The Cosmic Puppets

  Ormazd.

  His terror was so great he couldn’t speak. It was a long way down; there was no end to it. And there was no time; he’d never cease falling, if Ormazd let go. Yet, at the same instant, he knew there could be no falling, either. There was no place to fall. How could he fall?

  Something gave. He clutched wildly and tried to hang on. Tried to crawl back up. Like a frightened monkey swarming up a rope. He reached, groped, begged for mercy. For pity. And he couldn’t even see whom he was pleading with. Only a vast presence. A sense of being. Ormazd was there. He was in Ormazd. Praying piteously not to be cast out. Not to be ejected.

  No time passed. But it took quite a while. His terror began to change. It transformed itself subtly. He remembered who he was. Ted Barton. Where he was. He was hanging by his right foot, beyond the universe. Who was dangling him? Ormazd, the God he had liberated.

  Dull anger stirred him. He had released Ormazd. And somehow he had been swept up in Ormazd’s parabola. As the God ascended, he had been yanked along.

  The God was expressionless. Barton could read no feeling, no pity. But he didn’t want pity. He was mad clear through. The whole thing burst loose inside him, a single thought boiling up furiously. It raged out of him loud and clear.

  “Ormazd!” His thought clanged through the void. Reverberations echoed back, sent him vibrating. “Ormazd!” His thought was reinforced, given body and weight; courage grew and heated his outrage. “Ormazd, put me back!”

  It had no effect.

  “Ormazd!” he shouted. “Remember Millgate!”

  Silence.

  Then the presence dissolved. He fell again, down and down. Once more, luminous dots drifted through him. His being collected itself and dropped like hot rain.

  And then he hit.

  The impact was terrific. He bounced, shrieked with pain and was caught. Shapes formed. Heat. A blinding white flame. The sky. Trees, dark and gloomy in the early-morning twilight, yet strangely illuminated by dancing fire. The dusty road under him.

  He was stretched out on his back, knocked flat. Ahriman’s horde of rats and golems were swarming toward him; he could hear their claws scrabbling louder, growing into an eager din. The whole world, the Earth, its sights and sounds and smells. The scene, the moment he had left. Shady House.

  No time had passed. Doctor Meade’s empty husk still tottered in front of him. Still on its feet. It split and peeled back, shriveled up, discarded and forgotten. Then it slowly collapsed, a bit of charred ash, waste particles. Like everything else for yards around, it had been scorched dry, as the smoldering shaft of pure energy released itself.

  “Thank God,” Barton whispered hoarsely. He staggered back and threw himself flat. The plucking feelers of filth, the extensions of Ahriman, were sliding and oozing over the side of the slope, a few yards from him. They touched the charred corpses of rats and golems and snakes Ormazd had left behind, and then came on. They inched their way greedily toward Barton, but it was too late.

  Barton crawled to a safe place, crouched, and held his breath. In the sky, the God Ormazd raced up to give battle. Ahriman snapped his extensions back like rubber bands, suddenly aware of danger. In an instant they closed, time too small to be known, distances too vast for human understanding.

  The fragment, glimpsed by Barton’s mortal eyes, indicated it was going to be quite a fight.

  The outlines of the two gods were still dimly visible, as the sun left the mountains and began to illuminate the world.

  They had grown fast. In the brief flash, like a billion suns exploding, the two gods had swept beyond the limits of the Earth. A momentary pause, and then the impact. The whole universe shuddered. They met head-on, body to body. Direct impasse, one against the other. The blazing swath that was Ormazd. The icy emptiness that was it, the cosmic wrecker, trying to swallow its brother and absorb Him.

  It would be a long time before the battle was over. As Meade had said, probably a few more billions of years.

  Bees were arriving in vast swarms. But it didn’t matter much anymore. The valley—the whole Earth—had been passed by. The battleground had widened. It took in everything, every particle of matter in the universe, and perhaps beyond. Rats streaked wildly off, covered with stinging, lashing bees. Golems fled for cover and tried frantically to stab their way free. For every needle wielded by a tiny fist there were fifty angry bees. It was a losing game.

