The Cosmic Puppets (2 page)

A fat middle-aged woman nodded pleasantly to him. “Afternoon. What can I do for you?”

Her smile was sympathetic. Barton said thickly, “I'm sorry to bother you. I used to live here, in this town. I'm looking for something. A place.”

“A place? What place?”

“A store.” His lips almost refused to frame the words. “Doyle's Leather Goods. Does the name mean anything to you?”

Perplexity crossed the woman's broad face. “Where was it? On Jefferson Street?”

“No,” Barton muttered. “Right here on Central. Where I'm standing.”

Fear replaced perplexity. “I don't understand, mister. We've been here since I was a child. My family built this store in 1889. I've been here all my life.”

Barton moved back toward the door. “I see.”

The woman came anxiously after him. “Maybe you're in the wrong place. Maybe you're looking for some other town. How long ago did you say

”

Her voice faded, as Barton pushed out onto the street. He came to a sign post and read it without comprehension. Jefferson Street.

This wasn't Central. He was on the wrong street. Sudden hope flickered. He'd got on the wrong street somehow. Doyle's was on Central—and this was Jefferson. He looked quickly around. Which way was Central? He began to run, slowly at first, then faster. He turned a corner and came out on a small side street. Drab bars, run-down hotels and smoke shops.

He stopped a passer-by. “Where's Central?” he demanded. “I'm looking for Central Street. I must have got lost.”

The man's thin face glittered with suspicion. “Go on,” he said, and hurried off. A drunk lounging against the weatherbeaten side of a bar laughed loudly.

Barton floundered in terror. He stopped the next person, a young girl hurrying along with a package under her arm. “Central!” he gasped. “Where's Central Street?”

Giggling, the girl ran off. A few yards away she halted and shouted back, “There isn't any Central Street!”

“No Central Street,” an old woman muttered, shaking her head as she passed Barton. Others agreed, not even pausing, but hurrying on.

The drunk laughed again, then belched. “No Central,” he muttered. “They'll all tell you that, mister. Everybody knows there's no such street.”

“There must be,” Barton answered desperately. “There must be!”

He stood in front of the house he had been born in. Only it wasn't his house anymore. It was a huge, rambling hotel instead of a small white and red bungalow. And the street wasn't Pine Street. It was Fairmount.

He came to the newspaper office. It wasn't the Millgate Weekly anymore. Now it was the Millgate Times. And it wasn't a square gray concrete structure. It was a yellowed, sagging, two-story house of boards and tar paper, a converted apartment house.

Barton entered.

“Can I help you?” the young man behind the counter asked pleasantly. “You wanted to place an ad?” He fumbled for a pad. “Or was it a subscription?”

“I want information,” Barton answered. “I want to see some old papers. June 1926.”

The young man blinked. He was plump and soft-looking in a white shirt, open at the neck. Pressed slacks and carefully cut fingernails. “1926? I'm afraid anything older than a year is stored down in the—”

“Get it,” Barton grated. He tossed a ten-dollar bill on the counter. “Hurry up!”

The youth swallowed, hesitated, then scuttled through the doorway like a frightened rat.

Barton threw himself down at a table and lit a cigarette. As he was stubbing out the first butt and lighting a second, the youth reappeared, red-faced and panting, lugging a massive board-bound book. “Here it is.” He dropped it on the table with a crash and straightened up in relief. “Anything else you want to see, just—”

“Okay,” Barton grunted. With shaking fingers, he began turning the ancient yellowed sheets. 16 June 1926. The day of his birth. He found it, turned to the births and deaths, and traced the columns rapidly.

There it was. Black type on the yellow paper. His fingers touched it, his lips moved silently. They had his father's name as Donald, not Joe. And the address was wrong. 1386 Fairmount instead of 1724 Pine. His mother's name was given as Sarah Barton instead of Ruth. But the important part was there. Theodore Barton, weight six pounds, eleven ounces, at the county hospital. But that was wrong, too. It was twisted, distorted. All garbled.

He closed the book and carried it over to the counter. “One more. Give me the papers for October 1935.”

“Sure,” the youth answered. He hurried through the doorway. In a few moments he was back.

October 1935. The month he and his family had sold their house and pulled out. Moved to Richmond. Barton sat down at the table and turned the pages slowly. 9 October. There was his name. He scanned the column rapidly

And his heart stopped beating. Everything came to a complete standstill. There was no time, no motion.

