 

THE COSMIC PUPPETS 

 

Philip K. Dick 

 
 

Peter Trilling watched quietly as the other children played in the dust by the side of the porch. They were intent on their game. Mary was carefully kneading and shaping brown lumps of clay into vague shapes. Noaks sweated furiously to keep up with her. Dave and Walter had already finished theirs and were resting. Abruptly, Mary tossed her black hair, arched her slim body, and set down a clay goat. 

See? She demanded. Wheres yours? 

Noaks hung his head; his hands were too slow and clumsy to keep up with the girls flying fingers. Mary had already swept up her clay goat and was rapidly reshaping it into a horse. 

Look at mine, Noaks muttered thickly. He stood a clumsily formed airplane on its tail and gave it an accompanying noise with wet lips. See? Pretty good, huh? 

Dave snorted. Thats lousy. Look at this. He pushed his clay sheep forward, close to Walters dog. 

Peter watched silently. Aloof from the other children, he sat curled up on the bottom step of the porch, arms folded, dark brown eyes liquid and huge. His tousled, sandy-colored hair hung down around his wide forehead. His cheeks were deeply tanned from the hot midsummer sun. He was a small child, thin and long-limbed; his neck was bony and his ears strangely shaped. He said very little; he liked to sit and watch the others. 

Whats that? Noaks demanded. 

A cow. Mary shaped the legs of her cow and set it on the ground beside Noaks airplane. Noaks saw it with awe; he drew back unhappily, one hand on his airplane. Then he lifted it up and soared it plaintively. 

Doctor Meade and Mrs Trilling came down the stairs of the boarding house together. Peter drew aside, out of the doctors way; he carefully avoided contact with the blue pin-striped trouser leg, black shiny shoes. Okay, Doctor Meade said briskly to his daughter, as he glanced at his gold pocket watch. Time to go back up to Shady House. 

Mary got reluctantly to her feet. Cant I stay? 

Doctor Meade put his arm around his daughter affectionately. Get going, you little Wanderer. Into the car. He turned back to Mrs Trilling, again professional. Theres nothing to worry about. Probably pollen from the broom plants. Theyre flowering now. 

Those yellow things? Mrs Trilling dabbed at her streaming eyes. Her plump face was swollen and red, eyes half-closed. They didnt do it last year. 

Allergies are strange, Doctor Meade said vaguely. He chewed on the stump of his cigar. Mary, I told you to get in the car. He opened the door and slid in behind the wheel. Give me a call, Mrs Trilling, if those antihistamine pills dont do the trick. Ill probably be over tonight for dinner, anyhow. 

Nodding and wiping her eyes, Mrs Trilling disappeared back inside the boarding house, to the hot kitchen and the piles of dishes left over from lunch. Mary moved sullenly toward the station wagon, hands deep in the pockets of her jeans. That ruins the game, she muttered. 

Peter slid off his step. Ill play, he said quietly. He picked up Marys discarded clay and began to reshape it. 

 

Boiling summer sun streamed down on the hilly farms, the acres of wild brush and trees, the jutting cedars and laurels and poplars. And pines, of course. They were leaving Patrick County, getting close to Carroll and the jutting projection of Beamer Knob. The road was in bad repair. The sleek yellow Packard coughed and hesitated as it pushed up the steep Virginia hills. 

Ted, lets go back, Peggy Barton groaned. Ive had all I can take. She hunched over and rummaged for a can of beer behind the seat. The can was warm. She dropped it back in the sack and settled sullenly against the door, beads of perspiration on her cheeks, arms folded furiously. 

Later, Ted Barton murmured. He had rolled down the window and hung as far out as he could, a rapt, excited look on his face. His wifes voice made no impression on him: his complete attention was on the road ahead, and what lay beyond the next hills. Not much farther, he added, presently. 

You and your damn town! 

I wonder how itll look. You know, Peg, its been eighteen years. I was only nine when my family moved away to Richmond. I wonder if anybodyll remember me. That old teacher, Miss Baines. And the Negro gardener who took care of our place. Doctor Dolan. All kinds of people. 

Probably dead. Peg pulled herself up and tugged peevishly at the open collar of her blouse. Her dark hair hung moistly against her neck; drops of perspiration slid down her breasts, over her pale skin. She had taken off her shoes and stockings and rolled up her sleeves. Her skirt was wrinkled and grimy with dust. Flies buzzed around the car; one landed on her gleaming arm and she slapped at it wildly. What a hell of a way to spend a vacation! We might as well have stayed in New York and suffered. At least there was something to drink. 

Ahead, the hills rose sharply. The Packard stalled, then pushed on as Barton shifted into low. Immense peaks lifted against the horizon; they were getting near the Appalachians. Bartons eyes were wide with awe as the forests and mountains came nearer, old sights, familiar peaks and valleys and twists he hadnt ever expected to see again. 

Millgate is on the floor of a small valley, he murmured. Mountains on all sides. Only this one road goes in, unless theyve built more since I left. Its a small town, honey. Sleepy and ordinary like a hundred other little towns. Two hardware stores, drugstores, blacksmith shop 

Any bars? Please say it has a good bar! 

Not more than a few thousand people. Not many cars come this way. These farms arent much good, around here. The soils too rocky. Snows in the winter and gets hot as hell in the summer. 

No kidding, Peg muttered. Her flushed cheeks had gone white; she looked greenish around the lips. Ted, I think Im going to be carsick. 

Well be there soon, Barton answered vaguely. He hung farther out the window, craning his neck and trying to make out the scenery ahead. By golly, theres that old farmhouse! I remember that. And this cut-off. He turned from the main road onto a smaller side road. Its just over this ridge and then were there. 

The Packard picked up speed. It raced between dry fields and sagging fences. The road was cracked and weed-covered, broken and in bad repair. Narrow and sharp-turning. 

Barton pulled his head inside. I knew Id find my way back here. He fumbled in his coat pocket and got out his lucky compass. It led me back, Peg. My dad gave me this when I was eight. Got it at Bergs Jewelry Store on Central Street. The only jewelry store in Millgate. I can always depend on it. Ive carried this little compass around with me, and 

I know, Peg groaned wearily. Ive heard about it a million times. 

Barton lovingly put the little silver compass away. He gripped the wheel tight and peered ahead, his excitement growing as the car neared Millgate. I know every inch of this road. You know, Peg, I remember once 

Yes, you remember. My God, I wish youd forget at least something. Im so tired of hearing all the details of your childhood, all the lovely facts about Millgate, Virginiasometimes I just feel like screaming! 

The road plunged around a steep curve, into a thick bank of haze. With his foot on the brake, Barton turned the nose of the Packard down and began to descend. 

There she is, he said softly. Look. 

Below them was a small valley, lost in the blue haze of midday. A stream wound among the dark green, a ribbon of black. Webs of dirt roads. Houses, a cluster in the center. Millgate itself. The massive, somber bowl of mountains that surrounded the valley on all sides. Bartons heart thudded with painful excitement. His townwhere hed been born, raised, spent his childhood. He had never expected to see it again. While he and Peg were vacationing, driving through Baltimore, the idea had suddenly come. A quick cut-off at Richmond. To see it again, see how it had changed 

Millgate loomed ahead. Clumps of dusty brown houses and stores lined the road. Signs. A filling station. Cafes. A couple of road-houses, cars parked in the lots. Golden Glow Beer. The Packard swept past a drugstore, a dingy post office, and abruptly came out in the center of the town. 

Side streets. Old houses. Parked cars. Bars and cheap hotels. People moving slowly along. Farmers. White shirts of store owners. A tea room. Furniture store. Two grocery stores. A big market, fruit and vegetables. 

Barton slowed down at a traffic light. He turned onto a side street and passed a small grammar school. A few kids were playing basketball on a dusty field. More houses, larger and well built. A fat middle-aged woman in a shapeless dress watering her garden. A team of horses. 

Well? Peg demanded. Say something! How does it look to you? 

Barton didnt answer. He gripped the wheel with one hand; he was leaning out of the window, face blank. At the next cut-off he turned the car to the right and came out again on the highway. A moment later the Packard was moving slowly back among the drugstores, bars, cafes and filling stations. And still Barton hadnt answered. 

Peg felt a chill of uneasiness. There was something on her husbands face that frightened her. A look she had never seen before. Whats wrong? she demanded. Has it all changed? Doesnt it look familiar? 

Bartons lips moved. It must be, he muttered thickly. I took the right turn I remember the ridge and the hills. 

Peg caught his arm. Ted, whats wrong? 

Bartons face was waxen. Ive never seen this town before, he muttered huskily, almost inaudibly. Its completely different. He turned to his wife, bewildered and scared. This isnt the Millgate I remember. This isnt the town I grew up in! 

 

 

 

Two 
 

Barton brought the car to a halt. With shaking hands he pushed the door open and jumped down on the blazing pavement. 

Nothing was familiar. All strange. Alien. This town was not the Millgate he had known. He could feel the difference. He had never been here in his life. 

The hardware store next to the bar. It was old, an ancient wood building, leaning and sagging, its yellow paint peeled off. He could make out a dim interior, harnesses, farm equipment, tools, cans of paint, faded calendars on the walls. Behind the fly-specked window was a display of fertilizers and chemical sprays. Dead insects lay in heaps in the corners. Spider webs. Warped cardboard signs. It was an old storeold as hell. 

He pulled the rusty screen door open and entered. A little dried-up old man sat behind the counter like a wrinkled spider, crouched in the shadows on his stool. Steel-rimmed glasses, vest, suspenders. A litter of papers and pencil stubs around him. The interior of the store was chill and dim, and incredibly cluttered. Barton made his way through the rows of dusty merchandise, up to the old man. His heart was hammering wildly. Look here, he croaked. 

The old man looked up nearsightedly. You want something? 

How long have you been here? 

The old man raised an eyebrow. What do you mean? 

This store! This place! How long have you been here? 

The old man was silent a moment. Then he lifted a gnarled hand and pointed to a plate on the ancient brass cash-register. 1927. The store had opened for business twenty-six years ago. 

Twenty-six years ago Barton had been a year old. This store had been here while he grew up. His early years, as a child, growing up in Millgate. But he had never seen this store before. And hed never seen this old man. 

How long have you lived in Millgate? Barton demanded. 

Forty years. 

Do you know me? 

The old man grunted angrily. Never seen you before in my life. He lapsed into sullen silence and nervously ignored Barton. 

Im Ted Barton. Joe Bartons kid. Remember Joe Barton? Big guy, broad shoulders, black hair? Used to live on Pine Street. We had a house there. Dont you remember me? Sudden terror knifed at him. The old park! Where is it? I used to play there. The old Civil War cannon. The Douglas Street school. When did they tear it down? Stazys Meat Market; what happened to Mrs Stazy? Is she dead? 

The little old man had got slowly up from his stool. You must have sunstroke, young fellow. There aint any Pine Street, not around here. 

Barton sagged. They changed the name? 

The old man rested his yellowed hands on the counter and faced Barton defiantly. I been here forty years. Longer than you been born. There never was any Pine Street around here, and no Douglas Street. Theres a little park, but it dont amount to much. Maybe you been out in the sun too long. Maybe you better go lie down someplace. He eyed Barton with suspicion and fear. You go see Doc Meade. Youre kinda mixed up. 

Dazed, Barton left the store. Blazing sunlight spilled over him as he reached the sidewalk. He wandered along, hands in his pockets. The little old grocery store across the street. He strained to remember. What had been there? Something else. Not a grocery store. What was it 

A shoe store. Boots, saddles, leather goods. That was it. Doyles Leather Goods. Hides tanned. Luggage. He had bought a belt there, a present for his father. 

He crossed the street and entered the grocery store. Flies buzzed around the piles of fruit and vegetables. Dusty canned goods. A wheezing refrigerator in the back. A wire basket of eggs. 

A fat middle-aged woman nodded pleasantly to him. Afternoon. What can I do for you? 

Her smile was sympathetic. Barton said thickly, Im sorry to bother you. I used to live here, in this town. Im looking for something. A place. 

A place? What place? 

A store. His lips almost refused to frame the words. Doyles Leather Goods. Does the name mean anything to you? 

Perplexity crossed the womans broad face. Where was it? On Jefferson Street? 

No, Barton muttered. Right here on Central. Where Im standing. 

Fear replaced perplexity. I dont understand, mister. Weve been here since I was a child. My family built this store in 1889. Ive been here all my life. 

Barton moved back toward the door. I see. 

The woman came anxiously after him. Maybe youre in the wrong place. Maybe youre looking for some other town. How long ago did you say 

 

Her voice faded, as Barton pushed out onto the street. He came to a sign post and read it without comprehension. Jefferson Street. 

This wasnt Central. He was on the wrong street. Sudden hope flickered. Hed got on the wrong street somehow. Doyles was on Centraland this was Jefferson. He looked quickly around. Which way was Central? He began to run, slowly at first, then faster. He turned a corner and came out on a small side street. Drab bars, run-down hotels and smoke shops. 

He stopped a passer-by. Wheres Central? he demanded. Im looking for Central Street. I must have got lost. 

The mans thin face glittered with suspicion. Go on, he said, and hurried off. A drunk lounging against the weatherbeaten side of a bar laughed loudly. 

Barton floundered in terror. He stopped the next person, a young girl hurrying along with a package under her arm. Central! he gasped. Wheres Central Street? 

Giggling, the girl ran off. A few yards away she halted and shouted back, There isnt any Central Street! 

No Central Street, an old woman muttered, shaking her head as she passed Barton. Others agreed, not even pausing, but hurrying on. 

The drunk laughed again, then belched. No Central, he muttered. Theyll all tell you that, mister. Everybody knows theres no such street. 

There must be, Barton answered desperately. There must be! 

 

He stood in front of the house he had been born in. Only it wasnt his house anymore. It was a huge, rambling hotel instead of a small white and red bungalow. And the street wasnt Pine Street. It was Fairmount. 

He came to the newspaper office. It wasnt the Millgate Weekly anymore. Now it was the Millgate Times. And it wasnt a square gray concrete structure. It was a yellowed, sagging, two-story house of boards and tar paper, a converted apartment house. 

Barton entered. 

Can I help you? the young man behind the counter asked pleasantly. You wanted to place an ad? He fumbled for a pad. Or was it a subscription? 

I want information, Barton answered. I want to see some old papers. June 1926. 

The young man blinked. He was plump and soft-looking in a white shirt, open at the neck. Pressed slacks and carefully cut fingernails. 1926? Im afraid anything older than a year is stored down in the 

Get it, Barton grated. He tossed a ten-dollar bill on the counter. Hurry up! 

The youth swallowed, hesitated, then scuttled through the doorway like a frightened rat. 

Barton threw himself down at a table and lit a cigarette. As he was stubbing out the first butt and lighting a second, the youth reappeared, red-faced and panting, lugging a massive board-bound book. Here it is. He dropped it on the table with a crash and straightened up in relief. Anything else you want to see, just 

Okay, Barton grunted. With shaking fingers, he began turning the ancient yellowed sheets. 16 June 1926. The day of his birth. He found it, turned to the births and deaths, and traced the columns rapidly. 

There it was. Black type on the yellow paper. His fingers touched it, his lips moved silently. They had his fathers name as Donald, not Joe. And the address was wrong. 1386 Fairmount instead of 1724 Pine. His mothers name was given as Sarah Barton instead of Ruth. But the important part was there. Theodore Barton, weight six pounds, eleven ounces, at the county hospital. But that was wrong, too. It was twisted, distorted. All garbled. 

He closed the book and carried it over to the counter. One more. Give me the papers for October 1935. 

Sure, the youth answered. He hurried through the doorway. In a few moments he was back. 

October 1935. The month he and his family had sold their house and pulled out. Moved to Richmond. Barton sat down at the table and turned the pages slowly. 9 October. There was his name. He scanned the column rapidly And his heart stopped beating. Everything came to a complete standstill. There was no time, no motion. 

 

SCARLET FEVER STRIKES AGAIN 

Second child dies. Water hole closed by State Health Authorities. Theodore Barton, 9, son of Donald and Sarah Barton, 1386 Fairmount Street, died at his home at seven oclock this morning. This makes the second fatality reported, and the sixth victim in this area for a period of 

 

Mindlessly, Barton got to his feet. He didnt even remember leaving the newspaper office; the next thing he knew he was outside on the blinding hot street. People moved past. Buildings. He was walking. He turned a corner, passed unfamiliar stores. Stumbled, half-fell against a man, continued blindly on. 

Finally he found himself approaching his yellow Packard. Peg emerged from the swirling haze around him. She gave a cry of wild relief. 

Ted! She ran excitedly toward him, breasts heaving under her sweat-stained blouse. Good Lord, whats the idea of running off and leaving me? You nearly scared me out of my mind! 

Barton got numbly into the car and behind the wheel. Silently, he inserted the key and started up the motor. 

Peg slid quickly in beside him. Ted, what is it? Youre so pale. Are you sick? 

He drove aimlessly out into the street. He didnt see the people and cars. The Packard gained speed rapidly, much too rapidly. Vague shapes swarmed on all sides. 

Where are we going? Peg demanded. Are we getting out of this place? 

Yes. He nodded. Out of this place. 

Peg collapsed with relief. Thank God. Will I be glad to get back to civilization. She touched his arm in alarm. Do you want me to drive? Maybe youd better rest. You look as if something dreadful happened. Cant you tell me? 

Barton didnt answer. He didnt even hear her. The headline seemed to hang a few feet in front of his face, the black type, yellow paper. 

