Bellwether

by Connie Willis

  I walked over, bracing myself for a discussion of intimacy issues and power-walking, but they were apparently discussing Flip’s new assistant.

  “I didn’t think it was possible to hire somebody worse than Flip,” Elaine was saying. “How could you, Gina?”

  “But she’s very competent,” Gina said defensively. “She’s had experience with Windows and SPSS, and she knows how to repair a copy machine.”

  “All that’s entirely irrelevant,” a woman from Physics said, though it didn’t sound irrelevant to me.

  “Well, I’m not working with her,” a man from Product Development said. “And don’t tell me you didn’t know she was one. You can tell just by looking at her.”

  Bigotry is one of the oldest and ugliest of trends, so persistent it only counts as a fad because the target keeps changing: Huguenots, Koreans, homosexuals, Muslims, Tutsis, Jews, Quakers, wolves, Serbs, Salem housewives. Nearly every group, so long as it’s small and different, has had a turn, and the pattern never changes—disapproval, isolation, demonization, persecution. Which was one of the reasons it’d be nice to find the switch that turned fads on. I’d like to turn that one off for good.

  “People like that shouldn’t be allowed to work in a big company like HiTek,” Sarah, who was actually a nice person in spite of her psychobabble about Ted, was saying.

  And Dr. Applegate, who definitely should know better, added disgustedly, “I suppose if you fired her, she’d sue for discrimination. That’s what’s wrong with all this affirmative action stuff.”

  I wondered what small and different group Flip’s new assistant had the misfortune to belong to: Hispanic, lesbian, NRA member?

  “She’s not setting foot in my lab,” a woman wearing a turban said. “I’m not exposing myself to unnecessary health risks.”

  “But she won’t be smoking on the job,” Gina said. “She can keyboard a hundred words a minute.”

  “I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” Elaine said. “Haven’t you read the FDA report on the dangers of secondhand smoke?”

  On the other hand, mere are moments when rather than reforming the human race I’d like to abandon it altogether and go become, say, one of Dr. O’Reilly’s macaques, which have to have more sense.

  I was about to say as much to Elaine when Dr. O’Reilly grabbed my arm. “Come sit with me,” he said, and led me away. “I need you to be my partner in case Management springs another sensitivity thing.” He looked at me uncertainly. “Unless you’d rather sit with your friends.”

  “No,” I said, watching them surround Gina. “Not at the moment.”

  “Oh, good,” he said. “The last sensitivity exercise, I got stuck with Flip.” We sat down. “So how’s your fads research coming?”

  “It’s not,” I said. “I picked hair-bobbing because I wanted a fad that didn’t have an obvious cause. Most fads are caused by a breakthrough in technology—nylons, waterbeds, light-up sneakers.”

  “Fallout shelters.”

  I nodded. “Or they’re a marketing phenomena, like Trivial Pursuit and teddy bears.” “And fallout shelters.”

  “Right. Hair-bobbing didn’t cost anything except the barber’s fee, and if you didn’t have that, all you needed to whack your hair off was a pair of scissors, which is a technology that’s been around forever.” I started to sigh and then realized I’d sound like Flip.

  “So what’s the problem?” Bennett asked.

  “The problem is hair-bobbing doesn’t have an obvious cause. Irene Castle looked like a possibility for a while, but it turned out she was following a Dutch bob fad that had been popular in Paris the year before. And none of the other sources has a direct correlation to the critical period. Have you ever heard of a place called Marydale, Ohio?”

  “Good morning” Management said from the podium. He was wearing a polo shirt, Dockers, and a pleased smile. “We’re really excited to see you all here.”

  “What’s Management up to?” I whispered to Bennett.

  “My guess is a new acronym,” he whispered. “Departmental Unification Management Business.” He wrote down the letters on his legal pad. “D.U.M.B.”

  “We have several items of business today,” Management said happily. “First, some of you have been having minor difficulties filling out the simplified funding allocation forms. You’ll be receiving a memo that answers all your questions. The interdepartmental communications liaison is in the process of making copies for each of you right now.”

  Bennett put his head down on the table.