SCARLET FEVER STRIKES AGAIN

Second child dies. Water hole closed by State Health Authorities. Theodore Barton, 9, son of Donald and Sarah Barton, 1386 Fairmount Street, died at his home at seven o'clock this morning. This makes the second fatality reported, and the sixth victim in this area for a period of

Mindlessly, Barton got to his feet. He didn't even remember leaving the newspaper office; the next thing he knew he was outside on the blinding hot street. People moved past. Buildings. He was walking. He turned a corner, passed unfamiliar stores. Stumbled, half-fell against a man, continued blindly on.

Finally he found himself approaching his yellow Packard. Peg emerged from the swirling haze around him. She gave a cry of wild relief.

“Ted!” She ran excitedly toward him, breasts heaving under her sweat-stained blouse. “Good Lord, what's the idea of running off and leaving me? You nearly scared me out of my mind!”

Barton got numbly into the car and behind the wheel. Silently, he inserted the key and started up the motor.

Peg slid quickly in beside him. “Ted, what is it? You're so pale. Are you sick?”

He drove aimlessly out into the street. He didn't see the people and cars. The Packard gained speed rapidly, much too rapidly. Vague shapes swarmed on all sides.

“Where are we going?” Peg demanded. “Are we getting out of this place?”

“Yes.” He nodded. “Out of this place.”

Peg collapsed with relief. “Thank God. Will I be glad to get back to civilization.” She touched his arm in alarm. “Do you want me to drive? Maybe you'd better rest. You look as if something dreadful happened. Can't you tell me?”

Barton didn't answer. He didn't even hear her. The headline seemed to hang a few feet in front of his face, the black type, yellow paper.

SCARLET FEVER STRIKES AGAIN

Second child dies…

The second child was Ted Barton. He hadn't moved out of Millgate on 9 October 1935. He had died of scarlet fever. But it wasn't possible! He was alive.Sitting here in his Packard beside his grimy, perspiring wife.

Maybe he wasn't Ted Barton.

False memories. Even his name, his identity. The whole contents of his mind—everything. Falsified, by someone or something. His hands gripped the wheel desperately. But if he wasn't Ted Barton—then who was he?

He reached for his lucky compass. A nightmare, everything swirling around him. His compass; where was it? Even that was gone. Not gone. Something else in his pocket.

His hand brought out a tiny bit of dry bread, hard and stale. A wad of dry bread instead of his silver compass.
 

Peter Trilling squatted down and picked up Mary's discarded clay. Rapidly, he pushed the cow into a shapeless mass and began to re-form it.

Noaks and Dave and Walter regarded him with outraged incredulity. “Who said you could play?” Dave demanded angrily.

“It's my yard,” Peter answered mildly. His clay shape was practically ready. He set it down in the dust beside Dave's sheep and the crude dog Walter had formed. Noaks continued to fly his airplane, ignoring Peter's creation.

“What is it?” Walter demanded angrily. “Doesn't look like anything.”

“It's a man.”

“A man! That's a man?”

“Go on,” Dave sneered. “You're too young to play. Go inside and your mother'll give you a cookie.”

Peter didn't answer. He was concentrating on his clay man, brown eyes large and intense. His small body was utterly rigid; he leaned forward, face down, lips moving faintly.

For a moment nothing happened. Then

Dave shrieked and scrambled away. Walter cursed loudly, face suddenly white. Noaks stopped flying his airplane. His mouth fell open and he sat frozen.

The little clay man had stirred. Faintly at first, then more energetically, he moved one foot awkwardly after the other. He flexed his arms, examined his body—and then, without warning, dashed off, away from the boys.

Peter laughed, a pure, high-pitched sound. He reached out lithely and snatched back the running clay figure. It struggled and fought frantically as he drew it close to him.

“Gosh,” Dave whispered.

Peter rolled the clay man briskly between his palms. He kneaded the soft clay together in a shapeless lump. Then he pulled it apart. Rapidly, expertly, he formed two clay figures, two little clay men half the size of the first. He set them down, and leaned calmly back to wait.

First one, then the other, stirred. They got up, tried out their arms and legs and began rapidly to move. One ran off in one direction; the other hesitated, started after his companion, then chose an opposite course past Noaks, toward the street.

