Into The Out Of

by Alan Dean Foster

  "I sympathize." Dorovskoy was fighting to keep himself under control. "How dare they," he muttered again, as though by repeating the phrase he might somehow be able to exorcise the unthinkable blasphemy. He went to read the report again and in so doing discovered he'd crumpled it in both hands. The words seared themselves into his brain.

  Of all the memorials to the folly and sacrifice of war which existed in the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, none was more revered or solemnly impressive than the Piskaryouskoye Cemetery outside Leningrad. Four million people were buried there, most of them civilians who had starved during the Nazis' long siege of the city. One could walk along the silent rows of grass-covered mounds and read the simple signs set in the ground at each end.

  HERE LIE BURIED TEN THOUSAND

  On and on, sign after sign, row after row, mound upon mound containing the bones of the heroic who had perished together and now lay entombed side by side, their extinction a never-to-be-forgotten monument to the city which they had loved and their triumph over the fascists.

  And now someone, or rather many someones, Dorovskoy corrected himself, for desecration on such a scale could not have been carried out by a single individual, had entered the cemetery during the night and opened grave after grave. They had removed the bones of the valiant, the men, women, and children who had starved to death rather than surrender to the invaders, and used them to spell out obscenities on the sacred ground. It smacked of the Nazis' use of treated human skin to make lamp shades. No words existed in the Premier's extensive vocabulary to express the outrage and shock he felt. It would be the same with any Russian, be he warmonger or peacenik.

  No evidence had been found, nothing but a lot of strange animal footprints no doubt employed by the desecrators to conceal their own movements. It had been simple for them to move about. There was no need to mount a round-the-clock guard over Piskaryouskoye for the simple reason that no Soviet citizen would dare to disturb so much as a single wildflower or blade of grass within.

  No Soviet citizen.

  Then who was responsible? Leningrad was by far the most accessible Russian city to the West. If you could avoid the border guards you could hike to the city from Finland. But who would do such a terrible thing, and with what end in mind? It made no sense. Therefore, Dorovskoy decided, whoever had perpetrated the blasphemy was not sane. Their insanity was defined by their actions. You could not reason or negotiate with such people.

  Whispers and murmurs he had initially dismissed now drifted back to him, the opinions of his more radical advisors. Brilliant young Bostoff's still unexplained death in Switzerland. The undermining of Tsimlyansk dam. The inexplicable and just-aborted launch of the ICBM at Aldan. Coincidence? Or part of some carefully disguised pattern of sabotage and disruption designed to fatally weaken the country? Dorovskoy was an expert at identifying patterns.

  True, if the Americans were responsible, as some of his radicals insisted, they were taking unprecedented steps to disguise their activities. It was not like them to kill their own people and destroy their own infrastructure to divert suspicion from themselves. Insane. The word was inescapable. Dorovskoy had met with President Weaver and his top advisors twice in the past three years and considered all of them to be reasonable men.

  But what of the hidden American government, the international bankers and militarists? Of what madness might they be capable in their relentless quest to secure domination over the world? Would they attack even their own citizens? Such a thing was common enough in ancient times, but relatively unknown to recent history. But there was precedent, especially when the power brokers thought they could get away with it.

  He had to make decisions. The people expected it; the Politburo would demand it. If he continued to vacillate in the face of continued disaster he would be replaced, quickly and efficiently.

  "Sir?" He looked up into the anxious face of the secretary. "Are you all right, sir?"

  "Yes. I am all right, young man. I am certain the police in Leningrad are doing the best they can. Meanwhile I would like for you to contact the Ministry of Defense and inform them that I will be arriving in a quarter of an hour. There are decisions to be made, difficult decisions. I will expect Field Marshal Kusnetzov, Admiral Bezinski, and Air Marshal Dzhirgatal to be present when I arrive, in addition to representatives of the Ministers of Armaments and of Heavy Industry."

  "Yes sir, I will take care of it." The secretary turned to go, hesitated uncertainly. "Excuse me, Comrade Premier, but there is only going to be talk, isn't there? I have a wife and we just had our first child."

