The Cosmic Puppets (9 page)

Christopher nodded slowly. “Yes. That's a lot.”

“Maybe we can't do it.” Barton pulled the door open; cold night wind billowed in. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

Barton was already outside. “We're going to make a real attempt. Something big. Something important.”

Christopher hurried after him. “You're right. The Spell Remover doesn't matter. It's doing it that's important. If you can do it your way

”

“What'll we try?” Barton pushed his way impatiently along the dark street, still holding tightly onto the tire iron. “We have to know what it was before the Change.”

“I've had time to figure most of this neighborhood out. I've been able to map this part of town. That over there,” Christopher indicated a tall house, “that was a garage and auto repair place. And down there, all those old deserted stores—”

“What were they?” Barton increased his pace. “My God, they look awful. What was there? What's underneath them?”

“Don't you remember?” Christopher said softly.

It took a moment. Barton had to look up at the dark hills to get his bearings. “I'm not certain

” he began. And then it came.

Eighteen years was a long time. But he had never forgotten the old park with its cannon. He had played there many times. Eaten lunch there with his mother and father. Hidden in the thick grass, played cowboys and Indians with the other kids of the town.

In the faint light, he could make out a row of drooping, decayed old shacks. Ancient stores, no longer used. Missing boards. Windows broken. A few tattered rags fluttering in the night wind. Shabby, rotting shapes in which birds nested, rats and mice scampered.

“They look old,” Christopher said softly. “Fifty or sixty years old. But they weren't here before the Change. That was the park.”

Barton crossed the street toward it. “It began over this way. At this corner. What's it called, now?”

“Dudley Street is the new name.” Christopher was excited. “The cannon was in the center. There was a stack of cannon balls! It was an old cannon from the War Between the States. Lee dragged that cannon around Richmond.”

The two of them stood close together, remembering how it had been. The park and the cannon. The old town, the real town that had existed. For a while neither of them spoke. Each was wrapped up in his own thoughts.

Then Barton moved away. “I'll go down to this end. It started at Milton and Jones.”

“Now it's Dudley and Rutledge.” Christopher shook himself into activity. “I'll take this end.”

Barton reached the corner and halted. In the gloom he could barely make out the figure of Will Christopher. The old man was waving. “Tell me when to begin!” Christopher shouted.

“Begin now.” Impatience filled Barton. Enough time had been wasted—eighteen years. “Concentrate on that end. I'll work on this end.”

“You think we can do it? A public park is an awful big thing.”

“Damn big,” Barton said under his breath. He faced the ancient, ruined stores and summoned all his strength. At the other end, Will Christopher did the same.

Mary was curled up on her bed, reading a magazine, when the Wanderer appeared.

It came from the wall and slowly crossed the room, eyes shut tight, fists clenched, lips moving. Mary put down her magazine at once and got quickly to her feet. This was a Wanderer she had never seen before. An older woman, perhaps forty. Tall and heavy, with gray hair and thick breasts under her rough one-piece garment. Her stern face was twisted in a deadly serious expression; her lips continued to move as she crossed the room, passed through the big chair, and then disappeared through the far wall without a sound.

Mary's heart thudded. The Wanderer was looking for her, but she had gone too far. It was hard to tell exactly; and she couldn't open her eyes. She was counting, trying to get the place exactly right.

Mary hurried out of the room, down the hall and outside. She ran around the side of the house, to the place opposite her own room. As she waited for the Wanderer to emerge she couldn't help thinking of the one who had gone too far, but not far enough to be outside the house. He had opened his eyes within the wall, apparently. In any case, he had never emerged. And there had been a loathsome smell for weeks after.

Something gleamed. It was a dark night; a few faint stars shone down. The Wanderer was coming out, all right. Moving slowly and cautiously. Getting ready to open her eyes. She was tense. Nervous. Her muscles strained. Lips twitched. Abruptly her eyelids fluttered—and she was gazing around her in wild relief.

“Here I am,” Mary said quickly, hurrying up to her.

The Wanderer sank down on a stone. “Thank God. I was afraid

” She looked nervously around. “I did go too far, didn't I? We're outside.”

