The Cosmic Puppets by Philip K. Dick Page B

be outside the house. He had opened his eyes within the wall, apparently. In any case, he had never emerged. And there had been a loathsome smell for weeks after.
    Something gleamed. It was a dark night; a few faint stars shone down. The Wanderer was coming out, all right. Moving slowly and cautiously. Getting ready to open her eyes. She was tense. Nervous. Her muscles strained. Lips twitched. Abruptly her eyelids fluttered—and she was gazing around her in wild relief.
    “Here I am,” Mary said quickly, hurrying up to her.
    The Wanderer sank down on a stone. “Thank God. I was afraid
    ” She looked nervously around. “I did go too far, didn't I? We're outside.”
    “It's all right. What did you want?”
    The Wanderer began to relax a little. “It's a nice night. But cold. Shouldn't you have a sweater on?” After a moment she added, “I'm Hilda. You've never seen me before.”
    “No,” Mary agreed. “But I know who you are.” She sat down close to the Wanderer. Now that she had opened her eyes, Hilda looked like anyone else. She had lost her faintly luminous quality; she was substantial. Mary reached out her hand and touched the Wanderer's arm. Firm and solid. And warm. She smiled, and the Wanderer smiled back at her.
    “How old are you, Mary?” she asked.
    “Thirteen.”
    The Wanderer rumpled the girl's thick black curls. “You're a lovely child. I would think you had plenty of fellows. Although maybe you're too young for that.”
    “You wanted to see me, didn't you?” Mary asked politely. She was a little impatient; somebody might come, and in addition, she was sure something important was happening. “What was it about?”
    “We need information.”
    Mary repressed a sigh. “What sort of information?”
    “As you know, we've made progress. Everything has been carefully mapped and synthesized. We've drawn up a detailed original, accurate in every respect. But—”
    “But it means nothing.”
    The Wanderer disagreed. “It means a great deal. But somehow, we've failed to develop sufficient potential. Our model is static, without energy. To bridge the gap, to make it leap across, we need more power.”
    Mary smiled. “Yes. I think so.”
    The Wanderer's eyes were fixed on her hungrily. “Such power exists. I know you don't have it. But someone does; we're sure of it. It exists here, and we have to have it.”
    Mary shrugged. “What do you expect me to do?”
    The gray eyes glittered. “Tell us how to get control of Peter Trilling.”
    Mary jumped in amazement. “Peter? He won't do you any good!”
    “He has the right kind of power.”
    “True. But not for your purposes. If you knew the whole story you'd understand why not.”
    “Where does he get his power?”
    “The same level as I.”
    “That's no answer. Where does your power come from?”
    “You've asked me that before,” Mary answered.
    “Can't you tell us?”
    “No.”
    There was silence. The Wanderer drummed with her hard, blunt nails. “It would be of considerable help to us. You know quite a lot about Peter Trilling. Why can't you tell us?”
    “Don't worry,” Mary said. “I'll take care of Peter when the time comes. Leave him to me. Actually, that part is none of your business.”
    The Wanderer recoiled. “How dare you!”
    Mary laughed. “I'm sorry. But it's the truth. I doubt if it would make your program easier if I told you about myself and Peter. It might even make it more difficult.”
    “What do you know about our program? Just what we've told you.”
    Mary smiled. “Perhaps.”
    There was doubt on the Wanderer's face. “You couldn't know anymore.”
    Mary got to her feet. “Is there anything else you want to ask me?”
    The Wanderer's eyes hardened. “Have you any idea what we could do to you?”
    Mary moved impatiently away. “This is no time for nonsense. Things of great importance are happening on all sides. Instead of asking me about Peter Trilling you ought to be asking about Ted Barton.”
    The Wanderer