A thought. He reflected on it, then decided before he made any decisions he would explore the other avenue, the one the police had naturally thought of.
Was there some person or persons unknown in back of the disappearances? Some non-human, perhaps? It could fit into the same theory of disappearance. Another universe, beings in that universe. Beings who perhaps didn't want knowledge of their universe to become known on this side of the veil.
If so, why hadn't they snatched him too? Maybe they didn't know he knew about the theory. He'd never talked about it to anyone. But his father had drilled it into him as a supreme example of the reasons why belief in anything was a trap.
He shook his head. It didn't seem likely that the disappearances had been engineered by anyone. They smacked too much of an inner pattern, an inner mechanism.
So he came back to the other theory. What could he try to accomplish by exploring into his deepest substratum of thought? The ideal he could aim for would be conscious transfer into the other system with the assurance before-hand that he could transfer back again. If he could do that, and if he could find those who had vanished, maybe he could teach them how to return.
It was something that might take a long time, he realized. His first objective was to penetrate deeper into his mind than anyone had ever consciously gone before. That alone could take a lifetime. Or it might be accomplished overnight.
How would he begin? Where would he begin? he shrugged. It didn't matter. He would have to systematically extend his ability to be aware in every direction, physical and temporal, until he could be conscious of his individual blood cells if it were possible, and completely and vividly conscious, at will of every second of his past life. If that didn't lead him to his objective, it might at least point the way and increase his ability to reach his goal.
That evening, Fred arrived home to find a stranger seated in the library. There was the usual moment of clumsiness such encounters generate, but Fred's mother returned with a tea tray before self-introductions became necessary. She said, "Mr. Gaard, this is my son, Fred."
The man smiled easily as Mrs. Grant continued, speaking now to Fred. "This is Curt Gaard, Fred. I called on him today and what do you think I discovered. He was a friend—a very old friend—of your father." Mrs. Grant stopped, a certain inward uncertainty showing through.
Fred stood mute, giving voice to none of the questions which sprang up in his mind. Curt Gaard, completely at ease, took up the lead. Even as a feeling of familiarity sprang into Fred's mind, Gaard said, "I knew your father—met him several times—but we weren't as close as your mother's words might imply."