“It's all right. What did you want?”

The Wanderer began to relax a little. “It's a nice night. But cold. Shouldn't you have a sweater on?” After a moment she added, “I'm Hilda. You've never seen me before.”

“No,” Mary agreed. “But I know who you are.” She sat down close to the Wanderer. Now that she had opened her eyes, Hilda looked like anyone else. She had lost her faintly luminous quality; she was substantial. Mary reached out her hand and touched the Wanderer's arm. Firm and solid. And warm. She smiled, and the Wanderer smiled back at her.

“How old are you, Mary?” she asked.

“Thirteen.”

The Wanderer rumpled the girl's thick black curls. “You're a lovely child. I would think you had plenty of fellows. Although maybe you're too young for that.”

“You wanted to see me, didn't you?” Mary asked politely. She was a little impatient; somebody might come, and in addition, she was sure something important was happening. “What was it about?”

“We need information.”

Mary repressed a sigh. “What sort of information?”

“As you know, we've made progress. Everything has been carefully mapped and synthesized. We've drawn up a detailed original, accurate in every respect. But—”

“But it means nothing.”

The Wanderer disagreed. “It means a great deal. But somehow, we've failed to develop sufficient potential. Our model is static, without energy. To bridge the gap, to make it leap across, we need more power.”

Mary smiled. “Yes. I think so.”

The Wanderer's eyes were fixed on her hungrily. “Such power exists. I know you don't have it. But someone does; we're sure of it. It exists here, and we have to have it.”

Mary shrugged. “What do you expect me to do?”

The gray eyes glittered. “Tell us how to get control of Peter Trilling.”

Mary jumped in amazement. “Peter? He won't do you any good!”

“He has the right kind of power.”

“True. But not for your purposes. If you knew the whole story you'd understand why not.”

“Where does he get his power?”

“The same level as I.”

“That's no answer. Where does your power come from?”

“You've asked me that before,” Mary answered.

“Can't you tell us?”

“No.”

There was silence. The Wanderer drummed with her hard, blunt nails. “It would be of considerable help to us. You know quite a lot about Peter Trilling. Why can't you tell us?”

“Don't worry,” Mary said. “I'll take care of Peter when the time comes. Leave him to me. Actually, that part is none of your business.”

The Wanderer recoiled. “How dare you!”

Mary laughed. “I'm sorry. But it's the truth. I doubt if it would make your program easier if I told you about myself and Peter. It might even make it more difficult.”

“What do you know about our program? Just what we've told you.”

Mary smiled. “Perhaps.”

There was doubt on the Wanderer's face. “You couldn't know anymore.”

Mary got to her feet. “Is there anything else you want to ask me?”

The Wanderer's eyes hardened. “Have you any idea what we could do to you?”

Mary moved impatiently away. “This is no time for nonsense. Things of great importance are happening on all sides. Instead of asking me about Peter Trilling you ought to be asking about Ted Barton.”

The Wanderer was puzzled. “Who is Ted Barton?”

Mary pressed her small hands together and concentrated on the configuration. “Theodore Barton is the only person to cross through the barrier in eighteen years. Except for Peter, of course. Peter comes and goes when the spirit moves him. Barton is from New York. An outsider.”

“Really?” The Wanderer was indifferent. “I don't understand the—”

Mary dived. She missed, and it scuttled wildly off. The Wanderer quickly shut her eyes, stuck out her hands, and disappeared through the wall of the house. She was gone in an instant. Utterly silent. And Mary was alone in the darkness.

Breathing quickly, the girl scrambled through the brush, groping desperately for the tiny running figure. It couldn't go very fast; it was only three inches high. She had noticed it by chance. A sudden movement, a glint of starlight as it changed position

She froze, rigid and alert, waiting for it to show itself again. It was someplace close by, probably in the heap of leaves and rotted hay piled up against the wall. Once it was past the wall and out among the trees she wouldn't have a chance of catching it. She held her breath and didn't move a muscle. They were small and agile, but stupid. Not much brighter than a mouse. But they had good memories, which mice lacked. They were excellent observers, even better than bees. They could go almost anyplace, listen and watch, and carry back letter-perfect reports. And best of all, they could be shaped in any manner, any size.

