The Cosmic Puppets by Philip K. Dick

running in the fountain.
    “There it is!” Barton yelled happily, waving a metal pike of some kind. “I used to wade there. Remember? The kids used to take off their shoes and go wading.”
    “Sure. I remember. How about the flagpole?”
    They argued back and forth. The old man concentrated on one spot, but nothing happened. Barton concentrated on another; meanwhile, the fountain grew dim, and they had to break off abruptly and bring it back.
    “Which did it have?” Barton demanded. “Which flag?”
    “Both flags.”
    “No, the stars and bars.”
    “You're wrong. The stars and stripes.”
    “I know. I'm absolutely certain!” Barton had found the spot, all right. A small concrete base and a dim, nebulous pole were rapidly forming. “There it is!” he shouted joyfully. “There it is!”
    “Get the flag. Don't forget the flag.”
    “It's night. The flag's inside.”
    “That's true. There isn't any flag at night. That explains it.”
    The park was almost complete. At the far edges it still wavered and faded back into the drab line of rotting old stores. But in the center it was beautifully firm and solid. The gun, the fountain, the bandstand, the benches and paths; everything was real and complete.
    “We did it!” the old man shouted. He pounded Barton on the back. “We did it!”
    They hugged each other, pounded each other, embraced, then hurried deep into the park. They raced up and down the paths, around the fountain, by the cannon. His pike under his arm, Barton managed to lift one of the cannon balls; Mary could see it was terribly heavy. He dropped it with a gasp and staggered back to sit wearily down.
    The two men collapsed together on one of the green benches they had summoned into being. Exhausted, they lay back, feet out, arms limp. Enjoying the satisfaction of a job well done.
    Mary stepped out of the shadows and moved slowly toward them. It was time to make herself known.

Ten
    Barton saw her first. He sat up, suddenly alert, the metal tire iron drawn back. “Who are you?” He peered at her through the gloom. Then he recognized her. “You're one of the kids. I saw you at the boarding house.” He searched his memory. “You're Doctor Meade's daughter.”
    “That's right,” Mary said. She sat down gingerly on the bench across from them. “May I sit on one of your benches?”
    “They're not ours,” Barton answered. He was beginning to sober up. Understanding of what they had done started to trickle through his numbed brain, ice cold drops sizzling out the warmth of intoxication. “They don't belong to us.”
    “You created them, didn't you? Interesting. No one here can do that. How did you manage?”
    “We didn't create them.” Barton shakily got out his cigarettes and lit up. He and Christopher glanced at each other with awe and numbed disbelief. Had they really done it? Really brought back the old park? Part of the old town?
    Barton reached down and touched the bench under him. It was completely real. He was sitting on it, and so was Will Christopher. And the girl, who hadn't had anything to do with it. It wasn't a hallucination. All three of them were sitting on the benches; that was the proof.
    “Well?” Christopher muttered. “What do you think of that?”
    Barton grinned shakily. “I didn't expect such good results.”
    The old man's eyes were wide, nostrils flaring. “There was real ability there.” He eyed Barton with increased respect. “You really know how to do it. You cut right through. Right to the real town.”
    “It took two of us,” Barton muttered. He was cold sober, now. And exhausted. His body was utterly drained; he could hardly lift his hands. His head ached, and a nauseous taste crept up in his mouth, a sickly metallic tinge.
    But they had done it.
    Mary was fascinated. “How did you do it? I've never seen something created out of nothing. Only He can do that, and even He doesn't do it anymore.”
    Barton shook his head wearily. He was too tired to want to