Into The Out Of

by Alan Dean Foster

  It wasn't that he was so obviously a foreigner. His thick English accent and jet-black skin were proof enough of that, not to mention the stretched-out earlobes that swayed whenever his head moved. No, it was the fact that his suit, though neat and clean, was forty or fifty years out of date. So was the white shirt, which looked like a throwback to an ad from the twenties for Arrow collars. Good thing Oak had intervened, because everything about the man screamed foreign diplomat, probably from a poor country. He might just have prevented an international incident. Might be one more commendation to add to the total Corcoran had alluded to.

  The man was brushing dirt from his pants. "They would not let me up," he was muttering.

  Definitely British-educated, Oak decided. Too dark to come from most of the Caribbean countries. African, then. He struggled to recall his geopolitics. East African. If he was from the west side of that continent he'd have spoken with a French accent, unless he was Nigerian. Complicated place, Africa.

  Not that it mattered.

  "Are you okay, mister?" It was the solicitous voice of the woman Oak had been compelled to rescue twice. My day for pulling the sardines clear of the sharks, he mused sardonically. She was helping the old man wipe off his suit. "I tried to help. I'm afraid I wasn't doing a very good job of it."

  "Don't get down on yourself," Oak found himself telling her. "You tried. That's more than any of these other upstanding citizens did. A riot like this can scare off soldiers. I know these types. When their blood's up they don't care who gets in their way, and they don't make accommodations for sex or age. They just start bashing away in Allah's name. As far as they were concerned both of you were just part of the scenery and if you happened to get in the way, too bad."

  "Violence," the old man murmured, "so much violence in the world, and so much of it petty." For the first time Oak noted that the oldster was as tall as he was. "Where I come from you do not shame the man you disagree with by fighting with him. There are better ways to settle an argument."

  "These guys aren't as interested in arguing as they are in beating righteousness into their beloved brothers."

  "That is a contradiction in terms." The old man looked Oak in the eye.

  Something happened. It was so quick it was undefinable, but for just an instant Oak had the feeling he was looking back into the mind and soul of an intellect as vast as it was unencumbered by the expected ethnocultural baggage. It staggered him and he blinked. Then his right eye stopped throbbing and it was all gone.

  The old man looked away and now Oak wasn't sure he'd seen anything at all. Must have imagined it anyway, he knew. The specimen standing next to him was nothing more than a tall, old black man in a badly out-of-date suit.

  "And you." He had a wonderful smile, Oak thought, which he was now lavishing on the blonde. "You were thoughtful enough to try to help me."

  She looked embarrassed. "I just felt like I had to do something. It's not like me. Usually I don't get involved. And fighting—that just couldn't have been me out there."

  "Take it from me, it was you," Oak assured her. "If that'd been a sword instead of a handbag you'd been swinging, you wouldn't have needed my help."

  She really looked baffled, he thought. "It just isn't like me."

  "Then why'd you go back in there?" Oak asked her.

  She looked up sharply. "I—I don't know. I just had to."

  "It was good of both of you to think of me," the old man told them.

  Oak thought it was about time for him to resume his interrupted stroll down E Street, report in to the Bureau, go home, or turn around and head back for his original destination, the Smithsonian. Instead, he found himself looking at the woman. She'd told him she was a tourist. Was she with a group tour, was she married, or what? His social life was nothing to be envied. Finding the time to have even a transitory relationship with a member of the opposite sex was damn difficult when you spent the majority of your time not only away from home but away from yourself.

  Not that there weren't plenty of opportunities to establish casual liaisons in the field, but Oak could no more lie to a woman for purposes of sexual conquest than he could to a theater manager to get in free. So what social life he had was confined to the brief periods he was home between assignments. Like now.

  Clearly this lady was a stranger to Washington, a Washington he knew intimately. He glanced down at her hand. No wedding ring—which didn't necessarily mean she was unmarried, but it was an encouraging sign. She was attractive and sensible. Though obviously frightened, she hadn't collapsed in a shrieking fit when she'd been trapped by the surging mob.

