CHAPTER 1

 November 26, 1979

 JIM GRIMSON HAD never planned to eat his father's balls.

 He had not expected to make love to twenty of his sisters.

 He could not foresee that, while riding a white Steed, he

 would save his mother from a prison and a killer.

 How could he, seventeen years old in October of 1979,

 know that he had created this seemingly ten-billion-year-old

 universe?

 Though his father often called him a dumbbell and his

 teachers obviously thought he was one, Jim did read a lot.

 He knew the current theory of how the universe was

 supposed to have started. In the very beginning, before

 Time had started, the Primal Ball was the only thing

 existing. Outside of it was nothing, not even Space. All of

 the future universe, constellations, galaxies, everything,

 was packed into a sphere the size of his eyeball. This had

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 gotten so hot and dense that it had blown up, out, and away.

 That explosion was called the Big Bang. Eons afterwards,

 the expanding matter had become stars, planets, and life on

 Earth.

 That theory was WRONG, WRONG, WRONG!

 Matter was not the only thing that could be put under

 tremendous heat and pressure. The soul could be squeezed

 too much. Then: BOOM!

 God Almighty and then some! Less than a month ago, he

 had reluctantly entered the mental ward of Wellington

 Hospital, Belmont City, Tarhee County, Ohio State. Then

 he had become, among other things, the Lord of several

 universes, a wanderer in many, and a slave in one.

 At this moment, he was back on his native Earth, same

 hospital. He was freezing with misery, burning with fury,

 and pacing back and forth in a locked room.

 Jim's psychiatrist. Doctor Porsena, had said that Jim's

 trips into other worlds were mental, though that did not

 mean they were not real. Thoughts were not ghosts. They

 existed. Therefore, they were real.

 Jim knew that his experiences in those pocket universes

 were as real as his pain when, not so long ago, he had

 driven his fist against his bedroom wall. And was not the

 blood flowing from the whiplashes on his back a witness to

 quell all doubts of his story? However, Doctor Porsena,

 scientist, rationalist, and rationalizer, would explain all

 puzzling phenomena with superb logic.

 Jim usually loved the doctor. Just now, he hated him.

 CHAPTER 2

 Novembers, 1979

 /\LL PREVIOUS PATIENTS," Doctor Porsena said, "have

 tried other types of therapy. These failed to improve the

 patients, though part of that might be attributed to the

 patients' hostility to psychiatric therapy of any kind."

 "Old Chinese saying," Jim Grimson said. " 'You have to

 be nuts if you go to a psychiatrist.' Another celestial

 proverb. 'Insanity is not what it's cracked up to be.'"

 L. Robert Porsena, M.D., F.C.P., head of the Wellington

 Hospital psychiatric unit, smiled thinly. Jim thought that he

 was probably thinking. Another smart-ass kid I got to deal

 with. Heard his rest-room-graffiti quotations a thousand

 times. 'Celestial proverb' indeed. He's trying to impress

 me, show me that he isn't just another ignorant drooling

 pimpled drugged-up rock-freak youth who's gone off his

 rocker.

 2

  

  

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER                                               RED ORC'S RAGE

 On the other hand. Doctor Porsena might not be thinking

 that at all. It was hard to know what went on behind that

 handsome face that looked almost exactly like Julius Cae-

 sar's bust except for the black Fu Manchu mustache and the

 patent-leather mod haircut. He smiled a lot. His keen

 light-blue eyes reminded Jim of the Mad Hatter's song in

 Lewis Can-oil's Alice book. "Twinkle, twinkle, little bat!

 How I wonder what you're at! Up above the world you fly,

 Like a tea tray in the sky. Twinkle, twinkle—"

 Doctor Porsena's adolescent patients said he was a

 shaman, a sort of miracle worker, a metropolitan medicine

 man with control over magical forces and far-out spirits.

 Doctor Porsena started to say something but was inter-

 rupted by his desk intercom. He flipped a switch and said,

 "Winnie, I told you! No calls!"

 Winnie, the beautiful black secretary sitting at her desk

 on the other side of the wall, evidently had something

 urgent on the line. Doctor Porsena said, "Sorry, Jim. This

 won't take more than a minute."

 Jim only half listened while he gazed out the window.

 The psychiatric unit and Porsena's office were on the second

 story. The window was, like all windows in this area,

 covered with thick iron bars. Past breaks in the buildings

 beyond, Jim could see the tops of the waterfront structures.

 These were on the banks of the Tarhee River, which ran into

 the Mahoning River a mile to the south.

 He could also see the spires of St. Grobian's and of St.

 Stephan's. His mother had probably attended early morning

 Mass at the latter today. That was the only time she had now

 to go to worship. She was working at two jobs, partly

 because of him. The fire had destroyed everything except

 the painting of his grandfather, which had been brought out

 of the house along with him. His parents had moved into a

 relatively cheap furnished apartment some blocks from the

 4

 old house. Too close to the Hungarian neighborhood to suit

 Eric Grimson. That ungrateful attitude was just like his

 father. Eva's relatives—in fact, the entire Magyar area—

 had contributed money to help them out of their plight. A

 large part of the cash had been raised by a lottery. This was

 remarkable, for charitable donations had dropped consider-

 ably in the past few years because of the economic distress

 in the Youngstown area. But Eva's family and friends and

 church had come through.

 Though she had been a semioutcast because of her

 marriage, she was still a fellow Hungarian. And, now that

 she was down, she should have learned her lesson and be

 properly contrite, as the old phrase went.

 The Crimsons had not been able to buy the insurance to

 cover property damage or loss from the collapse of under-

 ground structures. Though they did have fire insurance,

 they would not be paid if the fire had been caused by an act

 of God. That had not yet been determined.

 Eric Grimson could not afford a lawyer. But one of Eva's

 cousins, an attorney, had volunteered to take the case. If he

 won, he got ten percent of the payoff. If he lost, he got

 nothing. Clearly, he was donating his time because of clan

 unity and because he felt sorry for his cousin. That she was

 married to a non-Magyar who was also a shiftless bum and

 an atheist who had been a Protestant was bad enough. But

 to lose her house and all her possessions and to have a son

 who'd gone crazy . . . that was too much. Though a

 lawyer, he had a big heart.

 The money needed to keep Jim in therapy was provided

 by the medical insurance, but the quarterly payments were

 very high. Eva Grimson had taken on another job to pay for

 them. The two times she had visited Jim, she had looked

 very tired. Her weight had gone down swiftly, her cheeks

 were hollowing, and her eyes were ringed with black.

  

  

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 Jim had felt so guilty that he offered to quit therapy. His

 mother would not accept that. Her son had been given the

 option of taking the therapy or being sentenced to jail. The

 district attorney had wanted to treat him as an adult, which

 would have meant a more severe sentence. She would do all

 she could to prevent that. Besides, though she did not say

 so, she could not hide her belief that Jim was genuinely

 crazy and would remain so unless he was treated by a

 psychiatrist.

 Jim's father had not visited him. Jim did not ask his

 mother why Eric Grimson stayed away. One reason was that

 Jim did not wish to see his father. Another was that he knew

 that Eric was deeply ashamed because he had a "crazy"

 child. People would think that insanity ran in the family.

 Maybe it did in Eva's family. All Hungarians were crazy.

 But not the Crimsons, by God!

 Actually, Jim had been very fortunate in being taken into

 therapy so quickly. Because of the lack of funds in the area,

 programs for treating the mentally disturbed had been cut

 far back. Normally, Jim would have been in the back of the

 long waiting line. He did not know why or how he had been

 jumped ahead to favorite-son status.

 He suspected that Sam Wyzak's uncle, the judge, had

 used his influence. Also, his mother's cousin, the attorney,

 maybe brought some pressure to bear, probably not all of it

 with strictly legal procedures. Though Doctor Porsena

 would not comment on how Jim had been leapfrogged over

 others, he may have had something to do with it. Jim had

 the impression that the psychiatrist thought that he was a

 very interesting case because of his history of stigmata and

 hallucinations.

 Maybe he was just being egotistical. After all, he was

 really nothing unusual, just another jerkoff, blue-collar,

 mongrel, squarehead-Hunkie punk. When he got down to

 the ungilded basics, that was what he was.

 Doctor Porsena finally hung up the phone.

 He said, "We were talking about other patients now in

 this program who had previously tried other types of

 therapy. Those had not succeeded with these patients, all of

 whom were hostile to psychiatric therapy of any kind.

 "What I'm offering you—there's no pressure or force

 used here—is immediate entrance into a type of therapy

 we've had much success with."

 Doctor Porsena spoke very rapidly but clearly. He was

 remarkable in that his speech had very few of the pauses or

 hesitations halting most people's talk. No uh, ah, well, you

 know.

 "It's not easy; no therapy is easy. Blood, sweat, and

 tears, and all that. And, like all therapy, the success

 depends basically upon you. We don't cure the patient. He

 or she cures himself with our guidance. Which means that

 you have to want to be able to handle your problems,

 genuinely desire to do so."

 The doctor was silent for a moment. Jim looked around

 the office. It seemed quite luxurious to him with its thick

 (Persian?) carpet, overstuffed leather chairs and couch, big

 desk of some kind of glossy hardwood, the classy-looking

 wallpaper, the many diplomas and testimonials on the wall,

 the wall niches with busts of famous people in them, and the

 paintings which seemed abstract or surrealistic or whatever

 to Jim, who knew little about art.

 "You understand everything I've said?" Porsena asked.

 "If there's anything you don't comprehend perfectly, say so.

 Patient or doctor, we're all here to leam. There's no shame

 in exposing one's ignorance. I expose my own quite often.

 I don't know everything. Nobody does."

 "Sure, I understand. So far. At least you're not talking

  

  

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 down to me, just using monosyllables, none of that psycho-

 logical gobbledygook. I appreciate that."

 Doctor Porsena's hands were flat on top of Jim's opened

 case file. They were slim and delicate and had long thin

 fingers. Jim had heard that he was an excellent pianist who

 usually played classical music, though he sometimes played

 jazz, dixie, and ragtime. He would even knock out some

 rock now and then.

 He only had two hands but could have used four. He was

 very busy, which was to be expected. Not only did he run

 the psychiatric unit of the hospital, he had a private practice

 in an office a block away on St. Elizabeth Street. He was

 also head of an organization of northeast Ohio psychiatrists

 and a teacher at a medical college.

 Porsena's accomplishments awed Jim. But what most

 impressed him was the doctor's 1979 silver Lamborghini.

 Now, that was in the WOW! category.

 The doctor turned a page of the file and read a line or

 two. Then he leaned back.

 "You seem to be a wide reader," he said, "though you

 prefer science fiction. So many young people do. I have

 been a fan of science fiction and fantasy since I started to

 read. I began with the Oz books, Grimms' and Lang's fairy

 tales, Lewis Can-oil's Alice books. Homer's Odyssey, the

 Arabian Nights, Jules Veme, H. G. Wells, and the science

 fiction magazines. Tolkien quite captivated me. Then,

 while I was in residency in Yale, I read Philip Jose Farmer's

 World of Tiers series. Do you know those books?"

 "Yeah," Jim said. He straightened up. "Love them! That

 Kickaha! But when in hell is Farmer going to finish the

 series?"

 Porsena shrugged. He was the only man Jim had ever

 seen who could make a shrug seem an elegant gesture.

 "The point is that, while I was at Yale, I also read a

 8

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 biography of Lewis Can-oil. A phrase in the commentary on

 the chapter in Alice in Wonderland titled 'A Caucus Race

 and a Long Tail' sparked something in my mind. I then and

 there got the idea for Tiersian therapy."

 "What's that?" Jim said. "Tiersian? Oh, you mean from

 the World of Tiers?"

 "As good a word as any and better than some," Doctor

 Porsena said, smiling, "It was only a glimmering of an idea,

 a zygote of thought, a brief candlelight that might have been

 blown out by the hurly-burly winds of the mundane world

 or by common sense and logic rejecting divine inspiration.

 But I clung to it, nourished it, cherished it, and at last

 brought it to full bloom."

 This guy is really something, Jim thought. No wonder

 they call him The Shaman.

 However, Jim had been misled and deceived by adults so

 many times that he did not entirely trust the psychiatrist.

 Wait. See if his words matched his deeds.

 On the other hand, Porsena was this side of thirty. Old

 but not real old. Young-old.

 It was a good thing that he was in biology class, Jim

 thought. Otherwise, he would not have known what the

 doctor was talking about when he had spoken of "zygote of

 thought." A zygote was any cell formed by the union of two

 gametes. And a gamete was a reproductive cell that could

 unite with another similar one to form the cell that develops

 into a new individual.

 He had started out as a zygote. So had Porsena. So had

 most living creatures.

 As he listened to the doctor explain the therapy, Jim

 understood that, in a psychotherapeutic sense, he was a

 gamete. And the object of the therapy was to become a zygote.

 That is, a new individual composed of the old personality and

 another one which was, at this moment, imaginary.

 9

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 CHAPTER 3

 "T

 I HE TIERSIAN THERAPY patients form a small and elite

 volunteer group," Doctor Porsena said. "Usually, they start

 out with volume one, The Maker of Universes, and read

 the rest in proper sequence. They choose a character in the

 books and try to BE that character. They adopt all the

 mental and emotional characteristics of the role model

 whether they're good or bad. As therapy progresses, they

 come to a point where they start getting rid of the bad

 qualities of the character they've chosen. But they keep the

 good features.

 "It's rather like a snake shedding its skin. The patient's

 uncontrolled delusions, the undesirable emotional factors

 which brought him or her here, are gradually replaced by

 controlled delusions. The controlled delusions are those

 which the patient adopts when he or she becomes, in a

 sense, the character in the series.

 "There's much more to the treatment than this, but you'll

 understand that as therapy proceeds. You follow me?"

 JO

 "So far," Jim said. "This really works, right?"

 "The failure rate is phenomenally low. In your case, even

 though you've read the series, you will have to reread it.

 The World of Tiers will be your Bible, your key to health if

 you work with it and at it."

 Jim was silent for a while. He was considering the series

 and also wondering which character—some of them were

 really vicious—he would like to adopt. To become, as the

 doctor said.

 The basic premise of the series was that, many thousands

 of years ago, only one universe had existed. On one planet

 only in that universe was there life. The end of its

 evolutionary path was a species that resembled humans.

 These had attained a science vastly exceeding anything

 Earth had ever known. Eventually, the humans had been

 able to make artificial pocket universes.

 So knowledgeable and powerful were these beings, they

 were able to alter the laws of physics governing each

 individual pocket universe. Thus, the rate of acceleration in

 a fall toward the center of gravity could be made different

 from that in the original world. Another example, one

 pocket world might contain a single sun and a single planet.

 The World of Tiers, for example. This was an Earth-sized

 planet shaped like a terraced Tower of Babylon. Its tiny sun

 and tiny moon revolved around it.

 Another universe contained a single planet which be-

 haved like the plastic in a lavalite bottle. Its shape kept

 changing. Mountains arose and sank before your very eyes.

 Rivers were formed within a few days and then disap-

 peared. Seas rushed in to fill quickly forming hollows. Parts

 of the planet broke off—just like the thermoplastic in the

 liquid of a lavalite bottle—whirled around, changing shape,

 then fell slowly to the main body.

 Many of the Lords, as the humans came to call them-

 //

  

  

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 selves, left the original universe to live in their artificial pocket

 universes or designer worlds. Then a war made the planet unfit

 for life forever and killed all those then living on it. Only the

 Lords inhabiting the pocket worlds were saved.

 Thousands of years passed while more artificial universes

 were made by the Lords living in those already made at the

 time of the war. These were inhabited by the life forms that the

 Lords had introduced on the planets of their private cosmoses.

 Many of these forms had been made in the laboratories of the

 Lords. There were other humans than the Lords on these. But

 these lesser beings had been made in the laboratories, though

 their models were the Lords themselves.

 Access to these pocket worlds was gotten through "gates."

 These were interdimensional routes activated by various kinds

 of codes. As the Lords became increasingly decadent, they

 lost the knowledge of how to make new universes. The sons

 and daughters of the Lords wanted their own worlds, but they

 no longer had the means to create them. Thus, as was

 inevitable, there was a power struggle among them to gain

 control of the limited number of worlds.

 By the time The Maker of Universes began, in the late

 1960s, many Lords had been killed or dispossessed. Even

 those who had their own universes wanted to conquer

 others. That they could live without aging for hundreds of

 millennia meant that most of them had become bored and

 vicious. Invading other worlds and killing the Lords there

 had become a great game.

 If they could not create, they could destroy.

 The World of Tiers series was clearly an anticipation of

 the "Dungeons and Dragons" games which were so popular

 among youths. Its gates, the traps set by the Lords in the

 gates, the ingenuity necessary to get through the gates, and

 the dangerous worlds in which a wrong decision would land

 a character prefigured the D-and-D games. Jim was sur-

 72

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 prised that the series had not been adapted to such a game.

 He was even more surprised to find that the books had

 become a tool used in psychiatric therapy. But it seemed

 like a great idea. It certainly appealed to him far more than

 conventional therapy, Freudian, Jungian, or whatever.

 Though he did not know much about any of the various

 psychiatric schools, he nevertheless did not like them.

 Rest-room graffiti flashed across his mindscreen.

 "Mental illness can be fun." "Over the edge is better than

 under it." "Nobody catches schizophrenia from a toilet seat."

 Doctor Porsena looked at the clock on his desk. A puppet

 of Time, Jim thought. Doctors and lawyers, like railroads,

 ran on Newtonian time. They knew nothing of Einsteinian.

 No loafing and inviting your soul, to hell with relativity.

 But that was how they got things done.

 The psychiatrist rose, and he said, "On to other things,

 Jim. Excelsior! Ever upward and onward! Junior Wunier

 will give you the books, no charge. He'll also acquaint you

 with the rules and regulations. May you be safe from the

 curving carballoy claws of Klono, and may the Force be

 with you. See you later."

 Jim left the room thinking that the doctor was really

 something. That reference to the Force. That was from Star

 Wars, and any kid in America would recognize it. But that

 bit about Klono. How many would know that Klono was a

 sort of spaceman's god, a deity with golden gills, brazen

 hooves, indium guts, and all that? Klono was the god whom

 spacefarers swore by in E. E. Smith's Lensman series.

 Jim found Junior Wunier at the officer of the day's post

 near the elevators. Junior Wunier! What a name for parents

 to stick a kid with! Handicapped him from birth. As if he

 wasn't handicapped enough. The eighteen-year-old had hair

 like the Bride of Frankenstein's, a curved spine like the

 Hunchback of Notre Dame's, a dragging foot like Igor's,

 13

  

  

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 and a face like the Ugly Duchess's in the first Alice book.

 Besides the hump, he had a monkey on his back. He was a

 speed freak. Jim hoped that he had been caught before his

 brain had been burned out.

 Worst of all was his tendency to drool.

 And he, Jim Grimson, had thought he was bom with two

 strikes against him.

 Jim pitied the poor guy, but he couldn't stand him.

 Wouldn't you know it? Junior Wunier had chosen Kick-

 aha as his role model. Kickaha, the handsome, strong,

 quick, and ever-tricky hero. Whereas Jim would have

 thought that Wunier would pick Theotormon. That charac-

 ter was a Lord who had been captured by his father and

 whose body had been cruelly transformed in the laboratory

 into a monster with flippers and a hideous and bestial face.

 Wunier went into the storeroom and brought out five

 paperbacks for Jim. "Read 'em and weep," he said.

 Jim put the stack of Farmer's novels under his arm. Were

 they to be his salvation? Or were they like everything else,

 full of promises that turned out to be hot air?

 Wunier led Jim to his room through halls that were, at

 this moment, empty. Everybody was in his own room, in

 the recreation room, or in private or group therapy. The

 long wide halls with their white walls and gray floors

 echoed their footsteps. Jim had been assigned, for the time

 being, to a one-person room, small and very hospital-

 looking. The tiny closet was more than large enough,

 however. The only clothes Jim had were on his back, and

 these had been brought by his mother, who had gotten them

 from Mrs. Wyzak. Being Sam's, they fit him too tightly.

 The shoes were embarrassing, square-toed oxfords that Sam

 would have worn only if his mother had threatened to kill

 him if he didn't, which she probably had.

 Junior Wunier pointed to a niche in the wall. "You can

 74

 put the books there. Now, here's the rules and regulations."

 He leaned against the wall. Holding the paper with both

 hands close to his face, he read it aloud. A spray of saliva

 moistened the paper.

 Jim thought, Suffering succotash! This guy was another

 Sylvester the Cat.

 He sat down in the only chair, a wooden one with a

 removable cushion. He wished he had a cigarette. His teeth

 ached slightly; his nerves were drawn as tightly as telephone

 cables; his temper badly needed tempering.

 Wunier droned on as if he were a Buddhist monk

 chanting the Lotus Sutra. The patient had to keep his or her

 room neat and orderly. The patient had to take a shower

 every day, keep his nails clean, and so on. The patient could

 use only the telephone by the officer of the day's desk and

 must not tie it up for more than four minutes. Smoking was

 permitted only in the lounge. Graffiti was forbidden. Those

 patients caught with nonprescription drugs or booze or

 tearing off a piece (Wunier's words) would be subject to

 being kicked out on his or her ass.

 "And when you jack off," he said, "don't do it in the

 showers or in the presence of anyone else."

 "How about before a mirror?" Jim said. "Is the image

 another person?"

 "From Sarcasmville," Wunier growled. "Just obey the

 rules, and you'll get along fine."

 Wunier dragged his foot across to the wall and tore off a

 taped-up paper. Jim read the words on it before it went into

 the wastebasket.

 DON'T BE AFREUD OF YOUR SHRINK.

 Beneath the phrase was a Kilroy-was-here drawing.

 "There's some wise guy puts this stuff up in all the

 rooms," Wunier said. "We call him the Scarlet Letterer. His

 ass'll be scarlet if we catch him."

 15

  

  

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 Besides some framed prints that looked as if they came

 out of the Saturday Evening Post, the only thing hanging on

 the wall was a calendar.

 Jim said, "How about the mantras? A lot of the rooms

 have them up on the walls."

 "That's OK, part of the therapy. Some people need them

 to get into the World of Tiers." Wunier paused, then said,

 "You decided yet what character you'll choose?"

 He obviously wanted to stay and talk. Poor guy must be

 lonely. But Jim didn't feel like sacrificing himself for

 someone who was the last person he wanted to talk with.

 "No," Jim said. He was about to get up but then drew

 back into the chair. He pointed at the space below his bed.

 "What's that?"

 Wunier's eyes widened. He started to bend over to look

 under the bed, then changed his mind.

 "What do you mean, 'What's that?'"

 "It just moved. I thought it was just the shadows. But it's

 very dark, blacker than outer space. It looks like if you put

 your hand in it, the hand'd freeze off and float into the

 fourth dimension. Sort of spindle-shaped. About a foot

 long. Hey, it moved again!"

 Wunier stared briefly at the bed and a longer time at Jim.

 "I have to get going," he said. Attempting nonchalance,

 he added, "I leave you to entertain your guest." But he got

 out of the room as swiftly as he could.

 Jim laughed loudly when he thought that Wunier would

 not hear him. The thing he had claimed to see was out of a

 novel by Philip Wylie—he didn't remember the title—but

 he didn't know if Wunier had really thought there was one

 under the bed or if he was scared that Jim was about to freak

 out.

 However, he was, a minute later, in a mixed black and

 red mood. A sort of AC phase. Depression alternating with

 16

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 anger. The psychologists said that depression was anger

 turned against yourself. So, how could he, like a light

 flashing off and on, suffer from both states within a

 minute's time? Maybe he really was about to freak out.

 IT'S DEPRESSING TO BE A MANIC.

 He'd tape that to the rest-room wall. He'd show them that

 the damned elusive Scarlet Letterer wasn't the only one who

 could strike from the shadows.

 He didn't even have clothes of his own. And he had no

 money. Strip a man or woman of his possessions and

 money, and you see a person who's lost his manhood or her

 womanhood. That person was no longer a person. Not

 unless he or she were a Hindu fakir or yogi, part of a culture

 that considered such people to be holy. Not in this world

 where clothes and money made the man, where the emperor

 was the only one who could go naked and still be a person.

 He had nothing.

 While sitting in the chair, staring at nothing, a nothing

 looking into a mirror, he felt the blackness recede. It was

 followed by red, red that surged into every cell of his body

 and mind.

 But a man who was angry was a man who had something.

 Rage was a positive force even if it led to negative action.

 A poem he'd read a long time ago said—how'd it go?

 couldn't remember it verbatim—rage would work if reason

 wouldn't.

 Gillman Sherwood, a fellow patient, stuck his head in the

 doorway. "Hey, Grimson! Group therapy in ten minutes!"

 Jim nodded and got up from the chair.

 He knew then what character he was going to choose. To

 be.

 Red Ore. A villainous Lord in the series, Kickaha's most

 dangerous enemy. One mean and angry Ess Oh Bee. He

 kicked ass because his own was red.

 77

 CHAPTER 4

 October 31, 1979, Halloween

 JOMETHING HAD AWAKENED Jim just before the alarm clock

 had gone off. His eyes still sleep-blurred, he had stared

 upwards. The cracks in the ceiling were slowly forming a

 map of chaos. Or were they preliminary strokes of a

 drawing of the image of a beast or some cryptic symbol?

 Several new cracks had shot out from the old ones since he

 had gone to bed last night.

 The alarm clock startled him. Twirrruuup! Up and Adam!

 Rise from bed, sluggard! Roll 'em! Roll 'em! Once more to

 the breach!

 The early-morning sun shone through the thin yellow

 curtains on white dust motes falling from the cracks.

 The earth had moved below the house and shaken his

 bed. Somewhere directly below him, one of the many

 long-ago abandoned mine tunnels or shafts under Belmont

 18

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 City had shifted or crumbled, and the Grimson house had

 sunk or tilted a little more.

 Three months ago, four blocks from Jim's house, two

 houses, side by side, had fallen into a suddenly bom gap

 two feet deep. They now leaned toward each other, their

 front and back porches torn off. Once six feet apart, they

 were jammed together, stuck in the hole like a couple of

 too-large and too-hard suppositories in the Jolly Green

 Giant.

 A tremor a minute ago had yanked him upward, like a

 trout on a hook, from a nightmare. But it was no dream of

 a monster that had made him moan and whimper. It had

 been a black-on-black dream in which nothing, nothing at

 all, had happened.

 He told himself to haul his weary ass out of bed and get

 it in gear. "With a song in his heart." Yeah. A song like

 "Gloomy Sunday." Only this was Wednesday, All Souls'

 Day.

