt's office highly exhilarated, almost drunk with the emotionof things working right. It lasted until the following evening when thedoctor showed up and he and Fred's mother put on their little act. Thenhis emotions swung the other way. He experienced a reluctance to gothrough with his plans. There was too much that was likeable about theman. And his mother did like him.
"Poor Dad," Fred thought.
After dinner the next evening, Curt kept the conversation on Fred'sfather. It was, Fred sensed, the right time to bring up the theory. Curtwould do anything to please him, to draw him out.
But he hesitated. Stretching elaborately, he said, "I'm sleepy. Whydon't you and Mom play Canasta or something?"
"I'm going to be much too busy," his mother said. "I have to finishproofreading your father's book for the publisher. Mr. Browne is finallygoing 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 studyand leave me alone." She herded them out of the room.
This interlude had served to strengthen Fred's resolve. Alone with thepsychiatrist, he let slip that he knew of a wonderful theory his fatherhad originated, then tried to cover up.
Curt used flattery. Fred took his cue and slyly bragged that it was atheory few college professors could understand even, but he understoodit.
More coaxing and he was ready to start in. But his conscience got thebetter of him. He balked, and even as he tried to squirm out of it herealized that it was too late. Dr. Gaard would never rest until thetheory 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 schooltomorrow." He winked. "I can okay it with the teacher."
"All right," Fred said in sudden crystallization of decision. "But onlyif 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, andpertinent questions that made Fred realize he was dealing with a mind ofmore than average keenness.
Fred's mother wandered in occasionally, and out again, without be
ingnoticed by either of them.
An hour passed. Two. The final steps were drawing nearer. At times Curtwas even anticipating some of them. It was midnight when it wasfinished. The mind of Curt Gaard held the entire pattern.
Fred couldn't take his eyes off the man's face. The face that wasmirroring the rapid flow of thoughts as it reviewed and attacked everybrick in the structure, finding it solid, and solidly cemented to itsneighbors.
Then he