Luana

by Alan Dean Foster

  Sandy’s interior was dominated by a long bar of solid teak mounted on mahogany and split bamboo. In front was a shoal of tiny open tables, nearly always full. In the rear Sandy’s broke into alcoves like a giant chambered nautilis. Behind those bamboo walls a great deal of merchandise legal, not so legal, and perverse exchanged hands, found buyers, was consigned to destinations distant and strange.

  Officially, Government House was the principal point of commercial operations in the Republic of Kenya. In reality, it was the back end of Sandy’s.

  Jumapili was happy to see him. After all, Barrett enjoyed a good reputation. He was even known to pay his bill now and then without having to be beaten up once. Such a startling aberration made him a customer to be valued.

  “Meester Barrett, Meester Barrett, so good to see you again! Everyone has heard of your unfortunate journey and your miraculous recovery! I myself am overwhelmed to find you looking so fit and—”

  “All right, awready! I don’t owe you that much. Got a booth?”

  The fat Chinese-Kenyan slid closer along the bar.

  “Not only do I have a booth for you, Meester Barrett, I have also a young lady.”

  “That’s swell of you, Sam, and I appreciate the thought. But right now I’m afraid I can only afford the booth. Besides, I’m really not looking for a woman just now.”

  “Ah, but Meester Barrett, that is it! She is looking for you!”

  Barrett smiled, shook his head in despair. “Where did this errant flower escape from?”

  “No, no, Meester Barrett, you got Sam all wrong. Honest injun, she come looking for you.”

  “Come on Sam, cut it out. I just got out of the gut factory. She’s not one of your regulars?”

  Jumapili shook his head . . . earnestly, it seemed to Barrett.

  “Well, that’s a hopeful sign. Pretty?”

  “A vision, Meester Barrett, a vision!”

  “Yeah, but whose? Rich?”

  Jumapili shrugged. “She seems to have money.”

  “That means she’s overpaid you already,” nodded Barrett. “Married?”

  “I saw no ring. Here, Barrett, why don’t you ask her yourself? She came to see you, not me.”

  “Okay, Fu Manchu.” Barrett took a friendly swing at the manager, who ducked affably. Jumapili led him to a booth near the back rooms.

  He pulled aside the curtain and the girl at the table looked up, startled. Dirty blond hair, blue eyes. Lips that belonged around more than the stub of a cigarette, and a more than competent if not spectacular body. Good boobs, okay hips, bad legs.

  Barrett had once been told by a lady friend that he looked at a woman like a piece of meat. At this he replied that, first of all, he couldn’t see her mind and second, the most obvious thing you see when you look at a person is the person of the person, and lastly, he couldn’t think of anything more attractive or sensuous than a good steak, anyway. And if she wanted to regard him first as a piece of meat, that was okay by him.

  Who’d argued that with him? Oh yeah, that had been Lily. When she made love while reciting Buddhist chants. Great kid, Lily, but a complete nut. She’d dumped him. Maybe he shouldn’t have ventured the opinion that Buddha probably pushed a sanitation cart behind the sacred cows in old India.

  “Mr. George Barrett?” queried the girl. She had a nice voice, probably, but now she was trying to baby-talk him. Oh well.

  “Mr. Barrett?” she repeated.

  “Naw,” he replied, slipping smoothly into the other chair. He managed to kick her calf on the way in and she winced. “I’m President Kenyatta. I just like to travel this way incognito.”

  She looked exasperated. “Are you or aren’t you Mr. George Barrett, the white hunter?”

  “Are you buying?”

  “Drinks?”

  “I don’t mean cold cuts, lady.”

  “Oh, I’d be happy to, if you . . .”

  “Then I’m George Barrett, the white hunter. Or black hunter, or green, or yellow or pink or chartreuse. Personally, I prefer beige hunter. It’s kind of classy, and I think it’s sexier. Do you think it’s sexier?”

  “I—” She glanced upwards. Jumapili was still standing by the curtain, grinning.

  “Sam, one of Gunga’s Zombies.” He looked back at the girl. “And you, Mrs. . . .”

  “Miss. Hard! Isabel Hardi.”

  “Well, what do you drink, Miss Hardi? You do drink?” He looked at her expectantly.

