Barton removed his wristwatch cautiously and passed it over. “Twenty-one jewels.”
“It’s nice.” Peter turned it over and around. He ran his delicate fingers over the surface, then passed it back. “Does everybody in New York have a watch like that?”
“Everybody who is anybody.”
After a moment Peter said, “I can stop time. Not very long—maybe four hours. Someday it’ll be a whole day. What do you think of that?”
Barton didn’t know what to think. “What else can you do?” he said warily. “That’s not much.”
“I have power over its creatures.”
“Whose?”
Peter shrugged. “It. You know. The one on this side. With the hands stuck out. Not the one with the bright hair, like metal. The other one. Didn’t you see it?”
Barton hazarded, “No, I didn’t.”
Peter was puzzled. “You must have seen it. You must have seen both of them. They’re there all the time. Sometimes I go up the road and sit on a ledge I have. Where I can see them good.”
After a pause, Barton managed to find words. “Maybe you’ll take me along some time.”
“It’s nice.” The boy’s cheeks flushed; in his enthusiasm he lost his suspicion. “On a clear day you can see both of them easily. Especially him—at the far end.” He began to giggle. “It’s a funny thing. At first it gave me the willies. But I got used to it.”
“Do you know their names?” Barton asked tautly, trying to find some thread of reason, some sanity in the boy’s words. “Who are they?”
“I don’t know.” Peter’s flush deepened. “But some time I’m going to find out. There must be a way. I’ve asked some of the first-level things, but they don’t know. I even made up a special golem with an extra-large brain, but it couldn’t tell me anything. Maybe you can help me with that. How are you on the clay? Are you experienced?” He came close to Barton and lowered his voice. “Nobody around here knows anything. There’s actual opposition. I have to work completely alone. If I had some help…”
“Yeah,” Barton managed. Good Lord, what had he got himself into?
“I’d like to trace one of the Wanderers,” Peter continued, with a rush of excitement. “See where they come from and how they do it. If I had help maybe I could learn to do it, too.”
Barton was paralyzed. What were Wanderers and what did they do? “Yeah, when the two of us work together,” he began weakly, but Peter cut him off.
“Let’s see your hand.” Peter took hold of Barton’s wrist and examined his palm carefully. Abruptly he backed away. The color died from his cheeks. “You were lying! You don’t know anything!” Panic flashed across his face. “You don’t know anything at all!”
“Sure, I do,” Barton asserted. But there was no conviction. And on the boy’s face the surprise and fear had turned to dull disgust and hostility. Peter turned and pulled open the hall door.
“You don’t know anything,” he repeated, half in anger, half with contempt. He paused briefly. “But I know something.”
“What sort of thing?” Barton demanded. He was going the whole way; it was too late to pull back now.
“Something you don’t know.” A veiled, secretive smile flitted across the smooth young face. An evasive, cunning expression.
“What is it?” Barton demanded hoarsely. “What do you know that I don’t know?”
He didn’t expect the answer he got. And before he could react, the door had shut with a bang, and the boy was racing off down the corridor. Barton stood unmoving, hearing the echoing clatter of heels against the worn steps.
The boy ran outside, onto the porch. Under Barton’s window, he cupped his hands and shouted at the top of his lungs. Dimly, a faint, penetrating yell that broke against Barton’s ears, a shattering repetition of the same words, spoken in exactly the same way.
“I know who you are,” the words came again, lapping harshly against him. “I know who you really are!”
4
CERTAIN THAT THE man wasn’t following him, and mildly satisfied with the effect of his words, Peter Trilling made his way through the rubble and debris behind the house. He passed the pig pens, opened the gate to the back field, closed it carefully after him, and headed toward the barn.
The barn smelled of hay and manure. It was hot; the air was stale and dead, a vast blanket of buzzing afternoon heat. He climbed the ladder cautiously, one eye on the blazing doorway; there was still a chance the man had followed him.
On the loft, he perched expertly and waited a time, getting his breath and going over what had happened.
He had made a mistake. A bad mistake. The man had learned plenty and he hadn’t learned anything. At least, he hadn’t learned much. The man was an enigma in many ways. He’d have to be careful, watch his step and go slow. But the man might turn out to be valuable.
