Into The Out Of

by Alan Dean Foster

  "Where are your—?" Merry began, but the old man anticipated her query.

  "My ilmeet clothes? In my suitcase, which is in the back of the matatu I have hired. So are your backpacks."

  Oak's brows drew together. "How did you get into our rooms? We haven't been down here that long."

  White teeth flashed. "Does it matter? You will find nothing missing. We should make use of the daylight. In this part of the world it is not wise to travel at night."

  "I don't mind traveling at night," Merry told him. "I do it all the time."

  "This is not Seattle. I have settled with the hotel. I will pay for your breakfast. Are you ready?"

  "Well, I—Sure, why the hell not?" Oak replied, exchanging a glance with Merry.

  "Then come." Olkeloki spun on his heel and flowed out of the dining area, trailed by the amused stares of the sophisticated Nairobians and the delighted ones of the tourists.

  Oak and Merry had to move fast to keep up with the old man, whose change of attire seemed to have rejuvenated him. The face was the same, but his bearing and attitude had undergone a subtle alteration. From the neck down his movements were those of a thirty-year-old. The swirl of blanket and toga hovered about him like a red and blue cloud as he paused at the cashier's station, then led them toward the front doorway.

  The doorman did not move to help. Olkeloki ignored the younger man and opened the door himself. He did not hold it for Merry.

  Their driver was a short, thick-set Bantu clad in jeans, T-shirt, and a sharp-looking forties-style hat that he wore cocked down over his forehead at a rakish angle. He was leaning against his vehicle and reading the morning paper. He dumped the paper inside and straightened as his passengers approached.

  "Could we take a minute to look in the trunk?" Oak asked when he finally managed to catch up with the old man.

  "Why waste time? If I had wanted to steal your pitiful few belongings, Joshua Oak, why would I return? Nor do I have anything to gain by leaving them behind in your hotel rooms."

  "No, of course you don't." Idiot, he shouted at himself. The man may be half crazy but he's not a thief. Settle down! He followed Merry into the back of the matatu.

  The taxi was a survivor from the early sixties, an Australian Ford that had been sandblasted to a pale gray except for the places where rocks and rust had punched holes in the chassis. The rear right taillight had recently lost an argument with a large projectile of unknown pedigree. The driver slid behind the cloth-wrapped wheel, jammed a key into the ignition, and, to the surprise of both American passengers, started the machine instantly. They were rapidly learning that in Africa looks meant little, at least where machinery was concerned. Function did not necessarily follow form.

  By the standards of the African bush the interior of the matatu was clean, which was to say that the layer of ochre dust which coated floor, windows, and seats was relatively fresh. The driver pulled away from the front of the hotel in much the same way a space shuttle clears its launching pad. Similarly, as soon as they pulled out onto the highway the acceleration became tolerable and the number of Gs the matatu's passengers were expected to endure declined. Oak wished he could say the same for his lingering apprehensions. The freeway direction signs suspended over the roadways were identical to those found back home and he wondered if American engineers had worked on the road. The driver did not know. The names on the signs, however, were anything but familiar. Thika, Naivasha, Machakos. Similarly, while Nairobi had the comfortable feel of a large, modern city, the country they drove through as soon as they left the city's outskirts behind did not.

  Their driver was friendly and cheerful, especially when they got far enough out of the city for him to boost the aged matatu's speed up to a chassis-shaking rate. The same thoughts must have occurred to Merry because she leaned forward for a look at the speedometer.

  "Are we really going a hundred and forty kilometers an hour?"

  "Oh no, missy." The driver turned around to grin at her while displaying utter lack of interest in the narrow two-lane highway they were rocketing down. "You think from the speedometer?"

  Merry nodded, watching as the needle fluttered about the far end of the dial.

  "No need to worry about speedometer. It's broken." Keeping one casual hand on the wheel and his foot flat on the accelerator he turned to Olkeloki and reached past him with his right hand. "Your pardon, laibon." The deference in his voice was in sharp contrast to the way Olkeloki had been treated back at the hotel, yet the driver was obviously non-Maasai. Perhaps that was why the old man had hired him.