 The room was very small. Seven big posters were taped

 to the faded red-roses-and-light-green wallpaper and the

 back of the door. The largest was that of Keith Moon, Moon

 the Loon, great and late mad drummer for The Who. The

 most colorful displayed the five members of the Hot Water

 Eskimos, a local rock group. There was "Gizzy" Dillard

 vomiting into his saxophone; Veronica "Singing Snatch"

 Pappas shoving the microphone up under her leather mini-

 skirt; Bob "Birdshot" Pellegrino jacking off one of his

 drumsticks; Steve "Goathead" Larsen looking as if he were

 humping his guitar; Sam "Windmill" Wyzak tickling the

 ivories. Above the unsavory crew hovered a dozen cowbells

 resembling UFOs in flight. Up close and in bright light, you

 could see very thin wires connecting them to the ceiling.

 Clad in torn green pajama tops, red pajama bottoms, and

 black socks, he got out of bed and opened the door. Yes, it

 79

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 did stick more than it had yesterday. Turning to the left, he

 went down the unlit hall. Its carpet was thready and a dull

 green. Inside the narrow bathroom, he turned on the light.

 When he looked in the mirror, he winced. A third pimple

 was bulging redly under the skin. His reddish whiskers were

 sticking out a little more than they had yesterday. By

 weekend, he would have to shave. The dull razors his father

 insisted on keeping because new ones cost too much would

 scrape his skin raw, cut off the scabs over the recently

 squeezed pimples, and make them bleed.

 He urinated into the washbowl. By doing this, Jim was

 helping his father, Eric Grimson. Eric was always hollering

 about too many flushes running up the utility bill. Jim was

 also getting a small, if secret, revenge on that domestic

 tyrant and all-around prick, his father.

 While standing there, he studied his face. Those large

 deep-blue eyes were inherited from both his Norwegian

 father and his Hungarian mother. The reddish hair, long

 jaw, and prominent chin were handed down from Eric

 Grimson. The small ears, long straight nose, high cheek-

 bones, and slightly Oriental cast of the eyes were the gifts

 of his mother, Eva Nagy Grimson. His six feet and one and

 a half inches of height came from his father. Jim would

 grow three more inches if he became as tall as his begetter.

 His old man was wiry and narrow-shouldered, but Jim had

 gotten his broad shoulders from his mother's side of the

 family. Her brothers were short but very wide and muscular.

 God Almighty and then some! If he could get rid of the

 damn pimples, he might be good-looking. He might even

 get some place with Sheila Helsgets, the best-looking girl in

 Belmont Central High, his unrequited love. Jim meant to

 look up "unrequited" in the dictionary someday and find

 out what it meant exactly. To Jim, it meant that his love was

 20

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 one-sided, that she felt no more for him than an orbital

 satellite did for the radar beam bouncing off it.

 The only remark she had ever directed his way had been

 to ask him to stand downwind of her. That had hurt him but

 not enough to make him quit loving her. He had started

 bathing twice a week, a big sacrifice of time on his part,

 considering how little he had to spare for trivial matters.

 Those pimples! Why did God, if He existed, curse

 teenagers with them?

 After splashing water on his face and penis and drying

 them off with the towel only his father was supposed to use,

 he headed for the kitchen. Despite the darkness of the

 hallway, he could see white plaster dust on the carpet.

 When he got to the kitchen, he noticed that new cracks were

 in the greenish ceiling. There was white dust on the gas

 stove and the oilcloth cover on the table.

 "We're all going to fall into a hole," he muttered. "All

 the way to China. Or Hell."

 Hurriedly, he made his own breakfast. He swung open

 the door of the forty-year-old refrigerator, the cooling coils

 atop it looking like an ancient Martian watchtower. From it

 he took a jar of mayonnaise, a Polish sausage, a Polish

 pepper hot enough to burn the anus when it came out the

 next day, half a browned banana, wilted lettuce, and cold

 bread. He forgot to close the refrigerator door. While water

 boiled for the cup of instant coffee he would make, he sliced

 the sausage and banana and slapped together a sandwich.

 He turned on the radio, purchased by his father's father

 the day after the first transistor radios came on the market.

 The vacuum-tube GE was gathering dust up in the overbur-

 dened attic along with piles and piles of old newspapers and

 magazines, broken toys, old clothes, cracked china, rusty

 silverware, broomless brooms, and a burned-out 1942

 Hoover vacuum cleaner.

 21

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 Eric and Eva Grimson found it painful to throw anything

 away except garbage, and sometimes not even that. It was

 as if, Jim thought, they were cutting off pieces of their own

 bodies when they parted with a possession. Most people put

 their past behind them. His parents put it above them.

 He bit deeply into the sandwich and followed it with a

 piece of Polish pepper. While his mouth burned and his eyes

 watered, he turned the gas off and poured the boiling water

 into a cup. As he stirred the instant coffee, WYEK,

 Belmont's only rock station, blasted into the kitchen with

 the tail end of the weather report. After that, it began to

 blare out number sixteen of this week's local hit list. "Your

 Hand's Not What I Want!" was the first song by the Hot

 Water Eskimos that Jim had ever heard on the radio. It

 would also be the last.

 While he was bent over the sink and filling a glass with

 cold water, he heard a growling which did not come from

 the radio. Then the set went off. For two seconds, there was

 no sound except that of running water. The growl behind

 him came again.

 "Goddamn! I told you and I told you! Keep that fucking

 noise down! Or, by God, I'll throw the goddamn radio

 through the window! And close the fucking refrigerator

 door!"

 The voice was low in volume but deep in tone. It was his

 father's, his legal master's. The voice that had filled Jim

 with dread and wonder when he was a child. It had not

 seemed to be human. Jim still found it hard to believe that

 it was.

 Yet, he could remember moments when he had loved it,

 when it had made him laugh. That was what confused his

 attitude toward his father. But he was not mixed up now.

 He straightened up, turned the faucet off, and drank from

 the glass as he wheeled slowly around. Eric Grimson was

 22

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 tall, red-faced, red-eyed, puffy-lidded, fat-jowled, and

 big-paunched. The broken veins in his nose and cheeks

 reminded Jim of the cracks in the ceilings.

 Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!

 Another parent-child confrontation, as the school psy-

 chologist called it. One more time locking homs with a

 shithead, as Jim thought of it.

 His old man sat down. He put his elbows on the table and

 then his face between his hands. For a moment, he looked

 as if he were going to cry. Then he straightened, his open

 palms striking the tabletop loudly and making the sugar

 bowl dance around. He glared. But his hands, when he lit a

 match to a cigarette, were shaking.

 "You turned it on loud on purpose, didn't you? You won't

 let me sleep. God knows, you know, too, your mother

 knows, I need it. But no, will you let me sleep? Why?

 Goddamn nastiness, pure omeriness, the mean streak you

 got from your mother, that's why! And I told you to close

 the refrigerator door! You . . . you . . . snake! That's

 what you are! A goddamn snake!"

 He slammed his right hand against the table. The cloud of

 stale beer issuing from his mouth made Jim wrinkle his

 face.

 "I won't put up with that crap from you anymore! By

 God, I'm going to throw that goddamn radio through the

 window! And you after that!"

 "Go ahead!" Jim said. "See if I care!"

 His father would not take him up on that dare. No matter

 how furious Eric Grimson got, he would not destroy

 anything that might cost him money to replace.

 Eric rose from the chair. "Get out!" he yelled. "Out, out,

 out! I don't want to see your fartface around here, you

 long-haired freak-weirdo! Get out right now or I'll kick

 your ass all the way to school! Now! Now! Now!"

 23

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 His old man was trying to provoke him to hit him, Jim

 thought. Then he could break a few bones in his son, bloody

 his nose, slam him in the belly, kick him in the balls,

 kidney-punch him.

 Which was exactly what his son wanted to do to his old

 man and was going to do some day.

 "All right!" Jim screamed. "I'll go, you drunken bum,

 hopeless welfare case, parasite, loafer, loser! And you can

 shut the door yourself."

 Eric's cement-mixer voice got lower but louder. His face

 was red, and his mouth was wide open, showing crooked

 tobacco-yellowed teeth. His eyes looked like blood clots.

 "You don't talk to me like that, your father! You fucking

 hippie, stinking . . . stinking ..."

 "How about pink Commie bastard?" Jim said as he sidled

 by his father, facing him, ready to strike back but trembling

 violently.

 "Yeah! That'll do fine!" his father roared.

 But Jim was running down the hall. Just before he

 entered his bedroom, he saw a door open at the far end of

 the corridor. From the narrow rectangle between door and

 wall came a flickering light and a strong odor of incense.

 His mother's face appeared. As usual, she had been praying

 and fingering her beads while kneeling before the statues in

 the room. Then, hearing the uproar, instead of coming out

 to defend her son, she had hidden behind the door until

 peace and quiet came again or, at least, seemed about to

 break out.

 "Tell God to shove it!" Jim shouted.

 His mother gasped. Her head disappeared, and her door

 closed slowly and softly. That was his mother. Slow and

 soft, quiet and peaceful. And no more effectual than the

 shadow she resembled. She had lived so long among ghosts

 that she had become one.

 24

 CHAPTER 5

 JIM, NOW DRESSED and holding his school book bag in one

 hand, leaped through the front doorway. Behind him,

 standing in the doorway, shouting insults and threats, was

 his father. He was not going to pursue his son outside his

 territory, on which he felt safe. He was the cock of the walk

 and the bull of the woods on his own land. Which, actually,

 was the bank's, if you wanted to get technical about it.

 Which, if the tunnels and shafts under the house kept

 collapsing, might soon be Mother Earth's.

 The sky was clear, and the sun promised to warm the air

 up to around the low seventies. A great day for Halloween,

 though the radio weather report had said that clouds were

 supposed to appear later in the day.

 That was the outside weather. Jim felt as if lightning was

 banging around in him like an angry ogre cook throwing

 pots and pans around. Black clouds were racing across his

 personal sky. They bore news of worse to come.

 25

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 Eric Grimson kept on shouting though his son was now a

 block down the street. A couple of people were sticking

 their heads out their front doors to see what the commotion

 was. Jim plunged ahead, swinging his bag, which held five

 textbooks, none of which he had opened last night, pencils,

 a ballpoint pen, and two notebooks the pages of which

 mostly bore Jim's attempts to write lyrics. It also contained

 three tattered and dirty paperbacks. Nova Express, Venus on

 the Half-Shell, and Ancient Egypt.

 His mother had not had time to fix his lunch for him.

 Never mind. His stomach hurt like a fist gripping red-hot

 barbed wire.

 Too much too long.

 When was he going to blow up in his own Big Bang?

 It was coming, it was coming.

 In a notebook was his latest lyric, "Glaciers and Novas."

 Burn, burn, burn, burn!

 Nothing tells how hot I am.

 Words're shadows; fury's the substance.

 Uncle Sam will blacken my fire.

 Uncle Sam's a grinding glacier,

 Five miles high, a-grinding

 Mountains down to flatness.

 Glacier wants everything flat,

 Glacier wants to quench all fire.

 Pop and Mom are ice giants

 Coming to get me, cool my fire.

 White house frost giant,

 FBI trolls,

 CIA ogres,

 Werewolf Fuzz are circling me.

 Jailhouse fridge'II freeze the fire.

 Ahab chasing Moby Dick,

 26

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 Chasing his own dick, it's said,

 Ahab tearing the mask from God,

 Bombshell heart about to explode,

 His anger's a candle, mine's a klieg.

 Eons on, ages on, eons on, eras on,

 Old switchman Time reroutes the tracks,

 Express-train Sun rams head-on

 In destined doom the Nova Special,

 Blows, explodes, incinerates all,

 Splattering Pluto with pieces of Mars.

 Glacier gives up my frozen corpse,

 Glacier gives itself to fire.

 Frozen corpse will burn again.

 Righteous fire is never quenched.

 Burn, burn, burn, burn!

 That said it all, yet it was not enough.

 That was why movies, paintings, and the beat of rock—

 above all, the beat of rock—were sometimes better than

 words. The unsayable was said. Better said, anyway.

 For a moment, the street around him seemed to become

 wavy. It was as shimmering and as unstable as a mirage in

 a desert. Then it cooled off and became unmoving again.

 Complanter Street was as solid as it had been a few seconds

 ago. Just as squalid, too. Seven blocks away, above the

 roofs of the houses, the gray-black smokestacks and upper

 stories of the Helsgets Steel Works mills were metal giants.

 Dead giants because no stinking and black smoke poured

 from them. Jim remembered when they had been alive,

 though that seemed so long ago that it might have been in

 another century.

 Cheap foreign steel had shut down the area's industrial-

 steel complex. Since then, or so it seemed to Jim, his

 parents' troubles and, thus, his own troubles, had started.

 27

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 Though the busy furnaces had poured clouds of dirt and

 poison over the city, they had also showered prosperity.

 Now, hand in hand with cleaner air had come poverty,

 despair, rage, and violence. Though the citizens could now

 see a house two blocks away, they could not see the future

 and were not sure they wanted to.

 This street, the whole city, was Bob Dylan's "Desolation

 Row."

 Jim shuffled along the cracked sidewalk in his dirty and

 scarred cowhide boots. He passed two-story bungalows

 built just after World War II ended. Some of the front yards

 were fenced in; some of these fences were white with paint

 and had been repaired not too long ago. Some of the yards

 sported nice-looking lawns. Those with little grass or none

 at all were occupied by old cars up on blocks or motorcycles

 partly torn apart.

 The morning sun was glorious in the unflecked blue sky.

 Yet the light in Belmont City had seemed for a long time to

 Jim to be unlike the light elsewhere. It was particularly

 harsh and, at the same time, gritty. How could sunlight in

 clear air be gritty? He did not know. It just was. He did not

 know when it had first seemed so to him. He suspected that

 it was about the time his pubic hair began to grow.

 SPOING! There It was, the irrepressible It. SPOING! It

 rose and swelled like an angry cobra at just about anything,

 as long as that anything hinted of sex. Anything in movies,

 photos, ads, you name it, unaccountable stray thoughts and

 mental images—all called It up like a witch waving a magic

 wand. SPOING! There It was, no matter how embarrassing.

 That was when the sunlight in Belmont City had started

 to be harsh and gritty.

 Or was it?

 Maybe it had begun when he had had his first "vision."

 Or when his "stigmata" had first appeared.

 28

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 Jim saw his best buddy, Sam "Windmill" Wyzak, a half

 block away down Complanter Street. Sam was standing by

 the white picket fence on his front yard. Jim stepped up his

 pace. Only Jim's grandfather, Ragnar Grimsson, the Nor-

 wegian sailor and locomotive engineer, and Sam Wyzak

 really loved him. All three had souls like forks attuned to

 the same pitch. But his grandfather had died five years ago

 (maybe that was when the light got harsh and gritty) and

 now only Jim and Sam vibrated on the same frequency.

 Sam was six feet tall and very skinny. His sharp and

 pointed face could have been a model for that of Wile E.

 Coyote of the "Road Runner" cartoons. He looked just as

 hungry and desperate, but his deep-brown and close-set

 eyes lacked Wile E.'s never-quenched light of hope. His

 glossy black hair was unruly and bushy, almost an Afro.

 When Jim got closer, Sam called out, "Jimbo! My man!"

 in a high-pitched and whiney voice. He danced a shuffle-

 off-to-Buffalo while he sang the first six lines of a lyric of

 Jim's. Jim thought it was good, but the Hot Water Eskimos

 had rejected it as "not rock enough." Its first line was a

 phrase used by Siberian Eskimo shamans when they worked

 magic, words that organized chaotic lines of force into

 powerful instruments for good or evil.

 The song in its entirety went thus:

 ATA MATUMA M'MATA!

 You in trouble, deep in crap?

 Hire the ancient Siberian shaman.

 Wizard magic guaranteed to work.

 Shaman chants a Stone Age spell:

 ATA MATUMA M'MATA!

 Gather all these witchy items!

 You don't get these at Neiman Marcus!

 Angel's feather, Dracula's breath,

 29

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 Polar bear's malaria,

 Politician's unbroken promise,

 Scream from Captain Hook's toilet stall,

 Earwaxfrom Spock of far-off Vulcan,

 Nielsen rating of Tinker Bell,

 Turnip blood—Rh-negative,

 Jack the Ripper's love for women,

 Needle's eye which traps the rich,

 Belly buttons of Adam and Eve,

 Visa stamped by Satan himself.

 Mix them like you're Betty Crocker.

 Stir the bubbling brew around!

 When it cools and when it shrieks,

 Drink it down, drink it down!

 ATA MATUMA M'MATA!

 "The 'Ata Matuma M'Mata' spell won't work, Sam,"

 Jim said. "I'm down, way down. I'm also pissed, really got

 the red-ass."

 Mrs. Wyzak was looking out a window at him. She was

 big and had Mother Earth breasts and was a mighty big

 mother herself. She was, unlike his mother, the powerhouse

 in the family. Mr. Wyzak was no wimp, but he was his

 wife's shadow. When she moved, he moved. When she

 spoke, he nodded his head.

 Mrs. Wyzak had a peculiar expression. Was she wishing

 that Jim was also her son? She had wanted at least six kids,

 a brood, a pulsation of progeny. But she had had a

 hysterectomy after Sam, her firstborn. Mr. Wyzak, in his

 less charitable moments, and he had many, said that Sam

 had poisoned her womb.

 Or was her face set so oddly because she thought that

 Sam's friend was so odd? A boy who had had such strange

 30

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 visions and who suffered from stigmata was not your

 normal playmate for your child.

 Jim's mother . . . that was a different case. She had

 thought at first that Jim was a latter-day St. Francis because

 of the unearthly things he had seen and his unexplainable

 bleedings. But when Jim got older she had put aside her

 dreams of sainthood for him. Now she was not so sure she

 had not mated with the devil when she was sleeping and Jim

 was their child. She had never said so, though Jim's father

 had. But Jim believed that his father was repeating what she

 had told him. However, his father could have made it up.

 He did not put in full time hurting his son, but that was only

 because he had other things to do. Like getting drunk and

 gambling.

 Jim waved at Mrs. Wyzak. She stepped back as if

 startled, then moved to the window again and waved at him.

 Since she was not afraid of anyone—he wished to God that

 his mother was like her—she must have been thinking

 something bad about him. For a moment, she had been

 ashamed. Or was he, he thought, too damn sensitive and

 self-centered? That was what his father and his school

 counselor had told him.

 Jim and Sam walked away. Sam shook his head, and his

 near-Afro waved like the plume on the helmet of a Trojan

 warrior.

 "Well?" Sam whined in Jim's ear.

 "Well, what?"

 "Jesus, you said you were down, way down, and we've

 walked a whole block, and you ain't said a word! Down

 about what? Same old story? You and your old man?"

 "Yeah," Jim said. "Sorry. I was thinking, lost in my

 thoughts. One of these days I'm going to lose my way and

 never come back. And why should I? Anyway, here's my

 sordid and sad tale."

 31

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 Sam listened, interjecting only a grunt or a "Weird, man!

 Weird!" When Jim was finished, Sam said, "Ain't it the

 shits? What can you do now? Nothing—according to The

 Man. But it won't be long 'til you're eighteen, and you can

 tell your old man to go fuck himself."

 "If we don't kill each other first."

 "Yeah. Th-th-that's all. f-f-folks! Period. No Continued

 Next Chapter. You're pissed off? Listen, me and Mom got

 into it this morning, about some of the same things you and

 your Dad argued about. But, you know, with Mom it's

 always the music.

 " 'I worked my ass off,' she says, 'so you could take

 music lessons, and now you can play the piano and the

 guitar. But I didn't work myself to a frazzle as a grocery

 clerk and a baby-sitter and God knows how many other jobs

 and pinch my pennies so you could be a rock musician. And

 now you want to dress up like a punk, look like some

 drunken murdering redskin, embarrass me and your father

 and my friends and Father Kochanowski! The saints help

 me, the Virgin Mary help me! I wanted you to be a classical

 musician, play Chopin and Mozart, be somebody I could be

 proud of! Look at you!' And so on. Same old shit.

 "Then I said what I should've never said, but I was

 seeing purple by then."

 Sam rotated both arms several times, the lunch bag in one

 hand. "Windmill" Wyzak was really going into action.

 " 'Worked your ass off?' I said. 'What do you call that?

 A camel?' I pointed at her big ass. God forgive me, I do

 love my mother even if she's mostly a pain. Anyway, I had

 to run for my life. Mom threw dishes at me and took after

 me with a broom. I had to run through the house and then

 into the backyard with her screaming at me and the old man

 laughing like crazy, rolling on the floor, glad to see

 somebody besides him being picked on by her."

 32

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 Jim was hurt by Sam's seeming not to care about his

 troubles with his father. Jim was open, panting and slaver-

 ing, for sympathy and understanding and advice. So what

 was his supposed best friend doing? Ignoring his friend's

 absolutely pressing crises to talk about his own problems,

 which Jim had heard too many times.

 33

 CHAPTER 6

 I HEY TURNED OFF Complanter Street onto Pitts Avenue,

 which led straight for six blocks to Belmont City Central

 High School. Cars loaded with students sped by them. No

 one in the vehicles waved or shouted at the two pedestrians,

 though all knew them. Jim felt like an outcast, a leper

 whose only skin disease was acne. That made his mood

 blacker, his anger redder.

 Jesus H. Christ! Those uppity snobs didn't have any right

 to look down on him because his father was out of work and

 the Grimson family was pisspot poor and lived in a

 run-down low-class blue-collar area. The students who had

 their own cars were not so rich themselves, except for

 Sheila Helsgets, and her family wasn't doing so well either.

 The closing of the steel mills had socked it to her father. He

 probably wasn't now worth more than a million or so, and

 that would be mostly just property and low-value stocks and

 bonds. At least, that's what he had heard about the

 Helsgetss'.

 34

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 Sam had no idea how madly and badly in love with her

 Jim was. Jim held some things back from his old buddy

 because he didn't want to be laughed at. Like his passion for

 Sheila Helsgets and his writing "straight" poetry at the

 same time he was writing rock lyrics and reading many

 books and his vocabulary, which was much larger than

 Sam's and that of the other guys he hung around with

 though he wasn't always sure of the precise meaning of the

 words he used.

 ". . .a cigarette?" Sam said.

 Jim said, "What?"

 "Christamighty!" Sam said. "Get with it! Where are

 you? Lost in space? Beam me back to Earth, Scotty. I asked

 if you want a coffin nail."

 Sam was holding in a dark hand, the fingernails dirty,

 two nonfilter Camels. Jim should have been grateful for the

 offer; he was so short of money he couldn't buy a pack. But,

 for some reason, he did not want to smoke.

 "Nah! How about an upper?"

 Sam slipped a Camel into the right comer of his lips, put

 the other in the pocket of his black shirt, and dipped his

 hand into the outside pocket of his blue jacket. It came out

 with three capsules.

 "Yeah. Black beauties. Guaranteed to give you a balloon

 ride to the moon. But watch out for the landing."

 "Thanks," Jim said. "I'll take one. I'll have to owe you."

 "That's seven dollars you owe," Sam said. He quickly

 added, "Just keeping the books up to date. No hurry. Your

 credit's always good with me, you know. I ain't billing you

 for the cigarettes I been giving you, either. I know when

 you get them, you'll help me in my distress. Like you

 always say, we're Damon and Pithy-ass, whoever they

 might be."

 Jim popped one upper into his mouth and swallowed it

 35

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 dry. He worked his mouth to generate saliva to help it on

 down.

 The Biphetamine worked far faster then usual. Zap!

 Where there had been tired blood, as the ads said, was now

 a river of molten gold. Coursing through his veins, not to

 mention his arteries, each molecule racing the others to get

 back to his heart first and then back to the merry-go-round

 for another race at breakneck speed. The harsh and gritty

 light melted into a soft smoothness.

 Sam had put a black beauty into his mouth before

 stopping to cup his hand and then flicking the Bic. He drew

 in deeply and blew out smoke as he resumed walking. Jim,

 waiting for him, looked around as if he had never seen this

 place before. He could see the top of Belmont Central over

 the scrungy houses (Pitts Avenue was the pits). Beyond

 that, to the northeast, was the two-story building of earth-

 colored brick and Tuscan columns, Wellington Hospital. To

 the southwest was the spire of St. Stephan's, smack in the

 Hungarian neighborhood. His mother bypassed St. Grobi-

 an's, the Irish church, to attend St. Stephan's even though

 she had to walk an extra mile.

 Looking north again, Jim could see the dome of City

 Hall. Lots of action there, most of it dirty, if what Sam

 Wyzak's drunken uncle, a judge, said was true.

 And straight north went Pitts Avenue, ending at the foot

 of Gold Hill. Up above, so high in the sky, were the homes

 of the kings and queens of Belmont City. While they sipped

 their martinis and counted their money, they could look

 down on the rabble, the proletariat, the salt of the earth,

 those who would inherit, not trust funds but the earth, that

 is, the dirt itself.

 What made Jim's father especially angry about Gold Hill

 people was that his wife worked there. Her job was only

 part-time, and the wealthy did not pay much (the tight-assed

 36

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 skinflints!), but the money was better than none. Eva Nagy

 Grimson was employed by a small company to houseclean

 on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Eric's unemploy-

 ment checks had long ceased to come in. Reluctantly, Eric

 had applied for and gotten welfare. He was of a generation

 that regarded welfare as shameful. He also believed that a

 wife should not work. The husband was humiliated if she

 did. He was a failure as a man and a provider.

 Jim could understand why his father writhed with shame

 and despair and frustration. But why did he have to take it

 out on his wife and son? Did he think they liked the mess

 they were in? Were they responsible for the bad things in

 their lives?

 Why did his father spend the precious money his wife

 made on booze? Why didn't he just up and pull anchor,

 leave the doomed house behind, take his family to Califor-

 nia or some place where he could get a job? However, if he

 did that, he was up against his wife. She went along with

 everything he did, no matter how rotten it was, never

 complained or argued. Except once. When he had sug-

 gested leaving Belmont City, she had told him firmly that

 she would not obey him. She would not move away from

 the Nagy clan and their friends.

 "Jesus Christ!" Eric had shouted. "If you got a Hungar-

 ian for a friend, you don't need an enemy!"

 Jim and Sam were now two blocks from Central High, a

 huge old three-story redbrick building. At least, Jim

 thought, my body is two blocks from it. My mind, Jesus,

 where's my mind? All over the place. I got to get with it.

 The day you were living in was the present. But the past

 was often with you, poking a sharp-nailed finger in the

 tissue of your brain and gouging out a piece, then pressing

 on a nerve to remind you that the bottom line of life was

 pain, then groping around other parts, feeling your dick,

 37

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 giving you a proctological examination, thumping your

 heart's naked flesh to make it beat like a hummingbird's

 wings, tying your intestines into a running sheepshank knot,

 vomiting hot acid into your stomach, whipping up night-

 mares with the blender of old Morpheus, ancient Greek god

 of sleep.

 A title for a lyric. "The Dead Hand of the Past." Nah. A

 cliche, though that never stopped most rock lyricists.