 

SCARLET FEVER STRIKES AGAIN 

Second child dies 

 

The second child was Ted Barton. He hadnt moved out of Millgate on 9 October 1935. He had died of scarlet fever. But it wasnt possible! He was alive. Sitting here in his Packard beside his grimy, perspiring wife. 

Maybe he wasnt Ted Barton. 

False memories. Even his name, his identity. The whole contents of his mindeverything. Falsified, by someone or something. His hands gripped the wheel desperately. But if he wasnt Ted Bartonthen who was he? 

He reached for his lucky compass. A nightmare, everything swirling around him. His compass; where was it? Even that was gone. Not gone. Something else in his pocket. 

His hand brought out a tiny bit of dry bread, hard and stale. A wad of dry bread instead of his silver compass. 

 

 

 

Three 
 

Peter Trilling squatted down and picked up Marys discarded clay. Rapidly, he pushed the cow into a shapeless mass and began to re-form it. 

Noaks and Dave and Walter regarded him with outraged incredulity. Who said you could play? Dave demanded angrily. 

Its my yard, Peter answered mildly. His clay shape was practically ready. He set it down in the dust beside Daves sheep and the crude dog Walter had formed. Noaks continued to fly his airplane, ignoring Peters creation. 

What is it? Walter demanded angrily. Doesnt look like anything. 

Its a man. 

A man! Thats a man? 

Go on, Dave sneered. Youre too young to play. Go inside and your motherll give you a cookie. 

Peter didnt answer. He was concentrating on his clay man, brown eyes large and intense. His small body was utterly rigid; he leaned forward, face down, lips moving faintly. 

For a moment nothing happened. Then 

Dave shrieked and scrambled away. Walter cursed loudly, face suddenly white. Noaks stopped flying his airplane. His mouth fell open and he sat frozen. 

The little clay man had stirred. Faintly at first, then more energetically, he moved one foot awkwardly after the other. He flexed his arms, examined his bodyand then, without warning, dashed off, away from the boys. 

Peter laughed, a pure, high-pitched sound. He reached out lithely and snatched back the running clay figure. It struggled and fought frantically as he drew it close to him. 

Gosh, Dave whispered. 

Peter rolled the clay man briskly between his palms. He kneaded the soft clay together in a shapeless lump. Then he pulled it apart. Rapidly, expertly, he formed two clay figures, two little clay men half the size of the first. He set them down, and leaned calmly back to wait. 

First one, then the other, stirred. They got up, tried out their arms and legs and began rapidly to move. One ran off in one direction; the other hesitated, started after his companion, then chose an opposite course past Noaks, toward the street. 

Get him! Peter ordered sharply. He snatched up the first one, jumped quickly to his feet and hurried after the other. It ran desperatelystraight toward Doctor Meades station wagon. 

As the station wagon started up, the tiny clay figure made a frantic leap. Its tiny arms groped wildly as it tried to find purchase on the smooth metal fender. Unconcerned, the station wagon moved out into traffic, and the tiny figure was left behind, still waving its arms futilely, trying to climb and catch hold of a surface already gone. 

Peter caught up with it. His foot came down and the clay man was squashed into a shapeless blob of moist clay. 

Walter and Dave and Noaks came slowly over; they approached in a wide, cautious circle. You got him? Noaks demanded hoarsely. 

Sure, Peter said. He was already scraping the clay off his shoe, his small face calm and smooth. Of course I got him. He belonged to me, didnt he? 

The boys were silent. Peter could see they were frightened. That puzzled him. What was there to be afraid of? He started to speak to them, but at that moment the dusty yellow Packard came screeching to a stop, and he turned his attention to it, the clay figures forgotten. 

The motor clicked into silence and the door opened. A man got slowly out. He was good-looking, fairly young. Black tangled hair, heavy eyebrows, white teeth. He looked tired. His gray double-breasted suit was rumpled and stained; his brown shoes were scuffed and his tie was twisted to one side. His face was lined, haggard with fatigue. His eyes were swollen and bleary. He came slowly toward the boys, focused his attention on them with an effort and said, Is this the boarding house? 

None of the boys answered. They could see the man was a stranger. Everybody in town knew Mrs Trillings boarding house; this man was from somewhere else. His car had New York license plates; he was from New York. None of them had ever seen him before. And he talked with a strange accent, a rapid, clipped bark, harsh and vaguely unpleasant. 

Peter stirred slightly. What do you want? 

A place. A room. The man dug in his pocket and got out a pack of cigarettes and his lighter. He lit up shakily; the cigarette almost got away from him. All this the boys saw with mild interest and faint distaste. 

Ill go tell my mother, Peter said at last. He turned his back on the man and walked calmly toward the front porch. Without looking back he entered the cool, dim house, his steps turned toward the sounds of dish-washing coming from the big kitchen. 

Mrs Trilling peered around peevishly at her son. What do you want? Keep out of the ice box. You cant have anything until dinner time; I told you that! 

Theres a man outside. He wants a room. Peter added, Hes a stranger. 

Mabel Trilling dried her hands quickly, swollen face suddenly animated. Dont just stand there! Go tell him to come in. Is he alone? 

Just him. 

Mabel Trilling hurried past her son, outside onto the porch and down the sagging steps. The man was still there, thank God. She breathed a silent prayer of relief. People didnt seen to come through Millgate anymore. The boarding house was only half-filled: a few retired old men, the town librarian, a clerk, and her own apartment. What can I do for you? she demanded breathlessly. 

I want a room, Ted Barton answered wearily. Just a room. I dont care what its like or how much it costs. 

Do you want meals? If you eat with us youll save fifty percent over what youd have to pay down at the Steak House, and my meals are every bit as good as those tough little dry things they try to push off on you, especially a gentleman from out of town. Youre from New York? 

An agonized twist crossed the mans face; it was quickly fought down. Yes, Im from New York. 

I hope youll like Millgate, Mrs Trilling rushed on, drying her hands on her apron. Its a quiet little town, we dont ever have any trouble of any kind. Are you in business, Mr 

Ted Barton. 

Youre in business, Mr Barton? I suppose youre down here for a rest. A lot of New York people leave their places in the summer, dont they? I guess it gets pretty awful up there. You dont mind telling me what line youre in, do you? Are you all by yourself? Nobody else with you? She caught hold of his sleeve. Come on inside and Ill show you your room. How long did you figure to stay? 

Barton followed after her, up the steps and onto the porch. I dont know. Maybe a while. Maybe not. 

Youre alone, are you? 

My wife may join me later if I stay here very long. I left her back in Martinsville. 

Your business? Mrs Trilling repeated, as they climbed the worn-carpeted stairs to the second floor. 

Insurance. 

This is your room. Facing the hills. Youll get a nice view. Arent the hills lovely? She pulled aside the plain white curtains, washed many times. Ever seen such lovely hills in your life? 

Yes, Barton said. Theyre nice. He moved aimlessly around the room, touching the shabby iron bed, the tall white dresser, the picture on the wall. Thisll be all right. How much? 

Mrs Trillings eyes darted craftily. Youre going to eat with us, of course. Two meals a day, lunch and dinner. She licked her lips. Forty dollars. 

Barton fumbled in his pocket for his wallet. He didnt seem to care. He peeled some bills from his wallet and handed them to her without a word. 

Thank you, Mrs Trilling breathed. She backed quickly out of the room. Dinners at seven. You missed lunch, but if you want I can 

No. Barton shook his head. Thats all. I dont want any lunch. He turned his back on her and gazed moodily out the window. 

 

Her footsteps died down the hall. Barton lit a cigarette. He felt vaguely sick at his stomach and his head ached from the driving. After leaving Peg at the hotel in Martinsville, he had sped back here. He had to come back. He had to stay here, even if it took years. He had to find out who he was, and this was the only place there was any chance of learning. 

Barton smiled ironically. Even here, there didnt seem to be much of a chance. A boy had died of scarlet fever eighteen years ago. Nobody remembered. A minor incident; hundreds of kids died, people came and went. One death, one name out of many 

The door of the room opened. 

Barton turned quickly. A boy stood there, small and thin, with immense brown eyes. With a start, Barton recognized him as the landladys son. What do you want? he demanded. Whats the idea of coming in here? 

The boy closed the door after him. For a moment he hesitated, then abruptly asked, Who are you? 

Barton stiffened. Barton. Ted Barton. 

The boy seemed satisfied. He walked all around Barton, examining him from every side. How did you get through? he demanded. Most people dont get through. There must be a reason. 

Through? Barton was puzzled. Through what? 

Through the barrier. Suddenly the boy withdrew; his eyes filmed over. Barton realized the boy had let something slip, something he hadnt meant to tell. 

What barrier? Where? 

The boy shrugged. The mountains. Its a long way. The roads bad. Why did you come here? What are you doing? 

It might have been just childish curiosity. Or was it more? The boy was odd-looking, thin and bony, with huge eyes, a shock of brown hair over his unusually wide forehead. An intelligent face. Sensitive for a boy living in an out-of-the-way town in southeastern Virginia. 

Maybe, Barton said slowly, I have ways to get past the barrier. 

The reaction came quickly. The boys body tensed; his eyes lost their dull film and began to glint nervously. He moved back, away from Barton, uneasy and suddenly shaken. Oh yeah? he muttered. But his voice lacked conviction. What sort of ways? You must have crawled through a weak place. 

I drove down the road. The main highway. 

The huge brown eyes flickered. Sometimes the barrier isnt there. You must have come through when it wasnt there. 

Now Barton was beginning to feel uneasy. He was bluffing, and his bluff had been called. The boy knew what the barrier was, but Barton didnt. A tinge of fear licked at him. Come to think of it, he hadnt seen any other cars either coming or going from Millgate; the road was run-down and almost unusable. Weeds covered it; the surface was dry and cracked. No traffic at all. Hills and fields, sagging fences. Maybe he could learn something from this boy. 

How long, he asked cautiously, have you known about the barrier? 

The boy shrugged. What do you mean? Ive always known about it. 

Does everybody else here know about it? 

The boy laughed. Of course not. If they knew He broke off, the veil again slipping over his huge brown eyes. Barton had lost his momentary advantage; the boy was on safe ground again, answering questions instead of asking. He knew more than Barton, and they both realized it. 

Youre a pretty smart kid, Barton said. How old are you? 

Ten. 

Whats your name? 

Peter. 

Youve always lived here? In Millgate? 

Sure. His small chest swelled. Where else? 

Barton hesitated. Have you ever been outside of town? On the other side of the barrier? 

The boy frowned. His face struggled; Barton sensed he had hit on something. Peter began to pace restlessly around the room, hands in the pockets of his faded blue jeans. Sure. Lots of times. 

How do you get across? 

I have ways. 

Lets compare ways, Barton said promptly. But there was no bite; his gambit was warily declined. 

Lets see your watch, the boy asked. How many jewels does it have? 

Barton removed his wristwatch cautiously and passed it over. Twenty-one jewels. 

Its 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 longmaybe four hours. Someday itll be a whole day. What do you think of that? 

Bartin didnt know what to think. What else can you do? he said warily. Thats 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. Didnt you see it? 

Barton hazarded, No, I didnt. 

Peter was puzzled. You must have seen it. You must have seen both of them. Theyre 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 youll take me along some time. 

Its nice. The boys cheeks flushed; in his enthusiasm he lost his suspicion. On a clear day you can see both of them easily. Especially himat the far end. He began to giggle. Its 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 boys words. Who are they? 

I dont know. Peters flush deepened. But some time Im going to find out. There must be a way. Ive asked some of the first-level things, but they dont know. I even made up a special golem with an extra-large brain, but it couldnt 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. Theres actual opposition. I have to work completely alone. If I had some help 

Yeah, Barton managed. Good Lord, what had he got himself into? 

Id 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. 

Lets see your hand. Peter took hold of Bartons wrist and examined his palm carefully. Abruptly he backed away. The color died from his cheeks. You were lying! You dont know anything! Panic flashed across his face. You dont know anything at all! 

Sure, I do, Barton asserted. But there was no conviction. And on the boys face the surprise and fear had turned to dull disgust and hostility. Peter turned and pulled open the hall door. 

You dont 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 dont 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 dont know? 

He didnt 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 Bartons window, he cupped his hands and shouted at the top of his lungs. Dimly, a faint, penetrating yell that broke against Bartons 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! 

 

 

 

Four 
 

Certain that the man wasnt 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 hadnt learned anything. At least, he hadnt learned much. The man was an enigma in many ways. Hed 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 rats 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. Dont 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 youre 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 wouldnt 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. Hed have to make sure his weight wasnt thrown on the wrong side of the Scale. How much that weight would count for, there was no way to tell yet. Offhand, hed guess very little. 

But what was he doing in Millgate? Vague tendrils of doubt plucked at the boys mind. He had come for a reason. Ted Barton. Hed 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. 

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; theyd 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 wouldnt get off so easy. And the two had got away; he hadnt managed to crush them. Theyd carry word back; shed know. Shed have something to gloat about. An easy victory. Shed get pleasure out of it. 

He was gaining the edge, but it wasnt safe, not yet. He still had to be careful. He could overplay his hand, lose everything hed built up in a single second. Pull the whole thing down around him. 

And worsesend 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. 

 

Whats 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 names Meade. Ernest Meade. The way you hold your head. He smiled a gold-toothed professional smile. Im a doctor. Maybe I can help. 

Just tired, Barton said. 

You just arrived here, didnt you? This is a good place. I eat here once in a while when Im too lazy to cook my own meals. Mrs Trilling doesnt 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 didnt 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. Its a strange thing. We used to get a lot of traffic, but now its died to nothing. Come to think of it, youre about the first new face Ive 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, its called. He lowered his voice. The town doesnt 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 doctors 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 werent 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 kids 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. 

Bartons 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 its too late now. He touched Barton briefly on the arm. Im sorry. But you couldnt 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 childs name was the same as yours. Isnt your Christian name Theodore? 

Barton nodded. Thats right. 

The florid brown wrinkled, perplexed. The same as yours. I knew Id heard the name, when Mrs Trilling told me. 

Bartons 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 boys 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 boys boast? A conceited threat, empty and meaningless? 

Look here, Doctor Meade said. I dont mean to pry into your affairs; thats not right. But theres something bothering you. You didnt come here for a rest. 

Thats right, Barton said. 

You want to tell me what it is? Im a lot older than you. And Ive 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 dont know how. He rubbed his forehead wearily. I dont understand it. Ive got to find out what I am to that boy. 

Why? 

I cant 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 Tatell 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 youre 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. Its 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 havent met Miss James, have you? 

Something plucked at Barton. His weariness fled and he glanced quickly up. I know that name. Ive 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. Shes 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. Im glad to meet you, she said in a soft voice. Youre new around here, arent you? 

Barton seated himself on the arm of the couch. Im from New York, he answered. 

Youre 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 roads 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 its pretty quiet. 

Do you know anything about abarrier? Barton asked Miss James abruptly. 

A barrier? Doctor Meade demanded. What kind of a barrier? 

Youve 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 Meades 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. Ive 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. 

But hes not interested in books, Miss James protested. He never comes to the library. 

Barton was silent for a time. Then he asked, What would it mean if somebody said, The one on the far side. The one with his hands out. Does that mean anything to you? 

Miss James and Doctor Meade were baffled. Sounds like a game, Doctor Meade muttered. 

No, Barton answered. Not a game. And he meant it. Let it go. Forget I said anything. 

Miss James leaned toward him. Mr Barton, I may be wrong, but I receive the distinct impression that you think theres something here. Something very important here in Millgate. Am I right? 

Bartons lips twisted. Theres something going on. Beyond human awareness. 

Here? In Millgate? 

Words forced their way between Bartons lips. Ive got to find out. I cant go on like this. Somebody in this town must know. You cant all sit around and pretend everything is perfectly ordinary! Somebody in this town knows the real story. 

Story about what? Meade rumbled, perplexed. 

About me. 

They were both agitated. How do you mean? Miss James faltered. Is there somebody here who knows you? 

Theres somebody here who knows everything. The why and how. Something I dont understand. Something ominous and alien. And you all sit around and enjoy yourselves. He got abruptly to his feet. Im sorry. Im exhausted. Ill see you later. 

Where are you going? Meade demanded. 

Up to my room. To get some sleep. 

Look here, Barton. Ill give you a few phenobarbitals. Theyll help calm you. And if you want, drop up to the hospital tomorrow. Ill give you a check-up. Seems to me youre under a hell of a strain. In a young man like you thats somewhat 

Mr Barton, Miss James said softly, but insistently, with a fixed smile on her face, I assure you theres nothing strange about Millgate. I wish there were. Its the most ordinary town you could find. If I thought there was anything going on here of any interest whatsoever, Id be the first to want to learn more. 

Barton opened his mouth to answer. But the words never came. They were bitten off, lost forever. What he saw made even the memory of them dissolve into nothingness. 

Two shapes, faintly luminous, emerged from one end of the porch. A man and a woman, walking together, holding hands. They appeared to be talking, but no sound came. They moved silently, calmly, across the porch, toward the opposite wall. They passed within a foot of Barton; he could see their faces clearly. They were young. The woman had long blonde hair, heavy twisted braids that fell down her neck and shoulders. A thin, sharp face. Pale skin, smooth and perfect. Exquisite lips and teeth. And the young man beside her was equally handsome. 

Neither of them noticed Barton or the boarders sitting on their chairs. Their eyes were shut tight. They passed through the chairs, the couch, through the reclining boarders. Through Doctor Meade and Miss James, and then through the far wall. Abruptly, they were gone. The two half-luminous shapes had vanished as quickly as they had come. Without a sound. 

