The Cosmic Puppets by Philip K. Dick

Everything flickered—the whole room, the gloomy shadows beyond the lamp.
    “Again,” Christopher gasped. “Keep on. Don't stop.”
    He didn't stop. And presently, silently, the ball of string faded. The wall became visible behind it; he could see the table beneath. For a moment there was nothing but a misty shadow. A vague presence, left behind.
    “I never got this far,” Christopher whispered, in awe. “Couldn't do it.”
    Barton didn't answer. He kept his attention on the spot. The tire iron. It had to come. He drew it out, demanded it come forth. It had to come. It was there, underneath the illusion.
    A long shadow flickered. Longer than the string. A foot and a half long. It wavered, then became more distinct.
    “There it is!” Christopher gasped. “It's coming!”
    It was coming, all right. Barton concentrated until black spots danced in front of his eyes. The tire iron was on its way. It turned black, opaque. Glittered a little in the light of the oil lamp. And then
    With a furious clang the tire iron crashed to the floor and lay.
    Christopher ran forward and scooped it up. He was trembling and wiping his eyes. “Barton, you did it. You made it come back.”
    Barton sagged. “Yes. That's it. Exactly the way I remember it.”
    Christopher ran his hands up and down the metal bar. “Aaron Northrup's old tire iron. I haven't seen it in eighteen years. Not since that day. I couldn't make it come back, Barton. But you did it.”
    “I remembered it,” Barton grunted. He wiped his forehead shakily; he was perspiring and weak. “Maybe better than you. I actually held it. And my memory always was good.”
    “And you weren't here.”
    “No. I wasn't touched by the Change. I'm not distorted at all.”
    Christopher's old face glowed. “Now we can go on, Barton. There's nothing to stop us. The whole town. We can bring it back, piece by piece. Everthing we remember.”
    “I don't know it all,” Barton muttered. “A few places I never saw.”
    “Maybe I remember them. Between us we probably remember the whole town.”
    “Maybe we can find somebody else. Get a complete map of the old town. Reconstruct it.”
    Christopher put down the tire iron. “I'll build a Spell Remover for both of us. One for each of us. I'll build hundreds of them, all sizes and shapes. With both of us wearing them
    ” His voice faded and died. A sick look settled slowly over his face.
    “What's the matter?” Barton demanded, suddenly apprehensive. “What's wrong?”
    “The Spell Remover.” Christopher sat numbly down at the table. He picked up the Spell Remover. “You didn't have it on.”
    Christopher turned up the lamp. “It wasn't the Spell Remover,” he managed to say finally. He looked old and broken; he moved feebly. “All these years. It wasn't any good.”
    “No,” Barton said. “I guess it wasn't.”
    “But why?” Christopher appealed helplessly. “How did you do it?”
    Barton didn't hear him. His mind was racing wildly. Abruptly he got to his feet. “We've got to find out,” he said.
    “Yes,” Christopher agreed, pulling himself together with a violent effort. He fooled aimlessly with the tire iron, then suddenly held it out to Barton. “Here.”
    “What?”
    “It's yours, Barton. Not mine. It never really belonged to me.”
    After a moment Barton slowly accepted it. “All right. I'll take it. I know what has to be done. There's a hell of a lot ahead of us.” He began to pace restlessly back and forth, the tire iron gripped like a battle axe. “We've been sitting around here long enough. We've got to get moving.”
    “Moving?”
    “We've got to make sure we can do it. In a big way.” Barton impatiently waved the tire iron. “One object. My God, this is only the beginning. We've got a whole town to reconstruct!”
    Christopher nodded slowly. “Yes. That's a lot.”
    “Maybe we can't do it.” Barton pulled the door open; cold night wind billowed in. “Come on.”
    “Where are we going?”
    Barton