The Sheep Look Up by John Brunner Page B

had been easier to bear: a house, much further from the city center-beyond the river-with its own garden. There he'd been able to hide away and be miserable by himself. But the river fires had been bad last year; more than once he'd been unable to get to work because the bridge was closed, and half the time smoke made it impossible to use the garden or even open the windows.
    So they'd moved to this air-conditioned apartment block. Handier for the office. And, of course, for the hospital where Josie's squint was being treated and the short muscles in Harold's leg were being drawn out.
    He couldn't explain! Dared not! And now couldn't get out of explaining, either!
    But at least he had a few minutes to himself. The kids were asleep, having taken a long time to calm down following their disastrous encounter with Anton Chalmers: pushy, arrogant, greedy, bullying, bad-tempered-but, of course, absolutely healthy. "Survival of the fittest and all that shit"…to quote his insufferable father.
    And Denise had gone to the Henlowes' apartment on the second floor. That was where you scored in this building. Everyone nowadays seemed to know a means of getting something from somebody. But it was best to stay out on the fringes. It was becoming as bad as what the history books recounted about Prohibition, what with the black gangs fighting on the streets over the right to distribute African khat, and the white gangs blowing up each other's homes for the right to trade in Mexican grass.
    So she'd come back in half an hour, having socialized, and show what she'd got, and say, "Darling, don't worry, whatever's the matter it'll come right in the end, let's turn on and relax, hm?"
    Dennie, I love you terribly, and if you're sweet and kind to me one more time tonight I shall scream.
    Here was the phone. He dialed with shaking fingers, and shortly a woman replied. He said, "Dr. Clayford, please. It's urgent."
    "Dr. Clayford will be in his office on Monday as usual," the woman replied.
    "This is Philip Mason. Area manager of-"
    "Oh, Mr. Mason!" Abruptly cordial. Clayford was one of the physicians Philip sent Angel City's clients to for examination prior to taking out a life policy; it behooved the doctor to be cooperative. "Just a second, I'll see if my husband's free."
    "Thank you." Nervous, he fumbled out a cigarette. His smoking had nearly doubled since his trip to LA. He'd been trying to cut it down; instead, here he was getting through two packs a day.
    "Yes?" A gruff voice. He started.
    "Ah, doctor!" One didn't say "doc" to Clayford, let alone call him by his first name. He was an old-fashioned family GP, who at sixty still affected the dark suits and white shirts that had marked out sober young men with "a great future ahead of them" when he was in college.
    Talking to him was a little like talking to a minister; one felt a sense of distance, an intangible barrier. But right now it had to be breached.
    "Look, I need you advice, and-uh-help."
    "Well?"
    Philip swallowed hard. "It's like this. Just before Christmas I was called to LA, to the headquarters of my company, and because my wife doesn't like planes-you know, pollution-I drove, and broke the trip in Vegas. And there I-uh-well, I got involved with a girl. Absolutely without meaning to. Time and opportunity, you know!"
    "So?"
    "So…Well, I wasn't certain until days later, but now I don't think there's any doubt. She left me with-uh-gonorrhea."
    Stained undershorts floating around him, like mocking bats.
    "I see." Clayford not in the least sympathetic. "Well, you should go to the clinic on Market, then. I believe they're open Saturday mornings."
    Philip had seen it, in a depressed and depressing area: ashamed of its function, persecuted by the righteous majority, always full of young people pretending rebellious defiance.
    "But surely, doctor-"
    "Mr. Mason, that's my professional advice, and there's an end of it."
    "But my wife!"
    "Have you had relations with her since this escapade of