"The time of crisis draws near, Joshua Oak." Sitting quietly with his arms locked around his folded knees, he looked like one of Nafasi's blackwood sculptures. He didn't object when Oak, a much younger man from another time and culture, sat down next to him.
For a time they sat without speaking, sharing the silence and something else—an all-pervasive certainty. Though neither man knew it, the feeling was similar to what Oppenheimer and Szilard and the others at Trinity Site had felt that certain evening in 1945 as the world had been about to be dragged kicking and screaming into a new and not always reassuring era.
"Mbatian? What's on the other side? Besides the shetani, of course."
In the shadows the old man turned to look at him. His eyes reflected the starlight. Somehow they seemed bigger than in the daytime.
"Everything. That's what the Out Of is all about, my young friend. Whatever is not here is there. Everything that is real becomes real only when it enters our world from there, and everything that is not real but only imagined stays on the other side. Considering the nature of much of what is not real, it's better that way. The real world is confusing enough. Every now and then a small unreal something slips through a temporary weakness or gap in the fabric of the real and floats around the world. Then people see ghosts and goblins, have dreams and hallucinations.
"So it is not only the shetani we have to fear. There is much more in the Out Of to avoid. The longer we stay there, the more likely such things are to find us. Specific unrealities are drawn to specific people. I would not be likely to encounter your nightmare, for example. It would gravitate to you."
"Nightmare?"
"Yours and mine, Kakombe's and Merry Sharrow's; they're all over there, drifting aimlessly, waiting for a weak place to let them across to trouble our sleep. When we cross into the Out Of it will be much easier for them to find us. Then we may have something besides the shetani to cope with. You have shown me that you can deal with the shetani and with drunken ilmeet, Joshua Oak. Are you prepared to confront your own nightmares?"
Oak peered into the darkness. Small furred shapes were huddling around the base of a tree that grew from a crack in the rocks. He could sense them listening and watching. What might a hyrax encounter in the Out Of? Perhaps its missing tail?
"I don't know," he said finally. "Can any man answer that honestly? All I can say is that I've been dealing with nightmares of a sort my whole life. One of them did this to me." He touched his right eye and Olkeloki looked sympathetic. "My own fault. I got lazy. The nightmare who did this to me was smiling when he did it. Never trust a smiling nightmare. That much I know." Very carefully he removed the glass eyeball and held it in his open palm, knowing the darkness would render the empty socket relatively invisible.
"I noticed it right away," the old man told him.
Oak was surprised. "Did you? Interesting. Most people can't tell the difference unless the light's just right and they get right up close. My family always got a kick out of telling people that the same company that made ET's eyes made one for me." He removed a small bottle of special fluid from a pocket and lightly cleaned the glass before replacing it in his face. The orbital muscles clamped down reflexively, holding it in place. "I used to do the cleaning and moistening in public, until I saw the effect it had on people. Since then I take care of it in private."
"How did this happen?"
Oak didn't mind telling the old man the story. He'd long since outgrown the associated trauma. "It was in a place called Boise. Not as bad as some cities I've worked in. Not where you'd expect something like this to happen. I was one of several people arresting an old man. He was angry because of what I'd done to him and his friends. He wasn't a very nice old man and his friends were no cupcakes either. My friends and I thought we had everything under control; routine, you know? We'd searched him and his friends for weapons and we were taking them into the local police station when he pulled a handful of keys from his pants and swung at me. In addition to being a lot meaner, he was a lot faster than I thought. My friends and I had kind of relaxed."
He tapped the glass eyeball with a fingernail. "Hit me right here with a key. If it had been a screwdriver or knife or something a little longer I wouldn't be here telling you about it now." He blinked, displaying his control over the restraining muscles.
"Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night in a hot sweat—I never can understand people when they talk about a cold sweat—and I can see that key coming straight at me and I know I can't stop it. It's just a brass-colored blur. Then I feel the pain again and I have to touch myself to make sure I'm not bleeding. They say I bled a lot. So you see, old man, I'm used to dealing with nightmares."
"I suspected as much. Remember, Joshua Oak, you were made known to me."
There on the smooth rock beneath the calm mantle of the African night, Oak's last remaining shreds of skepticism and disbelief left him. "All right, I'm about ready to concede that there are forces at work here that I don't understand, that maybe nobody understands. I can see how somebody with my background and experience could be a lot of help to you in this." He gestured uphill.
"What I can't figure is how Merry fits in. She's a telephone salesclerk. Okay, so she works at night and as a result she isn't afraid of the dark. Maybe she can handle her nightmares too. But she doesn't have any kind of martial arts or military training. She's not used to fighting. If she were a lady cop or something, then I'd understand, it would make some sense. Go on, explain to me what she's doing here, why you picked her."
"Some things I may not tell you yet, friend Joshua. All I can say is that she was made known to me, just as you were. When we enter the Out Of you must be on my right hand just as she will be on my left. She is as much a key to the outcome as you or I."
