The Sheep Look Up (12 page)

But there it was: evidence.

"Any special reason why they went to all that trouble?"

Stanway hesitated. He said at length, "Well, the fuzz insisted."

"The busy mothers! They didn't find drugs in his car!" Not strictly his, but rented. Trainites did their best not to contribute to pollution, and the entire community of sixty-some at the Denver wat owned one vehicle between them, a jeep. Apart from bicycles.

Moreover they didn't hold with drugs, not even pot, though they did tolerate beer and wine.

She slid open a drawer in her desk, where she kept the file she'd compiled about Decimus's death, and reread the list of things that had been found in the car-more or less what you would expect. A traveling-bag with a change of clothes, razor, toothbrush and so on, a folder of papers about chemicals in food, another concerned with the family business which had brought him to LA to see his sister Felice, and a sort of picnic basket. That fitted, too; he'd have brought his own food along, the good wholesome kind the wat community grew themselves.

Stanway coughed in the phone. It started as a polite attention-catching noise; a few seconds, and it developed into a real cough, punctuated with gasps of, "Sorry!" When he recovered, he said,

"Was there anything else?"

"No." Absently. "Thanks very much for letting me know."

Having hung up she sat for long minutes staring at nothing. Anger burned in her mind like a sullen flame.

She was convinced-beyond the possibility of argument-Decimus must have been poisoned.

But how? By whom? They'd backtracked on his route, discovered a couple of truck-drivers who'd noticed him asleep in the park outside a diner when they stopped for a snack, then found him awake when they came out again, shaving in the men's room; also a gas station where he'd filled up-and that was that. No one else seemed to have seen or spoken to him on the way.

And his sister, of course, knew nothing useful. She'd refused to be interviewed directly after his death, claiming with good grounds that since she hadn't met her brother in years she hardly knew him, but then the makeup for their December 23rd issue had been half a column short and Peg had dashed off a moralizing Christmassy bit about Decimus which Mel reluctantly approved with only minor changes, and Felice had seen it and called up and thanked her. But they still hadn't met, and it was clear from the way she spoke that she didn't sympathize with her brother's views.

That food. Had it been analyzed? No, of course not. And it was mainly crumbs anyhow. Probably just thrown out…

Sudden decision. She reached for the phone again and this time by a minor miracle got through to Angel City first go. She asked for Felice.

"I'm afraid she's in conference right now. Shall I take a message?"

Peg hesitated. "Yes! Yes, tell her Peg Mankiewicz called. Tell her that her brother was definitely poisoned."

"I'm sorry, I don't quite understand." And a sneeze, hastily apologized for.

"Oh, shit," Peg said wearily. "Never mind."

She found her eyesight was blurred. Tears? No. Watering. And her forehead tight and starting to throb. Hell and damnation, another lousy bout of sinusitis.

She hurried to the water-cooler to wash down her belated pill.

…
and Dr. Isaiah Willams, whose body was recovered from a
ravine near San Pablo. Inquiries are being hampered by what an
Army spokesman termed the obstinate attitude of the local people.

"They won't admit they know their left hands from their right," he
asserted. Here at home Senator Richard Howell (Rep., Col.) today
launched a fierce attack on the quote chlorophyll addicts unquote
who, he claims, are hamstringing American business, already
staggering under the load of high unemployment and recession, by
insisting that our manufacturers comply with regulations ignored
by foreign competition. In Southern Italy rioting continues in many
small towns formerly dependent on fishing. Meantime, dust storms
in the Camargue
…

"Hi, Fred!"

"Hi!"

Austin Train/Fred Smith continued up the stairs. It was incredibly noisy here-squalling lads, TV sound, radio, a record, someone practicing drums, and ahead on the top floor his neighbors the Blores quarreling again. Their apartment was like a bombed site. Either there would be murder done one day, or the eventual victor would inherit a mere heap of rubble.

Which was full of lessons for today. But the hell with it. He was tired, and the cut on his leg which he'd sustained a couple of days ago had swollen up and begun to throb. It looked as though it might be infected.

