The Sheep Look Up (35 page)

"Hey, that's music!" Tab exclaimed. He'd stayed to listen. "Yeah, that makes a lot of sense. Go 'way!"-to Cindy, who was fumbling in his crotch. At once the argument became general, ideas being thrown out a dozen a minute and most of them absurd.

But meantime Hugh was sitting back against the wall and thinking: Christ, it's crazy and it might work. It just, very just,
might.

It was in the spirit of the whole national scene, too-would kick off a lot of support especially in the cities-and a hell of a sight closer to the original Trainite ideals than throwing bombs.

If it hadn't been for Ossie, of course, it would never have progressed from a pipe-dream to actual execution. Hugh wasn't sure quite how it developed-the moment he realized he was going to be the key to the scheme, he got high, and stayed high, and was still high the day they did it. But Ossie had spent fifteen years on the underground scene, getting busted now and then but never spending long inside because he had an instinct for self-preservation that was halfway to paranoia. Also he had contacts, and he used them.

Roland Bamberley had divorced Hector's mother years ago and kept a succession of respectable mistresses, unwilling to remarry because he wanted total control of his fortune. He and his son lived on a Stronghold Estate (where else?) near Point Reyes, built around an artificial lake with clean fresh water and lots of tall trees nearby to keep the air sweet. It was obviously no good tackling the job right there. Not with ex-Marine sharpshooters on patrol.

But Hector did emerge into the open now and then, even though he was invariably accompanied by his armed bodyguard. A friend of his from the same expensive prep school he attended lived on the hillside overlooking Sausalito, which had become a very sought-after location indeed during the past five years, because the greenery was still lush and some trick of micrometeorology made the air better than average.

Ossie had an acquaintance who worked for a local TV station.

Obligingly, the guy established that if he wasn't traveling during summer vacation Hector called on his friend once a week for a morning game of tennis (indoors, naturally), after which he stayed to lunch.

So they scouted the area while Ossie worked on a few of his other contacts, and figured out a route back to Berkeley from the north which avoided the main bridges, and did a couple of dry runs complete in every detail bar one: that for the actual operation they would steal a car and later abandon it.

And all of a sudden the day appointed was upon them.

It was just as well Hugh was living in a dream. If he'd believed what was happening was real, he'd have pissed in his pants with terror. As it was, he felt quite calm.

Just around the corner from the home of Hector's friend, which was screened from the road by dense trees and shrubs, there was a stop sign. At it the dark-blue air-conditioned Cadillac dutifully halted. Hugh stepped into plain view and grinned and waved and knocked on the car's window. He had put on his best-or rather, what had been until a day or two ago someone else's best-clothes, and shaved, and generally made himself presentable. "Say, aren't you Hector? Hector Bamberley?" he shouted.

At the wheel, the bodyguard twisted around, one hand reaching under his jacket for his gun. Not wearing a mask inside the car, of course-Caddies had the best possible precipitators-Hector looked politely puzzled, a trifle startled.

"I'm Hugh! Hugh Pettingill! At your uncle Jack's!" Recognition dawned. A word to the bodyguard, who gave a frown, and then also remembered their former meeting. He relaxed, then tensed again as Hector automatically touched the window switch.

"Hey, put your mask on if you're going to open that-" But by then it was too late. Hugh had pitched the sleep-grenade into the car. It landed fair on the middle of the front seat. He spun and raced for the side of the road.

The grenade held the US Army's latest riot-control compound, PL.

It had been mailed home from Honduras. Ossie knew someone who knew someone. And there was always a keen demand for weaponry.

They waited the requisite three minutes. The bodyguard's foot had slipped off the brake, of course, but the car had only rolled forward across the main road and gently bumped the bank opposite. They were prepared to take the risk of his remembering Hugh. In two cases out of three PL induced temporary amnesia, like a blow on the head. It was more likely than not that he'd wake up to find he couldn't recall a thing.

Then the others appeared from the scrawny underbrush, and Ossie drove up in the station wagon they'd stolen, and they piled Hector in the back under a blanket and split.

"He looks pretty green," Hugh muttered as they dumped him in the room-more, an oversize closet-they'd made ready at Kitty's. She hadn't been back since her bust at the Fourth of July party, and no one seemed to know where she'd gone, except it wasn't jail, but they were sure she'd have approved if she'd known what they were doing.