Good God, Barton managed at last. Did you see them? No one had stirred. Some of the boarders had stopped their conversation momentarily, but now they resumed their low murmurs as if nothing had happened. Did you see them? he demanded excitedly. 

Miss James seemed puzzled. Of course, she murmured. We all saw them. They come through here about this time each evening. Theyre taking a walk. A nice couple, dont you think? 

Butwhowhat Barton gasped. 

Is this the first time youve seen Wanderers? Meade asked. His calm was suddenly shaken. You mean you dont have Wanderers where you come from? 

No, Barton said. Everyone was watching him in amazement. What are they? They walked through the walls. Through the furniture. Through you! 

Of course, Miss James said primly. Thats why theyre called Wanderers. They can go anywhere. Through anything. Didnt you know that? 

How long has it been going on? Barton demanded. 

The answer didnt really surprise him. But the calmness of it did. Always, Miss James said. As long as I can recall. 

Seems to me thereve always been Wanderers, Doctor Meade agreed, puffing on his cigar. But its perfectly natural. Whats so strange about that? 

 

 

 

Five 
 

The morning was warm and sunny. The dew hadnt been baked off the weeds yet. The sky was a mild, hazy blue, not yet heated up to blazing incandescence. That would come later, as the sun climbed toward its zenith. A faint breeze stirred the cedars that grew in a line along the slope behind the immense stone building. The cedars cast pools of shade; they were responsible for the name Shady House. 

Shady House overlooked the town proper. A single road twisted up the rise to the flat surface where the building stretched out. The grounds were carefully tended. Flowers and trees, and a long wood fence that formed a protecting square. Patients could be seen lounging around, sitting on benches, chairs, even stretched out on the warm ground, resting. There was an air of peace and quietude about the hospital. Some place in its depths Doctor Meade was working. Probably down in his littered office, with his microscope and slides and x-rays and chemicals. 

Mary crouched in a concealed hollow, just beyond the line of towering cedars. The hard soil had been scooped out by shovels when Shady House was built. Where she sat she couldnt be seen by anyone at the House. The cedars and the wall of rock and earth cut the view off sharply. Spread out beneath her, and around her on three sides, was the valley. And beyond that, the eternal ring of mountains, blue and green, tipped with faint hazy white. Silent and unmoving. 

Go on, Mary said. She shifted a little, tucked her slim legs under her, and made herself more comfortable. She was listening intently, trying not to miss a single word. 

It was pure chance, the bee continued. Its voice was thin and faint, almost lost in the stirring early-morning breeze that rustled through the cedars. It was perched on the leaf of a flower, close to the girls ear. We happened to be scouting in that area. No one saw him go in. All at once he came out, and we dived on him. I wish there had been more of us; he doesnt often come so far this way. He was actually over the line. 

Mary was deep in thought. The sunlight glinted on her black hair, shiny and heavy around her neck. Her dark eyes sparkled as she asked. Have you been able to tell what hes doing in there? 

Not very well. Hes set up some kind of interference around the whole place. We cant get close. Have to depend on secondary information. Unreliable, as you know. 

You think hes assembling defensive units? Or 

Or worse. He may be nearing some kind of overt stage. Hes built a lot of containers. Of various sizes. Theres a certain irony in this. The scouts weve sent in have died in the interference zone. Hes collected their corpses every day and used them for feed. This amuses him. 

Automatically, Mary reached out her small shoe and crushed a black grass-spider that was hurrying by. I know, she said slowly. After I left the game yesterday, he golemed the clay I was using. Thats a bad sign. He must feel hes gaining or he wouldnt try it on my clay. He knows the risk. Clay gathered by others is unstable. And I must have left some kind of imprint. 

Its probably true that he has a minor advantage, the bee answered. Hes a tireless worker. Nevertheless, he displayed overt fear when we attacked him. Hes still vulnerable. And he knows it. 

Mary pulled a blade of grass loose and thoughtfully chewed it between her white teeth. Both his figures attempted to escape. One came very close. It ran directly toward me, in the station wagon. But I didnt dare stop. 

Who is this man? the bee asked. This person from outside. Its unique, someone coming through the barrier. You think he might be imitation? Something projected out, then brought in to appear as an external factor? So far, he doesnt really seem to have made any difference. 

Mary raised her dark eyes. No, not so far. But I think he will. 

Really? 

Im fairly sure. If 

If what? The bee was interested. 

Mary ignored it; she was deep in thought. Hes in a curious situation, she murmured. Hes already faced with the fact that his memories dont agree with the situation. 

They dont? 

Of course not. Hes become aware of major discrepancies. Essentially, he remembers a completely different town, with totally different people. She killed another small spider that was moving cautiously up. For a time she studied its inert body. And hes the kind of person who wont be satisfied until he understands the situation. 

He makes things confusing, the bee complained. 

For whom? For me? Mary got up slowly and brushed grass from her jeans. For Peter, perhaps. Hes made so many careful plans. 

The bee flew up from its leaf and landed on the girls collar. Perhaps hell try to learn something from this man. 

Mary laughed. Hed like to, of course. But theres not much the man can tell him. Hes so confused and uncertain. 

Peter will try. Hes tireless, the way he explores every possibility for knowledge. Almost like a bee. 

Mary agreed, as she walked back up the slope toward the cedars. Yes, hes tireless, but a little too confident. He may wind up by doing himself more harm than good. In trying to find out things he may reveal more than he learns. The man, I think, is clever. And he must find out about himself. Hell probably come out ahead; thats been the pattern, so far. 

 

Barton made sure no one was around. He stood close to the old-fashioned telephone, turned so he could look up and down the hall, at all the doors and the stairs at the far end, and then dropped a dime into the coin slot. 

Number please, the tinny voice said in his ear. 

He asked for the Calhoun Hotel in Martinsville. After three more dimes and a series of clicks and waits, there was a distant buzzing. 

Calhoun Hotel, a far-off voice came, a mans sleepy drawl. 

Let me talk to Mrs Barton. In 204. 

Another pause. More clicks. Then 

Ted! Pegs voice, wild with impatience and alarm. Is that you? 

Its me. I suppose. 

Where are you? In the name of heaven, are you going to just leave me here in this awful hotel? Her voice rose in shrill hysteria. Ted, Ive had enough. I cant stand it anymore. Youve got the car; I cant do anything, go anywhere, and youre acting like a crazy person! 

Barton spoke close to the phone, voice muted. I tried to explain it to you. This town. Its not what I remember. My minds been tampered with, I think. Something I found in the newspaper office makes me sure even my identity isnt 

Good God, Peg cut in. We havent got time to waste looking up your childhood illusions! How long are you going to keep this up? 

I dont know, Barton answered helplessly. Theres so much I dont understand. If I knew more Id tell you. 

There was a moment of silence. Ted, Peg said, with hard calm, if you dont come back and get me in the next twenty-four hours, Im leaving. I have enough money to get back up to Washington. You know Ive got friends there. You wont see me again, except perhaps in court. 

Are you serious? 

Yes. 

Barton licked his lips. Peg, Ive got to stay here. Ive learned a few things, not much, but a little. Enough to tell me Im on the right track. If I stay here long enough Ill be able to crack this. Forces are operating here, powers that dont seem bound by 

There was a sharp click. Peg had hung up. 

Barton placed the receiver back on its hook. His mind was blank. He moved aimlessly away from the phone, hands in his pockets. Well, that was that. She meant it, every damn word. Hed show up in Martinsville, and she wouldnt be there. 

A small shape detached itself from behind a table and potted fern. Hello, Peter said calmly. He played with a clump of squirming things, black lumps that crawled up his wrist and over his hands. 

Whats that? Barton demanded, sickened. 

These? Peter blinked. Spiders. He captured them and thrust them into his pocket. Are you going driving? I thought maybe I could ride in your car with you. 

The boy had been there all the time. Hidden behind the fern. Strange, he hadnt seen him; he had passed by the fern on his way to the phone. Why? Barton demanded bluntly. 

The boy fidgeted. His smooth face twisted hopefully. Ive decided to let you see my ledge. 

Oh? Barton tried to look indifferent, but inside, his pulse rate abruptly changed. Maybe hed learn something. It might be arranged. Barton said. How far is it? 

Not far. Peter hurried to the front door and pushed it open. Ill show you the way. 

Barton followed slowly after him. The front porch was deserted. Empty chairs and couches, drab and terribly old. It gave him an uneasy chill; the two Wanderers had come through here last night. He touched the wall of the porch experimentally. Solid. Yet, the two youthful figures had passed calmly through, and through the chairs and reclining boarders. 

Could they pass through him? 

Come on! Peter shouted. He stood by the dusty yellow Packard, tugging impatiently at the door handle. 

Barton got behind the wheel and the boy slid quickly in beside him. As he turned on the motor he found the boy carefully examining the corners of the car, lifting the seat cushions, squatting down on the floor and peering under the front seat. 

What are you looking for? Barton demanded. 

Bees. Peter emerged breathlessly. Can we keep the windows rolled up? They try to fly in, along the way. 

Barton released the brake, and the car glided out onto the main street. Whats wrong with bees? You afraid of them? Youre not afraid of spiders. 

Peter touched his still-swollen neck by way of an answer. Turn to the right, he ordered. He leaned back contentedly, feet out, hands in his pockets. Make a complete circle up Jefferson and head back the other way. 

 

The ledge provided a vast panoramic view of the valley and the hills that ringed it on all sides. Barton seated himself on the rocky ground and got out his pack of cigarettes. He took a deep lungful of the warm midday air. The ledge was partly shaded by bushes and shrubs. Cool and quiet with the valley spread out below. The sun shone down through the thick blanket of blue haze that collected around the distant peaks. Nothing stirred. The fields, farms, roads and houses, all were utterly motionless. 

Peter squatted beside him. Nice, isnt it? 

I guess so. 

What were you and Doctor Meade talking about last night? I couldnt hear. 

Maybe it was none of your business. 

The boy flushed and his lips set in a sullen line. I cant stand him and his smelly cigars. And his silver toothpick. He got out some of his spiders from his pocket and let them run over his hands and down his sleeves. Barton moved a little way off and tried to ignore it. 

After a moment Peter asked, Can I have a cigarette? 

No. 

The boys face fell. All right for you. But he brightened almost at once. What did you think of the two Wanderers last night? Werent they something? 

Oh, I dont know, Barton answered casually. You see them fairly often. 

Id sure like to know how they do it, Peter said feelingly. Abruptly he regretted expressing his emotions. He gathered his spiders up and tossed them down the slope. They scrambled off excitedly and he pretended to watch them. 

A thought struck Barton. Arent you afraid of bees, out here? If one flew after you, there wouldnt be any place to hide. 

Peter laughed with regained contempt. Bees dont come here. Its too far in. 

In? 

In fact, Peter continued, with cutting superiority, this is just about the safest place in the world. 

Barton couldnt make anything out of the boys words. After a period of silence he observed cautiously, The haze is pretty thick, today. 

The what? 

The haze. Barton indicated the pools of silent blue obscuring the far peaks. Its from the heat. 

Peters face managed to show even more contempt. Thats not haze. Thats him! 

Oh? Barton tensed. Maybe he was finally going to learn somethingif he played it careful. Who do you mean? 

Peter pointed. Dont you see him? Hes sure big. Just about the biggest there is. And old. Hes older than everything else put together. Even older than the world. 

Barton saw nothing. Only haze, mountains, the blue sky. Peter dug in his pocket and got out what looked like a cheap nickel-plated magnifying glass. He handed it to Barton. Barton turned it around foolishly; he started to give it back, but Peter stopped him. Look through it! At the mountains! 

Barton looked. And saw it. The glass was a lens-filter of some kind. It cut the haze, made it clear and sharp. 

He had figured it out wrong. He had expected him to be part of the scene. He was the scene. He was the whole far side of the world, the edge of the valley, the mountains, the sky, everything. The whole distant rim of the universe swept up in a massive column, a cosmic tower of being, which gained shape and substance as he focused the filter-lens. 

It was a man, all right. His feet were planted on the floor of the valley; the valley became his feet at the farthest edge. His legs were the mountainsor the mountains were his legs; Barton couldnt tell which. Two columns, spread apart, wide and solid. Firmly planted and balanced. His body was the mass of blue-gray haze, or what he had thought was haze. Where the mountains joined the sky, the immense torso of the man came into being. 

He had his arms out over the valley. Poised above it, above the distant half. His hands were held above it in an opaque curtain, which Barton had mistaken for a layer of dust and haze. The massive figure was bent slightly forward. As if leaning intently over his part, his half of the valley. He was gazing down; his face was obscured. He didnt move. He was utterly motionless. 

Motionless, but he was alive. Not a stone image, a frozen statue. He was alive, but he was outside of time. There was no change, no motion for him. He was eternal. The averted head was the most striking part of him. It seemed to glow, a clearly radiant orb, pulsing with life and brilliance. 

His head was the sun. 

Whats his name? Barton asked, after a while. Now that he saw the figure, he couldnt lose it. Like one of those gamesas soon as the hidden shape becomes visible its impossible not to see it. 

I told you I dont know his name, Peter retorted peevishly. Maybe she knows. She probably knows both their names. If I knew his name Id have power over him. Id sure like to. Hes the one I dont like. This one doesnt bother me at all. Thats why I have my ledge on this side. 

This one? Barton echoed, puzzled. He twisted his neck and looked straight up, through the tiny circle of glass. 

It made him feel somewhat strange to realize that he was part of this one. As the other figure was the distant side of the valley, this figure was the near side. And Barton was sitting on this side. 

The figure rose around him. He couldnt exactly see it; he could sense it vaguely and no more. It flowed up on all sides of him. From the rocks, the fields, the tumbled heaps of shrubs and vines. This one, also, formed itself from the valley and mountains, the sky and haze. But it didnt glow. He couldnt see its head, its final dimensions. A cold chill moved through him. He had a distinct, sharp intuition. This one didnt culminate in the bright orb of the sun. This one culminated in something else. 

In darkness? 

He got unsteadily to his feet. Thats enough for me. Im going. He began to make his way down the side of the hill. Well, he had asked for it. He was still holding numbly onto Peters magnifying glass; he tossed it up on the ledge and continued toward the floor of the valley. 

No matter where he was, no matter where he sat or stood or slept or walked, as long as he was in the valley, he was part of one or the other figure. Each made up one side of the valley, one hemisphere. He could move from one to the other, but he was always in one of them. In the center of the valley was a line. On the other side of that line he would merge with the other figure. 

Where are you going? Peter shouted. 

Out. 

Peters face darkened ominously. You cant go out. You cant leave. 

Why not? 

Youll find out why not. 

Barton ignored him and continued picking his way down the hill, toward the road and his parked car. 

 

 

 

Six 
 

He headed the Packard up the road, away from Millgate. Cedars and pines grew in massive profusion above and below him. The road was a narrow ribbon gouged through the forest. It was in bad shape. He drove cautiously, taking in the details. The surface of the pavement was cracked, interlaced lines and splits. Weeds jutted up. Weeds and dry grass. Nobody came along here. That much was clear. 

He turned a sharp curve and abruptly slammed on the brakes. The car screeched to a halt, tires sizzling. 

There it was. Spread across the road ahead of him. The sight completely floored him. He had gone along this road three timesonce out and twice inand seen nothing. Now, here it was. It had finally showed up, just as he had made up his mind to leave and forget the whole thing, join Peg and try to continue his vacation as if nothing had happened. 

He would have expected something weird. Something vast and macabre, an ominous wall of some sort, mysterious and cosmic. A supraterrestrial layer barring the road. 

But he was wrong. It was a stalled lumber truck. An ancient truck, with iron wheels and no gear shift. Round headlights, the old-fashioned brass lamps. Its load was spilled all the way across the highway. The wires had broken; the truck had careened at an angle and stopped dead, logs spilling off in all directions. 

Barton climbed wearily out of the car. Everything was silent. Somewhere, far off, a crow squawked dismally. The cedars rustled. He approached the sea of logs, with it archaic island jutting up in the center. Not bad, for a barrier. No car could get through that. Logs were everywhere and they were plenty big. Some were heaped on others. A dangerous, unsteady mass of twisted beams, ready to spill and roll any moment. And the road was steep. 

There was no one in the truck, of course. God knew how long it had been there, or how often. Apparently, it was selective. He lit a cigarette and took off his coat; the day was starting to heat up. How would he go about getting past it? He had got by before, but this time it wasnt going to cooperate. 

Maybe he could go around. 

The high side was out of the question. Hed never be able to scramble up the almost perpendicular bank, and if he lost his grip on the smooth rock, hed pitch down into the twisted mass of logs. Maybe the low side. Between the road and the slope was a ditch. If he could get across the ditch he could easily scramble among the slanted pines, climb from one to the next, get past the log jam and hop the ditch back to the road. 

One look at the ditch finished that. Barton closed his eyes and hung on tight. 

The ditch wasnt wide; he might be able to vault it. But there was no bottom. He was standing over a bottomless gulf. He stepped back, away from it, and stood breathing quickly and clutching his cigarette. It went down forever. Like looking up at the sky. No limit. A ceaseless drop that finally blurred into a dim, ominous chaos. 

He forgot about the ditch and turned his attention back to the logs. A car didnt stand a chance of getting past, but maybe a man on foot could negotiate his way to the other side. If he could get half way he could halt at the truck, sit in the cabin and rest. Divide it into two separate jobs. 

