The Sheep Look Up (29 page)

“Sure, that’s what they say.” Shrugging. “But they said the same about that place in Africa, now they’re saying it about Honduras ... Stinking liars!”

“Oh, you don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve
been
to Noshri! I’ve
seen!”

Without warning it took possession of him: the memory of sights and sounds and smells, the clutch of mud underfoot, the sense of despair. He told about the children battered to death by their own parents. He told about the soldiers who fled weeping and screaming into the bush. He told about the women who would never again see such a common household object as a knife and not run away from it in terror. He told about the stench and the sickness and the starvation. He told it all, words flooding from him like water through a breached dam. And it wasn’t until he had talked his throat sore that he realized he had been saying all the time, “The American food did this, did that ...”

Lucy Ramage and her Uruguayan friend would have been pleased. But they were dead.

He broke off abruptly, and for the first time in long minutes looked at his listeners instead of the recollected horrors of Africa. They wore, all of them, identical wistful smiles.

“Ho,
man!”
Diana sighed at last. “To get that high!”

“Yeah!” Curt said. “Imagine a high that never stops!”

“They want to stop me getting a piece of that,” Hal said, “they going to have to burn me before they burn the shit.”

“But you can’t want to go insane!” Michael exploded. He groped for the right phrase. “You can’t want a—a bum trip that goes on for life!”

“Can’t I, baby? Are you ever wrong!” Fritz, his voice cold, dead serious,
dead.
“Listen, Mike, because you don’t understand and you ought to. Who’s going to be sane in this country when you know every breath you draw, every glass you fill with water, every swim you take in the river, every meal you eat, is killing you? And you know why, and you know who’s doing it to you, and you can’t get back at the mothers.”

He was on his feet without warning, towering over Michael, even when Michael also rose. He was more than six foot three, maybe six foot five. He looked like a medieval figure of death: merciless, gaunt, hungry.

“I don’t want to die, baby. But I can’t stand having to live. I want to tear those stinking buggers limb from limb. I want to gouge out their eyes. I want to stuff their mouths with their own shit. I want to pull their guts out their ass, inch by inch, and wind ’em around their throats until they choke. I want to be so crazy-mad I can think of the things they deserve to have done to them!
Now
maybe you understand!”

“Yeah,” Diana said very softly, and spat the chaw of khat into the embers of their fire, where it hissed.

“Go ‘way, Mike.” Fritz sounded suddenly weary. “Far’s you can. Like go home. Leave us take care of the mothers. One day maybe you could come back—or your grandchildren—and find a fit place for people to live, black or white.”

“Or green,” Diana said with a little hysterical giggle. “Irish, green.”

He stared for a long moment into Fritz’s eyes, and what he saw there made him turn and run.

Although the majority of the unskilled and semi-skilled workers from the plant had been sent to swell the crowds of unemployed in Denver, a handful of staff had been kept on standby, and with their assistance he and Robles spent the following morning poring over stock records and making sure that every single carton of the suspect Nutripon was removed from the interior of the factory. Troops with fork-lift trucks carried them out to an empty concrete parking lot and stacked them in a monstrous pile in front of the battle-lasers which had been lined up to calcine them into ash.

The records were good, and exact. The work went quickly. He kept hearing—he was meant to hear—comments from the soldiers: what the hell business have these lousy foreigners telling us what to do? One man in particular, a sergeant named Tatum, thin, gangling, tow-haired, seemed to be encouraging his squad to pass such remarks whenever Michael was around. But he bit back his bitter, angry responses. Soon, soon it would be over, and he could go home.

Every now and then he glanced up at the blank gray-green hillside behind the parking lot, expecting to see it alive with human figures: Fritz and his friends, and all the hundreds of others. But although he fancied he saw movement among the bushes, he never saw a face. Almost he could believe he had dreamed that terrible experience last night.

Wanting to go insane? Hardly more than children!

But finally the echoing dome of the warehouse was empty, and nothing else was left in the rest of the factory where new clean shiny air-purifiers dotted the roof and little certificates from the firm specializing in operating theaters had been pasted under ventilation grilles ... and he agreed with Robles that they could safely go and inform Colonel Saddler. Robles had been chafing to do that for half an hour. Michael took a perverse delight in making him wait a while longer.

