Ye of Little Faith Part 2

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 subst.i.tute to take his ten o'clock cla.s.s. 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 a.n.a.lysis 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 cla.s.s. 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, h.e.l.lo Mr. Browne," he said. "I was just figuring my time. I have an eleven o'clock cla.s.s. 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 pa.s.s, "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 subst.i.tute 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.

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, hoa.r.s.e 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 ma.s.s 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, cla.s.s 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.