The Cosmic Puppets Read Online Free PDF Page A

along pretty well, considering it was his first. Later on, when he had more experience, he wouldn't take so long.
    He measured the frame and computed the size glass he would need. Where could he find a window no one would miss? Maybe the smoke house; it had been abandoned since the roof began to leak early last spring. He put down his pencil, grabbed up the yardstick, and hurried out of the barn, into the bright sunlight.
    As he raced across the field, his heart thumped with excitement. Things were coming along fine. Slowly, surely, he was gaining an edge. Of course, this man might upset everything. He'd have to make sure his weight wasn't thrown on the wrong side of the Scale. How much that weight would count for, there was no way to tell yet. Offhand, he'd guess very little.
    But what was he doing in Millgate? Vague tendrils of doubt plucked at the boy's mind. He had come for a reason. Ted Barton. He'd have to make inquiries. If necessary, the man could be neutralized. But it might be possible to get him on the—
    Something buzzed. Peter shrieked and threw himself to one side. A blinding pain stabbed through his neck, another seared across his arm. He rolled over and over on the hot grass, screaming and flailing his arms. Waves of terror beat at him; he tried desperately to bury himself in the hard soil.
    The buzz faded. It ceased. There was only the sound of the wind. He was alone.
    Trembling with terror, Peter raised his head and opened his eyes. His whole body shuddered; shock waves rolled up and down him. His arm and neck burned horribly; they'd got him in two places.
    But thank God they were on their own. Unorganized.
    He got unsteadily to his feet. No others. He cursed wildly; what a fool he was to come blundering out in the open this way. Suppose a whole pack had found him, not just two!
    He forgot about the window and headed back toward the barn. A close call. Maybe next time he wouldn't get off so easy. And the two had got away; he hadn't managed to crush them. They'd carry word back; she'd know. She'd have something to gloat about. An easy victory. She'd get pleasure out of it.
    He was gaining the edge, but it wasn't safe, not yet. He still had to be careful. He could overplay his hand, lose everything he'd built up in a single second. Pull the whole thing down around him.
    And worse—send the Scales tipping back, a clatter of falling dominos all along the line. It was so interwoven
    He began searching for some mud to put on the bee stings.
    “What's the matter, Mr Barton?” a genial voice asked, close to his ear. “Sinus trouble? Most people who hold onto their noses like that have sinus trouble.”
    Barton roused himself. He had almost fallen asleep over his dinner plate. His coffee had cooled to a scummy brown; the greasy potatoes were hardening fast. “Beg pardon?” he muttered.
    The man sitting next to him pushed his chair back and wiped his mouth with his napkin. He was plump and well-dressed; a middle-aged man in a dark blue pin-striped suit and white shirt, attractive tie, heavy ring on his thick white finger. “My name's Meade. Ernest Meade. The way you hold your head.” He smiled a gold-toothed professional smile. “I'm a doctor. Maybe I can help.”
    “Just tired,” Barton said.
    “You just arrived here, didn't you? This is a good place. I eat here once in a while when I'm too lazy to cook my own meals. Mrs Trilling doesn't mind serving me, do you, Mrs T?”
    At the far end of the table, Mrs Trilling nodded in vague agreement. Her face was less swollen; with nightfall the pollen didn't carry as far. Most of the other boarders had left their places and gone out on the screened-in porch to sit in the cool darkness until bedtime.
    “What brings you to Millgate, Mr Barton?” the doctor asked politely. He fumbled in his coat pocket and got out a brown cigar. “Not very many people come this way anymore. It's a strange thing. We used to get a lot of traffic, but now it's died to nothing. Come to