  “Secondly, I’d like to announce that HiTek is instituting a ‘dress down’ policy beginning this week. This is an innovative idea that all the best corporations are implementing. Casual dress induces a more relaxed workplace and stronger interemployee interfaces. So starting tomorrow I’ll expect to see all of you in casual clothes.”

  I tuned him out and studied Bennett, He looked terrible. His polyester print shirt had little daisies on it in an assort-merit of browns, none of which came close to matching his brown cords. Over it he was wearing a pilled gray cardigan.

  But it wasn’t just the clothes. The Brady Bunch Movie had made seventies styles fashionable again. Flip had worn satin disco pants the other day, and platform shoes and gold chains were all over the Boulder mall. But Bennett didn’t look “retro.” He looked “swarb.” I had the feeling that if he were wearing a bomber jacket and Nikes he’d still look that way. As if he were an antifaddist.

  No, that wasn’t right either. Any number of fads were started as a rejection of existing fads. The long hair of the sixties was a rejection of the crew cuts of the fifties, the short, flat, figureless flapper dresses a reaction to the exaggeratedly bustled and corseted Victorians.

  Bennett wasn’t rebelling. It was more like he was oblivious to the whole concept. No, that wasn’t the right word either. Immune.

  And if he could be immune to fads, did that mean they were caused by some kind of virus? I looked over at Gina’s table, where Elaine and Dr. Applegate were earnestly whispering to her about emphysema and the surgeon general’s warning. Was Bennett really immune to fads or just fashion-impaired, as Flip had said?

  I opened my notebook and wrote, “They hired Flip’s new assistant,” and pushed it over in front of him.

  He wrote back, “I know. I met her this morning. Her name’s Shirl.”

  “Did you know she smokes?” I wrote and watched his expression when he read it. He looked neither surprised nor repelled.

  “Flip told me,” he wrote. “She said Shirl was going to pollute the workplace. The pot calling the kettle black.”

  I grinned.

  “What does that i tattoo on Flip’s forehead stand for?” he wrote.

  “It’s not a tattoo, it’s a brand,” I wrote back. “Incompetent or impossible?”

  “Initiative,” Management said, and we both looked up guiltily. “Which brings me to our third item of business. How many of you know what the Niebnitz Grant is?”

  I did, and even though nobody else raised their hand, I was willing to bet everybody else did, too. It’s the largest research grant there is, even bigger than the MacArthur Grant, and with virtually no strings attached. The scientist gets the money and can apply it to any kind of research at all. Or retire to the Bahamas.

  It’s also the most mysterious research grant there is. Nobody knows who gives it, what they give it for, or even when it’s given. There was one awarded last year, to Lawrence Chin, an artificial intelligence researcher, four the year before that, and none before that for over three years. The Niebnitz people (whoever they are) sweep down periodically like one of those Angels from Above on some unsuspecting scientist and make it so he never has to fill out another simplified funding allocation form.

  There are no requirements, no application form, no particular field of study the grant favors. Of the four the year before last, one was a Nobel prize winner, one a graduate assistant, one a chemist at a French research institute, and one a part-time i
nventor. The only thing that’s known for sure is the amount, which Management had just written on his flipchart: $1,000,000.

  “The winner of the Niebnitz Grant receives one million dollars, to be spent on research of the recipient’s choice.” Management turned over a page of the flipchart. “The Niebnitz Grant is awarded for scientific sensibility.” He wrote science on the flipchart. “Divergent thinking.” He wrote thought “And circumstantial predisposition to significant scientific breakthrough.” He added breakthrough and then tapped all three words with his pointer. “Science. Thought. Breakthrough.”

  “What does this have to do with us?” Bennett whispered.

  “Two years ago the Institut de Paris won a Niebnitz Grant,” Management said.

  “No, it didn’t,” I whispered. “A scientist working at the Institut won it.”

  “And they were using old-fashioned management techniques,” Management said.

  “Oh, no,” I murmured. “Management expects us to win a Niebnitz Grant.”

  “How can they?” Bennett whispered. “Nobody even knows how they’re awarded.”

