The Cosmic Puppets by Philip K. Dick Page B

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 child's. “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 don't 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 name's Christopher. William Christopher.” He added, “I'm 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 I'll 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. “I'm 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. “You're from out of town, aren't 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.
    “What's eating you?” Barton demanded angrily. “What the hell's 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 I'm dead, that I never lived to grow up—”
    Christopher shook his head. “That's 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,