None of which solved the problem of how I was going to go on working with Bennett. Or of where I was going to find Romantic Bride Barbie.
I went over to the library and checked out Anna Karenina and Cyrano de Bergerac and got the Denver phone book from the reference section. I copied down all the toy stores that weren’t on Gina’s list and all the department and discount stores, explained to Flip’s clone that I had already paid the fine on Browning’s Complete Works, and set out again, marking off stores as I went.
I eventually found Romantic Bride Barbie at a Target in Aurora—wedged in behind Barbie’s Horse Stable Club—and took it up to the checkout.
The clerk was trying to make change for the man in front of me.
“It’s eighteen seventy-eight,” she said.
“I know,” the man said. “I gave you a twenty-dollar bill and then after you rang it up as eighteen seventy-eight, I gave you three cents. You owe me a dollar and a quarter.”
She flipped her hair back, irritably, revealing an i.
Give up, I thought. It’s no use.
“The register says one twenty-two,” she said.
“I know,” he said. “That’s why I gave you the three cents. Twenty-two plus three makes a quarter.”
“A quarter of what?”
I set Romantic Bride Barbie on the end of the counter. I read the tabloid headlines and looked at the impulse items on the rack next to the counter. Duct tape in several widths, and bubble packs of Barbie high heels in assorted colors.
“All right, fine,” the man said. “Give me back the three cents and give me one twenty-two.”
I picked up a pack of high heels. “New! Cerenkhov blue,” it read. I set it down next to the duct tape and as I did, I felt a strange sensation, as if I were on the verge of something important, like the final side of a Rubik’s cube clicking into place.
“This doesn’t have a price on it,” the checkout clerk said. She was holding Romantic Bride Barbie. “I can’t sell anything that doesn’t have a price on it.”
“It’s thirty-eight ninety-nine,” I said. “The manager said to ring it up under Miscellaneous.”
“Oh,” she said, and rang it up.
This is a fad I could actually learn to like, I thought, smiling at her i. Forewarned is forearmed.
“That’ll be forty-one thirty-three,” she said. I stood there, wallet in hand, looking at the boxes of crayons, trying to recapture the feeling I’d had. Something about Cerenkhov blue, and duct tape, or—
Whatever it was, it was gone. I hoped it hadn’t been the cure for cholera.
“Forty-one thirty-three,” the clerk said.
I carefully counted out the exact change and left with Romantic Bride Barbie. On the way out, I stepped on something and looked down. It was a penny. Farther on there were two more. They looked like they had been flung down with some force.
prohibition (1895—january 16, 1920)—–Aversion fad against alcohol fueled by the Women’s Christian Temperance Union, Carry Nation’s saloon-smashing, and the sad effects of alcoholism. Schoolchildren were urged to “sign the pledge” and women to swear not to touch lips that had touched liquor. The movement gained impetus and political support all through the early 1900s, with party candidates drinking toasts with glasses of water and several states voting to go dry, and finally culminated in the Volstead Act. Died out as soon as Prohibition was enacted. Replaced by bootleggers, speakeasies, bathtub gin, hip flasks, organized crime, and Repeal.
Gina couldn’t believe I’d found Romantic Bride Barbie. She hugged me twice. “You’re wonderful. You’re a miracle worker!”
“Not quite,” I said, trying to smile. “I don’t seem to be having any luck finding the source of hair-bobbing.”
“Speaking of which,” she said, still admiring Romantic Bride Barbie, “Dr. O’Reilly was up here before, looking for you. He looked worried.”
What’s Flip lost now? I wondered, the bellwether? and started down to Bio. Halfway there, I ran into Ben. He grabbed my arm. “We were supposed to be in Management’s office ten minutes ago.”
“Why? What’s this about?” I asked, trying to keep up. “Are we in trouble?”
Well, of course we were in trouble. The only time anybody got to see the inside of Management’s office, Staff Input notwithstanding, was when they were getting transferred to Supply. Or having their funding cut.
“I hope it isn’t the animal-rights activists,” Ben said, coming to a stop outside Management’s door. “Do you think I should have worn a jacket?”
“No,” I said, remembering his jackets. “Maybe it’s something minor. Maybe we didn’t dress down enough.”
The secretary in the outer office told us to go right in. “It’s not something minor,” Ben whispered, and reached for the doorknob.
“Maybe we’re not in trouble,” I said. “Maybe Management’s going to commend us for cross-disciplinary cooperation.”
He opened the door. Management was standing behind his desk with his arms folded.
“I don’t think so,” Ben murmured, and we went in.
Management told us to sit down, another bad sign. One of SHAM’s Eight Efficiency Enhancers was “Holding meetings standing up encourages succinctness.”
We sat.
Management remained standing. “An extremely serious matter has come to my attention concerning you and your project”
It is the animal-rights activists, I thought, and braced myself for what he was going to say next
“The assistant workplace message facilitator was observed smoking in the area of the animal compound. She says she had permission to do so. Is that true?”
Smoking. This was about Shirl’s smoking. “Who gave her this permission?” Management demanded.
“I did,” we both said. “It was my idea,” I said. “I asked Dr. O’Reilly if it was all right.”