  Management cast a cold eye in our direction. “The Niebnitz Grant Committee is looking for outstanding creative projects with the potential for significant scientific breakthroughs, which is what GRIM is all about. Now I’d like you to get in groups and write down five things you can do to win the Niebnitz Grant.”

  “Pray,” Bennett said.

  I grabbed a piece of paper and wrote down:

  Optimize potential.

  Facilitate empowerment.

  Implement visioning.

  Strategize priorities.

  Augment core structures.

  “What is that?” Bennett said, looking at the list. “Those make no sense.”

  “Neither does expecting us to win the Niebnitz Grant.” I handed it in.

  “Now let’s get busy. You’ve got divergent thinking to do. Let’s see some significant scientific breakthroughs.”

  Management marched out, his baton under his arm, but everyone just sat there, stunned, except Alicia Turnbull, who started taking rapid notes in her daybook, and Flip, who strolled in and started passing out pieces of paper.

  “Projected Results: Significant Scientific Breakthrough,” I said, shaking my head. “Well, bobbed hair certainly isn’t it.”

  “Don’t they know science doesn’t work like that? You can’t just order scientific breakthroughs. They happen when you look at something you’ve been working on for years and suddenly see a connection you never noticed before, or when you’re looking for something else altogether. Sometimes they even happen by accident, Don’t they know you can’t get a scientific breakthrough just because you want one?”

  “These are the people who gave Flip a promotion, remember?” I frowned. “What is ‘circumstantial predisposition to significant scientific breakthrough’?”

  “For Fleming it was looking at a contaminated culture and noticing the mold had killed the bacteria,” Ben said.

  “And how does Management know the Niebnitz Grant Committee gives the grant for creative projects with potential? How do they know there’s a committee? For all we know, Niebnitz may be some old rich guy who gives money to projects that don’t show any potential at all.”

  “In which case we’re a shoo-in,” Bennett said.

  “For all we know, Niebnitz may give the grant to people whose names begin with C, or draw the names out of a hat.”

  Flip slouched over and handed one of her papers to Bennett. “Is this the memo explaining the simplified funding form?” he asked.

  “No-O-O-O,” she said, rolling her eyes. “It’s a petition. To make the cafeteria a one hundred percent smoke-free environment.” She sauntered away.

  “I know what the i stands for,” I said. “Irritating.”

  He shook his head. “Insufferable.”

  coonskin caps (may 1955—december 1955)–—Children’s fad inspired by the Walt Disney television series Davy Crockett, about the Kentucky frontier hero who fought at the Alamo and “kilt a bar” at age three. Part of a larger merchandising fad that included bow-and-arrow sets, toy knives, toy rifles, fringed shirts, powder horns, lunchboxes, jigsaw puzzles, coloring books, pajamas, panties, and seventeen recorded versions of “The Ballad of Davy Crockett,” to which every child in America knew all the verses. As a result of the fad, a shortage of coonskins developed, and an earlier fad, the raccoon coat of the twenties, was ripped up to make caps. Some boys even got their hair cut in the shape of a coonskin cap. The fad collapsed right before Christmas of 1955, leaving merchandisers with hundreds of unwanted caps.

  It occurred to me the next day while ransacking my lab for the clippings I’d given Flip to copy that Bennett’s remark about having already met her new assistant must mean she’d been assigned to Bio. But in the afternoon Gina, looking hunted, came in to say, “I don’t care what they say. I did the right thing hiring her. Shirl just printed out and collated twenty copies of an article I wrote. Correctly. I don’t care if I am breathing in second-secondhand smoke.

  “Second-secondhand smoke?”

  “That’s what Flip calls the air smokers breathe out But I don’t care. It’s worm it.”

  “Shirl’s been assigned to you?” I said.

  She nodded. “This morning she delivered my mail. My mail. You should get her assigned to you.”

  “I will,” I said, but that was easier said than done. Now that Flip had an assistant, she (and my clippings) had disappeared off the face of the earth. I searched the entire building twice, including the cafeteria, where large NO SMOKING signs had been put on all the tables, and Supply, where Desiderata was trying to figure out what printer cartridges were, and found Flip finally in my lab, sitting at my computer and typing something in.