 Anyway, the past was not a dead hand. You carried it with

 you like it was a living thing, a tapeworm. Or like

 Heinlein's parasitic slug from Titan, the ice-moon of Sat-

 urn, the slug growing tendrils in your back and sucking the

 life and brains out of you. Or like a fever no pills could cool

 down until you were cold-dead, and you didn't need pills

 then.

 ". . . trying to get a gig tonight, no soap," Sam was

 saying. "Got one Saturday night at me Whistledick Tavern

 out on Moonshine Ridge, but that's redneck territory, and

 we gotta play that godawful country-western. We might

 cancel. Anyway, we couldn't get one tonight, and my cup

 runneth over. Halloween's for fun. Remember how we

 pushed over old man Dumski's outhouse when we was

 fifteen? Maybe it was when we was fourteen. Anyway,

 remember how Dumski came out of his house screaming

 and shooting his shotgun? Man, did we run!"

 "Sounds good," Jim said. "I'll call work and tell them

 I'm sick. I'll probably get fired, but what the hell."

 38

 CHAPTER 7

 JUST BEFORE HE and Sam joined the gang, Sam slipped him

 a stick of chewing gum. "Take it. You got a breath v/ould

 knock down King Kong."

 "Thanks," Jim said. "Must be the Polish sausage, too

 much garlic. Anyway, my stomach's upset."

 Three guys were waiting for them. Hakeem "Gizzy"

 Dillard, a short chunky black suffering from yellow jaun-

 dice. Bob "Birdshot" Pellegrino, a big youth with a huge

 black walrus moustache and one glass eye. Steve "Goat-

 head" Larsen. They gave each other five fingers, Jim

 noticing that the greeting only seemed a hundred percent

 natural when Gizzy did it. Goathead brought out a mari-

 juana butt from which each took a puff while keeping an eye

 on the big front entrance for an appearance of Central's

 principal, Jesse "Iron Pants" Bozeman, or one of his

 teacher snitches.

 "Hey, man, you hear about what Kiss did in that hotel

 room in Peoria?"

 39

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 "I got an upper trade you for a downer."

 "... said Mick Jagger caught the clap from the may-

 or's wife ..."

 "The old man said, 'You get a Mohawk, I cut off your

 balls.'"

 "... think Lum'll spring a surprise exam today?"

 "... and I thought. You can drive the point of that

 I-saw-Cele's triangle all the way up your ass. Define it, shit,

 I can't even pronounce it. But I was cool. So, I told Mister

 Slowacki, geometry ain't my fortay. That's for Republi-

 cans, and my folks always vote straight Democrat."

 "... sent to Iron Pants's office again. But he wasn't

 there. Probably balling his secretary in the xerox room."

 ". . . so he says, 'I knew you was long, and I knew you

 was black, but where did you get them googly eyes?'"

 "Man, I swear you wasn't my asshole buddy, I don't take

 those racist jokes. Lemme tell you about the white

 woman—a mouse ran up her snatch so she go see this black

 doctor. And he say ..."

 Chattering fast, seeming to talk out of both sides of their

 mouths at the same time, giggling, butt-slapping, shadow-

 boxing, the group danced into the front hall. Jim was silent,

 his only responses a grunt or a forced grin. The black beauty

 wasn't working the way it was supposed to. The guy who'd

 sold it to Sam must've cheated him. Probably had just a

 little Biphetamine in it. The rest of it was ground-up aspirin

 or something.

 While on his way to his locker, he saw Sheila Helsgets

 leaning against the wall. She was talking to and smiling at

 Robert "Ram-'Em" Basing, a very big and very good-

 looking blond who was Central's foremost tackle and

 captain of the football and the rhetoric teams. A six-letter

 man. Lots of money, drove a Mercedes-Benz, and lived on

 Gold Hill. An A-minus average. A clear and tanned

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 complexion. Naturally, he was pinned to Sheila, probably

 in more ways than one, Jim thought. But reliable reports

 said he was cheating on her. He'd even been seen in a

 nightclub in the nearby city of Warren with Angie "Blow-

 Job" Calorick.

 Seeing him pat the egg-shaped cheek of Sheila's ass made

 Jim want to puke.

 He slammed his locker door shut with a big bang. Sheila

 looked away from Basing and at him. She quit smiling.

 Then she turned her head back to The Winner. She smiled

 again.

 Sheila baby, you think he's Jesus H. Christ Himself! I'd

 like to crucify him, preferably with rusty nails that wouldn't

 be hammered through only his hands and feet. Wouldn't

 make any difference, though. She'd still look at me like I

 was a leper. "Unclean! Unclean!"

 Jim sang softly to himself as he trudged down the hall

 toward Biology 201. It was his own creation, tided "Here's

 Looking Up at You."

 Scruff me, scurve me,

 Deck me out with pimples and fleas.

 Feed me beans, then bitch about

 Gas a-boiling in your face.

 Step on me, and call me flat.

 Squeeze me dry, and call me husk.

 Say I got no class at all!

 Trip-hammer sky's ramming me down,

 Knocking the dandruff off my head,

 Thumpa-thumpa-thumping me,

 Drilling rock and liquid iron.

 Earthworms, moles, and buried bones,

 God, the Devil, Mrs. Grundy,

 Who's not looking down at me

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER RED ORC'S RAGE

 Spinning in the core of Earth?

 Any way from here is up.

 Can't believe that's not a lie.

 Every way looks down to me.

 Raunch me, sleaze me,

 Rip my soul with taloned scorn.

 Call me ragged, light a candle,

 Say for me a ragged mass.

 Scruff me, scurve me,

 Deck me out with pimples and fleas.

 He followed Bob and Sam into the big classroom and

 took a chair in the rear row comer with the other losers.

 There was the usual loud talk, poking fun at each other,

 sailing paper airplanes, and throwing spitballs. Then silence

 and rigidity came down like a guillotine blade as the aged

 but not venerable Mister Lewis "Holy Roller" Hunks

 walked in. Grim and crusty and obnoxiously religious

 described Mister Hunks. Add to that that he was a creation-

 ist who was forced by law to teach evolution, though it was

 called "development," and you had one frustrated and

 miserable white-haired old man.

 Hunks checked off the students present and absent as if he

 were taking the roll call on the Day of Judgment. After

 pronouncing each name, he looked up from behind very

 thick glasses. He grimaced when he spoke the name of a

 student he did not like, and he smiled thinly when he uttered

 the name of a student who was not going to Flunkers' Hell.

 He smiled three times.

 Having designated a favorite student to carry a list of the

 absent to the principal's office. Hunks launched into today's

 lecture. It continued the previous lecture, which was on the

 reproductive system of the frog. Jim tried to listen intently

 and to take notes because the subject was interesting. But

 42

 his stomach hurt, and he had a headache. To make condi-

 tions worse. Hunks managed to combine droning with a

 squeaky voice. Jim felt like he was on an oxcart with an

 unlubricated wheel going across a flat and treeless plain.

 The view was putting him to sleep, but the wheel was

 keeping him awake.

 Sam Wyzak, who was sitting by Jim, leaned over and

 whispered, "I'm going to fall asleep. Whyn't you tell him

 he's full of shit? At least we won't be bored to death."

 "Why don't you tell him?" Jim whispered back.

 "Hell, I don't know nothing about this and couldn't care

 less. You're the expert. You start the fireworks. Old Sam

 just wanta make things jump. Geeve eet to heem!"

 A silence in the room alerted Jim. He straightened up and

 looked at Mister Hunks. The old guy was glaring at him,

 and the students had turned their heads to look at him and

 Sam. Jim's heart felt like a squirrel thrown into a wheel-

 cage. It began running just to stay in one place. The thuds

 of its feet against metal were also drum signals. "Man, you

 done it now!"

 "Well, Mister Grimson, Mister Wyzak," Hunks

 squeaked. "Would you mind sharing with us your private

 thoughts about the subject at hand?"

 Jim said, "It was nothing."

 His own voice was squeaky. He was angry because he

 had been caught, and he was angry with himself because he

 was afraid to speak out against Hunks. The old man would

 make a fool of him for sure.

 "Nothing, Mister Grimson? Nothing? You two were

 disturbing me and the class because you were just making

 nonsensical noises? Or perhaps you were imitating the apes

 you claim you're descended from? Were you imitating ape

 calls, you two?"

 Jim's heart beat even harder, and his stomach swung back

 43

  

  

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER                                              RED ORC'S RAGE

 and forth, sloshing acid from one end to the other. But,

 trying to look cool, he stood up. He also was trying to keep

 his voice steady.

 "Well," he said. He paused to clear his suddenly

 phlegmed throat. "No, we weren't imitating ape language.

 We . . ."

 "Ape language?" Hunks said. "Apes don't have a lan-

 guage!"

 "Well, I mean ... ape signals, whatever."

 Sam whispered, "Umgawa!" He writhed with silent

 laughter.

 "When your fellow simian recovers from his fit, you may

 continue," Hunks said. He squinted through his thick

 glasses as if they were a telescope and he, the astronomer,

 had just discovered some worthless asteroid that had no

 business being where it was.

 Sam quit moving, but he was biting his lips to keep from

 exploding with laughter.

 "Uh," Jim said, and he cleared his throat again. "Uh, I

 had some thoughts on what you just said, uh, that about life

 developing, no, I mean originating, in the primal soup, and

 its, uh, statical, I mean, statistical improbability. But I got

 to think more about that before I say anything.

 "What I was thinking was about something you said last

 week. Remember? You, we, talked about why, for exam-

 ple, uh, dog embryos and human embryos were so similar.

 In the early stages of their development, anyway. You

 explained why human embryos have tails, that is, according

 to the theory of development. You evidently didn't believe

 that theory. Then you tried to explain why, uh, if the

 Creator made all creatures in just a couple of

 days . . . you said, you tried to explain why all male

 mammals have nipples even though they don't need them,

 why, uh, flightless insects have wings."

 44

 His throat felt dry. Hunks's grin was mean, mean, mean.

 The students were watching him. Some had tittered when he

 mentioned nipples.

 "Also, why do snakes have rudimental . . . rudimen-

 tary . . . limbs when they never need them any more than

 males need nipples and insects that can't fly need wings? They

 wouldn't have nipples, limbs, and wings if they were created

 in a single day. You said that the wings, nipples, and limbs

 were created for the sake of symmetry. The Creator was an

 artist, and It had to make Its creatures symmetrical."

 Jim referred to the Creator as It because it bugged Hunks.

 Now his voice was stronger and deeper, and he was

 speaking without the awkward hesitations. He was on a roll.

 Devil take the consequences.

 "That 'symmetry' explanation, if you'll pardon me,

 Mister Hunks, doesn't ring true. It doesn't seem to be

 logical. Anyway, I was thinking about it. Here's what I'd

 like you to explain to me, sir. If the Creator was so keen on

 'symmetry,' why, on the day of Creation, didn't It make

 males who also had female genitals and vice versa? Why

 don't us men have vaginas, too, and why don't women have

 penises?"

 Laughter from the students. Explosion from Mister

 Hunks.

 "Shut up and sit down!"

 "But, sir!"

 "I said shut up and sit down!"

 Jim should have been happy because he had triumphed.

 But he was shaking with rage. Hunks was just like his

 father. When he had lost in a battle of words, he refused to

 listen any more, and he evoked the gag law that adults used

 against children. It was unappealable to a higher court

 because Hunks was also that court.

 Fortunately, the end-of-the-class bell rang just then.

 45

  

  

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 Hunks looked as if he was going to have a stroke, but he did

 not tell Jim to see him in his office that afternoon. Jim felt

 as if his own blood vessels were going to erupt. However,

 a few seconds later, as he walked down the hall, he began

 to feel exultance mixing with the rage. He had really given

 it to the old fart, the living fossil, the Ku Klux Klanner of

 Kristians.

 Bob Pellegrino and Sam Wyzak were walking with him

 through the crowd of students. Bob said, "It don't matter if

 you win every argument with that dirty old man. He's gonna

 flunk your ass."

 Jim understood the description of Hunks. To the young,

 anybody over sixty was dirty. No matter how physically

 clean the old were in actuality, they were dirty because they

 were close to death. Old Man Death was the ultimate in

 filthiness, and anybody in his neighborhood was deeply

 soiled.

 There was also something that Jim could not know then

 and would not know until much later. That was that Hunks

 was much closer to the truth than the evolutionists.

 46

 CHAPTER 8

 LUNCH HOUR CAME. Jim had no money to buy food, and his

 anger had subsided enough for him to feel very hungry. Sam

 Wyzak split his lunch with him, and Bob Pellegrino gave

 him half a tuna fish sandwich and half a pickle. Jim cooled

 off even more during Mister Lum's course in Advanced

 English and Composition. This was the only subject in

 which he had a B average. Well, pretty close to a B. A few

 A's on the compositions he was going to write, and he

 would get a B average. But if Jim didn't ever master the

 difference between a dangling participle and a dangling

 particle, he wouldn't pass the course.

 "Knowing that won't help you become a better writer,

 and you'll never use that item of academic knowledge," he

 had said. "However, it's not so hard to understand, and

 you're not a moron, no matter what your other teachers say.

 I'm not going to pass you until knowledge of the difference

 is embedded in your bones. Now, I'm not current with the

 47

  

  

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 latest discoveries in physics. What the hell is a dangling

 particle?"

 After biology class, Jim and Sam headed for the rest

 room. They went past the elderly guard outside the room

 and entered. The place was busy, noisy, and stinking.

 There, leaning against the wall by the washbowls were

 Freehoffer, "The Blob," and his buddies, Dolkin and

 Skarga. They were passing around a roach as if they didn't

 give a damn if the guard caught them, and they didn't.

 Freehoffer was huge, six feet four, close to three hundred

 pounds, double-chinned, balloon-bellied, pig-nosed, and

 weasel-eyed. His blue-black facial hair should have been

 shaved three days ago. A ponytail bound his black greasy

 hair. Egg yolk stained his red-and-black striped shirt.

 Dolkin and Skarga were both short but very wide, and

 their yellow-brown hair looked like viper nests.

 Freehoffer and his buddies would have been shaking

 down his victims, mostly scared freshmen or nerds, if the

 room hadn't been so crowded. Jim had been forced to give

 them money at least a dozen times during his four years at

 Central. But this year he had never been caught alone in the

 rest room by them, and the last time he had coughed up his

 change for them, he had told Freehoffer, "Never again!"

 Having eased themselves at the urinals, Jim and Sam

 started to leave the room. Freehoffer stuck a foot out and

 tripped Jim, who fell forward and banged his head against

 the exit door. The pain was a hammer blow on a detonator.

 Jim yelped and, cursing, straightened up, turned around,

 and swung with his right fist. He did not think about what

 he was doing; he was scarcely aware that he was doing it.

 His fist sank into the big belly. Freehoffer's laughter became

 a deep grunt, and he doubled over.

 A surfer of rage carried on by a red wave, Jim brought his

 knee up against The Blob's chin. The Blob fell on the tiled

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 floor, but he got up on all fours. Jim snarled, "Don't ever

 touch me again, Pus-Face!"

 Sam said, "Let's get going, Jim!"

 Freehoffer got to his feet. "You won't get away with this,

 shithead!"

 Dolkin and Skarga started to move in. Sam tugged on

 Jim's arm. "For Christ's sake, let's get outa here!"

 "This ain't the place!" Freehoffer bellowed. "But if

 you're a real man, Grimson, you'll meet me back of Pravit's

 after school's over! You won't get no chance to hit me when

 I ain't looking! I'll beat you to a bloody pulp if you got the

 guts to stand up to me, and I don't think you got 'em!"

 Jim started to shake, but he said, "Pair fight? Man to

 man? Fists only?"

 "Yeah! Fair fight! Fists only! I don't need nothing except

 my fists to stretch you out, you spindly little fruitcake!"

 "I don't like to dirty my hands on you, but I'll do it, you

 heap of shit," Jim said. With Sam behind him, he swag-

 gered out of the rest room.

 "Jesus Christ, man!" Sam said. "What got into you?"

 "I just won't take any more of his shit!"

 "You must be mad at everybody and everything," Sam

 said. "You ain't thinking straight. You know he ain't going

 to fight fair, and Dolkin and Skarga'll be there to jump on

 you, too."

 "What'd you do if you were in my place?" Jim snarled.

 "Me? I wouldn't show, no way. I'm not crazy!"

 "You gonna be there, or you gonna let me take them on

 by myself?"

 "Oh, I'll be there," Sam said. "I won't let you down, old

 buddy. But I better tell Bob and the others about this. The

 more the better. You'll need backup. I'll bring a brick, too.

 But this is crazy!"

 By the time that school was out, the entire student body

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 seemed to know about the scheduled fight. Jim was still

 mad but not so much that he was not also scared. Sam's

 advice to stand The Blob up instead of standing up to him

 was making more sense. But he was not going to back out

 now. Everybody would think he had a yellow streak down

 his back.

 Pravit's Confectionery and Drugstore was a block away

 from the high school. Trailed and preceded by students, Jim

 went down the alley along the side of the store and then

 went a few paces along the alley behind the old redbrick

 building. With him were Wyzak, Pellegrino, and Larsen.

 Jim had hoped that Freehoffer would be a no-show. No.

 There was The Blob, leaning against the wall near the back

 door, a toothpick in his blubber lips, seeming most noncha-

 lant. By his side stood Dolkin and Skarga.

 "There's the rest-room mugger, the bully of the crapper!"

 Jim called out. His voice started out loud and firm enough,

 but it cracked near the end of his sentence. He stopped a

 dozen feet from Freehoffer while the crowd shifted around

 to form a semicircle. Jim's three cronies stood just behind

 him.

 The Blob sneered. He said, "Sticks and stones, big

 mouth." He continued to lean against the wall.

 Jim dropped his book bag, screamed, and ran forward.

 Freehoffer straightened up, his eyes wide. Jim ran and then

 launched himself. He had seen karate fighting in many

 movies but had never practiced any. This was a first-time,

 all-or-nothing effort, do or die. His body came close to

 leveling out as he slammed the bottom of his shoe into

 Freehoffer's nose. He had tried for the chin, but his aim was

 off. Not so bad, though. The Blob's head snapped back, and

 he staggered against the wall. Blood gushed from his

 nostrils.

 Then Jim fell straight backward, tried to twist, but fell

 50

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 heavily on his side. Pain shot through his shoulder. The

 wind was knocked out of him. Despite this, he was up on

 his feet and charged Freehoffer with his head down. He

 drove it into the big belly. More pain lanced through him,

 but down his neck this time.

 Freehoffer gasped. Blood ran down his face, and he bent

 over, clutching his belly. The attack had caught both him

 and his buddies by surprise. Dolkin and Skarga, however,

 unfroze and jumped on Jim, who still had not gotten his

 wind back. Sam Wyzak, though fight-shy, did not hold

 back once he got into a battle. He brought out from under

 his jacket a brick. He slammed it against the side of

 Dolkin's head. Dolkin went down onto his knees, a hand

 clamped to the injured part. Skarga brought his fist out of

 the pocket of his jacket. Brass knuckles gleamed as he

 pulled his arm back to drive them into Jim's ribs. Bob

 Pellegrino stepped in and slammed a fist against the side of

 Skarga's jaw. Sam hit Skarga on his shoulder with the brick.

 Skarga went down, yelling with pain, then tried to crawl

 away into the crowd. Pellegrino kicked him hard in the butt.

 Steve Larsen jumped on Skarga and bore him all the way to

 the ground.

 The Blob had a lot of flesh to absorb the damage done to

 him. He was far from being out of the fight. Bellowing, he

 lunged forward, drove into Jim, locked his arms around

 him, and carried him down to the hard black pavement.

 Since Jim had his arms free, he was able to strike Freehoffer

 as they rolled around, though not effectively. When The

 Blob bit him in his stomach, Jim cried out, but the pain gave

 him strength to tear himself loose. He was still on his back

 when Freehoffer rose to his feet and drew a foot back to kick

 Jim.

 Jim kicked first. His foot slammed into The Blob's

 crotch. Yelling, holding his testicles, Freehoffer fell for-

 51

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 ward. Before he hit the ground, he gushed yellow vomit.

 Jim rolled away and escaped the crushing weight of the near

 three hundred pounds. But the puke showered his hair and

 the left side of his face and body.

 He got to his feet. Then the stench and the feel of the stuff

 sticking to him and the thought that it came from The Blob's

 belly made him retch. Bent over Freehoffer, he sprayed him

 in the face with his own vomit.

 Some of the spectators were delighted. Others got nau-

 seated, and a small number of these threw up. Their

 example caused more to puke. But neither the enjoyers nor

 the leathers had much time to express their reactions.

 Nearby sirens announced the coming of the cops. Most of

 the crowd hurriedly left the scene.

 CHAPTER 9

 52

 /\s A BLACK-AND-WHITE squad car pulled into the alley,

 Freehoffer croaked out his threats between sobs and long-

 drawn-in breaths.

 "I'm going to get you! I'll use the old man's shotgun,

 Piss-Face! I'll blow out your crazy queer brains, then I'll

 jam the Polack's brick up his ass before I blow off his head,

 too!"

 Dolkin and Skarga had fled. Bob Pellegrino and Steve

 Larsen had reluctantly left after Jim had told them it made

 no sense for them to stay to face the music. Sam, however,

 had refused to desert Jim.

 "Bullshit!" Jim said. He was breathless, too, though not

 nearly as much as Freehoffer. "You've had it, puke-face!

 Your reign of terror is over! Anytime I see you extorting

 money from some scared kid, I'm going to jump you, right

 then and there! I'll beat the piss out of you!"

 He was shaking so much that his muscles seemed to be

 53

  

  

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 trying to tear themselves loose from his bones. Yet he still

 felt as if he were riding a gigantic surf wave. It was lifting

 him up and up, and when he reached the crest, he would

 soar off into the wild blue yonder. The fight had spurted out

 much of the rage and the urge to do violence that had

 possessed him all day.

 The cops came then, strolling up slowly, looking around

 but grinning. They were relieved that they did not have to

 handle a riot. Jim thought that whoever had reported the

 fight had exaggerated. Old man Pravit? Maybe. In any case,

 the police department was understaffed and overworked,

 like every other department in money-poor Belmont City. It

 was a wonder that any police car had shown up.

 It was good that Sam had not gone with the others. The

 cops recognized his name. One of them knew that Sam was

 the nephew of Stanislaw Wyzak, a night court judge, and of

 John Krasinski, an alderman. The two patrolmen treated the

 whole incident as just a heated argument among high school

 kids.

 Normally, the cops would have spread-eagled them

 against the wall and frisked them. But they did not want to

 get the stinking mess on their hands or, indeed, come any

 closer to Grimson and Freehoffer than they had to. Nor

 could they get out of the youths the true story of what had

 caused the brouhaha. Jim refrained from telling them about

 Freehoffer's extortions and his threats to kill him and Sam.

 The Blob evidently wanted to accuse Jim of all sorts of

 things, but he, too, abided by the unwritten law: Don't tell

 the fuzz nothing about nobody. Though the cops knew that

 they were being lied to, they did not care. If they let the

 three go with a warning, they would avoid paperwork and

 getting in Dutch with Judge Wyzak and Alderman Krasin-

 ski. However, they added, this incident would have to be

 reported to the boys' parents.

 54

 In effect: Go, children, and sin no more. And for Christ's

 sake wash your clothes and take a bath. Haw! haw!

 Just before the cops left, one of them scowled and said,

 "Grimson? Where've I heard . . . oh, yeah ... I think

 I hauled your old man in one night on a drunk and

 disorderly. But there's something else. Oh, yeah! Didn't I

 read a couple of years ago about you? Something to do with

 some strange visions and you bleeding in your palms and

 forehead. It made quite a to-do, didn't it? Some people

 thought maybe you was a saint, and others thought you was

 touched in the head."

 "That was years ago. I was just a kid then," Jim said

 sourly. "Everything's cleared up since then. Anyway, it

 didn't mean much. The paper exaggerated. Anything to get

 news."

 He had a flash of the doctor who'd examined him after

 the stigmata came. Old Doc Goodbone, belieye that name

 or not. "It's just his overactive imagination coupled with a

 tendency to hysteria," the physician had told his mother.

 "The weird things he saw, the stigmata, they're explain-

 able, and not by the introduction of supernatural elements.

 Not common, these cases, but there have been many such

 reported in medical journals. It's all psychological. The

 mind can do strange things. Even the bleeding, which

 seems purely physical, can be produced by the mind.

 Especially by the minds of children and adolescents and

 hysterical women. Little Jim will probably get over this, be

 quite normal. We'll just have to keep an eye on him. Don't

 worry."

 His mother should have been relieved and probably was.

 But she was also disappointed. She had been convinced that

 the visions and the stigmata were God's signals that he was

 destined to be a saint.

 The cop made them promise that they would not start

 55

  

  

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 fighting again and that they would go home immediately. A

 call came in, and the fuzz left hurriedly. Freehoffer looked

 as if he would like to keep threatening Jim and Sam, but he

 shambled away down the alley. Jim looked for his book

 bag. It was gone.

 "For God's sake, what next?" he cried. "Someone stole

 it! The books . . . I'll have to buy new ones!"

 That was going to make his father even madder. It had

 been hard enough to get the money for the textbooks at the

 beginning of the semester. Eric Grimson would have more

 to raise hell about than just the fight. And Eva Grimson

 would have to take the purchase money out of what she

 brought home from her cleaning job. No. His father would

 insist that his son pay for it. Where would he get the cash?

 Did bad things never end?

 Jim's mother was still working up on Gold Hill when Jim

 arrived home. But his father was waiting for him. He began

 yelling at him to get his clothes into the washer in the

 basement and to take a shower. Right now. The shock of the

 shower might kill him, but Jim and the world would be

 better off then. Jim tried to tell him why he got into the

 fight. Eric Grimson paid no attention to his explanation. He

 stood at the top of the basement stairs while Jim shucked off

 his clothes and put them in the old washer.

 "That'll take extra soap and water and gas heat and run

 up the bills, and they're high enough now, though I can't

 say you generally raise the water bill much," Eric said.

 "Maybe I should look at this as a God-given chance to force

 you to take a shower."

 Jim waited until he had put on clean clothes before he

 decided to tell his father about the stolen books. But, when

 he reluctantly left his room, he found that his father was not

 around. Eric Grimson had gone some place, probably five

 blocks away to Tex's Tavern. He'd be spending the money

 on booze that he could have used to buy the schoolbooks.

 That reminded Jim that he had forgotten to call in to the

 fast-food place where he worked. If he told the manager he

 was sick—which he had done too many times—he would

 probably be fired.

 Well, so what?

 It wouldn't be easy finding another job, that's what.

 But he had promised Sam that he would go Halloweening

 tonight, and he did not want to miss out on the fun.