  Dorovskoy liked the young man for his straightforwardness. "You may convey my messages in confidence, Nicholas." He managed a smile despite the pain which still enveloped his heart. "This is only a time for talk."

  The secretary looked immensely relieved. "Thank you, Comrade Premier." He hurried from the office.

  A time for talk. Dorovskoy sat at his desk thinking hard.

  Talk today, yes, but what of tomorrow? Another Piskaryouskoye incident and it would be impossible for him or anyone else to keep the lid on the pot. If it boiled over, everyone would get scalded. There came a time when people grew too angry to listen.

  But he had to have irrefutable proof before he could issue any irrecallable directives. Even the extremists had to grant him that. Direct complicity if not responsibility had to be established. You could not threaten war over suppositions. That was sensible. That was logical. Sitting alone in his Kremlin office Arkady Dorovskoy, Premier of all the Soviet Socialist Republics, had the uncomfortable feeling that despite his best efforts events were speeding forward out of his control and beyond the reach of logic and reason.

  | Go to Table of Contents |

  20

  Arusha, Tanzania—24 June

  As they made their way slowly through the center of the city, Oak worried that a curious cop might recognize the Land Rover as belonging to the local political party. Unlikely, he tried to tell himself. This wasn't rural Mississippi or Idaho. He mentioned his concern to Olkeloki, who was quick to reassure him.

  "It would not matter if someone did recognize this vehicle, Joshua Oak. Tanzania is so poor it cannot afford patrol cars for its police. A few have bicycles. As the same is true for most criminals, it does not matter. The policeman on foot catches the thief on foot."

  Despite this Oak was relieved when they left the city behind. In the shadow of Mount Meru, Kilimanjaro's less publicized but no less beautiful sister mountain, they filled the Land Rover's tanks to overflowing. According to Olkeloki they were unlikely to find petrol for sale anywhere along the highway between Moshi and Chalinze. They drew plenty of stares, but then Kakombe would have drawn stares anywhere. Oak was glad. It shifted some of the attention off himself and Merry.

  "From here it is almost two hundred miles to Korogwe, then a little less to Chalinze," Olkeloki informed them.

  "Relax," Oak told him. "After the last couple of rides I'm looking forward to doing my own driving."

  Once they left Moshi and turned south through the vast sisal plantations, there was no traffic to speak of. Once the plantations had been left behind there was no traffic at all. Oak opened up the Land Rover as much as he dared, swinging smoothly around potholes big enough to swallow a full-grown hippo.

  To their left the towering green-clad Pare Mountains poked holes in the sky while off on the right the endless brown plains known collectively as the Maasai Steppe stretched unbroken toward far Tabora. Wrecked and rusted-out buses lined both sides of the highway like the skeletons of dead dinosaurs.

  "In the last twenty years the lack of spare parts has become endemic," said Olkeloki. "These old hulks lie here because the government cannot afford to have them towed away. The locals scavenge what they can and the remainder sits out in the open, prey to insects and rain."

  "Don't they even try to fix them?" Merry asked.

  "Why should they, when it is so much simpler to ask Sweden or Hungary to give them fifty ne
w ones and there are not enough mechanics to fix the broken ones in any case?"

  Having been raised in a family noted for its thrift, Merry found the whole concept appalling. "Doesn't seem like a very practical way to run a country."

  "Maasai ways are better," Kakombe added with a grunt.

  "Not always, Alaunoni, not always." Olkeloki was eyeing the mountains with unusual intensity as he spoke. "Part of the problem is that Tanzania no longer qualifies as a third world country. Fourth or fifth world would be more accurate. Its infrastructure is collapsing around us. This road is an excellent example." He indicated the moonscaped monstrosity that stretched out before them.

  "This was once a smooth, modern highway. Now the government says it has no money for repairs. This is true. It also does not have the necessary equipment or skills. The best the government will do is send out a truckload of gravel every now and then. It does not require much skill to shovel gravel into a hole. Then it rains and washes away what gravel hasn't been stolen by the local people for use in their own yards."