He approached the logs gingerly. The first wasnt so bad, small and fairly steady. He stepped onto it, caught hold with his hands, and jumped to the next. Under him, the mass shuddered ominously. Barton quickly scrambled to the next and clung tight. So far so good. The one ahead was a big baby, old and dry and cracked. It jutted up at a steep angle, piled on three beneath it. Like spilled matches. 

He jumped. The log split, and he frantically leaped off again. Desperately, he clutched for purchase. His fingers slipped; he fell back. He dug in wildly, trying to draw his body up on a flat surface. 

He made it. 

Gasping, panting for breath, Barton lay stretched out on the log, waves of relief flooding over him. Finally, he pulled himself to a sitting position. If he could go a little farther he should be able to catch hold of the truck itself. Pull himself onto it. That would be half way. He could rest 

He was as far away as before. No closer. For a moment he doubted his sanity; then understanding came. He had got turned around. The logs were a maze. He had got off in the wrong direction, ceased moving toward the truck. He had moved in a closed circle. 

The hell with getting out. All he wanted now was to get back to his car. Get back where he had started from. Logs were on all sides of him. Piles and heaps and jutting snouts. Good God, he hadnt come that far in, had he? Was it possible he had got himself in so deep? He was yards from the edge; surely he hadnt managed to crawl that far. 

He began crawling around, back the way he had come. The logs swayed and tilted dangerously under him. Fear made him nervous. He lost his grip and fell between two of them. For a blinding, terrifying instant he was underneath, the sunlight was cut off and he was in a closing cave of darkness. He pushed up with all his strength, and one of the logs gave. He scrambled wildly back up, emerged into the sunlight, and lay outstretched, gasping and shuddering. 

He lay for an indefinite period. He had lost track of time. The next thing he knew, a voice was speaking to him. 

Mr Barton! Mr Barton! Can you hear me? 

He managed to raise his head. Standing on the road, beyond the logs, was Peter Trilling. He grinned calmly at Barton, hands on his hips, face gleaming and tanned in the bright sunlight. He didnt seem especially worried. In fact, he looked rather pleased. 

Help me, Barton gasped. 

What are you doing out there? 

I tried to get across. Barton pulled himself up to a sitting position. How the hell am I going to get back? 

And then he noticed something. It wasnt the middle of the day. It was early evening. The sun was setting over the far hills, the giant figure that loomed up at the opposite end of the valley. He examined his wristwatch. It was six-thirty. He had been on the logs seven hours. 

You shouldnt have tried to get across, Peter said, as he cautiously approached. If they dont want you to get out you shouldnt try. 

I got in this damn valley! 

They must have wanted you in. But they dont want you out. You better be careful. You might get stuck in there and die of starvation. Peter obviously enjoyed the spectacle. But after a moment he leaped agilely up on the first log and picked his way over to Barton. 

Barton got unsteadily to his feet. He was scared clean through. This was his first taste of the powers that operated in the valley. Gratefully, he took hold of Peters small hand and allowed the boy to lead him back to the edge. 

Oddly, it took only a few seconds. 

Thank God. He wiped his forehead and picked up his coat, where he had tossed it. The air was turning chill; it was cold and late, I wont try that again, for a while. 

You better not try it again ever, Peter said quietly. 

Something in the boys voice made Bartons head jerk up. What do you mean? 

Just what I say. You were there seven hours. Peters confident smile broadened. I was the one who kept you there. I twisted you up in time. 

Barton absorbed the information slowly. It was you? But you finally got me out. 

Sure, Peter said easily. I kept you in and I got you out. When it pleased me. I wanted you to see who was boss. 

There was a long silence. The boys confident smile grew. He was pleased with himself. He had really done a good job. 

I saw you from my ledge, he explained. I knew where you were going. I figured youd try to walk across. His chest swelled. Nobody can do that except me. Im the only one. A cunning film slid over his eyes. I have ways. 

Drop dead, Barton said. He strode past the boy and hopped in the Packard. As he gunned the motor and released the brake he saw the confident smile falter. By the time he had the car turned around toward Millgate it had become a nervous grimace. 

Arent you going to ride me back? Peter demanded, hurrying up to the window. His face turned sickly white. A lot of those deaths-head moths down at the foot of the hill. Its almost night! 

Too bad, Barton said, and shot the car down the road. 

Lethal hatred flashed over Peters face. He was lost behind, a dwindling column of violent animosity. 

Barton was sweating hard. Maybe he had made a mistake. It had been plenty uncomfortable out there in the maze of logs, crawling around and around like a bug in a water glass. The kid had a lot of power and he was mad enough to start using it. On top of that there were all his other troubles; he was stuck here, whether he liked it or not. 

For the next day or so, it was going to be close quarters. 

 

Millgate was dissolving into gloomy darkness as Barton turned onto Jefferson Street. Most of the shops were closed. Drugstores, hardware stores, grocery stores, endless cafes and cheap bars. 

He parked in front of the Magnolia Club, a run-down joint that looked ready to collapse any minute. A few bucolic toughs lounged around the front. Stubble-chinned and shiftless, their eyes glittered at him, red and penetrating, as he locked the Packard and pushed the swinging doors of the bar aside. 

Only a couple of men were at the bar. The tables were empty; the chairs were still piled up on them, legs sticking forlornly up. He seated himself at the back end of the bar, where nobody would bother him, and ordered three quick bourbons, one after another. 

He was in a hell of a mess. He had come in, and now he couldnt get out. He was stuck fast. Caught inside the valley by the spilled load of lumber. How long had it been there? Good God, it might stay there forever. Not to mention his cosmic enemy, the one who had manipulated his memories, and Peter, his earthly enemy thrown in for extra humor. 

The bourbons made him calmer. Theyit, the cosmic powerwanted him for some reason. Maybe he was supposed to find out who he was. Maybe it had all been planned, his coming here, returning to Millgate after so many years. Maybe his every move, everything he had ever done, his whole life 

He ordered a new batch of bourbons; he had plenty to forget. More men had filed in. Hunched-over men in leather jackets. Brooding over their beer. Not talking or moving. Prepared to spend the evening. Barton ignored them and concentrated on his purposeful drinking. 

He was just starting to toss down the sixth bourbon when he realized one of the men was watching him. Numbly, he pretended not to notice. Good God, didnt he have enough troubles? 

The man had turned around on his stool. A grimy-faced old drunk. Tall and stooped. In a torn, seedy-looking coat, filthy trousers. The remains of shoes. His hands were large and dark, fingers creased with countless cuts. His befuddled eyes were fixed intently on Barton, watching every move he made. He didnt look away, even when Barton glared hostilely back. 

The man got up and came unsteadily over. Barton braced himself. He was going to get touched for a drink. The man sat down on the next stool with a sigh and folded his hands. Hi, he grunted, blowing a cloud of alcoholic breath around Barton. He pushed his damp, pale hair back out of his eyes. Thin hair, as moist and limp as corn silk. His eyes were cloudy blue, like a childs. How are you? 

What do you want? Barton demanded bluntly, driven to the edge of drunken despair. 

Scotch and water will do. 

Barton was taken aback. Look here, buddy, he began, but the man cut him off with his mild, gentle voice. 

I guess you dont remember me. 

Barton blinked. Remember you? 

You were running down the street. Yesterday. You were looking for Central. 

Barton placed him. The drunk who had laughed. Oh, yeah, he said slowly. 

The man beamed. See? You do remember me. He put out his grimy, seamed paw. My names Christopher. William Christopher. He added, Im a poor old Swede. 

Barton declined the hand. I can do without your company. 

Christopher grinned thickly. I believe you. But maybe if I get the Scotch and water the exhilaration will be too much for me and Ill have to leave. 

Barton waved over the bartender. Scotch and water, he muttered. For him. 

Did you ever find Central? Christopher asked. 

No. 

Christopher giggled in a shrill, high-pitched voice. Im not surprised. I could have told you that. 

You did. 

The drink came, and Christopher accepted it gratefully. Good stuff, he observed, taking a big swallow and then a gulp of air. Youre from out of town, arent you? 

You guessed it. 

Why did you come to Millgate? A little town like this. Nobody ever comes here. 

Barton raised his head moodily. I came here to find myself. 

For some reason, that struck Christopher as funny. He shrieked, loud and shrill, until the others at the bar turned in annoyance. 

Whats eating you? Barton demanded angrily. What the hells so funny about that? 

Christopher managed to calm himself. Find yourself? You have any clues? Will you know yourself when you find yourself? What do you look like? He burst into laughter again, in spite of his efforts. Barton sank down farther, and hunched miserably around his glass. 

Cut it out, he muttered. I have enough trouble already. 

Trouble? What sort of trouble? 

Everything. Every goddamn thing in the world. The bourbons were really beginning to work their enchantment on him. Christ, I might as well be dead. First I find out Im dead, that I never lived to grow up 

Christopher shook his head. Thats bad. 

Then those two goddamn luminous people come walking through the porch. 

Wanderers. Yeah, they give you a start, the first time. But you get used to them. 

Then that damn kid goes around looking for bees. And he shows me a guy fifty miles high. With his head made out of an electric light bulb. 

A change came over Christopher. Through his wheezy drunkenness something gleamed. An intent core of awareness. Oh? he said. What guy is that? 

Biggest goddamn guy you ever saw. Barton made a wild sweep. A million miles high. Knock the living daylights out of you. Made out of daylight, himself. 

Christopher sipped his drink slowly. What else happened to you, Mr 

Barton. Ted Barton. Then I fell off a log. 

You what? 

I went log rolling. Barton slumped forward wretchedly. I got lost in a puddle of logs seven hours. A little creep led me out again. He wiped his eyes miserably with the back of his hand. And I never found Central Street. Or Pine Street. His voice rose with wild despair. Goddammit, I was born on Pine Street! There must be such a place! 

For a moment Christopher said nothing. He finished his drink, turned the glass upside down on the counter, spun it thoughtfully, then pushed it abruptly aside. No, you wont find Pine Street, he said. Or Central. At least, not anymore. 

The words penetrated. Barton sat up, his brain suddenly ice cold, even through his alcoholic mist. What do you mean, not anymore? 

Its been gone a long time. Years and years. The old man rubbed his wrinkled forehead wearily. I havent heard that street talked about for a long time. His baby-blue eyes were fixed intently on Barton; he was trying to concentrate through the haze of whisky and time. Funny, to hear that old name again. I had almost forgotten. You know, Barton, there must be something wrong. 

Yes, Barton agreed tensely. Theres something wrong. What is it? 

Christopher rubbed his lined forehead, trying to bring his thoughts together. I dont know. Something big. He glanced around fearfully. Maybe Im out of my mind. Pine Street was a nice place. A lot nicer than Fairmount. Thats what they have there now. Fairmount. Not the same houses at all. Not the same street. And nobody remembers. Tears filled his blue eyes and he wiped them miserably away. Nobody remembers except you and me. Nobody in the whole world. What the hell are we going to do? 

 

 

 

Seven 
 

Barton was breathing quickly. Listen to me. Stop whimpering and listen! 

Christopher shuddered. Yes. Sorry, Barton. This whole thing has 

Barton grabbed him by the arm. Then it really was the way I remember. Pine Street. Central. The old park. My memories arent false! 

Christopher mopped his eyes with a filthy handkerchief. Yes, the old park. You remember that? Good God, whats happened around here? All the color had drained from his face, leaving it a sickly yellow. Whats wrong with them? Why dont they remember? Terror shuddered through him. And theyre not the same people. The old ones are gone. Like the places. All but you and me. 

I left, Barton said. When I was nine. Abruptly he got to his feet. Lets get out of here. Where can we talk? 

Christopher assembled himself. My place. We can talk there. He jumped off the stool and moved quickly toward the door. Barton followed close behind. 

The street was cool and dark. Occasional streetlights spluttered at irregular intervals. A few people were strolling along, mostly men between bars. 

Christopher hurried down a side street. Barton had trouble keeping up with him. Ive waited eighteen years for this, Christopher gasped. I thought I was crazy. I didnt tell anybody. I was afraid. All these yearsand it was true. 

When did the Change come? 

Eighteen years ago. 

Slowly? 

Suddenly. Overnight. I woke up and it was all different. I couldnt find my way around. I stayed inside and hid. I thought I was crazy. 

Nobody else remembered? 

Everyone was gone! 

Barton was stunned. You mean 

How could they remember? They were gone, too. Everything was changed, even the people. A whole new town. 

Did you know about the barrier? 

I knew nobody could get out or in. Theres something across the road. But they dont care. Theres something wrong with them. 

Who are the Wanderers? Barton demanded. 

I dont know. 

When did they appear? Before the Change? 

No. After the Change. I never saw them before that. Everyone seems to think theyre perfectly natural. 

Who are the two giants? 

Christopher shook his head. I dont know. Once I thought I saw something. I had gone up the road, looking for a way out. I had to stop; there was a stalled lumber truck. 

Thats the barrier. 

Christopher swore. Good God! That was years ago! And its still there 

They had gone several blocks. Darkness was all around them. Vague shapes of houses. Occasional lights. The houses were run-down and shabby. Barton noticed with increasing surprise how rickety they were; he didnt remember this part of town as being so bad. 

Everything is worse! he said. 

Thats right. This wasnt nearly so bad before the Change. It looked pretty good, in fact. My place was a nice little three-room cabin; I built it myself. Wired it, put in plumbing, fixed the roof up fine. That morning I woke up and what was I living in? The old man halted and fumbled for his key. A packing crate. Wasnt nothing more than a packing crate. Not even a foundation. I remember pouring that foundation. Took me a whole week to get it right. And now nothing but a mud sill. 

He found the key and in the darkness located the handle of the door. He fooled around, muttering and cursing. Finally the door squeaked back, and he and Barton entered. 

Christopher lit an oil lamp. No electricity. What do you think of that? After all my work. I tell you, Barton, this things diabolical. All the hard work I did. All the things I had, everything I built up. Wiped out overnight. Now Im nothing. I didnt drink before. Get that? Not a drop. 

The place was a shack, nothing more. A single room; stove and sink at one end, bed at the other. Junk was littered everywhere. Dirty dishes, packages and boxes of food, bags of eggshells and garbage, moldy bread, newspapers, magazines, dirty clothes, empty bottles, endless old furniture crowded together. And wiring. 

Yeah, Christopher said. Ive been trying for eighteen years to wire the goddamn place again. There was fear on his face, naked, hopeless fear. I used to be a hell of a good electrician. Serviced radios. Ran a little radio shop. 

Sure, Barton said. Wills Sales and Service. 

Gone. Completely gone. Theres a hand laundry there now. On Jefferson Street, as its called now. Do a terrible job. Ruin your shirts. Nothing left of my radio shop. I woke up that morning, started off to work. Thought something was odd. Got there and found a goddamn laundry. Steam irons and pants pressers. 

Barton picked up a portable B battery. Pliers, solder, a soldering iron, paste, spaghetti, a signal generator, radio tubes, bottles of condensers, resistors, schematicseverything. And you cant get this place wired? 

I try. Christopher examined his hands miserably. Its gone. I fumble around. Break things. Drop things. Forget what Im doing. Mislay my wire. Step on and break my tools. 

Why? 

Christophers eyes glittered with terror. They dont want me to bring it back. To make it like it was. I was supposed to be changed like the others. I was changed, partly. I wasnt all run-down, like this. I was hardworking. Had my shop and my ability. Led a good clean life. Barton, they stop me from fixing it up. They practically take the soldering iron out of my hands. 

Barton pushed aside a litter of cables and insulation and sat down on the edge of the work bench. They got part of you. Then they have some power over you. 

Christopher rummaged excitedly in a cluttered cupboard. This thing hangs over Millgate like a black fog! A filthy black fog, creeping in all the windows and doors. Its destroyed this town. These people are imitation people. The real ones are gone. Swept aside overnight. He got out a dusty wine bottle and waved it in front of Barton. By God, Im going to celebrate! Join in, Barton. Ive been keeping this bottle for years. 

Barton examined the wine bottle. He blew dust from its label and held it up to the oil lamp. It was old, plenty old. Imported muscatel. I dont know, he said doubtfully. He was already beginning to feel sick from the bourbons. I dont like to mix my drinks. 

This is a celebration. Christopher spilled a heap of rubbish onto the floor and found a corkscrew. The bottle between his knees, he expertly speared the cork and began twisting it out. Celebration for you and me finding each other. 

The wine wasnt too good. Barton sipped a little from his glass and studied the aged, seamed face of the old man. Christopher was slumped over in his chair, brooding. He drank rapidly, automatically, from his not quite clean glass. 

No, he said. They dont want all this changed back. They did this to us. Took away our town. Our friends. His face hardened. The bastards wont let us lift a finger to fix things up again. They think theyre so damn big. 

But I got in here, Barton murmured. He was getting pretty dopy; the bourbons and wine, mixed up together. Got past the barrier, somehow. 

Theyre not perfect. Christopher lurched to his feet and put down his glass. Missed most of me and let you in. Asleep at the switch, like anybody else. 

He pulled open the bottom drawer of a dresser and tossed out clothing and parcels. At the bottom was a sealed box. An old silverware chest. Grunting and perspiring, Christopher lugged it out and dumped it on the table. 

Im not hungry, Barton muttered. Just like to sit here and 

Watch. Christopher got a tiny key from his wallet; with extreme care he fitted it in the microscopic lock and pushed the lid up. Im going to show it to you, Barton. Youre my only friend. Only person in the world I can trust. 

