The Cosmic Puppets Read online

  The words penetrated. Barton sat up, his brain suddenly ice cold, even through his alcoholic mist. “What do you mean, not anymore?”

  “It’s been gone a long time. Years and years.” The old man rubbed his wrinkled forehead wearily. “I haven’t heard that street talked about for a long time.” His baby-blue eyes were fixed intently on Barton; he was trying to concentrate through the haze of whisky and time. “Funny, to hear that old name again. I had almost forgotten. You know, Barton, there must be something wrong.”

  “Yes,” Barton agreed tensely. “There’s something wrong. What is it?”

  Christopher rubbed his lined forehead, trying to bring his thoughts together. “I don’t know. Something big.” He glanced around fearfully. “Maybe I’m out of my mind. Pine Street was a nice place. A lot nicer than Fairmount. That’s what they have there now. Fairmount. Not the same houses at all. Not the same street. And nobody remembers.” Tears filled his blue eyes and he wiped them miserably away. “Nobody remembers except you and me. Nobody in the whole world. What the hell are we going to do?”

  7

  BARTON WAS BREATHING quickly. “Listen to me. Stop whimpering and listen!”

  Christopher shuddered. “Yes. Sorry, Barton. This whole thing has—”

  Barton grabbed him by the arm. “Then it really was the way I remember. Pine Street. Central. The old park. My memories aren’t false!”

  Christopher mopped his eyes with a filthy handkerchief. “Yes, the old park. You remember that? Good God, what’s happened around here?” All the color had drained from his face, leaving it a sickly yellow. “What’s wrong with them? Why don’t they remember?” Terror shuddered through him. “And they’re not the same people. The old ones are gone. Like the places. All but you and me.”

  “I left,” Barton said. “When I was nine.” Abruptly he got to his feet. “Let’s get out of here. Where can we talk?”

  Christopher assembled himself. “My place. We can talk there.” He jumped off the stool and moved quickly toward the door. Barton followed close behind.

  The street was cool and dark. Occasional streetlights spluttered at irregular intervals. A few people were strolling along, mostly men between bars.

  Christopher hurried down a side street. Barton had trouble keeping up with him. “I’ve waited eighteen years for this,” Christopher gasped. “I thought I was crazy. I didn’t tell anybody. I was afraid. All these years—and it was true.”

  “When did the Change come?”

  “Eighteen years ago.”

  “Slowly?”

  “Suddenly. Overnight. I woke up and it was all different. I couldn’t find my way around. I stayed inside and hid. I thought I was crazy.”

  “Nobody else remembered?”

  “Everyone was gone!”

  Barton was stunned. “You mean—”

  “How could they remember? They were gone, too. Everything was changed, even the people. A whole new town.”

  “Did you know about the barrier?”

  “I knew nobody could get out or in. There’s something across the road. But they don’t care. There’s something wrong with them.”

  “Who are the Wanderers?” Barton demanded.

  “I don’t know.”

  “When did they appear? Before the Change?”

  “No. After the Change. I never saw them before that. Everyone seems to think they’re perfectly natural.”

  “Who are the two giants?”

  Christopher shook his head. “I don’t know. Once I thought I saw something. I had gone up the road, looking for a way out. I had to stop; there was a stalled lumber truck.”

  “That’s the barrier.”

  Christopher swore. “Good God! That was years ago! And it’s still there…”

  They had gone several blocks. Darkness was all around them. Vague shapes of houses. Occasional lights. The houses were run-down and shabby. Barton noticed with increasing surprise how rickety they were; he didn’t remember this part of town as being so bad.

  “Everything is worse!” he said.

  “That’s right. This wasn’t nearly so bad before the Change. It looked pretty good, in fact. My place was a nice little three-room cabin; I built it myself. Wired it, put in plumbing, fixed the roof up fine. That morning I woke up and what was I living in?” The old man halted and fumbled for his key. “A packing crate. Wasn’t nothing more than a packing crate. Not even a foundation. I remember pouring that foundation. Took me a whole week to get it right. And now nothing but a mud sill.”