  He twisted a dial and the radio slid neatly out of the dash, revealing a hidden compartment from which he extracted a pint bottle of clear liquid. Having been in similar situations back home, Oak knew instantly it wasn't water. Vodka most likely, or perhaps gin. He was wrong on both counts. The bottle had a fascinating zebra-striped label.

  "Kenya Cane," said the driver after taking a sip directly from the bottle and noticing Oak's curious stare in the rear-view mirror. "We are not like the rest of Africa, not here. People in Kenya know how to make good things. The market for sugar is bad. The market for liquor is always good. Myself, I think the sugar growers make this for themselves to drink because the sugar market is so bad." He giggled at his own joke.

  He wasn't completely irresponsible, Oak reflected. Any man who could steer a refugee from rent-a-wreck down a country highway while simultaneously quaffing sugar spirits and discoursing on the state of domestic economics had to have his wits about him. At the same time it was obvious he'd never attended a formal driving school. His approach was straightforward, though. Press the accelerator all the way to the floor and try to keep the car pointed in the direction you want to go, and don't confuse the issue by trying to make use of such unnecessary Western appurtenances as brakes or turn signals.

  Fortunately, they had the road almost to themselves after the first hour.

  "Where are all the people?" Merry asked. She might equally have asked where was all the country.

  The land around Nairobi had been green and fertile. Now they were careening over a vast, dry plain bordered by brown hills. Isolated acacia trees waved thorny branches at them as they roared southward. They looked like oversized, out-of-place houseplants.

  "These are the Athi Plains." The driver sniffed. "From here to the border is not good land, but I am not a farmer or herder so I do not care. Soon we go through Isinya. It is nothing, a cesspool. But Kajiado has a cafe and I may stop there to get petrol. From there it is maybe another hour to Namanga and the border. Maybe less. The laibon says you are in a hurry. Not to worry. Manu and his bibio will get you there." He rapped the dash with an affectionate palm. Not too hard, either, Oak noted.

  "Ah, look there." He pointed to his left.

  At that moment it all came home to Merry Sharrow. Until the driver gestured a faint air of unreality had clung to her since they'd left Washington. The sight of the two adult giraffes loping along the side of the highway wiped out the last lingering wisps of disbelief. Instinctively, she looked for walls and bars. But there were none here, just as there was no national park or game preserve. Only the speeding matatu, the acacias, the empty brown plains, and the two ambling giraffes like signposts from a vanished age.

  "In Swahili are called twiga," the driver informed them. Merry clapped her hands together like a little girl, turning to watch as the giraffes fell behind.

  "That's perfect."

  "I will tell you one better. Leopard is chui, pronounced in English chewy." Even Oak had to smile at that.

  Olkeloki did not turn around, stared resolutely straight ahead. "Language is a frayed thread between peoples, but a fascinating one."

  Oak wondered what held his attention so unswervingly. Looking at him sitting there in the front seat across from their thoroughly urbanized driver, cloaked in his bright blue toga and red blanket, his walking stick resting on his right shoulder, it was difficult to believe he was the same man Oak had rescued from a
riot behind the White House. The same man who had spoken calmly to them of impossible creatures and an unimaginable threat from beyond while planning to convince them to accompany him back to Africa on the fastest form of transportation yet devised by humanity. Now he looked like an illustration from an anthropology text, a cardboard cutout from an African studies program at Georgetown University suddenly come to life.

  But he was real enough, was Mbatian Oldoinyo Olkeloki. Whatever he was. As real as this rattletrap taxi cannonballing through the dry plains of East Africa. As real as the pair of giraffes that had watched them speed past with nary a glance up from their daily business of denuding acacias.

  "Look out, look out!" Merry lunged over the front seat and grabbed the wheel.