This was a gloryhole without windows, though very well ventilated-they'd made sure of that-with concrete walls, a good solid lockable door, and a sink in the corner whose tap worked fine. They'd fitted it up with a divan bed, a chamber-pot and a supply of paper, some books and magazines to help him pass the time. He'd hate it. But he wouldn't be getting much worse than some people had to live with all the time.

"He looks sick!" Hugh said, more loudly this time.

"Sure he is," Ossie grunted, pulling the boy's legs straight on the bed. "They always are when they wake up from PL. But we have the promise of the Pentagon that it isn't fatal." Grinning without humor.

"Me, I'll go mail the ransom note," he added, and turned to leave.

When Hector Bamberley struggled back from the depths of coma, he found Hugh squatting against the wall surrounded by roaches, some alive and some khat. You could chew it, infuse it, smoke it-come to that you could stick it up your ass, but Hugh hadn't tried that. Of the others, he'd decided he preferred smoking. Hastily he donned his filtermask.

Hector said, "What…?" Tried to sit up. Fell back. Tried again. He was big for his age, as tall as Hugh, and in first-rate physical shape. So he ought to be, the way he'd been coddled all his life.

He nearly threw up-they'd left the chamber-pot handy in case-but managed not to. At the third attempt he reached a sitting position and focused his eyes. He was very pale, and there was a whimper in his voice when he said, "I…Do I know you? I think I saw…"

It tailed away.

"Where am I?" With a cry. "What am I doing here?"

Hugh kept on looking steadily at him.

"I do know you." Putting both hands to his temples and swaying.

"You're…No, I don't know you after all."

There was a silence during which he recuperated from the worst effects and was able to drop his hands and regained a little color in his cheeks.

"Where am I?" he said again.

"Here."

"What are you going to do with me?"

"Take care of you," Hugh grunted. "Very good care. Expensive care. Look!" He reached under the bed, barely missing Hector's feet, and drew out a plastic tray on which they had arranged food: sausage, salad, bread, fruit, cheese, and a water-glass. There was no don't-drink notice in force at present, so they'd agreed to take the fact literally.

"This is all from Puritan. Got that?"

"I don't understand!"

"Simple enough," Hugh sighed. "You are not going to be starved, that's the first thing. You're not going to be beaten-nothing like that."

"But…" Hector took a firm grip on himself. Among the subjects they taught best at his expensive school was self-control. "All right, so I'm not here to be starved or beaten. What for, then?"

"Because your father inherited a fortune made by ruining the earth.

Now he stands to make another out of his ancestors' shit. So we're going to keep you here, and feed you-all stuff from Puritan, the best kind-until your dad agrees to install twenty thousand of his new water-filters free of charge."

But Hector wasn't seriously listening. "I know who you are!" he said suddenly. "You had a quarrel with Uncle Jack and walked out!"

"Did you understand what I told you?" Hugh scrambled to his feet.

So much for wearing a filtermask!

"Ah…Yes, I guess so." Hector looked nervous. Small wonder.

"Say, I-uh-I need to go to the can."

Hugh pointed.

"What? You mean you're not even going to let me go to the bathroom?"

"No. You can wash down at the sink. You'll get a towel." Hugh curled his lip, not that it showed. "Don't know why you're so eager for the bathroom anyhow. We don't have one of your dad's water-purifiers here. We have to take the regular supply. Think about that. You'll have lots of tune.

He reached with bunched knuckles to rap on the door, twice. Ossie had worked out a scheme: no one to go in the room without a mask, no one to go in without someone waiting outside behind the locked door, not to open until he heard the agreed number of knocks and that was to be changed every time.

Prompt, Tab opened to him, and Carl was seen in the background poised to block an escape. Both were masked.

Hugh stepped out and the door was slammed and locked.

"All cool?" Carl demanded.

"Shit, no. He recognized me." Hugh threw aside his mask in disgust.

"Ah, I guess he was bound to. I mean, people wear them so much of the time, you go by the eyes and forehead. Should have known I had to take the risk. Well, never mind." Saying it made him feel bolder. He added, "Christ, khat makes me thirsty. Got a Coke or something?"

