Lincoln's Dreams

by Connie Willis

  If there is any, I thought, watching the sheep.

  One of them walked a step, grazed, walked two more steps, and then apparently forgot what it was doing and gazed vacantly into space.

  Flip slouched in, wearing a waitress uniform with red piping on the collar and “Don’s Diner” embroidered in red on the pocket, and carrying a paper.

  “Did you get a job?” Ben asked hopefully.

  She rolled her eyes. “No-o-o-o.”

  “Then why are you wearing a uniform?” I asked.

  “It’s not a uniform. It’s a dress designed to look like a uniform. Because of how I have to do all the work around here. It’s a statement. You have to sign this,” she said, handing me the paper and leaning over the gate. “Are these the sheep?”

  The paper was a petition to ban smoking in the parking lot.

  Ben said, “One person smoking one cigarette a day in a three-acre parking lot does not produce secondhand smoke in sufficient concentration to worry about.”

  Flip tossed her hair, her hair wraps swinging wildly. “Not secondhand smoke,” she said disgustedly. “Air pollution.”

  She slouched out, and we went back to observing. At least the lack of activity gave us plenty of time to set up our observation programs and review the literature.

  There wasn’t much. A biologist at William and Mary had observed a flock of five hundred and concluded that they had “a strong herd instinct,” and a researcher in Indiana had identified five separate forms of sheep communication (the baas were listed phonetically), but no one had done active learning experiments. They had just done what we were doing: watch them chew, totter, mill, and throw up.

  We had a lot of time to talk about hair-bobbing and chaos theory. “The amazing thing is that chaotic systems don’t always stay chaotic,” Ben said, leaning on the gate. “Sometimes they spontaneously reorganize themselves into an orderly structure.”

  “They suddenly become less chaotic?” I said, wishing that would happen at HiTek.

  “No, that’s the thing, they become more and more chaotic, until they reach some sort of chaotic critical mass. When that happens, they spontaneously reorganize themselves at a higher equilibrium level. It’s called self-organized criticality.”

  We seemed well on the way to it. Management issued memos, the sheep got their heads stuck in the fence, the gate, and under the food dispenser, and Flip came in periodically to hang on the gate between the paddock and the lab, flip the latch monotonously up and down, and look lovesick.

  By the third day it was obvious the sheep weren’t going to start any fads. Or learn how to push a button to get food. Ben had set up the apparatus the morning after we got the sheep and demonstrated it several times, getting down on all fours and pressing his nose against the wide flat button. Food pellets clattered down each time, and Ben stuck his head into the trough and made chewing noises. The sheep watched impassively.

  “We’re going to have to force one of them to do it,” I said. We’d watched the videotapes from the day they arrived and seen how they’d gotten off the truck. The sheep had jostled and backed until one was finally pushed off onto the ramp. The others had immediately tumbled after it in a rush. “If we can teach one of them, we know the others will follow it.”

  Ben went resignedly to get the halter. “Which one?”

  “Not that one,” I said, pointing at the sheep that had thrown up. I looked at them, sizing them up for alertness and intelligence. There didn’t appear to be much. “That one, I guess.”

  Ben nodded, and we started toward it with the halter. It chewed thoughtfully a moment, and then bolted into the far corner. The entire flock followed, leaping over each other in their eagerness to reach the wall.

  “‘And out of the houses the rats came tumbling,’” I murmured.

  “Well, at least they’re all in one corner,” Ben said. “I should be able to get the halter on one of them.”

  Nope, although he was able to grab a handful of wool and hold on nearly halfway across the paddock.

  “I think you’re scaring them,” Flip said from the gate. She had been hanging on it half the morning, morosely flipping the latch up and down and telling us about Darrell the dentist.

  “They’re scaring me,” Ben said, brushing off his corduroy pants, “so we’re even.”

  “Maybe we should try coaxing them,” I said. I squatted down. “Come here,” I said in the childish voice people use with dogs. “Come on. I won’t hurt you.”

  The sheep gazed at me from the corner, chewing impassively.

  “What do shepherds do when they lead their flocks?” Ben asked.

  I tried to remember from pictures. “I don’t know. They just walk ahead of them, and the sheep follow them.”

  We tried that. We also tried sneaking up on both sides of a sheep and coming at the flock from the opposite side, on the off-chance they would run the other way and one of them would accidentally collide with the button.

  “Maybe they don’t like those food pellet things,” Flip said.

  “She’s right, you know,” I said, and Ben stared at me in disbelief “We need to know more about their eating habits and their abilities. I’ll call Billy Ray and see what they do like.”

  I got Billy’s Ray’s voice mail. “Press one if you want the ranchhouse, press two if you want the barn, press three if you want the sheep camp.” Billy Ray wasn’t at any of the three. He was on his way to Casper.

  I went back to the lab, told Bennett and Flip I was going to the library, and drove in.

  Flip’s clone was at the desk.

  “Do you have any books on sheep?” I asked her.

  “How do you spell that?”

  “With two e’s.” She still looked blank. “S. H.”

  “The Sheik of Araby,” she read from the screen, “Middle-Eastern Sheiks and—”

  “Sheep,” I said. “With a p.”

