The Cosmic Puppets (15 page)

Barton called Christopher over. The old man limped painfully toward him. “Barton!” he gasped. “You're okay?”

“I'm fine. But we have a small problem here.”

She was emerging, reshaping the clay that made up her present body. But it was going to take time. The form was definitely a woman's. Not a girl's, as he remembered. But what he had known was a distortion, not the real thing.

“You're the daughter of Ormazd,” he said suddenly.

“I'm Armaiti,” the little figure answered. “His only daughter.” She yawned, arched her slim torso, stretched her slender arms. Then abruptly hopped from Barton's hand to his shoulder. “Now, if you two will help, I'll try to regain my regular shape.”

“Like Him?” Barton was appalled. “As large as that?”

She laughed, a tinkling, pure sound. “No. He lives out there in the universe. I live here. Didn't you know that? He sent His only daughter here, to live on Earth. This is my home.”

“So you were the one who brought me here. Through the barrier.”

“Oh, much more than that.”

“What do you mean?”

“I sent you out of here before the Change. I'm responsible for your vacation. For every turn your car took. The flat you had when you tried to keep on the main highway to Raleigh.”

Barton grimaced. “It took me two hours to fix that flat. Between service stations, and there was something wrong with the jack. Then it was too late to go on. We had to turn back to Richmond and spend the night.”

Armaiti's tinkling laugh sounded again. “It was the best thing I could think of, at the time. I manipulated you here, all the way to the valley. I withdrew the barrier so you could pass in.”

“And when I tried to get out—”

“It was back, of course. It's always there, unless one or the other wishes it removed. Peter had power to come and go. So did I, but Peter never knew that.”

“You knew the Wanderers wouldn't be successful. You knew the reconstruction work, all the maps and models and charts, would fail.”

“Yes. I knew even before the Change.” Armaiti's voice was soft. “I'm sorry, Teddy. They worked years, built and planned and slaved. But there was only one way. As long as Ahriman was here, as long as the agreement was kept, and Ormazd subjected himself to its terms—”

“The town was really small stuff in all this,” Barton broke in. “You weren't particularly concerned with it, were you?”

“Don't feel that way,” Armaiti said gently. “It was small compared to the greater picture. But it's a part of the greater picture. The struggle is vast; much bigger than anything you can experience. I've never seen the real extent, myself, the final regions it's entered. Only the two of them see it as it's really waged. But Millgate is important. It was never forgotten. Only—”

“Only it had to wait its turn.” Barton was silent a moment. “Anyhow,” he said finally, “now I know why I was brought here.” He grinned a little. “It's a damn good thing Peter was obliging enough to lend me his filter. Otherwise I wouldn't have had a memory to work from.”

“You did you job very well,” Armaiti said.

“And now what? Ormazd is back. They're both out there, someplace. The distortion layer is beginning to weaken. What about you?”

“I can't stay,” Armaiti said. “If that's what you're thinking, and I know perfectly well it is.”

Barton cleared his throat, embarrassed. “You were in human shape once. Can't you just sort of add a few years to—”

“Afraid not. I'm sorry. Teddy.”

“Don't call me Teddy!”

Armaiti laughed. “All right, Mr Barton.” For a moment she touched his wrist with her tiny fingers. “Well!” she said suddenly. “Are you ready?”

“I guess so.” Barton reluctantly set her down. He and Christopher seated themselves on each side of her. “What are we supposed to do? We don't know your real shape.”

There was a faint trace of sadness, almost weariness in the tinkling voice as Armaiti answered, “I've been through many forms in my time. Every possible shape and size. Whatever you think would be the most appropriate.”

“I'm ready,” Christopher muttered.

“All right,” Barton agreed. They began their concentration, faces intense, bodies rigid. The old man's eyes bulged; his cheeks turned violet. Barton ignored him and focused his own mind with what strength he had left.

For a time nothing happened. Barton gasped for air, took another lungful, and started over. The scene in front of him, Christopher, the tiny three-inch golem, wavered and blurred.

Then slowly, imperceptibly, it began.

Maybe Christopher's imagination was superior to his own. He was a lot older; probably had more experience and time to think about it. In any case, what emerged between them utterly floored Barton. She was exquisite. Incredibly beautiful. He stopped concentrating and just gaped.