  Maybe she'd like to see the non-tourist side of Washington. Maybe if she was alone she was lonely and could use some company. He certainly could. Prettier than she thought she was, he mused. Minimal makeup, and nothing to bring out the beauty of her face. He rubbed at his right eye. Plain coiffure, which was understandable in any case. She was out walking, not going to the Inaugural Ball.

  Ah, why bother? He was tired and feeling down on himself and this morning's riot hadn't done anything to raise his regard for his fellow man. Better to continue his walk than chance rejection by a total stranger. And he really ought to spend some time at home. He saw the place infrequently enough as it was.

  He needed time to himself, to unwind and relax. Maybe he'd run up to Baltimore for an Orioles game, or head down the coast for a few days. Just sit on the beach and have the gulls yell at him for a change, try to decide which one sounded the most like Senator Baker. They wouldn't press him for easy answers to difficult questions.

  "If you'll both excuse me," he found himself telling them, "the police are on the scene and it'll be safe to continue your walks in a couple of minutes. I've got business of my own to attend to and—"

  "You didn't see them, then?" The old man looked sharply at Oak, then down at the woman. "You didn't see them either?"

  She looked for advice to Oak, who had none to give. "Didn't see who?"

  "Them." The old man was insistent. "The ones who started the fighting, the ones who incited the riot." He assumed a sly look. "Oh, they're very good at that, yes they are. It is one of their specialties, getting people to fight one another. Then they stand aside and laugh at the combatants and make obscene gestures at them. If you're in a crowd you have to be on guard against that all the time. But they moved very quickly and quietly and I didn't see them until it was too late. They're gone now, of course, so I can't point them out to you."

  "That's nice," said Oak easily. "I'm glad I was able to help you. It's been fun but it's time for me to go." He took a step up E Street only to find the old man blocking his path. His voice had fallen to a conspiratorial whisper.

  "They didn't fool me, though. What they really wanted to do was get inside there." He pointed at the White House. "That could have had terrible consequences."

  Oak didn't want to linger any longer but he did anyway. "Someone was using the riot as a diversion so they could get into where?"

  "The great chief's house. I've never seen them this bold in the daytime. But there were only two of them and they didn't have enough cover to make their approach."

  "I see. You're worrying about nothing, old man. They couldn't have made it past the gate." He spoke as if explaining to a child. "You see, it's very heavily guarded, all the time. Security makes it impossible for even very clever people to get any farther than this fence without proper clearance."

  "Oh, but they aren't people, don't you see?" He studied Oak's face. "No, you don't see, do you? Not completely."

  Oak could have taken that two ways, chose instead to try to ignore it. "No, I guess I don't. Now if you don't mind, I have business of my own."

  "I too have business. I must get inside and see the great chief." He walked up to the guard station and tapped on the glass with the end of his walking stick. "Pardon me?" The guard inside ignored him.

  Oak sighed. He should turn and walk away, but what the hell. He'd already rescued the old man once.
If he was a little senile, well, you couldn't just leave him standing there in the middle of the street. For the first time it occurred to Oak that the well-dressed oldster might have wandered away from a nursing home. There were several in the vicinity, and if he had enough sense to get on a bus he might've come a long way. Men in white coats might be hunting him even now. Or maybe he'd been visiting relatives and had wandered away from some granddaughter's birthday party. He walked over to him.

  "I'm sorry, but you can't just walk in and say howdy to the President. That ain't the way it works."

  "Are you certain?"

  "I'm really sorry, but that's the way it is." He glanced at the blonde. "You tell him."

  She looked blank for a moment, then smiled sorrowfully at the old man. Kind and understanding too, Oak thought. He could use a little of that right now.

  "I'm afraid he's right. You can't just walk in and see the President. What did you mean when you said they were the cause of the riot, and that they weren't people?"

  The old man ignored the question. "I had hoped—I have come such a long way. I had hopes that the chief of your tribe would be able to put me in touch with certain people. Special people."