 If he could get his mother to one side, away from his

 father, he might get pocket change from her. She'd dredge

 it up from some place; she almost always did. However, he

 knew how hard it was for her to do that. Though she would

 not complain, her big sad eyes, her air of suppressed

 reproach, disappointment, and defeat would make him feel

 like a bum, a parasite, a bloodsucker, a failure, and a really

 rotten son.

 Her silence and her quiet manner made him feel far worse

 than his father's ravings and rantings. At least he could

 blow off steam when he argued with his father. But her

 unwillingness to fight frustrated and wore him out. A

 termite must feel that way when it was chewing merrily

 along in wood and then ran slam-bang into iron.

 The house was quiet except for a slight groan or a very

 faint murmur now and then. Those could be the voices of

 small shiftings of earth in the tunnels and shafts below.

 They were warning the heedless humans above of the

 coming big collapses. Or were they, as in the poem "Kubia

 Khan" by Coleridge, "ancestral voices warning of war"? Or

 trolls working away in the abandoned coal mines so they

 could hasten the ruin of Belmont City's houses?

 Man, I'm a case, Jim thought. My brain is like a bullet

 that missed its target. It ricochets all over the place,

 envisions a hundred scenarios where only one could be real.

 57

  

  

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 I'm cut out to be a writer or a poet, not a garage mechanic.

 He sat in a chair in the living room. He faced the fake

 fireplace and the mantel, which held two glass balls with

 Christmas scenes inside (turn the balls upside down and

 then right side up and snow fell on the little houses and

 people therein), statuettes of the Virgin Mary and St.

 Stephan, two incense candles, a can of furniture polish

 spray, an ashtray with a pile of cigarette stubs, and a music

 box on top of which was a circle of white-clad but

 nicotine-stained ballet dancers.

 On the wall above the mantel was a large photograph of

 Ragnar Fjalar Grimsson, Jim's dearly beloved grandfather,

 dead for eight years now. Though Ragnar was smiling, he

 looked as fierce as his namesake, the legendary Viking

 king, Ragnar Hairy Breeches, whom he claimed to be

 descended from. His white and bushy beard fell to below

 his chest. His white eyebrows were as thick and as splendid

 as God's must be (if there was a God), and the blue eyes

 were as penetrating as the edge of a Norse pirate's war ax.

 When the old man had died, his son, Eric, had taken down

 the big painting of Jesus, despite his wife's pale protests,

 and had put up the picture of his father.

 It was, Jim had thought, a satisfactory substitute.

 The old Norwegian was a real man. A far voyager on sea

 and on land, an adventurer, tough, no complainer, a

 go-getter, largely self-educated, a wide reader, afraid of

 nobody and of no thing, a quoter of Shakespeare and Milton

 and of the old Scandinavian sagas, yet one who enjoyed the

 cartoon strips and who had read them to Jim before Jim

 could read, stubborn, convinced that his way was the only

 way but with a sense of humor and wit, and also convinced

 that most of the present generation were degenerates.

 It was a good thing old Ragnar had died. He'd be deeply

 disgusted with his son and even more so with his grandson.

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 As for Ragnar's daughter-in-law, Eva, he'd never liked her,

 though he had always treated her politely. She was scared of

 him, and he scorned people he could scare.

 His grandfather had at first been disturbed by Jim's

 visions and dreams and stigmata. After a while, he had

 decided that these were not necessarily signs that Jim was

 mentally sick. Jim had been touched by the Fates, who gave

 him second sight, a gift the Scotch called "fey." Jim could

 see things invisible to others. Though the old man was an

 atheist, he did believe, or professed to believe, in the

 Noms, the three Fates of pagan Scandinavia. "Even today,

 out in the rural and forest areas, you'll find Norwegians

 who believe in destiny more than they do in their Lutheran

 God."

 His grandfather had taken Jim's small hands in his huge

 and work-gnarled hands. He held them up so that the faint

 whitish marks on Jim's fingernails shone in the light. Jim

 was keenly aware of them and somewhat shy about people

 seeing them. But Ragnar said, "Those are the marks the

 Vikings called Nomaspor. They've been given to you by

 the Noms as a special sign of their favor. You're lucky. If

 the marks'd been dark, you'd be cursed with bad luck all

 your life. But they're white, and that means you're going to

 have good fortune most of your life."

 Destiny. Mister Lum had said more than once in English

 class, " 'Character determines destiny.' That's a quote from

 Heraclitus, ancient Greek philosopher. Remember that, and

 live by that. 'Character determines destiny.'"

 That had deeply impressed Jim. On the other hand his

 grandfather thought that character was given you by des-

 tiny. Whatever the truth, Jim knew that he had been doomed

 to be a loser. Never mind what old Ragnar had said about

 Nomaspor. Jim Grimson was a hopeless case, everything a

 hero was not. As the school psychologist had told him, he

 59

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 had low self-esteem, could get along only with a few of his

 peers, all as messed up as he was, couldn't relate to his

 superiors, hated authority in whatever form it took, had no

 drive to succeed, and was, in short, without brakes and on

 the steep road to hell. Having said that, the psychologist had

 added that Jim did have great potential even if his character

 was chaotic and self-defeating. He could pull himself up by

 his bootstraps. And then the psychologist really piled on the

 crap.

 Jim sighed. For the first time, he became aware of

 something wrong with his surroundings, something maybe

 not so wrong as missing. It took him a minute to realize that

 he was enveloped in silence. No wonder he had been feeling

 uneasy.

 He went to the kitchen and turned the radio on. WYEK

 was into "The Hour of Golden Oldies" and was playing

 "Freak Out," the 1966 album in which Frank Zappa made

 his debut with the Mothers of Invention. Jim had been four

 then, ages ago.

 Before the album was finished, Eric Grimson came

 home. And the gates of hell opened.

 60

 CHAPTER 1 0

 /\T 6:19, AN HOUR after sunset, Jim raised his bedroom

 window and crawled out. Thirty minutes ago, he had eaten

 the supper stealthily given him by his mother.

 Eva Grimson had arrived a few minutes before her

 husband came home and had started cooking supper. She

 had asked Jim to turn the radio down, and he had done it.

 He had said nothing about his troubles that afternoon. Eric

 Grimson had reeled in at half past five, red-faced and

 breathing fumes that would've floored a dragon. The first

 thing he had done was to turn the radio off, yelling that he

 didn't want that damn crap on when he was in the house.

 Then, of course, he had started in on Jim. Eva had been

 confused about it all until her husband told her of the

 telephone call he had gotten from the police about Jim's

 fight with the Freehoffer kid and the pukey mess on his

 clothes.

 One thing led to another—didn't it always?—and very

 61

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 quickly father and son were shouting at each other. His

 mother, facing the stove, her back to them, her shoulders

 slumped, said nothing. Now and then she quivered as if

 something inside her had bitten her. Finally, Eric had

 commanded his son to go to his room. He sure as hell

 wasn't going to get supper, he added.

 Presently, silence settled throughout the house. Jim took

 a tattered and yellow-paged paperback, Mary Shelley's

 Frankenstein, from a shelf and tried to read it. Reread,

 rather. He was in the mood for this story about the monster

 made of dead human parts, the doomed outsider hated by all

 humans and hating all humans, the rejected, the killer of the

 natural-bom and the would-be killer of his maker, a man

 who was in a sense his father.

 But the godawful old-fashioned prose style had always

 tended to throw him off. It certainly did now. He dropped

 the book on the floor and roamed around the narrow room.

 After a while, the TV in the living room began blaring. Eric

 Grimson was sitting there, a beer in his hand, watching the

 boob tube. A few minutes later, Jim heard a knock on the

 door. He opened it and saw his mother holding a tray with

 supper on it.

 "I can't let you go hungry," she whispered. "Here. When

 you're done, put it under the bed. I'll get it ... you

 know."

 He said, "I know. Thanks, Mom," and he leaned over the

 tray as he took it and kissed her sweaty forehead.

 "I wish," she said, "I wish . . ."

 "I know. Mom," he said. "I wish, too. But ..."

 "Things could be . . ."

 "Maybe, someday ..."

 When they did talk to each other, they usually spoke in

 fragments. Jim did not know why. Perhaps it was because

 62

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 the pressures on them broke off their sentences. But he just

 did not know.

 He closed the door and devoured the mashed potatoes and

 gravy, the fried ham, the beans, the celery, and the black

 Hungarian bread. After hiding the tray under the bed, he

 sneaked down the hall and used the bathroom. And, about

 an hour after sunset, he crawled out of the window. If his

 father discovered that he was gone, too bad.

 The air temperature had warmed up to the seventies in the

 late afternoon but had by now plunged into the upper fifties.

 Though the stiff western breeze had softened somewhat, it

 was still strong enough to make the air nippy. Clouds had

 begun to form. The half-moon was draped in thin fleece. It

 was a good night for Halloween.

 He ducked down when he passed the living room

 window. The TV was still blaring. When he got to the

 sidewalk, which was well lit by a streetlamp, he saw that

 the cracks in the cement had widened. He did not know

 when this had occurred, but it seemed to him that they were

 broader and more numerous than when he had entered the

 house. However, he had been too agitated then to pay heed

 to them.

 Here came a group of trick-or-treaters, children costumed

 as witches, demons, Klingons, skeletons, ghosts, Draculas,

 Frankenstein's monsters, robots, Darth Vaders, and a single

 punk—painted face, earrings, and Mohawk, probably his

 parents' idea of a real monster. One kid, however, wore a

 giant naked brain. That seemed right-on to Jim. The true

 horrors of this world were spawned in the human mind.

 Since the group was heading toward his house, Jim

 walked faster. Though his father would not be answering

 the doorbell, his mother might see him when she came out

 to the porch to drop a Hershey's Kiss apiece into the sacks

 held out by the kids. (This neighborhood was slim pick-

 63

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 ings.) She would not say a word to her husband about it

 unless he asked her if she'd seen their son. Then she'd feel

 compelled to tell the truth. Otherwise, the saints, not to

 mention the bogeymen, might get her.

 Sam Wyzak was waiting for him on the front porch of his

 house. He was smoking a cigarette, which meant that his

 mother must be busy in the back of the house and wouldn't

 see him. Sam's father, unlike Eric Grimson, would be

 dropping candy into the kids' sacks. He'd be hitching

 because it interfered with his TV-watching, but he'd do it.

 He didn't give a damn if his son smoked as long as it didn't

 make any trouble for him.

 Sam gave Jim a cigarette, and they walked down the

 street talking about the fight with The Blob and his buddies.

 Then Sam slipped Jim an upper. Jim felt more than just an

 upsurge of spirits and nerves. The drug hit him in the center

 of his brain like an atomic missile striking dead on target.

 He had never been hit so suddenly or with so much force by

 so little. He was abnormally wide open, the walls broken,

 the army in the castle sound asleep.

 He was able a few days later to recall slices of what

 happened in the next six hours. The rest of the nightmare

 pie was gone, eaten up by the black beauties, marijuana

 joints, beer, whiskey, and angel dust his friends had given

 him. Until then, no matter how tempted, he had always

 refused even to try dust. It had sent three of his friends into

 convulsions and then fatal comas. But the deluge of the

 lesser drugs and the booze had washed away his fear.

 Jim and Sam went first to Bob Pellegrino's house. Here

 they waited until Steve Larsen and Gizzy Dillard came, then

 drove away in Bob's 1962 Plymouth, which, for a wonder,

 was running. On the way to Rodfetter's Drive-in, Bob

 opened a fifth of moonshine "white mule." Steve provided

 a six-pack of Budweiser he had gotten his older brother to

 64

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 buy for him. Half of the liquor and all of the beer was

 consumed by the time that, whooping and yelling, they got

 to the drive-in. A joint was half gone by then, and each had

 swallowed a black beauty.

 Rodfetter's was the hanging-out place, the "in" site, for

 the Central crowd whose parents were blue-collar workers.

 Jim and his friends did a lot of horseplay and monkeying

 around there for several hours. They did not, unlike the

 other students there, do much carhopping. Outside of their

 small group, they had no friends or even close acquaintan-

 ces. They were the pariahs, the untouchables, and the

 unbearables, and they claimed to be proud of it.

 Jim did not remember just how long they were there.

 During this somewhat hazy time, he had smoked more

 joints and drunk the warm beer Pellegrino produced from

 the trunk. Then Veronica Pappas, Sandra Melton, and

 Maria Tumbrille had shown up with some LSD. Veronica

 was the lead female singer for the Hot Water Eskimos;

 Maria, her understudy. Sandra was the rock group's man-

 ager. Her nickname was "Bugs," but her close friends used

 it only when she was not present. Sandy took offense when

 she heard it. Unless, that is, she was in one of her

 deep-blue, very deep and blue, depressions, lower than the

 mud at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, farther out than the

 cold and dead planet, Pluto.

 Tonight, she was in a way-out talkative and jumping-up-

 and-down mood.

 Sometime during the evening, while they were sitting on

 the Plymouth's hood or leaning against it, Steve Larsen

 brought out some LSD in sugar cubes.

 "I been hoarding this," he said. "Saving it for the right

 time. Tonight's the night, Halloween. We can go ride

 broomsticks with the witches, ride all the way to the

 moon."

 65

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 Jim later remembered that he had said something about it

 being hallucinogenic, though he had trouble pronouncing it.

 "I mean, it gives you visions, makes you see the

 fourth-dimensional worlds, things that aren't there, scary

 things, all of space and time at once. I don't need that. I get

 visions naturally, and I don't like them. No, thanks."

 "It ain't like heroin and cocaine," Steve said. "It don't

 hook you, ain't habit-forming. Anyway, you ain't had them

 visions for years."

 "Oh, well, why not?" Jim had said. "What've I got to

 lose besides my mind, and I don't have one, anyway."

 "It's a ticket to heaven," Steve said. "I never been there,

 but this shit'll take you to a place even better."

 "All the way around the universe faster'n light, so they

 say," Pellegrino said. "Coming back you meet yourself

 going."

 Jim ate the cube and then inhaled deeply from a brown

 stick. They passed it around until it was a short butt. Steve

 put it in his jacket pocket.

 It must have been after that that someone suggested they

 drive out to old man Dumski's apple orchard and push over

 his outhouse. It was an old Halloween tradition that the

 ramshackle wooden crapper be turned over. Or that an

 attempt be made to do so since not many had succeeded.

 The orchard farm had been in the county. But, as Belmont

 City spread out, it had annexed the area around it.

 Dumski's was at the end of a dirt road that led for half a

 mile from the main highway. It was surrounded by a barbed

 wire fence. The house had burned down years ago. Dumski

 lived alone in the bam. The city had been trying for some

 time to make him build a house, one which would have

 indoor plumbing and a flush toilet. But the old recluse had

 defied the city authorities and taken them to court.

 He had a huge dog, a rottweiler, one of that black-and-

 66

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 tan, huge-headed, sinister-looking, and terrifying breed

 used in the film The Omen. The brute roamed the farm area

 day and night and was only tied up when harvest time came.

 Since Dumski had gotten the dog, nobody had trespassed on

 his land.

 "Anybody got downers?" Jim had said. "Put a bunch in

 a hamburger and feed it to the dog. He falls asleep, then we

 go in."

 Those were the last words of good sense uttered that

 night. Bob Pellegrino purchased a big hamburger, hold the

 onions. He put a dozen downers in the bun, rewrapped it,

 and they were off, eight jammed into the Plymouth like

 circus clowns in a trick car, giggling and screaming while

 WYEK lobbed the barrage of "A Day in the Life" through-

 out the car, its quicksilver shrapnel shells exploding inside

 their young souls. The Beatles had sung that twelve years

 ago, shook the world with it in the primeval rock-dawn

 when Jim had been only five years old. Bob "Guru"

 Hinman, the ancient disc jockey who loved the hoary old

 stuff (so did Jim) would be playing next Chuck Berry's

 "Maybellene," which Guru claimed had started rock 'n roll.

 Veronica sat on Jim's lap in the back seat. He was to

 remember vaguely that she was messing around with his fly

 but not what happened when she opened it. Probably

 nothing. He had not had a hard-on for two weeks, that's

 how depressed he had been. And he was supposed, at

 seventeen, to be at the peak of his sexual drive.

 Dumski's apple farm was on the other side of Gold Hill.

 It took about twenty minutes to get there because of all the

 red lights they hit, though Bob went through some. Then

 they were on the highway. The headlights showed trees on

 both sides. There was no oncoming or passing traffic. Jim

 kept waiting for the hallucinations, but they did not come.

 67

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 Or were they already here? Maybe this mundane Earth was

 the basic hallucination?

 Bob slowed the car down but not quickly enough. They

 had passed the tumoff road to Dumski's. After Bob had

 backed the car up and got it heading down the dirt road,

 Sandy said, "Hadn't we better turn the radio off? It's loud

 enough to wake up the dead!"

 They all protested because Bob Dylan was in the middle

 of "Desolation Row," and they wanted to hear it to its end.

 They compromised by turning the volume down. As soon as

 the classic song was over. Bob turned the set off. A moment

 later, he turned the headlights off. The moonbeams coming

 through gauzy clouds and gaps between them were enough

 to show them their way.

 The car moved slowly out of the tree-lined and shadowy

 roadway and stopped in front of the gate in the barbed wire

 fence.

 68

 CHAPTER 1 1

 JIM DID NOT remember much of what had happened since

 they had been at the drive-in. Many details were long

 afterward given by Bob Pellegrino, who had not boozed and

 drugged it up as much as the others because he was driving.

 But he was not in what could be called a chemically

 unsaturated state.

 The barn loomed dark and sinister in the intermittent

 moonlight. If Dumski was inside, he either had no lights on

 or the shutters fit tightly over the windows. There was

 neither sight nor sound of the rottweiler. The outhouse, said

 to be a three-holer, was an indistinct shape about eighty feet

 from the barn and to the left of the group. It had been

 somewhat distant from the house, the remains of which

 were a tumulus. Old Dumski had to trudge a long way to

 use the outhouse.

 They piled out of the car. Bob had cautioned them to be

 quiet, but Gizzy slammed the door after getting out of the

 69

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 car. Before he could be reprimanded by Bob, Gizzy got

 sick. He went back down the road and into the woods so

 that the sounds of his vomiting would be muffled. Even so,

 they were too loud for Pellegrino, now the mother hen of

 the group. Just after he started to walk after Gizzy to tell

 him to pipe down, he stopped. A deep growl came from the

 darkness on the other side of the fence. That hushed the

 youths.

 After a few seconds of looking around frantically, they

 saw the huge dog behind the gate. That it only growled and

 that it was such a shadowy shape made it more menacing.

 Pellegrino, murmuring, "Here, doggie! Nice doggie!" ap-

 proached it slowly. When he got close to the gate, he threw

 the hamburger over it. It landed with a plop. A few seconds

 later, he turned and whispered, "He bolted it down."

 Sandy Melton had added acid to the hamburger while

 they were on the highway. She had said something about

 wondering what kind of hallucinations a dog would have.

 Jim remembered that later because it had struck him as very

 funny. The dog kept on growling. Then, after a few

 minutes, the growls began to get weak. Presently, it started

 to wander away, staggering. Before it was thirty feet away,

 it collapsed.

 The gate was bound with a heavy chain, the ends of

 which were secured by a big lock. Jim went over the gate,

 the top of which bore strands of barbed wire. He helped

 Pellegrino over, and they assisted Sam Wyzak and Steve

 Larsen over. All of them had bloodied hands but did not feel

 pain.

 Sam said, "Holy Mother! The barn just turned into a

 castle! It's made of glass and diamonds, and it's shimmering

 in the moonlight!"

 Nobody thought to tell him that there was, at that

 moment, no moonlight.

 70

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 Jim was having no visual hallucinations, but he did feel

 as if his legs had stretched out, like the kid in the fairy story

 with the seven-league boots, and that he could reach the

 outhouse in one stride. He was distracted, though, because

 the girls refused to go over the gate. They could feel the

 barbs, and they had seen the rips in the boys' clothes.

 "Besides," Sandy Melton said, "who's going to take care of

 Gizzy? We might have to run like hell. We don't want to

 leave Gizzy behind."

 "You're right," Bob said. "OK. This won't take long; we

 don't need you, anyway. You get Gizzy into the car."

 The three boys walked along the gravel road running

 from the gate to the heap that had been the farmhouse.

 Before they got to it, they angled across toward the

 outhouse. Just as they reached the stench-emitting crapper,

 a break in the clouds flooded moonlight around them. They

 could even see the crescent carved in the door.

 Jim was surprised that Bob, Sam, and Steve also had

 reached the structure with only one stride. They did not look

 as if their legs were elongated. Then Bob said, "Where's

 Sam?"

 Jim turned to indicate Sam, who had been by his side.

 But Sam was no longer there. He was standing at a point

 halfway between the gate and the outhouse and was staring

 fixedly at the barn. Later, Jim would figure that he had just

 thought that Sam had walked all the way with him. Or had

 someone else, someone unknown, been at his side?

 "OK," Bob said. "We don't need him. But don't forget to

 bring him along when we go back."

 They went to the north side of the outhouse, and all three

 began pushing on it. The structure rocked back and forth but

 would not tip over.

 "Man, it's heavier than my mother's doughnuts!" Bob

 said. "Listen up. We gotta get it oscillating, get it into the

 77

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 right frequency, then, when I give the word, all shove

 together hard as hell!"

 They began rocking it again. Just as they finally heaved

 and the wooden shack toppled over, they heard a yell. They

 started to whirl to see who was making the noise. Then a

 shotgun boomed, and they heard pellets cutting through the

 leaves of a nearby tree. Steve, yelling, ran away. Pellegrino

 grabbed Jim when he fell backward. They screamed as,

 locked together, they hurtled into the hole and bounced off

 the slimy dirt wall and into the godawful excrement. They

 hit feet first and were quickly up to their necks in the

 loathsome stuff.

 The shotgun boomed again. Faintly, Jim could hear the

 shrieks of the girls. Steve Larsen was no longer yelling. Jim

 and Bob screamed for help. For a second afterward, there

 was silence. Then he heard a growling. The next he knew,

 the dog was in the hole. It came down like a vengeance

 from the gods, landed right in front of Jim and Bob,

 splashed their heads and open mouths, came up like a cork,

 and began struggling.

 Jim's toes touched the bottom or what he hoped was the

 bottom. Bob, who was taller, had his whole head sticking

 out from the muck. Jim was up to his chin. But the crazed

 dog knocked him back, and he went under again.

 Later, Jim knew that the rottweiler had recovered some-

 what from the drugs and run, or maybe walked, since it was

 still weak and dazed, to the hole. Not very alert yet, it had

 fallen, or maybe jumped, into the hole.

 Now, he and Bob had to keep from being bitten by the

 dog—those powerful jaws had a 600-pound pressure—or

 being scratched by its flailing forefeet or being thrust under

 by its weight. They could see only very dimly because the

 moonlight did not reach to the bottom and their eyes were

 covered by the slime. Then Bob got sick and was vomiting,

 72

 and that caused Jim to throw up also. The puke didn't make

 things any worse—nothing could—but it certainly did not

 help their situation. Moreover, it was very difficult to avoid

 the jdog while heaving their guts out.

 Finally, though weak from his efforts, Jim reached out

 and grabbed the dog by its ears. Frenzied, he shoved its

 head under the surface.

 At that moment, a flashlight shone from above, and a

 cracked old voice yelled at him.

 "Leave the dog alone, or I'll shoot you! Don't touch him,

 you ... !"

 Jim did not understand the following words. Dumski had

 switched to Polish.

 "Don't shoot, for God's sake!" Jim cried. He released the

 dog. It emerged, sputtering and growling, but it no longer

 tried to attack him. It had occurred to the dog that it had

 better save its strength to keep from drowning. Or to keep

 from choking to death. It dog-paddled furiously just to stay

 above the surface.

 "Yeah, you damn fool!" Bob yelled. "You'll kill the dog,

 too!"

 Pellegrino was not worried about the rottweiler, but he

 had wits enough to know that Dumski was in a terrible rage,

 out of his mind, if he did not think about what a shotgun

 blast in that narrow shaft would do to its occupants.

 "Oh!" Dumski said. "Don't go away! I'll be gone for a

 minute."

 "Sure. We'll just leave," Bob said. He groaned. "Oh,

 God, what a mess!"

 It seemed like a long time before Dumski returned,

 though it must have been only two minutes. Puffing and

 panting, the old man kneeled at the edge of the hole. Then

 something struck Jim, not hard, across his face. He did not

 73

  

  

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER RED ORC'S RAGE

 know what it was until Dumski shone the flashlight down

 on the rope he had dropped.

 From far away but still loud enough to be heard over the

 screams of the girls came the wail of a siren. The cops were

 coming.

 "Tie the rope around the dog!" Dumski said.

 "How about us?" Bob shrieked.

 "The dog comes up first!"

 "Are you out of your mind?" Jim screamed. "How are

 we going to do that? It'll bite our hands off!"

 "Get us out of here!" Pellegrino shouted. "I can't

 breathe! This stuff's choking me to death! I tell you, I'll die

 if I don't get out of here soon!"

 "Serves you assholes right," Dumski said. "Tie the rope

 around the dog, then maybe I'll think about getting you

 out."

 "We're gonna die!" Bob bellowed, then choked as a

 wave of excrement caused by the animal's struggles slapped

 him in the mouth.

 "Get the rope around the dog!" Dumski shrieked. "Quick

 about it, or I'll leave you to die!"

 That just could not be done without getting bitten. But the

 siren, which had been getting nearer, died. A door

 slammed. A man yelled something. Dumski muttered

 something and then was gone. Jim thought about shoving

 the dog under again. If it was dead, it would be easy to tie

 the rope around it. But Dumski would shoot them if the dog

 died.

 Another stretch of seeming-forever passed. Then Jim

 heard voices approaching. Dumski had unlocked the gate

 and let the cops through it. Jim had never been glad to see

 the police before this; now, he was very happy. Never mind

 what was going to happen to him after he got out of the

 hole.

 74

 A flashlight held by a cop illuminated the hole. The cop

 laughed loudly for a while, then said, "For God's sake,

 Pete, look at this! You ever see such a sight!"

 Pete looked down and laughed. "Man, you boys're in

 deep shit, and that's a fact!"

 They went away with Dumski. After another long time,

 they came back with a ladder. They let it down and told Jim

 and Bob to climb up it. But the dog was between them and

 the ladder, and it would not allow them to get on it.

 Meanwhile, Dumski complained that the dog had to be

 gotten out, and, if the boys came out first, who'd tie the

 rope around it?

 "We're not getting down there," a cop said. "You can go

 down and tie him up. But the kids gotta be got out first."

 Dumski argued without success. The ladder was moved

 to the other side of the hole. Jim went up first. He was so

 weak and his hands were so slippery on the rungs that he

 had a hard time getting up. He had to drag himself out of the

 hole and onto the ground. The cops would not help him.

