Foster, Alan Dean - Into the Out Of

508 Pages·2016·1.16 MB·English

by  Foster Alan Dean

Copyright © 1986 by Thranx, Inc.

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Copyright ©1986 by Thranx, Inc.

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TO THE VANISHING POINT

THE MAN WHO USED THE UNIVERSE

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.
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 besome 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