For a moment she remained between them, hands on her hips, chin high, cascades of black hair tossed back over her bare white shoulders. Flashing, sleek body, glistening in the morning sunlight. Immense dark eyes. Rippling skin. Glowing breasts, firm and upturned, as ripe as spring.

Barton closed his eyes weakly. She was the essence of generation. The bursting power of woman, of all life. He was seeing the force, the energy behind all growing things, all creativity. An unbelievably potent aliveness that vibrated and pulsed in radiant, shimmering waves.

That was the last he saw of her. Already, she was going. Once, he heard her laugh, rich and mellow. It lingered, but she was dissolving rapidly. Melding with the ground, the trees, the sparkling bushes and vines. She flowed quickly to them, a liquid river of pure life, absorbing herself into the moist soil. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and for a moment turned away.

When he looked again she was gone.

It was evening. Barton slowly maneuvered his dusty yellow Packard through the streets of Millgate. He still had on his rumpled gray suit, but he had shaved, bathed and rested after the unusually strenuous night. All things considered, he felt pretty good.

As he passed the park he slowed down almost to a stop. A warm glow of satisfaction rose up inside him. A sort of personal pride. There it was. Just as it was intended to be. Part of the original plan. Back again, after all the years. And he had arranged it.

Children were romping up and down the gravel paths. One was sitting on the edge of the fountain, carefully putting his shoes back on. A couple of baby carriages. Old men, legs stuck out, rolled-up newspapers in their pockets. The sight of the people looked even better to him than the archaic Civil War cannon and the flagpole with its stars and bars.

They were the real people. The reconstruction zone, after Ahriman had left, resumed its expansion. More and more people, places, buildings, streets, were being drawn in. In a few days it would take the whole valley.

He drove back on the main drag. At one end it still said JEFFERSON STREET. But at the other end, the first wavery signpost reading CENTRAL STREET had already begun to fade into place.

There was the Bank. The old brick and concrete Millgate Merchants' Bank. Just as it had always been. The ladies' tea room was gone—forever, if things went well, out in deep space. Already, important-looking men were moving in and out through the wide doorway. And over the door, glittering in the evening sunlight, was Aaron Northrup's tire iron.

Barton continued along Central. Occasionally, the transition had produced strange results. The grocery store was only half there; the right side was Doyle's Leather Goods. A few puzzled people stood around, lost in wonder. The Change was being rolled back; it probably felt odd to walk into a store that partook of two separate worlds, one at each end.

“Barton!” a familiar voice shouted.

Barton slowed to a halt. Will Christopher burst out of the Magnolia Club, a mug of beer in one hand, a cheery grin on his weathered face. “Hold on!” he shouted excitedly. “My shop's coming up any second. Keep your fingers crossed!”

He was right. The hand laundry was beginning to blur. The lapping tongues were almost to it. Next door, the ancient, corroded Magnolia Club had already started to fade. Within its dying outline a different shape, a cleaner shape, arose. Christopher watched this with mixed feelings.

“I'm going to miss that joint,” he said. “After you been hanging out in one place eighteen years—”

His beer mug vanished. And at the same time the last slatternly boards of the Magnolia Club ceased to be. Gradually, a respectable-looking shoe store wavered and began to harden into being, where the run-down bar had been.

Christopher cursed in dismay. Abruptly he found himself gripping a woman's high-heeled slipper by its strap.

“You're next,” Barton said, amused. “There goes the hand laundry. It won't be long, now.”

He could already see the faint structure of Will's Sales and Service emerging from within. And beside him, the old man was also changing. Christopher was intent on his store; he didn't seem aware of his own alteration. His body straightened, lost its drooping sag. His skin cleared and gained a glowing flush Barton had never seen before. His eyes brightened. His hands became steadier. His dirty coat and trousers were replaced by a blue-checkered work shirt, slacks and a leather apron.

The last traces of the hand laundry faded out. It was gone—and Will's Sales and Service arrived.

Television sets sparkled in the clean, modern windows. It was a bright, up-to-date shop. A neon sign. New fixtures. Passers-by were already stopping to gaze happily at the displays; a couple of them had come along with the store. Will's Sales and Service stood out. So far, it was the most attractive shop along Central Street.

