The Cosmic Puppets by Philip K. Dick
“Look at this.” He opened the box and lifted out something. With trembling fingers he removed the tissue paper. Barton crouched down and peered over his shoulder.
In the tissue paper was a ball of brown string. Knotted and frazzled. Wound around a bit of wood.
His old face awed, eyes glittering, lips half-parted, Christopher ran his fingers over the ball of string. “I’ve tried on this. Many times. Every week or so I try. I’d give anything if I could bring this back. But I can’t get so much as a flicker.”
Barton took the string from the old man’s hand. “What the hell is it? Looks like ordinary string.”
A significant look settled over Christopher’s tired face. “Barton, that was Aaron Northrup’s tire iron.”
Barton raised his eyes unbelievingly. “Good Lord.”
“Yes. It’s true. I stole it. Nobody else knew what it was. I had to search for it. Remember, the tire iron was over the door of the Millgate Merchants’ Bank.”
“Yes. The mayor put it up there. I remember that day. I was just a little kid then.”
“That was a long time ago. The Bank’s gone now, of course. There’s a ladies’ tea room in its place. And this ball of string over the door. I stole it one night. Didn’t mean a thing to anyone else.” Christopher turned away, overcome by his emotions. “Nobody else remembers Aaron Northrup’s tire iron.”
Barton’s own eyes were moist. “I was only seven years old when it happened.”
“Did you see it?”
“I saw it. Bob O’Neill yelled down Central at the top of his lungs. I was in the candy shop.”
Christopher nodded eagerly. “I was fixing an old Atwater Kent. I heard the bastard. Yelled like a stuck pig. Audible for miles.”
Barton’s face glowed. “Then I saw the crook run past. His car wouldn’t start.”
“No, he was too damn nervous. O’Neill yelled, and the crook just ran straight down the middle of the street.”
“With the money in that paper sack, in his arms. Like a sack of groceries.”
“He was from Chicago. One of those racketeers.”
“A Sicilian. A big-time gangster. I saw him run past the candy store. I ran outside. Bob O’Neill was standing there in front of the Bank, shouting his head off.”
“Everybody was running and hollering. Like a bunch of donkeys.”
Barton’s vision grew dim. “The crook ran down Fulton Street. And there was old Northrup, changing the tire on his model T Ford.”
“Yeah, he was in from his farm again. To get loaded up with cattle feed. He was sitting there on the curb with his jack and tire iron.” Christopher took the ball of string back and held it gently in his hand. “The crook tried to run past him—”
“And old Northrup leaped up and hit him over the head.”
“He was a tall old man.”
“Over six feet. Thin, though. Rangy old farmer. He really cracked that crook a mean one.”
“He had a good wrist. From cranking his old Ford. I guess it just about killed the fellow.”
“Multiple concussion. A tire iron’s pretty heavy.” Barton took back the ball of string and touched it gently. “So this is it. Aaron Northrup’s tire iron. The Bank paid him five hundred dollars for it. And Mayor Clayton nailed it up over the door of the Bank. There was that big ceremony.”
“Everybody was there.”
Barton’s chest swelled. “I held the ladder.” He trembled. “Christopher, I had hold of that tire iron. As Jack Wakeley was climbing up with the hammer and nails, they gave it to me and I passed it on up. I touched it.”
“You’re touching it now,” Christopher said with feeling. “That’s it.”
For a long time Barton gazed down at the ball of string. “I remember it. I held it. It was heavy.”
“Yeah, it weighed a lot.”
Barton got to his feet. He laid the ball of string carefully on the table. He removed his coat and put it over the back of a chair.
“What are you going to do?” Christopher demanded anxiously.
There was a strange look on Barton’s face. Resolve, mixed with dreamy recollection. “I’ll tell you,” he said. “I’m going to remove the spell. I’m going to bring back the tire iron, the way it was.”
8
CHRISTOPHER TURNED DOWN the oil lamp until the room was almost dark. He set the lamp next to the ball of string and then moved back, into the corner.
