Astounding Science Fiction Stories: An Anthology of 350 Scifi Stories Volume 2 (Halcyon Classics)

by Various

  "I wouldn't say that," Martin objected. "My theory is an intellectual curiosity, that's all. That's the way I present it in my latest book. By the way, it's coming out soon. Signed the contract a month ago." He pulled his thoughts back to the conversation. "After all, one must hold onto the pragmatic approach to reality. Here is a theory that logic says must be the only possible way a universe can be constructed and operate. It's beautiful and logically complete, but not applicable. No pragmatic value."

  "Congratulations on the book. But, damn it," Horace said, "it attacks my most basic faith. Logic. Reason."

  "Faith?" Martin echoed, amused. "Yes, perhaps you're right. That's a word that's foreign to my thinking. Belief is so unnecessary."

  "You don't mean that."

  "But I do."

  Horace pondered. "I can prove otherwise. You believe--as an example--that your wife is faithful to you." It was a statement rather than a question.

  "As a matter of fact--I don't. I act upon the greater probability that she is. I don't hire detectives to follow her. Nor do I throw her into situations to test her faithfulness. I admit the possibility that she's unfaithful to me. If evidence came that she was, I might confront her with the evidence. 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 probability that he will. One of the things I've done is to instill in him the realization that belief is unnecessary in thinking. Surely, as a scientist, you realize that nothing we use in science finds its value or validity from human belief. If, tomorrow, evidence were brought forth that trigonometry is based on fallacy I'm sure that mathematicians would use 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. You want me to imply that I believe I believe nothing, and therefore I have at least one belief. But as a matter of fact I've built up a sort of mental mechanism for discovering beliefs in my thinking and dispelling them by going to the roots and showing myself why I believed. Belief springs up in the mind like weeds in a garden. Constant weeding is the only solution." He glanced at his watch and frowned uneasily. "Eleven o'clock. We'd better break this up and join the women. We'll have to get together again soon. By the way, do you and your wife play Canasta? My wife 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 plans to 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 were never to be fulfilled. On the following Tuesday Horace vanished.

  * * * * *

  This time there were no actual eye witnesses. The time was somewhere between seven and seven-ten Tuesday morning; the place; Horace Smith's bathroom.

  Ethel Smith was in the kitchen preparing breakfast. Horace was in the bathroom. 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 razor falling to the tile floor, and there was no answer from the bathroom. Nothing but silence and, as she described it later, a feeling that she was alone in the house.

  At the time, however, she wasn't alarmed. She half expected some muttered profanity over the dropping of the razor. She didn't wait for it exactly. Instead, she picked up the spatula and expertly scooped the eggs onto their two plates and carried them to the breakfast nook. Next she poured the coffee. Then, placing some bread in the toaster, she started back to the stove, calling, "Come and get it, Horace!"

  At the stove she started to pick up the aluminum dish containing the bacon. She paused and repeated her call. "Horace!"

  It wasn't until then that it occurred to her the falling of the razor might 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 she pounded on the door. "Horace! Speak to me!"

  After that she ran outside and around to the bathroom window. It was shut and locked, as she already knew. Not only that, it had been stuck for years.

  With an urgency born of a realization that every second might mean the difference between life and death, she ran back into the house and called the fire department. Also the family doctor.

  By nine-thirty the police had been called in. By eleven o'clock they had seen the parallel between this disappearance and that of John Henderson.

  Martin Grant's first reaction was concern for Ethel. His second reaction was that, twice, he had presented his theory to someone and that person had vanished. His third was accompanied by a twinge of fear. He had just finished presenting his theory to the senior physics class!

  This was followed by an amazing realization. He was conceding that there might be a connection between his theory and the disappearances. He laughed it off, but it returned. It disturbed him.

  It continued to bother him on Wednesday, so he began to search his mind for reasons. Eventually he found them. There was a distinct analogy between a theory that didn't agree with observable reality, and a pair of disappearances which violated known methods of disappearing.

  The analogy was so clear that he began to feel there might be a functional relation between the two. Of course, he concluded, it would be reasonably certain if a large number of the students in the senior group were to vanish also.

  This intellectual conclusion became an anxiety neurosis.