 Bob came up then and lay down, breathing hard, by his

 side. Old man Dumski, grumbling, went down the ladder

 after it had been moved back to the wall near the dog. Then

 the cops hauled up the rottweiler. When it tried to bite one

 of them before it was halfway out of the hole, it was

 dropped back into the mess. Dumski screamed at them that

 the splash had gotten him even filthier. Finally, the dog was

 hauled up again, the cops hitching about how disgustingly

 slimy the rope was. Dumski came up at the same time and

 pulled the dog off to the barn, where he hosed it off. The

 dog howled as the cold water struck it.

 "You two better go over there and get hosed off, too," the

 cop called Pete said. "No way are you going to get into the

 squad car stinking like you do now."

 Jim by now really did not care about anybody except

 75

  

  

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 himself. Sam was still in a trance, enthralled by the barn,

 the glittering Emerald City of Oz in his mind. The squad car

 had driven through the gate to a place near the barn. Its

 headlights shone on the huddled-together and forlorn-

 looking girls. Evidently Steve had escaped, and Gizzy had

 stayed in the woods.

 Pete went to the squad car and called for backup. His

 partner. Bill, started Bob and Jim toward the barn so that

 they could be hosed off. Before they got there, the dog

 attacked its owner. The events of the night, plus its

 drug-dazed condition and its resentment of the cold water,

 had confused it. Or perhaps it knew that it was attacking

 Dumski. It may never have liked the old man.

 The dog knocked Dumski over and fastened its teeth into

 his left arm. Dumski screamed as the jaws clamped down

 and its teeth struck bone and blood soaked through the

 sleeve of his jacket. The cops could not get the dog to let

 loose. They shot it dead. That made Dumski furious. He

 attacked the cops, who had to handcuff him before arresting

 him. Then Pete called for an ambulance.

 Afterward, Bill hosed off Jim and Bob. They yelled with

 the shock and danced around, begging for mercy. None was

 given. Then Pete went inside the bam and got some towels

 for the boys so they could try to dry themselves off.

 "We'll get pneumonia!" Pellegrino cried.

 "You're lucky if that's all you get," Pete said.

 76

 CHAPTER 1 2

 "A

 /\ HELL OF a mess you got us into," Eric Grimson said.

 His mother murmured, "Jim, how could you?"

 He restrained his desire to say, "It was easy."

 He was wrapped in a blanket and on the back seat of their

 1968 Chevy. He had not stopped shivering since the cop had

 doused him with cold water. His father, out of pure

 meanness, had refused to turn the car heater on. Though Jim

 had sloshed water around in his mouth in the courthouse and

 had spit it out a dozen times, his mouth tasted of human

 excrement. Well, why not? He'd eaten shit all his life.

 "It's a lucky thing for you that Sam's uncle is the night

 judge," Eric growled. "Otherwise, you'd be in jail."

 "Juvenile hall," Jim said.

 "What the hell's the difference?" Eric said loudly,

 gripping the steering wheel as if he wanted to tear it off the

 column. "It's just a station on the way to prison, anyway!

 I've known since you was twelve years old you was

 hell-bound for prison!"

 77

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 "Please, Eric," Eva Crimson said softly. "Don't say

 that."

 The car traveled through deserted streets and by dark

 houses. Halloween had long been over, and everybody had

 gone to bed even though, in this area, very few had work to

 go to in the morning. The time from when the cops had

 appeared at Dumski's to his release in his parents' custody

 had been long. After being frisked, he and his friends had

 had to walk a line to test their sobriety. Afterward, they

 were tested with a breath analyzer. All flunked. Two more

 tests which I couldn't pass, Jim had thought. Their rights

 were read, and they were handcuffed, jammed into two

 squad cars, and driven downtown. They had been in a

 holding cell for an hour before being marched to a room

 where blood and urine samples were taken. Jim's brain was

 fogbound but not so much that he did not realize that traces

 of the drugs would still be in his bloodstream.

 An hour later, they were again taken to a holding room,

 and a half hour after that, they were in night court. The

 culprits' parents were also there, except for Sandy Melton's

 father, who was out of town. Jim's mother was weeping;

 tears dripped on her rosary beads as she told them. Eric

 looked hung over and very furious.

 Sam's uncle was an old shriveled-up bald man with a

 long face and a big beaked nose with many broken veins.

 Those features and his long skinny neck, his whiskey-shot

 red eyes, his bald head, the black gown, and his bunched-

 over shoulders made him look like a vulture. However, Jim

 thought, the judge must have felt more like a canary who

 sees a cat. His nephew Sam was facing some serious

 charges: trespassing, destruction of private property, drunk

 and disorderly, under the influence of drugs, and breaking

 the curfew law. He was possibly involved in injury causing

 loss of a limb and, if Dumski died, aiding and abetting

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 RED ORC'S RAGE

 manslaughter. He could be charged with contributing to the

 dog's death. Dumski was in the hospital, and he might lose

 his arm.

 These were not issues to take lightly. Judge Wyzak

 couldn't let his nephew and the other long-haired freaks off

 easy. But if he dealt with them as they really deserved, his

 sister-in-law, Mrs. Wyzak, would wring his neck. Not

 figuratively but literally.

 The alleged culprits were minors, and that gave the judge

 a way out for the time being. He lectured them severely and

 then released them into the custody of their parents.

 At least, Jim thought, possession of drugs and alcohol

 was not one of the charges. The girls had gotten rid of the

 bottles and capsules as soon as they heard the siren in the far

 distance. Sandy Melton had frisked Sam Wyzak, removed

 his pills, and tossed them into the woods. Jim had never had

 any drugs in his pockets, and Bob Pellegrino had dropped

 his while he was still in the outhouse hole.

 After the judge dismissed them, Sam's mother had

 grabbed him by his ear and pulled him along behind her

 while he whined and windmilled one arm. Jim thought that

 she must think she was Aunt Polly and Sam was Tom

 Sawyer, for God's sake!

 The car pulled up into the oil-stained gravel driveway by

 the house. "Home, sweet home," Eric Grimson said. "Ain't

 it something? An out-of-work crane operator, a Holy Roller

 Catholic cleaning houses for rich people, and a hippie loser

 who's stupid and crazy. I could stand the stupid if he wasn't

 crazy, and I could stand the crazy if he wasn't stupid. Now

 he's gonna be a jailbird. His bimbo sister's got two bastard

 kids whose father she can't name, and she's living in sin

 with a man old enough to be her father, a nut who makes a

 living reading palms and tea leaves and doing astrology

 charts! We're living in a shack that's gonna drop all the way

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 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 to China one of these days, not that I give a damn! Where

 did I go wrong. God?"

 "God doesn't care for us pissants," Jim said as he got out

 of the car. He slammed the door hard.

 His mother said, "Jim! Don't blaspheme. Things are bad

 enough."

 "He's got a big foul stupid mouth, your son has!" Eric

 yelled. "Why in hell couldn't he have been one of your

 miscarriages?"

 "Please, Eric," Eva said softly, "you'll wake up the

 neighbors."

 Eric howled like a wolf. Then he said, "Wake 'em up?

 Who cares? They're gonna read about your son in the

 papers anyway, know all about us, as if they didn't already

 know! Who cares?"

 Jim opened the side door. His father began chewing out

 Eva because she was supposed to have made sure that all the

 windows and doors were shut and locked. Jim turned in the

 doorway and said, "What's the difference? What do we

 have that's worth stealing?"

 He went into the house, but his father stormed in after

 him and grabbed him by the shoulder. Jim lunged ahead and

 ran up the stairway to the hallway, leaving the blanket in his

 father's hand.

 Eric shouted after him, "I might have something worth

 stealing if it wasn't for you and your mother!"

 Jim ran into the bathroom, closed the door, and locked it.

 He brushed his teeth with the salt and baking powder from

 the rusty cabinet above the bowl. Then he cleaned his

 fingernails and shucked off his clothes, which were still

 wet. While his father stood in the hall by the door and

 yelled, now and then thumping his fist on the door, Jim

 showered. It took a long time for him to feel clean.

 He did not turn off the water until it suddenly became

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 RED ORC'S RAGE

 cold. That would anger his father even more. He was

 always stressing the need to conserve on water and gas. At

 the same time, of course, he was always yelling at Jim to

 take a bath.

 Despite the cooling-off effects of the shower, Jim still felt

 hot inside himself. If his anger could be seen, he'd be

 glowing in the dark. Everything had gone wrong today, like

 it did most days. Gone wrong? That was an understatement.

 It had been one humiliation after another. Shame after

 shame, failure after failure.

 He stood in the fog-filled and warm room for a minute or

 so. As soon as he left it, he'd have his father on his neck.

 And, sure as cause and effect, he'd hit his father whether or

 not his father struck him first. The red cloud building up in

 him made that certain.

 Reluctantly, he unlocked and opened the door. Eric

 Grimson was not there. Voices came from the kitchen along

 with the odor of coffee. His father's tones were subdued,

 and his mother's were barely audible. Maybe the old man

 had quieted down, though that did not seem likely. The

 furnace came on, its fans drowning out the kitchen noises.

 The heat struck Jim's legs. He was grateful for that since he

 had started shivering again as soon as he had left the muggy

 bathroom.

 Naked, his damp clothes draped over his arm, he walked

 quickly to his room. He closed the door behind him,

 dropped the clothes on the floor, and went to the closet. Just

 as he reached into it to take his pajamas from a hook, he was

 startled by a loud bang. Whirling, he saw his father

 charging through the doorway. Eric's face was red, and his

 hands were clenched. Whatever had gone on in the kitchen,

 it had not pacified him.

 "Get your clothes on!" he howled. "Don't you have no

 decency!"

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 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 The unfaimess of the insult—after all, his father had

 burst in without asking permission—squeezed the anger in

 Jim down to a tiny hot ball. A little more heat, a little more

 pressure, and it would go up, out, and away. But it would

 take Eric Grimson with it.

 "From now on, things're gonna be different!" his father

 yelled. "You'll either shape up or ship out, that's for sure!

 First thing . . . !"

 He looked wildly around, then reached into his back

 pocket and brought out a jackknife. He opened the blade

 and began slashing at the posters of the rock groups and

 stars. Before Jim could yell in protest, he saw the Hot Water

 Eskimos being cut into strips. Then Eric attacked the poster

 of Keith Moon.

 "All this shit's gotta go!" Eric screamed.

 The red-hot ball exploded in white flame.

 Shrieking, Jim jumped at his father, clamped a hand on

 his left shoulder, spun him around, and struck him in the

 nose. Eric Grimson staggered back against the poster, blood

 running from his nostrils. Jim hit him in the shoulder with

 his fist though he had meant to strike his chin. Eric dropped

 the knife and closed with his son. Face to face, wrapped in

 each other's arms, grunting, wheezing, they swayed back

 and forth.

 "I'll kill you!" Eric screeched.

 Jim screamed and tore himself loose. He leaped back. He

 was panting, his heart beating so hard that it seemed to him

 that it would tear itself apart. Then, piercing the drumming

 of blood in his ears, came the clicking of a lock. So loud

 was the sound, the lock had to be huge. The key turning in

 it also had to be gigantic. A groaning followed the clicking.

 It sounded like a very heavy door with rusty hinges being

 opened.

 The floor dropped, the walls tilted, and books tumbled

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 RED ORC'S RAGE

 out from the shelves. Jim and his father fell on the floor.

 They got up quickly, looking at each other with wide eyes.

 Plaster dust fell on them along with chunks. Jim saw them

 bounce off his father. The white dust covered Eric's head

 and shoulders and powdered the two streams of blood

 trickling down from his nose.

 Eva Grimson screamed in the kitchen.

 "Oh, my god!" Eric howled. "This is it!"

 The house lurched again.

 "Get out! Get out!" Eric shouted. He whirled and ran out

 of the room. He had to lean to one side to compensate for

 the slope of the floor. Even so, his shoulder struck the side

 of the doorway.

 Jim began to laugh, and he kept on laughing. The house

 was going to fall deep into the earth. Maybe his parents

 would get out in time, maybe not. Whatever happened, it

 would come from fate, from the Noms. Justice and fairness

 had nothing to do with it. And he would stay here and go

 down with the ship. Let the earth gulp him down. It was

 better so, and it was also laughable.

 Jim did not remember anything after that. He was told

 that his parents did get out of the house and scrambled

 across the front porch, which had been torn away from the

 main structure, and across the gapful yard and onto the

 sidewalk. But they then had to go across the street because

 the cement they were standing on was shoved even more

 upwards and made larger fissures. The house lurched and

 sank another foot. The neighbors on both sides of the

 Crimsons' house ran screaming from their leaning houses.

 The whole neighborhood came alive, lights going on,

 people coming out on the front porches and crying out

 questions, children being bundled up and put in cars for a

 quick getaway.

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 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 Sirens wailed in the distance as the police cars and the

 fire engines raced toward Complanter Street.

 Eva Grimson began crying out that someone should go

 into the house and rescue her son. No one volunteered. Eric

 insisted, over and over, that Jim was just delayed because

 he was putting on his clothes. Eva said that Jim must be

 hurt, and he was probably trapped.

 Just as the squad cars and fire engines and ambulances

 pulled up, Eva ran toward the house. Eric and two neigh-

 bors grabbed her and held her while she screamed and

 struck at them and begged them to let her go.

 "You're a coward!" she said to Eric. "If you were a real

 man, you'd go after Jim!"

 The lights had gone out in the house; the power lines had

 been torn from the house. Suddenly, two small lights

 appeared in the doorway. They were candles, one in each of

 Jim's hands, and they shed illumination on his wild face and

 naked body. He could not be seen below the knees,

 however. The house leaned so much that he had to stand on

 a floor which dropped steeply away from the bottom of the

 twisted doorway.

 Jim shouted something unintelligible to the people across

 the street. He jumped up and down, waving the candles,

 which he had picked up from the floor in the room his

 mother used as a shrine.

 Seeing these, Eva began struggling even harder. She

 shrieked, "The candles! The candles! They'll set the house

 on fire! He'll bum, bum, oh, my God, he'll bum to death!"

 The cops and the firelighters had by then cleared away

 most of the crowd so that the engines could be moved closer

 to the house. A fire department lieutenant and a police

 captain questioned the Grimsons but got only hysterical and

 confused answers. They could, however, see Jim in the

 doorway.

 "Nuts, completely off his rocker," the captain said.

 Shortly after this, another light shone in the house.

 "Fire! Fire! For God's sake, save him!" Eva cried.

 That must have deepened her agony. The candles she had

 lit for the Holy Family and the saints were going to cause

 Jim's death and put him for eternity in the greater flames.

 The firefighters had discovered by then that the pipe to

 the nearest fire hydrant had been broken by the shifting of

 the earth. They brought the water truck up close and

 attached their hoses to it. Meanwhile, the captain and the

 lieutenant had ventured as close as they dared. Using his

 bullhorn, the policeman was urging Jim to get out of the

 house.

 The earth shrugged beneath the crowd. The beams in the

 house snapped with loud reports. The house slid down and

 tilted even more. Jim disappeared from the doorway,

 dropped down and backward. The spectators ran away.

 "Son of a bitch!" the lieutenant said. "Someone's got to

 go in after the kid!" He looked around for likely volunteers.

 The flames were getting big on the side of the house

 nearest the driveway. Smoke poured out and was caught by

 the wind. The house next to it was going to catch fire soon

 unless the hoses could stop it. And, since the gas lines to the

 house must be broken, the fire could cause a hell of an

 explosion.

 The lieutenant could not see Jim Grimson, but it was

 evident that he was throwing objects through the doorway.

 The spotlights from the trucks showed him, a few seconds

 later, that these were statuettes of the saints and the Holy

 Family. Most of them were broken.

 "The kid's crazy as a loon!" the captain said.

 It was then that the name of Jim Grimson sparked the

 captain's recall. Pete and Bill had told him about the

 stoned-out and drunked-up youths who'd pushed over old

  

  

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 man Dumski's outhouse and about two of them falling into

 the crap. Until now, the captain had failed to connect the

 hilarious incident with the people who owned this house.

 "The kid's hopped up," he told the lieutenant. "I heard

 all about him earlier tonight. Maybe we should forget about

 him. He'll be better off if he doesn't make it."

 The lieutenant looked reproachfully at the captain. He did

 not say anything, but he got what he was thinking across to

 the captain. No matter how worthless or vicious the subject

 was, he, she, or it had to be saved.

 "Just kidding," the captain said. "But I'd sure hate to

 lose good men."

 The lieutenant ordered that ropes and a ladder be brought

 out. He asked for volunteers and got four, from whom he

 picked two. One was a black fireman, George Dillard,

 Gizzy's father. He had long ago given up his hopes that his

 son would be a lawyer, and he knew Jim Grimson only too

 well. But he was brave. Moreover, if he rescued the kid, he

 would gain another handhold on the rung of the ladder to

 higher rank and pay. God knows he needed it, and if he had

 to put his ass in a sling to get it, he would. Black firepersons

 were not promoted very often despite affirmative action and

 equal opportunity quotas and all that. Not in Belmont City,

 anyway.

 The man who accompanied him was a wild man of Irish

 descent who was eager to be in on the rescue attempt. The

 more dangerous it was, the better he liked it.

 Ropes tied around their waists, the loose ends held by

 other men and two women, Dillard and Boyd moved across

 the broken yard. Their smoke masks made them look like

 two enormous insectine St. Francises on an errand of

 mercy. They could see that the insane youth inside the

 house was still throwing objects out through the front

 doorway—a coffee pot, coffee cups and drinking glasses, a

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 RED ORC'S RAGE

 skillet, table cutlery, a portable radio, albums of records,

 clothes, and photos.

 By now, the flames were leaping from the side of the

 house, though not from that part which was below ground.

 The hoses had been turned on it but, so far, without avail.

 Before the two firemen got to the doorway, the barrage of

 stuff cast out of the house ceased. They could faintly hear

 the howling of Jim Grimson above the crackling of the fire,

 the sound of the water striking the house, and the cries of

 the spectators.

 They halted when the ground moved again and the house

 dropped a few inches. Smoke suddenly billowed out of the

 front doorway and the windows, the glass of which had

 been shattered and fallen away. Dillard and Boyd did not

 have much time.

 Jim was curled in the living room, holding the painting of

 his grandfather between his arms and his drawn-up knees.

 He was wedged in a comer formed by a wall, which was

 part floor now, and by the floor, which was part wall. His

 eyes were closed, but his mouth spat gibberish between fits

 of coughing. Smoke covered the white plaster dust on his

 body and face. A few more minutes of inhaling the smoke

 would have killed him unless the rapidly spreading fire had

 gotten to him first. As it was, he and his rescuers got out of

 the house only thirty seconds before the house fell inwards.

 Reduced in size suddenly, it disappeared entirely from

 sight. Flames and smoke leaped up from the hole. More

 than one spectator thought that it looked as if a gate to Hell

 had been opened.

 Jim was rushed to Wellington Hospital. He did not

 recover consciousness for two days, though whether the

 smoke or his psychotic state, as the doctors called it, was

 responsible would never be known.

 When Jim woke up, he remembered only one thing from

 87

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 the moment the house clicked and groaned. It was a vision,

 the first in many years. He had seen a tall and naked youth

 chained to a tree. He resembled nobody Jim had ever seen

 before. Just within the borders of this vision was a hand

 holding a huge silvery sickle. It did not move, but it was

 obviously threatening. It was destined to sweep up and then

 down, and Jim had no doubts about what it was going to cut

 off.

 The sickle also looked to him like a giant question mark.

 88

 r

 CHAPTER 1 3

 November 9, 1979

 JIM'S WARDROOM WALL now bore a large five-pointed star.

 Each arm was composed of five illustrated paperback

 covers taped to the wall. The topmost arm contained covers

 from Farmer's first book in the World of Tiers series. The

 Maker of Universes. The second. The Gates of Creation,

 formed the horizontal arm on the left. Going counterclock-

 wise, the next arm held covers from the third novel, A Private

 Cosmos. The next. Behind the Walls of Terra covers. The fifth

 arm of the star was formed by The Lavalite World.

 This was to be Jim's third serious attempt to get into a

 Tiersian universe. The five-pointed star was his gateway.

 Most patients called their gateway a mantra. The others, a

 sigil. Tragil was Jim's name for his entrance device. By

 combining both symbols in a portmanteau word, he made it

 twice as powerful as an ordinary gateway.

 89

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 It was half past eight in the evening. His room lights were

 out, but the insurance company building across the street

 provided a twilight strong enough for him to see the tragil.

 The door to his room was closed. Though it had no lock, it

 displayed on its hallway side a taped notice that he was

 "gating." He could hear, very faintly. Brooks Epstein

 chanting in Hebrew in the next room.

 Jim sat in the chair that he had pulled up next to the bed.

 Staring at the vacant space in the center of the star, he also

 began chanting.

 "ATA MATUMA M'MATA!"

 Over and over, the words coming faster and faster and

 getting louder and louder, he launched the ancient vocal

 mantra at the center of the star, the round white blankness.

 "ATA MATUMA M'MATA!"

 Just as a laser structured wild-running photons into a

 channeled beam, so the chant arranged force lines as a

 blaster to open a hole in the wall between two universes.

 It also was a carriage to transport the chanter through a

 universe.

 He had not found it easy to do. The first time, he had felt

 himself borne by a soundless but very strong wind toward

 and then through the hole. He was in a blackness which felt

 very cold and, at the same time, very hot. These and the

 sense of being lost and out of control had frightened him

 even more than his childhood visions. He had lost his

 courage and striven to swim back against the wind. For a

 few seconds, he had feared that he would not make it.

 Then something had snapped like a rubber band stretched

 too far, and he had awakened sitting in the chair. He was

 shivering and moaning and sweating. The clock told him

 that he had been gone for two seconds. Yet, he had had a

 sense of many hours having passed.

 That was the end of his first expedition.

 90

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 He had told about this during the group therapy the next

 day. No one had scoffed at his experience or accused him of

 cowardice. Anyone who did this would be sat upon at once

 by the staff member supervising the group. It was strictly

 against policy for anyone to voice disbelief in the narratives

 of others. That could invalidate the belief of the traveler in

 his or her journey and, thus, slow down or even end

 progress in therapy. Besides, all had gone through obstacles

 which were different in form but similar in emotional

 content.

 The second time, he had conquered enough of his panic

 and fright to persist. Up to a point, that is. The blackness

 and the cold and heat had suddenly vanished. The wind

 became much weaker. He was surrounded by walls—lines

 of force?—that came up at many angles from some abyss

 and down from a vast space. They glowed whitely and

 intersected each other, then continued their extensions

 through other walls. They formed a jigsaw puzzle in four,

 maybe more, dimensions. But he could not grasp their

 extra-dimensionalness, their essences. Across, along, and

 up were dimensions that his brain knew. These other

 extensions, however, were beyond his comprehension. Yet

 he knew that they were there.

 That was so weird that he almost surrendered to his fears

 and went back "home" before he lost his way forever.

 Abruptly, the walls fell away. They did not collapse as

 walls on Earth would. They just disappeared in some

 fashion he could not fathom. Their afterimages glowed

 briefly, then were gone.

 He was in one of the worlds of the Lords. He did not

 know how he knew this. But he did. Though he was still

 frightened, he was too curious to allow himself to be sucked

 up by the winds of return.

 Though he could see, he was not in a body with flesh and

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 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 organs. Perhaps he was an astral soul. It did not matter.

 That he was out of Earth's universe and in a Lord's was

 enough for him.

 He seemed to be high above a planet which had the same

 shape and size as Earth. The sun was green, however.

 Later, he would find that the color of the sky varied

 according to the day of the week. A week here was nine

 days long. And the Lord who had made this world had

 arranged for the sky color to change every day.

 He descended swiftly while hoping that he was going

 toward his goal. He had selected Red Ore as the one in

 whom he would be incorporated. But if he could pick the

 person and the place for his otherworid rendezvous, he

 could also pick the time. It seemed logical.

 He had concentrated, while chanting, on a time many

 thousands of years in the past, hoping to zero in on Red Ore

 when he was still a child of seven. The events in the Tiers

 series would not take place until much much later. He was

 the only one in the therapy group who had chosen not to

 travel into the present.

 Porsena had asked him why he had done this. Jim had

 said that he did not know why. It just seemed the right thing

 to do. The doctor had not continued questioning him about

 it, but he undoubtedly would note this development for

 future investigation.

 Like Earth seen from the top of the atmosphere, the

 continents and seas of this planet were nowhere near as

 clearly distinguishable as on a map. Great cloud masses

 roamed it, but he could see the roughly cross-shaped

 continent toward which he was drawn as if he were

 connected to invisible and spiderweb-thin cables. Down he

 went, and the land spread out below him as if it, not he,

 were moving.

 Then he was above a gigantic ring of mountains in the

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 RED ORC'S RAGE

 center of which was a plain, in the center of which was a

 single enormous mountain. The top of this was a relatively

 flat plain with rivers and creeks and many forests. Here and

 there were clusters of round, cone-roofed houses. He was

 too high to see any people or animals.

 In the center of the plain was a structure so huge and

 strange that his already almost-overpowering awe became

 greater. Nine vast pylons two miles high curved inwards

 like elephants' tusks. Inside the pylons were three floors,

 the bottom one of which was a half-mile above the ground.

 It was transparent, thus allowing the few tenants there to see

 below the villages and farms of the non-Lords. These were

 along a river at least two miles broad which ran from a lake

 formed by cataracts from the mouths of vast crystalline

 statues placed along the edges of the bottom floor. Mists

 swirled up from the cataracts but did not reach the floor.

 The second floor, also transparent, had less area than the

 first, though it covered at least seven square miles. Like the

 bottom level, it contained small dwellings and some large

 buildings and walled-in areas of earth on which grew trees

 and other plants. Some were fields bearing plants or

 enclosing pastures on which animals grazed.

 The third floor was only two miles square. On it were

 houses and some gigantic structures the function of which

 Jim did not know. Many of these resembled somewhat the

 ancient temples of Kamak in Egypt as they looked when

 first built. Yet, though they reminded Jim of the Egyptian

 structures, they differed in many respects. The hundreds of

 statues at their entrances and sides were not Egyptian or like

 anything on Earth of which he knew.

 At the apex, held within the curve of the inward-curving

 pylons, was a green emerald. This seemed larger than any

 cathedral on Earth. It had been carved to make doors and

 windows and was hollow. Or perhaps it had been made in a

 93

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 mold which provided the openings and the empty space. He

 would learn that it was tiny compared to the diamond on one

 of the planets of one of Urizen's worlds. That Brobding-

 nagian gem was a dam for a river that made the Mississippi

 seem a trickle in a child's mud pie.

 Down he went. Though the emerald reflected the rays of

 the sun from its huge facets in a glory of many-beamed

 light, Jim was not blinded. He could see, but he had no eyes

 to be dazzled. The jewel shot out as if it were exploding,

 and he was dwarfed by a facet directly ahead of him and

 then was through it and inside the temple. That, he now

 realized, was what the gem was—a temple.

