Book of the Dead (32 page)

Budgeted at a “modest” $30 million, according to project director Dr. William Newhall of the University of Arizona Ecological Sciences division, Ecosphere will be a completely self-sufficient, 5-million-cubic-feet ecological station. The station will contain five separate environments, including a tropical rain forest, a savanna, a marshland, a desert, and a 50,000-gallon salt-water “ocean,” complete with fish. There will also be living quarters for the Ecosphere staff, scientific laboratories, livestock, and an agriculture wing—all on two acres covered by computer-controlled “windowpanes” that regulate the amount of sunlight received. Even Ecosphere’s electrical energy will come from the sun, in the form of arrays of solar-power cells.

“Ecosphere will be a sort of model of our planet,” says chief botanist Marly Tsung. “We’ll have a little of everything”—including several thousand types of trees, plants, animals, fish, birds, insects, and even different kinds of soil.

If all goes well after Ecosphere is constructed and stocked, eight “Ecosphereans” will bid goodbye to the outside world and enter the station’s airlock, and they will remain as working residents of this model Earth for two years.

Designed to reproduce and maintain the delicate balance of the Earth’s ecosystem in the midst of a hostile environment—presently the Arizona desert, but conceivably Mars by the end of the century— Ecosphere will also serve as an experiment in how future interplanetary colonists might get along working in close quarters for long periods. However, Grace Havland, team psychologist, does not foresee any problems. “We’re all self-motivated, resourceful, problem-solving people,” she says. “But we’re also very different from one another, with widely varied interests. I think that will help. That, and the fact that the station itself provides a lot of stimuli.” What could go wrong? In the first place, Eco-sphere’s delicate environment could suffer a

(turn to page 16D)

“I remember this,” says Sailor as the others gather around to see what’s got him so interested. Jimmy mops his face with his torn, white T-shirt. “They started building it when I was in school.” He turns to 16D. “They interviewed a bunch of these assholes before they went to live in it. There was this Chinese girl with blue eyes.” He whistles appreciative recollection and lowers the paper. Suddenly he frowns and hands the paper to Florida, who scans the article and studies the cutaway drawing of the Ecosphere (which is not a sphere at all). Florida’s dark eyebrows flex toward his hairline. One big-fingered, skull-ringed hand strays to his scarred leather hunting vest. He passes the paper around for the others to read and scratches the back of his neck under the red elastic band that holds his long pony tail.

Ed the Head squints at the article as if it is out of focus. His lips move as he reads, then he turns bleary eyes to Sailor. “So they, like, built some kinda space station in the middle of the goddamn desert. So fuckin’ what?”

“So now you know why no one lets you do the grocery shopping,” says Sailor. “You wouldn’t recognize an opportunity if it gave you a whip-cream enema.”

Ed fingers his matted beard. “Chill out, dude. Ain’t nobody fuckin’ with
you
.”

Sailor shakes his head. “It’s all just one big mystery to you, isn’t it?” He looks around at the group. “Jesus,” he says, and takes back the paper before leaving them.

“What he mad about?” Cheesecake rubs cut knuckles with two ragged-nailed fingers.

Florida folds his Popeye arms, making himself look twice as big as he already is. “That space station’s set up to go for years without any help from outside,” he says in his surprising melodic baritone. He pulls off his silver ear cuff and massages the outside curve of his ear. “They control their environment. They grow their own food. They raise their own livestock. Get it now?” His arms unfold. “Apples. Oranges. Chicken. Eggs. Bacon.”

“Oh, man…” from someone behind Jimmy.

“Aw, those dudes’re wasted by now,” says Ed the Head.

“Reefer,” adds Florida.

Ed the Head straightens. “No shit? Hey, Florida, man, you wouldn’t fuck with me, now…”

“How we know they still there?” demands Cheesecake. “They be walkin’ around dead and shit, by now.”

Florida smiles and replaces his earcuff. “We don’t know,” he says. He glances at Sailor and raises an eyebrow. “Yet.”

“Doughboy. Hey, Doughboy!”

Doughboy turns with a finger still up his nose. “Yo, Sailor,” he says mildly. He twists, pulls out—

“We still got that baby?”

—and puts the finger in his mouth. He withdraws it with a wet smack and shrugs. “I dunno. Maybe. You wanna go to the zoo an’ see?”

