The Sheep Look Up Page 11
“I’m not admitting it was poisoned at all!”
Got him. He’d actually used the word. And it was clear how dreadful an effect that had had on Thorne and Greenbriar. The admass would have seen, too; Ian had pulled back his cameras. The man being pilloried between two thieves. Everyone but everyone knew about those two—mansion homes, luxury cars, private planes ...
“Never mind! We’d”—identifying emphasis, you out there for whom I speak—“like to conduct a small experiment of our own, which won’t of course be scientifically rigorous but may indicate something ...” Camera I pulled in on her and she spoke confidingly to it.
“This afternoon we sent one of our staff to Kennedy International Airport, where a consignment of this processed cassava was being loaded on a chartered aircraft. We bought a carton of it.” Not case. Overtones of breakfast cereal. “We paid the price on the loading manifest, which was eighty-three dollars—oh, don’t worry that we deprived anybody! We substituted food of equivalent value, such as powdered milk and dried egg and bags of flour, and put that into the shipment to replace what we’d taken.
“Then we brought the stuff back here, and followed the instructions on the packet precisely, and—well, here’s the result. Lola?”
Recovered from her pre-show fit of sniveling, Lola came smiling on to the stage carrying a tray on which reposed a large bowl, steaming slightly, a spoon and fork, and a cruet. A glass of water was already in front of Mr. Bamberley.
“Jacob, a random sample of your relief supplies. May we see you eat it?”
“Well, yes!” Running a finger around his collar—but what else could he say? “I did have ...”
“Yes?”
He had been going to add: a very rich dinner. But one couldn’t admit that, not when the subject was the feeding of starving millions. (And all across the country one could almost hear people saying, “Eighty-three dollars? For that muck?”) He compromised. “I did have dinner before I came to the studio, so I may not have much of an appetite, but I’ll be glad to prove that this is safe to eat!”
Thorne and Greenbriar looked frightened—the latter especially, wishing he hadn’t fed his employer so well. Suppose he were taken ill, not because of the Nutripon but because of that dish of eggplants in oil, or the lobster! Seafood was such a gamble nowadays, even with an FDA certificate ...
“That’s a good boy, Jacob!” Petronella approved ironically. “Well, world, here’s a sight to remember: one of this rich country’s richest men eating a sample of the diet we ship to poverty-stricken, famine-ridden lands overseas. Later on, at the end of the show, we’ll call Jacob back and ask how he liked his unexpected snack.”
Under the table, out of camera view, she couldn’t resist the temptation to rub her hands.
But...
“What the hell?” She spoke very softly to the mike in the right-hand wing of her throne-like chair, the one which was reserved for outright emergencies. Ian was signaling frantically from the goldfish bowl, and suddenly his voice rang out from the speaker under its window.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m afraid we shall have to discontinue the show. Please proceed calmly to the exits. We’ve been warned that there is a bomb in the building. We’re sure this is a hoax, but—”
They screamed.
Panicked.
Fought like maddened animals, charging the doors. One of the doors broke off its hinges and a girl was cut across the face by its fall and the rest pushed her out of the way and she tripped and they walked on her, stamped on her, broke her ribs and her nose and crushed her left hand into blue pulp.
But they got out, which was all they cared about.
“The bomb is for you, Mr. Bamberley,” Ian Farley said as he, Petronella, others of the staff took their backstage route to the street.
“What?” He was whiter than his own Nutripon: pasty, like raw dough.
“Yes. Someone called up and said he was black and a cousin of the people you’ve been poisoning in Africa, and he was going to take revenge on their behalf.”
FEBRUARY
IN PRAISE OF BIOCIDE
Than fund he ther fisceras: and weltoghte fugeleras,
The makede hym mickel welcom: as maistre of londes.
Craft was in hir kilyng: with hem the cyning
Than hyede hym to hontyng: hartis and brockis.
Fowlis and faunis: fain had the fled hym,
Sauf that his sotil shaft: strock hem on ronyng.
Ol that war on lyve: overcam he of bestis.
Togh it ben to tel: talye of targetis.
For that
Ferce fukkis: felte smerte,
Dove and dawe: darte to herte,
Faible falwe: fel aperte,
Deth draggede: divers sterte.
Wantede the water: welvers ne froggis,
Scars war to se: sluggis ne snakis.
Than cam the croude: to cyninges hal again.
Ful war the festers: fourten daies fed the.
So fal the Saxon: so be hir sloghter,
So befal foemen: wold frighten hys relme ...
—“The Chronicle of That Great Progress Made by our Lord the King through his Eastern Lands This Summer Past,” 938 (text corrupt, a late copy by a post-Conquest scribe).
THIS HURTS ME MORE
Yesterday Phelan Murphy had stood by, sick at heart, while the government man argued about the cattle with Dr. Advowson. It was very cold; it was the coldest and longest winter in ten years. The pastures were in terrible condition. Some were still under snow from the November falls, and those which were snow-free were naturally overgrazed. To keep his stock alive he had had to buy bales of hay and dump them around the fields. It had been expensive, because the land had been in a poor state last summer, too. Some said—it had even been in The Independent—that it had to do with smoke from the factories near Shannon Airport.