He had worked out, on the basis of what Fritz had said, that among the reasons for his instant dislike of Robles was that the Venezuelan wore an automatic all the time.

“You took your time,” Colonel Saddler rasped. “I thought we’d burn this lot before lunch!”

He’d said last night that he was hoping for a posting to Honduras.

Distant on the concrete, gray under the gray sky, reporters waited by their cars and camera trucks, ready to record the act of destruction as proof of good intentions toward the world.

“But now I guess we might as well go to chow first,” the colonel went on ill-temperedly. “Sergeant!”

It was Tatum, the tow-headed man who so resented Michael.

“Sergeant, tell ’em to break for chow, and make sure the fire-hose squad is back here ten minutes ahead of the— What the
hell?”

They all swung around, and discovered that what Michael had been expecting all morning had occurred. They must have been watching from the hillside with the skill and patience of trained guerrillas. Now, realizing that the job of bringing out the food from the warehouse was over, they had risen into plain sight and were advancing on the chain-link fence that here defined the grounds of the factory. They looked like a medieval army. Two hundred of them? Three? With motorcycle crash-helmets, rock-climbing boots, and on their arms home-made shields that bore like a coat of arms the Trainite symbol of the crossed bones and grinning skull.

“Get those crazy fools out of here!” the colonel roared. “Bring me a bullhorn! Sergeant, don’t let the men go for chow after all! Tell those idiots that if they’re not gone in five minutes—”

“Colonel!” Michael exploded. “You can’t”

“Can’t what?” Saddler rounded on him. “Are you presuming to give me orders—
major?”

Michael swallowed hard. “You can’t risk firing the food when those kids are out there!”

“I wouldn’t be risking anything,” Saddler said. “They’d be no loss to this country. I bet half of them are dodgers and the rest lied to the draft board. But I’m going to leave it up to them. Thank you, sergeant”—as he was handed the bullhorn he’d requested. Raising it, he yelled, “You out there! In five minutes ...” He strode towards the fence.

In the background, sensing the unexpected, the reporters were scrambling to their feet, cameras and microphones at the ready.

On the hillside, next to a fair-haired girl, a thin black figure, very tall. In his hand, something gleaming. Knife? No, wire-cutters!

Saddler completed the recital of his warning, and turned, checking his watch. “We’ll play the fire hoses on them first, sergeant,” he muttered. “Don’t want that stinking mick—”

And realized that Michael had kept pace with him and stood in earshot. He flushed, and raised his voice.

“I trust that meets with your approval?” he barked. “I bet most of them could do with a bath anyhow!”

“Maybe they don’t come from homes where it’s safe to take a bath,” Michael said. He felt a little lightheaded. He had slept very badly after his encounter with the youngsters on the hill.

“What the hell do you mean by that?”

Michael glanced from the corner of his eye at the strange army descending the slope. All around sergeants were ranking their men to guard the perimeter fence. Hoses were being rolled out, that were here as a precaution in case the battle-lasers fired the dry grass and bushes. Over at the wellhead—the plant had its own wells, five of them, because the hydroponic process needed such vast amounts of water—engineers stood by their pumps, prepared to start up on the signal. With a dull roar, a helicopter rose into view from the far side of the factory, a man leaning out of its open door with a movie camera. The letters “ABS” were painted on its side.

“Let me go talk to these kids, colonel,” Michael said. “I met some of them last night, I think I can handle this—”

Walking steadily, ignoring cries from the noncoms inside the fence, the first wave of young people had reached the wire. A cry from one of the nearest soldiers, nervously watching.

“Say, that bastard’s got a gun!”

“Fix bayonets!” the colonel shouted through the bullhorn. “Don’t let them get to the fence!”

Click-click-click. A line of spikes aimed at the bellies beyond the wire.

“Colonel!” Catching Saddler by the sleeve. “I have an idea!”

And a shout: “Colonel! Colonel Saddler! Over here!” Waving from a point near the reporters, it was Captain Wassermann.

“Oh, go to hell,” Saddler snapped at Michael, and strode away.

