The Cosmic Puppets (10 page)

She got up again. The wall of the vase was slippery and unpleasant. She turned her attention back to her regular self and crossed the room to the table. Carefully, she removed the vase and freed her smaller self.

For the first time in her life, she was able to see her own body from outside.

She stood still, in front of the table, while her tiny incarnation studied each inch of her. She wanted to laugh out loud; how immense she was! Huge and lumbering, a dark glowing tan. Great arms, neck, incredible moon-like face. Staring black eyes, red lips, wet white teeth.

She found it less confusing to operate each body alternately. First, she concentrated on dressing her regular body. While she put on her jeans and shirt, the little three-inch figure remained stationary. She put on her jacket and shoes, unfastened her hair and wiped the oil from her face and hands. Then she picked up the three-inch figure and placed it carefully in her breast pocket.

Strange, to be carrying herself in her own pocket. As she left the room and hurried down the hall, she was aware of the rough fabric which almost suffocated her, and the vast booming of her heart. Her breast rose and fell against her as she breathed; she was tossed around like a chip on a gigantic sea.

The night was cool. She ran quickly, through the gate and down the road. It was half a mile to town; Peter was undoubtedly at the barn, in his work chamber. Below her, Millgate stretched out, dark buildings, streets, occasional lights. In a few moments she reached the outskirts and hurried down a deserted side street. The boarding house was on Jefferson, in the center of town. The barn was just behind it.

She reached Dudley and instantly halted. Something was happening ahead of her.

She advanced cautiously. Ahead was a double line of old abandoned stores. They had rotted there for years, as long as she could remember. No one came this way anymore. The neighborhood was deserted; at least, usually deserted.

Two men were standing in the center of the street, a block apart. They were waving their arms and shouting back and forth at each other. Drunks, from the bars along Jefferson Street. Their voices were thick; they stumbled around clumsily. She had seen drunks wandering through the streets many times; but that wasn't what interested her.

She approached warily for a better view.

They weren't just standing there. They were doing something. Both of them were yelling and gesturing excitedly; the echoes of their noise rolled up and down the deserted streets. The two men were intent on what they were doing; they didn't notice her as she came up behind them. One of them was older, a blond-haired old man she didn't recognize. The other was Ted Barton. Recognition shocked her. What was he doing, standing in the middle of the dark street, waving his arms and shouting at the top of his lungs?

The line of rotting, deserted stores across from them looked strange. There was an eerie, insubstantial cast to it. A faint, half-visible glow had settled over the sagging roofs and porches; the broken windows were lit up by an interior light. The light seemed to excite the two men to frenzy. They ran back and forth, faster and faster, jumping and cursing and shouting.

The light increased. The old stores seemed to waver. They were fading, like an old print. Growing more and more dim even as she watched.

“Now!” the old man shrieked.

The rotting stores were going away. Fading out of existence. But something was taking their place. Something else was rapidly forming. The outlines of the stores hesitated, shifted, then dwindled rapidly. And she began to see the new shape that was emerging instead.

It wasn't stores. It was a flat surface, grass, a small building, and something else. A vague, uncertain form in the very center. Barton and his companion ran toward the form in wild excitement.

“There it is!” the old man shouted.

“You got it wrong. The barrel. It's longer.”

“No, it isn't. Come over here and concentrate on the base. Over this way.”

“What's the matter with the barrel? The barrel isn't right!”

“Of course it is. Help me with the base. And there's supposed to be a heap of cannon balls here.”

“That's right. Five or six of them.”

“And a brass plate.”

“Yes, a plate. With the name. We can't bring it back unless we have it right!”

As the two men concentrated on the rapidly forming cannon, the far edges of the park began to fade out, and a dim reminder of the stores reappeared. Barton noticed. With a wild shriek he straightened up and concentrated on the edges of the park. Waving his arms and shouting, he managed to drive the stores back out of existence. They wavered and were gone, and the extremities of the park hardened firmly.

“The path,” the old man shouted. “Remember the path.”

“How about the benches?”

