The Cosmic Puppets (4 page)

Barton roused himself. He had almost fallen asleep over his dinner plate. His coffee had cooled to a scummy brown; the greasy potatoes were hardening fast. “Beg pardon?” he muttered.

The man sitting next to him pushed his chair back and wiped his mouth with his napkin. He was plump and well-dressed; a middle-aged man in a dark blue pin-striped suit and white shirt, attractive tie, heavy ring on his thick white finger. “My name's Meade. Ernest Meade. The way you hold your head.” He smiled a gold-toothed professional smile. “I'm a doctor. Maybe I can help.”

“Just tired,” Barton said.

“You just arrived here, didn't you? This is a good place. I eat here once in a while when I'm too lazy to cook my own meals. Mrs Trilling doesn't mind serving me, do you, Mrs T?”

At the far end of the table, Mrs Trilling nodded in vague agreement. Her face was less swollen; with nightfall the pollen didn't carry as far. Most of the other boarders had left their places and gone out on the screened-in porch to sit in the cool darkness until bedtime.

“What brings you to Millgate, Mr Barton?” the doctor asked politely. He fumbled in his coat pocket and got out a brown cigar. “Not very many people come this way anymore. It's a strange thing. We used to get a lot of traffic, but now it's died to nothing. Come to think of it, you're about the first new face I've seen in quite a spell.”

Barton digested this information. A flicker of interest warmed him. Meade was a doctor. Maybe he knew something. Barton finished his coffee and asked cautiously, “Have you been practicing here long, doctor?”

“All my life.” Meade made a faint gesture with his thumb. “I have a private hospital at the top of the rise. Shady House, it's called.” He lowered his voice. “The town doesn't provide any sort of decent medical care. I try to help out as best I can; built my own hospital and operate it at my own expense.”

Barton chose his words carefully. “There were some relatives of mine living here. A long time ago.”

“Barton?” Meade reflected. “How long ago?”

“Eighteen or twenty years ago.” Watching the doctor's florid, competent face, Barton continued, “Donald and Sarah Barton. They had a son. Born in 1926.”

“A son?” Meade looked interested. “Seems to me I recall something. ‘26? I probably brought him into this world. I was practicing then. Of course, I was a lot younger in those days. But weren't we all.”

“The boy died,” Barton said slowly. “He died in 1935. From scarlet fever. A contaminated water hole.”

The florid face twisted. “By God. I remember that. Why, I had that closed; it was my idea. I forced them to close it. Those were relatives of yours? That boy was related to you?” He puffed on his cigar angrily. “I remember that. Three or four kids died by the time it was over. The kid's name was Barton? Seems to me I recall. Related to you, you say?” He culled his brain. “There was one kid. Sweet boy. Dark hair like yours. Same general physiognomy. Come to think of it, I knew you reminded me of someone.”

Barton's breath caught. “You remember him?” He leaned toward the doctor. “You actually saw him die?”

“I saw them all die. That was before Shady House was built. Sure, at the old county hospital. Christ, what a pest hole. No wonder they died. Filthy, incompetent; it was on account of that I built my own place.” He shook his head. “We could have saved them all, these days. Easily. But it's too late now.” He touched Barton briefly on the arm. “I'm sorry. But you couldn't have been very old then, yourself. What relation were you to the boy?”

A good question, Barton thought to himself. He would have liked to know the answer, too.

“Come to think of it,” Doctor Meade said slowly, half to himself, “seems to me that child's name was the same as yours. Isn't your Christian name Theodore?”

Barton nodded. “That's right.”

The florid brown wrinkled, perplexed. “The same as yours. I knew I'd heard the name, when Mrs Trilling told me.”

Barton's hands clenched around the edge of the table. “Doctor, is he buried here in town? Is his grave around here?”

Meade nodded slowly. “Sure. In the regular city cemetery.” He shot Barton a shrewd glance. “You want to visit? No trouble to do that. Is that what you came here for? To visit his grave?”

“Not exactly,” Barton answered woodenly.

At the end of the table, beside his mother, sat Peter Trilling. His neck was swollen and angry. His right arm was bandaged with a strip of dirty gauze. He looked sullen and unhappy. An accident? Had something bitten him? Barton watched the boy's thin fingers pluck at a piece of bread. I know who you are, the boy had shouted. I know who you really are. Did he know or was it just a boy's boast? A conceited threat, empty and meaningless?