  So, on Wednesday--after he had scanned the room anxiously to see how many students were absent and discovered to his intense relief that they were all there--he spent the full hour lecturing on the necessity--the vital necessity--of unbelief in all things, especially scientific theories.

  But would it work? He vaguely remembered giving Horace a similar lecture.

  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 he might have been the first to disappear.

  "What's the matter with you, Martin? Can't you even answer when--" The rest of what his wife was saying faded in the startled realization that he was eating dinner.

  "Sorry, dear," he murmured. "I was thinking." He was trying to recall something that might tell him what day it was. It was obviously evening or they wouldn't be eating dinner. "Uh," he said casually, "what day is today?"

  "Saturday," Fred said.

  "Now Fred, don't tease your father about his absent-mindedness. This is Thursday."

  Thursday! That was right. He had given the lecture on the necessity of unbelief today. There was tomorrow, when he could see if any of the class had disappeared yet. He couldn't be certain, of course. Just because 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 similarity in the two disappearances?"

  Martin thought, good heavens, does he have any inkling of what I've been thinking? Of course not! He's just fumbling. Better to discourage him. "Sorry, son. There aren't any similarities except accidental ones. I've had the confidence of the police on this. The cases are quite unrelated."

  Fred refused to be sidetracked. "Dr. Henderson's face lit up as though a sudden idea had struck him. I talked with some of his students. That's what they all thought. And Horace Smith shouted to his wife, 'Ethel! I've got it!'
The next instant in each case they vanished into thin air."

  "But that doesn't mean a thing."

  * * * * *

  In the privacy of his study Martin Grant allowed himself to become excited. Fred had unwittingly come upon the vital clue to the two disappearances.

  "Let's be clear about this," he said to himself, drumming on his desk nervously with his fingers. "Undoubtedly there's a connection between the vanishing and my theory. Both Horace and John arrived at something I've missed. And since my theory is exhaustive it can't be there. It must be--yes--it must be that they went a step farther." He pondered this a moment and added grudgingly, "A step I have missed." Then even more grudgingly, "An obvious step."

  Automatically he opened a drawer and brought out a sheet of paper and a pencil. He wrote:

  The theory contains within itself the proof that the universe must, by logical necessity, be constructed according to said theory. But observation and experience say this is not true.

  He frowned at what he had written. This was the conclusion to which he had 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 hand margin. Two inches under it he wrote, "Or:" Then he frowned at them. Suddenly he began writing rapidly after the Either: "The universe is not constructed according to logical necessity."

  He hesitated, studying what he had written. Then, pursing his lips, he slowly wrote after the Or: "The observable universe is not the universe."

  He nodded to himself. That hit at the core of the matter. A was X. B was not X. Therefore B was not A. Even though A and B were both called universe.

  The question was, then--did the universe-of-logical-necessity exist? If so, what relationship did it have to the observable universe which quite obviously did exist?

  Was that the question, the answer to which, gained in a moment of insight, had caused two men to utterly vanish?

  He sighed with real regret. There was no way of knowing. Possibly a mechanical brain of the most advanced type could come out with a comprehensive 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 was missing something. He was on the wrong track. Neither John nor Horace had the mental equipment to make more than a simple step beyond what he had accomplished. That was certain. It was equally certain that he could and 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, the check against advance royalties. "I'll return this and not let them publish it. First thing in the morning. And from now on I resolve not to think of my theory or what caused John and Horace to vanish."

  Folding the check neatly, he stuck it in his billfold and then started to read a book that interested him. He became engrossed in it. Half an hour later he came to enough to realize he was on safe ground, sigh with relief, 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 blue sky was relieved here and there by filmy white clouds that gave it a pleasing three-dimensionalness.

  But to Martin Grant there was something unreal about things. He decided it must be the light. Things stood out with too sharp clarity.

  When he reached his office at the university he made arrangements for a substitute to take his ten o'clock class. Then he called the publishing company and made an appointment for ten-fifteen.

  The hour from nine to ten seemed interminably long. He found it almost impossible to concentrate on such an unimportant subject as the application of tensor analysis to electronic circuits.

  Ten o'clock came. He hurried to the parking lot and got in his car. It was real and comforting. But once again everything outside the windshield seemed too sharply defined.