  He found the key and in the darkness located the handle of the door. He fooled around, muttering and cursing. Finally the door squeaked back, and he and Barton entered.

  Christopher lit an oil lamp. “No electricity. What do you think of that? After all my work. I tell you, Barton, this thing’s diabolical. All the hard work I did. All the things I had, everything I built up. Wiped out overnight. Now I’m nothing. I didn’t drink before. Get that? Not a drop.”

  The place was a shack, nothing more. A single room; stove and sink at one end, bed at the other. Junk was littered everywhere. Dirty dishes, packages and boxes of food, bags of eggshells and garbage, moldy bread, newspapers, magazines, dirty clothes, empty bottles, endless old furniture crowded together. And wiring.

  “Yeah,” Christopher said. “I’ve been trying for eighteen years to wire the goddamn place again.” There was fear on his face, naked, hopeless fear. “I used to be a hell of a good electrician. Serviced radios. Ran a little radio shop.”

  “Sure,” Barton said. “Will’s Sales and Service.”

  “Gone. Completely gone. There’s a hand laundry there now. On Jefferson Street, as it’s called now. Do a terrible job. Ruin your shirts. Nothing left of my radio shop. I woke up that morning, started off to work. Thought something was odd. Got there and found a goddamn laundry. Steam irons and pants pressers.”

  Barton picked up a portable B battery. Pliers, solder, a soldering iron, paste, spaghetti, a signal generator, radio tubes, bottles of condensers, resistors, schematics—everything. “And you can’t get this place wired?”

  “I try.” Christopher examined his hands miserably. “It’s gone. I fumble around. Break things. Drop things. Forget what I’m doing. Mislay my wire. Step on and break my tools.”

  “Why?”

  Christopher’s eyes glittered with terror. “They don’t want me to bring it back. To make it like it was. I was supposed to be changed like the others. I was changed, partly. I wasn’t all run-down, like this. I was hardworking. Had my shop and my ability. Led a good clean life. Barton, they stop me from fixing it up. They practically take the soldering iron out of my hands.”

  Barton pushed aside a litter of cables and insulation and sat down on the edge of the work bench. “They got part of you. Then they have some power over you.”

  Christopher rummaged excitedly in a cluttered cupboard. “This thing hangs over Millgate like a black fog! A filthy black fog, creeping in all the windows and doors. It’s destroyed this town. These people are imitation people. The real ones are gone. Swept aside overnight.” He got out a dusty wine bottle and waved it in front of Barton. “By God, I’m going to celebrate! Join in, Barton. I’ve been keeping this bottle for years.”

  Barton examined the wine bottle. He blew dust from its label and held it up to the oil lamp. It was old, plenty old. Imported muscatel. “I don’t know,” he said doubtfully. He was already beginning to feel sick from the bourbons. “I don’t like to mix my drinks.”

  “This is a celebration.” Christopher spilled a heap of rubbish onto the floor and found a corkscrew. The bottle between his knees, he expertly speared the cork and began twisting it out. “Celebration for you and me finding each other.”

  The wine wasn’t too good. Barton sipped a little from his glass and studied the aged, seamed face of the old man. Christopher was slumped over in his chair, brooding. He drank rapidly, automatically, from his not quite clean glass.

  “No,” he said. �
�They don’t want all this changed back. They did this to us. Took away our town. Our friends.” His face hardened. “The bastards won’t let us lift a finger to fix things up again. They think they’re so damn big.”

  “But I got in here,” Barton murmured. He was getting pretty dopy; the bourbons and wine, mixed up together. “Got past the barrier, somehow.”

  “They’re not perfect.” Christopher lurched to his feet and put down his glass. “Missed most of me and let you in. Asleep at the switch, like anybody else.”

  He pulled open the bottom drawer of a dresser and tossed out clothing and parcels. At the bottom was a sealed box. An old silverware chest. Grunting and perspiring, Christopher lugged it out and dumped it on the table.

  “I’m not hungry,” Barton muttered. “Just like to sit here and—”

  “Watch.” Christopher got a tiny key from his wallet; with extreme care he fitted it in the microscopic lock and pushed the lid up. “I’m going to show it to you, Barton. You’re my only friend. Only person in the world I can trust.”