  "You don't have to tell me about washed-out roads," Merry said.

  Kakombe peered at her from around his scrunched-up knees. "It rains often where you live, mama?"

  "I'm not a 'mama.'"

  The giant received this news with interest. "I did not mean to offend. That is a common reference for any mature woman in this part of the world."

  "I'd rather you called me Merry."

  "Well then—Merry, does it rain a lot where you live?"

  "All the time. Much more so than here. And it's colder, much colder."

  "We have to pray for rain. If it doesn't come, it means a hard year. Cattle die and children cry."

  "The government doesn't help you when times are difficult?"

  "We do not accept government aid," Kakombe told her haughtily. "Those who do become dependent on it. Why work when you know the government is there to feed you with foreign grain? Then a day comes when there is no grain and people starve, having forgotten how to take care of themselves. Such aid is like a drug. Once you are…" he hesitated, hunting for a word, "addicted, there is no cure. The Maasai would rather starve as free men than grovel for food like slaves."

  "Except that the Maasai rarely starve," Olkeloki put in.

  "So long as there is rain, we have plenty. The secret to the success of the Maasai is cattle. Cattle provide milk, blood, meat, and leather. Cattle are better than tilling the land. The earth is fickle with its bounty. Cattle are our constant."

  Kakombe leaned toward Oak. "How many cattle do you own, friend Joshua?"

  "None, I'm afraid. My work requires me to travel and be away from home a lot. It would be hard for me to keep cattle." He forebore from trying to explain the concept of zoning to the senior warrior, who took his cattle home with him wherever he went.

  "It is not seemly to work for hire. Can you not set yourself up independently?"

  "Not in my line of business." Trying to change the subject, he noticed that Olkeloki was continuing to stare out the window. "Looking for something, old man?"

  "Not something. Someone. It is important to see if he smiles favorably on us as we pass. Such omens are important."

  Oak frowned. "If who smiles on us?"

  "The old mzee." He gestured off to his left. "Over there."

  Oak scanned the side of the road, the brush beyond. Nothing.

  "You must look higher." Oak had the feeling Olkeloki was teasing him. "Much higher."

  "Oh!" Merry's jaw dropped. Oak saw it at the same time.

  "That's a natural rock formation. You pull this gag on everyone who comes by here with you, right?"

  Olkeloki was not smiling. "It is not a gag, Joshua Oak." He indicated the face that glared down at them from the sheer cliff above the highway.

  "That is the greatest laibon of the Maasai. When Oti was two thousand years old he took all of his clothes and worldly possessions and burned them. Then he prayed to Engai Narok, the good black god. For all the services he had rendered to the people of Africa and for being a gentle and wise soul, Engai Narok rewarded Oti with immortality by making him a mountain."

  "Right, sure." Oak turned his gaze resolutely back to the road lest the Land Rover vanish into a pothole. Just because these shetani things had turned out to be real didn't mean he had to buy every wild story the old man chose to invent. Merry, on the other hand, kept her face tight to the window. As they roared down the highway, and as the hundred-meter-high face in the mountain receded behind them, she was certain its expression changed from a glower to a faint smile.

  Sheer cliffs and dusty plains fell behind as the highway turned south into dense miombo forest. They were less than eighty miles from the coast. The increasing humidity was a reflection of the ocean's proximity. Broken pavement began to give way to long stretches of gravel mixed with dirt.

  "We must not become bogged down here," Olkeloki warned them.

  An hour later it began to rain. Not hard, but steady and unvarying as though an unseen tap had been opened. Oak grimaced as they plunged through a deep crater. You couldn't judge the depth of a pothole when it was filled with water. He found himself driving on the shoulder. Big trucks had cut the heart out of the main part of the road. Where it wasn't covered with water the highway looked like it had suffered a heavy bombardment.