“You take care of the benches. I'll hold onto the cannon.”

“Don't forget the cannon balls!” Barton rushed off a short way, to concentrate on a bench. He ran up and down the block, forming one bench after another. In a few moments he had six or seven faded green benches, a gloomy black in the faint starlight. “How about the flagpole?” he shouted.

“What about it?”

“Where was it? I can't remember!”

“Over this way. By the bandstand.”

“No, it wasn't. It was near the fountain. We've got to remember.”

The two of them turned their attention on another part of the park. After a moment a vague circular shape began to emerge. An ancient brass and concrete fountain. The two of them shrieked with delight. Mary gasped; water was calmly running in the fountain.

“There it is!” Barton yelled happily, waving a metal pike of some kind. “I used to wade there. Remember? The kids used to take off their shoes and go wading.”

“Sure. I remember. How about the flagpole?”

They argued back and forth. The old man concentrated on one spot, but nothing happened. Barton concentrated on another; meanwhile, the fountain grew dim, and they had to break off abruptly and bring it back.

“Which did it have?” Barton demanded. “Which flag?”

“Both flags.”

“No, the stars and bars.”

“You're wrong. The stars and stripes.”

“I know. I'm absolutely certain!” Barton had found the spot, all right. A small concrete base and a dim, nebulous pole were rapidly forming. “There it is!” he shouted joyfully. “There it is!”

“Get the flag. Don't forget the flag.”

“It's night. The flag's inside.”

“That's true. There isn't any flag at night. That explains it.”

The park was almost complete. At the far edges it still wavered and faded back into the drab line of rotting old stores. But in the center it was beautifully firm and solid. The gun, the fountain, the bandstand, the benches and paths; everything was real and complete.

“We did it!” the old man shouted. He pounded Barton on the back. “We did it!”

They hugged each other, pounded each other, embraced, then hurried deep into the park. They raced up and down the paths, around the fountain, by the cannon. His pike under his arm, Barton managed to lift one of the cannon balls; Mary could see it was terribly heavy. He dropped it with a gasp and staggered back to sit wearily down.

The two men collapsed together on one of the green benches they had summoned into being. Exhausted, they lay back, feet out, arms limp. Enjoying the satisfaction of a job well done.

Mary stepped out of the shadows and moved slowly toward them. It was time to make herself known.

Barton saw her first. He sat up, suddenly alert, the metal tire iron drawn back. “Who are you?” He peered at her through the gloom. Then he recognized her. “You're one of the kids. I saw you at the boarding house.” He searched his memory. “You're Doctor Meade's daughter.”

“That's right,” Mary said. She sat down gingerly on the bench across from them. “May I sit on one of your benches?”

“They're not ours,” Barton answered. He was beginning to sober up. Understanding of what they had done started to trickle through his numbed brain, ice cold drops sizzling out the warmth of intoxication. “They don't belong to us.”

“You created them, didn't you? Interesting. No one here can do that. How did you manage?”

“We didn't create them.” Barton shakily got out his cigarettes and lit up. He and Christopher glanced at each other with awe and numbed disbelief. Had they really done it? Really brought back the old park? Part of the old town?

Barton reached down and touched the bench under him. It was completely real. He was sitting on it, and so was Will Christopher. And the girl, who hadn't had anything to do with it. It wasn't a hallucination. All three of them were sitting on the benches; that was the proof.

“Well?” Christopher muttered. “What do you think of that?”

Barton grinned shakily. “I didn't expect such good results.”

The old man's eyes were wide, nostrils flaring. “There was real ability there.” He eyed Barton with increased respect. “You really know how to do it. You cut right through. Right to the real town.”

“It took two of us,” Barton muttered. He was cold sober, now. And exhausted. His body was utterly drained; he could hardly lift his hands. His head ached, and a nauseous taste crept up in his mouth, a sickly metallic tinge.

But they had done it.

Mary was fascinated. “How did you do it? I've never seen something created out of nothing. Only He can do that, and even He doesn't do it anymore.”