  He timed himself on the way across town to the publishing house. He would have to allow himself the same time to return for his eleven o'clock class. It took twelve minutes, plus another two to find a parking place. Two minutes from the car to the eleventh floor. He was frowning at his watch as he entered the publisher's office.

  "Well, well, Dr. Grant! Glad to see you. I suppose you're anxious to see your book ready for market. It's coming very well. Just came back from the typesetters and is going into its first printing right away."

  "Huh?" Martin said, completing his mental arithmetic and jerking into an awareness of his surroundings. "Oh, hello Mr. Browne," he said. "I was just figuring my time. I have an eleven o'clock class. I can only stay twenty-seven minutes. That gives me a three minute margin of error for traffic delays."

  "I see," the publisher said, a twinkle in his eye. "As I was just saying, your book--"

  "Oh yes, my book," Martin interrupted. "Just a minute." He took out his billfold and extracted the check, handing it to Mr. Browne.

  "What's this for?" Mr. Browne asked, unfolding it. "Oh, the advance royalty 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 it infringes 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. You signed a contract. We signed one too. It protects both of us against just this sort of thing, you know." He studied Martin thoughtfully. "Sit down and relax," he invited. "I'm human. Tell me why you don't want it published. Maybe I might agree with you. We have over a thousand dollars tied up already in typesetting, but--"

  Martin took the seat and glanced nervously at his watch to make sure the twenty-seven minutes hadn't elapsed.

  "I've just changed my mind," he said curtly. "There are certain things--I'm the head of a department, you know. I must watch my reputation. That's it, my reputation. On due reflection I believe the book might hurt my standing."

  "In what way?" Browne asked. "To tell you the truth, your other book did 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 added with a self-conscious chuckle that he hoped was genuine enough to pass, "the subject matter is a little too crackpottish in spots. That's the whole thing. It would reflect on my reputation."

  "Maybe we could do a little editing on it," Browne said. "Cut out the parts you think crackpottish and substitute something else in those pages. 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 least half of the book. No. The best thing is to forget it, but I'll make good your typesetting loss. I can pay you two hundred dollars right away and fifty 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 whole thing ride for the present. Maybe later--"

  "No!" Martin said. "It must never be published! It's very vital that it never be published."

  "Okay," Browne said. "We won't publish it. We have the contract, but--we won't publish it."

  "Thanks, very much," Martin said. "I must hurry back."

  The publisher stared thoughtfully at the closed door after Martin had gone. He glanced down at the check.

  * * * * *

  Lecture room 304 was very large, capable of holding four hundred students in its successive tiers of seats, plus the teacher on his raised platform immediately in front of the large blackboard. In previous years there had been instances of students slipping out after roll call. In spite of everything, it had happened.

&n
bsp; Therefore a new system had been inaugurated. Before roll call Martin marched 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 this way for two years, and was now automatic.

  The day watchman, making his rounds, approached this door at precisely two thirty-four. He heard violent pounding. Along with the pounding there was a loud, hoarse voice, gasping, "Lemme out! Lemme out!"

  The watchman consulted his clock--the one he used to make a record of his rounds--and determined that it was two thirty-four. He knew that it was Dr. Grant's senior theoretical physics lecture period. He recalled that a couple of years before Dr. Grant had had trouble with students slipping out after roll call. But it occurred to him that it was hardly possible to sneak out, even on Dr. Grant, absent-minded as he was, by pounding on the door and shouting, "Lemme out!" in a terrified tone of voice.

  He therefore stopped and knocked on the door, calling, "What's going on in 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 run past him into the hall. The watchman blocked Mark's escape and looked toward the podium in an automatic appeal to Dr. Grant.

  Dr. Grant was not there. The podium was unoccupied. So were all four hundred seats. There was, in fact, no one in room 304 except the one terrified student.

  In due course the police arrived, along with the regents. By five o'clock it had become certain that the greatest mass disappearance of all times had occurred, with Mark Smythe as the sole witness.

  He stuck to his story through repeated detailed questionings, and in the end the police were stuck with it.

  According to Smythe, class had begun as usual. Dr. Grant had waited until one minute after the bell had sounded, then had marched back and locked the door, and returned to the front. He had rapidly scanned the room to see if there were any absences, quickly called half a dozen names he was uncertain of, and marked the attendance slip. The police found it still resting on the table where he had placed it.