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

fern. “Hello,” Peter said calmly. He played with a clump of squirming things, black lumps that crawled up his wrist and over his hands.
    “What's that?” Barton demanded, sickened.
    “These?” Peter blinked. “Spiders.” He captured them and thrust them into his pocket. “Are you going driving? I thought maybe I could ride in your car with you.”
    The boy had been there all the time. Hidden behind the fern. Strange, he hadn't seen him; he had passed by the fern on his way to the phone. “Why?” Barton demanded bluntly.
    The boy fidgeted. His smooth face twisted hopefully. “I've decided to let you see my ledge.”
    “Oh?” Barton tried to look indifferent, but inside, his pulse rate abruptly changed. Maybe he'd learn something. “It might be arranged.” Barton said. “How far is it?”
    “Not far.” Peter hurried to the front door and pushed it open. “I'll show you the way.”
    Barton followed slowly after him. The front porch was deserted. Empty chairs and couches, drab and terribly old. It gave him an uneasy chill; the two Wanderers had come through here last night. He touched the wall of the porch experimentally. Solid. Yet, the two youthful figures had passed calmly through, and through the chairs and reclining boarders.
    Could they pass through him?
    “Come on!” Peter shouted. He stood by the dusty yellow Packard, tugging impatiently at the door handle.
    Barton got behind the wheel and the boy slid quickly in beside him. As he turned on the motor he found the boy carefully examining the corners of the car, lifting the seat cushions, squatting down on the floor and peering under the front seat.
    “What are you looking for?” Barton demanded.
    “Bees.” Peter emerged breathlessly. “Can we keep the windows rolled up? They try to fly in, along the way.”
    Barton released the brake, and the car glided out onto the main street. “What's wrong with bees? You afraid of them? You're not afraid of spiders.”
    Peter touched his still-swollen neck by way of an answer. “Turn to the right,” he ordered. He leaned back contentedly, feet out, hands in his pockets. “Make a complete circle up Jefferson and head back the other way.”
    The ledge provided a vast panoramic view of the valley and the hills that ringed it on all sides. Barton seated himself on the rocky ground and got out his pack of cigarettes. He took a deep lungful of the warm midday air. The ledge was partly shaded by bushes and shrubs. Cool and quiet with the valley spread out below. The sun shone down through the thick blanket of blue haze that collected around the distant peaks. Nothing stirred. The fields, farms, roads and houses, all were utterly motionless.
    Peter squatted beside him. “Nice, isn't it?”
    “I guess so.”
    “What were you and Doctor Meade talking about last night? I couldn't hear.”
    “Maybe it was none of your business.”
    The boy flushed and his lips set in a sullen line. “I can't stand him and his smelly cigars. And his silver toothpick.” He got out some of his spiders from his pocket and let them run over his hands and down his sleeves. Barton moved a little way off and tried to ignore it.
    After a moment Peter asked, “Can I have a cigarette?”
    “No.”
    The boy's face fell. “All right for you.” But he brightened almost at once. “What did you think of the two Wanderers last night? Weren't they something?”
    “Oh, I don't know,” Barton answered casually. “You see them fairly often.”
    “I'd sure like to know how they do it,” Peter said feelingly. Abruptly he regretted expressing his emotions. He gathered his spiders up and tossed them down the slope. They scrambled off excitedly and he pretended to watch them.
    A thought struck Barton. “Aren't you afraid of bees, out here? If one flew after you, there wouldn't be any place to hide.”
    Peter laughed with regained contempt. “Bees don't come here. It's too far in.”
    “In?”
    “In fact,” Peter continued, with cutting