Into the Out Of
Alan Dean Foster
An [ e - reads ] Book
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, scanning or any information storage retrieval system, without explicit permission in writing from the Author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locals or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright 1986 by Alan Dean Foster
First e-reads publication 1999
www.e-reads.com
ISBN 0-7592-0675-9
Author Biography
Born in New York City in 1946, Foster was raised in Los Angeles. After receiving a Bachelor's Degree in Political Science and a Master of Fine Arts in Cinema from UCLA (1968, l969) he spent two years as a copywriter for a small Studio City, Calif. advertising and public relations firm.
His writing career began when August Derleth bought a long Lovecraftian letter of Foster's in 1968 and much to Foster's surprise, published it as a short story in Derleth's bi-annual magazine The Arkham Collector. Sales of short fiction to other magazines followed. His first attempt at a novel, The Tar-Aiym Krang, was bought by Betty Ballantine and published by Ballantine Books in 1972. It incorporates a number of suggestions from famed SF editor John W. Campbell.
Since then, Foster's sometimes humorous, occasionally poignant, but always entertaining short fiction has appeared in all the major SF magazines as well as in original anthologies and several "Best of the Year" compendiums. Five collections of his short-form work have been published.
Foster's work to date includes excursions into hard science-fiction, fantasy, horror, detective, western, historical, and contemporary fiction. He has also written numerous non-fiction articles on film, science, and scuba diving, as well as having produced the novel versions of many films, including such well-known productions as Star Wars, the first three
Alien films, and Alien Nation. Other works include scripts for talking records, radio, computer games, and the story for the first Star Trek movie. In addition to publication in English, his work has appeared and won awards throughout the world. His novel Cyber Way won the Southwest Book Award for Fiction in 1990, the first work of science fiction ever to do so.
The Fosters reside in Prescott in a house built of brick salvaged from a turn-of-the-century miners' brothel, along with assorted dogs, cats, fish, several hundred houseplants, visiting javelina, porcupines, eagles, red-tailed hawks, skunks, coyotes, bobcats, and the ensorcelled chair of the nefarious Dr. John Dee. He is presently at work on several new novels and media projects.
Other works by Alan Dean Foster also available in e-reads editions
To the Vanishing Point
The Man Who Used the Universe
The author wishes to thank the following people:
Rashidi of Morogoro, for his insights.
The manager of the Ngorngoro Hotel, who gave us extra blankets.
The Ugandan students, who should be running Kampala, at least.
Kalalumbe, for the cocoa, conversation, and Cape buffalo filets.
Thomas Nafasi of Lindi, Tanzania, for his extraordinary sculpture.
The foxes of Ruaha.
The lionesses of Ngorngoro, who got up and formed a picket line for us.
All the people of East Africa: black, brown, white, and in-between, but most especially the Maasai and in particular the Maasai of Mayer's Ranch Manyatta. I hope their Alaunoni enjoys his Frisbee.
To Bill and Sally Smythe,
Who took us to the edge of the Out Of and made it fun despite the sweat, the lack of sleep, and the tsetse flies,
This book is dedicated with friendship and affection.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue the First
Epilogue the Second
Into the Out Of
1
Tombigbee National Forest,
Mississippi—9 June
"Man, look at that mother burn!"
"Sure is a pretty sight." Luther Vandorm's eyes were shining.
"Hey, BJ!" Walter Conroy called over to the stocky, vacant-looking man who stood close by. "Do me a favor, will you?"
"Sure, Walter. Anything."
Conroy strode toward him, fumbling in the pockets of his ballooning white robe. He had to steady the conical white hat that perched uneasily atop his head. Finding what he'd been digging for, he handed the compact 35mm camera to the other man.
"Get a shot of Luther and me, will you?" He showed his friend the camera, knowing that he had to keep any explanations simple. "See, it's one of those new Jap all-automatic jobbies." He flipped a switch, the camera beeped once, and a small built-in flash popped up. "Just wait till the little red light comes on in the viewfinder. That means the flash is powered up and all set to go."
The other man eyed the camera uncertainly. "I dunno, Walter. I dunno anything much about cameras."
Conroy tried not to sound too exasperated. "I told you." He spoke slowly, forming the words carefully and leaving BJ time to catch up. Everyone knew BJ was a little slow, but he was willing enough to help with anything and was much stronger than he looked. "Here—it's set now. Just point the lens at Luther and me and press this here button and the camera will do the rest. Just make sure you can see both of us through the viewfinder, okay?"
"Well, okay." BJ accepted the camera with obvious reluctance. He was solidly built, deceptively muscular, with an undistinguished face and a hairline that was beginning to recede. Currently he wore the expression of a tenth-grader trying to cope with a Cray computer.
"Hold on just a minute," Walter urged him as he ran to stand next to his buddy. "Wait till I give the word." Then he was standing next to Vandorm, who managed to cram his wife and kids into the picture as well. Conroy put his arm around his companion's skinny shoulders and they all forced smiles into the camera.