  And, interestingly, some of the golems were sliding back into shapeless blobs of clay.

  The snakes were the worst. Here and there the few remaining Wanderers were stoning them in the time-honored fashion. Stoning and crushing them underfoot. It did him good to see the blue-eyed, blonde-haired girl grinding a copperhead under her sharp heel. The world was getting back in its right orbit, at long last.

  “Barton!” a piping voice cried, close to his foot. “I see you were successful. Here, behind the stone. I don’t want to come out until it’s safe.”

  “It’s safe,” Barton said. He crouched down and held out his hand. “Hop on.”

  The golem came quickly out. There had been a change, even in the short time since he had last seen her. He lifted her up high, where he could get a good look at her. The morning sunlight sparkled on her bare limbs. Moist and glittering. A slim, lithe body that took his breath away.

  “Hard to believe you’re only thirteen,” he said slowly.

  “I’m not,” was the prompt answer. She turned her supply body this way and that, to catch the light better. “I’m ageless, Teddy dear. But I’m going to need a little outside help. There’s still a strong impression by it on this material. Of course, that’s rapidly fading.”

  Barton called Christopher over. The old man limped painfully toward him. “Barton!” he gasped. “You’re okay?”

  “I’m fine. But we have a small problem here.”

  She was emerging, reshaping the clay that made up her present body. But it was going to take time. The form was definitely a woman’s. Not a girl’s, as he remembered. But what he had known was a distortion, not the real thing.

  “You’re the daughter of Ormazd,” he said suddenly.

  “I’m Armaiti,” the little figure answered. “His only daughter.” She yawned, arched her slim torso, stretched her slender arms. Then abruptly hopped from Barton’s hand to his shoulder. “Now, if you two will help, I’ll try to regain my regular shape.”

  “Like Him?” Barton was appalled. “As large as that?”

  She laughed, a tinkling, pure sound. “No. He lives out there in the universe. I live here. Didn’t you know that? He sent His only daughter here, to live on Earth. This is my home.”

  “So you were the one who brought me here. Through the barrier.”

  “Oh, much more than that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I sent you out of here before the Change. I’m responsible for your vacation. For every turn your car took. The flat you had when you tried to keep on the main highway to Raleigh.”

  Barton grimaced. “It took me two hours to fix that flat. Between service stations, and there was something wrong with the jack. Then it was too late to go on. We had to turn back to Richmond and spend the night.”

  Armaiti’s tinkling laugh sounded again. “It was the best thing I could think of, at the time. I manipulated you here, all the way to the valley. I withdrew the barrier so you could pass in.”

  “And when I tried to get out—”

  “It was back, of course. It’s always there, unless one or the other wishes it removed. Peter had power to come and go. So did I, but Peter never knew that.”

  “You knew the Wanderers wouldn’t be successful. You knew the reconstruction work, all the maps and models and charts, would fail.”

  “Yes. I knew even before the Change.” Armaiti’s voice was soft. “I’m sorry, Teddy. They worked years, built and planned and slaved. But there was only one way. As long as Ahriman was here, as long as the agreement was kept, and Ormazd subjected himself to i
ts terms—”

  “The town was really small stuff in all this,” Barton broke in. “You weren’t particularly concerned with it, were you?”

  “Don’t feel that way,” Armaiti said gently. “It was small compared to the greater picture. But it’s a part of the greater picture. The struggle is vast; much bigger than anything you can experience. I’ve never seen the real extent, myself, the final regions it’s entered. Only the two of them see it as it’s really waged. But Millgate is important. It was never forgotten. Only—”

  “Only it had to wait its turn.” Barton was silent a moment. “Anyhow,” he said finally, “now I know why I was brought here.” He grinned a little. “It’s a damn good thing Peter was obliging enough to lend me his filter. Otherwise I wouldn’t have had a memory to work from.”

  “You did you job very well,” Armaiti said.

  “And now what? Ormazd is back. They’re both out there, someplace. The distortion layer is beginning to weaken. What about you?”

