Impossible Places

by Alan Dean Foster

  Besides, he hadn’t eaten since yesterday.

  Waiting until he thought the moment just right, he slipped out of the shadows and slid along the wall, keeping low. Providentially, the suitcase had a handle fastened to the top. He was a little surprised to find that the case was made of metal instead of the soft fabrics and leathers he was used to seeing at the airport, but it was astonishingly light. Modest in stature the Huli peoples might be, but every man was muscled as hard as the stump of a mahogany tree.

  Gripping the suitcase in a fist of iron, he slipped back the way he had come, keeping the black iron security bars pressed against his spine. Busy with one another, none of the combatants noticed him. As soon as he reached the alley, he turned and ran. That was something else Highlanders were good at.

  He did not stop until he was halfway to the suburb of Koki, where he shared a ramshackle hovel of salvaged wood, cardboard, and corrugated iron with two other young men from the village. Like all the buildings in Koki, it was built on stilts out over the water. It was not a bad place for poor people to live. No one could sneak up on you unless they had a good, quiet boat, and the tide provided the services the nonexistent sewage system could not.

  Pausing on the Ela Beach road beneath the harsh yellow lights of a British Petroleum station, he settled down beneath a hibiscus bush to inspect his prize. Even to his country eyes the case looked expensive. Though small, the lock proved resistant to his probing. But only momentarily.

  One of the night attendants at the station was another Huli who hailed from a village not far from Wahgi’s village. He had struck up a casual acquaintance with the man, and their clans were not currently at war. Though suspicious, the attendant lent him the hammer and heavy screwdriver his fellow Highlander requested. He knew Wahgi wouldn’t run off with them. That would have put the attendant in deep trouble with the station’s owners, which would have turned into a payback situation against Wahgi’s village. Every Highlander treated the ancient tradition of payback with extreme respect, and Wahgi was no exception.

  Modern as it was, the lock eventually yielded to Wahgi’s strength, persistence, and single-minded determination. After returning the tools, he went back under the bush to examine the case’s contents. In these he was both disappointed and puzzled.

  The case contained a number of small electronic devices that were as alien to Wahgi as if they had fallen from the moon. He knew what a radio was, and a television, and an airplane, because he had seen them up close, but otherwise his knowledge of contemporary twentyfirst century technology was lamentably limited. Another section of the case was full of paper, but to his disgust and disappointment none of it was money. Though colorful, the papers were much too big to be currency: PNG, Aussie, or otherwise. He did not know what they were. Perhaps his roommates Gembogl and Kuikui might know, though they had spent little more time in Mosby than had he.

  He was philosophical about his theft. The contents might be valueless, but the case itself was certainly worth something, even with a broken lock. Leaving it under the fragrantly flowering bush, he went once more into the station, this time to beg a length of used twine from his fellow Huli. With the lock broken, he needed something to secure the case.

  When he returned, something inside was beeping insistently.

  Slowly and with commendable caution, he reopened the case. The noise was coming from one of the small electronic devices. Gingerly lifting it out of the case, he turned it over in his hands. It was about the size of two packs of cigarettes. On its front were a large number of illuminated buttons above which a small yellow light was blinking. This he eyed in astonishment, wondering how anyone could manufacture so small a bulb.

  Could the device hurt him? He knew he should find a way to stop the beeping, or he might draw unwanted attention to himself. The Mosby police were not gentle with thieves, especially those who stole from visiting Europeans. He had seen how buttons could turn a radio on and off. Perhaps one of the buttons on the device could do the same to the insistent beeping sound.

  Experimentally, he began pushing them one after another. Each time he depressed a button, it responded with an electronic chirp, but the continuous beeping never stopped—until he pushed one of the buttons near the bottom. Not only did the nerve-wracking beeping cease, but the yellow light turned to green.

  “Stavros, Stavros . . . was ist mit ihnen los? Sprechen sie, dammit!”