  It wasn’t silverware. The thing was intricate. Wires and struts, complicated meters and switches. A cone of metal, carefully soldered together. Christopher lifted it out and pushed braces into their catches. He ran the cables over to the B battery and screwed the terminal caps into place.

  “The shades,” he grunted. “Pull them down. Don’t want them to see this.” He tittered nervously. “They’d give a lot to get hold of this. Think they’re smart, got everybody under their thumb. Not quite everybody.”

  He threw a switch and the cone hummed ominously. The hum turned to a whine as he fooled with the controls. Barton edged away uneasily. “What the hell is it, a bomb? You going to blow them all up?”

  A crafty look slid over the old man’s face. “I’ll tell you later. Have to be careful.” He ran around the room, pulling down the shades, peering out; he locked the door and came carefully back to his humming cone. Barton was down on his hands and knees, peering into its works. It was a maze of intricate wiring, a regular web of glowing metal. Across the front was lettered:

  S. R.

  Do Not Touch

  Property of Will Christopher

  Christopher assumed a solemn manner. He squatted down beside Barton, his legs tucked under him. Gingerly, almost reverently, he lifted the cone, held it in his hands a moment, and then fitted it over his head. He gazed out from under it, blue eyes unblinking, weathered face serious with the importance of the occasion. His expression sagged a little, as the hum of the cone dropped into silence.

  “Damn.” He struggled up and groped for his soldering iron. “Loose connection.”

  Barton leaned against the wall and waited sleepily, while Christopher resoldered the connection. Presently the hum sounded again, a little ragged, but quite loud. Louder than before.

  “Barton,” Christopher grated. “You’re ready?”

  “Sure,” Barton muttered. He opened one eye and focused on the happenings.

  Christopher got down the old wine bottle from the table. He placed it carefully on the floor and seated himself beside it, the cone on his head. It came down to his eyebrows, and it was heavy. He adjusted it a little, then folded his arms and concentrated on the wine bottle.

  “What’s—” Barton began, but the old man cut him angrily off.

  “Don’t talk. Have to summon all my faculties.” His eyes half closed. His jaw locked. His brow wrinkled. He took a deep breath and held it.

  Silence.

  Barton found himself gradually fading off into sleep. He tried to watch the wine bottle, but its slender, dusty shape wavered and dimmed. He stifled a yawn and then belched. Christopher shot him a furious look and quickly returned to his concentrating. Barton mumbled an apology. He really yawned, then. Loud and long. The room, the old man, and especially the wine bottle, receded and blurred. The humming lulled him. Like a swarm of bees. Constant and penetrating.

  He could hardly see the bottle. It was only a vague shape. He summoned his attention, but it rapidly leaked away. Damn it, he couldn’t see the bottle now at all. He struggled up and forced his eyes open. It didn’t help. The bottle was a mere blur, just the trace of a shadow on the floor in front of Christopher.

  “Sorry,” Barton muttered. “Can’t make out the damn thing anymore.”

  Christopher didn’t answer. His face was dark lavender; he looked ready to explode. His whole being was concentrated on the spot the wine bottle had occupied. Straining and glowering, knitting his brows, breathing hoarsely between his teeth, fists clenched, body rigid…

  It was beginning to come back. Barton felt better. There it was, wavering back into view. The shadow became a blur. Then a dark cube. The cube solidified, gained color and form, became opaque; he couldn’t see the floor beyond anymore. Barton sighed with relief. Good to see the damn thing again. He settled back against the wall and made himself comfortable.

  There was only one problem. It needled at him, made him vaguely uncomfortable. The thing forming on the floor in front of Christopher wasn’t the dusty bottle of muscatel. It was something else.

  An incredibly ancient coffee-grinder.

  Christopher pulled the cone from his head. He sighed, a long drawn-out whistle of triumph. “I did it, Barton,” he said. “There it is.”

  Barton shook his head. “I don’t understand.” A cold chill was beginning to pluck at him. “Where’s the bottle? What happened to the wine bottle?”

  “There never was a wine bottle,” Christopher said.

