Read Online The Sheep Look Up by John Brunner - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John Brunner
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to discuss theological doubts. She gave a nod.
“I also, of course.” Obou accelerated around a bend in the direction of the relatively undamaged houses that had been assigned to the overseas aid workers, UN observers, and the most senior of the government officials supervising mopping-up operations. “You know, though, it was a strange thing when I first went to Europe, finding so few people there attend a church. Here it had always been for me and my family the—the right thing, the better thing. In the provinces, right here for example, it was known the people still made idols, still believed in ghosts and juju. But the educated people you took for granted to be Moslems or Christians. I think, though, it will now be hard for Christians in our country. Knowing it has been the greed of Christian countries which—Ah, look! See already what a change your work has made in this sad place!”
Slowing again, he waved at a group of ten or a dozen people, including a couple of women, who had lit a fire in the open air before what had once been a handsome house and were dancing in a ring, clapping their hands for music. They were all barefoot. Lucy thought one of the women must be drunk; her gaudy wraparound dress had fallen from her bosom and her slack breasts shook as she stamped and swayed.
“Ah, they’re good people,” Major Obou said. “Simple, perhaps, but good-natured. I’m so glad this damned war is over. And”—with a trace of boldness—“glad that it has brought us friends like you from outside.”
He stopped the jeep. They had reached her quarters, one of a cluster of houses originally built by one of the Paris-based companies operating here for its lower-ranking employees. Then they had enjoyed the privacy of dense greenery. Now the shrubs and trees were gone, victims of defoliants, and the ground was newly scarred with shell-holes. When Lucy had arrived the place had stunk of carrion, mostly human. It still stank, but mainly of the exhaust of trucks and planes.
The major handed her down from the jeep with old-world formality. She almost giggled at the spectacle she must present, dirty and ragged. She was a trifle lightheaded from the brandy.
“You will remember what I suggested, won’t you?” he murmured, squeezing her hand. Then he let it go, saluted, and jumped back in his seat.
The maid Maua prepared a passable meal: canned beans, reconstituted eggs, canned fruit. Meantime Lucy changed her soiled clothes for a toweling robe and rubbed herself over with impregnated cleansing tissues. Water for washing was almost as scarce as that for drinking. Noises reached her as other occupants of this row of houses returned—Swedish and Czech doctors, a Mexican agronomist and UN officials attached to the Commission on Refugees were her near neighbors. Further along were some Italian nuns. She had never become used to seeing them in shirts and pants but still with their funny coifs on top. What for? To discourage the attention of men?
Which, as she picked at her food, reminded her. Obou had extended an invitation. She didn’t feel inclined to accept. Why not—because he was black? She thought not. She hoped not. Because right now she couldn’t think of anything like that with real attention? Very likely. The major, after all, was good-looking, well educated, obviously intelligent if he spoke both French and English as well as his mother tongue ...
Mother!
Her stomach suddenly convulsed. It was the worst thing to remember while eating. Blindly she ran for the latrine at the back of the house, and there wasted the food she had forced down. Maybe, she thought as she knelt retching, it wasn’t the memory which nauseated me, but too much brandy. It made no difference.
So many of those children: dead at birth, mercifully because they were deformed! You’d think that after Vietnam ... But people don’t think, most of the time. Riot gases, tear smoke, sleep gas, defoliants, nerve gas, all the armory of
“I also, of course.” Obou accelerated around a bend in the direction of the relatively undamaged houses that had been assigned to the overseas aid workers, UN observers, and the most senior of the government officials supervising mopping-up operations. “You know, though, it was a strange thing when I first went to Europe, finding so few people there attend a church. Here it had always been for me and my family the—the right thing, the better thing. In the provinces, right here for example, it was known the people still made idols, still believed in ghosts and juju. But the educated people you took for granted to be Moslems or Christians. I think, though, it will now be hard for Christians in our country. Knowing it has been the greed of Christian countries which—Ah, look! See already what a change your work has made in this sad place!”
Slowing again, he waved at a group of ten or a dozen people, including a couple of women, who had lit a fire in the open air before what had once been a handsome house and were dancing in a ring, clapping their hands for music. They were all barefoot. Lucy thought one of the women must be drunk; her gaudy wraparound dress had fallen from her bosom and her slack breasts shook as she stamped and swayed.
“Ah, they’re good people,” Major Obou said. “Simple, perhaps, but good-natured. I’m so glad this damned war is over. And”—with a trace of boldness—“glad that it has brought us friends like you from outside.”
He stopped the jeep. They had reached her quarters, one of a cluster of houses originally built by one of the Paris-based companies operating here for its lower-ranking employees. Then they had enjoyed the privacy of dense greenery. Now the shrubs and trees were gone, victims of defoliants, and the ground was newly scarred with shell-holes. When Lucy had arrived the place had stunk of carrion, mostly human. It still stank, but mainly of the exhaust of trucks and planes.
The major handed her down from the jeep with old-world formality. She almost giggled at the spectacle she must present, dirty and ragged. She was a trifle lightheaded from the brandy.
“You will remember what I suggested, won’t you?” he murmured, squeezing her hand. Then he let it go, saluted, and jumped back in his seat.
The maid Maua prepared a passable meal: canned beans, reconstituted eggs, canned fruit. Meantime Lucy changed her soiled clothes for a toweling robe and rubbed herself over with impregnated cleansing tissues. Water for washing was almost as scarce as that for drinking. Noises reached her as other occupants of this row of houses returned—Swedish and Czech doctors, a Mexican agronomist and UN officials attached to the Commission on Refugees were her near neighbors. Further along were some Italian nuns. She had never become used to seeing them in shirts and pants but still with their funny coifs on top. What for? To discourage the attention of men?
Which, as she picked at her food, reminded her. Obou had extended an invitation. She didn’t feel inclined to accept. Why not—because he was black? She thought not. She hoped not. Because right now she couldn’t think of anything like that with real attention? Very likely. The major, after all, was good-looking, well educated, obviously intelligent if he spoke both French and English as well as his mother tongue ...
Mother!
Her stomach suddenly convulsed. It was the worst thing to remember while eating. Blindly she ran for the latrine at the back of the house, and there wasted the food she had forced down. Maybe, she thought as she knelt retching, it wasn’t the memory which nauseated me, but too much brandy. It made no difference.
So many of those children: dead at birth, mercifully because they were deformed! You’d think that after Vietnam ... But people don’t think, most of the time. Riot gases, tear smoke, sleep gas, defoliants, nerve gas, all the armory of
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