Connie Willis - Bellwether

“We’ll have plenty of time,” I said. “This is Management, remember?”

Wrong again. Friday Management called me on the white carpet again and told me the permissions had all been gotten, the live-animal approvals approved. “Can you have the sheep here by Monday?”

“I’ll need to see if the owner can arrange it,” I said, hoping Billy Ray couldn’t.

He could, and did, though he didn’t bring them down himself. He was attending a virtual ranching meeting in Lander. He sent instead Miguel, who had a nose ring, Aussie hat, headphones, and no intention of unloading the sheep.

“Where do you want them?” he said in a tone that made me peer under the brim of the Aussie hat to see if he had an i on his forehead.

We showed him the paddock gate, and he sighed heavily, backed the truck more or less up to it, and then stood against the truck’s cab looking put-upon.

“Aren’t you going to unload them?” Ben said finally.

“Billy Ray told me to deliver them,” Miguel said. “He didn’t say anything about unloading them.”

“You should meet our mail clerk,” I said. “You’re obviously made for each other.”

He tipped the Aussie hat forward warily. “Where does she live?”

Bennett had gone around to the back of the truck and was lifting the bar that held the door shut. “You don’t suppose they’ll all come rushing out at once and trample us, do you?” he said.

No. The thirty or so sheep stood on the edge of the truck bed, bleating and looking terrified.

“Come on,” Ben said coaxingly. “Do you think it’s too far for them to jump?”

“They jumped off a cliff in Far from the Madding Crowd,” I said. “How can it be too far?”

Nevertheless, Ben went to get a piece of plywood for a makeshift ramp, and I went to see if Dr. Riez, who had done an equine experiment before he turned to flatworms, had a halter we could borrow.

It took him forever to find a halter, and I figured by the time I got back to the lab it would no longer be needed, but the sheep were still huddled in the back of the truck.

Ben was looking frustrated, and Miguel, up by the front of the truck, was swaying to some unheard rhythm.

“They won’t come,” Ben said. “I’ve tried calling and coaxing and whistling.”

I handed him the halter.

“Maybe if we can get one down the ramp,” he said, “they’ll all follow.” He took the halter and went up the ramp. “Get out of the way in case they all make a mad dash.”

He reached to slip the halter over the nearest sheep’s head, and there was a mad dash, all right. To the rear of the truck.

“Maybe you could pick one up and carry it off,” I said, thinking of the cover of one of the angel books. It showed a barefoot angel carrying a lost lamb. “A small one.”

Ben nodded. He handed me the halter and went up the ramp, moving slowly so he wouldn’t scare them. “Shh, shh,” he said softly to a little ewe. “I won’t hurt you. Shh, shh.”

The sheep didn’t move. Ben knelt and got his arms under the front and back legs and hoisted the animal up. He started for the ramp.

The angel had clearly doped the sheep with chloroform before picking it up. The ewe kicked out with four hooves in four different directions, flailing madly and bringing its muzzle hard up against Ben’s chin. He staggered and the ewe twisted itself around and kicked him in the stomach. Ben dropped it with a thud, and it dived into the middle of the truck, bleating hysterically.

The rest of the sheep followed. “Are you all right?” I said.

“No,” he said, testing his jaw. “What happened to ‘little lamb, so meek and mild’?”

“Blake had obviously never actually met a sheep,” I said, helping him down the ramp and over to the water trough. “What now?”

He leaned against the water trough, breathing heavily. “Eventually they have to get thirsty,” he said, gingerly touching his chin. “I say we wait ’em out.”

Miguel bopped over to us. “I haven’t got all day, you know!” he shouted over whatever was blaring in his headphones, and went back to the front of the truck.

“I’ll go call Billy Ray,” I said, and did. His cellular phone was out of range.

“Maybe if we sneak up on them with the halter,” Ben said when I got back.

We tried that. Also getting behind them and pushing, threatening Miguel, and several long spells of leaning against the water trough, breathing hard.

“Well, there’s certainly information diffusion going on,” Ben said, nursing his arm. “They’ve all decided not to get off the truck.”

Alicia came over. “I’ve got a profile of the optimum Niebnitz Grant candidate,” she said to Ben, ignoring me. “And I’ve found another Niebnitz. An industrialist. Who made his fortune in ore refining and founded several charities. I’m looking into their committee’s selection criteria.” She added, still to Ben, “I want you to come see the profile.”

“Go ahead,” I said. “You obviously won’t miss anything. I’ll go try Billy Ray again.”

I did. He said, “What you have to do is—” and went out of range again.

I went back out to the paddock. The sheep were out of the truck, grazing on the dry grass. “What did you do?” Ben said, coming up behind me.

“Nothing,” I said. “Miguel must have gotten tired of waiting,” but he was still up by the front of the truck, grooving to Groupthink or whatever it was he was listening to.

I looked at the sheep. They were grazing peacefully, wandering happily around the paddock as if they’d always belonged there. Even when Miguel, still wearing his headphones, revved up the truck and drove off, they didn’t panic. One of them close to the fence looked up at me with a thoughtful, intelligent gaze.

This is going to work, I thought.

The sheep stared at me for a moment longer, dropped its head to graze, and promptly got it stuck in the fence.

Qiao pai [1977–95]

Chinese game fad inspired by the American card game bridge (a fad in the 1930s). Popularized by Deng Xiaoping, who learned to play in France, qiao pai quickly attracted over a million enthusiasts, who play mostly at work. Unlike American bridge, bidding is silent, players do not arrange their hands in order, and the game is extremely formalized. Superseded Ping-Pong.

Over the next few days it became apparent that there was almost no information diffusion in a flock of sheep. There were also hardly any fads.

“I want to watch them for a few days,” Ben said. “We need to establish what their normal information diffusion patterns are.”

We watched. The sheep grazed on the dry grass, took a step or two, grazed some more, walked a little farther, grazed some more. They would have looked almost like a pastoral painting if it hadn’t been for their long, vacuous faces, and their wool.

I don’t know who started the myth that sheep are fluffy and white. They were more the color of an old mop and just as matted with dirt.

They grazed some more. Periodically one of them would leave off chewing and totter around the perimeter of the paddock, looking for a cliff to fall off of, and then go back to grazing. Once one of them threw up. Some of them grazed along the fence. When they got to the corner they stayed there, unable to figure out how to turn it, and kept grazing, eating the grass right down to the dirt. Then, for lack of better ideas, they ate the dirt.

“Are you sure sheep are a higher mammal?” Ben asked, leaning with his chin on his hands on the fence, watching them.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I had no idea sheep were this stupid.”

“Well, actually, a simple behavior structure may work to our advantage,” he said. “The problem with macaques is they’re smart. Their behavior’s complicated, with a lot of things going on simultaneously—dominance, familial interaction, grooming, communication, learning, attention structure. There are so many factors operating simultaneously the problem is trying to separate the information diffusion from the other behaviors. With fewer behaviors, it will be easier to see the information diffusion.”