Barton stood close to the table, eyes on the string. He had never tried to lift a spell before; it was a new experience for him. But he remembered the tire iron. He remembered how it had felt, how it had looked. The sights and sounds of the robbery itself. Old man Northrup leaping up and swinging it over his head. The iron coming down. The Sicilian stretched out on the pavement. The ceremony. Everybody cheering. The iron briefly in his hands.
He concentrated. He summoned all his memories together and focused them on the limp ball of brown string, knotted and frayed, on the table beside the lamp. He imagined the iron there instead of the string. Long and black and metallic. And heavy. Solid metal.
No one moved. Christopher wasn’t even breathing. Barton held his body rigid; he put everything into it. All his mental strength. He thought of the old town, the real town. It wasn’t gone. It was still there; it was here, around him, under him, on all sides. Beneath the blanket of illusion. The layer of black fog. The town still lived.
Within the ball of string was Aaron Northrup’s tire iron.
Time passed. The room became cold. Someplace far off, a clock struck. Christopher’s pipe faded and dimmed into cold ash. Barton shivered a little and went on. He thought of every aspect of it. Every sensation, visual, tactile, audible…
Christopher gasped. “It wavered.”
The ball of string had hesitated. A certain insubstantiality crept over it. Barton strained with all his might. Everything flickered—the whole room, the gloomy shadows beyond the lamp.
“Again,” Christopher gasped. “Keep on. Don’t stop.”
He didn’t stop. And presently, silently, the ball of string faded. The wall became visible behind it; he could see the table beneath. For a moment there was nothing but a misty shadow. A vague presence, left behind.
“I never got this far,” Christopher whispered, in awe. “Couldn’t do it.”
Barton didn’t answer. He kept his attention on the spot. The tire iron. It had to come. He drew it out, demanded it come forth. It had to come. It was there, underneath the illusion.
A long shadow flickered. Longer than the string. A foot and a half long. It wavered, then became more distinct.
“There it is!” Christopher gasped. “It’s coming!”
It was coming, all right. Barton concentrated until black spots danced in front of his eyes. The tire iron was on its way. It turned black, opaque. Glittered a little in the light of the oil lamp. And then…
With a furious clang the tire iron crashed to the floor and lay.
Christopher ran forward and scooped it up. He was trembling and wiping his eyes. “Barton, you did it. You made it come back.”
Barton sagged. “Yes. That’s it. Exactly the way I remember it.”
Christopher ran his hands up and down the metal bar. “Aaron Northrup’s old tire iron. I haven’t seen it in eighteen years. Not since that day. I couldn’t make it come back, Barton. But you did it.”
“I remembered it,” Barton grunted. He wiped his forehead shakily; he was perspiring and weak. “Maybe better than you. I actually held it. And my memory always was good.”
“And you weren’t here.”
“No. I wasn’t touched by the Change. I’m not distorted at all.”
Christopher’s old face glowed. “Now we can go on, Barton. There’s nothing to stop us. The whole town. We can bring it back, piece by piece. Everything we remember.”
“I don’t know it all,” Barton muttered. “A few places I never saw.”
“Maybe I remember them. Between us we probably remember the whole town
“Maybe we can find somebody else. Get a complete map of the old town. Reconstruct it.”
Christopher put down the tire iron. “I’ll build a Spell Remover for both of us. One for each of us. I’ll build hundreds of them, all sizes and shapes. With both of us wearing them…” His voice faded and died. A sick look settled slowly over his face.
“What’s the matter?” Barton demanded, suddenly apprehensive. “What’s wrong?”
“The Spell Remover.” Christopher sat numbly down at the table. He picked up the Spell Remover. “You didn’t have it on.”
Christopher turned up the lamp. “It wasn’t the Spell Remover,” he managed to say finally. He looked old and broken; he moved feebly. “All these years. It wasn’t any good.”
“No,” Barton said. “I guess it wasn’t.”