It wasnt silverware. The thing was intricate. Wires and struts, complicated meters and switches. A cone of metal, carefully soldered together. Christopher lifted it out and pushed braces into their catches. He ran the cables over to the B battery and screwed the terminal caps into place. 

The shades, he grunted. Pull them down. Dont want them to see this. He tittered nervously. Theyd give a lot to get hold of this. Think theyre smart, got everybody under their thumb. Not quite everybody. 

He threw a switch and the cone hummed ominously. The hum turned to a whine as he fooled with the controls. Barton edged away uneasily. What the hell is it, a bomb? You going to blow them all up? 

A crafty look slid over the old mans face. Ill tell you later. Have to be careful. He ran around the room, pulling down the shades, peering out; he locked the door and came carefully back to his humming cone. Barton was down on his hands and knees, peering into its works. It was a maze of intricate wiring, a regular web of glowing metal. Across the front was lettered: 

 

S. R. 

Do Not Touch 

Property of Will Christopher 

 

Christopher assumed a solemn manner. He squatted down beside Barton, his legs tucked under him. Gingerly, almost reverently, he lifted the cone, held it in his hands a moment, and then fitted it over his head. He gazed out from under it, blue eyes unblinking, weathered face serious with the importance of the occasion. His expression sagged a little, as the hum of the cone dropped into silence. 

Damn. He struggled up and groped for his soldering iron. Loose connection. 

Barton leaned against the wall and waited sleepily, while Christopher resoldered the connection. Presently the hum sounded again, a little ragged, but quite loud. Louder than before. 

Barton, Christopher grated. Youre ready? 

Sure, Barton muttered. He opened one eye and focused on the happenings. 

Christopher got down the old wine bottle from the table. He placed it carefully on the floor and seated himself beside it, the cone on his head. It came down to his eyebrows, and it was heavy. He adjusted it a little, then folded his arms and concentrated on the wine bottle. 

Whats Barton began, but the old man cut him angrily off. 

Dont talk. Have to summon all my faculties. His eyes half closed. His jaw locked. His brow wrinkled. He took a deep breath and held it. 

Silence. 

Barton found himself gradually fading off into sleep. He tried to watch the wine bottle, but its slender, dusty shape wavered and dimmed. He stifled a yawn and then belched. Christopher shot him a furious look and quickly returned to his concentrating. Barton mumbled an apology. He really yawned, then. Loud and long. The room, the old man, and especially the wine bottle, receded and blurred. The humming lulled him. Like a swarm of bees. Constant and penetrating. 

He could hardly see the bottle. It was only a vague shape. He summoned his attention, but it rapidly leaked away. Damn it, he couldnt see the bottle now at all. He struggled up and forced his eyes open. It didnt help. The bottle was a mere blur, just the trace of a shadow on the floor in front of Christopher. 

Sorry, Barton muttered. Cant make out the damn thing anymore. 

Christopher didnt answer. His face was dark lavender; he looked ready to explode. His whole being was concentrated on the spot the wine bottle had occupied. Straining and glowering, knitting his brows, breathing hoarsely between his teeth, fists clenched, body rigid 

It was beginning to come back. Barton felt better. There it was, wavering back into view. The shadow became a blur. Then a dark cube. The cube solidified, gained color and form, became opaque; he couldnt see the floor beyond anymore. Barton sighed with relief. Good to see the damn thing again. He settled back against the wall and made himself comfortable. 

There was only one problem. It needled at him, made him vaguely uncomfortable. The thing forming on the floor in front of Christopher wasnt the dusty bottle of muscatel. It was something else. 

An incredibly ancient coffee-grinder. 

Christopher pulled the cone from his head. He sighed, a long drawn-out whistle of triumph. I did it, Barton, he said. There it is. 

Barton shook his head. I dont understand. A cold chill was beginning to pluck at him. Wheres the bottle? What happened to the wine bottle? 

There never was a wine bottle, Christopher said. 

But I 

Fake. Distortion. Christopher spat with disgust. Thats my old coffee-grinder. My grandmother brought that over from Sweden. I told you I didnt drink before the Change. 

Understanding came to Barton. This coffee-grinder turned into a wine bottle when the Change came. But 

But underneath it was still a coffee-grinder. Christopher got unsteadily to his feet; he looked exhausted. You see, Barton? 

Barton saw. The old towns still here. 

Yes. It wasnt destroyed. It was buried. Its under the surface. Theres a layer over it. A dark fog. Illusion. They came and laid this black cloud over everything. But the real towns underneath. And it can be brought back. 

S.R. Spell Remover. 

Thats right. Christopher patted the cone proudly. Thats my Spell Remover. Built it myself. Nobody knows about it except me and you. 

Barton reached out and picked up the coffee-grinder. It was firm and hard. Ancient, scarred wood. Metal wheel. It smelled of coffee. A pungent, musty odor that tickled his nostrils. He turned the wheel a little, and the mechanism whirred. A few grains of coffee fell from it. 

So its still here, he said softly. 

Yes. Its still here. 

How did you find out? 

Christopher got out his pipe and filled it slowly, hands shaking with fatigue. I was pretty discouraged at first. Finding everything changed, everybody different. Didnt know nobody. Couldnt talk to them; didnt understand me. Started going down to the Magnolia Club every night; nothing else to do, without my radio shop. Came home pretty blind one night. Sat down, right where Im sitting now. Started remembering the old days. Old places and people. How my little house used to be. While I was thinking about it, this shack began to fade out. And my sweet little house faded in. 

He lit his pipe and sucked at it solemnly. 

I ran around like a crazy thing. I was happy as hell. But it began to leave. Faded back out again, and this damn hovel reappeared. He kicked at a littered table. Like you see it. Filthy junk. When I think of how it was 

You remember Bergs Jewelry Store? 

Sure. On Central Street. Its gone, of course. Theres a cheap run-down hash-house in its place. A joint. 

Barton got the bit of stale bread from his pocket. That explains it. Why my compass turned into this when I entered the valley. It came from Bergs Jewelry Store. He tossed the bread away. And the Spell Remover? 

Took me fifteen years to build it. They made my hands so damn clumsy. Could hardly solder stuff. Had to repeat the same process again and again. It focuses my mind. My memories. So I can direct my thoughts. Like a lens. That way, I can bring a thing all the way up. Bring it up from the depths. To the surface. The fog lifts and its there again, like it was before. Like it ought to be. 

Barton got down his wine glass. It had been half full, but now there was nothing in it. The untasted wine had vanished with the bottle. He sniffed it. The glass smelled faintly of coffee. 

Youve done pretty well, Barton said. 

I guess so. It was hard. Im not completely free. They hold part of me. Wish I had a picture of this place to show you. The tile sink I put in. That was really a dream. 

Barton turned the empty glass over and shook out a grain of coffee. Youre going on, of course. 

Oh? 

With this; what can stop you? Good God, man, you can bring it all back. 

Christophers face sagged. Barton, Ive got something to tell you. 

But he didnt have to. Abruptly, warm wine spilled down Bartons sleeve and over his fingers and wrist. At the same time the coffee-grinder faded out, and the muscatel bottle reappeared. Dusty and slim and half-full of wine. 

It doesnt last, Christopher said sadly. Not more than ten minutes. I cant keep it going. 

Barton washed his hands at the sink. It always does that? 

Always. Never completely hardens. Cant quite lock the real thing into place. I guess Im just not strong enough. Theyre pretty big, whoever they are. 

Barton dried his hands on a filthy towel. He was deep in thought. Maybe its just this one object. Have you tried the Spell Remover on anything else? 

Christopher scrambled up and crossed over to the dresser. He rummaged around in the drawer and got out a small cardboard box. He carried it back and sat down on the floor with it. 

Look at this. He opened the box and lifted out something. With trembling fingers he removed the tissue paper. Barton crouched down and peered over his shoulder. 

In the tissue paper was a ball of brown string. Knotted and frazzled. Wound around a bit of wood. 

His old face awed, eyes glittering, lips half-parted, Christopher ran his fingers over the ball of string. Ive tried on this. Many times. Every week or so I try. Id give anything if I could bring this back. But I cant get so much as a flicker. 

Barton took the string from the old mans hand. What the hell is it? Looks like ordinary string. 

A significant look settled over Christophers tired face. Barton, that was Aaron Northrups tire iron. 

Barton raised his eyes unbelievingly. Good Lord. 

Yes. Its true. I stole it. Nobody else knew what it was. I had to search for it. Remember, the tire iron was over the door of the Millgate Merchants Bank. 

Yes. The mayor put it up there. I remember that day. I was just a little kid then. 

That was a long time ago. The Banks gone now, of course. Theres a ladies tea room in its place. And this ball of string over the door. I stole it one night. Didnt mean a thing to anyone else. Christopher turned away, overcome by his emotions. Nobody else remembers Aaron Northrups tire iron. 

Bartons own eyes were moist. I was only seven years old when it happened. 

Did you see it? 

I saw it. Bob ONeill yelled down Central at the top of his lungs. I was in the candy shop. 

Christopher nodded eagerly. I was fixing an old Atwater Kent. I heard the bastard. Yelled like a stuck pig. Audible for miles. 

Bartons face glowed. Then I saw the crook run past. His car wouldnt start. 

No, he was too damn nervous. ONeill yelled, and the crook just ran straight down the middle of the street. 

With the money in that paper sack, in his arms. Like a sack of groceries. 

He was from Chicago. One of those racketeers. 

A Sicilian. A big-time gangster. I saw him run past the candy store. I ran outside. Bob ONeill was standing there in front of the Bank, shouting his head off. 

Everybody was running and hollering. Like a bunch of donkeys. 

Bartons vision grew dim. The crook ran down Fulton Street. And there was old Northrup, changing the tire on his model T Ford. 

Yeah, he was in from his farm again. To get loaded up with cattle feed. He was sitting there on the curb with his jack and tire iron. Christopher took the ball of string back and held it gently in his hand. The crook tried to run past him 

And old Northrup leaped up and hit him over the head. 

He was a tall old man. 

Over six feet. Thin, though. Rangy old farmer. He really cracked that crook a mean one. 

He had a good wrist. From cranking his old Ford. I guess it just about killed the fellow. 

Multiple concussion. A tire irons pretty heavy. Barton took back the ball of string and touched it gently. So this is it. Aaron Northrups tire iron. The Bank paid him five hundred dollars for it. And Mayor Clayton nailed it up over the door of the Bank. There was that big ceremony. 

Everybody was there. 

Bartons chest swelled. I held the ladder. He trembled. Christopher, I had hold of that tire iron. As Jack Wakeley was climbing up with the hammer and nails, they gave it to me and I passed it on up. I touched it. 

Youre touching it now, Christopher said with feeling. Thats it. 

For a long time Barton gazed down at the ball of string. I remember it. I held it. It was heavy. 

Yeah, it weighed a lot. 

Barton got to his feet. He laid the ball of string carefully on the table. He removed his coat and put it over the back of a chair. 

What are you going to do? Christopher demanded anxiously. 

There was a strange look on Bartons face. Resolve, mixed with dreamy recollection. Ill tell you, he said. Im going to remove the spell. Im going to bring back the tire iron, the way it was. 

 

 

 

Eight 
 

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 wasnt 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 wasnt 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 Northrups tire iron. 

Time passed. The room became cold. Someplace far off, a clock struck. Christophers 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 flickeredthe whole room, the gloomy shadows beyond the lamp. 

Again, Christopher gasped. Keep on. Dont stop. 

He didnt 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. Couldnt do it. 

Barton didnt 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. Its 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. Thats it. Exactly the way I remember it. 

Christopher ran his hands up and down the metal bar. Aaron Northrups old tire iron. I havent seen it in eighteen years. Not since that day. I couldnt make it come back, Barton. But you did it. 

I remembered it, Barton grunted. He wiped his forehead shakily; he was perspiring and weak. Maybe better than you. I actually held it. And my memory always was good. 

And you werent here. 

No. I wasnt touched by the Change. Im not distorted at all. 

Christophers old face glowed. Now we can go on, Barton. Theres nothing to stop us. The whole town. We can bring it back, piece by piece. Everthing we remember. 

I dont know it all, Barton muttered. A few places I never saw. 

Maybe I remember them. Between us we probably remember the whole town. 

Maybe we can find somebody else. Get a complete map of the old town. Reconstruct it. 

Christopher put down the tire iron. Ill build a Spell Remover for both of us. One for each of us. Ill build hundreds of them, all sizes and shapes. With both of us wearing them His voice faded and died. A sick look settled slowly over his face. 

Whats the matter? Barton demanded, suddenly apprehensive. Whats wrong? 

The Spell Remover. Christopher sat numbly down at the table. He picked up the Spell Remover. You didnt have it on. 

Christopher turned up the lamp. It wasnt the Spell Remover, he managed to say finally. He looked old and broken; he moved feebly. All these years. It wasnt any good. 

No, Barton said. I guess it wasnt. 

But why? Christopher appealed helplessly. How did you do it? 

Barton didnt hear him. His mind was racing wildly. Abruptly he got to his feet. Weve got to find out, he said. 

Yes, Christopher agreed, pulling himself together with a violent effort. He fooled aimlessly with the tire iron, then suddenly held it out to Barton. Here. 

What? 

Its yours, Barton. Not mine. It never really belonged to me. 

After a moment Barton slowly accepted it. All right. Ill take it. I know what has to be done. Theres a hell of a lot ahead of us. He began to pace restlessly back and forth, the tire iron gripped like a battle axe. Weve been sitting around here long enough. Weve got to get moving. 

Moving? 

Weve got to make sure we can do it. In a big way. Barton impatiently waved the tire iron. One object. My God, this is only the beginning. Weve got a whole town to reconstruct! 

Christopher nodded slowly. Yes. Thats a lot. 

Maybe we cant do it. Barton pulled the door open; cold night wind billowed in. Come on. 

Where are we going? 

Barton was already outside. Were going to make a real attempt. Something big. Something important. 

Christopher hurried after him. Youre right. The Spell Remover doesnt matter. Its doing it thats important. If you can do it your way 

Whatll 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. 

Ive had time to figure most of this neighborhood out. Ive 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? Whats underneath them? 

Dont you remember? Christopher said softly. 

It took a moment. Barton had to look up at the dark hills to get his bearings. Im 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 werent here before the Change. That was the park. 

Barton crossed the street toward it. It began over this way. At this corner. Whats 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. Ill go down to this end. It started at Milton and Jones. 

Now its Dudley and Rutledge. Christopher shook himself into activity. Ill 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 wastedeighteen years. Concentrate on that end. Ill 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. 

 

 

 

Nine 
 

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. 

Marys heart thudded. The Wanderer was looking for her, but she had gone too far. It was hard to tell exactly; and she couldnt 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 couldnt 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 flutteredand 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, didnt I? Were outside. 

Its all right. What did you want? 

The Wanderer began to relax a little. Its a nice night. But cold. Shouldnt you have a sweater on? After a moment she added, Im Hilda. Youve 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 Wanderers 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 girls thick black curls. Youre a lovely child. I would think you had plenty of fellows. Although maybe youre too young for that. 

You wanted to see me, didnt 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, weve made progress. Everything has been carefully mapped and synthesized. Weve drawn up a detailed original, accurate in every respect. But 

But it means nothing. 

The Wanderer disagreed. It means a great deal. But somehow, weve 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 Wanderers eyes were fixed on her hungrily. Such power exists. I know you dont have it. But someone does; were 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 wont do you any good! 

He has the right kind of power. 

True. But not for your purposes. If you knew the whole story youd understand why not. 

Where does he get his power? 

The same level as I. 

Thats no answer. Where does your power come from? 

Youve asked me that before, Mary answered. 

Cant 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 cant you tell us? 

Dont worry, Mary said. Ill 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. Im sorry. But its 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 weve told you. 

Mary smiled. Perhaps. 

There was doubt on the Wanderers face. You couldnt know anymore. 

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

The Wanderers 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 dont 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 couldnt 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 wouldnt have a chance of catching it. She held her breath and didnt 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 didnt 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 itselfand 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 Peters plans; he was a new element, a factor Peter didnt 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 didnt 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 didnt 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 wasnt. 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 didnt dare. It would take too long to grow back; thered 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 wasnt older; if her breasts were any larger there wouldnt be chance. As it was, thered 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. Shed have to hurry; hed 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 didnt 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 center 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 wasnt what interested her. 

She approached warily for a better view. 

They werent 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 didnt notice her as she came up behind them. One of them was older, a blond-haired old man she didnt 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 wasnt 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. Its longer. 

No, it isnt. Come over here and concentrate on the base. Over this way. 

Whats the matter with the barrel? The barrel isnt right! 

Of course it is. Help me with the base. And theres supposed to be a heap of cannon balls here. 

Thats right. Five or six of them. 

And a brass plate. 

Yes, a plate. With the name. We cant 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. Ill hold onto the cannon. 

Dont 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 cant remember! 

Over this way. By the bandstand. 

No, it wasnt. It was near the fountain. Weve 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. 

Youre wrong. The stars and stripes. 

I know. Im 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. Dont forget the flag. 

Its night. The flags inside. 

Thats true. There isnt 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. 

 

 

 

Ten 
 

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. Youre one of the kids. I saw you at the boarding house. He searched his memory. Youre Doctor Meades daughter. 

Thats right, Mary said. She sat down gingerly on the bench across from them. May I sit on one of your benches? 

Theyre 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 dont belong to us. 

You created them, didnt you? Interesting. No one here can do that. How did you manage? 

