Read Online The Cosmic Puppets by Philip K. Dick - Free Book Online Page B

old man. Christopher was slumped over in his chair, brooding. He drank rapidly, automatically, from his not quite clean glass.
    “No,” he said. “They don't want all this changed back. They did this to us. Took away our town. Our friends.” His face hardened. “The bastards won't let us lift a finger to fix things up again. They think they're 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.”
    “They're 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.
    “I'm 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. “I'm going to show it to you, Barton. You're my only friend. Only person in the world I can trust.”
    It wasn't 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. Don't want them to see this.” He tittered nervously. “They'd give a lot to get hold of this. Think they're 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 man's face. “I'll 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. “You're 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.
    “What's—” Barton began, but the old man cut him angrily off.
    “Don't 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,