“Look here,” Doctor Meade said. “I don't mean to pry into your affairs; that's not right. But there's something bothering you. You didn't come here for a rest.”

“That's right,” Barton said.

“You want to tell me what it is? I'm a lot older than you. And I've lived in this town a long time. I was born here, grew up here. I know everybody around here. Brought a lot of them into this world.”

Was this a person he could talk to? A possible friend? “Doctor,” Barton said slowly, “that boy who died was related to me. But I don't know how.” He rubbed his forehead wearily. “I don't understand it. I've got to find out what I am to that boy.”

“Why?”

“I can't tell you that.”

The doctor got out a silver toothpick from a little engraved box and began thoughtfully to pick at his molars. “Did you go down to the newspaper office? Nat Tate'll give you some help. Old records, pictures, newspapers. And at the police station you can go over a lot of city records. Taxes and duns and assessments and fines. Of course, if you're trying to trace a family relationship, the best thing is the county courthouse.”

“What I want is here in Millgate. Not at the county courthouse.” After a moment Barton added, “It has to do with the whole town. Not just Ted Barton. I have to know about all of this.” He moved his hand in a tired circle. “It's all involved, somehow. Tied in with Ted Barton. The other Ted Barton, I mean.”

Doctor Meade considered. Abruptly he put his silver toothpick away and got to his feet. “Come on out on the porch. You haven't met Miss James, have you?”

Something plucked at Barton. His weariness fled and he glanced quickly up. “I know that name. I've heard it before.”

Doctor Meade was watching him oddly. “Probably,” he agreed. “She was sitting across from us during dinner.” He held the porch door open. “She's the librarian over at the Free Library. She knows all about Millgate.”

The porch was dark. It took a couple of minutes for Barton to get adjusted. Several shapes were sitting around on old-fashioned chairs and a long sagging couch. Smoking, dozing, enjoying the evening coolness. The porch was protected by wire screens; no insects had got in to immolate themselves on the single electric bulb glowing faintly in the corner.

“Miss James,” Doctor Meade said, “this is Ted Barton. Maybe you can help him. He has a few problems.”

Miss James smiled up at Barton through her thick, rimless glasses. “I'm glad to meet you,” she said in a soft voice. “You're new around here, aren't you?”

Barton seated himself on the arm of the couch. “I'm from New York,” he answered.

“You're the first person through here in years,” Doctor Meade observed. He blew a vast cloud of cigar smoke around the dark porch. The red glow of his cigar lit up the gloom. “The road's practically ready to fall apart. Nobody comes this way. We see the same old faces month after month. But we have our work. I have the hospital. I like to learn new things, experiment, work with my patients. I have about ten fairly dependent people up there. Once in a while we get in a few of the town wives to help. Right now it's pretty quiet.”

“Do you know anything about a—barrier?” Barton asked Miss James abruptly.

“A barrier?” Doctor Meade demanded. “What kind of a barrier?”

“You've never heard of it?”

Doctor Meade shook his head slowly. “No, not that I can think of.”

“I, neither,” Miss James echoed. “In what connection?”

No one else was listening. The others were dozing and murmuring together at the far end of the porch. Mrs Trilling, the other boarders, Peter, Doctor Meade's daughter Mary, some neighbors. “What do you know about the Trilling boy?” Barton asked.

Meade grunted. “Seems to be healthy enough.”

“Have you ever examined him?”

“Of course,” Meade answered, annoyed. “I've examined everybody in this town. He has a high IQ; seems to be alert. Plays a lot by himself.” He added, “Frankly, I never liked precocious children.”

“But he's not interested in books,” Miss James protested. “He never comes to the library.”

Barton was silent for a time. Then he asked, “What would it mean if somebody said, ‘The one on the far side. The one with his hands out.' Does that mean anything to you?”

Miss James and Doctor Meade were baffled. “Sounds like a game,” Doctor Meade muttered.

“No,” Barton answered. “Not a game.” And he meant it. “Let it go. Forget I said anything.”

Miss James leaned toward him. “Mr Barton, I may be wrong, but I receive the distinct impression that you think there's something here. Something very important here in Millgate. Am I right?”

Barton's lips twisted. “There's something going on. Beyond human awareness.”

“Here? In Millgate?”