All right, then ... Michael took a deep breath and walked toward the fence, around the low edge of the irregular heap of food cartons. In the middle it was maybe twenty feet high by thirty each way, but around the sides it spread out untidily. Some of the cartons had burst.

“Hey, major!” It was the man who had called out about seeing a gun, a Pfc. “‘Don’t go any closer—they’ll kill you!”

“Shut up, soldier!” From Tatum; it was his squad guarding the wire closest to Fritz. “Let the major do as he likes. It’s his funeral.”

Michael walked on. He passed between the soldiers and confronted Fritz, who was standing a yard back, his mouth in a twisted smile, his wire-cutters dangling lax in his right hand.

“So that’s what you look like by daylight, major,” he said, and the girl Diana giggled at his side.

“You want to taste this food,” Michael said.

“That’s right. So?”

“Which carton?”

“What?”

“I said which carton.” All around, eyes were turning to him. He raised his voice deliberately, wishing he had a bullhorn. “Last night I told you this food had been analyzed and given a clean bill. You don’t believe it. None of you do. So pick a carton and I’ll give you some of it. When nothing happens to you, go away.”

There was a dead silence. Eventually Fritz gave a sketch for a nod. “Yeah, it figures. I can pick any carton I want?”

“Any one.”

“It’s a deal.”

“Good. Soldier, your knife, please,” Michael said, turning to the man at his right.

“Major!” Tatum again. “You can’t do that!”

“Why not? They’re here for the drug there’s supposed to be in the food. When they find out there isn’t any they’ll go away. Right, Fritz?”

A hesitation. Then: “Sure.”

“And you were going to chow anyhow, before burning the pile. Soldier, your knife!”

“Don’t give it to him!” the sergeant rapped.

“Here’s a knife!” Fritz called. “I’ll take the carton it lands in!”

He produced his own and threw it, high in an arc over the fence. It struck one of the nearest cartons and sank home.

“Right,” Michael muttered, and used it to rip a gash in the polyethylene-reinforced cardboard. By now dozens of the young people were converging on this point of the fence, and the news of what Michael was doing was spreading among them like wildfire. Some of them laughed and gave an ironical cheer, and those who were armed—mostly with pistols and knives, but Michael saw one shotgun—tucked their weapons in their belts or laid them down. Tatum, fuming, watched for a few moments, and then suddenly doubled away and could be heard shouting for Saddler, out of sight behind the pile of cartons.

Carrying a huge double handful of the Nutripon, Michael returned to the fence. Seeing him come, Fritz snip-snipped with his cutters, ignoring an order to stop from the Pfc, so that there was a gap a foot square to pass the food through. It was like feeding animals at the zoo, Michael thought detachedly, and watched the stuff melt into greedy hands and gaping mouths.

“More!” someone shouted who hadn’t been lucky in sampling the first batch.

“Wait and see what it does for that lot,” Michael answered. “It won’t do anything, but telling you that doesn’t seem to—”

“More!” It was a threatening growl. Yes, like feeding animals. Dangerous, savage animals ...

He gave a shrug and turned away, and found Saddler confronting him, purple with fury.

“Major, what the hell are you doing?”

“Those kids believe this food is poisoned,” Michael said. “They won’t let you burn it until you prove it isn’t.”

“I’m damned if—”

“Or do you believe it is poisoned? Do you believe it was used to drive thousands of innocent people mad, in Africa, in Honduras?” Michael roared that at the top of his lungs.

A surprised cry from behind him—Fritz’s high tones. “You tell him, Mike! You tell him! Great work, baby!”

For an instant Saddler didn’t react. Then he flipped back the top of his holster and drew his pistol. “You’re under arrest,” he said curtly. “Sergeant, take this man into custody.”

“Hey, no!” A girl’s voice, Diana’s maybe. Instantly echoed. A buzz of questions and answers moved away on the hillside, like the blurred complaint of insects, and reached a sudden unexpected climax in a single shrill voice, eerie, almost sexless.

“Kill the skunks!”

Later they listed Michael Advowson #1 of sixty-three. When they tried out the battle-lasers on the food, they worked fine.

