Fred picked up a piece of golden toast and bit into one corner absently. The thoughts he had had during sleep were filtering into consciousness.
He recalled how his mother had looked. There had been a fleeting expression just before she had vanished. She had been going to say something. She had changed her mind and had vanished instead!
And Curt—he had had his reorientation at least several seconds before vanishing. He had had it, and then, with his new perspective, had said, "So that's it!"
It was as though the new orientation made everything else unimportant.
One common factor stood out in every case, those two he had personally witnessed, and the others he hadn't seen. One common factor. Vanishing, or whatever happened that produced the vanishing, had been an impulse.
There had been time for thought. For example, Curt might have considered the practicality of telling Fred what had happened to him. But he might have reflected that eventually Fred would discover what he had just discovered, so why bother?
In the office Curt had told him of a whole city of a million people vanishing, leaving empty houses and streets. Had the cause been the same? A true orientation?
Fred looked at Captain Waters, sitting quietly, puffing slowly on his pipe. With deliberation Waters uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. "You know, son, when you get around to it—that is, if you feel up to it sometime—I wish you'd tell me about it. What it is that's troubling you. I'll try to understand."
"You'll try—?" Fred echoed. And the police captain's words started a train of thought. The others—had the place they'd gone been a heaven or a hell? So many of them—. Fred started suddenly. "The book!" he cried.
"What book?"