  “Oh.” She typed it in, backspacing several times. “The Mystery of the Missing Sheep,” she read. “Six Silly Sheep Go Shopping, The Black Sheep Syndrome,…”

  “Books about sheep,” I said. “How to raise them and train them.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You didn’t say that.”

  I finally managed to get a call number out of her and checked out Sheep Raising for Fun and Profit; Tales of an Australian Shepherd; Dorothy Sayers’s Nine Tailors, which I seemed to remember had some sheep in it; Sheep Management and Care; and, remembering Billy Ray’s sheep mange, Common Sheep Diseases and took them up to be checked out.

  “I show an overdue book for you,” she said. “Complete Words by Robert Browning.”

  “Works,” I said. “Complete Works. We went through this last time. I checked it in.”

  “I don’t show a return,” she said. “I show a fine of sixteen fifty. It shows you checked it out last March. Books can’t be checked out when outstanding fines exceed five dollars.”

  “I checked the book in,” I said, and slapped down twenty dollars.

  “Plus you have to pay the replacement cost of the book,” she said. “That’s fifty-five ninety-five.”

  I know when I am licked. I wrote her a check and took the books back to Ben, and we started through them.

  They were not encouraging. “In hot weather sheep will bunch together and smother to death.” Sheep Raising for Fun, Etc, said, and “Sheep occasionally roll over on their backs and aren’t able to right themselves.”

  “Listen to this,” Ben said. “‘When frightened, sheep may run into trees or other obstacles.’”

  There was nothing about skills except “Keeping sheep inside a fence is a lot easier than getting them back in,” but there was a lot of information about handling them that we could have used earlier.

  You were never supposed to touch a sheep on the face or scratch it behind the ears, and the Australian shepherd advised ominously, “Throwing your hat on the ground and stomping on it doesn’t do anything except ruin your hat.”

  “‘A sheep fears
being trapped more than anything else,’” I read to Ben.

  “Now you tell me,” he said.

  And some of the advice apparently wasn’t all that reliable. “Sit quietly,” Sheep Management said, “and the sheep will get curious and come to see what you’ve doing.”

  They didn’t, but the Australian shepherd had a practical method for getting a sheep to go where you wanted.

  “‘Get down on one knee beside the sheep,’” I read from the book.

  Ben compiled.

  “‘Place one hand on dock,’” I read. “That’s the tail area.”

  “On the tail?”

  “No. Slightly to the rear of the hips.”

  Shirl came out of the lab onto the porch, lit a cigarette, and then came over to the fence to watch us.

  “‘Place the other hand under the chin,’” I read. “‘When you hold the sheep this way, he can’t twist away from you, and he can’t go forward or back.’”

  “So far so good,” Ben said.

  “Now, ‘Hold the chin firmly and squeeze the dock gently to make the sheep go forward.’” I lowered the book and watched. “You stop it by pushing on the hand that’s under the chin.”

  “Okay,” Ben said, getting up off his knee. “Here goes.”

  He gave the woolly rear of the sheep a gentle squeeze. The sheep didn’t move.

  Shirl took a long, coughing drag on her cigarette and shook her hand.

  “What are we doing wrong?” Ben said.

  “That depends,” she said. “What are you trying to do?”

  “Well, eventually I want to teach a sheep to push a button to get food,” he said, “For now I’d settle for getting a sheep on the same side of the paddock as the food trough.”

  He had been holding on to the sheep and squeezing the whole time he’d been talking, but the sheep was apparently operating on some sort of delayed mechanism. It took two docile steps forward and began to buck.

  “Don’t let go of the chin,” I said, which was easier said than done. We both grabbed for the neck. I dropped the book and got a handful of wool. Ben got kicked in the arm. The sheep gave a mighty lunge and took off for the middle of the flock.

  “They do that,” Shirl said, blowing smoke. “Whenever they’ve been separated from the flock, they dive straight back into the middle of it. Group instinct reasserting itself. Thinking for itself is too frightening.”

  We both went over to the fence. “You know about sheep?” Ben said.

  She nodded, puffing on her cigarette. “I know they’re the orneriest, stubbornest, dumbest critters on the planet.”

  “We already figured that out,” Ben said.

  “How do you know about sheep?” I asked.

  “I was raised on a sheep ranch in Montana.”

  Ben gave a sigh of relief, and I said, “Can you tell us what to do? We can’t get these sheep to do anything.”

  She took a long drag on her cigarette. “You need a bellwether,” she said.

  LINCOLN’S DREAMS

  A Bantam Spectra Book

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Bantam hardcover edition / May 1987

  Bantam paperback edition/May 1988

  Bantam reissue / July 1992

  Grateful acknowledgment is made for permission to include the following:

  Quote from “John Brown’s Body” by Stephen Vincent Benet from Selected Works of Stephen Benet. Holt, Rinehart & Winston, Inc. Reprinted by permission of Brandt and Brandt Literary Agents, Inc.

  Excerpt from Mr. Lincoln’s Army by Bruce Catton. Copyright 1951 by Bruce Catton. Reprinted by permission of Doubleday Publishing Company.

  SPECTRA and the portrayal of a boxed “s” are trademarks of Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1987 by Connie Willis.

  Foreword copyright © 1992 by Connie Willis.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 86-47886.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  For information address: Bantam Books.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-57361-2

  Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, New York, New York.

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