They were not alone. Plenty of their friends were standing in a circle behind them, hooting and hollering as the huge burning cross threw glowing embers up into the night sky. Some of them were laughing a little too much. A definite boundary had been created around the cross. It was composed of discarded beer cans and shredded cigarettes.
BJ squinted into the flames, listening to the crackle of the burning cross, and waited until Vandorm pulled his wife close to him. She was holding Vandorm Junior in her arms. He wore a miniature white sheet outfit she'd sewed for him herself. Twelve-year-old Mike stood restlessly in front of his mom and dad. He looked like he wished he were somewhere else.
They stood grinning back at BJ until the corners of their mouths began to cramp. Finally Vandorm's wife whispered to her husband. "If you don't tell that idiot to shoot we're going to have our rear ends toasted. I can't hang around here all night, Luther. The clothes in the washer are going to start to mildew if I don't
get 'em in the dryer pretty soon."
"Hush up, woman. He'll hear you."
A short, sharp laugh. "So what? He don't understand a tenth of what he do hear."
"Don't be afraid of it," Vandorm told BJ. "Just look through the little window and push the button."
"Sure thing, Luther!" BJ waved cheerfully, then raised the camera and aimed. He hesitated. "I forgot which button, Luther."
"Shit," Vandorm snapped. "The one on the right-hand side. Just push it once!"
"Okay." BJ carefully followed the instructions and the Vandorms heard the click as the shutter snapped.
"Praise the Lord," Mrs. Vandorm murmured, "he did it. Oh, damn, the baby's wet again. Mike, you stay here with your father." Trying to juggle both the infant and the awkward conical hat, she strode away from the blaze toward the line of pickup trucks and station wagons parked nearby, chiding the baby gently as she walked.
Walter Conroy took back his camera. "Thanks, BJ." Meanwhile Luther Vandorm was clapping his older son affectionately on the shoulder. In his sheets and pointed hat, the twelve-year-old looked like an uncomfortable downsized version of his old man.
"What d'you think of all this, son? Your first cross burning, I mean."
"I dunno, dad. I mean," he hastened to correct himself, "it's neat, really neat."
"Thataboy." Vandorm looked proud. "Ain't he somethin'?"
"Sure is," BJ agreed.
Vandorm leaned over to look into his son's face. "And what is it you want to do when you grow up?"
The boy took a deep breath and turned away so he wouldn't have to confront his father's eyes. He would much rather have been home playing basketball with his friends. You could do that at ten o'clock at night in Mississippi in June. Even reruns on TV would've been better than this. But his parents had insisted and he knew better than to argue.
So he recited with as much false enthusiasm as he could muster. "I want to save America by ridding it of all the kikes, niggers, and wops who've taken control of the government."
"That's my boy." Vandorm would have ruffled his son's sandy brown hair except that it would have knocked off the white hat. There was a dark stain down the front of his own sheet where he'd spilled the Coke float they'd bought at the Dairy Queen. His wife hadn't let up on him about that until they'd reached the site.
As Mike Vandorm was gazing at the fire a mischievous grin spread over his face. "It would've been better if we could've brought some hot dogs and marshmallows."
Vandorm gripped the boy's shoulder hard. "Now listen, son, this is serious business your daddy's involved in here. Ain't nuthin' to joke about. I don't ever want to hear you say anything like that again, understand? Not unless you want a taste of my belt."
"Sure, dad. I was only kidding. Hey, can we go soon?"
Vandorm straightened. "I know it's a little late for you to still be up, son, but this is more important than anything they're teachin' you in that damn school. This is an important moment in your life and I wanted this to be a big night for you. You don't know how proud it makes me to have you here with me."
"Yeah, sure, dad." Mike's voice fell to a whisper.
"Anyway, your mom'll take you and Junior home soon. Me and BJ and Walter and Mr. Sutherlin got an important meeting at the Sutherlins' house tonight. Real important." Vandorm puffed himself up like a toad frog, trying to make himself look bigger than he really was, not only in his son's eyes but in BJ's as well.
As he thought about the meeting the air of paternal affection vanished. His expression twisted into something blind and unintelligent and nasty, the sort of look an australopithecine might once have favored an enemy with. It was prompted by a mixture of uncertainty, fear, and grim determination, all wrapped up in a basket of bigotry nurtured by twenty years of menial jobs and hard times.
"Gonna be some meeting. Ain't it, BJ? We finally gonna do something besides talk."
"Sure are," agreed the simple man who'd taken the photograph. Instead of evil or viciousness, BJ's face displayed nothing more complex than stolid anticipation.
Poor ol' BJ Tree. He worked nights as a janitor at the Junior College in nearby Tupelo and when you got right down to it, he didn't appear to have the brains God gave a crawfish. But he was of similar mind and feelings as the rest of them, a lot stronger than you would think, and most important of all, he was ready and willing to do what he was told.
