The Cosmic Puppets (6 page)

No matter where he was, no matter where he sat or stood or slept or walked, as long as he was in the valley, he was part of one or the other figure. Each made up one side of the valley, one hemisphere. He could move from one to the other, but he was always in one of them. In the center of the valley was a line. On the other side of that line he would merge with the other figure.

“Where are you going?” Peter shouted.

“Out.”

Peter's face darkened ominously. “You can't go out. You can't leave.”

“Why not?”

“You'll find out why not.”

Barton ignored him and continued picking his way down the hill, toward the road and his parked car.

He headed the Packard up the road, away from Millgate. Cedars and pines grew in massive profusion above and below him. The road was a narrow ribbon gouged through the forest. It was in bad shape. He drove cautiously, taking in the details. The surface of the pavement was cracked, interlaced lines and splits. Weeds jutted up. Weeds and dry grass. Nobody came along here. That much was clear.

He turned a sharp curve and abruptly slammed on the brakes. The car screeched to a halt, tires sizzling.

There it was. Spread across the road ahead of him. The sight completely floored him. He had gone along this road three times—once out and twice in—and seen nothing. Now, here it was. It had finally showed up, just as he had made up his mind to leave and forget the whole thing, join Peg and try to continue his vacation as if nothing had happened.

He would have expected something weird. Something vast and macabre, an ominous wall of some sort, mysterious and cosmic. A supraterrestrial layer barring the road.

But he was wrong. It was a stalled lumber truck. An ancient truck, with iron wheels and no gear shift. Round headlights, the old-fashioned brass lamps. Its load was spilled all the way across the highway. The wires had broken; the truck had careened at an angle and stopped dead, logs spilling off in all directions.

Barton climbed wearily out of the car. Everything was silent. Somewhere, far off, a crow squawked dismally. The cedars rustled. He approached the sea of logs, with it archaic island jutting up in the center. Not bad, for a barrier. No car could get through that. Logs were everywhere and they were plenty big. Some were heaped on others. A dangerous, unsteady mass of twisted beams, ready to spill and roll any moment. And the road was steep.

There was no one in the truck, of course. God knew how long it had been there, or how often. Apparently, it was selective. He lit a cigarette and took off his coat; the day was starting to heat up. How would he go about getting past it? He had got by before, but this time it wasn't going to cooperate.

Maybe he could go around.

The high side was out of the question. He'd never be able to scramble up the almost perpendicular bank, and if he lost his grip on the smooth rock, he'd pitch down into the twisted mass of logs. Maybe the low side. Between the road and the slope was a ditch. If he could get across the ditch he could easily scramble among the slanted pines, climb from one to the next, get past the log jam and hop the ditch back to the road.

One look at the ditch finished that. Barton closed his eyes and hung on tight.

The ditch wasn't wide; he might be able to vault it. But there was no bottom. He was standing over a bottomless gulf. He stepped back, away from it, and stood breathing quickly and clutching his cigarette. It went down forever. Like looking up at the sky. No limit. A ceaseless drop that finally blurred into a dim, ominous chaos.

He forgot about the ditch and turned his attention back to the logs. A car didn't stand a chance of getting past, but maybe a man on foot could negotiate his way to the other side. If he could get half way he could halt at the truck, sit in the cabin and rest. Divide it into two separate jobs.

He approached the logs gingerly. The first wasn't so bad, small and fairly steady. He stepped onto it, caught hold with his hands, and jumped to the next. Under him, the mass shuddered ominously. Barton quickly scrambled to the next and clung tight. So far so good. The one ahead was a big baby, old and dry and cracked. It jutted up at a steep angle, piled on three beneath it. Like spilled matches.

He jumped. The log split, and he frantically leaped off again. Desperately, he clutched for purchase. His fingers slipped; he fell back. He dug in wildly, trying to draw his body up on a flat surface.

He made it.

Gasping, panting for breath, Barton lay stretched out on the log, waves of relief flooding over him. Finally, he pulled himself to a sitting position. If he could go a little farther he should be able to catch hold of the truck itself. Pull himself onto it. That would be half way. He could rest

He was as far away as before. No closer. For a moment he doubted his sanity; then understanding came. He had got turned around. The logs were a maze. He had got off in the wrong direction, ceased moving toward the truck. He had moved in a closed circle.

