The Cosmic Puppets Read Online Free PDF

think of it, you're about the first new face I've seen in quite a spell.”
    Barton digested this information. A flicker of interest warmed him. Meade was a doctor. Maybe he knew something. Barton finished his coffee and asked cautiously, “Have you been practicing here long, doctor?”
    “All my life.” Meade made a faint gesture with his thumb. “I have a private hospital at the top of the rise. Shady House, it's called.” He lowered his voice. “The town doesn't provide any sort of decent medical care. I try to help out as best I can; built my own hospital and operate it at my own expense.”
    Barton chose his words carefully. “There were some relatives of mine living here. A long time ago.”
    “Barton?” Meade reflected. “How long ago?”
    “Eighteen or twenty years ago.” Watching the doctor's florid, competent face, Barton continued, “Donald and Sarah Barton. They had a son. Born in 1926.”
    “A son?” Meade looked interested. “Seems to me I recall something. ‘26? I probably brought him into this world. I was practicing then. Of course, I was a lot younger in those days. But weren't we all.”
    “The boy died,” Barton said slowly. “He died in 1935. From scarlet fever. A contaminated water hole.”
    The florid face twisted. “By God. I remember that. Why, I had that closed; it was my idea. I forced them to close it. Those were relatives of yours? That boy was related to you?” He puffed on his cigar angrily. “I remember that. Three or four kids died by the time it was over. The kid's name was Barton? Seems to me I recall. Related to you, you say?” He culled his brain. “There was one kid. Sweet boy. Dark hair like yours. Same general physiognomy. Come to think of it, I knew you reminded me of someone.”
    Barton's breath caught. “You remember him?” He leaned toward the doctor. “You actually saw him die?”
    “I saw them all die. That was before Shady House was built. Sure, at the old county hospital. Christ, what a pest hole. No wonder they died. Filthy, incompetent; it was on account of that I built my own place.” He shook his head. “We could have saved them all, these days. Easily. But it's too late now.” He touched Barton briefly on the arm. “I'm sorry. But you couldn't have been very old then, yourself. What relation were you to the boy?”
    A good question, Barton thought to himself. He would have liked to know the answer, too.
    “Come to think of it,” Doctor Meade said slowly, half to himself, “seems to me that child's name was the same as yours. Isn't your Christian name Theodore?”
    Barton nodded. “That's right.”
    The florid brown wrinkled, perplexed. “The same as yours. I knew I'd heard the name, when Mrs Trilling told me.”
    Barton's hands clenched around the edge of the table. “Doctor, is he buried here in town? Is his grave around here?”
    Meade nodded slowly. “Sure. In the regular city cemetery.” He shot Barton a shrewd glance. “You want to visit? No trouble to do that. Is that what you came here for? To visit his grave?”
    “Not exactly,” Barton answered woodenly.
    At the end of the table, beside his mother, sat Peter Trilling. His neck was swollen and angry. His right arm was bandaged with a strip of dirty gauze. He looked sullen and unhappy. An accident? Had something bitten him? Barton watched the boy's thin fingers pluck at a piece of bread. I know who you are, the boy had shouted. I know who you really are. Did he know or was it just a boy's boast? A conceited threat, empty and meaningless?
    “Look here,” Doctor Meade said. “I don't mean to pry into your affairs; that's not right. But there's something bothering you. You didn't come here for a rest.”
    “That's right,” Barton said.
    “You want to tell me what it is? I'm a lot older than you. And I've lived in this town a long time. I was born here, grew up here. I know everybody around here. Brought a lot of them into this world.”
    Was this a person he could talk to?