Barton shook his head wearily. He was too tired to want to talk about it. “Not nothing. It was there. We made it emerge.”

“Emerge?” The girl's black eyes sparkled. “You mean those old stores were nothing but distortions?”

“Weren't really there.” Barton thumped the bench. “This is the real thing. The real town. The other was fake.”

“What's that metal pike you're holding so tight?”

“This?” Barton turned the tire iron around. “I brought this back. It's been a ball of string.”

Mary studied him intently. “Is that why you came here? To bring things back?”

It was a good question. Barton got unsteadily to his feet. “I'm going. I've had enough for tonight.”

“Going where?” Christopher demanded.

“To my room. Have to rest. Time to think.” He tottered dopily toward the sidewalk. “I'm exhausted. Rest and something to eat.”

Mary became instantly alert. “You can't go near the boarding house.”

Barton blinked. “Why the hell not?”

“Peter's there.” She leaped up and hurried after him. “No, that's the wrong place. You want to be as far away from him as possible.”

Barton scowled. “I'm not afraid of that punk kid. Not anymore.” He waved his tire iron menacingly.

Mary put her hand firmly on Barton's arm.

“No, it would be a big mistake to go back there. You have to go someplace else. Someplace and wait until I have this worked out. I have to understand this exactly.” She frowned, deep in thought. “You go up to Shady House. You'll be safe up there. My father will take you in. Go right to him; don't stop and talk to anyone else. Peter won't enter that area. It's past the line.”

“The line? You mean—”

“It's on His side. You'll be safe, until I can figure this out and decide what to do. There're factors I don't understand.” She turned Barton around and impatiently pushed him the other way. “Get going!”

She watched until she was sure they were safely across the line, on their way up the slope to Shady House. Then she hurried back toward the center of town.

She had to move fast. Time was running out. Peter was undoubtedly suspicious, looking for his golem and wondering why it wasn't back.

She patted her pocket gently and, at the same time, felt the great mass of rough cloth billow against her. She still hadn't got used to being in two places at once; as soon as the golem had done its work she'd leave it as she had found it.

Jefferson Street loomed ahead. She ran rapidly down it, black hair streaming behind her, breasts heaving. With one hand she held her pocket; it would be too bad to let her little self fall out and get destroyed.

There was the boarding house. A few people were on the porch, enjoying the coolness and darkness. She turned up the driveway and scampered around back, across the field, toward the barn. There it was, the vast, ominous shape rising up against the night sky. She crouched in the shadows behind a shrub to get her breath and size up the situation.

Peter was certainly inside. Up in his work chamber with his cages and jars and urns of moist clay. She glanced hopefully around; was there a night-flying moth she could send in? She saw none, and anyhow, they didn't have a chance.

Carefully, with gentle fingers, she opened her pocket and got out her three-inch self. Sudden vision took the place of endless rough fabric. She closed her regular eyes and put herself as much as possible in the golem. Now she felt her own massive hand, her giant fingers touching her—too roughly, too.

By moving her attention from one body to the other she was able to manipulate the golem-self onto the ground and several feet in the direction of the barn. Almost at once it was in the interference zone.

She made her regular body sit down in the shadows, bend over in a heap, knees drawn up, head down, arms clasped around its ankles. That way she could concentrate all her attention on the golem.

The golem passed through the interference zone unnoticed. It warily approached the barn. There was a little golem-ladder Peter had rigged up. She peered around, trying to find it. The side of the barn reared, immense rough boards, towering up to lose themselves in the black sky. A structure so large she couldn't make out its extreme dimensions.

She found the ladder. Several spiders passed her, as she awkwardly climbed it. They were descending hurriedly to ground level. And once, a host of gray rats scurried past her at an excited rate.

She ascended cautiously. Below, among the bushes and vines, snakes rustled. Peter had all his things out tonight. The situation must have really disturbed him. She found the entrance steps and left the ladder. A hole, a black tunnel, lay ahead. And beyond it, a light. She was there. The night-flyers had never penetrated this far. This was Peter's work chamber.