“Are you aware that the HiTek building is a smoke-free zone?”
“It was outside,” I said, and then remembered Berkeley. “I didn’t think she should have to stand out in the middle of a blizzard to smoke.”
“I didn’t either,” Ben said. “She didn’t smoke inside. Just in the paddock.”
Management looked even grimmer. “Are you aware of HiTek’s guidelines for live-animal research?”
“Yes,” Ben said, looking bewildered. “We followed the—”
“Live animals are required to have a healthy environment,” Management said. “Are you aware of the dangers of atmospheric carcinogens, the FDA’s report on the dangers of secondhand smoke? It can cause lung cancer, emphysema, high blood pressure and heart attacks.”
Ben looked even more confused. “She didn’t smoke anywhere near us, and it was outside. It—”
“Live animals are required to have a healthy environment,” Management said. “Would you call smoke a healthy environment?”
Never underestimate the power of an aversion trend, I thought. The last one in this country ended in wholesale accusations of communist leanings, ruined reputations, destroyed careers.
“‘… out of the houses the rats came tumbling,’” I murmured.
“What?” Management said, glaring at me.
“Nothing.”
“Do you know what the effects of secondhand smoke on sheep are?” Management said.
No, I thought, and you don’t either. You’re just following the flock.
“Your blatant disregard for the health of the sheep has clearly made the project ineligible for serious consideration as a grant contender.”
“She only smoked one cigarette a day,” Ben said. “The compound where the sheep are is a hundred feet by eighty. The density of the smoke from a single cigarette would be less than one part per billion.”
Give it up, Ben, I thought Aversion trends have nothing to do with scientific logic, and we’ve not only exposed sheep to secondhand smoke, HiTek thinks we’ve jeopardized its chances of winning its heart’s desire, the Niebnitz Grant.
I l
ooked at Management. HiTek’s actually going to fire somebody, I thought, and it’s us.
I was wrong.
“Dr. Foster, you were the one who obtained the sheep, weren’t you?”
“Yes,” I said, resisting the urge to add “sir.” “From a rancher in Wyoming.”
“And is he aware that you intended exposing his sheep to harmful carcinogens?”
“No, but he won’t object,” I said, and then remembered the bread pudding. I had never asked him his views on smoking, but I knew what they were: whatever everyone else thought
“As I recall, this project was your idea, too, Dr. Foster,” Management said. “It was your idea to use sheep, in spite of Management’s objections.”
“She was only trying to help me save my project,” Ben said, but Management wasn’t listening.
“Dr. O’Reilly,” he said, “this unfortunate situation is clearly not your fault. The project will have to be terminated, I’m afraid, but Dr. Turnbull is in need of a colleague for the project she is working on, and she specifically requested you.”
“What project?” Ben said.
“That hasn’t been decided yet,” Management said. “She is looking into several possibilities. Whatever, I’m sure it will be an excellent project to be involved with. We feel it has a seventy-eight percent chance of winning the Niebnitz Grant.” He turned back to me. “Dr. Foster, I’ll hold you responsible for returning the sheep to their owner immediately.”
The secretary came in. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Mr.—”
“A reprimand will be placed in your file, Dr. Foster,” Management said, ignoring her, “and there will be a serious reexamination of your project at the next funding allocation period. In the meantime—”
“Sir, you need to come out here,” the secretary said.
“I’m in the middle of a meeting,” Management cut in. “I want a full report detailing your progress in trends research,” he said to me.
“Now wait a minute,” Ben said. “Dr. Foster was only—”
The secretary said, “Excuse me, Mr.—”
“What is it, Ms. Shepard?” Management said.
“The sheep—”
“Has the owner called to complain?” he said, shooting me a venomous glance.
“No, sir. It’s the sheep. They’re in the hall.”
God’s in his heaven—
All’s right with the world.
robert browning
dancing mania (1374)—Northern European religious fad in which people danced uncontrollably for hours. They formed circles in streets and churches and leaped, screamed, and rolled on the ground, often shouting that they were possessed by demons and begging said demons to stop tormenting them. Caused by nervous hysteria and/or the wearing of pointed shoes.
The idea that chaos and significant scientific breakthroughs are connected was first proposed by Henri Poincaré, who had been unable to forget putting his foot on the omnibus step and having it all come clear. The pattern of his discovery, he told the Société de Psychologie, was one of unexpected insight arising out of frustration, confusion, and mental chaos.
Other chaos theorists have explained Poincaré’s experience as the result of the conjunction of two distinct frames of reference. The chaotic circumstances—Poincaré’s frustration with the problem, his insomnia, the distractions of packing for a trip, the change of scenery—created a far-from-equilibrium situation in which unconnected ideas shifted into new and startling conjunctions with each other and tiny events could have enormous consequences. Until chaos could be crystallized into a higher order of equilibrium by the simple act of stepping onto a bus. Or into a flock of sheep.
They weren’t in the hall. They were in the outer office and on their way into Management’s white-carpeted inner sanctum. The secretary flattened herself against the wall to let them pass, clutching her steno pad to her chest.
“Wait!” Management said, putting his hands up as if doing a sensitivity exercise. “You cannot come in here!”