We didnt 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 hadnt had anything to do with it. It wasnt 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 didnt expect such good results. 

The old mans 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? Ive never seen something created out of nothing. Only He can do that, and even He doesnt 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 girls black eyes sparkled. You mean those old stores were nothing but distortions? 

Werent really there. Barton thumped the bench. This is the real thing. The real town. The other was fake. 

Whats that metal pike youre holding so tight? 

This? Barton turned the tire iron around. I brought this back. Its 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. Im going. Ive had enough for tonight. 

Going where? Christopher demanded. 

To my room. Have to rest. Time to think. He tottered dopily toward the sidewalk. Im exhausted. Rest and something to eat. 

Mary became instantly alert. You cant go near the boarding house. 

Barton blinked. Why the hell not? 

Peters there. She leaped up and hurried after him. No, thats the wrong place. You want to be as far away from him as possible. 

Barton scowled. Im not afraid of that punk kid. Not anymore. He waved his tire iron menacingly. 

Mary put her hand firmly on Bartons 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. Youll be safe up there. My father will take you in. Go right to him; dont stop and talk to anyone else. Peter wont enter that area. Its past the line. 

The line? You mean 

Its on His side. Youll be safe, until I can figure this out and decide what to do. Therere factors I dont 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 wasnt back. 

She patted her pocket gently and, at the same time, felt the great mass of rough cloth billow against her. She still hadnt got used to being in two places at once; as soon as the golem had done its work shed leave it as she had found it. 

Jefferson Street loomed ahead. She ran rapidly down it, black hair streaming behind her, breasts heaving. With one hand she held her pocket; it would be too bad to let her little self fall out and get destroyed. 

There was the boarding house. A few people were on the porch, enjoying the coolness and darkness. She turned up the driveway and scampered around back, across the field, toward the barn. There it was, the vast, ominous shape rising up against the night sky. She crouched in the shadows behind a shrub to get her breath and size up the situation. 

Peter was certainly inside. Up in his work chamber with his cages and jars and urns of moist clay. She glanced hopefully around; was there a night-flying moth she could send in? She saw none, and anyhow, they didnt have a chance. 

Carefully, with gentle fingers, she opened her pocket and got out her three-inch self. Sudden vision took the place of endless rough fabric. She closed her regular eyes and put herself as much as possible in the golem. Now she felt her own massive hand, her giant fingers touching hertoo roughly, too. 

By moving her attention from one body to the other she was able to manipulate the golem-self onto the ground and several feet in the direction of the barn. Almost at once it was in the interference zone. 

She made her regular body sit down in the shadows, bend over in a heap, knees drawn up, head down, arms clasped around its ankles. That way she could concentrate all her attention on the golem. 

The golem passed through the interference zone unnoticed. It warily approached the barn. There was a little golem-ladder Peter had rigged up. She peered around, trying to find it. The side of the barn reared, immense rough boards, towering up to lose themselves in the black sky. A structure so large she couldnt make out its extreme dimensions. 

She found the ladder. Several spiders passed her, as she awkwardly climbed it. They were descending hurriedly to ground level. And once, a host of gray rats scurried past her at an excited rate. 

She ascended cautiously. Below, among the bushes and vines, snakes rustled. Peter had all his things out tonight. The situation must have really disturbed him. She found the entrance steps and left the ladder. A hole, a black tunnel, lay ahead. And beyond it, a light. She was there. The night-flyers had never penetrated this far. This was Peters work chamber. 

For a moment the golem paused. Mary let it stand at the entrance of the hole while she turned her attention briefly back to her regular body. Already, the regular body was getting stiff and chill. It was a cold night; she couldnt sit there on the ground, in the shadows. 

She stretched her arms and legs, knotted and unknotted her muscles. The golem might be inside the barn a long time. Shed have to find a place to stay. Maybe one of the all-night cafes on Jefferson Street. She could sit drinking hot coffee until the golem had done its business. Maybe have some hot-cakes and syrup, read a discarded newspaper and listen to the jukebox. 

She moved cautiously through the bushes, toward the field. The cold made her shiver and pull her jacket around her. Having two bodies was fun, but it was really too much trouble to be worth 

Something dropped on her. She brushed it quickly off. A spider, from the tree above. 

More spiders fell. A sharp pain seared across her cheek. She leaped wildly and slapped at it. A whole torrent of gray swarmed through the bushes and across her feet, up her jeans and over her body. 

Rats. Spiders fell on her neck and shoulders in great heaps, into her hair, down the front of her shirt. She shrieked and struggled frantically. More rats; they sank their yellow teeth into her silently. She began to run, blindly, in aimless panic. The rats followed; they hung onto her. More leaped to catch hold. Spiders scurried over her face, between her breasts, into her armpits. 

She stumbled and fell. Vines caught at her. More rats threw themselves on her. Swarms of them. Spiders fell soundlessly on all sides. She writhed and fought; her whole body was alive with pain. Gummy webs draped across her face and eyes, choked her and blinded her. 

She struggled to her knees, crawled a few feet, then sank down under the load of biting, gnawing creatures. They burrowed into her, dug for her bones, through her skin and flesh. They were eating her body away. She screamed and screamed but the web-stuff choked her voice off. Spiders swarmed into her mouth, her nose, everywhere. 

Rustles from the dark bushes. She felt, rather than saw, the glittery twisting bodies come spiraling toward her. By that time she had no eyes, nothing to see with and no way to scream. It was the end, and she knew it. 

She was already dead, as the copperheads slid moistly over her prone body, and sank their fangs into unresisting flesh. 

 

 

 

Eleven 
 

Stand still! Doctor Meade ordered sharply. And dont make any noise. 

He emerged from the shadows behind them, a grim figure in his long overcoat and hat. Barton and Christopher halted warily, as he came up behind them, a massive .45 clutched in his fist. Barton let the tire iron hang loosely, ready for anything. 

Shady House loomed up ahead. The front door was open. Many windows were yellow squares; the patients were still awake. The large fenced-in yard was dark and gloomy. The cedars at the edge of the hill swayed and rustled with the cold night wind. 

I was in my station wagon, Doctor Meade said. I saw you coming up the slope. He flashed his flashlight in Bartons face. I remember you. Youre the man from New York. What are you doing here? 

Barton found his voice. Your daughter told us to come up here. 

Meade instantly stiffened. Mary? Where is she? I was out looking for her. She left half an hour ago. Theres something going on. He hesitated, then decided. Come inside, he ordered, putting his gun away. 

They followed him down the yellow-lit corridor, down a flight of stairs to his office. Meade locked the door and pulled down the blinds. He pushed aside a microscope and a heap of charts and papers, then seated himself on the corner of his coffee-stained oak desk. 

I was driving around looking for Mary. I passed along Dudley. Meades shrewd eyes bored into Barton. I saw a park on Dudley. It wasnt there before. It wasnt there this morning. Whered it come from? What happened to the old stores? 

Youre wrong, Barton said. The park was there before. Eighteen years ago. 

Doctor Meade licked his lips. Interesting. Do you know where my daughter is? 

Not now. She sent us up here and went on. 

There was silence. Doctor Meade peeled off his overcoat and hat and tossed them over a chair. So you brought the park back, did you? he said finally. One of you must have a good memory. The Wanderers have tried repeatedly and failed. 

Barton sucked in his breath. You mean 

They know theres something wrong. Theyve mapped out the whole town. They go out every night, with their eyes shut. Back and forth. Getting every detail of the understrata. But no dice; theyre lacking something vital. 

They go out with their eyes shut? Why? 

So the distortion wont affect them. They can bypass the distortion, all right. But as soon as they open their eyes its all back. The fake town. They know its only an illusion, an imposed layer. But they cant get rid of it. 

Why not? 

Meade smiled. Because theyre distorted themselves. They were all here when the Change came. 

Who are the Wanderers? Barton demanded. 

People of the old town. 

I thought so. 

People who werent completely altered by the Change. It missed a number of them. The Change came and left them more or less unaffected. It varies. 

Like me, Christopher murmured. 

Meade eyed him. Yes, youre a Wanderer. With a little practice you could learn to bypass the distortion and nightwalk, like the others. But that would be all. You couldnt bring the old town back. Youre distorted to some degree, every one of you. His eyes were on Barton as he continued slowly, None of you has a perfect memory. 

I have, Barton said, understanding his look. I wasnt here. I left before the Change. 

Doctor Meade said nothing. But his expression was enough. 

Where can I find the Wanderers? Barton asked tersely. 

Theyre everywhere, Meade answered evasively. Havent you seen them? 

They must start out someplace. They must have organized themselves together in a particular location. 

The doctors heavy face twisted in indecision. An internal struggle was going on. What happens when you find them? he demanded. 

Then we reconstruct the old town. As it was. As it still is, underneath. 

Youll throw off the distortion? 

If we can. 

Meade nodded slowly. You can, Barton. Your memory is unimpaired. Once you get hold of the Wanderers maps youll be able to correct He broke off. Let me ask you this. Why do you want to bring back the old town? 

Barton was appalled. Because its the real town! All these people, houses, stores, are illusions. The real towns buried underneath. 

Did it ever occur to you that maybe some of these people prefer the illusion? 

For a moment Barton didnt understand. Then it came to him. Good God, he whispered softly. 

Doctor Meade turned away. Thats right. Im one of the distortions, not a Wanderer. I didnt exist before the Change; not like I am now. And I dont want to go back. 

The thing was rapidly clearing for Barton. And not just you. Your daughter, Mary. She was born since the Change. And Peter. His mother. Miss James. The man in the hardware store. All of them. Theyre all distortions. 

Just you and me, Christopher said to him. Were the only real ones. 

And the Wanderers. Barton let his breath out in a rush. I see your point. But you did exist in some form before the Change. There was something; you didnt come out of nothing. 

Meades heavy features were gray with pain. Of course. But what? Look, Barton. Ive known for years about this. Known this town, all these people, were imitations. Fakes. But goddammit, Im part of this distortion. Im afraid. I like it this way. I have my work. My hospital here, my daughter. I get along well with the people. 

The imitation people. 

Meades lips twisted miserably. Like it says in the Bible, We see as through a glass, darkly. But how does it hurt me? Maybe I was worse off, before. I dont know! 

You dont know anything about your life before the Change? Barton was puzzled. Cant the Wanderers tell you anything? 

They dont know. Theres a lot they dont remember. Meade raised his eyes imploringly. Ive tried to find some clue, but theres nothing. No trace. 

Therell be others like him, Christopher said. A lot of them wont want to go back. 

What did it? Barton demanded. Why did the Change come? 

I dont understand much of it, Meade answered. A contest, a struggle of some kind. With rules. One hand tied behind the back. And something got in. Forced its way into this valley. Eighteen years ago it found the weak place. A crack through which it could enter. Its always tried, eternally. The two of them, eternal conflict. He built all thisthis world. And then it took advantage of the rules. Came through and changed everything. 

I have a good idea. Meade crossed to the window and let up the blind. If you look youll see them. Theyre always there. They never move. One at each end. Hes over this way. And at the otherit. 

Barton looked out. The shapes were still there, as Meade said. Exactly as he had seen them from Peters ledge. 

He comes from the sun, Meade said. 

Yes. I saw him at midday. His head was one vast ball of shining light. 

It comes from cold and darkness. Theyve always existed. Ive pieced together things, here and there. But theres so much I dont know. This struggle here is only a small part of it. A microscopic section. They fight everywhere. All over the universe. Thats what the universe is for. So theyll have a place to do battle. 

A battleground, Barton murmured. The window faced the side of darkness. Its side, bleak and frigid. He could see it standing there. Immense. No limit to it. The things head was lost in space. The numbing emptiness of deep space. Where there was no life, no being, no existence. Only silence and eternal wastes. 

And Hefrom the boiling suns. The hot flaming masses of gas that bubbled and hurled up streamers and ignited the darkness. Fiery shafts that penetrated the void, reaching, groping, pushing back the cold. Filling the emptiness with hot sound and motion. An eternal struggle. Sterile darkness, silence, cold, immobility, death, on one hand. And on the other, the flaming heat of life. Blinding suns, birth and generation, awareness and being. 

The cosmic polarities. 

He is Ormazd, Doctor Meade said. 

And it? 

Out of darkness, filth and death. Chaos and evil. Seeking to destroy His law. His order and truth. Its ancient name is Ahriman. 

Barton was silent a moment. I suppose Ormazd will win, eventually. 

According to the legend, He will triumph and absorb Ahriman. The struggle has gone on billions of years. It will certainly go on several billions more. 

Ormazd the builder, Barton said. Ahriman the wrecker. 

Yes, Meade said. 

The old town is Ormazds. Ahriman laid this layer of black fog, this distortion and illusion. 

Meade hesitated. Yes. 

Barton tensed himself; it was now or never. Where can we make contact with the Wanderers? 

Meade struggled violently. I He started to answer, then changed his mind. His face sagged into gray decision. I cant tell you, Barton. If there were some way I could stay as I am, keep my daughter as she is 

There was a brisk knock on the door. Doctor, let me in, a womans voice came sharply. Important news. 

Meade scowled furiously. One of my patients. He unbolted the door impatiently and slid it aside a crack. What the hell do you want? 

A young woman pushed quickly into the room. Blonde-haired, thin-faced, pale cheeks flushed. Doctor, your daughter is dead. We were informed by a night-flying deaths-head. She was caught and destroyed on the other side of the line. Just beyond the neutral zone, near his work chamber. 

Meade shuddered; both Barton and Christopher reacted violently. Barton felt his heart come to a complete stop. The girl was dead. Peter had murdered her. But it was something else that made him move quickly to the door and slam it shut. The last piece had fitted in place, and he didnt want to waste any time. 

The young woman, Doctor Meades patient, was one of the pair of Wanderers who had moved through the porch of the Trilling boarding house. He had finally found them, and it was about time. 

 

Peter Trilling kicked at the remains with his foot. The rats were feeding noisily. Quarreling and fighting and snapping at each other greedily. He pondered a while, a little dazed by the suddenness of it. After a time he wandered aimlessly away, arms folded, deep in thought. 

The golems were excited. And the spiders didnt want to go back to their jars. They buzzed and scurried all around him, gathered on his face and hands, raced after him. Countless faint whines pierced his ears, a growing chatter of golem and rat restlessness. They sensed a major victory had occurred; they were eager for more. 

He picked up a copperhead and automatically stroked its sleek sides. She was dead. In a single swift stroke the whole balance of power had changed. He dropped the snake and increased his pace. He was approaching Jefferson Street and the main part of town. His mind raced in wild turmoil; thoughts came faster and faster. Was this really the time? Had the moment finally come? 

He turned to face the far wall of the valley, the towering ring of mountains against the black sky. There it was. Standing there, arms out, feet apart, its head an infinite sheet of black emptiness that stretched eternally, a universe of silence and quietude. 

The sight of it sent the last traces of doubt from him. He turned and started back toward his work chamber, suddenly eager and impatient. 

A group of golems hurried excitedly to him, all clamoring for his attention. More streaked toward him from the center of town. They were terribly upset; their piping voices echoed as they swarmed up his clothing. 

They wanted him to see something. They were afraid. Angrily, he followed them back into the town. Down dark streets, past rows of silent houses. What did they want? What were they trying to show him? 

At Dudley Street they halted. Ahead, something glimmered and glowed. For a time he couldnt see what it was. Something was happening, but what? A lapping flame, low and intense, played over buildings and stores, telephone poles, the pavement itself. Curious, he made his way forward. 

A shapeless mass lay on the pavement. He bent down uneasily. Clay. An inert lump of clay. There were others, all dead and unmoving. Cold. He picked one up in his hands. 

It was a golem. Or what had once been a golem. It was no longer alive. Incredibly, it had been returned to its primordial state of non-existence. It was dead clay again. The clay from which it had been formed. Dry and shapeless and totally lifeless. It had been ungolemed. 

Such a thing had never happened before. His still-living golems retreated in horror; they were terrified by the sight of their inert brethren. This was what he had been called to see. 

Peter moved forward, perplexed. The light played ahead. The lapping fire that crept and crawled from building to building. Spreading out silently. A growing circle that widened each moment. There was a strange intensity about it. A determined quality. It missed nothing. Like burning water it advanced and absorbed everything. 

In the center was a park. Paths, benches and an ancient gun. A flagpole. A building. 

He had never seen it before. There was no park here! What did it mean? What had happened to the rows of deserted stores? 

He swept up all the still-living golems and squeezed their struggling, piping bodies together in a common mass. The ball of living clay twisted, as he rapidly reformed it. From the mass he fashioned a head, without a body. Eyes, nose, then mouth, tongue, teeth, palate, and lips. He set it down on the pavement and pressed the edges of the neck until it stood. 

When did this begin? he demanded. 

The lips moved, as the several minds summoned their memories. An hour ago, it croaked finally. 

Those who were ungolemed! How did it happen? Who did it? 

They entered the park. They tried to pass through it. 

And it ungolemed them? 

They came out slowly. They were weak. Then they lay down and died. We were afraid to go near. 

It was true, then. The spreading circle had done it. He pushed the features of the head back into shapelessness, then stuffed the clay into his pockets. The clay squirmed against his legs, each bit alive. Peter got cautiously to his feet. The circle of fire had expanded; it moved constantly. Taking in more and more buildings. Soundlessly increasing. It was highly unstable. A menace to everything close by. 

And then he understood. 