  “I can’t stay,” Armaiti said. “If that’s what you’re thinking, and I know perfectly well it is.”

  Barton cleared his throat, embarrassed. “You were in human shape once. Can’t you just sort of add a few years to—”

  “Afraid not. I’m sorry. Teddy.”

  “Don’t call me Teddy!”

  Armaiti laughed. “All right, Mr. Barton.” For a moment she touched his wrist with her tiny fingers. “Well!” she said suddenly. “Are you ready?”

  “I guess so.” Barton reluctantly set her down. He and Christopher seated themselves on each side of her. “What are we supposed to do? We don’t know your real shape.”

  There was a faint trace of sadness, almost weariness in the tinkling voice as Armaiti answered, “I’ve been through many forms in my time. Every possible shape and size. Whatever you think would be the most appropriate.”

  “I’m ready,” Christopher muttered.

  “All right,” Barton agreed. They began their concentration, faces intense, bodies rigid. The old man’s eyes bulged; his cheeks turned violet. Barton ignored him and focused his own mind with what strength he had left.

  For a time nothing happened. Barton gasped for air, took another lungful, and started over. The scene in front of him, Christopher, the tiny three-inch golem, wavered and blurred.

  Then slowly, imperceptibly, it began.

  Maybe Christopher’s imagination was superior to his own. He was a lot older; probably had more experience and time to think about it. In any case, what emerged between them utterly floored Barton. She was exquisite. Incredibly beautiful. He stopped concentrating and just gaped.

  For a moment she remained between them, hands on her hips, chin high, cascades of black hair tossed back over her bare white shoulders. Flashing, sleek body, glistening in the morning sunlight. Immense dark eyes. Rippling skin. Glowing breasts, firm and upturned, as ripe as spring.

  Barton closed his eyes weakly. She was the essence of generation. The bursting power of woman, of all life. He was seeing the force, the energy behind all growing things, all creativity. An unbelievably potent aliveness that vibrated and pulsed in radiant, shimmering waves.

  That was the last he saw of her. Already, she was going. Once, he heard her laugh, rich and mellow. It lingered, but she was dissolving rapidly. Melding with the ground, the trees, the sparkling bushes and vines. She flowed quickly to them, a liquid river of pure life, absorbing herself into the moist soil. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and for a moment turned away.

  When he looked again she was gone.

  15

  IT WAS EVENING. Barton slowly maneuvered his dusty yellow Packard through the streets of Millgate. He still had on his rumpled gray suit, but he had shaved, bathed and rested after the unusually strenuous night. All things considered, he felt pretty good.

  As he passed the park he slowed down almost to a stop. A warm glow of satisfaction rose up inside him. A sort of personal pride. There it was. Just as it was intended to be. Part of the original plan. Back again, after all the years. And he had arranged it.

  Children were romping up and down the gravel paths. One was sitting on the edge of the fountain, carefully putting his shoes back on. A couple of baby carriages. Old men, legs stuck out, rolled-up newspapers in their pockets. The sight of the people looked even better to him than the archaic Civil War cannon and the flagpole with its stars and bars.

  They were the real people. The reconstruction zone, after Ahriman had left, resumed its expansion. More and more people, places, buildings, streets, were being drawn in. In a few days it would take the whole valley.

  He drove back on the main drag. At one end it still said JEFFERSON STREET. But at the other end, the first wavery signpost reading CENTRAL STREET had already begun to fade into place.

  There was the Bank. The old brick and concrete Millgate Merchants’ Bank. Just as it had always been. The ladies’ tea room was gone—forever, if things went well, out in deep space. Already, important-looking men were moving in and out through the wide doorway. And over the door, glittering in the evening sunlight, was Aaron Northrup’s tire iron.

  Barton continued along Central. Occasionally, the transition had produced strange results. The grocery store was only half there; the right side was Doyle’s Leather Goods. A few puzzled people stood around, lost in wonder. The Change was being rolled back; it probably felt odd to walk into a store that partook of two separate worlds, one at each end.