  She deleted it before I could see what it was and leaped up. If she’d been capable of it, I would have said she looked guilty.

  “You weren’t using it,” she said. “You weren’t even here” “Did you make copies of those clippings I gave you Monday?” I said.

  She looked blank.

  “There was a copy of the personal ads on top of them.”

  She tossed her swag of hair. “Would you use the word elegant to describe me?”

  She had added a hair wrap to her hank, a long thin strand of hair bound in bilious blue embroidery thread, and a band of duct tape across her forehead cut out to frame the i.

  “No,” I said.

  “Well, nobody expects you to be all of them,” she said, apropos of nothing. “Anyway, I don’t know why you’re so hooked on the personals. You’ve got that cowboy guy.”

  “What?”

  “Billy Boy Somebody,” she said, waving her hand at the phone. “He called and said he’s in town for some seminar and you’re supposed to meet him for dinner someplace. Tonight, I think. At the Nebraska Daisy or something. At seven o’clock.”

  I went over to my phone message pad. It was blank. “Didn’t you write the message down?”

  She sighed. “I can’t do everything. That’s why I was supposed to get an assistant, remember? So I wouldn’t have to work so hard, only since she’s a smoker, half the people I assigned her to don’t want her in their labs, so I still have to copy all this stuff and go all the way down to Bio and stuff. I think smokers should be forced to give up cigarettes.”

  “Who all did you assign to her?”

  “Bio and Product Development and Chem and Physics and Personnel and Payroll, and all the people who yell at me and make me do a lot of stuff. Or put in a camp or something where they couldn’t expose the rest of us to all that smoke.”

  “Why don’t you assign her to me? I don’t mind that she smokes.”

  She put her hands on the hips of her blue leather skirt. “It causes cancer, you know,” she said disapprovingly. “Besides, I’d never assign her to you. You’re the only one who’s halfway nice to me around here.”

  angel food cake (1880—90)—– Food fad named to sugges
t the heavenly lightness and whiteness of the cake. Originated either at a restaurant in St. Louis, along the Hudson River, or in India. The secret of the cake was a dozen (or eleven, or fifteen) egg whites beaten into stiff glossy peaks. Difficult to bake, it inspired an entire folklore: The pan had to be ungreased, and no one could walk across the kitchen floor while it was baking. Supplanted by, of course, devil’s food cake.

  It was the Kansas Rose at five-thirty. “You got my message okay,” Billy Ray said, coming out to meet me in the parking lot. He was wearing black jeans, a black-and-white cowboy shirt, and a white Stetson. His hair was longer than the last time I’d seen him. Long hair must be coming back in.

  “Sort of,” I said. “I’m here.”

  “Sorry it had to be so early,” he said. “There’s an evening workshop on Irrigation on the Internet’ I don’t want to miss.” He took my arm. “This is supposed to be the trendiest place in town.”

  He was right. There was a half-hour wait, even with reservations, and every woman in line was wearing po-mo pink.

  “Did you get your Targhees?” I asked him, leaning back against an ABSOLUTELY NO SMOKING sign.

  “Yep, and they’re great. Low maintenance, high tolerance for cold, and fifteen pounds of wool in a season.”

  “Wool?” I said. “I thought Targhees were cows.”

  “Nobody’s raising cows anymore,” he said, frowning as if I should know that. “The whole cholesterol thing. Lamb’s got a lower cholesterol count, and shearling’s supposed to be the hot new fashion fabric for winter.”

  “Bobby Jay,” the hostess, who was wearing a red gingham pinafore and hair wraps, called out.

  “That’s us,” I said.

  “We don’t want to sit anywhere close to where the smoking section used to be,” Billy Ray said, and we followed her to the table.

  The sunflower fad had apparently come here to die. They were entwined in the white picket fence around our table, framed on the wall, painted on the bathroom doors, embroidered on the napkins. A large artificial bunch was stuck in a Mason jar in the middle of our sunflowered tablecloth.