Pausing as he thrust his key into his own door, he noticed there was a new graffito on the landing, the Trainite slogan: YOU'RE KILLING

ME.

In purple lipstick. Very fashionable.

He glanced around, not really worried as to whether someone had broken in during his absence and robbed him, apart from the inconvenience of having to buy replacements. This belonged to Fred Smith, not Austin Train. The store-closet and icebox were full of commonplace cheap foods (if any food could be called cheap nowadays): canned, frozen, freeze-dried, irradiated, precooked and even predigested. The walls were chipped and needed paint. The windows were mostly okay but one pane was blocked with cardboard.

There were fleas the exterminator couldn't kill and rats that scrabbled in the walls and mice who left droppings like a cocked snook and roaches that thrived on insecticide, even the illegal kinds. He wouldn't touch those himself-that would have been carrying his "Fred Smith" role too far-but everyone else in the house knew where to score for DDT and dieldrin and so forth, and it hadn't helped.

He didn't really see his surroundings, though. One could live this way, and he was proving it. It meant something to him to be here. It implied-Hope? Possibly. Suppose that great heretic St. Francis of Assisi had been put (as he, Austin Train, had been) in front of twenty-eight million viewers on the Petronella Page Show and told to define his reasons for behaving as he did. We are told that "the meek shall inherit the earth." It follows that the meek are chosen of God. I shall try to be meek, not because I want the earth-you can keep it, after the way you've fucked it around it's not worth having-but because I too should like to be chosen of God. QED.

Besides, I like animals better than you bastards.

Of all the vices human beings are capable of, Austin Train detested hypocrisy most. He hadn't realized that until a matter of three years or so ago, following the period of notoriety which had begun a couple of years before with the publication of his
Handbook for 3000 AD.
Prior to that he had enjoyed moderate success; a group of his books had been reissued as matched paperbacks and attracted attention from an increasingly worried public, but it had all been low-key stuff. Suddenly, one might say overnight, he had become a celebrity, in demand for TV

interviews, commissioned to write for popular journals, called in as consultant on government committees. And then, equally abruptly, stop.

He had six hundred thousand dollars in the bank and lived in a slum tenement in the heart of a dying city.

Back there-he had come to think of it as another world-lying and fakery were a way of life. Sponsoring the programs on which he appeared as Cassandra: a plastics company, daily pouring half a million gallons of hot and poisoned water into a river that served eleven cities before it reached the ocean. Printing the articles he wrote: a corporation whose paper demanded the felling of half a forest every month. Ruling the country which paraded him as a prime example of the benefits of free speech: madmen who had made a desert and misnamed it peace.

It made him sick. Literally.

He lay in the hospital for two months, shivering without cease, spat at people who came to wish him well, tore up cables from strangers saying they hoped he'd get better quickly, threw food on the floor because it was poisoned, caught nurses around the neck and lectured them, helplessly pinioned, on egg-bundle fetus, sulphur dioxide, lead alkyls, DDE. Not that they heard much of what he told them. They were screaming too loudly.

When they released him, doped on tranquilizers, he went to live with the people who didn't make a professional habit of omitting to let their left hands know. He settled in the dirtiest back streets of the city he'd been born in. He'd considered alternatives: Barcelona, by the open cesspool of the Mediterranean; the rabbit-warrens of Rome, almost permanently under martial law; Osaka, where they were marketing airlocks to be fitted in place of regular front doors. Still, he wanted to be able to talk to the people around him-so he came home. "I am a man," he had said many times during his moment of fame, "I am as guilty as you, and you are as guilty as me. We can repent together, or we can die together; it must be our joint decision."

He hadn't expected to leave behind, in that world he'd abandoned, such a surprising legacy: the Trainites, who had no formal organization, not even a newspaper, yet now and then manifested themselves-one might almost believe as the result of some telepathic trigger, some upsurge of the collective unconscious-to put a brand on some company or enterprise that was endangering mankind. Obviously, he had not created them. They must have been there, waiting. Mainly they were the former radical students for whom it had become a matter of principle to say, "Yes, I'm a commie!" That habit had followed the Vietnam disaster, when the tons upon thousands of tons of herbicides, defoliants, riot gases, toxic agents, had finally broken the land down into desert. All of a sudden, in a single summer, dead plants, dead animals, dead rivers.