  The constant jouncing threatened to shake the skin off his bones. It was much harder on Merry, but she gritted her teeth and didn't complain. The Land Rover he wasn't worried about. It was built for this kind of terrain. Human beings weren't.

  Sweat streamed down his neck. His clothes were soaked. "How much more of this?" They had left the village of Korogwe far behind. Surely Chalinze wasn't much farther.

  "Perhaps a hundred miles," the old man told him.

  Oak groaned. He was exhausted from trying to guess which water-filled potholes were shallow and fordable and which went halfway through the continental plate.

  "If it keeps raining like this we're going to need a boat."

  "We have no boat and we must not stop. This will get worse before it gets better, Joshua Oak. Sometimes this road stops even vehicles with four-wheel drive. Big trucks disappear in these woods. Not beer trucks—beer trucks never get lost. But eighteen-wheelers, as you call them, and whole busloads of people. They try to drive this road in the rain and they vanish and are never seen again.

  "People say that bandits kill the passengers and drivers and then take the vehicles off to hidden garages in the forest so they can dismantle them and sell the parts, but we wise ones know better. They sink down into the mud or—"

  "Or?" asked Merry anxiously.

  "Or the shetani get them. Remember, they love dark places. What is darker in the daytime than a rainy forest?"

  "Then what the hell are we doing here?" Oak sputtered. He swerved to miss a big hole and almost sent them crashing off into the brush.

  "We are here because we cannot waste time. We must reach Chalinze tonight. If we are caught out here in the darkness it will be dangerous."

  "I'm going as fast as I can, damnit! It'll be a helluva lot more dangerous if I hit one of these potholes wrong and we bust an axle." He wiped sweat from his face. His eyes stung. "I'm no professional driver."

  "But you said—" Kakombe began.

  "I said that I liked to drive, but on roads, not through swamps! Just because I like it doesn't mean I'm good at it."

  "If you are tired, then I will drive." Kakombe started to unfold himself.

  "No, no, it is all right, Alaunoni," said Olkeloki quickly. "If necessary I will drive. I have more experience with automobiles than you."

  Merry had been listening; now she broke in. "Hey, like I told you, it rains all the time where I come from. I have my own four-wheel drive and I know how—Wait a minute. I know what's going on here. None of you have asked me to drive because I'm a woman. That's it, isn't it?" She put both hands on the back of Oak's seat and pulled herself forward. "For Christ's sake, Josh, is that why you've
been driving yourself into the ground? Because you didn't want to ask me for help?" He didn't reply, licked sweat from his lips.

  She flopped back in her seat and folded her arms angrily. "That's just terrific. Here I've come halfway around the world, fighting off spirits all the way, so I can drive through a storm with three male chauvinist pigs."

  Kakombe frowned and looked at Olkeloki. "What does she mean?"

  "She means this!" Oak brought the Land Rover to a sliding halt on the side of the road. The highway stretched on ahead like a pale-gray tunnel through the trees. He turned to look in back. "Merry, I've been straight with you through this whole fantastic business. One of the main reasons I'm here is because I was worried about you getting in over your head from the start. I always thought that was called chivalry, not chauvinism."

  "You came because you thought you were going to get rich!" she snapped.

  "Well, yeah, that too. I said it was only one of the reasons. But it was an honest one."

  "Great! Then why don't you let me drive?"

  He hesitated only briefly. "Because I thought I could play superman and impress the hell out of everybody by making the drive all by myself. But I didn't count on the highway turning into a tributary of the Congo. Get the hell up here." He shoved open his door and stepped tiredly out into the rain.

  Merry glanced first at Kakombe, then Olkeloki. Both Africans stared expectantly back at her, waiting to see what she would do. What she did was crawl forward between the split front seats and assume Oak's place behind the wheel. At the same time he hauled himself into the back seat and settled down opposite Kakombe. He was sure the water was beginning to soften his bones.

  "She's all yours, Merry. Take us away."

  "I intend to. You get some rest, Josh." She glanced at Olkeloki. "I assume I don't have to worry about taking a wrong turn anytime soon?"