  For five seconds all was chaos inside the cab. Oak barely had time to shout a startled curse, Olkeloki stiffened perceptibly, and the driver screeched something in frantic Swahili as he tried to regain control of his vehicle. Moving at a speed somewhere between eighty miles an hour and that of light, the aged taxi leaned hard on nonexistent shocks. Tires screamed and rubber evaporated as it swerved into the fortunately empty opposite lane. They squealed a second time as the driver fought wildly with the wheel for control. They crossed back into the southbound lane, slid into the sandy shoulder and threw up a dusty roostertail an unlimited hydroplane would've been proud of, and finally straightened out back on the pavement. How the driver missed the acacia tree growing just to the right side of the road Oak could never quite figure out, but he was more than willing to accept the reprieve without an explanation.

  Somehow the rusty body held together along with all four of the nearly bald tires. It was a miracle they didn't roll. The old Ford was no Land Rover and Oak didn't doubt for a second that if they had rolled, all four of them would have been crushed to death inside. Suddenly wide awake and stone cold sober, the driver clung to the wheel like a limpet, alternating his gaze between the road ahead and the mad ilmeet in the back seat.

  Merry was on her knees, staring out the back window. Oak bit back his instinctive response and waited. Eventually she turned and resumed her seat, blinked as if suddenly aware that she'd done something out of the ordinary.

  "I—I'm sorry. There was some truck tire rubber in the road and I thought I saw one piece move. A big piece. There's no wind outside." Their driver heard this and leaned forward until his chin was practically touching the wheel.

  Oak put a hand on her shoulder. "Are you sure you saw it move?"

  She didn't meet his gaze. "I thought I did."

  He eyed her a moment longer before glancing up at Olkeloki. "What do you think?"

  "I do not know, Joshua Oak. I am so happy to be back in my own land that I have not been paying as much attention as perhaps I should to our immediate surroundings. As such it may be that she has saved us all."

  "By almost killing us," Oak mumbled.

  "Look, I said I was sorry," said Merry belligerently, "but damnit, Josh, I swear I saw the thing move. I must have."

  "It's okay. Where these shetani are involved I'd rather react first and argue about it later."

  "Shetani?" The driver looked up at him.

  "Nothing." Oak offered him a placid smile. "Just an old story. The mama was daydreaming, that's all."

  "Crazy muzungu," he growled softly.

  For the remainder of the drive he didn't speak, just clung to the wheel and stared straight ahead. The only casualty of Merry's action was the easy camaraderie which had previously prevailed inside the matatu.

  Oak wasn't sure what had happened. He hadn't seen anything move, but then he'd been looking out a side window and not straight ahead. More troubling was the fact that Olkeloki hadn't seen anything either. Up until now he'd only had the old man's sanity to worry about. From now on it seemed he was going to have to keep a close watch on Merry Sharrow as well. Not that he thought she was unhinged. Just maybe a little—emotional.

  We're all crazy here except me and thee, he thought silently, and I'm not so sure about thee.

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  16

  Gstaad, Switzerland—23 June

  Alexis Bostoff was the fastest-rising star in the Soviet firmament. A full member of the Politburo at the unheard-of age of thirty-four, he held the important post of assistant minister of armaments. Because of his military connections, he understood not only the needs of the vast Soviet military complex but its operational stratagems as well. In this respect he was unique.

  He was also brilliant, articulate, and handsome enough to have had a career as a movie star in the Russian cinema. It was premature to speak of him as a successor to the still young Dorovskoy, but already the whispering had begun. Here was a young man who someday might be able to charm the West into a reasonable disarmament without concurrent weakening of the motherland, a man who could keep both the party and the generals happy. He was totally dedicated to his work. Most important, he got along well with Dorovskoy himself. The Premier valued the young assistant minister's advice. Everyone was amazed that Bostoff had not succumbed to the disease, which had aborted so many similar promising careers: that of premature ambition.