But the government man had said he didn’t know anything about that.
Now, today, he was back, with soldiers. The market at Balpenny was not to be held. They had brought big signs saying LIMISTEAR CORAINTIN and set them up on the roadside. More cows had died in the night, bellies bloated, blood leaking from their mouths and nostrils, frozen smears of blood under their tails. Before the children were allowed to go to school they had to dip their rubber boots in pans of milky disinfectant. The same had been sprayed on the tires of the bus.
The soldiers took spades and picks and dug holes in the frozen ground, and brought bags of quicklime. Cows too weak to try and move away allowed the humane killer to be put to their heads: thud. Again, a minute later: thud. And again.
Bridie had wept most of the night, and the children—not knowing why—had copied her.
“Damned fools!” Dr. Advowson kept repeating and repeating under his breath, chewing his pipe at Phelan’s side. “I did my best to stop them, but—oh, the damned idiots!”
“There’ll be compensation,” the government man said, listing on a long printed form the details of the animals that were being killed.
Then the soldiers dragged the carcasses to the pits.
THE CONTINUING DEBATE
... left for Honduras this morning. Questioned concerning his decision just prior to his annual birthday banquet and family reunion at which he is slated to deliver a major speech on overseas aid, Prexy said, quote, Those Tupas got to understand that if you bite the hand that feeds you, you’re apt to get a mouthful of fist. End quote. Pressure for a UN inquiry into the Noshri tragedy continues to grow. Trainites and black militant groups are threatening to attack planes carrying further relief consignments if this is not done immediately, according to various anonymous letters and phone calls received recently at our studios. Hopes are high that the matter may however be settled without such an inquiry. In Paris this morning famed scientist Dr. Louis-Marie Duval, who has been examining a group of the survivors ...
FIRE WHEN READY
“No, Peg, it won’t do,” Mel Torrance said, and exploded into a sneeze.
“I’m sick of your obsession with this lousy bastard Jones! He’s been dead since December. It’s been proved he was stoned when he died. I am not about to give houseroom to your crazy fantasies about him being poisoned!”
“But—”
He rushed on. “Listen, will you? Now Jones was a Trainite, right? And these Trainites are getting to be a filthy nuisance! They block traffic, they foul up business, they commit sabotage, they’ve even gone as far as murder—”
“Nonsense!”
“That man in San Francisco last fall?”
“He’d shot a girl, an unarmed girl!” Peg was trembling from head to foot.
“He died of his acid burns, didn’t he? Are you saying these mothers have the right to take the law into their own hands? Are they vigilantes? Are they a lynch-mob?”
“I—”
“Yes, yes, yes!” Mel stormed. “Every last bunch of Trainites is a potential lynch-mob! I don’t give a fart what they claim their motives are—I judge by results, and what I see is that they wreck, they destroy, and when it comes to the crunch, they kill.”
“The killers are the people who are ruining the world to line their pockets, poisoning us, burying us under garbage!”
“Are you a Trainite, Peg?”
Drawing back, she passed her hand over her face. “I—I guess I sympathize,” she said at length. “I mean in LA you have to. Beaches fouled with oil and sewage, air so bad you can’t go out without a mask, the water at your sink reeking of chlorine ...” Her forehead was pounding again; her sinus trouble was dragging endlessly on.
“Sure, there’s some truth in all that. Like up at our place in Sherman Oaks we lost half the flowers in our garden last summer—bad wind from somewhere, had defoliants in it so we couldn’t even make compost out of what was left. Sure, things aren’t exactly like paradise. But that’s no reason for making them like hell, is it? That’s what these Trainites are doing. They don’t offer something better than what we already have, or if they did I’d sign on like a shot and so would just about everybody. But they simply spoil it and leave rubble in its place.”
He sneezed again, cursed and grabbed an inhaler from the corner of his desk. Peg said, feeling helpless, “You don’t understand what they’re trying to do. If you’d known Decimus you might—”
“I’ve heard all I ever want to hear about your Decimus,” Mel snapped. “Last chance, Peg. Get down off this hobbyhorse of yours, start doing the same kind of good work you used to, or quit.”
“I quit.”
“Good. Goodbye. I’ll make sure the accounts department issues your month’s salary in lieu of notice. Now take that litter off my floor and pack your gear. I’m busy.”
Outside, rising from a chair, a pretty colored girl who said, “Ah, you must be Peg Mankiewicz. I’m Felice Jones — Why, what’s wrong?”
“I’ve been fired,” Peg said bitterly.
“No, you haven’t!” A shout from Mel’s office. “I heard that! You resigned!”
THE NATURAL LOOK
Did you ever study the small print on a cosmetics package?
Ever try to pronounce the jaw-breaking words? Ever find you were below your best at a party—or on a date with a very special man—because you were wondering what all those complicated chemicals might be?
You can always pronounce what we put in MAYA PURA.
Try it right now. Say “natural.” Say “flower petals.” Say “herbal essence.”
See?