JULY

GALLOPING CONSUMPTION

The fourteenth of October is a day to be remembered forever

Because a scion of the Royal Family set in motion the new power station by pulling a lever.

It was in the presence of many distinguished nobility and gentry.

There was such a press of interested persons the remainder had to be excluded by a sentry,

A tall and handsome private of the county regiment

Who from the barracks at Darlington had been sent

And stood guard with the rest of his military fellows,

Resplendent in scarlet, a much more attractive colour than yellow’s.

There was a memorable address from the Lord Lieutenant of the county,

Who spoke in literary and poetical terms concerning this new fruit of Nature’s bounty.

From this day forward there can be power in every humble farm and cot,

Which will inevitably improve the standard of living quite a lot.

When we enjoy the benefits of this let us hope everyone’s thoughts will centre

On Mr. Thomas Alva Edison, the celebrated American inventor.

—“McGonigal Redivivus,” 1936

FUSE

...
now known to total fifty-nine in addition to the four US Army personnel previously reported. Commenting on the fate of these latter just prior to leaving for Gettysburg, where he will mark Independence Day by delivering the Gettysburg Address in the character of Abe Lincoln before an audience predicted to exceed one hundred thousand, Prexy said, quote, Let it not be forgotten that they have hallowed American ground with their blood. End quote. Among the first items the inquiry will consider is the allegation that the riot was triggered off by Nutripon containing a hallucinogenic drug. It’s known that some of the food was distributed, against the orders of the senior American officer present, by the ill-fated Irish observer from the UN, Major Advowson. Now Europe. The frontier between France and Italy has been closed since midnight to stem the horde of starving refugees from the south, and an outbreak of typhus ...

THE CRUNCH

Since the terrible day of the—the
trouble
at the hydroponics factory, Maud had kept mostly to her room, refusing to speak to her husband and to do anything but the minimum for the boys. Mr. Bamberley had been compelled to hire the older sister of their maid Christy to help out. She needed the money becuse her husband was unable to work, having some form of palsy due to a chemical he’d once handled. She was vouched for as very capable.

Just as well that somebody was around here. She was effectively in charge of running the household right now. The sixty-three deaths right on his own land—even if they were at the plant instead of on the estate—had driven him nearly as far into a daze as Maud. He had forgone last month’s trip to New York, his occasional visits to a nearby country club, even most of his involvement with his church. He sat every day for long hours staring out of the window of the room he invariably termed “the den”—not “my,” “the”—which he had pre-empted when he inherited the house because of its splendid view.

This summer it wasn’t what it should have been. For all the work his gardeners put in, the magnificent flower beds that stretched beyond the terrace eighteen feet below the sill were dusty and ill-doing. The grass was patchy and they’d had to returf several sections, at enormous cost. It wasn’t due to lack of water. He’d been meaning to call in an expert soil analyst and find out whether it was lack of sunshine or some deficiency in the ground. But he hadn’t got around to that yet.

Also the leaves on some of the most magnificent shrubs were marred by dull dry coin-sized blotches, and the flowers seemed to be dropping almost before they opened, and beyond, over the mountains, hung this permanent veil of pale gray haze.

So far this summer he hadn’t seen blue sky except from an airplane.

He felt undermined. He felt battered. He felt exhausted. Until a week ago he had only been to the funerals of a handful of people in his whole long life: his grandmother, his parents, and of course most recently Nancy Thorne. Now all of a sudden sixty-three had been added to the total. That mass burial had been appalling!

But the worst part had been the parade the funeral cortège met at the cemetery gates. The police said later that more than two thousand people had joined it, mostly from Denver and the Air Force Academy. There they had stood at the side of the road and clamored their praise of Jacob Bamberley. They had brought flags with them, and banners that read TO HELL WITH THE UN and HANDS OFF AMERICA.

Later, someone had kindled a flaming cross on the mass grave.

Besides, officers from the Army’s legal department, collecting evidence, and the FBI, and a smooth-tongued Republican lawyer acting as the governor’s special representative, and the governor himself, whom he’d met at fund-raising dinners, and Senator Howell, who was barely less than a stranger, who’d sat in that chair there and said how glad he was that (obscenity, apology) Advowson had got what was coming to him and of course he must himself have put the drug in the food and probably the Tupas had paid him to do it ...