 The vast interior was shadowy except for the very center

 of the floor. A ray of bright light coming from an unseen

 source illuminated the floor in the middle. Outside its area

 were very large and somehow ominous statues. They

 crowded the floor and were set in a rising series of niches on

 the curving walls. As they neared the apex of the temple,

 they became vague figures. Some could not be seen at all

 from the floor, but he felt their presence.

 It was a very scary place for Jim. How it affected the

 seven-year-old boy standing in its center, Jim could not

 know. The child. Ore, might have been there several times,

 but he would perhaps find it frightening. Awing, at least.

 Jim called the boy Ore because he knew, without know-

 ing how he knew, that the boy was not yet called Red Ore.

 The boy and two adults were the only human beings in

 the temple. Some other being was there, yet it was hidden.

 It filled the entire chamber with a brooding menace.

 The man was tall, handsome, blond-haired, and blue-

 eyed. His name was Los, and he was Ore's father. The

 woman was as tall as he, statuesque, aubum-haired, and

 green-eyed. She was Ore's mother, Enitharmon. Both wore

 ankle-length gauzy robes which concealed little. His robe

 94

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 had a purple hem band; hers, a blue. He held a censer in his

 right hand and swung it back and forth slowly while he

 chanted in a language Jim could not understand. (Though

 Jim had no ears, he could hear.) From the censer came an

 orange smoke with an odor that was a mixture of bitter

 almonds and sweet apples.

 Enitharmon held a wand at the end of which was a circlet

 containing a large and scarlet uncut gem. She waved it in a

 ritualistic manner.

 The boy stood rigid, his green eyes rolled up to look at

 the ceiling, his arms held close to his sides, one hand a fist,

 the other open. Now and then, Los stopped his chanting to

 ask the boy a question. Once, when Ore could not respond

 properly, the father struck him across his face with the back

 of his hand. A red mark appeared on Ore's cheek, and tears

 came.

 Jim had expected, for some reason, that Ore would look

 like him. He did not. His body was stockier, and his arms

 seemed longer. His nose was snub, his lips fuller than Jim's,

 his chin less pronounced, and his hair was black. Moreover,

 the eyes were wider and gave him a look of innocence.

 He wore no clothing except a blue headband printed with

 symbols unfamiliar to Jim. One looked like a trumpet of some

 sort. Did that represent the Horn of Shambarimem, which Jim

 had read about in the series and which was supposed to open

 all gates among the worlds when it was blown?

 Now, the father and the mother slowly began to circle the

 child counterclockwise. Los continued to swing the censer,

 and he questioned his son only when he was in front of him.

 Jim could see the boy tighten up when this happened.

 Twice, he responded successfully. The third time, he

 stammered. Again, the father struck his son on the face.

 The woman frowned and opened her mouth as if to say

 something to her husband. But she closed her lips. Los

 95

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 shouted something. Perhaps the anger was required by the

 ceremony, but it seemed to be far more personal than ritual-

 istic.

 Ore quivered. His face and body shone with sweat, and

 his lower lip trembled. His signs of stress seemed to make

 Los more furious.

 Jim hated the father.

 Though he had come here to enter Ore and to be one with

 him, he hesitated. His sympathetic anger was making his

 mind whirl, and he needed all the coolness and self-control

 he could master to be able to enter Ore. That step was

 frightening enough. He had no way of knowing, of course,

 but he felt that he could err during the incorporation

 procedure and find himself in a very bad situation.

 The father, whose face had been getting redder and more

 twisted, swung the censer hand against the side of Ore's head.

 The boy went down to his knees. Both of his arms remained

 down. Jim guessed that, if the boy had moved his arms, he

 would completely fail to fulfill his part in the ceremony. What

 the result of that would be, Jim did not know.

 The woman said something. Los glared at her and spoke

 one word. The woman glared back and spoke one word. Jim

 did not think that they were complimenting each other.

 Ore rose unsteadily to his feet. He stared upward while

 blood trickled from the wound. Tears swept down his

 cheeks, but he had locked his jaws together.

 Enitharmon shrieked. She sprang toward Los and swung

 the end of her wand against the side of Los's head.

 She certainly did not react as his mother would, Jim

 thought.

 Then he was whisked away, up out of the temple, up

 above the mountains, the continent, the planet, the sun,

 back to the gate to his room on Earth, and through the gate

 with a soundless explosion.

 96

 CHAPTER 1 4

 November 8, 1979

 VA/HEN JIM ENTERED the next time, he did not see the scary,

 intersecting, glowing, and many-dimensional walls. In-

 stead, he was confronted by a great swarm of figures that

 alternately flashed green and red. They looked like sperma-

 tozoa with human faces, all grinning malignantly at him.

 He flew through the horde, those in his path wriggling

 swiftly away, and was quickly in Ore's universe. But,

 before he had started chanting, he had decided to enter Ore

 when he was seventeen years old.

 The youth was in a forest hundreds of miles beyond the

 city. Ore had grown into a tall and very muscular young

 man. He was standing behind the massive bole of a tree, his

 left hand grasping the shaft of a spear. He wore a blue cap

 shaped like Robin Hood's. A scarlet feather stuck out of its

 side. Except for the cap, a short blue kilt, and sandals, he

 97

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 wore nothing. A belt held a scabbarded short-sword and a

 bolstered throwing ax. It was an hour or so into the

 afternoon. The sky, crimson today, was clear, and the sun,

 also crimson, blazed down on top of the forest. It was,

 however, cool below the thick canopy of vegetation con-

 necting trees seven hundred feet high.

 The layer of tangled plants far above him held a multitude

 of insects, birds, and animals. From a branch fifty feet

 above him, a raccoonlike creature with a green beard hung

 by its prehensile tail and scolded him. Ore was listening

 intently to something, but it would have been difficult to

 hear anything above the uproar of the forest life.

 Ore turned his head. His father, Los, and his mother,

 Enitharmon, had appeared from the shadows of the trees

 behind him. His parents were clad only in kilts and sandals,

 and they, too, carried weapons. Though Los had a spear and an

 ax, he was armed also with a bulbous-ended handgun, a beamer.

 Jim was again suffering from fear. To project himself into

 Ore's mind and possibly never get out again was to dare a

 danger such as he had never encountered before. But he had

 to do it or live as a coward forever after. Do or die. And

 maybe die, anyway. Worse, be absorbed by Ore or be only

 partially absorbed but forever a prisoner in that alien body.

 Never mind. Get into Ore's mind. Become partly Ore.

 Not completely Ore, dear God!

 It was done. For a second or more, he seemed to have

 fallen into a silo of wet oats. Slimy and squidgy matter

 pressed around him. He was blind. The darkness and the

 loathsome substance drowning him came close to making

 him turn back. He gritted his figurative teeth and shouted

 voicelessly at himself, "Go on!"

 The frightening muck was behind him, though the

 darkness remained. He had a sensation of plunging into a

 furiously running stream of a mercury-heavy liquid, of

 98

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 being shot through many winding and twisting tunnels, and

 of hearing a noise like that of the beating of giant wings or

 a vast heart.

 That was behind him. Now, he floated in a silent

 chamber. Then, he heard a faint crackling. Sparks showered

 around him.

 Suddenly, the sparks expanded and coalesced. They

 became a bright light. He could see and hear and smell and

 taste as he had in his body on Earth.

 He was enfleshed and enbrained, almost entirely Ore. He

 was like a tiny parasite hanging on to its host's artery wall and

 hoping that it would not be swept away by the raging current

 of blood. Meanwhile, it tapped into its host's nervous system

 and shared all thoughts, memories, emotions, and sensations.

 That one-way input was, as he was to find out, very

 confusing for him. It would take some time to be able to

 handle at the same time his own thoughts and identity and

 Ore's.

 Ore saw his Uncle Luvah and Aunt Vala as they came from

 the shadows of the trees. Behind them walked a dozen natives,

 slaves of the Lords, trackers and beaters. They were somewhat

 darker than the Lords but only because they spent more time in

 the sunlight. They wore loincloths, were heavily tattooed, and

 bristled with feathers stuck in their long dark hair and in holes

 in their ears. Their only weapons were bamboo air guns which

 expelled darts with anesthetic-coated tips. Their leader carried

 a signal horn made from the doubly curving horn of a giant

 bovoid animal.

 Los's voice was deep and growling.

 "Any luck, son?"

 "I think one of them is holed up in that cluster ofshinthah

 trees," Ore said. "He's been wounded. I've trailed him

 partly by his blood, though he doesn't seem to be bleeding

 heavily."

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 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 "He must be the one who killed the two slaves," Los said.

 "The others are all accounted for, dead or gotten away."

 Jim was vaguely amazed that he could understand the

 speech of the Lords, or Thoan, their name for themselves.

 If his reaction was diluted, it was because all his own

 feelings were, so far, shadowy. But everything funneled

 through to him from Ore was bright and hard.

 Luvah and Vala moved up to stand beside Los. They had

 been invited by Ore's parents to be their guests at the palace

 and to go on a manhunt. Los had opened the gates between

 their worlds long enough for them to pass through.

 Los would never have done that on his own. His wife had

 insisted that Luvah of the Horses and his wife and sister,

 Vala, be invited. Enitharmon needed more than the com-

 pany of her family and slaves.

 Ore adored the beautiful and warm-natured Vala. As it

 turned out, though, he had been kept too busy to talk to her.

 The hunt had been furious and intense and had few pauses.

 Los said, "Is the man still armed?"

 "I don't know," Ore said.

 All the quarry were natives who had been sentenced to

 death by their own people for serious crimes. Los had

 decided to override the sentences and use the convicted as

 prey. He did this now and then when he got bored with other

 amusements. Seven men, all dangerous, had been taken to

 this jungle, given spears and knives, and let loose. After

 twenty minutes of waiting, the Lords and their retainers had

 started tracking them. The Lords were, except for Los and

 Vala, armed only with primitive weapons. That ensured that

 the hunt would be dangerous for the hunters. Ore's father

 and his aunt carried the beamers to shoot any beasts of prey

 that might attack the party or a human quarry if he got the

 upper hand in a fight with a Lord. Manhunt rules, as

 100

 determined by tradition, were never broken. Or, if a Lord

 had broken them, he or she had kept quiet about it.

 "Who wants to go after the beast?" Los shouted.

 "I will be happy to do it," Ore said. He was aware that

 he had volunteered because he wanted to get his father's

 respect even though he did not like his father. Also, a

 stronger reason, he wanted to show off before his aunt.

 "It's true that you do need more practice," Los said. "You

 haven't killed many beasts yet, man or animal. But it's only

 polite to allow our visitors first chance. Remember that."

 Vala said, "I'd love to see Ore in action. I'll be right

 behind you, nephew."

 Jim was thinking, My God! They're callous enough

 about it! And cool, too! What kind of people are these? He

 knew, however, from reading the Tiersian books just how

 cruel the Lords could be. What had he expected?

 Despite his repulsion, he was feeling Ore's emotions.

 The youthful Lord and, therefore, Jim, was excited and

 eager. At the same time. Ore, therefore Jim, was hoping

 that he would not make a fool of himself. It was possible

 that he would also be a dead fool.

 Ore walked slowly into the denseness of the shinthah

 trees. Their branches, which began about six feet above the

 earth, merged with those of their neighbors. Vines crawled

 through the branches and let down loops close to the

 ground. Moreover, the winshin bush, a very leafy plant,

 grew among the trees. The tangle of tree, vine, and bush

 was ideal for hiding and ambushing.

 Holding his spear in one hand, Vala about six feet behind

 him. Ore plunged into the thick growth. He moved slowly

 to avoid making noise. He was very tense and was sweating

 heavily. It suddenly came to him that the quarry had most of

 the advantages. He stopped when his foot struck something.

 He looked down. Half-buried in some kind of weedy

 101

  

  

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 growth was a spear. The hunted man had dropped it. Which

 must mean that he was badly wounded.

 Despite this. Ore did not forget to be cautious. It was

 possible that the man had placed the spear there to make the

 hunter think just what Ore had thought. He might be waiting

 close by, his hunting knife in his hand.

 He gestured at Vala to indicate the spear. She nodded that

 she understood.

 Though the cluster would usually be clamorous with the

 cries of birds and beasts, it was silent now. The tenants were

 watching the intruders, waiting to see if they were danger-

 ous before resuming normal activity.

 Ore parted a bush with his right hand and looked past it

 and down. There was the prey. He was a big man com-

 pletely unclothed and lying on his back. By his open hand

 was a large knife. Blood flowed slowly from under the hand

 held to his shoulder. Sweat had washed all but traces of the

 blood from his torso and legs.

 Ore said, "Har?"

 Not until then had he known that the quarry was from a

 village near the palace-city or that he was his half brother.

 Los had many children by the native women; Har was one

 of perhaps a hundred. He was a superb tracker who had

 taught Ore everything he knew about jungle craft. He had

 been wounded by his own father, Los, who was separated

 from the group when he had thrown his spear on glimpsing

 the quarry. Later, Ore had come across Har's trail of blood.

 The man was pale under his heavy tan. He stared at Ore,

 knowing that he was about to die. But he did not plead.

 Vala came up to Ore. She said, "You must blood your

 knife, nephew. It is not correct to finish him off with your

 spear. Wait until I call the others. They must see you do it."

 Jim felt Ore's sudden sickness. He knew what Ore was

 thinking. He would have to cut Har's throat and lick some

 702

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 of the blood off the knife. The coup de grace and the blood

 tasting were not new to him, nor did he find them

 distasteful. Far from it. But this . . . ! He knew and liked

 his half brother as much as he could like any leblabbiy, as

 the non-Lords were called. He told himself that he would

 sooner kill his father than he would Har.

 But he had to do it. Not only that, he must not show any

 pity or kindness. By then, the others had arrived. Los said,

 "So, it was Har I wounded! And you get the credit for the

 kill! Well, that is the way things sometimes happen!"

 "You wounded him, father," Ore said. "I couldn't have

 caught him if you hadn't. Why don't you lick his blood?"

 Los frowned, and he said, "That isn't the Thoan way. Go

 ahead."

 Ore went around the bush, scraping his skin against the

 abrasive leaves of that bush and the one beside it. The other

 Lords followed him. The natives stayed behind and would

 do so unless ordered to witness the killing.

 Har's eyes were dulled. Yet, he was not so far gone that

 he did not recognize Ore. He croaked, "Greeting, brother!"

 He had never said that word to Ore during all their

 conversations. Though both knew that Los was their father,

 neither would ever say so. If Har had dared to do that, he

 would have been punished severely, perhaps with death.

 Now that he was to die, he did not care.

 "You are immortal or nearly so," Har said. "Yet, you can be

 killed. That makes you my brother no matter who our father is."

 A shiver of fire ran through Ore. He was struck, not with

 the audacity of Har but with the truth of his words. They

 were as frightening as lightning in the night when there was

 no cloud or thunder.

 "Go ahead. Ore!" Los said.

 Ore turned to face him. "I cannot do it," he said.

 Los was not the only one who stepped back as if suddenly

 smelling a carcass long rotten.

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 PHILIP JOSE FARMER RED ORC'S RAGE

 Los shook his head, blinked, and said harshly, "I do not

 understand. Is something wrong?"

 Ore took a deep breath before speaking. Only Jim knew

 what courage Ore had to summon for what he was about to do.

 "I cannot kill him. He is flesh of my flesh. He is your son

 and my brother."

 Everything around Ore seemed to be fuzzy. The harsh

 edges of reality were blunted and soft. He felt as if he had

 stepped into another world that was not quite formed.

 Los looked bewildered. He said, "What? What does that

 have to do with it?"

 Vala turned and gestured at the head tracker, Sheon, to

 approach her. As all non-Lords did when called by a Thoan,

 he came swiftly.

 "What is that man's crime?" Vala said, pointing at Har.

 Sheon, looking at the ground, said, "Holy One, he slew a

 son of our chief after he caught him in bed with his wife. Har

 claimed that the chief's son attacked him with a knife, and he

 killed him in self-defense. But Har's wife witnessed other-

 wise. She said that Har meant to kill both of them. In any

 event, Har should have gone to the council and presented his

 complaint to it. It is against our law to slay a man or a woman

 caught in adultery. Har could have run away if he was

 attacked. There was nothing to stop him from running."

 Vala turned to Ore. "See? He deserves to die by the law

 of his own people."

 "Then let them execute him," Ore said.

 "This is ridiculous!" Los shouted. "You're stupid! I do

 not understand you! He's not Thoan!"

 "He's half-Thoan," Ore said calmly, though he was far

 from calm inside himself.

 "Half is not the whole!" Los said. His face was very red,

 and his eyes were wild. "Kill him! At once!"

 "Don't you feel anything for him?" Ore said. "He is your

 son. Or does that mean nothing to you?"

 Luvah said, "Nephew, you're out of your mind! What

 happened? Did you have an accident, strike your head

 against something?"

 "Something struck me," Ore said. "It wasn't physical. It

 was like a great light . . . it's hard to explain."

 "I'll strike you!" Los howled, and his fist caught the side

 of Ore's jaw. Ore was stunned for several seconds. When he

 was able to think clearly, he found himself down on his

 knees. The others, except for Los, looked as if they, too,

 had been struck. Ore's mother murmured, "Los! This is not

 necessary! There is something wrong with the boy!"

 "Yes, there is, Enitharmon! He is not a true Lord! Did you

 lie with some native and allow yourself to get pregnant?"

 Enithermon gasped, and Vala said, "That is a terrible

 thing to say!"

 Ore was seized by something that was roaring. The sound

 was red. Colors did not have sounds, but many things

 happened in the mind that could not happen outside it. The

 insult to his mother had loosed all the desires to attack his

 father that had been caged since as far back as he could remember.

 He was in a dream filled with a bright red light. He

 seemed to be standing outside of himself and watching

 himself. He saw Ore, the knife still in his hand despite

 having been half-conscious, come off the ground quickly.

 He saw Los step back, but not quickly enough to prevent the

 blade driving several inches into his left arm. He saw his

 uncle, Luvah, strike him on the side on his head with the

 butt of his spear. He saw himself drop the knife and fall onto

 his face but roll over so that he was faceup.

 Then he was back inside himself. His father had raised

 the spear held in his right hand to drive it through him. His

 mother, screaming, grabbed the spear and struggled with

  

  

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 Los. She wrested it from his grip and held it so that its point

 was close to her husband.

 "Don't do it!" she screamed. It was evident that she

 would use the spear on him if he tried to kill her son.

 Vala spoke in a high and tight voice. "Los! The leblabbiy

 are watching you!"

 Los turned and glared. Sheon, the chief tracker, was

 walking back to his fellows. He did not want the Thoan to

 know that he had seen the fight, but it was too late for that.

 Los pointed at Ore and said, "Bind him! He goes back to

 the palace!"

 He pulled his beamer from his holster. "Vala! Come with

 me! We have to destroy them! I don't want them alive now

 they've seen us trying to kill each other!"

 Vala said, "I think Sheon was the only one who saw us.

 He won't tell the others."

 "I don't want to take the chance," Los said. "We don't

 want them to think we're no better than they, do we?"

 He wanted to kill someone. If he was restrained from

 slaying his son, he would slaughter the leblabbiy. At

 another time, he might have listened to Vala. But not now.

 Vala bit her lip, but she said, "Very well." She walked

 away with Los, her gun also drawn. As Ore discovered later,

 the natives had guessed what the Lords planned to do. The

 more passive and religious stayed to submit to their doom.

 Four leblabbiy, however, fled into the forest. They would be

 exiled forever from their tribe and would be men with a price

 on their head, prey for another hunt by the Thoan.

 Ore was turned over, and his wrists were bound together

 with tape his mother brought out of a bag. While doing this,

 his mother bent close to him and whispered, "Do not anger

 your father again. I'll do my best to cool him down."

 "He'll kill me," Ore said. "He hates me. He's always

 hated me. What did I do to make him hate me. Mother?"

 706

 CHAPTER 1 5

 URC HAD BEEN stripped of his clothing and chained to a

 boulder near the main palace. One end of the ten-foot-long

 chain was attached to a steel plate secured to the giant

 quartzite rock. The other end was fixed to a steel band

 around his right ankle. For two days and nights, he had

 suffered this humiliation and discomfort. The sun burned

 him during most of the day. At night, Los allowed the

 clouds to come into the levels. Ore slept poorly because of

 the cold, wetness, and hard floor.

 During the day, he ate one meal, brought by a servant.

 She left him a bucket of water to drink and to bathe. When

 he relieved bladder or bowels, he went around behind the

 boulder as far as he could. He had no toilet paper or wash

 rag. Once a day, a servant came to clean up the mess.

 At high noon each day, his parents, aunt, and uncle had

 come down from the palace. Los had asked him if he was

 sorry that he had behaved so badly. Would he apologize and

 707

  

  

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 then promise that he would never do such again and would

 always obey his parents? Los added that even then his

 punishment would not be over.

 "There are many Lords who would slay their son on the

 spot. But I do not wish to grieve your mother, and Luvah

 and Vala have pleaded for you."

 "You should not have struck me," Ore said.

 "I am your father! I have the right and the duty to do so

 when you deserve it!"

 "You have struck me many times," Ore said. "I would

 think that a man who is so many thousands of years old would

 have some wisdom and love. You have learned nothing. Be

 that as it may, you have struck me for the last time. You may

 as well kill me."

 Los turned and walked away, his long green robe

 flapping, the tall yellow feather on his wide-brimmed hat

 bobbing. His mother and his aunt stayed for a minute to beg

 him to bend to his father's will.

 "You are so stubborn," Enitharmon said as tears ran

 down her cheek. "Your stubbornness will kill you. What

 will I do if I lose my firstborn?"

 "Kill Los, and so avenge me," Ore said. "I think you'd

 like to do it, anyway. I do not know why you stay with him.

 Aren't there other worlds you could go to? How about

 Luvah's and Vala's?"

 "You are determined to die," Enitharmon said. She

 kissed him on the cheek and left. Luvah, shaking his head,

 walked away. Vala lingered a moment.

 "I'll sneak out tonight and bring you a sleeping bag and

 something good to eat."

 "Don't endanger yourself for me, though I thank you. At

 least, you love me."

 "Your mother does, too," Vala said. "You saw how she

 defended you when Los was going to spear you. But her

 708

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 character is such that she cannot stand up against Los unless

 she's driven to it, and then it doesn't last long."

 "You'd think that she could have changed her character

 during the course of so many millennia. What good is the

 Lords' science if it can't change undesirable character

 traits?"

 "There have been some who have changed themselves,

 though not always for the better. But most people cannot

 unfix their characters no matter how long they live. It's a

 matter of will, not of biological engineering. Would you

 allow yourself to be tampered with?"

 She kissed him hard on his lips before leaving. Ore

 suspected that Vala lusted for him as he did for her. Or was

 she just a loving aunt, and had he, so young and inexperi-

 enced, misread her affection?

 He looked at his father, still striding toward the major

 palace of the city of pylons. His son had seen more of the

 back of his father than his face, though that was most times

 the preferable side. Then he looked up at the third story of

 the glittering gold-block-and-much-gemmed wall of the

 palace. There, framed by a window, was his tutor, Noorosha.

 He was an intelligent and highly educated native who had been

 guiding Ore through programmed courses since the Lord was

 three years old. Now, he was looking down at his student, who

 should have been in class.

 Ore waved at Noorosha, the person he loved most of all

 except for his mother and aunt. Why couldn't his father be

 like Noorosha?

 The day passed, each minute like a whip stroke. While he

 paced back and forth, the chain dragging on his leg and

 clinking on the slightly roughened surface of the transparent

 floor, his mind was pacing. Back and forth, back and forth

 from thoughts of ways to escape to visions of killing his father.

 Finally, night fell. The first moon rose. Two hours later,

 709

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 the second lumbered up. Jim, looking through Ore's eyes,

 estimated that it was half the size of Earth's moon. The first

 moon was half the size of the second one. Their markings,

 of course, were different from the one Jim knew.

 After the clouds oozed over Ore, he lay down on the

 floor. It took him a long time to fall asleep. Jim also slept

 then. It seemed like a short time had passed when Vala's

 touch awoke Ore and, of course, Jim.

 She was a dim figure crouching by him. "I've brought the

 bag and food," she said softly. "But I've brought more than

 that."

 She held up an object that he could not see clearly.

 "A beamer. Hold still. I'm going to cut your chain."

 "You shouldn't do that!" Ore said. "I thank you, but I

 can't allow you to endanger yourself. My father will

 investigate thoroughly if I escape, and he'll find out you did

 it, and he'll kill you!"

 "Not if you kill him first," she said.

 She started to rise. Ore heard a thud. She grunted and

 pitched forward, falling heavily across his legs. Above Ore

 loomed a vague shape, but he knew that it was Los. Vala,

 groaning, rolled over Ore's legs, a hand pressing the back of

 her head. Then she started to rise.

 "Stay down, you treacherous slut!" Los said.

 Just beyond Ore's father was a vague and bulky figure. It

 looked to Ore like a vehicle of some sort.

 "I should kill you, Vala!" Los shouted. "But I can

 understand why you felt sorry for him, believe it or not!

 After all, he is my son, though not much of one! I can

 remember how I loved him when he was a baby! But you

 have betrayed my hospitality! How do I know that you

 weren't planning on letting him help you kill me!"

 He raved on, the gist being that, because he was

 merciful, he was permitting Vala and her husband to return

 7/0

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 to their universe. But they would do it at once and under

 guard. He would deal with his son, though they would

 never find out how he would do it. She would never see him

 again.

 Vala started to protest. He screamed at her to shut up or

 he would shoot her on the spot. After that, she said nothing

 except to murmur, "I'm sorry. Ore." Los kept on ranting in

 the same manner for about five minutes. When he stopped,

 he bent over Vala and jammed the end of a cylinder into her

 arm. She collapsed immediately. Then he stuck the end

 against Ore's chest. He became unconscious and so did Jim.

 Jim awoke at the same moment as Ore. Bright sunlight

 made Ore squint and, in a shadowy way, Jim also. The

 young Thoan was sitting on bare buttocks on a rock ledge.

 He was propped up against a vertical outcropping of stone.

 His hands were tied together behind him with rope. The

 ledge ended a foot beyond him. Below it was a precipitous

 slope of mountain, forested halfway down. At the bottom

 was a river snaking through an unbroken forest. Another

 mountain was on the other side of the river.

 The sky was blue, which meant that he was not in his

 native world. Not unless he had been unconscious long

 enough to let two days pass.

 Despite the blazing sun, he shivered from the cold air.

 There were patches of snow on the upper face of the

 mountain opposite him. He looked around then and saw that

 he was in a cave extending back from the ledge. Near him

 on the dirt floor was a square plastic sheet.