“Get him!” Peter ordered sharply. He snatched up the first one, jumped quickly to his feet and hurried after the other. It ran desperately—straight toward Doctor Meade's station wagon.

As the station wagon started up, the tiny clay figure made a frantic leap. Its tiny arms groped wildly as it tried to find purchase on the smooth metal fender. Unconcerned, the station wagon moved out into traffic, and the tiny figure was left behind, still waving its arms futilely, trying to climb and catch hold of a surface already gone.

Peter caught up with it. His foot came down and the clay man was squashed into a shapeless blob of moist clay.

Walter and Dave and Noaks came slowly over; they approached in a wide, cautious circle. “You got him?” Noaks demanded hoarsely.

“Sure,” Peter said. He was already scraping the clay off his shoe, his small face calm and smooth. “Of course I got him. He belonged to me, didn't he?”

The boys were silent. Peter could see they were frightened. That puzzled him. What was there to be afraid of? He started to speak to them, but at that moment the dusty yellow Packard came screeching to a stop, and he turned his attention to it, the clay figures forgotten.

The motor clicked into silence and the door opened. A man got slowly out. He was good-looking, fairly young. Black tangled hair, heavy eyebrows, white teeth. He looked tired. His gray double-breasted suit was rumpled and stained; his brown shoes were scuffed and his tie was twisted to one side. His face was lined, haggard with fatigue. His eyes were swollen and bleary. He came slowly toward the boys, focused his attention on them with an effort and said, “Is this the boarding house?”

None of the boys answered. They could see the man was a stranger. Everybody in town knew Mrs Trilling's boarding house; this man was from somewhere else. His car had New York license plates; he was from New York. None of them had ever seen him before. And he talked with a strange accent, a rapid, clipped bark, harsh and vaguely unpleasant.

Peter stirred slightly. “What do you want?”

“A place. A room.” The man dug in his pocket and got out a pack of cigarettes and his lighter. He lit up shakily; the cigarette almost got away from him. All this the boys saw with mild interest and faint distaste.

“I'll go tell my mother,” Peter said at last. He turned his back on the man and walked calmly toward the front porch. Without looking back he entered the cool, dim house, his steps turned toward the sounds of dish-washing coming from the big kitchen.

Mrs Trilling peered around peevishly at her son. “What do you want? Keep out of the ice box. You can't have anything until dinner time; I told you that!”

“There's a man outside. He wants a room.” Peter added, “He's a stranger.”

Mabel Trilling dried her hands quickly, swollen face suddenly animated. “Don't just stand there! Go tell him to come in. Is he alone?”

“Just him.”

Mabel Trilling hurried past her son, outside onto the porch and down the sagging steps. The man was still there, thank God. She breathed a silent prayer of relief. People didn't seen to come through Millgate anymore. The boarding house was only half-filled: a few retired old men, the town librarian, a clerk, and her own apartment. “What can I do for you?” she demanded breathlessly.

“I want a room,” Ted Barton answered wearily. “Just a room. I don't care what it's like or how much it costs.”

“Do you want meals? If you eat with us you'll save fifty percent over what you'd have to pay down at the Steak House, and my meals are every bit as good as those tough little dry things they try to push off on you, especially a gentleman from out of town. You're from New York?”

An agonized twist crossed the man's face; it was quickly fought down. “Yes, I'm from New York.”

“I hope you'll like Millgate,” Mrs Trilling rushed on, drying her hands on her apron. “It's a quiet little town, we don't ever have any trouble of any kind. Are you in business, Mr—”

“Ted Barton.”

“You're in business, Mr Barton? I suppose you're down here for a rest. A lot of New York people leave their places in the summer, don't they? I guess it gets pretty awful up there. You don't mind telling me what line you're in, do you? Are you all by yourself? Nobody else with you?” She caught hold of his sleeve. “Come on inside and I'll show you your room. How long did you figure to stay?”

Barton followed after her, up the steps and onto the porch. “I don't know. Maybe a while. Maybe not.”

“You're alone, are you?”

“My wife may join me later if I stay here very long. I left her back in Martinsville.”

“Your business?” Mrs Trilling repeated, as they climbed the worn-carpeted stairs to the second floor.