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nd he had a feeling that, in his sleep, he had been doing a lot of thinking. Or was it dreaming? "Poor boy," a melodious voice purred. He opened his eyes. It was the motherly woman, with a tray of toast and eggs and steaming coffee. The sight of it made him aware that there was a huge emptiness in his stomach. He ate, gratefully. Mrs. Waters busied herself about the room, humming soft tunes, smiling at him whenever he looked at her. When he had finished, she took the tray. "You just relax and sleep some more," she said. "The bathroom is through that door over there. If you want me for anything just call. I'll hear you. And if you want to get up and wander about the house just do so." She departed, leaving the door part way open in invitation. Fred sighed and closed his eyes. In that moment of relaxation the thinking he had done during the night rose into consciousness. For he knew now what he had to do. There was no other avenue of exploration. It might not even be possible. But if it was possible he was going to do it. He was going to vanish. * * * * * There alone lay the solution. He should have realized it. Once he vanished as had the others, he would have experience with the mystery. Personal experience. He would have all the data he required, instead of just data from the world he was in. If he had the ability to solve the problem of reappearance he would then be able to return, and go back again and show the others how to return. The key to vanishing was belief, that quality of thought which his father had systematically weeded from his mind since earliest infancy. It might take time to overcome that, but it should be possible. Already he believed some things. Or did he? Was it merely a realization that those things had a probability that approached certainty? His patterns of thinking were too ingrained. His mind was too well integrated. If he became irritated the irritation immediately brought up the memories of the factors that made him react that way. If he became happy he consciously knew the pattern, stretching back to early infancy. It was ingrained within him. He began to realize with a sinking sensation that he didn't actually know what belief was. If, in some way, it was present anywhere in his makeup, he didn't know how to recognize it. His mental pattern was one of unbelief. Not disbelief, the believing that something isn't true; but unbelief
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