  “Pink Lady’s, usually.” Jumapili made a face that was unreadable. “Sometimes Screwdrivers. But I’ll have whatever you’re having!” she added quickly.

  Barrett looked at her sharply, made an instant analysis. “Yeah. Okay Sam. One regular Zombie and one,” he glanced back at her, “half strength.” She looked rebellious but said nothing.

  Sam bowed obsequiously and disappeared. Barrett turned to the girl and leaned back in his chair.

  “You know,” he mused idly, “Gunga’s the only witch doctor bartender in Africa.” He picked at his nails—out of habit. Like everything else, they’d been scrubbed clean in the hospital. In fact, he hadn’t been this clean since he was six years old. It felt peculiar.

  “Jumapili—Sam—likes to tell about the first time he asked Gunga if he could make a Zombie. Gunga said ‘sure, yes.’ Now first thing, he’d need a fresh corpse, then—”

  The girl looked at him expectantly for a moment, then broke into unbabyish laughter. Barrett chuckled along with her.

  “But ‘Zombie’ is a West Indian term, out of West Africa,” she finally gasped out.

  “Yeah, I know, but it makes a good story. Besides,” he continued evenly, “it happens to be true.”

  She stopped laughing and stared at him. “That’s a joke, isn’t it. Isn’t it?” He didn’t reply, only smiled questioningly at her.

  Neither of them added anything consequential until the drinks arrived.

  “To your health, Mr. Barrett.” He raised his own glass.

  “Afya to you, Izzy.” He downed three straight swallows of the powerful brew. “Well, go on, drink up!”

  She hesitated, then took the glass firmly in hand. Ignoring the skewered pineapple, she took a careful sip. After she finished choking and gasping, and seeing that Barrett only smiled back at her, she took another, defiantly. Much to her surprise, this one went down with no trouble.

  Barrett would have been content to sit and let her buy him drinks all day, only his damnable curiosity finally got the better of him. It was not a particularly useful trait for a wilderness guide and hunter to have, but he seemed to be stuck with it. Anyhow, she was obviously uncertain as to how to begin. If he wanted information he’d have to get things rolling on his own.

  “Well, Miss Hardi?”

  “Please,” she replied, “I’d like you to call me Isabel.”

  And darned if she didn’t bat her lashes at him. Barrett had only seen that in old movies. He was startled to see that it could happen in real life.

  “All right,” he agreed, experimentally batting his own back at her, “and you can call me Mr. Barrett. Look, Izzy, what do you want with me, huh? Safari? Photos of native villages? Pictures of the quaint natives in their natural habitat? Hunt with gun or camera, rock hounding, plant collecting—what?”

  By way of answer she fumbled with the insides of a fat purse. The result of this excavation was a thick paperback. She dumped it on the table. When he made no move in its direction she nudged it toward him.

  “I’ve read your book, you see.”

  Barrett took another slug of the corrosive elixer. It settled in his belly like boiling syrup.

  “Sunuvagun! That means my audience has just doubled. I’m flattered.”

  “Mr. Barrett,” she continued, refusing to be put off by his snide attitude, “your book is well written. It may never be a best seller, but there is a marvelous insight in there. A deep feeling for the people, and especially for the land, shines through the commercial chapters on flesh-pots and shopping bazaar bargai
ns.”

  “Oh, crap!” he shouted, slamming the glass down on the table. “I wrote the goddamn book to make some money, not to inspire adulation in slap-happy tourists or would-be literary critics! No, that’s unfair, and not true. I wrote it to try and make some money. So far I figure, with the time I put into it, and the effort—I’m good at sentences but lousy at paragraphs—I just about broke even.

  “As for anything above that, I guess you haven’t talked to many people around here or you’d already know that I’m nuts. Screwy, loony, ready for the rock ranch. Even sensible nuts look for lost cities. Me, I’m after a lost hamlet.”

  “I don’t think a magnificent delusion qualifies you for insanity, Mr. Barrett. You’re not as crazy as you’d like me to believe. Just a little misguided. But you’re not afraid of the deep jungle. That shows in your book. And you’re not afraid of the Wanderi. That shows in your book. I need all that.