  “Barton!” a familiar voice shouted.

  Barton slowed to a halt. Will Christopher burst out of the Magnolia Club, a mug of beer in one hand, a cheery grin on his weathered face. “Hold on!” he shouted excitedly. “My shop’s coming up any second. Keep your fingers crossed!”

  He was right. The hand laundry was beginning to blur. The lapping tongues were almost to it. Next door, the ancient, corroded Magnolia Club had already started to fade. Within its dying outline a different shape, a cleaner shape, arose. Christopher watched this with mixed feelings.

  “I’m going to miss that joint,” he said. “After you been hanging out in one place eighteen years—”

  His beer mug vanished. And at the same time the last slatternly boards of the Magnolia Club ceased to be. Gradually, a respectable-looking shoe store wavered and began to harden into being, where the run-down bar had been.

  Christopher cursed in dismay. Abruptly he found himself gripping a woman’s high-heeled slipper by its strap.

  “You’re next,” Barton said, amused. “There goes the hand laundry. It won’t be long, now.”

  He could already see the faint structure of Will’s Sales and Service emerging from within. And beside him, the old man was also changing. Christopher was intent on his store; he didn’t seem aware of his own alteration. His body straightened, lost its drooping sag. His skin cleared and gained a glowing flush Barton had never seen before. His eyes brightened. His hands became steadier. His dirty coat and trousers were replaced by a blue-checkered work shirt, slacks and a leather apron.

  The last traces of the hand laundry faded out. It was gone—and Will’s Sales and Service arrived.

  Television sets sparkled in the clean, modern windows. It was a bright, up-to-date shop. A neon sign. New fixtures. Passers-by were already stopping to gaze happily at the displays; a couple of them had come along with the store. Will’s Sales and Service stood out. So far, it was the most attractive shop along Central Street.

  Christopher became impatient. He was eager to get inside, to his work. He restlessly fingered a screwdriver in his service belt. “I’ve got a TV chassis on the bench,” he explained to Barton. “Waiting for the picture tube to start acting up.”

  “All right,” Barton said, grinning. “You go back inside. I don’t want to keep you from your work.”

  Christopher eyed Barton with a friendly smile, but there was a faint shadow of doubt beginning to twitch across his good-natured features. “Okay,” he boomed heartily. “I’ll see you, mister.”

  “M
ister!” Barton echoed, stunned.

  “I know you,” Christopher murmured thoughtfully, “but I can’t quite place you.”

  Sadness filled Barton. “I’ll be damned.”

  “I guess I’ve done work for you. Know your face, but can’t quite place the circumstances.”

  “I used to live here.”

  “You moved away, didn’t you?”

  “My family moved to Richmond. That was a long time ago. When I was a kid. I was born here.”

  “Sure! I used to see you around. Let’s see, what the hell’s your name?” Christopher frowned. “Ted something. You’ve grown. You were just a little fellow, in those days. Ted…”

  “Ted Barton.”

  “Sure.” Christopher stuck his hand into the car and they both shook gravely. “Glad to see you back, Barton. You going to stay here a while?”

  “No,” Barton said. “I have to be going.”

  “Through here on vacation?”

  “That’s right.”

  “A lot of people come through here.” Christopher indicated the road; cars were already beginning to appear on it. “Millgate’s an expanding community.”

  “Live-wire,” Barton said.

  “Notice, my store’s arranged to attract the passing motorist. I figure there’s going to be more out-of-town traffic through here all the time.”

  “Seems like a safe bet,” Barton admitted. He was thinking of the ruined road, the weeds, the stalled lumber truck. There’d be more traffic, all right. Millgate had been cut off eighteen years; it had plenty to make up for.

  “Funny,” Christopher said slowly. “You know, I’m sure something happened. Not very long ago. Something you and I were both involved in.”

  “Oh?” Barton said hopefully.

  “Had to do with a lot of people. And a doctor. Doctor Morris. Or Meade. But there’s no Doctor Meade in Millgate. Just old Doc Dolan. And there were animals!”