The Sheep Look Up by John Brunner Page A

lost contact with his feet. He had to take it for granted they were still inside his boots.
    Also his hands were tender and assured of blisters despite his gloves. It was down to twenty with a vicious wind; his eyes were sore and if the tears that leaked from them hadn’t been salty he believed they would have frozen on his cheeks.
    This was a foretaste of hell. Stark lights, harsh as curses, had been dragged up treacherous snow-mounds, coupled to emergency generators whose complaints at overload filled the air with a noise like grinding teeth. All the time there were shouts: “Here, quick!” And every shout meant another victim, most likely dead, but sometimes with a broken back, broken leg, broken pelvis. The avalanche had operated like a press. It had condensed the buildings closest to Mount Hawes into a state akin to fiberboard: human remains, structural timbers, cars, winter-sports gear, food, liquor, furniture, carpets, more human remains, had been squashed together until they could be crushed no further, and then the whole horrible disgusting mass had been forced downhill to transfer the shock to more distant locations.
    Red among the snow here. He burrowed with his fingers for fear his shovel might hurt someone, and discovered a side of beef.

    “Hey! Mister policeman!”
    A kid’s voice. For an instant he was haunted by the fear of standing on a buried child. But the call was from here on the surface, loud to overcome the drone of a helicopter. He glanced up. Facing him, balanced on a broken wall, a light-colored boy of eleven or twelve, wearing dark woolen pants and a parka and offering a tin cup that steamed like a geyser.
    “Like some soup?”
    Pete’s stomach reminded him suddenly that he’d been on the point of eating when he left home. He dropped his shovel.
    “Sure would,” he agreed. This was no place for a kid—no telling what horrors he might see—but getting food down him was a good idea. It was bound to be a long job. He took the cup and made to sip, but the soup was hotter even than it looked. The kid was carrying a big vacuum-jug behind him on a strap. Must be efficient.
    “You found many dead people?” the boy inquired.
    “A few,” Pete muttered.
    “I never saw anybody dead before. Now I’ve seen maybe a dozen.”
    His tone was matter-of-fact, but Pete was shocked. After a pause he said, “Uh—I guess your mom knows you’re here?”
    “Sure, that’s her soup. When she heard about the accident she put on a big pan of it and told us all to wrap up warm and come and help.”
    Well, okay; you don’t tell other people what’s good and what’s bad for their kids. And it was kind of a constructive action. Pete tried the soup again, found it had cooled quickly in the bitter wind, and swallowed greedily. It was delicious, with big chunks of vegetables in it and strong-scented herbs.
    “I was interested to see the dead people,” the kid said suddenly. “My father was killed the other day.”
    Pete blinked at him.
    “Not my real father. I called him that because he adopted me. And my two sisters. It was in the papers, and they even put his picture on TV.”
    “What does your mom use for this soup?” Pete said, thinking to change a ghoulish subject. “It’s great.”
    “I’ll tell her you said so. It’s like yeast extract, and any vegetables around, and”—the boy gave a strangely adult shrug—“water, boiled up with marjoram and stuff... Finished?”
    “Not quite.”
    “I only have this one cup, you see, so after it’s been drunk from I have to clean it in the snow to kill the germs and go find someone else.” The boy’s tone was virtuous. “Did you see my dad’s picture on TV?”
    “Ah ...” Pete’s mind raced. “Well, I don’t get to watch it too much, you know. I’m pretty tied up with my job.”
    “Yeah, sure. Just thought you might have seen him.” A hint of unhappiness tinged the words. “I miss him a lot ... Finished now?”
    Pete drained the mug and