The Cosmic Puppets by Dick Philip K

Author:Dick, Philip K. [Dick, Philip K.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Science Fiction & Fantasy, Philip K Dick, Classics, High Tech, Science Fiction, Horror, Dystopias, Fantasy
ISBN: 9781400030057
Amazon: 1400030056
Goodreads: 14187
Publisher: Vintage
Published: 1957-01-01T08:00:00+00:00

Chapter 8

CHRISTOPHER TURNED DOWN the oil lamp until the room was almost dark. He set the lamp next to the ball of string and then moved back, into the corner.

Barton stood close to the table, eyes on the string. He had never tried to lift a spell before; it was a new experience for him. But he remembered the tire iron. He remembered how it had felt, how it had looked. The sights and sounds of the robbery itself. Old man Northrup leaping up and swinging it over his head. The iron coming down. The Sicilian stretched out on the pavement. The ceremony. Everybody cheering. The iron briefly in his hands.

He concentrated. He summoned all his memories together and focused them on the limp ball of brown string, knotted and frayed, on the table beside the lamp. He imagined the iron there instead of the string. Long and black and metallic. And heavy. Solid metal.

No one moved. Christopher wasn't even breathing. Barton held his body rigid; he put everything into it. All his mental strength. He thought of the old town, the real town. It wasn't gone. It was still there; it was here, around him, under him, on all sides. Beneath the blanket of illusion. The layer of black fog. The town still lived.

Within the ball of string was Aaron Northrup's tire iron.

Time passed. The room became cold. Someplace far off, a clock struck. Christopher's pipe faded and dimmed into cold ash. Barton shivered a little and went on. He thought of every aspect of it. Every sensation, visual, tactile, audible…

Christopher gasped. “It wavered.”

The ball of string had hesitated. A certain insubstantiality crept over it. Barton strained with all his might. Everything flickered—the whole room, the gloomy shadows beyond the lamp.

“Again,” Christopher gasped. “Keep on. Don't stop.”

He didn't stop. And presently, silently, the ball of string faded. The wall became visible behind it; he could see the table beneath. For a moment there was nothing but a misty shadow. A vague presence, left behind.

“I never got this far,” Christopher whispered, in awe. “Couldn't do it.”

Barton didn't answer. He kept his attention on the spot. The tire iron. It had to come. He drew it out, demanded it come forth. It had to come. It was there, underneath the illusion.

A long shadow flickered. Longer than the string. A foot and a half long. It wavered, then became more distinct.

“There it is!” Christopher gasped. “It's coming!”

It was coming, all right. Barton concentrated until black spots danced in front of his eyes. The tire iron was on its way. It turned black, opaque. Glittered a little in the light of the oil lamp. And then…

With a furious clang the tire iron crashed to the floor and lay.

Christopher ran forward and scooped it up. He was trembling and wiping his eyes. “Barton, you did it. You made it come back.”

Barton sagged. “Yes. That's it. Exactly the way I remember it.”

Christopher ran his hands up and down the metal bar. “Aaron Northrup's old tire iron.

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