Dead people.

And when he popularized the term "commensalist" a little later, the reference was rapidly transferred. But didn't stick. Instead the news media invented the name "Trainite," and now it was universal.

He was half pleased by the flattery this implied, half frightened for complex reasons of which he had cited one to Peg. He dreamed occasionally of meeting the men who had taken his name in place of their own, and would wake sweating and moaning, because that led to visions of endless millions of identical people, impossible to tell apart.

Anyway, here he was in half the upper floor of a derelict building in downtown LA, formerly offices, converted to dwellings five years ago, never repaired or painted since. The people around him, though, didn't lie except to protect their egos, and he found that tolerable. What he loathed was a deed such as he would no longer term a crime, but a sin.

Unto the third and fourth generation, General Motors, you have visited your greed on the children. Unto the twentieth, AEG, you have twisted their limbs and closed their eyes. Unto the last dawn of man you have cursed us, O Father. Our Father. Our Father Which art in Washington, give us this day our daily calcium propionate, sodium diacetate monoglyceride, potassium bromate, calcium phosphate, monobasic chlora-mine T, aluminium potassium sulphate, sodium benzoate, butylated hydroxyanisole, mono-iso-propyl citrate, axerophthol and calciferol. Include with it a little flour and salt. Amen.

Something had infected his hair-roots and eyebrows, that made the skin flake away in dry crusty yellow scurf and left little raw patches of exposed flesh. He rubbed in a lotion Mrs. Blores had recommended; she and her husband suffered from the same complaint, and so did the kids on the lower floor. The lotion certainly helped-his scalp wasn't nearly as sore as it had been last week.

Then he ate, absently, not so much food as fuel: tasting of cottonwool or cardboard, the human counterpart of the fertilizers they were continuing to pour on land that daily grew more and more barren, hardened, scoriated, turned to dust. Like his scalp. He was shaping something he sensed to be important. He had given up books, even his favorites: the Bible, the
Bhagavad-Gita,
the
Precepts of Patanjali,
the
I Ching,
the
Popul Vuh,
the
Book of the Dead
…

If I don't know enough now, I shall never know enough. I couldn't stand that.

While he ate, he was thinking. While he worked during the day, he had been thinking. He had a job with the city sanitation department, and garbage was full of morals: sermons in trash-cans, books in running drains.

The others on the gang he worked with thought he was odd, maybe touched in the head. Could be. What had touched him, though, felt-significant. Suddenly, in recent weeks, the conviction had come on him: I matter. I count. I have an insight. I think a thing no one else thinks. I believe with the certainty of faith. I must
must
make others hear and understand. When it is time.

At night, when he lay down to sleep, he felt that his brain was resonating with the heartbeat of the planet.

"Get me a wig-quickly!"

Startled by the shout, Terry Fenton glanced up from inventorying his equipment: paints, powders, dyes, lacquers-all of the finest quality, of course, Peruvian and Mexican, based on herbal essences and vegetable waxes and flower pigments, not a trace of anything synthetic.

Nothing but the best for Terry Fenton. He was at the apex of his profession, senior makeup supervisor for the entire New York studio complex of ABS, far more trendily clad and infinitely better groomed than almost all the stars who nightly fed visual pablum to the admass.

"Pet! Christ, what have you done to your
hair
?"

Forty, but glamorous and rigorously dieted slim, Petronella Page stormed to her usual chair. She was wearing a magnificent pants suit in abstract scarlet and yellow and her face was so flawless Terry would as ever need to add only minor touches. But her hair was streaked with irregular muddy marks.

She ran the Monday and Wednesday late-night talk show, and was popular, and expected to take on Friday as well because the trans-Atlantic commuting compere, the Englishman Adrian Sprague, was verging on a nervous breakdown at long-awaited last and moreover had missed three shows in three months owing to bomb scares aboard the planes he was taking.