Alis swings into a turn, her white skirt swirling out in the same clear arc as Eleanor’s—check and Brownian check—and that must have taken weeks, too.
Next to her, casual, elegant, oblivious to copyrights and takeovers, Fred taps out a counterpoint ripple, and Alis answers it back, and turns to smile over her shoulder.
“Freeze,” I say, and she stops, still turning, her hand outstretched and almost touching mine.
I lean forward, looking at the face I have seen ever since that first night watching her from the door, that face I would know anywhere. We’ll always have Paris.
“Forward three frames and hold,” I say, and she flashes me a delighted, an infinitely promising, smile.
“Forward realtime,” I say, and there is Alis, as she should be, dancing in the movies.
The End
ROLL CREDITS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Connie Willis has received six Nebula Awards and five Hugo Awards for her fiction, and the John W. Campbell Award for her first novel, Lincoln’s Dreams. Her first short story collection, Fire Watch, was a New York Times Notable Book, and her latest novel, Doomsday Book, won the Nebula and Hugo Awards. She is also the author of Impossible Things, a short story collection, and Uncharted Territory. Ms. Willis lives in Greeley, Colorado, with her family.
And be sure not to miss Connie Willis’ next luminous
novella,
BELLWETHER
Coming in March of 1996.
With her usual wit and dexterity, Willis combines
chaos theory and sheep raising,
trends and true love, in this remarkable story. Here’s a
special preview:
Sandra Foster works at HiTek in Research and Development, looking for the causes of fads and trends. Her topic of choice is hair-bobbing, but the project isn’t going so well. Too many variables, too much confusion. And then, through the auspices of a mis-delivered package, she meets Dr. Bennett O’Reilly, a young chaos theorist who is studying information diffusion in macaques. Or would like to be, if he could ever get his grant. So Sandra comes up with a brilliant idea: why not combine their projects? She has access to some sheep; he could teach them simple tasks, and as for her … Well, how better to study the human herd mentality than in the animal that most resembles it?
Her only problem is likely to be the conservative and overly-cautious Management, but even there she has a hook. Management is angling for the rare, prestigious, and highly mysterious Neibnitz Grant—in which an unknown committee, using incomprehensible criteria, randomly awards their chosen scientists a million dollars free of strings. Now all Sandra needs to do is consult a colleague expert in the ways of manipulating Management….
Gina was addressing bright pink Barbie invitations when I arrived. “I still can’t find a Romantic Bride Barbie anywhere. I’ve called five different toystores.”
I told her my plan.
She shook her head sadly.
“Management’ll never go for it. First, it’s live-animal research, which is controversial. Management hates controversy. Second, it’s something innovative, which means Management will hate it on principle.”
“I thought one of the keystones of GRIM was innovation.”
“Are you kidding? If it’s new, Management doesn’t have a form for it, and Management loves forms almost as much as they hate controversy. Sorry.” She went back to addressing envelopes.
“If you’ll help me, I’ll find Romantic Bride Barbie for you,” I said.
She looked up from the invitation. “It has to be Romantic Bride Barbie. Not Country Bride Barbie or Wedding Fantasy Barbie.”
I nodded. “Is it a deal?”
“I can’t guarantee Management will go for it even if I help you,” she said, shoving the invitations to the side and handing me a notepad and pencil. “All right, tell me what you were going to tell Management.”
“Well, I thought I’d start by explaining what happened to the funding form—”
“Wrong,” she said. “They’ll know what you’re up to in a minute. You tell them you’ve been working on this joint project thing since the meeting before last, when they said how important staff input and interaction were. Use words like optimize and patterning systems”
“Okay,” I said, taking notes.
“Tell them any number of scientific breakthroughs have been made by scientists working together. Crick and Watson, Penzias and Wilson, Gilbert and Sullivan—”
I looked up from my notes. “Gilbert and Sullivan weren’t scientists.”
Management won’t know that. And they might recognize the name. You’ll need a two-page prospectus of the project goals. Put anything you think they’ll think is a problem on the second page. They never read the second page.”
“You mean an outline of the project?” I said, scribbling. Explaining the experimental method we’re going to use and describing the connection between trends analysis and information diffusion research?”
“No,” she said, and turned around to her computer. “Never mind, I’ll write it for you.” She began typing rapidly. “You tell them integrated cross-discipline teaming projects are the latest thing at MIT. Tell them single-person projects are passé.” She hit PRINT, and a sheet started scrolling through the printer.
And pay attention to Management’s body language. If he taps his forefinger on the desk, you’re in trouble.”
She handed me the prospectus. It looked suspiciously like her five all-purpose objectives, which meant it would probably work.
“And don’t wear that.” She pointed at my skirt and lab coat. “You’re supposed to be dressing down.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Do you think this’ll do it?”
“When it’s live-animal research?” she said. “Are you kidding? Romantic Bride Barbie is the one with the pink net roses,” she said. “Oh, and Bethany wants a brunette one.”
I had failed to include all the variables. It was true that Management values paperwork more than anything. Except for the Niebnitz Grant.
I had hardly started into my spiel in Management’s white-carpeted office when Management’s eyes lit up, and he said, “This would be a cross-discipline project?”
“Yes,” I said. “Trends analysis combined with learning vectors in higher mammals. And there are certain aspects of chaos theory—”
“Chaos theory?” he said, tapping his forefinger on his expensive teak desk.
“Only in the sense that these are nonlinear systems which require a designed experiment,” I said hastily. “The emphasis is primarily on information diffusion in higher mammals, of which human trends are a subset.”
“Designed experiment?” he said eagerly.
“Yes. The practical value to HiTek would be better understanding of how information spreads through human societies and—”
“What was your original field?” he cut in.
“Statistics,” I said. “The advantages of using sheep over macaques are—” and never got to finish because Management was already standing up and shaking my hand.
“This is exactly the kind of project that GRIM is all about. Interfacing scientific disciplines, implementing initiative and cooperation to create new workplace paradigms.”
He actually talks in acronyms, I thought wonderingly, and almost missed what he said next.
“—exactly the kind of project the Niebnitz Grant Committee is looking for. I want this project implemented immediately. How soon can you have it up and running?”
“I—it—” I stammered. “There’s some background research we’ll need to do on sheep behavior. And there are the live-animal regulations that have to be—”
He waved an airy hand. “It’ll be our problem to deal with that. I want you and Dr. O’Reilly to concentrate on that divergent thinking and scientific sensibility. I expect great things.” He shook my hand enthusiastically. “HiTek is going to do everything we can to cut right through the red tape and get this project on line immediately.”
/>
And did.
Permissions were typed up, paperwork waived, and live-animal approvals filed almost before I could get down to Bio and tell Bennett they’d approved the project.
“What does ‘on line immediately’ mean?” he said worriedly. “We haven’t done any background research on sheep behavior, how they interact, what skills they’re capable of learning, what they eat—”
“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.
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.”
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 neck, 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 in. “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 committees’ 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.
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.”
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 equilibirum level. It’s called self-organized criticality.”