It wasnt destroying. It was changing things. As the buildings and houses sank down into the fire, other shapes emerged to take their places. Other forms, rising up from the lapping glow. Objects he had never seen before. Shapes unfamiliar. Alien to him. 

For a long time he stood watching, while his golems flitted about him nervously, plucking at him and trying to make him leave. The fire advanced near; Peter took a few steps back. 

He was excited. Joy and wild exhilaration burst loose inside him. The time had arrived. Her deathand now this. The balance had swung. The line no longer signified anything. 

This, the restorer. Primordial shapes, rising from beneath. Springing back into being, from the depths below. The last element. The final piece needed. 

He made his decision. Quickly, he emptied his pockets of the squirming clay, took a deep, shuddering breath, and crouched. For a last time he glanced back and up, at the towering shapes of darkness jutting against the sky. The sight filled him with strengththe strength he was going to need. 

He ran straight into the lapping tongues of fire. 

 

 

 

Twelve 
 

The Wanderers watched intently as Barton corrected the last of the maps. 

This is wrong, he muttered. He struck out a whole street with his pencil. This was Lawton Avenue here. And youve got most of the houses wrong. He concentrated. A small bakery was here. With a green sign over it. Owned by a man named Oliver. He pulled the name-chart over and ran his finger along it. Youve missed it here, too. 

Christopher stood behind him, peering over his shoulder. Wasnt there a young girl working there? I seem to remember a heavy-set girl. Glasses, thick legs. A niece or something. Julia Oliver. 

Thats right. Barton finished the correction. At least twenty percent of your reconstruction schematics is inaccurate. Our work with the park showed us we had to be letter-perfect. 

Dont forget the big old brown house, Christopher put in excitedly. There was a dog there, a little short-haired terrier. Bit me on the ankle. He reached down and felt around. The scar went away on the day of the Change. A strange look crossed his face. Im sure I was bit there. Maybe 

You probably were, Barton said. I remember a short-haired Spitz on that street. Ill put it in. 

Doctor Meade stood in the corner of the room, grief-stricken and dazed. Wanderers swarmed around the long drafting table, carrying charts and maps and data sheets back and forth. The whole building hummed with activity. All the Wanderers were there, in their bathrobes and slippers, two-piece gray pajamas. Excited and alert, now that the time had finally come. 

Barton got up and approached Doctor Meade. You knew all the time. Thats why you collected them here. 

Meade nodded. As many as I could locate. I missed Christopher. 

Why did you do it? 

Meades agonized features twisted. They dont belong down there. And 

And what? 

And I knew they were the right ones. I found them wandering aimlessly around Millgate. Random. Meaningless. Thinking they were lunatics. I brought them together up here. 

But thats all. You wont do anymore. 

Meade futilely clenched and unclenched his fists. I should have acted. I should have thrown my weight against the boy. Hes going to suffer, Barton. Ill make him suffer in ways he knows nothing about. 

Barton returned to the drafting table. Hilda, the leader of the Wanderers, called him urgently over to her desk. Weve got them fairly well corrected. Youre sure about all these alterations? Youre not in doubt? 

Im sure. 

You must understand. Our own memories are vague, impaired. Not sharp like your own. At best we remember only dim snatches of the town before the Change. 

You were lucky to get out, a young woman murmured, studying Barton intently. 

We saw the park, another said, a gray-haired man with thick glasses. We were never able to do that. 

Another tapped his cigarette thoughtfully. None of us has a really clear memory. Only you, Barton. Youre the only one. 

There was tension in the room. All the Wanderers had stopped work. They had drawn around Barton in a taut ring. Tense men and women. Earnest and deadly serious. 

The whole side of the room was taken up with files. Heaps of charts and reports, endless stacks of data and records. Typewriters, pencils, reams of paper, cards, reference photos tacked on the walls. Graphs, detailed studies, bound and well-thumbed. Tables of ceramic materials. The actual three-dimensional model. Paints, brushes, pigments, glues and drawing equipment. Slide rules, measuring tape, cutting pliers, hacksaws. 

The Wanderers had been working a long time. There werent many of them; out of the whole town they were a small group. But their faces showed their determination. They had staked a lot on their work. They werent going to let anything jeopardize it. 

Im going to ask you something, Hilda said carefully. Between her competent fingers her cigarette burned unnoticed. You say you left Millgate in 1935. When you were a child. Is that right? 

Barton nodded. Thats right. 

And youve been gone all this time? 

Yes. 

A low murmur moved through the room. Barton felt uneasy. He tightened his hold on the tire iron and waited. 

You know, Hilda continued, choosing her words carefully, that a barrier has been put across the highway, two miles outside of town. 

I know, Barton said. 

All eyes were on Barton as Hilda continued calmly. Then how did you get back into the valley? The barrier seals us all in here. And it seals everyone else out. 

Thats right, Barton admitted. 

You must have had help getting in. Abruptly, Hilda stubbed out her cigarette. Somebody with superior power. Who was it? 

I dont know. 

A Wanderer got to his feet. Throw him out. Or better yet 

Wait. Hilda raised her hand menacingly. Barton, weve worked years to build all this. We cant take chances. You may have been sent here to help us, and maybe not. We know only one thing for certain. Youre not on your own. You had help, assistance from someone. And youre still under superior control. 

Yes, Barton agreed wearily. I had help. I was brought here, let past the barrier. And Im probably still being manipulated. But I dont know any more than that. 

Kill him, a slim, brown-haired Wanderer said. She glanced up mildly. Its the only way to be sure. If he cant tell us whose agent he is 

Nonsense! a plump, middle-aged man retorted. He brought back the park, didnt he? And he corrected our maps. 

Corrected? Hildas eyes were bleak. Changed, perhaps. How do we know they were corrected? 

Barton licked his dry lips. Look, he began. What am I supposed to say? If I dont know who brought me here I sure as hell cant tell you. 

Doctor Meade moved between Barton and Hilda. Shut up and listen to me, he grated. Both of you. His voice was hard and urgent. Barton cant tell anybody anything. Maybe hes a plant, sent here to break you. Its possible. He may be a creation, a super-golem. Theres no way to tell, not now. Later on, when reconstruction begins. If it really works youll know. But not now. 

Then, the slim, brown-haired girl observed, itll be too late. 

Meade agreed grimly. Yes, much too late. Once you start the fats in the fire. You wont be able to back out. If Bartons a plant youre finished. He smiled humorlessly. Even Barton doesnt know what hes going to do, when the time comes. 

What are you getting at? a thin, sallow-faced Wanderer demanded. 

Meades answer was directly to the point. Youll have to take a chance on him, whether you like it or not. You have no choice. Hes the only one whos been able to reconstruct. He brought back a whole park in half an hour. You havent been able to do a damn thing in eighteen years. 

There was stunned silence. 

Youre impotent, Meade continued. All of you. You were all here. Youre like me, distorted. But hes not. Youll have to trust him. Either take a chance or sit here with your useless maps until you die of old age. 

For a long time no one said anything. The Wanderers sat rigid, faces shocked. 

Yes, the slim, brown-haired girl said finally. She pushed her coffee cup aside and leaned back in her chair. Hes right. We dont have a choice. 

Hilda looked from one to the next, around the circle of gray-clad men and women. She saw the same look on all their faces. Hopeless resignation. 

All right, she said. Then lets get moving. The sooner the better. I doubt if we have much time. 

 

The board fences were quickly knocked down. The surface of the rise was cleared; cedars cut down, bushes cleared away. Ail obstructions removed. In an hour, there was a clear view of the valley, and the town of Millgate below. 

Barton moved uneasily around, swinging his tire iron. Maps and charts were carefully laid out. Detailed, letter-perfect schematics of the old town; every factor had been added and entered in its proper place. The Wanderers organized themselves in a circle around the charts, a closed ring facing inward. Up and down the slope fluttered night-flyers, huge gray moths bringing news up from the valley, and carrying messages back and forth. 

Were limited at night, Hilda said to Barton. The bees are no good, and the flies are too dulled and stupefied. 

You mean you cant be certain whats going on down there? 

Frankly, no. Moths are unreliable. As soon as the sun comes up well have the bees. Theres much better results to be obtained 

What do they say about Peter? 

Nothing. No reports on him at all. Theyve lost him. She looked worried. They say he disappeared. All at once, without warning. No further sign. 

Would they know if he crossed over here? 

If he came, hed be protected. Spinners to handle the night-flyers would spread out in advance. Theyre terrified of the spinners. And hes bred hundreds of them in his work chamber. Bottles of them, just for this. 

What else can we count on? 

Some cats may show up. But theres absolutely no organization there. Whatever they feel likeno more. If they want to theyll come. Otherwise we cant force them. Only the bees can really be counted on. And they wont be up for another couple of hours. 

Below, the lights of Millgate flickered dully in the early-morning darkness. Barton examined his wristwatch. It was three-thirty A.M. Cold and dark, the sky overcast with a moist layer of ominous mist. He didnt like the look of things. The night-flyers had lost Peter; he was on the move. Hed already killed the girl. He was damn clever, to shake the night-flyers at a time like this. And he was after Bartons hide. 

How does he fit into all this? Barton demanded. 

Peter? Hilda shook her head. We dont know. He has tremendous power, but weve never been able to approach him. Mary handled him. She had power, too. We never understood either of them. We Wanderers are ordinary people. Doing that best we can to get our town back. 

The circle was ready to begin the first attempt to lift the distortion layer. Barton took his place and was quickly linked with the others. All faces were turned toward the maps spread out on the ground, faintly moist with night dew. Star-light filtered down on them, diffused by the billowing mist. 

These maps, Hilda said, are to be considered adequate symbols of the territory below. For this attempt we must use the basic principle of M-kinetics: the symbolic representation is identical with the object represented. If the symbol is accurate, it can be considered the object itself. Any difference between them is purely logical. 

M-kinetics, the correct term for the archaic, timeless processes of magic. The manipulation of real objects through symbolic or verbal representations. The charts of Millgate were related to the town itself; because they were perfectly drawn, any force affecting the charts would affect the town. Like a wax doll molded to resemble a person, the charts had been constructed to resemble the town. If the resemblance were perfect, failure was impossible. 

Here we go, Hilda said quietly. She motioned, and the model team entered the first three-dimensional section on the schematic map. 

Barton sat moodily at his place, tapping the tire iron against the ground and watching the teams building up the schematics into a perfect miniature of the old town. Rapidly, one house after another was constructed, painted and finished, then pushed into place. But his heart wasnt in it. He was thinking about Mary. And wondering with growing uneasiness what Peter Trilling was up to. 

The first reports from night-flyers began to filter in. As Hilda listened to the ring of moths dancing and fluttering around her, the harsh lines of her mouth hardened. Not so good, she said to Barton. 

Whats wrong? 

Were not getting the results we should. 

An uneasy murmur moved through the circle of Wanderers. More and more buildings, streets, stores, houses, minute men and women, were pushed into place, an accelerating program of nervous activity. 

Well bypass the Dudley Street area, Hilda ordered. Bartons re-creation has spread over three or four blocks, now. Most of that region is already restored. 

Barton blinked. How come? 

As people see the old park, it recalls awareness of the old town. By cracking the distortion layer in a single place you started a chain of reaction that should eventually spread through the whole imitation town. 

Maybe thatll be enough. 

Normally it would be. But somethings wrong. Hilda turned her head to hear a new series of reports being brought up the slope by relay night-flyers. Her expression of concern deepened. This is bad, she murmured. 

What is it? Barton demanded. 

According to the late information, your circle of re-creation has ceased growing. Its been neutralized. 

Barton was appalled. You mean were being stopped? Somethings working against us? 

Hilda didnt answer. A whole flock of excited gray moths was fluttering around her head. She turned away from Barton to catch what they were saying. 

Its getting more serious, she said, when the moths had fluttered off again. 

Barton didnt have to hear. He could tell by her face what it was. Then we might as well quit, he said thickly. If its that bad 

Christopher hurried over. Whats happening? Isnt it working? 

Were meeting opposition, Barton answered. Theyve succeeded in neutralizing our zone of reconstruction. 

Worse, Hilda said calmly. Something has sucked up our M-energy. The zone has begun to shrink. A faint smile, ironic and mirthless, touched her lips briefly. We took a chance. We gambled on you, Barton. And we lost. Your lovely park isnt holding its own. Its nice, but it isnt permanent. Theyre rolling us back. 

 

 

 

Thirteen 
 

Barton got unsteadily to his feet and moved away from the circle. Moths fluttered around him, as he felt his way through the half-darkness, along the side of the slope, hands deep in the pockets of his rumpled gray suit. 

They were losing. The reconstruction attempt had failed. 

Far off, at the other end of the valley, he could make out the great bleak figure of Ahriman. The giant shape against the night sky, arms outstretched over them all, the cosmic wrecker. Where the hell was Ormazd? Barton craned his neck and tried to look straight up. Ormazd was supposed to be here; this ridge was about even with His kneecap. Why didnt He do something? What was holding Him back? 

Below, the lights of the town winked. The fake town, the distortion Ahriman had cast, eighteen years ago, the day of the Change. The day Ormazds great original plan had been monkeyed with, while He did nothing. Why did He let Ahriman get away with it? Didnt He care what happened to His design? Didnt it interest Him? 

Its an old problem, Doctor Meade said, from the shadows. If God made the world, where did Evil come from 

He just stands there, Barton said futilely. Like a big carved rock. While we try like hell to fix things up the way He had them. Youd think Hed give us a hand. 

His ways are strange. 

You dont seem to care particularly. 

I care. I care so much I cant talk about it. 

Maybe your chance will come. 

I hope so. After a moment Meade said, It isnt going well. 

No. Were washed up. I guess I didnt turn out to be much help. The crisis has come and I cant do anything. 

Why not? 

Not enough power. Somebodys moving between our model and the object. Cutting us off. Rolling the reconstructed area back. 

Who? 

You know. Barton indicated the slope and the town below. Hes down there, somewhere. With his rats and spiders and snakes. 

Meades hands twisted. If I could get my hands on him 

You had your chance. You were happy with things as they are. 

Barton, I was afraid. I didnt want to go back to my old form. Meades eyes were pleading. Im still afraid. I know this is all wrong; dont you think I understand that? But I cant do it. I cant face going back. I dont know why. I dont even know what I was. Barton, Im actually glad its failing. You understand? Im glad its going to stay the way it is. God, I wish I were dead. 

Barton wasnt listening. He was watching something half way down the side of the slope. 

In the gloom, a gray cloud was moving slowly upward. It heaved and surged, a billowing mass that grew larger each moment. What was it? He couldnt make it out, in the half-light of early morning. Nearer and nearer the cloud came. Some of the Wanderers had broken away from the circle and were hurrying uneasily to the edge of the slope. From the cloud, a low murmur came. A distant drumming. 

Moths. 

A few gray shapes fluttered wildly past Barton, toward Hilda. A vast solid mass of deaths-head moths, pushing in panic up the slope toward the Wanderers. Thousands of them. All were there, the whole bunch from the valley floor. Returning in a mass. But why? 

And then he saw. At the same time, the rest of the Wanderers broke away from the circle and flocked to the edge of the slope. Hilda shouted quick, frantic orders. Reconstruction was forgotten. All of them grouped together, whitefaced and terrified. The fleeing moths broke over them in panic-stricken waves, useless remnants without order or direction. 

A bit of spiders web drifted around Barton. He plucked it away. A thick mass of web blew against his face; he tore it quickly away. Now the spiders themselves were visible. Hopping and hurrying through the brush, up the side of the slope. Like rising gray water, a furry tide, lapping from rock to rock. Gaining speed as they came. 

And after them, the rats. Scurrying shapes that rustled dryly, countless glittering red eyes, yellow fangs twitching. He couldnt see past them. But someplace beyond were the snakes. Or maybe the snakes had come around the other way. Probably they were creeping and slithering up from behind. It made sense. 

A Wanderer shrieked, stumbled back and collapsed. Something tiny and energetic leaped from it and onto the next figure. The Wanderer shook it off, then stepped down hard. A golem. Something flashed wicked white to the night gloom. 

He had armed his golems. 

It was going to be ugly. Barton retreated with the other Wanderers, away from the edge. The golems had come around the sides; nobody had seen them. The moths cared about the spiders and nothing else; they hadnt even noticed the running, leaping figures of animated clay. A whole pack of golems dashed toward Hilda. She fought wildly, stepped on some, tore others apart with her hands, smashed another as it tried to climb toward her face. 

Barton hurried over and crushed a pack of golems with his tire iron. The rest scurried off. Hilda shuddered and half fell; he caught hold of her. Needles were sticking from her arms and legs, microscopic spears the golems had left. Theyre all around here, Barton grunted. We dont have a chance. 

Wherell we go? Down to the floor? 

Barton looked quickly around. The tide of spiders had already poured over the lip of the ridge. In a moment the rats would be along. Something crunched under his foot. He recoiled. The cold body of a snake moving toward Hilda. Barton retched with disgust and kept moving. 

They had to keep moving. Back toward the house. Wanderers were fighting on all sides, kicking and stepping and struggling with closing rings of yellow-toothed shadows and leaping three-inch figures with glittering swords. The spiders werent really much good; they had scared off the moths and that was about all. But the snakes 

A Wanderer went down under a pile of gnawing gray. Rats and golems together. Things of dust and old hair and dry filth. He could see better; the sky had turned from deep violet to stark white. In a while the sun would be coming up. 

Something stabbed into Bartons leg. He smashed the golem in half with his tire iron and moved back. They were everywhere. Rats were clinging to his trouser cuffs. Up and down his arms furry spiders scrambled, trying to get webs around him. He broke away and retreated. 