All of them asked after Maud. All of them.

Now, though, most of the fuss had died down. It was bound to drag on for a while, as he’d explained to the boys when they put their diffident questions, but only so that justice might be done. There was a great tradition of justice in this country, he’d explained, founded on English common law that dated back a thousand years. If someone had been guilty of those deaths, he would be punished.

As for Maud ...

It was the strain, of course. Dr. Halpern had said so. Accordingly he hadn’t made an issue of her retirement to her room, her insistence on eating and sleeping alone, her refusal to greet him when they happened to encounter one another.

The time had come, though, to put an end to this farce. Today was after all a special day. There was a tradition about the Fourth of July in the Bamberley household, which he had inherited from his father and grandfather. He had risen at dawn to hoist the flag, and the boys—except Cornelius—had been roused to watch. Later, at breakfast, there had been presents: for the youngest, replicas of the Peacemaker Colt and the Bowie knife, for the others facsimiles on parchment of the Declaration of Independence, the Bill of Rights, the Gettysburg Address. Next there would be a formal luncheon, with a little homily such as his father used to deliver concerning the meaning of this anniversary, and in the afternoon they would watch the president on TV, all together, and finally before bedtime there would be fireworks. A firm of contractors from Denver had set up a fine display ready on the lawn; they tackled the job every year.

So, it being twelve-thirty, the—the ordeal.

Mr. Bamberley swallowed an extra capsule from the bottle of tranquilizers Dr. Halpern had given him, and headed for the dining-room.

Maud was already in her place: the first time for weeks. Beaming, he kissed her cheek—she barely flinched—and continued toward his own throne-like chair with a greeting for each of the boys. There was a hint of tension, but no doubt that would fade quickly enough.

Taking his stance, he checked that Christy was in position by the sideboard where bowls of salad were laid out—yes, fine—and bowed his head.

“O Lord—”

“No, Jacob,” Maud interrupted.

Astonished, he found she was gazing fixedly at him.

“No, Jacob,” she said again. It was the first time since before they were married that she had called him “Jacob” instead of “Jack” or “dear.”

“You have blood on your hands. I will say grace.”

“What?”

“You have killed hundreds of innocent people. Maybe thousands. It is not seemly that you should say grace for us.

A huge bursting pressure developed in Mr. Bamberley’s head. He thundered, “Maud, have you taken leave of your senses?”

And remembered belatedly that servants must not witness a quarrel between their employers. He gestured for Christy to leave the room. But before she reached the door Maud spoke again.

“Wrong, Jacob. I have come to them. I know why you have never served the food made in your factory at your own table. I’ve been reading, shut away by myself. I’ve found out what you did to those poor black children in Africa, and in Honduras, too. And of course to the people who were buried last week. I’ve learned that Hugh was telling the truth about you.”

Mr. Bamberley couldn’t believe it. He stood with his mouth ajar like a new-hooked fish.

“So I will say our grace in future,” Maud concluded. “My conscience is relatively clean. O Lord, Thou Who—”

“Silence!”

And that was the signal for Cornelius to keel over.

Maud made no move to go help him as he crashed to the floor. Over the sparkling silver and handsome porcelain she locked eyes with her husband.

“I’ll call the doctor,” Mr. Bamberley said at length. “Clearly you haven’t recovered from your—uh—recent indisposition.”

He turned to the door.

“After this incredible outburst I no longer have an appetite. If anyone wants me, I shall be in the den.”

He was shaking from head to foot when he reached it and almost fell back against the door as it swung to.

Dear God! What had taken possession of the woman? Never in all their years of marriage had she uttered such—such foulness!

He groped on his desk—handsome, English, antique, roll-topped—for his bottle of tranquilizers, and took another dose: two capsules. Obviously the ones he’d taken already today weren’t enough. He was after all a trifle heavier than average.

Facing the desk, a velvet chair. He lapsed into it, panting a little. To think of Maud saying that in front of the boys! What poison might she not have poured into their innocent ears? Even granting that she was—uh—disturbed, on this day of all days ...!