Outside the hurricane fence at the juncture of Optical Sciences and Physics: Sailor and Doughboy peer about the corral.

“I don’t see it,” says Sailor. “Maybe they ate it?”

“Nah. They don’t do that, much. Somehow they know the difference.” He bangs the fence with both palms.

Shambling figures turn.

“Hey,” shouts Doughboy. “
Hey, you deadhead fuckheads!
” He bangs harder. “ ’Course,” he says, more conversationally, watching their stiff approach, “they coulda tore it up. They’re kinda dumb that way.”

Watching them shuffle toward him and Doughboy, Sailor suddenly begins to giggle. He bends forward and his mouth opens, as if he has been kicked in the stomach. The giggle expands and becomes full-throated. He can’t control it. Eventually he drags a bare, anchor-tattooed forearm across one eye, saying “Oh, shit…” in a pained way, and wipes the other eye with the other arm. “Oh, Jesus. Whose idea was this?”

Doughboy grins and rubs a palm across sparse blond billy-goat beard. “You like it?” The hand lowers to hook a thumb in a front pocket of his Levi’s. “Florida ran across a T-shirt shop in the Westside Mall. He brought back a shitload of ’em. And a bunch of us got the deadheads outta of the zoo one at a time and put ’em on ’em.”

Sailor shakes his head in amazement.

A little old lady deadhead reaches the fence ahead of the others. Part of her nose is missing, and the rest flaps against one wrinkled, bluegray cheek in time with her sleepwalker’s gait. She runs face-first into the fence, then steps back with a vaguely surprised look that quickly fades. Hanging shapelessly about her upper body is a ridiculously large, blue T-shirt.
I’M WITH STUPID
, it reads, with an arrow pointing to her left.

Sailor begins to laugh again.

Doughboy is laughing now, too.

The dead old lady is joined by an enormous Hispanic deadhead with the figure of a bodybuilder. His skin is the color of moss. A strip of bone shows above his ear where a furrow of scalp has been ripped away. His arms and chest look over-inflated. He wears a tight, red maternity blouse. Centered over his bulging pectorals is:

BABY

↓

The deadheads make plaintive little noises as they reach like sad puppies for Sailor and Doughboy, only to regard the fence that blocks their hands as some kind of miraculous object that has inexplicably appeared in front of them.

There are twenty of them clustered around the fence now, purpled fingers poking nervelessly through the wide mesh.

“No baby,” says Doughboy. “But it wouldn’t be here anyway. Can’t walk yet.”

“Walk?” Sailor frowns. “It probably never will.” He regards the hungry drowned faces as he speaks. “I wonder if they age?”

Doughboy’s eyes narrow. “Baby doesn’t have to have been like that from the start. Coulda been born after everything turned to shit, then died an’ gone deadhead.”

“Yeah, but still—how would we know? Do they get older as time goes by?” He nods toward the fence. “Can a deadhead die of old age?”

Doughboy shrugs. “We’ll find out someday,” he says.

Sailor looks away from the fence. “Are you an optimist or what?”

Doughboy only snorts.

“Who’s the one by himself back there?” Sailor points. “He doesn’t move like a deadhead.”

“Whozzat? Oh, Jo-Jo? Yeah, he’s pretty fuckin’ amazing, ain’t he? He’s a regular Albert fuckin’ Einstein—for a deadhead, I mean. Quick, huh?”

The figure standing alone turns to face them. He wears a brown T-shirt with white letters that spell out
HE’S DEAD, JIM
.

Sailor’s frown deepens. “He’s
watching
us.”

“They all do that, man. We look like those big ol’ steaks in the cartoons.”

“No, I mean…” He squints. “There’s something going on in that face. His
tabula
ain’t quite
rasa
.”

“Yeah, what you said. Here—” Doughboy leaves the fence and goes to a plastic milk crate. He pulls out a disk that glints rainbow colors. “Cee Dee,” he says, grinning, and holds it up. “Michael Jackson.
Thriller
.”

In his other hand is a rock.

He steps to the left of the knot of deadheads who still claw vaguely toward them. He glances at Sailor and angles the compact disk to catch the sunlight.

“Jo-Jo,” he calls. “Hey—Jo-Jo!” He jumps (
light on his feet, for a jelly-belly
, thinks Sailor) and lobs the rock.