"If you say so, but I still don't understand."
"Who understands the Out Of? I can only tell you that this is the way things must be. There is much darkness and little light in the Out Of. It is not a place that cries out for illumination. As you say, Merry Sharrow has no fear of the dark. That may be reason enough for her to accompany us. Or possibly she is here to make sure that you are here."
"Hey, now wait a minute. I came with you of my own free will. Sure, Merry's insistence on following you had something to do with my decision, but I still—" He broke off when he sensed that the old man was laughing at him. Was his face burning? He was glad of the dark.
"Tomorrow we will find out why any of us are here, my young friend, when it comes time to enter the Out Of."
Oak accepted the change of subject. "You say we're going to have to seal this break that's opening between the real world and the Out Of. How do we do that? With dynamite? Or with some kind of spell or something?"
"Something like that." Oak wished the old man sounded a little more confident. "Since the Out Of is a place of darkness, we must seal it in with light."
"A few pounds of dynamite would make plenty of light."
The old man sounded disappointed. "All you ilmeet think alike. Always thinking in terms of explosive devices. Your physics have no soul. I will provide the light. That is my job. You and Kakombe and Merry Sharrow must give me the time to do what I must do. That is your job. To keep me alive long enough to finish the work." He indicated the night sky. "That may take some doing. The portents are not good."
For a moment Oak didn't grasp the old man's meaning. Then he frowned at the half moon. A small piece of it was missing.
"I'll be damned. An eclipse."
"Yes. A sign of forthcoming death among the Maasai. By the readings I have been doing at least two will die as we try to enter the Out Of, and many more if we fail. Too many more to contemplate. But then, this you know already."
"Oak's gaze fell to the smooth, shadowed stone beneath his feet. He swallowed. "Which two?"
"The reading did not say." He shrugged, though not to make light of the matter. 'I may have been wrong in interpreting the signs. On a night when the moon is going out, even de
ath may not act reasonably. Remember, it was only a reading, and readings are nothing more than hunches. They are not predictions engraved in stone."
Oak considered this for a while before asking quietly, "what about the other? What happens if we're successful? Are you sure this light you're going to produce will let us back across?"
"It should."
"And if it doesn't, or if something screws up at the last minute?"
"Then we will be imprisoned forever in the world of the Out Of along with the trapped shetani and our worst nightmares. I think we would go mad very quickly. But do not worry about that. I am sure it is possible to kill oneself as quickly in the Out Of as in the real world."
Oak skuffed the smooth stone with the heel of his boot. "You're a real comfort, Mbatian Olkeloki." The old man rose and Oak eyed him curiously. "Going up for a drink?"
"No. To sleep, my young friend, but first I must make a telephone call. It is good that they have a phone here."
"Last minute call to your wife?"
"No. To settle my conscience and also, perhaps, to prick some others."
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24
Moscow, USSR—26 June
The Premier was more than usually solemn this morning, the minister reflected. In fact, Dorovskoy was downright grim. Certainly he had reason to be. He was the man who had to make the hard decisions. The questions he was putting to the men assembled around the great oval table were as precise and sharp as a surgeon's scalpel. Replies were of comparable brevity. Eventually the questions came round to the minister of transportation.
"Seroff, you're certain the Dnieper bridge was destroyed by sabotage? It could not possibly have been caused by anything else?"
"In conjunction with army specialists my department has researched the incident thoroughly, Comrade Premier. Although no physical evidence has been turned up at the site thus far, the lack of any other reasonable explanation compels us to believe in the sabotage theory."
Dorovskoy's expression did not change, but inside he was seething with frustration. The destruction of the Volga bridge at Volzhskiy was one more in an accelerating sequence of dramatic "accidents" that were driving him, his ministers, indeed the entire country to the edge of paranoia. It was as though whoever was responsible (and who could deny that some force was responsible?) was gaining strength and confidence with each successive incident, secure in the knowledge that without conclusive identification they could continue operating with impunity. The fabric of Soviet life was being pulled to pieces around him. Dorovskoy could not allow it to continue unpunished. More than his own future was at stake.
"This cannot go on, gentlemen. Most of you know me fairly well. It was with your support that I became Premier and it is with your support that I continue to govern. All my life I have shied away from giving ultimatums. I didn't like them when my father gave them to me, I didn't like those I received in school, and I especially resented them in the army. But sometimes when everything else has been tried they are all that is left. My father would find it amusing that I now must issue my first.
"I desperately wish there was another way, but I have no choice. Those whom the Agency for State Security deems responsible for the catastrophes of the past days continue to disavow any knowledge of the causes. Concrete evidence is lacking, but in the absence of any other reasonable explanation the circumstantial evidence appears overwhelming. It is agreed, then?"
It was unanimous. Every minister gave his assent, albeit some reluctantly. Even those who disagreed with the decision realized the Premier had exhausted his options. The unanimity of opinion brought forth no smiles. This was anything but a pleasant occasion.