The organization Vandorm and Conroy and Sutherlin had formed had plenty of use for a man like that. The three of them had enough brains for four anyway, Vandorm thought with pride. None of the chapter members suspected that there was a more committed subchapter operating in their midst.
"Can I go now, dad?"
"Sure, go on, git over to your mama." Vandorm shook his head dolefully as he watched his son scamper off toward the old Ford wagon parked at the far end of the line. "I dunno, BJ. Maybe he's still too young. But I had to bring him. Got to do somethin' to counteract all that crap they keep fillin' his mind with at that school. All that garbage about ecology and equality when they ought to be teachin' the kids the basics—reading and writing and good old American educational values. Got to look out for your own kids these days. Commies and homosexuals running half the schools."
"Don't I know it," said BJ. That was BJ. Always agreeable. A crash sounded behind them and both men turned to look. One of the arms of the cross had finally burned through and fallen, sending up a spray of embers which nearly set Warren Kennour's sheets on fire. He and Jeremy Davis and a couple of the other boys were so drunk they could hardly stand. Vandorm chuckled.
"This secrecy's been pretty tough on Cecelia, BJ, but she hasn't complained. No sir, not a bit. She's been supportive right down the line. It's just that tryin' to get the tuition together to send Mike to that private patriot's school is damn near about to break us. But I'll teach him myself before I see him play football with a bunch of pickaninnies. Now I hear tell they got a couple of Vietnamese goin' to school there too. I tell you, BJ," he said seriously, "somebody's got to start doin' something to wake up the people of this country or we ain't gonna be no better in twenty years than the dogs at the pound, just a bunch of mongrels and mutts nobody respects anymore."
BJ nodded enthusiastically. "You said a mouthful there, Luther. Hey, you want a beer? I got a six-pack in the car."
"That's mighty fine of you, BJ." Luther never offered the other man a drink. For one thing, there was no point in spending the money to keep the big dummy in suds when he couldn't remember from whence the largess originated and, for another, BJ always seemed to have plenty of beer on hand. They headed back toward the line of vehicles. A few were parked on the far side of the old fence, away from the others.
They were five yards from BJ's battered Chevy pickup when two men stepped out of the darkness into the flickering light cast by the slowly dying blaze.
"Luther Vandorm?" The man had a heavy five o'clock shadow and was clad in jeans, short-sleeved shirt, and boots. His companion wore a suit. The speaker's eyes flicked to his left. "BJ Tree?"
Vandorm's gaze narrowed as he studied the intruders. He was more upset than concerned. Sure, cross burning was illegal, but in rural Mississippi that still meant no more than a small fine and maybe a tongue-lashing from some county judge.
"Who the fuck wants to know?" He didn't recognize either of them. They didn't look like Sheriff Kingman's boys, who would look the other way so long as there was no damage to public property. Nor did he care for the accent of the speaker. Not from around here, that was for sure.
The man removed a small billfold from a back pocket. When he held it up to the light the bottom half dropped down. "Federal Bureau of Investigation. You're all under arrest."
"Hey, what is this? Who the hell do you people think you are?" Inside, Vandorm was trembling. Not because he feared being arrested for a little harmless cross burning, but because of what was concealed in the pickup next to BJ's. It was brand-new, boasted four high-intensity lights on top, halogen fog lamps in
front, a chrome roll bar, and displayed a bright Confederate flag on the flanks. It was Walter Conroy's truck.
In the glove compartment was a small folder. Inside the folder were the plans that he and Conroy and BJ and Sutherlin had worked on for the past three months. The plans that described in detail exactly how the four of them planned to blow up the office of the American Civil Liberties Union in downtown Jackson.
In addition to the pair of hunting rifles mounted on the back window rack, the pickup held a secret compartment behind the seats. Vandorm had installed it himself, working nights when the garage was deserted. The compartment contained two Uzi submachine guns that Conroy had bought in New Orleans. Considered together, the machine guns and the plans were likely to bring more than a tongue-lashing down on all of them in any court in the country.
He took a step backward and stumbled. His white hat fell off and he stumbled again, stepping on it. "Just let me get my ID." He turned and pointed toward the other cars. "It's in my wagon over there."
"Just hold it right there, friend." The man in the suit produced a small blue snub-nosed pistol. He held it loosely in his right hand—but not that loosely.
"But my ID," Vandorm whined. He'd never had a gun pointed at him before and it shook him pretty bad. He felt a warm trickle start crawling down his right thigh and saw the disgust in the eyes of the man who'd spoken first.
There was no way out. More men in suits had appeared and were rounding up the rest of the celebrants. The station wagon was gone and he thanked God Cecelia and the boys had gotten away before the bust had come down.
Two new vehicles drove in on the dirt access road and pulled up in the parking area. The big vans had little bars over the windows, just like on TV.