  Wahgi almost dropped the device. Then he realized what it was: some kind of telephone, but unlike any he had ever seen before. For one thing, it was infinitely smaller than the ones that were fixed in the public boxes. For another, it was attached to nothing. From it issued a voice that was as clear as it was unintelligible.

  “Stavros!” The tone was angry and insistent.

  Maybe, he thought, there might be a reward for such a unique and therefore probably expensive telephone. Could he make the irate individual on the other end understand him?

  Leaning toward the device without knowing where to direct his voice, he said in his best rudimentary English, “Hello. Good morning. How are you? Yupela wantok me?”

  This resulted in a long silence from the tiny telephone, and Wahgi wondered if he had somehow broken it by speaking into it. Then the voice returned, no longer irate but obviously confused. Confused, and curious.

  “Ya? Stavros? So you are now speaking English? Warum? Why?”

  Stavros, Wahgi decided, must be the name of one of the four men whom he had seen fighting. The owner of the case, or at least its keeper. And like the man on the other end of the line, he had spoken English—as well as other things.

  “I no—I am not Stavros,” he informed the telephone. “I am Wahgi.”

  There followed another extended pause that was broken by a stream of furious foreign syllables that the Huli decided he would not have been able to follow even if he could understand the alien tongue. Then another interlude, after which a new voice spoke. It was much more controlled, much calmer than its predecessor, and its English was far better. To Wahgi it sounded like American English, not Aussie or British, but he could not be certain. Sometimes it seemed to him that there were as many varieties of English as there were languages in Papua New Guinea.

  “To whom am I speaking, please? You said that your name was Wahgi?”

  “Yes.” Wahgi was relieved to be talking to someone whom he could understand, and who might be able to understand him in return. But he suspected the person on the other end would have little or no knowledge of Tok Pisin.

  “Wahgi,” the voice inquired in a sweetly reasonable tone, “where are you?”

  “In Mosby–Port Moresby. The capital.”

  The voice faded, as if its owner was momentarily speaking to someone close to him. In the same room, perhaps. “At least that fits.” Louder, and obviously to Wahgi, it added, “Look at the bottom of the phone you are holding. There should be a word, or words, there. What does it say?”

  Wahgi found the single word easily. “I see what you are talking about, but I do not know the word.” He added apologetically, “I cannot read.”

  “How many words? Can you count?”

  Of course he could count! Did the other man think he was empty-headed? “Just one.”

  “How many letters in the word?”

  Wahgi counted, laboriously but effectively. “Six.”

  A murmur of voices could be heard over the phone. “Good,” the other man said. “Now Wahgi, this is very important. Where did you find this telephone?”

  The Huli considered, then decided to plunge ahead. How else was he to find out what the case and phone might be worth, or how big a reward he ought to ask for? “In a small suitcase.”

  The man’s tone changed ever so slightly, but not so slightly that Wahgi failed to pick up on it. “Two men should have been watching this case and its contents. Do you know where they are?”

  Wahgi looked up as a pair of fruit bats with four-foot wingspans settled into the tree alongside his resting place. On t
he busy road, cars and taxis whizzed past without stopping. “Yes. When I left them they were fighting with two other men. In Boroko.” He thought rapidly. “I took the suitcase for safekeeping.”

  “That was very clever of you, Wahgi. Very clever indeed. And I know that the case—it’s called a briefcase, by the way—is safe with you. Now, my friends and I would like to have it back. If you will tell us where you are, we will send other men to take it off your hands.”

  “It is not heavy,” the Huli replied with unconscious irony. “Will I get a reward?”

  More muttering on the other end, a few violent words in that strange alien tongue that were overridden by still louder words from the English speaker, and then the voice was back on the line.

  “We’ll be glad to give you a reward, Wahgi. So long as you return the briefcase and its contents in good condition.” Anxiety crept unbidden into the man’s voice. “They are in good condition, aren’t they?”

  The Huli decided to be honest. “I broke the lock. To make certain the contents were okay,” he lied easily.

