The Cosmic Puppets (7 page)

Christopher shook his head. “That's bad.”

“Then those two goddamn luminous people come walking through the porch.”

“Wanderers. Yeah, they give you a start, the first time. But you get used to them.”

“Then that damn kid goes around looking for bees. And he shows me a guy fifty miles high. With his head made out of an electric light bulb.”

A change came over Christopher. Through his wheezy drunkenness something gleamed. An intent core of awareness. “Oh?” he said. “What guy is that?”

“Biggest goddamn guy you ever saw.” Barton made a wild sweep. “A million miles high. Knock the living daylights out of you. Made out of daylight, himself.”

Christopher sipped his drink slowly. “What else happened to you, Mr—”

“Barton. Ted Barton. Then I fell off a log.”

“You what?”

“I went log rolling.” Barton slumped forward wretchedly. “I got lost in a puddle of logs seven hours. A little creep led me out again.” He wiped his eyes miserably with the back of his hand. “And I never found Central Street. Or Pine Street.” His voice rose with wild despair. “Goddammit, I was born on Pine Street! There must be such a place!”

For a moment Christopher said nothing. He finished his drink, turned the glass upside down on the counter, spun it thoughtfully, then pushed it abruptly aside. “No, you won't find Pine Street,” he said. “Or Central. At least, not anymore.”

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?”

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.