 He walked to the sheet, lowered himself to his knees, and

 bent over to look at the plastic piece. As he had expected,

 it bore his father's handwriting.

 You are on Anthema, the unwanted world. If you

 are man enough to survive on it and find your way to

 ///

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 the only other gate on this world, you may be able to

 get out of it. I give you a clue though you do not

 deserve it. The gate will be near a landmark resem-

 bling something you are wearing. But you will have

 to find the code allowing you to open the gate. That

 gate leads back to your own world.

 You only have to look for the gate on land, which

 cuts the territory of your search down to fifty million

 square miles. Though I should wish you bad luck, I

 do not. May you get what you deserve.

 Ore groaned. Anthema, the Unwanted World! Made by

 those mysterious beings who had existed before the Lords,

 who had made the original universe of the Lords and then

 created the Lords to populate it. Anthema was so crudely

 constructed that the Lords theorized that it had been the

 pre-Thoan's first experiment in making artificial universes.

 No Lord had chosen to live there. Indeed, very few knew

 how to gate to it.

 Los must have put him in that vehicle and carried him to

 a gate in the palace or somewhere on his world. Then he had

 gated the vehicle with himself and Ore in it to this world.

 After arriving at Anthema via the interdimensional route,

 Los had used the vehicle to fly from the gate to this cave.

 And what was that about the clue being provided by

 something his son was wearing? Ore was naked.

 It was then that he felt the necklace and the object

 attached to it.

 He heaved himself up onto his feet. Now he could bend

 his neck and see the object, which rested just below his

 breastbone. Though it was upside down from his viewpoint,

 he could recognize it. It was a round gold medallion, one of

 his father's, bearing a name, Shambarimem, and, below

 that, a raised relief of the Horn—a trumpet—of that

 7/2

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 legendary man. It was as close to a religious medal as a

 Thoan artifact could come.

 What kind of a clue was that? A mountain that looked

 like the Horn? Ore, knowing his father's subtle nature, was

 sure that it was not as simple as that. In fact, the clue might

 not even be visual. Never mind. First, he had to get his

 hands free.

 That was done, though not soon. He went to the tiny

 monolith he had been sitting against, turned around, and

 bent his knees. He raised his arms, squatted even more, and

 set the rope on the rather blunt edge of a small ridge on top

 of the rock and near its side. The position was both tiring

 and painful, but he kept sawing until the rope was halfway

 worn through. After resting, he resumed the sawing. When

 he felt the rope part, he brought his hands before him and

 untied each with the other hand, no easy task. After

 reconnoitering the cave and finding nothing to indicate a

 gate, he surveyed the valley. The only life he saw consisted

 of some strange-looking and awkward flying creatures.

 He started climbing down the steep slope below the

 ledge. He had no reason to feel optimistic in this world

 certainly not made for him. His fury and desire for revenge

 would keep him going for a long time. But he could search

 the vast territory for a thousand years and still not find the

 landmark and the gate within or on or under or by it. He

 might even see the landmark and not know that it was what

 he was looking for.

 He had troubles. Oh, Shambarimem, did he have trou-

 bles!

 They came sooner than he expected. A loud shriek

 behind him froze him for a fraction of a second. A blow on

 his back knocked him forward. He heard giant wings

 beating. Pain as of very sharp and large claws stabbing his

 back made him scream.

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 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 Jim Grimson was also startled. He heard the shriek, felt

 the hard impact, and yelled from the agony.

 The shock was too much for him. He was whisked out,

 up, and away far more swiftly than his previous journeys

 back to Earth. He awoke sitting on the chair in his room. He

 was shivering and sweating and somewhat numb. For a

 moment, the searing on his back from the terrible claws

 stayed with him. Then it faded.

 Despite his fear, he would have tried to get back into Ore

 if his energy had not been completely dynamited out of him.

 It was a long time before he could rise from the chair.

 JJ4

 CHAPTER 1 6

 I ODAY, THE GROUP session members were even more

 inclined to argue than usual. Their digs were sharper, and

 they took offense more quickly. Was there something in the

 air like itching powder? Or was it that they had reached a

 certain stage in their therapy where their anger and frustra-

 tion were closer to the surface? These were burrowing

 upward toward the skin like worms chased out of the

 intestine by strong medicine.

 Gillman Sherwood, the nineteen-year-old from Gold

 Hill, was getting more abuse than usual. Some of the group

 detested and distrusted him because his family was wealthy.

 Until now, he had responded with a slight smile and silence

 to the onslaught. That he would not defend himself made

 his attackers even more angry.

 Foremost among them was Al Moober, a sixteen-year-old

 who had never had any money until he had started dealing

 in drugs. His career had lasted six months. Then the cops

 7/5

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 had caught him. But he had been accused of being under the

 influence and of possession, not of selling. He especially

 had it in for Sherwood, one of his former customers,

 because he suspected that Sherwood had turned him in to

 the narcs.

 Sherwood's wrists were still bandaged from the deep

 slashes made when he had tried suicide. He had wanted to

 be a painter, but his parents had opposed that ambition.

 Both had agreed, when their son was only three years old,

 that he would go to Ohio State for his undergraduate

 education and then to Harvard for his law degree. After six

 months at Ohio, he had a "nervous breakdown." He came

 out of the sanitarium three months later, went home, and

 refused to consider going back to college. His parents had

 kept up their pressure despite their doctor's warnings. One

 night, Sherwood had used the blood from his wrist arteries

 to paint a nightmare vision on his palette. He had ended up

 in Porsena's Tiersian therapy group.

 Moober had also told his fellow patients that Sherwood

 was bisexual and had added that Sherwood had made a pass

 at him. The girls thought that Sherwood was divinely

 handsome and looked much like a tall Paul Newman.

 Besides, he had made passes at several of them, and why

 would he go for a loathsome creature like Moober?

 Moober had persisted in trying to invalidate Sherwood's

 descriptions of his adventures as Wolff, the hero Sherwood

 had chosen to emulate. Doctor Scaevola, today's group

 leader, had tried to stop Moober from doing this, but

 Moober would not quit. Then Scaevola had told Moober

 that he would obey the rules or be sent to his room to think

 about how he would like being kicked out of the therapy.

 Moober had quit attacking Sherwood, though he was

 muttering to himself.

 Jim Grimson was only half listening to the others. For

 116

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 one thing, he had been shocked when he had seen Sandy

 Melton this morning. She was sitting at the far end of the

 dining hall with the group of mild schizoaffectives. Until

 then, Jim had not known that Sandy was in the hospital. He

 had heard nothing about what had happened to her after that

 evening at Dumski's.

 He had waved to her. She had smiled at him and resumed

 talking to the girl next to her. Jim planned to talk to her

 when he got the chance.

 Another reason Jim had trouble concentrating was that he

 could not keep from wondering about what had happened to

 Ore after Jim had left him. His plight and his world seemed

 more real than this room and the people in it. These people

 did not know what real trouble was.

 He became aware that Doctor Scaevola was speaking to

 him and that the others were looking at him.

 "Your turn, Jim," Scaevola said. "We're all eager to hear

 what happened during your latest exploration."

 Jim doubted they all were that eager. Most of them were

 too wrapped up in their own sojourns to care much about

 his. Or, at least, he thought that they were. He had learned

 something about himself in the short time he had been here.

 That was that he often attributed his own feelings to others,

 but there was often no match between the two. He must be

 more careful in the future not to assign to others his own

 thoughts and emotions.

 Group therapy was supposed to be in some respects like

 a book club. The members would talk about various

 characters in the series and how they felt about them. They

 would then tell how they would have changed the situations

 or the endings in the books. Also, they commented on how

 each person's chosen character reflected the personality and

 the problems of the chooser. This interplay, however, was

 closely monitored by the group leader. It was not allowed to

 117

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 get to a point where the members were criticizing each other

 too harshly.

 One of the difficulties the members had, at this stage in

 therapy, was in giving full information about their experi-

 ences in the pocket universes. Jim shared this reluctance.

 Now, in answering Scaevola's invitation, he gave only the

 sketchiest outline of his adventures. He held back because it

 seemed to him that they should be very private. Somehow,

 if the others got too far into Ore's world, they would try to

 take over. His fellow patients would want his worlds just as

 the Lords desired the worlds of other Lords.

 Moreover, Jim was convinced that the universes the other

 members entered into were purely imaginary. Though vivid

 and very detailed, they were nevertheless just fantasies. He

 did not reveal this to the group, of course. To do so would

 be to invalidate the worlds of his fellow patients.

 Jim finished his somewhat halting and hesitant tale. Even

 as he spoke, he began to feel that it was made up. The

 others seemed to be looking doubtfully at him. Damn! They

 were invalidating him!

 Monique Bragg, a black girl, said, "Your father, I mean

 Ore's father, struck you. Ore, a number of times. That

 sounds like your own father, Jim. He's unpredictable and

 confusing, too, just like Los, the way he treats you. Cruel

 and severe a lot of times but, sometimes, kind and tender,

 like a real father should be. That's bewildering to a kid."

 "Which father you talking about?" Jim said. "My father

 in this world or the father in the other world?"

 Monique smiled, revealing big white teeth. "Both, you

 dummy. Only this Los isn't like your real father in some

 ways. He's a very handsome and powerful person, lord and

 master of all he surveys, you might say, not a worthless

 drunken bum like your real father."

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 RED ORC'S RAGE

 "Monique!" Doctor Scaevola said softly but firmly.

 "Please refrain from personal remarks."

 "Sure, Doc," Monique said. "Only ... I didn't say

 anything about his father he hasn't said. I was just pointing

 out certain things, how Los and this woman. Ore's

 mother—Enitharmon?—resemble his own parents. They

 sort of reflect them, don't you think? That's what this is all

 about, anyway, isn't it? How this world and the Tiersian are

 mirror images, wasn't that what you said? Distorted mir-

 rors."

 "That's an aspect," Scaevola said, "but we don't want to

 dwell too much on parallelisms, especially those that're

 rather obvious. Unless you're leading up to another point?"

 "Maybe it's the differences that're most important,"

 Monique said. "Like Ore's mother seems to be under Los's

 thumb just as Jim's mother is. But she's beautiful and

 powerful, and she can stand up to him. To a point, anyway.

 Maybe she's going to rebel, even kill Los. That's something

 your mother'd never do, right, Jim? But maybe you're

 hoping she will some day. Is that so, Jim?"

 "How would I know?" Jim said heatedly. "I'm not

 making this up, you know! Things'11 go the way they go,

 not how I think they should go!"

 There was silence for a moment except for Moober's

 brief snicker.

 Then Scaevola said, "Of course! Remember, we're not

 writing stories. These things really do happen. Whether

 they exist inside your mind or outside your mind, they exist.

 A thought is as much an existent as a, uh . . ."

 "A fart!" Moober said loudly and doubled up with

 laughter.

 "Both evanescent but nevertheless existing in their own

 moment of glory or putridness," Scaevola said.

 "Hey, there are millions of fathers and mothers more or

 119

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 less like mine on Earth," Jim said. "So, there are some in

 the Lords' worlds. Nothing strange about it. Quit the

 psychologizing, for Christ's sake."

 Brooks Epstein spoke up for the first time during the

 session. He was a tall, dark, and lean youth who wore thick

 hom-rimmed glasses. Though he was from Gold Hill, he

 had escaped the insults and disdain cast at Sherwood.

 Epstein's father had been wealthy, but he had gone bankrupt

 and then killed himself. Epstein's mother had just enough

 insurance to place her son in therapy at Wellington Hospi-

 tal.

 "Quit psychologizing?" he said. "I thought we were here

 to do just that!"

 "We're here to get therapy, get well, not sit around and

 analyze each other until we fall apart," Jim said. "Analyz-

 ing is like disassembling. We'll never put the pieces back

 together. Humpty Dumpty himself, you know."

 "Thank you, Doctor Freud," Epstein said. "Any-

 way ..."

 The group broke up with almost everybody mad at

 everybody else. Doctor Scaevola tried to patch the rents and

 wounds and cool off their tempers before the session ended.

 This time, his soft words, reasonableness, and compromise

 had not worked. Some of the group were, so far, too timid

 to dare offend anybody. Others were inclined to be nasty,

 and the characters they had chosen to merge with were

 arrogant and ill-tempered. The staff members had to put the

 lid on these patients now and then. At the same time, they

 had to keep from suppressing the youths so much that they

 erupted out of control or were in danger of losing their

 Tiersian identities.

 No matter how pugnaciously and offensively the mem-

 bers behaved, they were putting up a front. All had low

 self-esteem, a crippling part of their own personae. To gain

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 RED ORC'S RAGE

 a genuine self-esteem was one of the goals of the therapy

 but hard to achieve. To think of themselves as worthwhile,

 they had to become somebody else for a while.

 A few minutes after the session, Jim was told that he had

 a visitor, Sam Wyzak. Doctor Scaevola was not available

 just then, so Doctor Tarchuna had to give permission for

 Jim to see Sam. He sent it through the phone in his office.

 Eager, Jim strode to the small lobby reserved for visitors. A

 male nurse, Dave Gurscom, stood in the doorway and

 watched them.

 Sam rose from the chair when Jim entered the room. He

 smiled broadly and advanced toward his friend, his arms

 waving. They met in the middle of the room and embraced.

 Jim was very glad to see him, but he could not help

 wrinkling his nose at Sam's odor. Since Jim had been in the

 hospital, he had been showering daily and had sent out his

 dirty laundry to his mother. He said nothing to Sam about

 his unwashed body and clothes. After all, the clothes Jim

 was now wearing had been donated by Sam. Without them,

 he would have been clad only in hospital-provided pajamas,

 a robe, and slippers.

 Sam lost his smile after they quit embracing. He sat down

 heavily on the chair.

 "Jim, I got some things to say to you, got to get some

 things clear. There's a thing I got to do, and you won't like

 it. Or maybe you will, I don't know. But I've come to an

 impasse, as they say. Gotta go but don't really want to."

 "Go where?"

 "To California. Hollywood, to be exact. Gotta get the

 hell out of this cruddy place, the armpit of the universe. I'm

 in a bad fix. I'm in a rehab center for chemical dependents,

 for dope fiends, as my father says. The courts're on my

 neck. The judge says I gotta straighten out, he don't want

 me flunking, no way. He gets weekly reports from my folks

 121

 PHtLIP JOSE FARMER

 and the school, and they just aren't good enough. I'm still

 flunking my ass though I am trying hard to bring my grades

 up."

 He put his fingers over his eyes and looked at Jim through

 the spaces among his fingers as if they were prison bars. His

 voice got shaky.

 "Jim, I can't take no more of this! I'm running off to

 California, gonna disappear, really drop out. I don't know

 what the hell I'll do there, become a street person, most

 likely. For a while, anyway. I'll be taking my guitar,

 though. I might get into a band. Maybe not. I ain't what

 you'd call a great musician, but that never stopped lots of

 rock stars. Anyway, I'm going to try for it. Anything'll be

 better than what I'm doing now."

 Jim was silent for a minute. Sam had dropped his hands

 onto his lap, but his black eyes were zeroed in on Jim's

 face. He seemed to be hoping that . . . what? That his old

 buddy would utter wise words that would rescue him?

 Jim waved his hand. It was a vague gesture that indicated

 nothing except possibly hopelessness. What could he, Jim

 Grimson, incarcerated in a mental ward, wearing borrowed

 clothes, estranged from just about everybody he could name

 except for Doctor Porsena and a few patients, the connec-

 tions with them not really tight, what could he do for his old

 friend?

 He could not help thinking about his own plans, too,

 though he felt like a big prick worrying about himself when

 Sam was in such a bad situation. Sam had told him on the

 phone several days ago that he could live at the Wyzaks'

 when he became an outpatient. He and Sam would share the

 bedroom and Sam's clothes and eat at Sam's table. Mrs.

 Wyzak, big-hearted as ever, had made the offer. She knew

 that Jim's parents were in a very small apartment and had no

 money to help support their son. Jim's eighteenth birthday

 722

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 was coming up soon. After that, the welfare money allotted

 for him would be cut off. Besides, Eric Grimson did not

 want Jim to live with him.

 Now that Sam was taking off, would his parents still take

 his friend in?

 Jim cleared his throat and said, "You're not talking to the

 wise old man on top of the mountain, the ancient guru who

 sees all, knows all, who can set you on the right path to

 health, wealth, and fame. I'm sorry, Sam, but I don't know

 what to say except to wish you luck. I could tell you to sign

 up for Doctor Porsena's therapy. But he's got a long waiting

 list. I was luckier than hell to be admitted so quickly."

 Sam did not reply. His face was unreadable. But Jim

 thought that he detected reproach and fright in it.

 "Jesus, Sam, I want to help you! But I just can't!"

 Sam said, "I didn't expect nothing from you. You can't

 ask a drowning man to save you from drowning. I just

 thought I'd tell you what I'm going to do. I wasn't asking

 for your blessing."

 "Damn, Sam! I feel like shit! I'm failing you!"

 "What the hell," Sam said. He rose from the chair.

 "Mom won't refuse you even if I'm not there. In fact, she'll

 probably be gladder than ever to have you. Mothering's her

 big thing, you know. That and bossing people around."

 His voice broke. Tears oozed out and slid down to the

 comers of his mouth. "Jesus, when we were kids together,

 pretty happy, you know, even though things were tough a

 lot of times, we couldn't have dreamed that we'd turn out

 like this."

 Jim could think of nothing better to do than to enfold Sam

 in his arms and pat his back. That was all he could do, and

 maybe it was enough. Sam sobbed for a moment, then

 released himself and wiped the tears with a dirty handker-

 chief.

 723

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 "Hey, Jim! We think we're grown up and don't need

 nobody, right! But when the chips are down, as the buffalo

 hunter said, we turn out to still be babies. I admit I'm a little

 scared. Why not? I'm just kidding myself when I pretend to

 be as tough as fried shoe leather. I wouldn't tell this to

 anyone but you, Jim. I don't really want to leave. Things've

 gotten too rough, though. It's adios, Belmont City! Cali-

 fornia, here I come! Mom's going to cry her heart out, but

 maybe, deep down, she'll be glad to get rid of me. She

 won't have to be on my neck all the time because I'm such

 a pain in the ass to her."

 "Do you think you could keep in touch with me, write me

 a postcard now and then?"

 "If I can steal a postcard and a pencil," Sam said. "I

 won't have much money."

 He laughed, and he said, "Hey, it might be a lot better

 than I think! California's the golden state, ingots of gold

 laying around on the streets, ice cream cones growing from

 trees, starlets just aching to lay a skinny, penniless, dumb

 Polack. At least I won't freeze my ass off out on the street

 come winter. And even the garbage cans'll have food better

 than what I eat here."

 "Maybe you should think more about it," Jim said.

 "Look before you leap, and all that."

 Something came over Jim then. His words of caution

 suddenly seemed to be those of a coward. It was as if an

 electrical current running through him had reversed itself

 and was now running in the opposite direction.

 He said, "What the hell, Sam! I don't mean that! It'll be

 a great adventure! It'll at least be different! Better to live

 like a lion for a day than like a dog forever! You know for

 sure you have no future here! Go to California! It'll be

 exciting, and it'll give you hope and endless opportunities!

 I wish I could go with you!"

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 Sam blinked as if Jim had disappeared in a blinding light.

 He said, "What happened to you?" Then, "Why don't you

 come with me?"

 Jim shook his head. "I would . . . only ..."

 "Only what?"

 "You'd have to be in my skin to know how I feel about

 this place, what I'm doing. This is my adventure, Sam, this

 ward. It's a world in itself, a world that ..."

 How could he explain to Sam about the universes of the

 Lords and his adventures as Red Ore? How could he make

 Sam understand that golden California was lead compared

 to the places he had been and to which he would return? No

 way would Sam comprehend it.

 "You always were a little strange, Jim, even though we

 got along great. What the hell could this puzzle farm have

 for you? For me, anyway. It'd be nothing."

 He held out his hand. "So long, Jim. Hope we meet again

 some other place, a better place, too."

 Jim shook his hand. That Sam had offered it instead of

 embracing him again meant that Sam had already distanced

 himself. He no longer felt as close to Jim. They were very

 good friends who had begun to be strangers.

 Jim felt sick. That, however, was the way it had to be.

 Character determined destiny. His had sent him off on a

 different road from Sam's. It would have happened sooner

 or later, anyway. It had come sooner, that was all.

 Nevertheless, he felt very sad. He also regretted that he

 had told Sam that he would be better off opting for

 adventure. Immediately after thinking this, he changed his

 mind, and much of the sadness and all of the regret

 vanished. It really was best for Sam, for anyone, to leave

 the familiar and to venture into strange country. That is, if

 the familiar was a place where hopeless hardship and

 unconquerable failure reigned.

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 Sam said, "Talk to my mother. She'll take you in when

 you need a home. You'll have to put up with a lot from her,

 but you won't starve to death. Just do what she tells you to

 do."

 Sam turned and walked out without a backward look.

 Jim called, "Good luck! I'll be with you in my thoughts,

 Sam!"

 Sam did not reply.

 CHAPTER 1 7

 726

 AAAGH!"

 The cry of the thing attacking Ore and Ore's cry mingled.

 Locked together, they were rolling and bouncing down the

 rocky face of the mountain. Ore had fallen onto his face,

 taking his attacker with him. Then he had rolled over. The

 creature had been under him for a moment. It had huge

 wings, a small body, a very long thin neck, and a head twice

 as large as his. Its beak was as hooked and as sharp as an

 eagle's. Its legs were exceedingly long for a flying creature.

 The claws were long, sharp, and curved, but they tore loose

 after their second rollover.

 Despite its birdlike appearance, it had no feathers.

 The two, three if Jim was counted, rolled and slid and

 soared down the slope. Both attacker and attacked were

 banged and bunged and gashed, and both cried out from

 pain. Then they slammed into the base of a boulder and

 stopped. Fortunately for Ore, the creature was between him

 727

  

  

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 and the rock when they crashed into it. Its body bones

 snapped; its wing bones had already cracked during the

 tumble.

 Ore tried to get up so that he could seize the bird-animal

 around its skinny neck and break it. He was unable to do so.

 But the thing was also half-paralyzed. Its legs kicked, and

 it swayed its snakelike neck while its beak opened and shut,

 clack-clacking. After a minute or so, its enormous yellow

 eyes glazed, and it was dead.

 Ore lay for a long time while the sun slid on its arc across

 the blue. He saw two creatures like his attacker above him.

 They were circling, their heads cocked to observe him. He

 hoped that he could get up before they decided that it was

 safe for them to land and dine on him. Meanwhile, as long

 as he was not in danger, he would take his ease. If ease

 could be called a state in which he hurt everywhere. He had

 lost skin from many parts of his body, including the private,

 and what was not scraped away was nearly so. Also, his

 head, knees, elbows, toe bones, ears, lips, nose, chin, and

 genitals had been battered many times. The pain in his head

 told him that he could have a concussion.

 "Welcome to Anthema, the Unwanted World!" he mut-

 tered.

 His father had certainly fixed him. But it would not be

 forever. If he. Ore, could do anything about it, and he

 would let nothing stop him, he would find his way to Los

 and kill him. Nevertheless, he groaned with pain. It was all

 right to groan and moan and even weep. No one was

 watching him.

 Except me, Jim thought. I'm watching. But it's OK if he

 relieves himself with moans and groans. I'm hurting, too,

 every bit as much as he, and I wish I could moan and groan.

 I can't. But when he does it, he's doing it also for me,

 though he doesn't know that.

 725

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 Jim thought intensely about loosing himself from Ore. He

 did not want to endure this pain a second longer than he had

 to. To return to his room in the ward would be to shed this

 tortured body immediately. But he hung on while telling

 himself that he would not desert Ore in the next few

 seconds. Something kept him from leaving. A sense of

 shame if he abandoned Ore? That was ridiculous. Ore

 would be neither hurt nor relieved if his invisible and

 intangible companion left him.

 Yet, Jim felt that he would be a coward if he took the easy

 way out.

 During Jim's battle with himself, Ore had risen and was

 walking slowly down the slope. Each movement of each

 limb was an odyssey of pain. Despite this, Ore did not stop.

 He left the pile of rock fragments at the bottom of the

 mountain and made his way through the forest. This was

 mainly trees resembling tall pines but with scarlet tufts at

 the ends of the branches. Their odor combined that of

 vanilla and peanuts. Large bushes with barrel trunks from

 the top of which sprouted twelve long femlike fronds were

 in the spaces among the trees. Insects swarmed around the

 bushes. They seemed to be attracted by a yellow sticky fluid

 welling up from the base of the fronds. A stench like that of

 rotten potatoes with a dash of Limburger cheese rose from

 it.

 The trees were populated with mouse-sized flying mam-

 mals. They swooped down, gulped insects, and flew back

 to rest on the branches. One fluttered by close to Ore. He

 snatched it out of the air, squeezed it until its thin hollow

 bones broke, ripped off its wings, tore off its head and legs,

 and drank its blood. Then, using his fingernails, he stripped

 off its skin and popped it onto his mouth. Chewing slowly

 so that he could separate the bones from the flesh with his

 tongue. Ore continued through the woods.

 729

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 Jim was horrified. At the same time, he felt Ore's

 satisfaction at having something to eat. That feeling over-

 came Jim's disgust before long.

 What Jim came to know quickly, because Ore was

 thinking about it, was that young Lords were taught how to

 survive and even flourish in the wilderness. Ore had eaten

 raw flesh many times before. But when he was able to build

 a fire he would cook his meat.

 There was plenty of flint in this area. He would work it

 into knives, spearheads, axes, and arrowheads. Then he

 would kill animals with the weapons he would make and

 from their skins make clothing and bags. After that, he

 would build a raft and float down the river.

 Eighteen days after deciding this, he arrived on his raft at

 the broad mouth of the river. Beyond it was a sea.

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 CHAPTER 1 8

 SOMEONE ELSE WAS in Ore's mind.

 Jim had been frightened many times since entering the young

 Lord. That there might be another person or thing sharing Ore's

 mind terrified him. It was so ... so ... loathsome

 and ... creepy-crawly. It made him so sick he would have

 thrown up if he'd had a stomach and a throat. The presence of a

 stranger-—no doubt threatening—violated him.

 Actually, he did not know the exact nature of the outsider

 who was now inside Ore. The first intimation that someone

 else—some Thing else—had moved in was two days after

 Ore had set up camp at the river's mouth. Jim felt the

 presence of the other. How could he put into words just how

 he sensed it? He could not. He just knew that it had not been

 there until the black moment when he became aware that it

 was present. It was like seeing the shadow of H. G. Wells's

 invisible man. Or like when, as a child, he had waked up in

 the middle of the night and known that a monster was in the

 737

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 closet and watching him from behind the half-open door.

 The difference now was there was indeed something in the

 closet of Ore's brain. Jim's imagination had not evoked it

 from his unconscious mind. It was truly there.