  Rather than upset him, this seemed to amuse the other man. “That’s all right, Wahgi. The lock is not important. There should be some papers in the briefcase. Papers with colored printing on them and brightly colored borders. Are they still there—in good condition?”

  “Oh yes,” Wahgi assured him readily. “They have not been harmed at all.”

  Softer mutterings from behind the speaker. “That’s just fine, Wahgi. Now, what would you like for a reward?”

  Large numbers being foreign to traditional Huli culture, Wahgi stalled for time. What was larger than twenty? What was the briefcase, and more importantly, the pretty papers it held, worth to the man on the strange telephone?

  “What is your name, and what is the name of your village?” How much should he ask for? he thought tensely. He had heard many numbers on the televisions in the pubs. Which one would be suitable?

  For the second time, the other man sounded amused. “My name is Eric Werner von Maltzan, Wahgi, and I am speaking to you from the village of Zurich.”

  “Zurich. I do not know that village. Is it in Australia?” Australia was the only country Wahgi knew besides Papua New Guinea.

  “A little farther,” von Maltzan told him. “About your reward?”

  Wahgi had decided. “I want a million kina.” Million was a term he had heard during sports programs, and it had sounded pretty big to him. Would it be too much? Were the telephone and the papers worth more? Having dealt in pigs, he knew how to bargain. You did not need a big education for that.

  His request certainly had an effect on the other man, and those Wahgi believed to be in the room or hut with him. He could hear them arguing in their strange tongues. Crossing his legs under him and watching the flying foxes spit pits from the fruit they were peeling and eating, he waited patiently. With the lateness of the hour, traffic on the nearby main road was becoming infrequent.

  Eventually von Maltzan came back on line. “That’s about five hundred thousand American dollars, Wahgi. That’s a great deal of money.”

  Wahgi did not know if it was, but decided to take the other man’s word for it. After all, he reasoned, if von Maltzan knew about briefcases and telephones and colored papers, he should know something about money.

  “That is the reward I want.”

  Again von Maltzan could be heard arguing with other men. “All right, Wahgi. You’ll get your reward. Now, here’s what I want you to do. Go to the airport. Not the public terminal. The private one next to it. In the main building you’ll find—”

  “No.”

  The other man hesitated. “What’s that?”

  “No. I do not know what time it is in Zurich village, but it is very late here, and I am very tired. I am going home, to talk with my friends. Can you call me on this telephone later tonight?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then that is what I want you to do.” He started to put the phone back in the briefcase.

  Entirely composed up to now, von Maltzan’s voice began to crack. “No, Wahgi, nein! Don’t do that! It’s vital that you . . . !”

  The Huli was pleased to discover that despite its tiny size, lack of a connecting cord, and strange appearance, the telephone still operated very much like the other telephones he had seen in use around the city. When he found the button that turned it off, he was delighted. The beeping that had so startled him at first and had precipitated the conversation resumed immediately. It continued until Wahgi found another button that turned it off for good. Satisfied, he put the device back in the briefcase and tied it up with the length of twine. Then he resumed his hike back to Koki, dashing across the two lanes of highway.

  Gembogl and Kuikui were lying on their torn, bedbuginfested, salvaged mattresses when he arrived. Kuikui lit the single kerosene lantern and put his machete down as soon as he saw who was standing in the doorway.

  “Where have you been, Wahgi? We were worried about you.”

  “Wake Gembogl. I have something to show you both.”

  As the three men sat in a circle on the floor, Wahgi undid the twine and triumphantly showed them the contents of the case. “This is called a briefcase,” he explained with the air of a new schoolteacher.

  Not to be outdone, Kuikui added, “Brief means small in English.”

  “That makes sense. And this—” He held up the satellite phone. “—is a telephone.”

  A doubtful Gembogl took it and held it closer to the lantern. “It doesn’t look like a phone.”

  “It is. I used it to talk to a man in a village called Zurich. He promised me a reward for returning the briefcase.”