That was one thing she envied him; she had no power over clay. She was limited to bees, moths, cats and flies. The golems were invaluable; he used them all the time.

A faint sound. The golem was moving. It was in the pile of rotted hay, all right. Peeping out, wondering where she was. What a stupid golem! And like all clay things, its span of attention was incredibly short. It got restless too easily. Already, it was impatiently stirring around in the hay.

She didn't move. She remained crouched in a silent heap, palms on the ground, knees bent. Ready to spring as soon as it showed itself. She could wait as long as it could. Longer. The night was cool, but not cold. Sooner or later the golem would show itself—and that would be that.

Peter had finally overreached himself. Sent a golem too far, over the line into her side. He was afraid. The Barton man had made him uncertain. The man from outside had upset Peter's plans; he was a new element, a factor Peter didn't understand. She smiled coldly. Poor Peter. He had a surprise coming. If she was careful

The golem came out. It was a male; Peter liked to form male golems. It blinked uncertainly, started off to the right, and then she had it.

It squirmed frantically inside her fist. But she didn't let go. She jumped to her feet and raced down the path, around the side of Shady House to the door.

No one saw her. The hall was empty. Her father was with some of his patients, making his eternal studies. Learning new things all the time. Devoting his life to keeping Millgate healthy.

She entered her room and carefully bolted the door. The golem was getting weak; she relaxed her muscles a little and carried it over to the table. Making certain it didn't get away, she emptied a vase of flowers into the wastebasket, then popped the vase over it. That was that. The first part was over. Now the rest. It had to be done right. She had waited a long time for this opportunity. It might never come again.

The first thing she did was take off all her clothes. She piled them neatly at the foot of the bed, as if she were in the bathroom, taking a shower. Then she got the jar of suntan oil from the medicine cabinet and carefully rubbed oil over her naked body.

It was necessary to look as much like the golem as possible. There were limitations, of course. It was a man, and she wasn't. But her body was young and unformed; her breasts were still small, not developed at all. She was slim and lithe, very much like a youth. It would do.

When every inch of her shone and glistened, she tied her long black hair up in a hard knot and wadded it tight against her neck. Actually, she should have cut it, but she didn't dare. It would take too long to grow back; there'd be questions. And anyhow, she liked it long.

What next? She examined herself. Yes, without her clothes, and her hair tied hard against the nape of her neck, she was very much like the little golem in the vase. So far so good. Lucky she wasn't older; if her breasts were any larger there wouldn't be chance. As it was, there'd be resistance; his power lay over the golem, even this far on her side of the line. It would wane in time. But the golem was undoubtedly supposed to report within the hour. She'd have to hurry; he'd begin to get suspicious.

From the medicine cabinet in the bathroom she got the three bottles and single package she needed. Rapidly, expertly, she made a dough of the powder and gums and pungent liquids, gathered it up between her fingers, and then molded an imitation golem.

Inside its vase, the real golem watched with mounting alarm. Mary laughed, and rapidly shaped the arms and legs. It was close enough; it didn't have to be too exact. She finished the feet and hands, smoothed down a few rough places, then ate it.

The dough seared her throat. She choked, tears filled her eyes. Her stomach turned over, and she caught hold of the edge of the table. The whole room was going around and around. She closed her eyes and hung on tight. Everything rolled and billowed. She knotted up as her stomach muscles writhed. Once she groaned, then managed to straighten. She took a few uncertain steps

The two perspectives stunned her. And the double set of sensations. It was a long time before she dared move either body, even a trifle. On the one hand, she saw the room as it had always been; that was her own eyes and her own body. The other view was utterly strange, immense and bloated, distorted by the glass wall of the vase.

She was going to have trouble getting used to more than one body. Her own, and the one three inches high. Experimentally, she moved her smaller set of arms, then her miniature legs. She tumbled and fell; that is, the little body tumbled and fell. Her regular self stood foolishly in the center of the room, watching the whole thing.