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.
She got up again. The wall of the vase was slippery and unpleasant. She turned her attention back to her regular self and crossed the room to the table. Carefully, she removed the vase and freed her smaller self.
For the first time in her life, she was able to see her own body from outside.
She stood still, in front of the table, while her tiny incarnation studied each inch of her. She wanted to laugh out loud; how immense she was! Huge and lumbering, a dark glowing tan. Great arms, neck, incredible moon-like face. Staring black eyes, red lips, wet white teeth.
She found it less confusing to operate each body alternately. First, she concentrated on dressing her regular body. While she put on her jeans and shirt, the little three-inch figure remained stationary. She put on her jacket and shoes, unfastened her hair and wiped the oil from her face and hands. Then she picked up the three-inch figure and placed it carefully in her breast pocket.
Strange, to be carrying herself in her own pocket. As she left the room and hurried down the hall, she was aware of the rough fabric which almost suffocated her, and the vast booming of her heart. Her breast rose and fell against her as she breathed; she was tossed around like a chip on a gigantic sea.
The night was cool. She ran quickly, through the gate and down the road. It was half a mile to town; Peter was undoubtedly at the barn, in his work chamber. Below her, Millgate stretched out, dark buildings, streets, occasional lights. In a few moments she reached the outskirts and hurried down a deserted side street. The boarding house was on Jefferson, in the center of town. The barn was just behind it.
She reached Dudley and instantly halted. Something was happening ahead of her.
She advanced cautiously. Ahead was a double line of old abandoned stores. They had rotted there for years, as long as she could remember. No one came this way anymore. The neighborhood was deserted; at least, usually deserted.
Two men were standing in the ce
nter of the street, a block apart. They were waving their arms and shouting back and forth at each other. Drunks, from the bars along Jefferson Street. Their voices were thick; they stumbled around clumsily. She had seen drunks wandering through the streets many times; but that wasn’t what interested her.
She approached warily for a better view.
They weren’t just standing there. They were doing something. Both of them were yelling and gesturing excitedly; the echoes of their noise rolled up and down the deserted streets. The two men were intent on what they were doing; they didn’t notice her as she came up behind them. One of them was older, a blond-haired old man she didn’t recognize. The other was Ted Barton. Recognition shocked her. What was he doing, standing in the middle of the dark street, waving his arms and shouting at the top of his lungs?
The line of rotting, deserted stores across from them looked strange. There was an eerie, insubstantial cast to it. A faint, half-visible glow had settled over the sagging roofs and porches; the broken windows were lit up by an interior light. The light seemed to excite the two men to frenzy. They ran back and forth, faster and faster, jumping and cursing and shouting.
The light increased. The old stores seemed to waver. They were fading, like an old print. Growing more and more dim even as she watched.
“Now!” the old man shrieked.
The rotting stores were going away. Fading out of existence. But something was taking their place. Something else was rapidly forming. The outlines of the stores hesitated, shifted, then dwindled rapidly. And she began to see the new shape that was emerging instead.
It wasn’t stores. It was a flat surface, grass, a small building, and something else. A vague, uncertain form in the very center. Barton and his companion ran toward the form in wild excitement.
“There it is!” the old man shouted.
“You got it wrong. The barrel. It’s longer.”
“No, it isn’t. Come over here and concentrate on the base. Over this way.”
“What’s the matter with the barrel? The barrel isn’t right!”
“Of course it is. Help me with the base. And there’s supposed to be a heap of cannon balls here.”
“That’s right. Five or six of them.”
“And a brass plate.”
“Yes, a plate. With the name. We can’t bring it back unless we have it right!”
As the two men concentrated on the rapidly forming cannon, the far edges of the park began to fade out, and a dim reminder of the stores reappeared. Barton noticed. With a wild shriek he straightened up and concentrated on the edges of the park. Waving his arms and shouting, he managed to drive the stores back out of existence. They wavered and were gone, and the extremities of the park hardened firmly.
“The path,” the old man shouted. “Remember the path.”
“How about the benches?”
“You take care of the benches. I’ll hold onto the cannon.”
“Don’t forget the cannon balls!” Barton rushed off a short way, to concentrate on a bench. He ran up and down the block, forming one bench after another. In a few moments he had six or seven faded green benches, a gloomy black in the faint starlight. “How about the flagpole?” he shouted.
“What about it?”
“Where was it? I can’t remember!”
“Over this way. By the bandstand.”
“No, it wasn’t. It was near the fountain. We’ve got to remember.”
The two of them turned their attention on another part of the park. After a moment a vague circular shape began to emerge. An ancient brass and concrete fountain. The two of them shrieked with delight. Mary gasped; water was calmly running in the fountain.
“There it is!” Barton yelled happily, waving a metal pike of some kind. “I used to wade there. Remember? The kids used to take off their shoes and go wading.”
“Sure. I remember. How about the flagpole?”
They argued back and forth. The old man concentrated on one spot, but nothing happened. Barton concentrated on another; meanwhile, the fountain grew dim, and they had to break off abruptly and bring it back.