Oh, it was all too much. He abandoned the struggle to think. And was thereupon reminded by his body that he’d told a white lie at the table. He did indeed have an appetite. His belly was growling.

What to do? One could hardly phone to the kitchen, since Christy had heard what he said about not being hungry, and in any case she was probably helping to attend to Cornelius—

Cornelius. Of course. That secret store of candy he’d confiscated from the boy, the stuff that had triggered his last attack. Well, a chocolate bar would at least stave off the worst pangs. Perhaps when Dr. Halpern had called, Maud would calm down or be confined to her room and they could eat lunch after all, pretending things were back to normal.

He bit savagely down on slightly stale chocolate.

Giddy?

Air!

Window!

Eighteen feet to the polished stone flags of the terrace.

“But he said he never ate candy,” Dr. Halpern muttered, his mind full of visions of malpractice suits. “I warned him about cheese, but he said he never ate ... Didn’t he mention that?”

Knuckles locked around a tear-wet handkerchief, Maud whimpered, “Yes, he said you asked about that. He thought it was because he was—uh—overweight.”

That was all right, then. Thank God. Dr. Halpern rose.

“I guess we’d better carry him indoors. Is there someone?”

“Just the maids and the cook.”

“They’ll have to do.”

BLOWBACK

“We’ve duplicated it,” the Cuban chemist said tiredly. It had been a terribly long job, and exhausting. But it was done. “Here. It’s exact, down to the last side chain. There isn’t much—we don’t have facilities to manufacture nerve gas. So be sure you put it to good use.”

“Thank you. We shall.”

Fifteen minutes out of Mexico City for Tokyo a passenger aboard a 747 screamed that he was being eaten by red-hot ants, and managed to open the emergency door at 23,000 feet. He had been to the washroom and drunk from the faucet there before takeoff.

It was, after all, labeled DRINKING WATER.

“What the hell?” the ex-soldier said. “She’s American, isn’t she? And you know what those mothers did at Noshri!”

They found her by the washy light of dawn. According to the forensic experts she had been raped by at least three men and possibly as many as twelve. They couldn’t say whether it was before or after she was strangled.

It had taken three days to locate her. Her dark skin was hard to spot among the underbrush.

A car pulled into a filling station in Tucson. Two black men got out and headed for the men’s room. But when they reached its door they broke into a run.

The gas station burned for two hours.

Dynamite.

Also in Peoria, Milwaukee, Philadelphia, San Bernardino, Jacksonville, Albany, Evanston, Dallas and Baton Rouge.

The first day.

Under construction, a cloverleaf intersection near Huntsville, Alabama. The concrete was just starting to harden when it was hit. It turned out to be cheaper to scrap the lot than attempt repairs.

Also at eight other places where the roads happened to have arrived, not famous for anything in their own right.

At the big Georgia paper mill the saboteur was obviously a chemist. Some kind of catalyst was substituted for a drum of regular sizing solution and vast billowing waves of corrosive fumes ruined the plant. Anonymous calls to a local TV station claimed it had been done to preserve trees.

The same day, in northern California, signs were posted on a stand of redwoods that the governor had authorized for lumbering: about two hundred of the last six hundred in the state. The signs said: FOR EVERY TREE YOU KILL ONE OF YOU WILL DIE TOO.

The promise was carried out with Schmiesser machine-pistols. The actual score was eighteen people for seventeen trees.

Close enough.

In Little Rock Mrs. Mercy Cable, who had found a skull and crossbones painted on her car when she came out of the doctor’s office with her sick son, died protesting that she had meant to wash it off.

Well, she was black anyway. The mob went home to lunch.

But the most ingenious single
coup
was later laid at the door of a Chicano working for the California State Board of Education. (Prudently he wasn’t behind the door at the time; he’d emigrated via Mexico to Uruguay.) He’d used the computerized student records to organize a free mailing of literally thousands of identical envelopes, every one addressed to somebody receiving public education in the state. They never did find out exactly how many there had been, because although they were all postmarked July 1st the mails were so lousy nowadays they arrived over a period of a week, and by the end of that time parents alert to protect their kids from commie propaganda had been warned to destroy the envelopes before the intended recipients could open them. But they guessed that fifty thousand did get through.