  That caught his friends’ attention. “How big a reward?” Kuikui asked.

  “A million kina.”

  Gembogl burst out laughing. “Wanem! A million kina? For a briefcase and a bunch of papers?”

  Kuikui was less skeptical. “Wahgi may be telling the truth. You know how peculiar Europeans are about their papers and things. I have seen them in the bank, fussing over them like women over shells.”

  “A million kina. We could buy a car with that.” Gembogl sounded wistful.

  “Many cars.” Kuikui was more economically learned than either of his friends.

  “Then we agree on the amount?” Wahgi’s gaze traveled from one man to another. They had shared privation and insults, hunger and spiteful taunts from the more sophisticated townsfolk. Now they would share in his reward.

  Gembogl was shaking his head. He was the youngest of the three who had come down from the Highlands to seek work in the city. “I can’t believe this. I just can’t believe it. It’s too good to be true. Of course we agree on the amount,” he added as an afterthought.

  Kuikui urged his friend, “Call this man back. Tell him we have discussed your proposal and we are all agreed.”

  “Yes, call him back,” Gembogl said excitedly.

  “I can’t.” Wahgi picked up the phone. “I don’t know how to use this. But I think he will be calling me.” So saying, he pressed the button that had successfully shut off the beeping. It recommenced instantly, as if it had never stopped.

  “Now watch.” Exaggerating his movements for maximum effect, the Huli pressed the button he had used to activate the device previously.

  “This is Eric Werner von Maltzan calling for Wahgi. Eric Werner von Maltzan of Zurich calling for Wahgi of Port Moresby, PNG.” Though clear enough, the voice sounded very tired.

  “See?” Proud of his newly acquired technical skill, Wahgi responded. “I am here, pren Eric. With two of my friends. How will you get my reward to me?”

  “Just leave everything to me, Wahgi. I will take care of—”

  “Just a moment.” It was Kuikui. He was staring at the open doorway and frowning. “I thought I heard something.”

  “We should be careful.” Gembogl kept his voice down as the older man blew out the lantern. “A million kina is a lot of money.”

  “Yes. Wait here.
” Picking up his machete, Kuikui moved purposefully toward the open doorway. His friends waited in the darkness.

  “What is it?” The voice on the phone sounded more anxious than ever. “What’s going on?”

  “Probably nothing, pren Eric.” Wahgi spoke in a whisper. “Just some noise outside. My friend Kuikui went to check on—”

  The staccato burst of sound splintered on the Huli’s eardrums. He had heard that sound before, once during a riot and again during a military parade. It was the sound of a gun going off. Not a shotgun, but an automatic gun that could fire many bullets without stopping. Gembogl sprang for his machete while Wahgi grabbed the briefcase and stumbled toward the rear of the shack.

  The voice on the phone never stopped. “Wahgi! What was that? It sounded like an Uzi!”

  “We are being shot at!” Clutching the phone in one hand and the briefcase in the other, Wahgi pushed up against the back wall of the shanty. Outside were plank walkways, and below, the sewage-saturated part of the harbor that surged back and forth beneath Koki.

  “In the briefcase!” the voice on the phone told him. “A plastic egg the size of a man’s fist! Put it next to the phone.” Fumbling among the devices and papers, Wahgi found the object described and did as he was told. An electronic tone sounded from the phone, in response to which a red light appeared on the side of the egg shape.

  “I did what you told me to,” he stammered into the phone. “What do I do now?”

  “Run, jump, get away, Wahgi—and throw it at the people with the guns!”

  “Kuikui, Gembogl, run away!” he shouted. There was no reply as he tossed the red-eyed ovoid onto the floor and pushed through the flimsy rear wall of the shack. As he did so three men burst through the doorway. Two were tall and European while the third was Melanesian, but no Highlander. A slim, fine-featured coastal man, Wahgi saw in the glow of the lights they carried, probably from down near Milne Bay.