A shape appeared ahead. At first he thought it was one of the Wanderers. It wasnt. It had come up the slope with the horde. Slowly and awkwardly, trailing after them. It was in charge. But it wasnt used to climbing. 

Momentarily, he forgot the rats and golems biting at him. Nothing he had seen so far had prepared him for this. It took a while for him to comprehend, and then it almost swept his mind away. 

He had been expecting Peter, of course. Wondering when he would show up. But Peter had been down on the valley floor. He had been touched by the reconstruction, by the growing area of the park. 

Peter was formed after the Change. What Barton had known was only the distorted shape. The thing weaving and quivering in front of him had been Peter. That was its false shape, and that false shape was gone. This was its real shape. It had been reconstructed. 

It was Ahriman. 

Everyone was scattering. All the Wanderers were fleeing toward Shady House in crazed panic. Hilda disappeared from sight, cut off by a slithering carpet of gray. Christopher was fighting his way free, with a group of Wanderers, near the door of the house. Doctor Meade had forced his way to his car and was trying to get the door open. Some of the others had got into Shady House and were barricading themselves in their rooms. Useless last-ditch fights, each of them cut off, isolated from the others. To be torn down, one by one. 

Barton crushed golems and rats underfoot as he retreated, his tire iron swinging furiously. Ahriman was huge. In the shape of a human boy it had been small, cut down to size. Now there was no holding it. Even as he watched, it grew. A bubbling, swelling mass of gray-yellow jelly. Particles of filth embedded in it. A tangled web of thick hair, clotted and dripping as the thing dragged itself forward. The hair quivered and twitched, sprouted and extended itself in all directions. Bits of the thing were deposited down the slope, the way it had come. Like a cosmic slug it left a trail of slime and offal as it went. 

It fed constantly. It was bloating itself on the things it caught. Its tentacles swept up Wanderers, golems, rats, and snakes indiscriminately. He could see a rubbish-heap of cadavers littered through its jelly, in all stages of decomposition. It swept up and absorbed everything, all life, whatever it touched. It turned life into a barren path of filth and ruin and death. 

Ahriman took in life and breathed out the numbing, barren chill of deep space. A frigid, biting wind. The blight of death and emptiness. A sickening odor, a rancid stench. Its natural smell. Decay and corruption and death. And it continued to grow. Soon it would be too big for the valley. Too big for the world. 

Barton ran. He leaped over a double line of golems and raced between trees, giant cedars growing by the side of Shady House. 

Spiders fell on him in torrents. He swept them off and hurried blindly on. Aimlessly. Behind him the towering shape of Ahriman grew. It wasnt exactly moving. It had stopped at the edge of the slope and anchored itself. Writhing and twisting, it jutted up higher and higher, a mountain of filth and bubbling jelly. And as it grew, its cold chill settled over everything. 

Barton halted, gasping for breath and getting his bearings. He was in a hollowed-out place beyond the cedars, just above the road. The whole valley, in its early-morning beauty, was emerging from the darkness beneath him. But over the fields and farms and houses a vast shadow was falling. More intense than the one lifting. The shadow of Ahriman, as the destroyer-god expanded to its regular proportions. And this shadow would never lift. 

Something slithered. A shiny-backed body lashed at Barton. He twisted away frantically. The copperhead missed, drew back to strike again. Barton hurled his tire iron. It caught the snake dead center and crushed its back into a pulp. 

He snatched up the iron just in time. Snakes were everywhere. He had come across a whole nest of them, crawling laboriously up the side of the slope. He was walking on them, tumbling and falling into the hissing mass undulating furiously beneath him. 

He rolled. Down the slope, through the wet weeds and vines. Then he was struggling to get up; spiders darted and hopped, stung him in countless places. He fought them off, tore their webs away. Managed to get to his knees. 

He groped for his tire iron. Where was it? Had he lost it? His fingers touched something soft. String. A ball of string. With sickened misery he pulled out handfuls of string. The tire iron had faded back. The last blow. The final symbol of his failure. He let the string fall numbly from his empty fingers. 

A golem leaped on his shoulder. He saw a flash, the abrupt glint of a needle. The needle poised before his eye, an inch away, point ready to plunge deep into his brain. His arms came feebly up, then were enmeshed in foul tangles of spider web. He closed his eyes hopelessly. There was nothing left. He had failed. The battle was over. He lay waiting for the thrust 

 

 

 

Fourteen 
 

Barton! the golem shrilled. 

He opened his eyes. The golem was busily slashing the spider webs with its needle. It speared a couple of spiders, drove the others off, then hopped back to his shoulder, close to his ear. 

Damn you, it piped. I told you not to talk to anybody. This was the wrong time. Too much opposition. 

Barton blinked foolishly. His mouth opened and shut. Who? 

Be still. Theres only a few seconds. Your reconstruction was premature. You could have ruined everything. The golem turned to stab a gray rat trying to reach the artery behind Bartons ear. The corpse slid slowly away, still warm and pulsing, feet twitching. Now get up on your feet! 

Barton struggled. But I dont 

Hurry! With Ahriman free theres no condition to be kept. Its no holds barred, from here on. He agreed to subject Himself to the Change, but thats over with. 

Incredulous, Barton identified the voice. It was shrill, high-pitched, but familiar. Mary! He was dumbfounded. But how the hell 

The tip of her needle-sword pricked his cheek. Barton, you can do what has to be done. Your work is ahead. 

Ahead? 

Hes trying to get away in his station wagon. He doesnt want his real self back. But he must come back! Its the only way. Hes the only one with power enough. 

No, Barton said quietly. Not Meade. Not him! 

The golems sword lifted to his eye and paused there. My father must be released. You have the ability. 

Not Doctor Meade, Barton repeated. I cant He shook his head numbly. Meade. With his cigars and toothpick and pin-striped suit. Thats where Hes been! 

Its up to you. Youve seen his real shape. Her final words cut deep into Barton. This is why I brought you here. Not for civic reconstruction! 

A snake slithered over Bartons foot. The golem hopped off his shoulder and started after it. Barton struggled up. The webs holding him had been cut. A whole flock of bees appeared. Day was coming. More and more bees appeared. That would take care of the golems and the rats. 

In a blind daze, Barton slid and stumbled down the steep slope to the road. He peered stupidly around. Doctor Meade had managed to get his station wagon going; a mass of rats and spiders and golems and snakes covered it in a squirming curtain. Meade was feeling his way inch by inch along the road. He made the first turn, hesitated with one wheel over the lip of the edge, then righted the car and continued. 

Behind him, above him, the sluggish mass that was Ahriman continued to grow. Its feelers snaked their way in a widening circle, groping, clutching, carrying things to the jelly mass. The stench was overpowering; Barton retched and retreated. It was already up to staggering proportions. 

He reached the road. The car was gaining speed. It careened wildly, missed a turn, and crashed into a guide-fence. Rats and golems flew in all directions. The car shuddered, then came creakily on. 

Barton hoisted a boulder. There was no other way. Hed never get through the layer of crawling grayand the car would be past him in seconds. As it shot directly toward him he crouched, got his weight under, and hurled the big rock with all his strength. 

The boulder did its job. It struck the hood of the car, bounced and skidded, and smashed through the windshield, on the left side. Glass flew everywhere. The car veered crazilyand came to a grinding, crashing halt against the base of the slope. Water and gasoline gushed from the cracked engine. Rats and spiders poured eagerly through the jagged hole in the windshield, glad of the opportunity to enter. 

Meade scrambled out. Barton hardly recognized him. His face was a broken mask of terror. He ran wildly away from the station wagon, insane with fear, straight down the center of the road. His clothing was torn, skin ribboned and slashed by countless yellowed teeth. He didnt see Barton until he crashed head-on into him. 

Meade, Barton snarled. He grabbed the staggering man by his collar and hung onto him. Look at me. 

Meades vacant eyes glittered up at him, as Barton dragged him to a stop. He panted like a mute animal. No sight. No reason. He was out of his head with terror. Barton couldnt exactly blame him. An ocean of gray shapes was pouring down the road, eager for the kill. And above everything else, the vengeful shadow of Ahriman grew larger and larger. 

Barton, Meade croaked. For Gods sake let go of me! He struggled to get away. Theyll kill us. We 

Listen. Bartons eyes were fixed on Meades quivering face, only inches away. I know who you are. I know who you really are. 

The effect was instantaneous. Meades body jerked. His mouth flew open. Who Iam! 

Barton concentrated with all his strength. He held tight to Meades collar and summoned each detail of the great figure, as he had first seen it, from the ledge, that morning. The majestic giant, cosmic in his silence, arms outstretched, head lost in the blazing orb of the full sun. 

Yes, Doctor Meade said suddenly, in a strangely quiet voice. 

Meade, Barton gasped. You understand? You know who you are? Do you realize 

Meade pulled violently away. He turned awkwardly and stumbled off, down the road, hunched over like an animal. Then he stiffened. His arms flailed out, his body jerked, danced like a puppet on a wire. His face quivered. It seemed to melt and fall inward, a shapeless pool of wax. 

Barton hurried after him. Meade collapsed. He rolled in agony, then leaped up. Convulsions swept over him, frenzied vibrations that snapped his limbs out, head back, reeling and falling blindly. 

Meade! Barton shouted. He grabbed hold of the mans shoulder. The coat was smoldering; acrid fumes stung his nose, and the coat ripped away. Barton spun him around and grabbed him by the collar. 

It wasnt Meade. 

It wasnt anybody hed ever seen. Or anything hed ever seen. It wasnt a human being. Doctor Meades face was gone. What had hardened and re-formed was strong and harsh. He saw it only a second. A sudden glimpse, the hawklike beak, thin lips, wild gray eyes, dilated nostrils, long sharp teeth. 

A shattering roar. A cataclysmic force that mashed him flat. He was blinded. Deafened. The whole world burst loose in front of him. He was spun back, flattened. Rolled over and left behind. Smashed by a blazing fist that penetrated him and disappeared into the void beyond. 

The void was everywhere. He was falling. He fell a long way, utterly weightless. Things drifted past him. Globes. Luminous balls. He caught at them foolishly; they ignored him and went on drifting. 

Whole swarms of glowing balls flitted around him. For a time he thought they were night-flyers, gray moths that had caught fire. He slapped at them, only vaguely alarmed. More surprised than anything. 

Then he noticed he was alone. And it was completely silent. But that wasnt so strange. There was nothing to make noise, no matter whatsoever. No earth. No sky. Only himself. And the steamy void. 

Water was falling around him. Huge hot drops that sizzled and seared on all sides. He could feel thunder; it was too far away to hear, and anyhow, he didnt have any ears. And no eyes. He couldnt touch, either. The luminous balls continued to drift through the scorching rain; now they passed through what had been his body and calmly out the other side. 

A group of the luminous balls seemed familiar. After measureless time and much thought he managed to place them. 

The Pleiades. 

It was suns drifting around and through him. He felt aimlessly alarmed; tried to pull himself together. But it was no use. He was spread out too far, over trillions of miles. Gaseous and vague. And slightly luminous, too. Like an extragalactic nebula. Spanning numerous star clusters, infinite systems. But how? What kept him from 

He was dangling. By one foot. Head downward, twisting and turning in a billowing sea of luminous particles, swarms of suns growing smaller each moment. 

More and more suns swept past him on their way out of existence. Like a deflated balloon, the sphere that was the universe fizzled and danced briefly and closed in around him. Its last moments were too short to be counted; all at once it leaped wildly and vanished. The floating suns, the luminous clouds, were all gone. He was outside of the universe. Hanging by his right foot, where it had once been. Now what was there? He twisted around and tried to look up. Darkness. A form. A presence holding him. 

Ormazd. 

His terror was so great he couldnt speak. It was a long way down; there was no end to it. And there was no time; hed 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 couldnt 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 Ormazds parabola. As the God ascended, he had been yanked along. 

The God was expressionless. Barton could read no feeling, no pity. But he didnt 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. Ahrimans 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 Meades 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 Bartons 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 didnt matter much anymore. The valleythe whole Earthhad 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 dont want to come out until its safe. 

Its 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 youre only thirteen, he said slowly. 

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

Barton called Christopher over. The old man limped painfully toward him. Barton! he gasped. Youre okay? 

Im 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 womans. Not a girls, as he remembered. But what he had known was a distortion, not the real thing. 

Youre the daughter of Ormazd, he said suddenly. 

Im Armaiti, the little figure answered. His only daughter. She yawned, arched her slim torso, stretched her slender arms. Then abruptly hopped from Bartons hand to his shoulder. Now, if you two will help, Ill 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. Didnt 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. Im 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. 

Armaitis 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. Its 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 wouldnt be successful. You knew the reconstruction work, all the maps and models and charts, would fail. 

Yes. I knew even before the Change. Armaitis voice was soft. Im 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 its terms 

The town was really small stuff in all this, Barton broke in. You werent particularly concerned with it, were you? 

Dont feel that way, Armaiti said gently. It was small compared to the greater picture. But its a part of the greater picture. The struggle is vast; much bigger than anything you can experience. Ive never seen the real extent, myself, the final regions its entered. Only the two of them see it as its 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. Its a damn good thing Peter was obliging enough to lend me his filter. Otherwise I wouldnt have had a memory to work from. 

You did you job very well, Armaiti said. 

And now what? Ormazd is back. Theyre both out there, someplace. The distortion layer is beginning to weaken. What about you? 

I cant stay, Armaiti said. If thats what youre thinking, and I know perfectly well it is. 

Barton cleared his throat, embarrassed. You were in human shape once. Cant you just sort of add a few years to 

Afraid not. Im sorry. Teddy. 

Dont 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 dont know your real shape. 

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

Im ready, Christopher muttered. 

All right, Barton agreed. They began their concentration, faces intense, bodies rigid. The old mans 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 Christophers 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. 

 

 

 

Fifteen 
 

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 goneforever, 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 Northrups tire iron. 

Barton continued along Central. Occasionally, the transition had produced strange results. The grocery store was only half there; the right side was Doyles 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 shops 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. 

Im 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 womans high-heeled slipper by its strap. 

Youre next, Barton said, amused. There goes the hand laundry. It wont be long, now. 

He could already see the faint structure of Wills Sales and Service emerging from within. And beside him, the old man was also changing. Christopher was intent on his store; he didnt 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 goneand Wills 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. Wills 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. Ive 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 dont 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. Ill see you, mister. 

Mister! Barton echoed, stunned. 

I know you, Christopher murmured thoughtfully, but I cant quite place you. 

Sadness filled Barton. Ill be damned. 

I guess Ive done work for you. Know your face, but cant quite place the circumstances. 

I used to live here. 

You moved away, didnt 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. Lets see, what the hells your name? Christopher frowned. Ted something. Youve 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? 

Thats right. 

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

Live-wire, Barton said. 

Notice, my stores arranged to attract the passing motorist. I figure theres 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. Thered 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, Im 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 theres no Doctor Meade in Millgate. Just old Doc Dolan. And there were animals! 

Dont worry about it, Barton said, grinning a little. He started up the Packard. So long, Christopher. 

Drop by, when youre through this way again. 

I will, Barton answered, picking up speed. Behind him Christopher waved. Barton waved back. After a moment Christopher turned and hurried eagerly back inside his radio shop. Glad to get back to work. The spreading fire had finished with him; he was fully restored. 

Barton drove slowly on. The hardware store, and its crotchety, elderly owner, was gone. That pleased him. Millgate was better off without it. 

His Packard passed by Mrs Trillings boarding house. Or rather, what had once been Mrs Trillings boarding house. Now it was an automobile sales shop. Bright new Fords behind a huge display window. Fine. Just right. 

This was Millgate as it would have been, had Ahriman never showed up. The struggle still continued throughout the universe, but in this one spot, the God of Lights victory was fairly clean-cut. Not absolutely complete, perhaps. But nearly so. 

He picked up speed as the Packard left town and began the long climb up the side of the mountain, toward the pass and the highway beyond. The road was still cracked and weed-covered. A sudden thought hit him; what about the barrier? Was it still there? 

It wasnt. The lumber truck and its spilled cargo of logs was gone. Only a few bent weeds to show where it had been. That made him curious. What sort of laws were binding on gods? Hed never thought about it before, but obviously there were certain things gods had to do, once they had made an agreement. 

As he drove around the twists and turns on the other side of the mountains, it occurred to him that Pegs twenty-four-hour deadline had run out. She was probably on her way to Richmond, by now. He knew Peg; she meant every word. The next time they met would be in a New York court of law. 

Barton settled back and made himself comfortable against the warm seat. It wouldnt be possible to go back to his life, the way it was. Peg was out. All that was finished and done. He might as well face it. 

And anyhow, Peg seemed a little dull, everything considered. 

He was recalling a sleek, glowing body. A lithe shape diffusing itself into the moist soil of early morning. A flash of black hair and eyes as she trickled away from him, into the Earth which was her home. Red lips, white teeth. A gleaming flicker of bare limbsand then she was gone. 

Gone? Armaiti wasnt gone. She was everywhere. In all the trees, in the green fields and lakes and forest lands. The fertile valleys and mountains on all sides of him. She was below and around him. She filled up the whole world. She lived there. Belonged there. 

Two swelling mountains divided for the road ahead. Barton passed slowly between them. Firm hills, rich and full, identical peaks glowing warmly in the late-afternoon sun. 

Barton sighed. Hed be seeing reminders of her just about everywhere. 

 
