Part 2 (1/2)

The question was, then--did the universe-of-logical-necessity exist? If so, what relations.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 publis.h.i.+ng 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 winds.h.i.+eld seemed too sharply defined.

He timed himself on the way across town to the publis.h.i.+ng 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--”