Yes, of course. And because you see, other people will notice.
POSSESSION IS NINE POINTS
“Retro me, Sathanas!” the priest roared: haggard, unshaven, his cassock filthy with mud and dried blood. He held up his crucifix before the advancing jeep. Behind him the people of the village stood their ground, fearful but determined, many armed with ancient guns and the rest with whatever came to hand—axes, machetes, knives.
From the jeep two men got down on opposite sides. One was called Irving S. Hannigan; he’d come from Washington to investigate the death of Leonard Ross. He wasn’t enjoying the assignment. It was like trying to catch a handful of smoke, because everyone you talked to who might know anything helpful seemed to lose touch with reality without warning and go off rambling about angels and the Queen of Heaven.
The other was Major José Concepción Madariaga de Crizo García, youngest son of one of the country’s largest landowners, raised from the cradle to command instant obedience from the rabble.
“Make way, you old fool!” he rasped. “Hurry up!”
The priest stood his ground, fixing him with wild bloodshot eyes. Sensing something he hadn’t expected, the major glanced at the American for advice. This Hannigan was apparently some kind of detective, or spy, or government agent at any rate, and might have the “common touch” inaccessible to an officer and an aristocrat.
“These people don’t look like a Tupa resistance group to me,” Hannigan murmured. “Try telling them we’ve brought food.”
That was as might be, the major thought. The problem with Tupamaros was that they always looked like just anybody—a valet, a cook, a clerk in a store—until the crunch came. However, the idea was a sound one; the rabble were always much concerned with their bellies.
He said in a soothing tone, “Father, we have come to help your people. The government has sent us with food and medicine.”
“We have had this kind of help before,” the priest rumbled. He looked and sounded as though he had been without proper sleep for a month. “But do you bring holy water from the Vatican?”
“What?”
“Do you bring sacred relics that will frighten devils?”
The major shook his head, bewildered.
“They’re agents of the devil themselves!” shouted a burly man who had been standing at the back of the crowd with a shotgun. Now he battered his way to the front, taking station beside the priest.
“The town is full of wicked spirits!” he cried. “Men, women, even children are possessed! We’ve seen the demons walk through walls, enter our homes, even trespass in the church!”
“True!” the priest said, and clutched his crucifix very tightly.
“Ah, they’re out of their minds,” the major muttered. “Or pretending to be! Let’s see how they like a volley over their heads!”
Hannigan scowled. “If they are crazy, it won’t do any good. If they aren’t, we’ll learn more by playing along with them. Try again.”
Sighing, but aware of who was in charge, the major turned back to the priest, who suddenly spat in the dirt at his feet.
“We want nothing to do with you,” he said. “Or your foreign masters. Go to the bishop, if he can spare a moment from his mistresses. Go to the cardinal, if he isn’t too busy stuffing his belly. Tell them our poor hamlet of San Pablo is infested with devils. Bring us the kind of help that will exorcise them. Meantime we know our duty. We shall fast and pray.”
“Aye!” chorused the villagers.
“Yes, but while you’re fasting,” Hannigan cut in in fair Spanish, “your children are likely to starve, aren’t they?”
“Better to starve and go to heaven than live possessed by imps of Satan,” rasped the burly man. “Holy water from Rome, that’s what we need! Use your airplanes to bring us that!”
“You could bless the food we’ve brought,” Hannigan insisted. “Sprinkle it with water from your church font—”
“We’re accursed!” the priest burst out. “Holy water here has no effect! It’s the time of the coming of Antichrist!”
A gun went off. Hannigan and the major dropped reflexively on their bellies. Over their heads the soldiers in the jeeps returned a withering fire, and th
e priest and his congregation fell like wheat before the scythe.
Obviously they must have been Tupas after all.
THE OFFER OF RESISTANCE
It was the third time Philip Mason had come to the cheerless waiting room of the Market Street clinic, decorated solely with warning posters. But it was the first time he’d found the place so empty. Before, he’d found it crowded with youngsters. Today only one other patient was present, and instead of being teenaged or in his twenties, he was in his late thirties, well-dressed, growing comfortably plump, and in general assignable to Philip’s own social bracket.
Before Philip could take refuge as usual behind some shabby back issue of Scientific American or The National Geographic, the stranger had caught his eye and grinned at him. He was dark-haired, brown-eyed, clean-shaven, in general unremarkable bar two things: his obvious atypical prosperity and a small round scar on the back of his left hand. A bullet mark?
“Morning!” he said in precisely that matter-of-fact tone Philip would have liked to be able to command but couldn’t. The whole world was leaning on him. Denise was permanently hurt by his behavior. The Towerhill avalanche was still spawning so many claims he hadn’t dared punch for the total for over a week. And ...
Oh, that mother Clayford! But it was a Pyrrhic victory to know he was going to lose his fees for insurance examinations.
He dived into the shelter of a magazine he’d already read.
In a little while they called his number and he went for the regular humiliating treatment—massage with a sterile-gloved finger up his anus, a drip of prostatic secretion smeared on a slide. Things had been better the past few days and then this morning they’d been worse again, and Dennie—