The Cosmic Puppets by Philip K. Dick Page A

Barton's head jerk up. “What do you mean?”
    “Just what I say. You were there seven hours.” Peter's 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 boy's 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 you'd try to walk across.” His chest swelled. “Nobody can do that except me. I'm 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.
    “Aren't you going to ride me back?” Peter demanded, hurrying up to the window. His face turned sickly white. “A lot of those death's-head moths down at the foot of the hill. It's almost night!”
    “Too bad,” Barton said, and shot the car down the road.
    Lethal hatred flashed over Peter's 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 couldn't 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. They—it, the cosmic power—wanted 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, didn't 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 didn't look away, even when Barton glared hostilely back.
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