Ye of Little Faith Part 11

"Huh?"

"People will read it and vanis.h.!.+ You've got to believe me. _The cause of those disappearances is in that book!_"

Browne stared for a moment, then dragged over a notepad, wondering how his publicity boys had missed this one. He stood up and came around his desk. "You leave it to me," he said. "You won't have a thing to worry about. I'll take care of everything."

"Then you won't publish it?"

Browne was guiding him toward the door. "You leave it to me. Drop in again soon. If you need money just drop in any time and I'll fix you up."

Fred found himself outside the door, not quite sure what Mr. Browne had promised.

Inside, Browne went back to his desk, muttering, "What a killing! Have to tell Nichols about it tomorrow at lunch. That vanis.h.i.+ng stuff is a terrific publicity angle."

"You still don't want to tell me what's troubling you?" Police Captain Waters said wistfully.

A frown crossed Fred's features and vanished into a smile. "Nothing's troubling me," he lied. "I'm all right. I'll be all right."

"You'll stay with us a while longer?"

"Sure. Sure. You make me feel--okay. I'm just going out for a ride. Be back for supper."

It had been two months now since his mother and Curt had vanished. In that two months he had come to realize something. He didn't quite know how to express it even in his thoughts.

It wasn't that he didn't want to vanish. He would, some day. But he had given up trying. It was the wrong way. The others hadn't tried. It had just come to them out of a clear sky.

Some day it would come to him that way, and he would welcome it.

He drove downtown and parked. A block away was a show he wanted to see.

He started toward it. Abruptly he stopped. In front of him was a bookstore. In its window was a large display, and every book had his father's picture on the front under the t.i.tle THEORY FOR THE MILLIONS.

In back of the display was a large poster with a still larger picture, and the teaser--(DO YOU DARE READ THIS BOOK?)

Anger flamed in Fred's mind. The anger died as abruptly as it had come.

It was replaced by a homesickness, a longing. Unconsciously his footsteps carried him into the store.

A man had the book in his hands.

"You aren't going to buy _that_, George," the woman beside him was saying.

"And why not?" the man asked, laughing. "I've never turned down a dare in my life!" He looked at the girl waiting on him. "Do you think I'll vanish, Miss?"

The clerk smiled. "I wouldn't know. I have strict orders not to read the book."

A solemn-faced man appeared out of nowhere and thrust a copy of the book at the clerk. "I want this, please," he said.

"I'll be with you in a moment, sir," the clerk said.

Others were waiting also.

Fred stumbled from the store, b.u.mping into someone in the doorway as he went through, and too confused and frightened to stop and apologize.

There was no way of stopping it. Maybe the police would become alarmed at the disappearances.

"What's wrong with me?" he mumbled, walking blindly in the crowds on the sidewalks. "Maybe I do lack the ability to believe. I _think_ I believe.

What have I missed?"

Only he, of all those who had learned the theory, had not vanished. Was faith, then, something so common, and yet impossible for he, himself, to reach?

Ahead was another bookstore. In its windows were the same displays.

He stopped. People were pus.h.i.+ng through the doors. Inside they were picking up the book and looking for a clerk.

The clerks were smiling and saying things Fred couldn't hear, and wrapping the books and handing them to their new owners--people who would take them home and read--and vanish.

Into what? Something they would see, and smile at, and say, "Why, of course!" And with a simple acceptance they would enter it.

He watched them.

And from the depths of his being Fred longed to be one of them; to be able to go in and buy the book, and read it, and....

On the other side of the window, in the store, a clerk was waiting on a customer. The customer turned to look at him, with his nose flattened against the gla.s.s. He didn't see them. In his eyes was a faraway look, a startled light.

"Why of course!" he said in quiet wonder.

There was just a little blur, where a nose had pressed against the window, and the customer frowned and said to the clerk, "That young man outside--he--he--"

"Three-fifty, please," the clerk said.

"Ah--oh. Oh, sure."