The hell with getting out. All he wanted now was to get back to his car. Get back where he had started from. Logs were on all sides of him. Piles and heaps and jutting snouts. Good God, he hadn't come that far in, had he? Was it possible he had got himself in so deep? He was yards from the edge; surely he hadn't managed to crawl that far.

He began crawling around, back the way he had come. The logs swayed and tilted dangerously under him. Fear made him nervous. He lost his grip and fell between two of them. For a blinding, terrifying instant he was underneath, the sunlight was cut off and he was in a closing cave of darkness. He pushed up with all his strength, and one of the logs gave. He scrambled wildly back up, emerged into the sunlight, and lay outstretched, gasping and shuddering.

He lay for an indefinite period. He had lost track of time. The next thing he knew, a voice was speaking to him.

“Mr Barton! Mr Barton! Can you hear me?”

He managed to raise his head. Standing on the road, beyond the logs, was Peter Trilling. He grinned calmly at Barton, hands on his hips, face gleaming and tanned in the bright sunlight. He didn't seem especially worried. In fact, he looked rather pleased.

“Help me,” Barton gasped.

“What are you doing out there?”

“I tried to get across.” Barton pulled himself up to a sitting position. “How the hell am I going to get back?”

And then he noticed something. It wasn't the middle of the day. It was early evening. The sun was setting over the far hills, the giant figure that loomed up at the opposite end of the valley. He examined his wristwatch. It was six-thirty. He had been on the logs seven hours.

“You shouldn't have tried to get across,” Peter said, as he cautiously approached. “If they don't want you to get out you shouldn't try.”

“I got in this damn valley!”

“They must have wanted you in. But they don't want you out. You better be careful. You might get stuck in there and die of starvation.” Peter obviously enjoyed the spectacle. But after a moment he leaped agilely up on the first log and picked his way over to Barton.

Barton got unsteadily to his feet. He was scared clean through. This was his first taste of the powers that operated in the valley. Gratefully, he took hold of Peter's small hand and allowed the boy to lead him back to the edge.

Oddly, it took only a few seconds.

“Thank God.” He wiped his forehead and picked up his coat, where he had tossed it. The air was turning chill; it was cold and late, “I won't try that again, for a while.”

“You better not try it again ever,” Peter said quietly.

Something in the boy's voice made Barton's head jerk up. “What do you mean?”

“Just what I say. You were there seven hours.” Peter's confident smile broadened. “I was the one who kept you there. I twisted you up in time.”

Barton absorbed the information slowly. “It was you? But you finally got me out.”

“Sure,” Peter said easily. “I kept you in and I got you out. When it pleased me. I wanted you to see who was boss.”

There was a long silence. The boy's confident smile grew. He was pleased with himself. He had really done a good job.

“I saw you from my ledge,” he explained. “I knew where you were going. I figured you'd try to walk across.” His chest swelled. “Nobody can do that except me. I'm the only one.” A cunning film slid over his eyes. “I have ways.”

“Drop dead,” Barton said. He strode past the boy and hopped in the Packard. As he gunned the motor and released the brake he saw the confident smile falter. By the time he had the car turned around toward Millgate it had become a nervous grimace.

“Aren't you going to ride me back?” Peter demanded, hurrying up to the window. His face turned sickly white. “A lot of those death's-head moths down at the foot of the hill. It's almost night!”

“Too bad,” Barton said, and shot the car down the road.

Lethal hatred flashed over Peter's face. He was lost behind, a dwindling column of violent animosity.

Barton was sweating hard. Maybe he had made a mistake. It had been plenty uncomfortable out there in the maze of logs, crawling around and around like a bug in a water glass. The kid had a lot of power and he was mad enough to start using it. On top of that there were all his other troubles; he was stuck here, whether he liked it or not.

For the next day or so, it was going to be close quarters.

Millgate was dissolving into gloomy darkness as Barton turned onto Jefferson Street. Most of the shops were closed. Drugstores, hardware stores, grocery stores, endless cafes and cheap bars.