  “But I—”

  “Fake. Distortion.” Christopher spat with disgust. “That’s my old coffee-grinder. My grandmother brought that over from Sweden. I told you I didn’t drink before the Change.”

  Understanding came to Barton. “This coffee-grinder turned into a wine bottle when the Change came. But—”

  “But underneath it was still a coffee-grinder.” Christopher got unsteadily to his feet; he looked exhausted. “You see, Barton?”

  Barton saw. “The old town’s still here.”

  “Yes. It wasn’t destroyed. It was buried. It’s under the surface. There’s a layer over it. A dark fog. Illusion. They came and laid this black cloud over everything. But the real town’s underneath. And it can be brought back.”

  “S.R. Spell Remover.”

  “That’s right.” Christopher patted the cone proudly. “That’s my Spell Remover. Built it myself. Nobody knows about it except me and you.”

  Barton reached out and picked up the coffee-grinder. It was firm and hard. Ancient, scarred wood. Metal wheel. It smelled of coffee. A pungent, musty odor that tickled his nostrils. He turned the wheel a little, and the mechanism whirred. A few grains of coffee fell from it.

  “So it’s still here,” he said softly.

  “Yes. It’s still here.”

  “How did you find out?”

  Christopher got out his pipe and filled it slowly, hands shaking with fatigue. “I was pretty discouraged at first. Finding everything changed, everybody different. Didn’t know nobody. Couldn’t talk to them; didn’t understand me. Started going down to the Magnolia Club every night; nothing else to do, without my radio shop. Came home pretty blind one night. Sat down, right where I’m sitting now. Started remembering the old days. Old places and people. How my little house used to be. While I was thinking about it, this shack began to fade out. And my sweet little house faded in.”

  He lit his pipe and sucked at it solemnly.

  “I ran around like a crazy thing. I was happy as hell. But it began to leave. Faded back out again, and this damn hovel reappeared.” He kicked at a littered table. “Like you see it. Filthy junk. When I think of how it was…”

  “You remember Berg’s Jewelry Store?”

  “Sure. On Central Street. It’s gone, of course. There’s a cheap run-down hash-house in its place. A joint.”

  Barton got the bit of stale bread from his pocket. “That explains it. Why my compass turned into this when I entered the valley. It
came from Berg’s Jewelry Store.” He tossed the bread away. “And the Spell Remover?”

  “Took me fifteen years to build it. They made my hands so damn clumsy. Could hardly solder stuff. Had to repeat the same process again and again. It focuses my mind. My memories. So I can direct my thoughts. Like a lens. That way, I can bring a thing all the way up. Bring it up from the depths. To the surface. The fog lifts and it’s there again, like it was before. Like it ought to be.”

  Barton got down his wine glass. It had been half full, but now there was nothing in it. The untasted wine had vanished with the bottle. He sniffed it. The glass smelled faintly of coffee.

  “You’ve done pretty well,” Barton said.

  “I guess so. It was hard. I’m not completely free. They hold part of me. Wish I had a picture of this place to show you. The tile sink I put in. That was really a dream.”

  Barton turned the empty glass over and shook out a grain of coffee. “You’re going on, of course.”

  “Oh?”

  “With this; what can stop you? Good God, man, you can bring it all back.”

  Christopher’s face sagged. “Barton, I’ve got something to tell you.”

  But he didn’t have to. Abruptly, warm wine spilled down Barton’s sleeve and over his fingers and wrist. At the same time the coffee-grinder faded out, and the muscatel bottle reappeared. Dusty and slim and half-full of wine.

  “It doesn’t last,” Christopher said sadly. “Not more than ten minutes. I can’t keep it going.”

  Barton washed his hands at the sink. “It always does that?”

  “Always. Never completely hardens. Can’t quite lock the real thing into place. I guess I’m just not strong enough. They’re pretty big, whoever they are.”

  Barton dried his hands on a filthy towel. He was deep in thought. “Maybe it’s just this one object. Have you tried the Spell Remover on anything else?”

  Christopher scrambled up and crossed over to the dresser. He rummaged around in the drawer and got out a small cardboard box. He carried it back and sat down on the floor with it.