Bellwether (22 page)

I tried reading the personals, but they were too depressing: “To the blonde who eats lunch every day at Jane’s Java Joint, you don’t know me but I’m hopelessly in love with you. Please reply.”

I switched to the articles.

A “harmonic bonding” therapist was offering duct tape soul alignments.

Two men in New York City had been arrested for operating the hot new fad, a “smoking speakeasy.”

Po-mo pink had fizzled as a fad. A fashion designer was quoted as saying, “There’s no accounting for the public’s taste.”

Truer words, I thought, and it was time I faced that, too. I was never going to discover the source of the hair-bobbing fad, no matter how much data I fed into my computer model. No matter how many different colored lines I drew.

Because it didn’t have anything to do with suffrage or World War I or the weather. And even if I could ask Bernice and Irene and the rest of them why they’d done it, it still wouldn’t help. Because they wouldn’t know.

They were as benighted and blind as I had been, moved by feelings they weren’t aware of, by forces they didn’t understand. Right straight into the river.

My smart drink came. It was chartreuse, a color that had been a fad in the late twenties. “What’s in it?” I said.

He sighed, a heavy sigh like someone out of Dostoyevsky. “Tyrosine, L-phenylalanine, and synergistic cofactors,” he said. “And pineapple juice.”

I took a sip of it. I didn’t feel any smarter. “Why did you get your forehead branded?” I said.

Apparently he hadn’t finished his smart drink. He stared at me blankly.

“Your
i
brand?” I said, pointing at it. “Why did you decide to have it done?”

“Everybody
has them,” he said, and slouched off.

I wondered if he had gotten the brand to please his girlfriend or if he was rebelling against anti-intellectualism or his parents, or in love with somebody who didn’t know he was alive.

I sipped my drink and kept reading. I didn’t feel any smarter. Bantam Books had paid an eight-figure advance for
Getting in Touch with Your Inner Fairy Godmother.
Cerenkhov blue was the “cool/hot” color for winter, and men and women were smoking cigars in L.A., inspired by Rush Limbaugh or David Letterman or forces they didn’t understand. Like sheep. Like rats.

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 looked 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.

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.