Words forced their way between Barton's lips. “I've got to find out. I can't go on like this. Somebody in this town must know. You can't all sit around and pretend everything is perfectly ordinary! Somebody in this town knows the real story.”

“Story about what?” Meade rumbled, perplexed.

“About me.”

They were both agitated. “How do you mean?” Miss James faltered. “Is there somebody here who knows you?”

“There's somebody here who knows everything. The why and how. Something I don't understand. Something ominous and alien. And you all sit around and enjoy yourselves.” He got abruptly to his feet. “I'm sorry. I'm exhausted. I'll see you later.”

“Where are you going?” Meade demanded.

“Up to my room. To get some sleep.”

“Look here, Barton. I'll give you a few phenobarbitals. They'll help calm you. And if you want, drop up to the hospital tomorrow. I'll give you a check-up. Seems to me you're under a hell of a strain. In a young man like you that's somewhat—”

“Mr Barton,” Miss James said softly, but insistently, with a fixed smile on her face, “I assure you there's nothing strange about Millgate. I wish there were. It's the most ordinary town you could find. If I thought there was anything going on here of any interest whatsoever, I'd be the first to want to learn more.”

Barton opened his mouth to answer. But the words never came. They were bitten off, lost forever. What he saw made even the memory of them dissolve into nothingness.

Two shapes, faintly luminous, emerged from one end of the porch. A man and a woman, walking together, holding hands. They appeared to be talking, but no sound came. They moved silently, calmly, across the porch, toward the opposite wall. They passed within a foot of Barton; he could see their faces clearly. They were young. The woman had long blonde hair, heavy twisted braids that fell down her neck and shoulders. A thin, sharp face. Pale skin, smooth and perfect. Exquisite lips and teeth. And the young man beside her was equally handsome.

Neither of them noticed Barton or the boarders sitting on their chairs. Their eyes were shut tight. They passed through the chairs, the couch, through the reclining boarders. Through Doctor Meade and Miss James, and then through the far wall. Abruptly, they were gone. The two half-luminous shapes had vanished as quickly as they had come. Without a sound.

“Good God,” Barton managed at last. “Did you see them?” No one had stirred. Some of the boarders had stopped their conversation momentarily, but now they resumed their low murmurs as if nothing had happened. “Did you see them?” he demanded excitedly.

Miss James seemed puzzled. “Of course,” she murmured. “We all saw them. They come through here about this time each evening. They're taking a walk. A nice couple, don't you think?”

“But—who—what—” Barton gasped.

“Is this the first time you've seen Wanderers?” Meade asked. His calm was suddenly shaken. “You mean you don't have Wanderers where you come from?”

“No,” Barton said. Everyone was watching him in amazement. “What are they? They walked through the walls. Through the furniture. Through you!”

“Of course,” Miss James said primly. “That's why they're called Wanderers. They can go anywhere. Through anything. Didn't you know that?”

“How long has it been going on?” Barton demanded.

The answer didn't really surprise him. But the calmness of it did. “Always,” Miss James said. “As long as I can recall.”

“Seems to me there've always been Wanderers,” Doctor Meade agreed, puffing on his cigar. “But it's perfectly natural. What's so strange about that?”

The morning was warm and sunny. The dew hadn't been baked off the weeds yet. The sky was a mild, hazy blue, not yet heated up to blazing incandescence. That would come later, as the sun climbed toward its zenith. A faint breeze stirred the cedars that grew in a line along the slope behind the immense stone building. The cedars cast pools of shade; they were responsible for the name Shady House.

Shady House overlooked the town proper. A single road twisted up the rise to the flat surface where the building stretched out. The grounds were carefully tended. Flowers and trees, and a long wood fence that formed a protecting square. Patients could be seen lounging around, sitting on benches, chairs, even stretched out on the warm ground, resting. There was an air of peace and quietude about the hospital. Some place in its depths Doctor Meade was working. Probably down in his littered office, with his microscope and slides and x-rays and chemicals.

Mary crouched in a concealed hollow, just beyond the line of towering cedars. The hard soil had been scooped out by shovels when Shady House was built. Where she sat she couldn't be seen by anyone at the House. The cedars and the wall of rock and earth cut the view off sharply. Spread out beneath her, and around her on three sides, was the valley. And beyond that, the eternal ring of mountains, blue and green, tipped with faint hazy white. Silent and unmoving.