Free The Cosmic Puppets by Philip K. Dick

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 couldn't see the bottle now at all. He struggled up and forced his eyes open. It didn't help. The bottle was a mere blur, just the trace of a shadow on the floor in front of Christopher.
    “Sorry,” Barton muttered. “Can't make out the damn thing anymore.”
    Christopher didn't 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 couldn't 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 wasn't 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 don't understand.” A cold chill was beginning to pluck at him. “Where's the bottle? What happened to the wine bottle?”
    “There never was a wine bottle,” Christopher said.
    “But I—”
    “Fake. Distortion.” Christopher spat with disgust. “That's my old coffee-grinder. My grandmother brought that over from Sweden. I told you I didn't 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 town's still here.”
    “Yes. It wasn't destroyed. It was buried. It's under the surface. There's a layer over it. A dark fog. Illusion. They came and laid this black cloud over everything. But the real town's underneath. And it can be brought back.”
    “S.R. Spell Remover.”
    “That's right.” Christopher patted the cone proudly. “That's 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 it's still here,” he said softly.
    “Yes. It's 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. Didn't know nobody. Couldn't talk to them; didn't 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 I'm 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 Berg's Jewelry Store?”
    “Sure. On Central Street. It's gone, of course. There's a cheap