Peter got to his feet and found the flashlight hanging from its rusty nail above his head, where two huge beams crossed. Its yellow light cut a patch into the depths of the loft.
They were still there, exactly as he had left them. Nobody ever came here; it was his work chamber. He sat down on the moldy hay and laid the light beside him. Then he reached out and carefully lifted the first cage.
The rat’s eyes glittered, red and tiny in its thick pelt of matted gray fur. It shifted and pulled away, as he slid aside the door of the cage and reached in for it.
“Come on,” he whispered. “Don’t be afraid.”
He drew the rat out and held its quivering body in his hands while he stroked its fur. The long whiskers twitched; the never-ceasing movements of its nose grew, as it sniffed his fingers and sleeve.
“Nothing to eat right now,” he said to it. “I just want to see how big you’re getting.” He pushed the rat back into its cage and closed the wire door. Then he turned the light from one cage to the next, on each of the quivering gray forms that huddled against the wire, eyes red, noses moving constantly. They were all there. All in good shape. Fat and healthy. Back into the depths, row after row. Heaped and stacked and piled on each other.
He got up and examined the spider jars arranged in even, precise rows on the overhead shelves. The insides of the jars were thick with webs, tangled heaps like the hair of old women. He could see the spiders moving sluggishly, dulled by the heat. Fat globes that reflected the beam of the flashlight. He dipped into the moth-box and got out a handful of little dead bodies. Expertly, he fed each jar, careful that none escaped.
Everything was fine. He clicked off the flashlight, hung it back up, paused for a moment to study the blazing doorway, and then crept back down the ladder.
At the workbench he picked up a pair of pliers and continued on the glass-windowed snake box. It was coming along pretty well, considering it was his first. Later on, when he had more experience, he wouldn’t take so long.
He measured the frame and computed the size glass he would need. Where could he find a window no one would miss? Maybe the smoke house; it had been abandoned since the roof began to leak early last spring. He put down his pencil, grabbed up the yardstick, and hurried out of the barn, into the bright sunlight.
As he raced across the field, his heart thumped with excitement. Things were coming along fine. Slowly, surely, he was gaining an edge. Of course, this man might upset everything. He’d have to make sure his weight wasn’t thrown on the wrong side of the Scale. How much that weight would count for, there was no way to tell yet. Offhand, he’d guess very little.
But what was he doing in Millgate? Vague tendrils of doubt plucked at the boy’s mind. He had come for a reason. Ted Barton. He’d have to make inquiries. If necessary, the man could be neutralized. But it might be possible to get him on the—
Something buzzed. Peter shrieked and threw himself to one side. A blinding pain stabbed through his neck, another seared across his arm. He rolled over and over on the hot grass, screaming and flailing his arms. Waves of terror beat at him; he tried desperately to bury himself in the hard soil.<
br />
The buzz faded. It ceased. There was only the sound of the wind. He was alone.
Trembling with terror, Peter raised his head and opened his eyes. His whole body shuddered; shock waves rolled up and down him. His arm and neck burned horribly; they’d got him in two places.
But thank God they were on their own. Unorganized.
He got unsteadily to his feet. No others. He cursed wildly; what a fool he was to come blundering out in the open this way. Suppose a whole pack had found him, not just two!
He forgot about the window and headed back toward the barn. A close call. Maybe next time he wouldn’t get off so easy. And the two had got away; he hadn’t managed to crush them. They’d carry word back; she’d know. She’d have something to gloat about. An easy victory. She’d get pleasure out of it.
He was gaining the edge, but it wasn’t safe, not yet. He still had to be careful. He could overplay his hand, lose everything he’d built up in a single second. Pull the whole thing down around him.
And worse—send the Scales tipping back, a clatter of falling dominos all along the line. It was so interwoven…
He began searching for some mud to put on the bee stings.
“What’s the matter, Mr. Barton?” a genial voice asked, close to his ear. “Sinus trouble? Most people who hold onto their noses like that have sinus trouble.”
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.”
The Cosmic Puppets Page 3