"Here." Chuck tossed one from a carton they had going in the corner. "Say, did he look at the books yet?"

"Hell, of course not. Why?"

Chuck grinned. "I put a stack of porn in with them. Might be handy for him while he's alone."

"What the hell?"

Elbow in the ribs. Philip Mason swore at his wife. It was dark. Also hot. But the windows had to be shut because of the smoke from the river fires.

And then he realized: another stinking quake.

He sat up. "Bad one?" he muttered, driving sleep from his eyes with the palms of his hands.

"No, but Harold's crying." Denise was climbing out of bed, feet fumbling for slippers. There was another brief rumble and something rattled on her dressing-table: perfume bottles, maybe. A wail. No, a top-of-the-lungs yell.

"Okay, I'll come along, too," Philip sighed, and swung his legs to the floor.

THIS ISN'T THE END OF THE WORLD, IS IT?

Normally Moses Greenbriar distributed greetings like largesse as he waddled toward his office every morning. Today he distributed snarls.

He was soaking with perspiration-the air outside was appallingly hot and wet-and he was more than an hour late. He stormed into his office and slammed the door.

"Dr. Grey has been waiting for you for over half an hour," his secretary said nervously via the intercom.

"Shut up! I know!"

He fumbled the lid off a small bottle of capsules, gulped one down, and in a few minutes felt somewhat better. But it was still horribly hot and humid in here. He buzzed the secretary.

"What the hell's wrong with the air conditioning?"

"Uh…It's overloaded, sir. It's on maximum already. They promised to send someone along and adjust it next week."

"Next week!"

"Yes, sir. They haven't caught up the backlog they accumulated during the enteritis epidemic."

"Ah, hell!" Greenbriar wiped his face and peeled off his jacket.

Who cared if he showed a wet shirt? So would everybody on a day like this. "Okay, send Dr. Grey in."

And, by the time Grey appeared in the doorway, he'd composed himself with the help of the pill into something resembling his normal affability.

"Tom, do sit down. I'm sorry to have kept you hanging about-it was those dirty Trainites again."

"I hadn't heard there was another demonstration today," Grey said, crossing his legs. Greenbriar stared at him resentfully; the guy hardly showed a wrinkle, let alone a patch of sweat.

He said, "Not a demonstration. They seem to have given up such harmless stunts, don't they? I imagine you heard Hector Bamberley's been kidnapped?"

Grey nodded. "Was your trouble something to do with-?"

"Shit, no." Greenbriar seized a cigar and savagely bit off the end.

"Though I can't say it hasn't caused plenty of trouble for us, that-what with Jack Bamberley dead, and Maud under sedation, we were expecting Roland to step into his shoes and help keep the organization on an even keel, stop this disastrous drop in our share price…But what happened to me, the police had a tip-off that some maniac was going to blow the Queens Midtown Tunnel by driving through it with a bomb in his car. And himself too, I guess. So they're stopping and searching everybody. Bet it's another stinking hoax!"

"Yes, threats are an excellent sabotage technique in themselves,"

Grey said with clinical interest "Very much akin to the German V-l flying bombs, you know. They carried warheads too small to do much damage, but everyone within earshot naturally took shelter, so they interfered remarkably efficiently with munitions production and public services."

Greenbriar blinked at him. After a pause, he said, "Well, maybe, but it's a stinking nuisance all the same…Say, I guess I should have started by saying I'm glad to see you better. You were indisposed, weren't you?"

"Nothing serious," Grey said. But he sounded, and was, aggrieved.

Neither a drinker nor a smoker, celibate, and eating a balanced diet, he suffered from the subconscious assumption that disease germs would realize he was a hard nut to crack and keep their distance. Instead, he had gone down with brucellosis-he, Tom Grey, who
never
touched unpasteurized milk and invariably ate margarine instead of butter!

Now, naturally, he was cured; there were excellent and fast-acting specifics. But it irked him that he'd been deprived of three precious weeks he could have devoted to his project. At Angel City he had had a great deal of time to pursue what he regarded as the most important aspects of it. Here, by contrast, precisely because he had been engaged to work on it as a main job instead of a private venture, he had to subordinate his own preferences to the priorities of his employers.