  He sounds crazy, Oak mused, but he doesn't look crazy and he isn't acting crazy. Tired, though. He could well believe the oldster had come a long way. Maybe down on the express from Philly.

  "Say, old-timer, there's a bench over next to that tree. Why don't you have a seat and think it over." He signaled his intentions to the blonde with a nod of his head. Together they eased the old man over to the bench. It was bolted to the sidewalk to prevent its unauthorized use by frenzied demonstrators such as those the police had just caravaned away. The woman sat down next to him while Oak stood to one side feeling awkward and out of place.

  "I'm sorry you can't get to see the President." She smiled at the old man and he responded with a frank stare which she handled very well, Oak thought. Lovely smile, it was.

  "Perhaps it doesn't matter. Perhaps it wouldn't have done any good anyway. It would have been difficult to convince him of the seriousness of my visit. The ignorance of ilmeet officialdom is appalling at times."

  "Ilmeet?" Oak murmured.

  "Aliens, foreigners—anyone who is not Maasai."

  "Say what?"

  "It's an East African tribe, I think," the woman said unexpectedly.

  "You a professor or something?" Oak's query was as much accusation as question and he was instantly sorry for the brusqueness of his tone. Take it easy, Joshua B., he growled at himself. This isn't a combat situation. "No offense. I just wondered how you knew."

  "I do a lot of reading. National Geographic, Smithsonian, Natural History. Stuff like that."

  The old man was delighted. "Yes, I am Maasai. You have been to Africa?"

  "No. One day, maybe. I dream about traveling and I keep saving my money. This is about as far from my hometown as I've ever been."

  Oak extended a hand. "Where's home? By the way, I'm Joshua B. Oak. Josh to most people. You?"

  She took the hand politely. "Merry Sharrow, Seattle. What's the B. stand for?"

  "Burton."

  "Your parents must've liked his performances."

  "I don't think so. It's a common name. From an old uncle or somesuch, probably."

  The old man was staring at him. "Your name is Burton?"

  "Just the middle one."

  "A fine man, Sir Richard Burton."

  "Actually, I haven't seen many of his films."

  "Films? Oh, you're speaking of the actor who was named after him. I am referring to the first Sir Richard Burton, who was an explorer of my country as well as many others. A brilliant and learned gentleman who delved into branches of knowledge shunned by his contemporaries. He was very much misunderstood and underappreciated by his fellow ilmeet, especially his wife, who committed one of the great crimes of history when she burned his exhaustive personal diaries."

  If this is a crazy old man, Oak thought, he's one helluva sharp crazy old man. Still, his interest now was focused more heavily than ever on the blonde. Contact had been established.

  "You're a long way from Seattle, Mrs. Sharrow."

  "Ms., but Merry will do." She smiled at him. "Like I said, the farthest I've ever been. I was born, raised, and work up there. I'm on vacation."

  "You looked pretty lost a while ago."

  "My first riot. It's been an educational morning. Thanks again." The smile widened slightly.

  Oak hesitated. BJ Tree would have known what to say. So would any of half a dozen other aliases. But Joshua Oak did not. "I feel like the odd man out here. Guess I'll be going. You come from Seattle and he comes from Africa. Me, I just come from outside of town."

  "Stay a moment, please," said the old man.

  "I thought you were feeling okay, old-timer."

  "I am much better, thanks to you both. Burton. An interesting coincidence, young man. You are certain you were not named for the venerable explorer?"

  "Hell, I don't know. I never asked anyone. For all I know Burton could have been the name of some bastard cousin in Boston. Speaking of names… ?"

  "Ah. I have been impolite. I have not even asked you the condition of your cattle. How are they?"

  One minute he sounds sane, the next screwy, Oak thought. A rara avis wherever he's from.

  "I don't have any cattle."

  "What about you, Ms. Sharrow?"

  "I've got a cat," she replied helpfully.

  "No cattle. Then you are both poor, for one who lives without cattle lives in poverty."

