Short Stories by Robert A. Heinlein Vol 2 Part 163

He was dressed in rather conservative, expensively tailored clothes and carried gloves, stick, and a large briefcase. But he was black as draftsman's ink!

I tried not to show surprise. I hope I did not, for I have an utter horror of showing that kind of rudeness. There was no reason why the man should not be a

Negro. I simply had not been expecting it.

Jedson helped me out. I don't believe he would show surprise if a fried egg winked at him. He took over the conversadon for the first couple of minutes after I introduced him; we all found chairs, settled down, and spent a few minutes in the polite, meaningless exchanges that people make when they are sizing up strangers.

Worthington opened the matter. Mrs Jennings gave me to believe,' he observed, that there was some fashion in which I might possibly be of a.s.sistance to one, or both, of you-'

I told him that there certainly was, and sketched out the background for him from the time the racketeer contact man first showed up at my shop. He asked a few questions, and Jedson helped me out with some details. I got the impression that Mrs Jennings had already told him most of it, and that he was simply checking.

Very well,' he said at last, his voice a deep, mellow rumble that seemed to echo in his big chest before it reached the air, I am reasonably sure that we will find a way to cope with your problems, but first I must make a few examinations before we can complete the diagnosis.' He leaned over and commenced to unstrap his briefcase.

Uh . . . Doctor,' I suggested, hadn't we better complete our arrangements before you start to work?'

Arrangements?' He looked momentarily puzzled, then smiled broadly. Oh, you mean payment. My dear sir, it is a privilege to do a favour for Mrs Jennings.'

But . . . but . . . see here, Doctor, I'd feel better about it. I a.s.sure you I am quite in the habit of paying for magic-'

He held up a hand. It is not possible, my young friend, for two reasons: In the first place, I am not licensed to practise in your state. In the second place, I am not a magician.'

I suppose I looked as inane as I sounded. Huh? What's that? Oh! Excuse me,

Doctor. I guess I just naturally a.s.sumed that since Mrs Jennings had sent you, and your t.i.tle, and all-'

He continued to smile, but it was a smile of understanding rather than amus.e.m.e.nt at my discomfiture. That is not surprising; even some of your fellow citizens of my blood make that mistake. No, my degree is an honorary doctor of laws of

Cambridge University. My proper pursuit is anthropology, which I sometimes teach at the University of South Africa. But anthropology has some odd bypaths; I am here to exercise one of them.'

Well, then, may I ask-'

Certainly, sir. My avocation, freely translated from its quite unp.r.o.nounceable proper name, is "witch smeller .'

I was still puzzled. But doesn't that involve magic?'

Yes and no. In Africa the hierarchy and the categories in these matters are not the same as in this continent. I am not considered a wizard, or witch doctor, but rather an antidote for such.'

Something had been worrying Jedson. Doctor,' he inquired, you were not originally from South Africa?'

Worthington gestured towards his own face. I suppose that Jedson read something there that was beyond my knowledge. As you have discerned. No, I was born in a bush tribe south of the Lower Congo.'

From there, eh? That's interesting. By any chance, are you nganga?'

Of the Ndembo, but not by chance.' He turned to me and explained courteously.

Your friend asked me if I was a member of an occult fraternity which extends throughout Africa, but which has the bulk of its members in my native territory.

Initiates are called nganga.'

Jedson persisted in his interest. It seems likely to me, Doctor, that

Worthington is a name of convenience - that you have another name.'

You are again right - naturally. My tribal name - do you wish to know it?'

If you will.'

It is' - I cannot reproduce the odd clicking, lip-smacking noise he uttered - or it is just as proper to state it in English, as the meaning is what counts -

Man-Who-Asks-Inconvenient- Questions. Prosecuting attorney is another reasonably idiomatic, though not quite literal, translation, because of the tribal functions implied. But it seems to me,' he went on, with a smile of unmalicious humour, that the name fits you even better than it does me. May I give it to you?'

Here occurred something that I did not understand, except that it must have its basis in some African custom completely foreign to our habits of thought. I was prepared to laugh at the doctor's witticism, and I am sure he meant it to be funny, but Jedson answered him quite seriously:

I am deeply honoured to accept.'

It is you who honour me, brother.'

From then on, throughout our a.s.sociation with him, Dr Worthington invariably addressed Jedson by the African name he had formerly claimed as his own, and

Jedson called him brother' or Royce'. Their whole att.i.tude towards each other underwent a change, as if the offer and acceptance of a name had in fact made them brothers, with all of the privileges and obligations of the relationship.

I have not left you without a name,' Jedson added. You had a third name, your real name?'

Yes, of course,' Worthington acknowledged, a name which we need not mention.'

Naturally,' Jedson agreed, a name which must not be mentioned. Shall we get to work, then?'

Yes, let us do so.' He turned to me. Have you some place here where I may make my preparations? It need not be large-'

Will this do?' I offered, getting up and opening the door of a cloak- and washroom which adjoins my office.

Nicely, thank you,' he said, and took himself and his briefcase inside, closing the door after him. He was gone ten minutes at least.

Jedson did not seem disposed to talk, except to suggest that I caution my girl not to disturb us or let anyone enter from the outer office. We sat and waited.

Then he came out of the cloakroom, and I got my second big surprise of the day.

The urbane Dr Worthington was gone. In his place was an African personage who stood over six feet tall in his bare black feet, and whose enormous, arched chest was overlaid with thick, sleek muscles of polished obsidian. He was dressed in a loin skin of leopard, and carried certain accoutrements, notably a pouch, which hung at his waist.

But it was not his equipment that held me, nor yet the John Henrylike proportions of that warrior frame, but the face. The eyebrows were painted white and the hairline had been outlined in the same colour, but I hardly noticed these things. It was the expression - humourless, implacable, filled with a dignity and strength which must be felt to be appreciated. The eyes gave a conviction of wisdom beyond my comprehension, and there was no pity in them - only a stem justice that I myself would not care to face.

We white men in this country are inclined to underestimate the black man - I know I do - because we see him out of his cultural matrix. Those we know have had their own culture wrenched from them some generations back and a servile pseudo culture imposed on them by force. We forget that the black man has a culture of his own, older than ours and more solidly grounded, based on character and the power of the mind rather than the cheap, ephemeral tricks of mechanical gadgets. But it is a stern, fierce culture with no sentimental concern for the weak and the unfit, and it never quite dies out.

I stood up in involuntary respect when Dr Worthington entered the room.

Let us begin,' he said in a perfectly ordinary voice, and squatted down, his great toes spread and grasping the floor. He took several things out of the pouch - a dog's tail, a wrinkled black object the size of a man's fist, and other things hard to identify. He fastened the tail to his waist so that it hung down behind. Then he picked up one of the things that he had taken from the pouch - a small item, wrapped and tied in red silk - and said to me, Will you open your safe?'

I did so, and stepped back out of his way. He thrust the little bundle inside, clanged the door shut, and spun the k.n.o.b. I looked inquiringly at Jedson.