  “And there’s one other thing. You knew my father.”

  Barrett put down his drink, looked at her differently. “Your father?” Places, names, recent history fell neatly into place and formed a picture.

  “Hardi . . . Hardi . . . you’re John Hardi’s kid?”

  “That’s right,” she confessed proudly. She couldn’t keep the pride out of her voice. Barrett shook his head in disbelief.

  “My brilliant intuitive powers strike again—ten minutes too late to prevent my making an ass of myself. I can only repeat, John Hardi’s daughter, what do you want of me? This time I promise to listen. Cross my heart and hope to pry.” He did so.

  Whammo, hand into purse again. This time it disgorged a map of central Africa. She spread it out on the table. One delicate finger descended in the wild, empty regions near Lake Tanganyika.

  “You know this area?” Barrett leaned over the map, looked up at her and spoke softly for the first time.

  “Izzy, nobody knows that area. The jungle grows so tough and thick there that . . . listen, if gravity were reversed, or turned on edge, you could still walk in that forest. I’ve probed at its fringes, yes, and I think I know it as well as any man who can read or write. Matter of fact, I was near that area just a few weeks go.” He smiled. “I had an accident.”

  She looked excited. “Then the stories they told me were true! That’s terrific!”

  “Yeah. I thought so at the time—up to a point.”

  “But it is, it is! Don’t you see, George, my father’s plane went down somewhere in there over fifteen years ago. You know my father was a biochemist. It was believed at the time that he was working on some great discovery that would be of tremendous value to all mankind.”

  “Sure, sure,” Barrett said placatingly. “The eternal eulogy for all scientists who disappear suddenly or mysteriously. They all go with their inspired legacy in their pocket.”

  “It’s no joke, Mr. Barrett!” She huffed and angrily downed the last of her half-Zombie.

  Well, he mused, the “George” didn’t last long, anyway.

  “My father had all his important papers and equipment with him.”

  “Of course, of course, I didn’t mean to be skeptical.” Which, of course, was exactly what he meant. He gulped down the rest of his own Zombie.

  “There won’t be anything left of him now, if that’s what you’re thinking. The jungle is its own undertaker. It works slow and sloppy sometimes, but it’s efficient.”

  She sat up straight—as straight as the Zombie would permit—and looked at him evenly.

  “Mr. Barrett, I must find my father’s plane and try to salvage any of his work that might have survived. This is in addition,” and she looked down and away, “to any personal interest I may have in such a search.”

  “Listen,” began Barrett sympathetically, “didn’t people hunt for your father when he crashed? Surely someone must have conducted a decent air search. The man was important.”

  “Some tried,” she answered. “Several times. Nothing was ever found.”

  Barrett looked down at his empty glass. “Well, that’s not surprising, I suppose.” He grunted. “Jungle would swallow up anything fast enough. Broken trees and bushes could cover it up. Or he might have gone down in a dirty lake, in the reeds.”

  She all but threw herself across the table. “Then you’ll help me search for the plane?”

  “No, I won’t help you search for the plane!” he shouted back. Now calm yourself, Georgie-Porgie, and be patient with this curvaceous cargo of ignorance.

  “First of all, this hunk of jungle is the abode of a big primitive tribe called the Wanderi. But you know that from the book. The Wanderi have a charming little witch cult. This cult believes in many unusual things, one of which is that its members should have absolutely nothing to do with visitors and outsiders of any kind. The British found that out thirty years ago, the hard way.

  “This belief is expressed in the form of the most antisocial behavior, Izzy. To back it up, they have ritual, prayer, and a really super dart poison that works on the nerves. It’s a fine persuader and it never fails.” He hesitated. “Well, almost never.

  “Next, even assuming you could somehow make your way through their territory without encountering any of the delightful local folks, there are no superhighways, no roads, not even a goat path through that mess.” His hand swept across the map. “Not only is it jungle, much of it is mountain and swamp, swamp and mountain, alternating across the lines of longitude.

  “There are big cats running around in there, Izzy, that haven’t been taught zoo politeness. They’ve been known to come to the edge of the forest and gnaw on an occasional farmer now and then. In the low lands—here—you’ll find pythons big enough to swallow you whole. The land’s full of these big fellows’ toxic little cousins . . . cobras, vipers and mambas in every color and potency imaginable.

