Free The Cosmic Puppets by Philip K. Dick Page A

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 Berg's 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 it's 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.
    “You've done pretty well,” Barton said.
    “I guess so. It was hard. I'm 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. “You're going on, of course.”
    “Oh?”
    “With this; what can stop you? Good God, man, you can bring it all back.”
    Christopher's face sagged. “Barton, I've got something to tell you.”
    But he didn't have to. Abruptly, warm wine spilled down Barton's 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 doesn't last,” Christopher said sadly. “Not more than ten minutes. I can't keep it going.”
    Barton washed his hands at the sink. “It always does that?”
    “Always. Never completely hardens. Can't quite lock the real thing into place. I guess I'm just not strong enough. They're pretty big, whoever they are.”
    Barton dried his hands on a filthy towel. He was deep in thought. “Maybe it's 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. “I've tried on this. Many times. Every week or so I try. I'd give anything if I could bring this back. But I can't get so much as a flicker.”
    Barton took the string from the old man's hand. “What the hell is it? Looks like ordinary string.”
    A significant look settled over Christopher's tired face. “Barton, that was Aaron Northrup's tire iron.”
    Barton raised his eyes unbelievingly. “Good Lord.”
    “Yes. It's 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 Bank's gone now, of course. There's a ladies' tea room in its place. And this ball of string over the door. I stole it one night. Didn't mean a thing to anyone else.” Christopher turned away, overcome by his emotions. “Nobody else remembers Aaron Northrup's tire iron.”
    Barton's own eyes were moist. “I was only seven years old when it happened.”
    “Did you see it?”
    “I saw it. Bob O'Neill 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.”
    Barton's face glowed. “Then I saw the crook run past. His car