Christopher became impatient. He was eager to get inside, to his work. He restlessly fingered a screwdriver in his service belt. “I've got a TV chassis on the bench,” he explained to Barton. “Waiting for the picture tube to start acting up.”

“All right,” Barton said, grinning. “You go back inside. I don't want to keep you from your work.”

Christopher eyed Barton with a friendly smile, but there was a faint shadow of doubt beginning to twitch across his good-natured features. “Okay,” he boomed heartily. “I'll see you, mister.”

“Mister!” Barton echoed, stunned.

“I know you,” Christopher murmured thoughtfully, “but I can't quite place you.”

Sadness filled Barton. “I'll be damned.”

“I guess I've done work for you. Know your face, but can't quite place the circumstances.”

“I used to live here.”

“You moved away, didn't you?”

“My family moved to Richmond. That was a long time ago. When I was a kid. I was born here.”

“Sure! I used to see you around. Let's see, what the hell's your name?” Christopher frowned. “Ted something. You've grown. You were just a little fellow, in those days. Ted

”

“Ted Barton.”

“Sure.” Christopher stuck his hand into the car and they both shook gravely. “Glad to see you back, Barton. You going to stay here a while?”

“No,” Barton said. “I have to be going.”

“Through here on vacation?”

“That's right.”

“A lot of people come through here.” Christopher indicated the road; cars were already beginning to appear on it. “Millgate's an expanding community.”

“Live-wire,” Barton said.

“Notice, my store's arranged to attract the passing motorist. I figure there's going to be more out-of-town traffic through here all the time.”

“Seems like a safe bet,” Barton admitted. He was thinking of the ruined road, the weeds, the stalled lumber truck. There'd be more traffic, all right. Millgate had been cut off eighteen years; it had plenty to make up for.

“Funny,” Christopher said slowly. “You know, I'm sure something happened. Not very long ago. Something you and I were both involved in.”

“Oh?” Barton said hopefully.

“Had to do with a lot of people. And a doctor. Doctor Morris. Or Meade. But there's no Doctor Meade in Millgate. Just old Doc Dolan. And there were animals!”

“Don't worry about it,” Barton said, grinning a little. He started up the Packard. “So long, Christopher.”

“Drop by, when you're through this way again.”

“I will,” Barton answered, picking up speed. Behind him Christopher waved. Barton waved back. After a moment Christopher turned and hurried eagerly back inside his radio shop. Glad to get back to work. The spreading fire had finished with him; he was fully restored.

Barton drove slowly on. The hardware store, and its crotchety, elderly owner, was gone. That pleased him. Millgate was better off without it.

His Packard passed by Mrs Trilling's boarding house. Or rather, what had once been Mrs Trilling's boarding house. Now it was an automobile sales shop. Bright new Fords behind a huge display window. Fine. Just right.

This was Millgate as it would have been, had Ahriman never showed up. The struggle still continued throughout the universe, but in this one spot, the God of Light's victory was fairly clean-cut. Not absolutely complete, perhaps. But nearly so.

He picked up speed as the Packard left town and began the long climb up the side of the mountain, toward the pass and the highway beyond. The road was still cracked and weed-covered. A sudden thought hit him; what about the barrier? Was it still there?

It wasn't. The lumber truck and its spilled cargo of logs was gone. Only a few bent weeds to show where it had been. That made him curious. What sort of laws were binding on gods? He'd never thought about it before, but obviously there were certain things gods had to do, once they had made an agreement.

As he drove around the twists and turns on the other side of the mountains, it occurred to him that Peg's twenty-four-hour deadline had run out. She was probably on her way to Richmond, by now. He knew Peg; she meant every word. The next time they met would be in a New York court of law.

Barton settled back and made himself comfortable against the warm seat. It wouldn't be possible to go back to his life, the way it was. Peg was out. All that was finished and done. He might as well face it.

And anyhow, Peg seemed a little dull, everything considered.

He was recalling a sleek, glowing body. A lithe shape diffusing itself into the moist soil of early morning. A flash of black hair and eyes as she trickled away from him, into the Earth which was her home. Red lips, white teeth. A gleaming flicker of bare limbs—and then she was gone.