  “Frankly, I’m not sure I don’t prefer the snakes and big cats to the mosquitoes, tse-tse, and bloodsucking flies. Oh, and we mustn’t forget African warrior bees and Black Death spiders and all the other tiny treats that thrive in there.

  “In short, Miss Hardi, it’s no place for you.”

  “Oh, come now, Mr. Barrett, surely in this day and age you’re not—”

  “I didn’t say it was ‘no place for a woman,’ ” he interrupted painstakingly. “Christ, sometimes I think the twentieth century—” He sighed.

  “It’s no place for you, you the human being. Poisoners and bloodsuckers and constrictors and disease make no distinctions as to sex. You might die a few seconds sooner, because you’re smaller, not because you’re female. It might surprise you to know that I’d much rather have you for company than another guy. I’d have plenty of guys with me. It’s just no place for an intelligent person.”

  “But you’ve been there, or at least close to there.”

  “Yeah,” he admitted, sitting back again, “but I said an intelligent person. We’ve already agreed that I’m operating with a loose bolt. Your obvious sanity is not open to debate. I’m not going.”

  “Mr. Barrett,” she continued quietly, “if it is even remotely possible, my father’s work must be saved.”

  “Sorry, I’m not going. How about another drink?”

  “It’s for the good of all mankind.”

  Barrett laughed at that one. She started to cry, then. He let her do that, speaking only to order another Zombie, and a second decapitated one for her. Eventually she tired and tried another approach.

  “I’ll . . . I’ll be your friend,” she whispered, emphasizing the last word. Her hand moved under the table. He let it move for awhile, enjoying it, then said slowly, punctuating every word:

  “I wouldn’t risk my neck in that green hell again for the best lay in the world.”

  She sat back then and looked grim.

  “If you’ll take me in there I’ll pay you $50,000 plus all expenses, and $50,000 more if we find the plane.”

  Barrett spoke slowly, punctuating every word. “For $50,000, I’ll risk my neck in that green hell.�
� He paused. “Say, do you think you could keep on doing what you were doing a moment ago? You’re a bit unsure of yourself, but for a novice your touch is—”

  The diluted Zombie arrived just in time for her to toss it in his face. He wiped it away with both hands and a sleeve, and blinked back at her. She rose calmly, tucking her blouse into the band of her skirt.

  “I’m staying at the Royal East African, room 402. I’d like to leave as soon as possible. When you’ve completed arrangements with your outfitter, let me know. I’ll want to inspect the bill first. Good day.”

  Jumapili appeared at the curtain just as she stalked out.

  “Meester Barrett, sir!” he exclaimed, noticing the drenched condition of Barrett’s shirt, not to mention his damp face. “What happened?”

  For once, Barrett was honestly contrite.

  “I said an impolite thing, Sam, and the young lady gave me her drink.”

  Inwardly, though, he was pleased. At least she’d shown some spirit. Some day she might find herself with a cobra a scant few meters away from her foot. That would be the time for spirit, not panic. Nor had she been afraid that her action might jeopardize Barrett’s decision. Clearly she now regarded him as a bought man.

  Well, hell, she was right. He dabbed at the sticky liquid running down his front. Pity he couldn’t drink his shirt. If a man could wear his liquor, now—

  The dark hulk in the booth next to his shifted his chair silently and leaned over his own drink. He was also pleased. How fortunate he’d kept a close track on the rich American lady! He let Barrett finish his drinking and leave first. Then he paid his own bill and departed quietly.

  “The master’s on the porch,” the servant informed Kobenene. He followed the handsome maid around the veranda of the fine house. Albright was there, all right, seated at a desk on the back porch. He didn’t look up when the big hulk arrived. He knew his partner by his walk.

  “Ah, Kobenene, sit down, sit down. I’ll be with you in just a moment. Some last work on this equation here—”

  Kobenene lowered his great body into a wicker chair that bulged under him, and he smiled slightly. Equations. He knew exactly how much of a scientist Albright was. How little, rather. Perhaps the man had gone into the field because he looked the part.