  "I'll stick with my bank balance just the same," said Oak.

  "You cannot eat what sits in a bank." The oldster waggled a finger at him. "You cannot raise your children on it. And I am still impolite. I am Mbatian Oldoinyo Olkeloki, which means in Maasai 'Mbatian the Mountain Who Crosses Over.'"

  "That's a beautiful name," Sharrow said. "Where do you cross over to?"

  "To Other Places. As for instance this land of yours, which looks healthy and well but is full of many cold, dead things you cannot understand." He looked from her back to Oak and the satisfaction was plain in his voice. "Perhaps I do not need to see the great chief. I knew that those I would need to find would make themselves known to me. The prophecy has been fulfilled. Here you are."

  "Here we are?" Oak thought Merry sounded a little wary herself now.

  "One named Burton and another from a far place, both come to help me in a moment of crisis. Why else would you have helped me? Who am I to either of you? There were many ilmeet who were not participating in the fighting. Why did you choose to help me?"

  "You were old," Oak replied promptly, "and you were on the ground. I've been on the ground myself. I know what it's like when you're about to get stomped and it's something I wouldn't wish on any man."

  "Is that the only reason? Are you quite certain within yourself?"

  "Anyone with a good conscience and caring heart would've done what we did," Sharrow told him.

  "Possibly, possibly, but they did not, and you two did." He looked in all directions. "They have all gone. Your presence shields me from their attentions. That is the proof of it. No, I no longer need to see your chief. I have found the people I came to find."

  "Swell," said Oak brightly. "You two have a nice chat, but I really do have to get going."

  "What do you do, where do you go that you are in such a hurry to leave one who would be friends with you, Joshua Oak?"

  "I work for the government. I've got work to do."

  "In what capacity?"

  "None of your business." He'd had about enough of this. The old man's amusement value was falling fast.

  Olkeloki simply looked gratified. "I thought as much." He turned to Merry Sharrow. "And you?"

  "I'm a clerk. I take mail order over the phone for Eddie Bauer Outfitters in Seattle."

  "Hey," said Oak, surprised, "I bought a coat from them once."

  "Really? Maybe I processed your order."


  "Good coat."

  "Glad you like it. We take a lot of pride in our products."

  "Maybe I'll buy a vest to match someday. I hope the rest of your visit is a little more peaceful."

  The old man rose with unexpected speed and grabbed Oak's arm. Josh's natural reaction was to throw the oldster over his shoulder. He managed to restrain himself. There was no threat in the African's expression, no danger in his face.

  "Please, you must—you must do one more thing for me."

  "Well… what d'you have in mind? I mean, I really do have to be going and…"

  "I know. I know that you are a busy man, Joshua Oak. I know that you are both busy. But what I ask of you will take but little of your time, will enlighten you, and is something you may find interesting.

  "Will you listen to a story? I have come ten thousand miles to tell someone a story."

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  7

  "It's the least we can do," Merry Sharrow finally said when it was clear Oak wasn't going to respond. Her excitement, not to mention her naivete, was refreshing in a city that ran on routine and cynicism. Still he hesitated.

  "Tell you what, old-timer—Olkeloki. I'll listen to your story if you can prove to me that you're visiting here from Africa instead of General Marshall hospital across the river."

  "I understand. It is natural that you should doubt me." He fumbled through one pocket, then another. It was as if he was unfamiliar with his own clothes. Eventually he produced a small leather passport holder. The gray leather was battered and worn but all in one piece. Oak wondered what kind of hide it was fashioned from as the old man passed it to him. Something much stronger than steerhide. Buffalo maybe, or elephant.

  It contained a number of dusty, foreign-looking documents and a passport printed in two languages, English and Swahili. The passport picture was of the old man, but instead of his suit and tie he was wearing beads and little stamped metal arrowheads in his ears and a yellow-orange toga over his upper body. Oak gazed at the picture for a moment, then handed the documentation back to its owner. Red dust lingered on his fingers and he rubbed at it, trying to brush it off.