He parked in front of the Magnolia Club, a run-down joint that looked ready to collapse any minute. A few bucolic toughs lounged around the front. Stubble-chinned and shiftless, their eyes glittered at him, red and penetrating, as he locked the Packard and pushed the swinging doors of the bar aside.

Only a couple of men were at the bar. The tables were empty; the chairs were still piled up on them, legs sticking forlornly up. He seated himself at the back end of the bar, where nobody would bother him, and ordered three quick bourbons, one after another.

He was in a hell of a mess. He had come in, and now he couldn't get out. He was stuck fast. Caught inside the valley by the spilled load of lumber. How long had it been there? Good God, it might stay there forever. Not to mention his cosmic enemy, the one who had manipulated his memories, and Peter, his earthly enemy thrown in for extra humor.

The bourbons made him calmer. They—it, the cosmic power—wanted him for some reason. Maybe he was supposed to find out who he was. Maybe it had all been planned, his coming here, returning to Millgate after so many years. Maybe his every move, everything he had ever done, his whole life

He ordered a new batch of bourbons; he had plenty to forget. More men had filed in. Hunched-over men in leather jackets. Brooding over their beer. Not talking or moving. Prepared to spend the evening. Barton ignored them and concentrated on his purposeful drinking.

He was just starting to toss down the sixth bourbon when he realized one of the men was watching him. Numbly, he pretended not to notice. Good God, didn't he have enough troubles?

The man had turned around on his stool. A grimy-faced old drunk. Tall and stooped. In a torn, seedy-looking coat, filthy trousers. The remains of shoes. His hands were large and dark, fingers creased with countless cuts. His befuddled eyes were fixed intently on Barton, watching every move he made. He didn't look away, even when Barton glared hostilely back.

The man got up and came unsteadily over. Barton braced himself. He was going to get touched for a drink. The man sat down on the next stool with a sigh and folded his hands. “Hi,” he grunted, blowing a cloud of alcoholic breath around Barton. He pushed his damp, pale hair back out of his eyes. Thin hair, as moist and limp as corn silk. His eyes were cloudy blue, like a child's. “How are you?”

“What do you want?” Barton demanded bluntly, driven to the edge of drunken despair.

“Scotch and water will do.”

Barton was taken aback. “Look here, buddy,” he began, but the man cut him off with his mild, gentle voice.

“I guess you don't remember me.”

Barton blinked. “Remember you?”

“You were running down the street. Yesterday. You were looking for Central.”

Barton placed him. The drunk who had laughed. “Oh, yeah,” he said slowly.

The man beamed. “See? You do remember me.” He put out his grimy, seamed paw. “My name's Christopher. William Christopher.” He added, “I'm a poor old Swede.”

Barton declined the hand. “I can do without your company.”

Christopher grinned thickly. “I believe you. But maybe if I get the Scotch and water the exhilaration will be too much for me and I'll have to leave.”

Barton waved over the bartender. “Scotch and water,” he muttered. “For him.”

“Did you ever find Central?” Christopher asked.

“No.”

Christopher giggled in a shrill, high-pitched voice. “I'm not surprised. I could have told you that.”

“You did.”

The drink came, and Christopher accepted it gratefully. “Good stuff,” he observed, taking a big swallow and then a gulp of air. “You're from out of town, aren't you?”

“You guessed it.”

“Why did you come to Millgate? A little town like this. Nobody ever comes here.”

Barton raised his head moodily. “I came here to find myself.”

For some reason, that struck Christopher as funny. He shrieked, loud and shrill, until the others at the bar turned in annoyance.

“What's eating you?” Barton demanded angrily. “What the hell's so funny about that?”

Christopher managed to calm himself. “Find yourself? You have any clues? Will you know yourself when you find yourself? What do you look like?” He burst into laughter again, in spite of his efforts. Barton sank down farther, and hunched miserably around his glass.

“Cut it out,” he muttered. “I have enough trouble already.”

“Trouble? What sort of trouble?”

“Everything. Every goddamn thing in the world.” The bourbons were really beginning to work their enchantment on him. “Christ, I might as well be dead. First I find out I'm dead, that I never lived to grow up—”