“Which did it have?” Barton demanded. “Which flag?”
“Both flags.”
“No, the stars and bars.”
“You’re wrong. The stars and stripes.”
“I know. I’m absolutely certain!” Barton had found the spot, all right. A small concrete base and a dim, nebulous pole were rapidly forming. “There it is!” he shouted joyfully. “There it is!”
“Get the flag. Don’t forget the flag.”
“It’s night. The flag’s inside.”
“That’s true. There isn’t any flag at night. That explains it.”
The park was almost complete. At the far edges it still wavered and faded back into the drab line of rotting old stores. But in the center it was beautifully firm and solid. The gun, the fountain, the bandstand, the benches and paths; everything was real and complete.
“We did it!” the old man shouted. He pounded Barton on the back. “We did it!”
They hugged each other, pounded each other, embraced, then hurried deep into the park. They raced up and down the paths, around the fountain, by the cannon. His pike under his arm, Barton managed to lift one of the cannon balls; Mary could see it was terribly heavy. He dropped it with a gasp and staggered back to sit wearily down.
The two men collapsed together on one of the green benches they had summoned into being. Exhausted, they lay back, feet out, arms limp. Enjoying the satisfaction of a job well done.
Mary stepped out of the shadows and moved slowly toward them. It was time to make herself known.
10
BARTON SAW HER first. He sat up, suddenly alert, the metal tire iron drawn back. “Who are you?” He peered at her through the gloom. Then he recognized her. “You’re one of the kids. I saw you at the boarding house.” He searched his memory. “You’re Doctor Meade’s daughter.”
“That’s right,” Mary said. She sat down gingerly on the bench across from them. “May I sit on one of your benches?”
“They’re not ours,” Barton answered. He was beginning to sober up. Understanding of what they had done started to trickle through his numbed brain, ice cold drops sizzling out the warmth of intoxication. “They don’t belong to us.”
“You created them, didn’t you? Interesting. No one here can do that. How did you manage?”
“We didn’t create them.” Barton shakily got out his cigarettes and lit up. He and Christopher glanced at each other with awe and numbed disbelief. Had they really done it? Really brought back the old park? Part of the old town?
Barton reached down and touched the bench under him. It was completely real. He was sitting on it, and so was Will Christopher. And the girl, who hadn’t had anything to do with it. It wasn’t a hallucination. All three of them were sitting on the benches; that was the proof.
“Well?” Christopher muttered. “What do you think of that?”
Barton grinned shakily. “I didn’t expect such good results.”
The old man’s eyes were wide, nostrils flaring. “There was real ability there.” He eyed Barton with increased respect. “You really know how to do it. You cut right through. Right to the real town.”
“It took two of us,” Barton muttered. He was cold sober, now. And exhausted. His body was utterly drained; he could hardly lift his hands. His head ached, and a nauseous taste crept up in his mouth, a sickly metallic tinge.
But they had done it.
Mary was fascinated. “How did you do it? I’ve never seen something created out of nothing. Only He can do that, and even He doesn’t do it anymore.”
Barton shook his head wearily. He was too tired to want to talk about it. “Not nothing. It was there. We made it emerge.”
“Emerge?” The girl’s black eyes sparkled. “You mean those old stores were nothing but distortions?”
“Weren’t really there.” Barton thumped the bench. “This is the real thing. The
real town. The other was fake.”
“What’s that metal pike you’re holding so tight?”
“This?” Barton turned the tire iron around. “I brought this back. It’s been a ball of string.”
Mary studied him intently. “Is that why you came here? To bring things back?”
It was a good question. Barton got unsteadily to his feet. “I’m going. I’ve had enough for tonight.”
“Going where?” Christopher demanded.
“To my room. Have to rest. Time to think.” He tottered dopily toward the sidewalk. “I’m exhausted. Rest and something to eat.”
Mary became instantly alert. “You can’t go near the boarding house.”
Barton blinked. “Why the hell not?”
“Peter’s there.” She leaped up and hurried after him. “No, that’s the wrong place. You want to be as far away from him as possible.”
Barton scowled. “I’m not afraid of that punk kid. Not anymore.” He waved his tire iron menacingly.
Mary put her hand firmly on Barton’s arm.
“No, it would be a big mistake to go back there. You have to go someplace else. Someplace and wait until I have this worked out. I have to understand this exactly.” She frowned, deep in thought. “You go up to Shady House. You’ll be safe up there. My father will take you in. Go right to him; don’t stop and talk to anyone else. Peter won’t enter that area. It’s past the line.”
“The line? You mean—”
“It’s on His side. You’ll be safe, until I can figure this out and decide what to do. There’re factors I don’t understand.” She turned Barton around and impatiently pushed him the other way. “Get going!”
She watched until she was sure they were safely across the line, on their way up the slope to Shady House. Then she hurried back toward the center of town.
She had to move fast. Time was running out. Peter was undoubtedly suspicious, looking for his golem and wondering why it wasn’t back.
The Cosmic Puppets Page 8