Even those who were confirmed atheists prayed the Americans would be reasonable.
Washington, D.C.—26 June
None of the usual small talk or joking banter filled the hall outside the cabinet room as the members of the National Security Council filed out and headed for their waiting limousines. President Weaver bid each of them a private goodbye. They all knew what they had to do and not a man among them was looking forward to it. He checked his watch. In half an hour he would have to go through essentially the same sequence of events with the cabinet. After that the media would have to be told. The press conference had been called for 11:55, in order to catch as many people at lunch as possible, when they were more likely to be sitting in front of a TV set.
He spent the next thirty minutes talking to his wife. She tried to dissuade him. It was hard for her to be objective in any case. A brother-in-law had been a supervisor at the Baton Rouge refinery which had been blown up. But it helped Weaver to talk with her.
It helped as much as all the useless messages and demands and near-accusations they'd sent via satellite. As words had failed to stem the tide of inexplicable tragedies, now something else would have to be tried. Weaver dreaded the upcoming press conference. He wasn't worried about lack of popular support for the decision. Polls revealed that public opinion had been roused to fever pitch by the extremists. He was worried about the absence of strong opposition, both among the general population and in Congress. It shouldn't have been a surprise, really. An angry American public could take only so much without striking back, even if they weren't completely sure they were striking back at the right enemy.
Worst of all, the Soviets seemed to feel exactly the same.
Cabinet meeting in five minutes. He kissed his wife, harder than he had in some time, and sat down at the head of the table to wait for the department heads to file in. A couple of them, Harkins and Thierry, also served on the NSC. They would be filling in their curious colleagues out in the hall. That would make it a little easier, but only a little.
The bright red telephone under the desk rang. He frowned, let it ring a second time before picking up the receiver.
The two men had talked directly before, Dorovskoy being the first Soviet Premier in history to have a working command of the English language and Weaver reciprocating with a smattering of Russian. Nevertheless, simultaneous translation was still vital to proper understanding. Especially this morning.
What happened was so extraordinary and puzzling and caused so much discussion on both sides of the planet that it refocused not only everyone's attention but their curiosity as well. Perhaps it was nothing more than one of those inexplicable and fortuitous coincidences on which so much of history turns. In any case, what happened was this:
Dorovskoy insisted he had not called Weaver. The President of the United States was equally insistent that he had not rung up the Premier of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. There had been no click in Washington and no click in Moscow. Both men had picked up their handsets at precisely the same instant the call had gone through, which was not quite but almost theoretically impossible, given the amount of preparation that always went into making the necessary connections.
The extraordinary coincidence was immediately remarked upon. It was decided that a third party had to be involved. This determined, individuals on both sides suggested that perhaps the same still unknown third party might be responsible for the long series of equally inexplicable events on both continents. Threats about to be made were retracted. Cooler heads were allowed to make their suggestions without fear of being stigmatized as cowards and appeaseniks. Neither side trusted the other enough to relax, but talk of ultimatums and absolutes was put off while this new possibility was looked into. The mysterious coincidental telephone call notwithstanding, neither side was willing to permit itself more than a modicum of optimism. Everyone backed off just the same.
What harm in talking for a few more days?
Ruaha, Tanzania—26 June
While the representatives of the two world powers talked and the rest of the world trembled, a battered Land Rover containing four tired but determined people was bouncing along a dirt track paralleling the Mdonya Sand River in south central Tanzania. Not even Mbatian Oldoinyo Olkeloki knew how much time they had left. All he co
uld tell them was that they had no time to spare and that there would be no second chance.
Olkeloki had come for them before five, when it was still dark out. Bleary-eyed but tense with excitement, Oak had thrown some water on his face, dressed, and warmed up the Land Rover while they waited for Merry. There were no jokes about the habitual tardiness of women. Not on this morning.
Now the sun was rising over the rolling hills through which the sand river sliced. Soon it would begin to warm up and the tsetse flies would leave the shelter of their bushes in search of blood. No one at the camp questioned their early departure. Morning and evening were the best time for viewing game.
Except that we're going to see something a lot more dangerous than a lion or leopard, Oak thought.
Since leaving camp behind they hadn't seen another human being. For all the marks humanity had left on this stretch of Africa they might as well have been driving over the sands of Mars. Unvarying guide and companion, the river was as pure an expanse of yellow-white sand as his favorite Carolina beach. Under Olkeloki's direction they kept it on their right as they followed it northwestward.
Water ran not far beneath the sandy surface, the old man explained. Occasionally they would drive past shallow holes dug by elephants. When the pachyderms had drunk their fill, other animals would emerge from the woods to make use of the temporary well.
"Ow, damnit!" A quick search located the culprit and Merry smashed him against the door on her side. Windows were rolled up and Oak turned on the air conditioning. Olkeloki offered his personal theory that the tsetse flies were actually the offspring of certain shetani. This accounted not only for their unnatural toughness but also for their persistence and malign disposition.
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