“But why?” Christopher appealed helplessly. “How did you do it?”
Barton didn’t hear him. His mind was racing wildly. Abruptly he got to his feet. “We’ve got to find out,” he said.
“Yes,” Christopher agreed, pulling himself together with a violent effort. He fooled aimlessly with the tire iron, then suddenly held it out to Barton. “Here.”
“What?”
“It’s yours, Barton. Not mine. It never really belonged to me.”
After a moment Barton slowly accepted it. “All right. I’ll take it. I know what has to be done. There’s a hell of a lot ahead of us.” He began to pace restlessly back and forth, the tire iron gripped like a battle axe. “We’ve been sitting around here long enough. We’ve got to get moving.”
“Moving?”
“We’ve got to make sure we can do it. In a big way.” Barton impatiently waved the tire iron. “One object. My God, this is only the beginning. We’ve got a whole town to reconstruct!”
Christopher nodded slowly. “Yes. That’s a lot.”
“Maybe we can’t do it.” Barton pulled the door open; cold night wind billowed in. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
Barton was already outside. “We’re going to make a real attempt. Something big. Something important.”
Christopher hurried after him. “You’re right. The Spell Remover doesn’t matter. It’s doing it that’s important. If you can do it your way…”
“What’ll we try?” Barton pushed his way impatiently along the dark street, still holding tightly onto the tire iron. “We have to know what it was before the Change.”
“I’ve had time to figure most of this neighborhood out. I’ve been able to map this part of town. That over there,” Christopher indicated a tall house, “that was a garage and auto repair place. And down there, all those old deserted stores—”
“What were they?” Barton increased his pace. “My God, they look awful. What was there? What’s underneath them?”
“Don’t you remember?” Christopher said softly.
It took a moment. Barton had to look up at the dark hills to get his bearings. “I’m not certain…” he began. And then it came.
Eighteen years was a long time. But he had never forgotten the old park with its cannon. He had played there many times. Eaten lunch there with his mother and father. Hidden in the thick grass, played cowboys and Indians with the other kids of the town.
In the faint light, he could make out a row of drooping, decayed old shacks. Ancient stores, no longer used. Missing boards. Windows broken. A few tattered rags fluttering in the night wind. Shabby, rotting shapes in which birds nested, rats and mice scampered.
“They look old,” Christopher said softly. “Fifty or sixty years old. But they weren’t here before the Change. That was the park.”
Barton crossed the street toward it. “It began over this way. At this corner. What’s it called, now?”
“Dudley Street is the new name.” Christopher was excited. “The cannon was in the center. There was a stack of cannon balls! It was an old cannon from the War Between the States. Lee dragged that cannon around Richmond.”
The two of them stood close together, remembering how it had been. The park and the cannon. The old town, the real town that had existed. For a while neither of them spoke. Each was wrapped up in his own thoughts.
Then Barton moved away. “I’ll go down to this end. It started at Milton and Jones.”
“Now it’s Dudley and Rutledge.” Christopher shook himself into activity. “I’ll take this end.”
Barton reached the corner and halted. In the gloom he could barely make out the figure of Will Christopher. The old man was waving. “Tell me when to begin!” Christopher shouted.
“Begin now.” Impatience filled Barton. Enough time had been wasted—eighteen years. “Concentrate on that end. I’ll work on this end.”
“You think we can do it? A public park is an awful big thing.”
“Damn big,” Barton said under his breath. He faced the ancient, ruined stores and summoned all his strength. At the other end, Will Christopher did the same.
9
MARY WAS CURLED up on her bed, reading a magazine, when the Wanderer appeared.
It came from the wall and slowly crossed the room, eyes shut tight, fists clenched, lips moving. Mary put down her magazine at once and got quickly to her feet. This was a Wanderer she had never seen before. An older woman, perhaps forty. Tall and heavy, with gray hair and thick breasts under her rough one-piece garment. Her stern face was twisted in a deadly serious expression; her lips continued to move as she crossed the room, passed through the big chair, and then disappeared through the far wall without a sound.
