But then.... A question loomed. If that were so, why hadn't he vanished like the others? Belief was an automatic process. Why hadn't it permeated to the basic matrix of his mind as it had with the others? Was he, then, still on the wrong track? But there _was_ no other! He saw the trap he had set for himself. He had believed with all his being that belief was the key he was searching for! He had been on the wrong track. His beautiful theory of belief that spread downward into the subconscious, then down lower and lower into the basic matrix that held a person in this reality, was wrong. The evidence he had based it on was still there, but it was evidence of something else. Of what? The eastern horizon was suffused with light. It grew stronger, dimming the light of the moon. From somewhere in the depths of his being rose a feeling that soon he would know, and when he did he would be close to crossing the threshold. He unclasped his arms and straightened out his legs, feeling stabs of pain in his weary muscles. He got to his feet, tingling with weariness. By the side of the road, he could see the police car he had stolen--infinite ages ago. He walked toward it, and when he reached it he climbed in and closed the door. "Beautiful morning," Captain Waters said, starting the motor. * * * * * Fred awoke and opened his eyes. Across the room the French doors were open. Sunlight was filtering through the copper screens. A breeze was playing gently with the drapes. For a moment the flight, the long walk into the country, his rendezvous with Aloneness, Captain Water's coming to bring him back, all seemed the stuff of dreams. He had the feeling that he had never left this enormous bed. Then it returned. Reality. The miracle of his reorientation to belief, the new vistas that went with it. The full realization of the true nature of the vanishments. He became aware of a figure in the doorway, watching him. It was Mrs. Waters. "Awake?" she asked cheerfully. "Yes," Fred said. "Want some breakfast?" He nodded. She went away. He raised his head and looked about the room, at the homey touches, the family pictures on the dresser and the walls, the hand sewed knickknacks and frills. This was probably the Waters' own bedroom that they had given up for him. He could vanish while Mrs. Waters was away. She would come in with the breakfast tray and find him gone. When would the _moment of reorientation_ come? He frowned in thought. That had stirred up something about what he had dreamed, or thought, while he was asleep. Something that had the flavor of being very important.