  This was his first visit to the West and he'd immediately set about charming both his Swiss hosts and the media. The sight of a Russian armaments minister tearing down the ski slopes with the slickest of the Beautiful People was a novelty the press was quick to seize upon. It was nothing remarkable to Bostoff, who'd grown up in the northern Urals. He'd had to learn how to ski at an early age in order to get to school in the depths of the raw Russian winter. He'd continued skiing on into maturity for both exercise and recreation. Perhaps incidentally, it made him stand out in a cluster of typically overweight officials.

  Earlier that week in Bern he'd shown himself to be as comfortable at a press conference as he was on the slopes. When one of the reporters had inquired if he had any personal problems that were giving him trouble he'd replied that some people suffered from a persecution complex, others from an inferiority complex, but that he was burdened by a military-industrial complex. From that point on the attitude of the media had changed from hostile to sympathetic. No one had even asked him about Afghanistan.

  The conference itself had gone better than anyone in the Soviet delegation had hoped, due in no small part to his own aggressive analysis of the world economic order. He was feeling very pleased with himself as he schussed down the medium-degree-of-difficulty slope toward the town below. He was also enjoying a rare morning of solitude, since none of the KGB men assigned to watch him knew how to ski. They could only grumble and watch him depart unescorted from the top of the lift. Others waited below, he knew, surveying his progress from time to time with high-power binoculars. But out on the slope, he was free.

  All vacations eventually came to an end, even working ones. Soon he would be back at his desk in Moscow. There was so much to do. True disarmament could only proceed from a position of strength and equality. The problem was to explain to the West why it had to modify its definition of equality. It wasn't going to be easy, but if anyone could do this, Bostoff knew he would be the one. He was convinced he could make progress toward a real peace between the superpowers. He had the energy and enthusiasm of youth on his side, thoughts of a different approach to disarmament, and enough power to fend off the extremists within the Kremlin. It was a breakthrough that had to be made and he might as well be the one to make it.

  He bent his left knee and slid smoothly across the next slope. As he did so he was startled to see a large black rock sticking out of the otherwise perfectly groomed run. It shouldn't have been there. The Swiss maintained their ski slopes as methodically and obsessively as they did their streets. Such an obstacle would not be permitted on the bend of a curve. It would be removed immediately by heavy equipment or blasting.

  It looked like a big chunk of basalt. Bostoff had to make a decision instantly. The drop-off to the right was steep and while he was a decent skier, he was no Jean-Claude Killy. Similarl
y, there was not enough space or time to allow him to stop.

  But there was just enough room between the rock and the upslope for him to squeeze through. He planted his right pole hard in the powder and angled upward instead of down. It would be all right; he would shoot neatly through the gap. And when he reached the bottom he would have a word or two for the resort's operators.

  He was skimming by when something like a length of black hose whipped out of the rock. The hose ended in five long, looping fingers. They crunched across his right knee with terrific force, simultaneously shattering the patella and his balance. He careened wildly forward, the pain shooting up his leg as he wondered what had hit him. He knew something was broken just as he knew that the ever-alert security men below would reach him in minutes. Major resorts like Gstaad kept medical teams on twenty-four-hour standby. There was no reason to panic.

  That relaxed confidence stayed with him right up until the instant when he lost his balance and fell forward. His forehead struck something solid and unyielding that lay just beneath the masking layer of white powder.

  The first reaction of the Swiss medical team upon reaching the motionless body of the Russian minister was disbelief. The entire right side of the skull had been caved in as if by a blunt object. But there was nothing there, nothing beneath him except four feet of snow and nothing nearby to show how he had broken his kneecap. Everyone was puzzled as to why he'd fallen in the first place. The run he'd been coming off of was smooth and simple. Even a novice should have been able to handle it easily.

  Speculation ran rampant through the minds of the KGB men. There were no natural obstacles visible which might have contributed to the fatal fall, nor were there any signs of foul play. Therefore whatever had induced the accident had somehow been taken away before the medical team arrived.