Mary’s heart thudded. The Wanderer was looking for her, but she had gone too far. It was hard to tell exactly; and she couldn’t open her eyes. She was counting, trying to get the place exactly right.
Mary hurried out of the room, down the hall and outside. She ran around the side of the house, to the place opposite her own room. As she waited for the Wanderer to emerge she couldn’t help thinking of the one who had gone too far, but not far enough to be outside the house. He had opened his eyes within the wall, apparently. In any case, he had never emerged. And there had been a loathsome smell for weeks after.
Something gleamed. It was a dark night; a few faint stars shone down. The Wanderer was coming out, all right. Moving slowly and cautiously. Getting ready to open her eyes. She was tense. Nervous. Her muscles strained. Lips twitched. Abruptly her eyelids fluttered—and she was gazing around her in wild relief.
“Here I am,” Mary said quickly, hurrying up to her.
The Wanderer sank down on a stone. “Thank God. I was afraid…” She looked nervously around. “I did go too far, didn’t I? We’re outside.”
“It’s all right. What did you want?”
The Wanderer began to relax a little. “It’s a nice night. But cold. Shouldn’t you have a sweater on?” After a moment she added, “I’m Hilda. You’ve never seen me before.”
“No,” Mary agreed. “But I know who you are.” She sat down close to the Wanderer. Now that she had opened her eyes, Hilda looked like anyone else. She had lost her faintly luminous quality; she was substantial. Mary reached out her hand and touched the Wanderer’s arm. Firm and solid. And warm. She smiled, and the Wanderer smiled back at her.
“How old are you, Mary?” she asked.
“Thirteen.”
The Wanderer rumpled the girl’s thick black curls. “You’re a lovely child. I would think you had plenty of fellows. Although maybe you’re too young for that.”
“You wanted to see me, didn’t you?” Mary asked politely. She was a little impatient; somebody might come, and in addition, she was sure something important was happening. “What was it about?”
“We need information.”
Mary repressed a sigh. “What sort of information?”
“As you know, we’ve made progress. Everything has been carefully mapped and synthesized. We’ve drawn up a detailed original, accurate in every respect. But—”
“But it means nothing.”
Mary smiled. “Yes. I think so.”
The Wanderer’s eyes were fixed on her hungrily. “Such power exists. I know you don’t have it. But someone does; we’re sure of it. It exists here, and we have to have it.”
Mary shrugged. “What do you expect me to do?”
The gray eyes glittered. “Tell us how to get control of Peter Trilling.”
Mary jumped in amazement. “Peter? He won’t do you any good!”
“He has the right kind of power.”
“True. But not for your purposes. If you knew the whole story you’d understand why not.”
“Where does he get his power?”
“The same level as I.”
“That’s no answer. Where does your power come from?”
“You’ve asked me that before,” Mary answered.
“Can’t you tell us?”
“No.”
There was silence. The Wanderer drummed with her hard, blunt nails. “It would be of considerable help to us. You know quite a lot about Peter Trilling. Why can’t you tell us?”
“Don’t worry,” Mary said. “I’ll take care of Peter when the time comes. Leave him to me. Actually, that part is none of your business.”
The Wanderer recoiled. “How dare you!”
Mary laughed. “I’m sorry. But it’s the truth. I doubt if it would make your program easier if I told you about myself and Peter. It might even make it more difficult.”
“What do you know about our program? Just what we’ve told you.”
Mary smiled. “Perhaps.”
There was doubt on the Wanderer’s face. “You couldn’t know anymore.”
Mary got to her feet. “Is there anything else you want to ask me?”
The Wanderer’s eyes hardened. “Have you any idea what we could do to you?”
Mary moved impatiently away. “This is no time for nonsense. Things of great importance are happening on all sides. Instead of asking me about Peter Trilling you ought to be asking about Ted Barton.”