Ben dived to head off the lead ewe, which must not have been the bellwether, because even though he got it stopped at the door and held it there, pushing against its shoulders like a football tight end, the other sheep simply swarmed past it and into Management’s office. And maybe I had misjudged them and they did have brains. They had unerringly headed straight for the part of the building where they could do the most damage.
They did it, tracking in an amount of dirt I wouldn’t have thought their little cloven hooves could carry, leaving a long smear of dirt-laden lanolin on the white walls and Management’s secretary as they brushed past them.
Ben was still struggling with the ewe, which was eager to join the flock, now heading straight for Management’s polished teak desk.
“Endangering the welfare of live animals,” Management said, clambering up on top of it “Providing inadequate project supervision.”
The sheep were circling the desk like Indians riding around a wagon train.
“Failing to institute proper security measures!” Management said.
“Facilitating potential,” I murmured, trying to get them moving in another direction, any direction.
“These animals should not be in here!” Management shouted from the top of his desk.
The same idea had apparently occurred to the sheep. They set up a pitiful bleating all at once, opening their mouths in a continuous, deafening baa.
I looked sharply at the sheep, trying to spot where the bleating had originated, but it had seemed to come from everywhere at once. Like hair-bobbing.
“Did you hear where the bleating started?” I shouted to Ben, who let go of the ewe, and the sheep were suddenly on the move again, milling randomly through the office and toward the door to the secretary’s hall.
“Where are they going?” Ben said.
Management had clambered down off his desk and was shouting warnings again, looking slightly more dressed-down than before. “HiTek will not tolerate employee sabotage! If either of you or that smoker let these sheep out on purpose—”
“We didn’t,” Ben said, trying to get to the door. “They must have gotten out by themselves,” and I had a sudden image of Flip leaning on the paddock gate, flipping the latch up and down, up and down.
Ben made it to the door as the last two sheep were squeezing through, bleating frantically at the thought of being left behind.
But once in the hall they began milling aimlessly around, looking lost but immovable.
“We have to find the bellwether,” I said. I began to work my way through them, searching for the pink ribbon.
There was a yelp from the end of the hall and a “Blast you, you brainless critter!” It was Shirl, her arms full of papers. “Get out of my way, you fool animal!” she shouted. “How did you get—” She stopped short at the sight of the hallful of sheep. “Who let them out?”
“Flip,” I said, feeling around a ewe’s neck for the ribbon.
“She can’t have,” Shirl said, wading toward me through the sheep. “She’s not here.”
“What do you mean she’s not here?” I said. Two ewes pushed past me on either side and nearly knocked me down.
“She quit,” Shirl said, swatting at the one on the left with her papers. “Three days ago.”
“I don’t care,” I said, pushing at the other one. “Somehow, somewhere, Flip is behind this. She’s behind everything.”
The sheep surged suddenly down the hall toward Personnel. “Where are they going now?” Ben said.
“They have no idea,” I said. “Behold the American public.”
Management emerged from his office, Dockers in disarray. “This sort of behavior is obviously a side effect of nicotine!”
“We have to find the bellwether,” I said. “It’s the key.”
Ben stopped. He looked at me. “The key,” he said.
Management bellowed, “When I find out who’s causing this—this chaos—”
“Chaos,” Ben said, almo
st to himself. “The key’s the bellwether.”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s the only way we can get them back to Bio. You start at this end, and I’ll take the other end. Okay?”
He didn’t answer me. He stood, transfixed, while the sheep milled around him, his mouth half open, his eyes squinting behind his Coke-bottle glasses. “A bellwether,” he said softly.
“Yes, the bellwether,” I said, and it took a long moment for his eyes to focus on me. “Find the bellwether. Think pink,” and I started for the end of the hall. “Shirl, run down to the lab and get a halter and lead.” Something suddenly struck me. “Did you say Flip quit?”
Shirl nodded. “That dentist she met in the personals. He moved, and she followed him. So they could be geographically compatible.” She went back down the hall in the direction of Bio.
The sheep were in the stairwell, milling frightenedly at the edge of the top stair, and it was too bad it wasn’t a cliff. Maybe they’d still fall down it and break their necks—but no such luck. They clambered lightly down a flight and into the hall to Stats. I ran back upstairs. “They’re heading for Stats!” I shouted to Ben.
He wasn’t there. I ran back down the stairs and stopped halfway. In a corner on the floor, thoroughly trampled and very dirty, was the pink ribbon. Wonderful, I thought, and looked up to see Alicia Turnbull glaring at me. “Dr. Foster” she said disapprovingly.
“Don’t tell me,” I said. “None of the Niebnitz Grant winners were ever involved in livestock stampedes.”
“Where is Dr. O’Reilly?” she demanded.
“I don’t know,” I said. I picked up the draggled ribbon. “I don’t know where the bellwether is either. Or what sort of project will win the Niebnitz Grant I do, however, have a good idea what those sheep are doing to Stats at this very minute, so if you’ll excuse me—” I said, and pushed past her out of the stairwell and into the hall.
At least they can’t do any damage in my lab, I thought, hoping the rest of the doors were shut.
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