“Jo-Jo!”

     hunger me jojo they call jojo and throw at me without hurt only eat and i with move them to jojo from their meat mouths i reach to hunger with light of hot above with bright the fence the hunger-others grab and pull but shining outside they hold the shining thing and forward i into the fence grab against press into my face and raise my hands in hunger not to the shining thing but to the hand that holds it in hunger jojo they say and i will eat

“He,” declares Sailor, watching the deadhead toss the rock it has caught from hand to hand, “is smarter than the average deadhead.”

Doughboy nods. “Fuckin’ A, Boo-Boo.”

[3]

Bill hangs around after the others leave, sweating from their cardiovascular aerobic regimen. They will disperse to attend to the many jobs that await them each day; maintaining the Ecosphere is a full-time job for eight people. And keeping those eight people in shape and responsive to the needs of the ecological station, maintaining their
esprit de corps
, making them understand their responsibilities to the station’s investors, to science—indeed, to the human race—is quite a burden. That’s why Bill is glad that he is the one in charge—because, of the eight, only he has the discipline and organizational abilities, the qualities of
command
, to keep them functioning as a unit. And—
as a unit
—they will persevere. He imagines he is a lifeboat captain, forcing the others to share their labor and rations, sometimes extreme in his severity and discipline. But when rescue comes, they will all thank Bill for running his tight little ship. Yes they will.

He goes to a locker and removes a French fencing foil. He tests the grip, slides into stance, and holds his left hand loosely above and behind his head.
En garde
. Blade to
quarte
. Block, parry, riposte. Lunge,
hah!
He is D’Artagnan; the wine of his opponent’s life spills upon the wrestling mat.
Touché
.

The pigs in their small pen near the corner formed by the human habitat and the agricultural wing are slopped by Grace. Of all the dirty work in the station she must perform (even though it is not her job to), the team psychologist finds working with the pigs almost pleasurable, and certainly less troublesome than working with Staff. Grace is a behaviorist, and a behaviorist will always work better with pigs than with people. The pigs in their uncomplicated Skinner box of a muddy pen are easier to direct and adjust than those upright pigs in their bigger, labyrinthian pen.

The ground darkens around her and she looks up at a cloud passing in front of the sun, distorted by the triangular glass panes above. She idly wonders how long it’s been since she went outside the station. She shrugs. What difference does it make?

She bends to pat Bacon’s globular head. She has named the pigs so that she will remember their prime function, to prevent her from becoming too sentimentally attached to them: Bacon, Fatback, Pork Chop, Hot Dog, Sausage, and Hambone. The pigs are wonderful: not only do they clear the quarter acre of land devoted to raising vegetable crops, and fertilize it as well, but they are astonishingly gregarious, affectionate, and intelligent animals. Which any farm girl knows—but Grace has devoted her life to the exacting science of manipulating human beings, and has only recently become devoted to the emotionally admirable pig.

If only the staff were as easy to manage. Humbly she tries to tell herself that she’s only doing her job, but, truth to tell, if they hadn’t had someone to keep them psychologically stable all this time, she doubts they’d have lasted even this long. She thinks of the other staff members one at a time as Pork Chop and Sausage nuzzle her calves. She maintains a file on each one of them and updates it every day with her observations and impressions of their sessions together. Luckily the sessions have diminished in importance, which is as it should be, since everybody is so mentally healthy. So goddamned healthy. So
enormously
adjusted.

Pork Chop squeals, and Grace realizes she has been squeezing his poor ear as hard as she can. She lets go and pats his thick head. “There, there,” she says. “There, there.”

She thinks again of the book she will write when all this is over. It will sell well. She will be on Phil Donahue. Holding an imaginary pen, she practices signing her name.

*  *  *

Bonnie is not far from Grace; she works, shirtless in the early-morning sun, on her knees in the three tall rows of cornstalks. The agricultural wing is like the playing board of a child’s game, with squares devoted to corn, potatoes, beans, peas, squash, carrots, and tomatoes. She wishes they had watermelon, but it would require far too much water to be ecologically justifiable. But at least there’s the fruit grove by the wall, there—right beside the vegetables —with apples, oranges, and lemons. The soils are as rich as possible, having originally been procured from all parts of the United States.