The Cosmic Puppets (8 page)

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.

“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.”

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. Everthing 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!”