 Just how did he know that the thing's purpose was sinister?

 The same way, he supposed, that a man dying of thirst in the

 desert knew why the vulture was circling above him.

 When Ore had been within a day's travel on the raft to the

 sea, he had awakened that morning in a storm of blue stuff. It

 had been wind-blown from upriver, and it was composed of

 hand-sized azure pieces shaped like snowflakes. They gave off

 a strong walnutty odor. For a few minutes, the flakes were so

 numerous that Ore could not see more than ten feet away.

 Abruptly, the downfall thinned. A few flakes spun in, and the

 storm was over. They did not melt, but most of them were

 gone by evening. A horde of insects, birds, and animals

 spurted from the deep woods and devoured the flakes. Those

 that escaped the feeding frenzy turned brown many hours later

 and were ignored by the animals.

 Ore, seeing this, decided he would share the banquet with

 them. The flakes felt like dried crystallized fungus. They

 tasted, however, like cooked and sugared asparagus. He

 stuffed himself with them though he had to drink a lot of

 water afterward. They dried out his tissues.

 Jim theorized it might contain some sort of virus which

 infiltrated the eater's body. Then the virus would latch onto the

 host's nervous system and, somehow, change from a disorga-

 nized mass to a copy of the host's neural system. It became that

 being, or a copy thereof, because it was a ghostly reconstruction

 of the nerves and brain of the animal it occupied. It dispossessed

 the host as an identity, and it replaced the host's consciousness

 with its borrowed consciousness.

 Jim had a figurative headache while thinking about this.

 He came to realize that he could not know where the thing

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 RED ORC'S RAGE

 came from or how it got into Ore's mind. It could be a

 coincidence that the thing appeared shortly after Ore had

 eaten the blue flakes.

 Forget explanations, Jim told himself. Deal with the here

 and the now. Find a way to fight this unseen, handless, and

 faceless entity. Jim wondered how he could warn Ore about

 it? After a while, he realized that he could not. The battle,

 if there was to be a battle, was going to be between himself

 and the thing.

 Since he was tired of just calling it a thing, he decided

 that he would name it. Everything had to have a name, a

 label. What could it be?

 "Ghostbrain" came to him. As good a name as any.

 Ghostbrain it was.

 Five days after arriving at the sea. Ore was hunting for fresh

 meat. After three hours, he glimpsed one of the forest-

 dwelling antelopes and began stalking it. An arrow was fitted

 to his bow, ready to leap forth and plunge into the brown-and-

 black dappled side of the cervine. Something spooked it before

 he could get within range. It leaped away, dodging around tall

 bushes and jumping over the shorter ones.

 Cursing silently, he approached the area where it had

 been. He was cautious. Whatever had frightened it might be

 a large and dangerous beast. Then, peering through a bush,

 he saw the cause of the deer's alarm. It was about the size

 and shape of a skunk, its big bushy black tail waving. It was

 digging into the ground with its shovel-shaped and long-

 clawed paws. The rood it sought was buried only an inch or

 two in the ground. It did not take long for the beast to

 uncover and to start eating it.

 Ore would have been disgusted under different circum-

 stances. The loathsome creature mostly ate carrion and

 excrement and anything edible that was dead or near-dead.

 This time. Ore was too astounded to feel repulsion. The

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 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 meal the beast had unearthed was a pile of feces, which he had

 expected. What he had not expected was fresh human feces.

 He was not the only person on this planet.

 He whirled, scanning the woods behind him. His heart

 was beating hard, not because of joy but because that other

 person might be stalking him.

 He glimpsed a dark face and a stone spearhead dropping

 behind a bush.

 He got on the other side of the bush and looked intently all

 around him. The dark man could have companions. When he

 was fairly certain that there were none, he called out, "I am

 Ore, son of Los and Enitharmon! I am alone! There is no need

 for us to try to kill each other! I am looking for the gate out of

 this world! I have no quarrel with anyone but my father! Let us

 make peace! Each of us has a better chance of finding the gate

 if we pool our brains and resources!"

 He waited. There was no response, and he was sure that

 the dark man had left the bush the moment he knew that he

 had been observed.

 He repeated the speech.

 Then a man spoke loudly, though from behind Ore. His

 Thoan differed somewhat from Ore's in pronunciation and

 pitch, but it was completely understandable.

 "You say your only quarrel is with the accursed Los?"

 "Right!"

 "No one else was stranded here with you?"

 "Not that I know," Ore said.

 "Put the arrow back in the quiver," the man said. "Then

 stand up. I will come to you, though not very close, and I'll

 have my spear ready. But I would prefer that we be

 friends."

 After some more talking, mostly to ensure that one did

 not have any advantage over the other, the man walked out

 from behind a tree. He was shorter than Ore but broader. He

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 RED ORC'S RAGE

 wore a tight-fitting fur cap and a fur loincloth. A leather belt

 tied together with thongs was around his waist. It held

 leather containers in which were a stone knife and a stone

 ax. His quiver and bow had been left behind. His skin was

 deep brown, his nose was flat and broad, and his lips were

 fully everted. The hair that fell out from under the cap was

 gleaming black and slightly wavy.

 When he was twenty feet from Ore, he stopped. The dark

 brown eyes looked wary, though he was showing large

 white teeth in a big grin.

 "You are Ore, son of Los and Enitharmon," he said. "I

 am Ijim, son of Natho and Ocalythron."

 "Ijim of the Dark Woods?" Ore said.

 "Yes, I am—was—Lord of the World of Dark Woods."

 "You are my great-great-granduncle," Ore said.

 "Which does not necessarily mean that we arc friends,"

 Ijim said. "As they say in more than one world, you can

 choose your friends, but a cousin is a cousin, like it or not."

 While they kept the distance between them unchanged,

 Ore outlined his story. During this, he kept glancing to both

 sides and looking swiftly behind him. What Ijim said about

 his being alone might be true. But an overtrusting Lord was

 soon a dead one, according to the ancient saw.

 Ijim said, "So, you are the son of the extraordinarily

 beautiful Enitharmon and of Los, the Eternal Prophet, the

 Possessor of the Moon! Such was he titled when he lived in

 the world he ruled before moving into his present one, long

 before Enitharmon became his wife and long before you

 were bom. Here, briefly, is my story."

 A Lord, a woman named Ololon, had found a way to

 avoid the ingenious traps Ijim had set in the gate giving

 entrance to his world. Ololon had come close to slaying

 Ijim, but he had gotten away. However, while being

 pursued through a series of gates from one world to another,

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 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 Ijim had been forced to take a gate which led he did not

 know where. It was one-way, and it opened, he soon found

 out, to Anthema. That was forty-four years ago. Since then,

 Ijim had been looking for the gate which would take him out

 of the Unwanted World.

 Forty-four years! Jim Grimson thought. During that time,

 Ijim must surely have eaten the blue flakes. That meant a

 ghostbrain was now using his body and mind. So, it was not

 Ijim talking to Ore. It was a Thing.

 Then he thought that that was not, in a sense, true. The

 ghostbrain had become Ijim, was thinking like Ijim, was, in

 effect, Ijim. The first Ijim was dead. The second Ijim was

 no different from the first. Thus, he was not one bit more

 sinister than the first one. That one had probably been

 sinister enough to satisfy anyone.

 "As you said, nephew, neither of us has anything the

 other wants. Unless you desire Anthema!" He laughed

 wildly for some seconds, making Ore wonder if his long

 solitude had driven him crazy.

 After wiping the tears of laughter with the back of his hand,

 Ijim said, "You can have it. I can't leave soon enough. So,

 what do you say, nephew Ore? Shall we drop this mutual

 suspicion and work together as a dedicated and loving team?"

 "As much as two Thoan can."

 "Good! Let us give each other the kiss of eternal

 friendship and not feel each other's back for a soft spot in

 which to thrust a dagger while doing so!"

 Ore thought that his uncle's kiss was rather long, and he

 did not think that Ijim had to feel his buttocks for so long.

 Perhaps Ijim longed so for human contact that he did not

 want to let loose of human flesh without thoroughly

 warming himself with it. Also, Ijim may have lusted for

 only women while they had been easily available, but he

 736

 RED ORCS RAGE

 was willing, after forty-four years of enforced abstinence,

 to take whatever came his way.

 They walked back to the camp side by side. Ijim explained

 that he had seen Ore the day before. Instead of joyfully

 approaching Ore, however, he had stayed hidden. He had

 intended to study him for a while before announcing himself.

 Ore said that it was quite a coincidence that the only two

 humans on a planet should cross paths.

 "Not so much," Ijim said. "I came here out of the same

 gate you did, the cave. I explored the cave but the gate was

 too well hidden, must've needed a code word to be

 revealed. After forty-four years of searching vainly for

 another gate and living like a beast all that time, I came

 back here. It seemed to me that the outgoing gate might be

 located close to the ingoing. Of course, I thought that when

 I first got here. I looked the local area over so closely and

 so many times that, even now, I can remember its every

 detail. But I was going to make another try. It couldn't hurt.

 This time, though, since you have a clue on you, the

 Shambarimem medallion, we might have a good chance."

 "Seen anything around here that could be connected,

 however remotely, to a horn?" Ore said. "Not just visually,

 perhaps verbally or analogically, whatever?"

 "Nothing. But then I wasn't looking for a landmark

 which might be somehow linked to the image of a horn.

 Now, it's different."

 After they got to the camp and talked some more, they

 went hunting together. Within twenty minutes, they had

 bagged a four-tusked piglike animal. Before eating it. Ore

 decided to swim in the river. Though he needed a bath, he

 also wished to find out if he could really trust Ijim. He left

 his weapons on the bank, but the dark man soon joined him.

 Satisfied that Ijim was, for the time being, anyway, a true

 partner. Ore got out of the water. Ijim stayed in. But he

 737

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 called out to Ore as Ore bent down to pick up his clothes. And

 Ijim laughed mightily. It seemed that he would never stop.

 When he did, he said, "Don't dress yet."

 "Why not?" Ore said. He was not sure what Ijim was up to.

 "You can't see it!" Ijim shouted, and he laughed some more.

 "See what?"

 "Oh, that Los!" Ijim said. "He played a funny trick on

 you, but it's a sad one, too. Might have been sad for you,

 that is! Fortunately for both of us, Los did not foresee that

 you would find another Lord here."

 "What are you talking about? Get to the point, man!"

 "You can't see it!" the Lord of the Dark Woods cried out.

 "You might never have seen it, might've wandered forever

 over this terrible place and not seen it!"

 "Are you going to hold me in suspense until I die from

 curiosity? Or will I have to choke it out of you?"

 "There's a map on your back!" Ijim cried. "Between

 your shoulder blades and going down to a point almost even

 with your hipbones!"

 Grinning, he waded out of the river. Ore kept his back to

 him so he could study the map, if it was indeed a map. Ore

 was not sure that Los had not played a savage joke on him

 that was a double joke. The map could be misleading and

 lead all over the planet and end up in a place that did not

 have a gate. However, why would he put a fake map where

 his son would probably never see it?

 After Ijim had dried off his nephew's back with a piece of

 chamoislike skin, he turned him around to get the full light

 of the sun.

 "What a sense of humor your father, may the silver arrows

 of Elynittria skewer his liver, has! Black, to be sure, blacker

 than Shambarimem's depression the first time his Horn was

 stolen, but it's worthy of evoking great laughter! On your back

 where you can't see it, ho, ho, ho, aauueeegh!"

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 RED ORC'S RAGE

 "Choke to death from laughter for all I care," Ore

 snarled. "But first tell me what the map looks like. Better

 yet, draw it in the mud. I can transfer it to a parchment—

 after I make some."

 Ijim had danced around, bent over and hoohawing and

 then almost strangling from the phlegm in his throat. When

 he recovered, he stood behind Ore again.

 "There's a tiny black dot at the top of the map," he said. "A

 drawing of an arrow sticks out from it. I assume that's the

 beginning, the gate you and I came out of. There's a curvy

 blue line starting from the end of the arrow. On both sides of

 it are black broken lines in the shape of triangles. The

 mountains forming the river valley. So, the blue curvy line is

 the river we both took when we left the gate. It ends by

 spreading out into the crooked lines. The mouth of the river

 and the sea it empties into, I suppose. Where we are now. There

 are a few blue wavy lines beyond the river's end, but they're

 shorter and sharper. Must indicate the sea. Wait a minute."

 After several seconds, he said, "I was looking for words

 to identify landmarks. There aren't any, and I doubt the map

 is anywhere near scale. It's a very rough and not at all

 satisfactory guide, but certainly better than none.

 "Let's see. Here's a broken green line starting with a

 small arrow. It goes north of here since this estuary faces

 west, but there are no landmark signs along it. It then turns

 east, which should be inland. There is something where it

 turns! Let me look closely at it. It's very small."

 Then he said, "Looks like the outline of an octopuslike animal.

 What in the name of Enion is that supposed to indicate?"

 "We'll find out when we get there," Ore said sharply. His

 uncle, for some reason, was getting on his nerves. Yet, Ore

 should have been dizzy with happiness to have Ijim's

 companionship and to have him discover the map. Perhaps,

 Ore thought, it was because he felt like a fool and Ijim was

 739

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 laughing at him because he was a fool. But then Ijim

 seemed to find everything funny.

 As the days went by and they walked northward along the

 coast, Ijim's too frequent and too easy laughter got on Ore's

 nerves. Finally, he could endure it no longer. He stopped his

 uncle in the middle of his hysterical and inappropriate hee-

 hawing.

 "Why do you do that?" he said harshly.

 Ijim blinked, and he said, "Do what?"

 "Giggle and shriek all the time like an inexperienced and

 shy young girl who's nervous because she's with a boy."

 Ijim looked sullen. "I didn't know I was doing that. If I

 am, and I don't admit I was, it's because I've been alone for

 forty-four years, no human being to talk to."

 He began to whine. "You'd have some peculiar ways if

 you'd been as isolated as I was. Forty-four years! Think

 about that!"

 "I suppose so," Ore said. "But if I was as silly and

 maddening as you, I'd surely want someone to straighten

 me out."

 "Telling you that wouldn't be dangerous, would it? Oh,

 no! Speak up, and die, right? You're not the kind of person

 who'd take kindly to being insulted, right?"

 Ore said nothing. After a few moments of silence, Ijim

 said, "Don't be angry with me. I just met you after

 forty-four years of absolute solitude and already you're

 yelling at me!"

 "Just quit that insane laughing. Don't laugh except when

 there's something funny to laugh at."

 Ijim shrugged his shoulders. "I'll try. But after forty-four years

 of suffering through every minute, every second ..."

 "And quit whining about 'forty-four years'!" Ore roared.

 "I'm tired of hearing it! It's over now! Quit living in the

 past! You're not alone anymore!"

 740

 "I'd be better off," Ijim said. He looked hurt and

 comically dignified at the same time.

 For a long while after that conversation, Ijim sulked.

 Only when Ore addressed him did he reply, and he did so in

 as few words as possible. That angered Ore almost as much

 as the laughter did. And, twice, when he suddenly turned

 around, he caught Ijim sticking his tongue out at him and

 gesturing obscenely.

 "Manathu Vorcyon!" Ore said the first time he surprised

 his uncle in the act. "You're how many thousands of years

 old? Yet you behave like a spoiled child!"

 "Can't help it," Ijim said. "Forty-four years of

 living ..."

 "Don't say it!" Ore shouted. "One more time, and I

 swear I'll leave you! You can be alone for forty-four more

 years! Forever, for all I care!"

 For a long while, Ijim took care to avoid mentioning the

 length of his stay on Anthema. But he complained often and

 about the most trivial things. Such as stubbing his toe. He

 spent fifteen minutes talking about it and wondering bitterly

 why life had been so hard on him. Obstacles and injuries lay

 everywhere in his path.

 At last. Ore said, "I've been treated unfairly, brutally,

 too, mostly by my father. You don't hear a word about that

 from me, do you? It's the way it is. Endure it. But try to do

 something about it. Try to change what you don't like. And

 quit yapping about it!"

 "Yes, but ..."

 "No buts!"

 "You're a hard man," Ijim said. His eyes became wet,

 and he snuffled. "Not all of us are made of stone. Some of

 us are genuine human beings, flesh and blood with a heart

 that feels, whereas yours ..."

 "Grow up! Or is it too late for that?"

 J4I

  

  

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 Jim, listening to this, was struck with a thought. Struck

 was right, right on! Holy Mother! Ore could just as well be

 talking about him, Jim Grimson! He had been complaining

 about his lot and feeling sorry for himself a good part of his

 life. And, until recently, he had really done nothing to solve

 the problems he'd been whining about.

 Then another idea hit him like a brass-knuckled fist. Ijim!

 Pronounced EE-jeem. But, in his mind, spelled Ijim.

 I ... Jim. The Dark Lord of the Woods was named I (am) Jim.

 Was Ijim—and, hence, all of this—just a fantasy?

 Had his unconscious mind given him the name and the

 character of Ijim to show him, circuitously, himself?

 For a moment, he came close to losing his faith that the

 Tiersian universes were real. He suddenly felt sick and, at

 the same time, weightless. The world, as seen through

 Ore's eyes, wavered and became cloudy. The light dimmed.

 He felt himself rising. He was headed back to Earth. But,

 though handless, he grabbed on to something—what, he did

 not know—and he held on. The light brightened; things

 became steady and clear again.

 The Freudian significance of Ijim's name was too obvi-

 ous. It was just a coincidence. He knew that this world and

 all in it were as real, as hard, and as sharp-edged as his

 native universe.

 For a while there, though . . .

 Thirty-two days after Jim's moment of dark doubt. Ore and

 Ijim came to the place indicated by the octopuslike mark on

 the map. They did not know they were there until they got

 to the end of a valley out of which a small river flowed into

 the sea.

 Ore was trudging along the shore through water up to his

 ankles. Behind was Ijim, silent (for once) except for the

 splash-splash of his feet in the rising tide. There were many

 M2

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 large black boulders about ten feet high in this area. Ore

 was passing between two separated by about twelve feet

 when he stopped. Then he yelled.

 Something under the water had gripped his right ankle.

 And then it yanked him hard toward the nearest boulder.

 Suddenly, he was on his back and being dragged, the green

 and stinking surface scum washing into his mouth and over

 his eyes.

 Ijim shouted, "What is it?"

 He snatched his stone ax from his belt and leaped toward

 Ore. The young Lord had stopped yelling and was futilely

 struggling to loosen the thing gripping his ankle. He yelled

 again when a section of the boulder toward which he was

 being hauled slid down. Inside the rock was an assembly of

 green serrations as sharp as sawteeth and larger than a

 lion's. Moreover, there were at least a hundred.

 Then a brownish tentacle as thick as two fingers held

 together humped for a moment out of the water. Ijim, seeing

 that, screamed. He had also realized that the rock was really

 a plant or animal. And it meant to eat Ore.

 Ijim screamed again. He jumped high. The clawed tip of

 another tentacle rose briefly from the spot he had just left.

 The Lord came down straddle-legged and hopped back-

 ward. The tentacle end thrashed around, groping for him.

 Ore had by then gotten his flint ax from his belt and was

 chopping down on the tentacle pulling him. It was not easy

 to do since he had to sit up and lean far forward while being

 pulled along. He called, "Ijim! Help me!"

 The Lord of the Dark Woods turned and ran away and did

 not stop until he was at a safe distance.

 Ore shouted, "You coward!" After that, he was too busy.

 Especially since a second tentacle had coiled around the

 thigh of his other leg. But he kept hacking until he felt the

 grip on his ankle give way. When he was within a few feet

 of the gaping mouth, he hewed apart the other tentacle. But

 143

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 he came close to being snared by other tentacles as he ran

 ankle-deep through the water to where Ijim danced in a

 frenzy of despair.

 Panting, Ore said, "I should kill you!"

 He raised his ax, dripping with water and a thick green

 saplike fluid. Ijim ran and did not stop until he was fifty feet

 away. He turned, and he shouted in a high-pitched and

 quavering voice, "I couldn't help it! Forty-four years I've

 survived by running away! It's a conditioned reflex by now!

 But I'm not really a coward! I'll do better next time! You'll

 see!"

 "Next time?" Ore yelled. "There won't be any next

 time!"

 "Kill me then!" Ijim shrieked. "Find out what loneliness

 and no one to talk to mean! You'll end up being just like

 me! And the next time you need me, you'll be all alone! I

 won't let you down, I swear! If I do, I'll kill myself!"

 He got down on his knees and lifted his hands toward

 Ore. "I'm begging you, don't leave me here!"

 Ore spat toward Ijim. But he said, "All right! One more

 chance! But don't get near me for a long while!"

 He went eastward, detouring the boulders by many yards.

 Ijim stayed behind him, and he did not come to Ore's

 camping place that night. Ore could see him in the light of

 the fire. He was a shadow sitting with his back against a tree

 trunk. In the morning, Ijim approached him. He was

 smiling as if nothing had happened. But the rest of that day,

 he did nothing to irritate Ore.

 J44

 CHAPTER 1 9

 DAWN BROUGHT WITH its light a darkness.

 Ore opened his eyes and could not see. His nose seemed

 to be clogged. His mouth was held shut by something, and

 something was pressing on his tongue.

 Jim had been aware of this some seconds before Ore was

 fully roused. Though he had screamed voicelessly with his

 no-tongue, he could not, of course, be heard.

 Ore tried to tear off the thing covering his face. It felt

 fuzzy and sticky, and the tendrils enfolding the front part of

 his tongue tasted like prunes. He rolled around in the

 sleeping bag, which covered him to his waist. Then he

 scrambled out of it, stood up, and then began whirling

 around and around as he struggled. He heard Ijim's half-

 strangled bellows just before he bumped into him. He fell

 backward from the impact and landed on his buttocks.

 Making no effort to get up, he dug his fingers into the meaty

 layer under the sticky and fuzzy top of the thing. He was

 745

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER RED ORC'S RAGE

 unable to lift it. Then he felt along its edges, his fright now

 become mindless panic as his nose and mouth were entirely

 filled. When he found that the edges were near his ears, he

 got to his knees and groped around until he found his

 sleeping bag. If he could not tear off the thing choking him,

 he would die in a minute or so. Very soon, anyway.

 Thrusting a hand into the bag, he located the scabbarded

 flint knife he kept by his side while sleeping. He slid its point

 under the edge of the choker. Though he cut his skin, he did

 not care. When he had half the length of the stone blade under

 the meaty layer, he lifted it. Then he turned the knife so that

 the cutting edge was up. Savagely, he pushed upward. The

 blade sliced through the fleshly stuff. He grabbed its edges and

 ripped them to one side. The stuff came out of his nose and mouth

 and from his eyes, though the violent removal hurt as if he were

 tearing tape from his skin. Now, he could see and breathe.

 The thing in his hand looked like a bright-green piece of

 thick cloth with tendrils and thick growths on its underside.

 Drawing in deep breaths, he hurled it away and hastened to

 help Ijim. The Lord, who had also gotten out of his sleeping

 bag, was rolling back and forth on the ground while he vainly

 tried to rip the smotherer from his face. Ore used his knife to

 pry it loose and hurl it away. It fell among hundreds of similar

 things on the ground. The tree branches were festooned with

 them. Dozens more were slowly descending to the ground.

 Unlike those that had landed, they had swollen backs. Then he

 saw the humps of those that had just struck the earth. They

 were deflating. He supposed that they had been filled with gas.

 He became aware that a half-dozen of the things were

 sticking to his body and that his sleeping bag was covered with

 them. These fell off shortly afterward. Apparently, if they did

 not land on an orifice in living flesh, they did not stay attached.

 Everywhere he looked, up, down, around, on the trees

 and bushes, out in the river, were the bright-green plants.

 Or were they animals?

 746

 Ijim, blood streaming from his face, gasped for a while

 before speaking. His fingers, moving over his face, felt the

 liquid. He lifted his hand to stare at it.

 "You cut me!" He laughed. "But you cut your own face,

 too! Only way to do it, heh?"

 "Did you ever run across these things before?"

 "Certainly not! I'd have never gone to sleep in the open with-

 out covering my face, you can bet on that! From now on . . . !"

 "What about the stuff that also comes down from the sky,

 the things that look like blue flakes?"

 "Sure," Ijim said as he rose. "At least a dozen times. It

 isn't bad eating."

 Jim thought, Ijim's not Ijim. He's not human. If he ate

 the blue flakes, he's been taken over by the ghostbrain by

 now. The identityless nonentity had attained identity and

 entitydom. But it would not know that. It would think that

 it had always been Ijim. It had no mind in its viral state.

 When it took over Ijim's mind, it began thinking. But it

 itself had no history of which it knew. So, it would always

 be Ijim to itself. Which, in a sense, was true.

 Mister Lum had once said that humans had identity, but

 they had not yet succeeded in defining "identity." Jim tried

 to make his own definition now. The only result was

 confusion and a phantom headache. He abandoned the

 attempt and did not intend to resume it.

 The thing that was called Ijim was to all intents and pur-

 poses the exact same as the original Ijim. Or so Jim thought.

 Somehow, that the Lord was occupied by a ghostbrain seemed

 to make him more sinister. That, Jim told himself, was

 because he had read too many science-fiction stories and seen

 too many horror movies. In these, the almost always evil alien

 meant to eat, enslave, or mind-possess humans. Yet, could

 anything be more sinister than a human being? Some human

 beings, anyway, like Hitler, Stalin, Mao, Idi Amin—the list

 747

  

  

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 was as long as a census report. So evil were they, they seemed

 to be nonhuman. But being evil was part of being human, just

 as being good was part of being human. And these demon-

 strably evil people, without exception, high or low, Albanian

 dictator or Chicago alderman, corrupt Senator or Washington

 pimp, thought of themselves as being good.

 The two Lords broke camp and went east along the river.

 Late that afternoon, they set up camp again. Though they

 would normally have pushed on until close to dusk, they

 had to make sleeping masks to protect their mouths and

 noses from the green things. During the following two days,

 they saw a number of animals that had succumbed to the

 "chokers," as Ore called them.

 Their tendrils were growing over the rotting carcasses.

 Those that had failed to kill were turning brown and brittle.

 After that incident, Ijim began to fall into long silences

 broken by a low muttering. During these, he would stare

 wildly around. Ore would endure this behavior as long as he

 could. He would ask Ijim what he was thinking about.

 Always, Ijim would react as if he had suddenly been wakened

 from a very deep sleep. He would blink his eyes and shake his

 head and say, "What? What are you talking about?" Then he

 would deny that he was disturbed by anything.

 Jim Grimson thought that the ghostbrain, not Ijim, was

 speaking during the fugues. Maybe it was having flashes of its

 life in a previous form before it became a virus or whatever

 drifting around on the blue things. Who knew what phases it

 had gone through? A person seeing a butterfly for the first time

 would not dream that it had been a caterpillar.

 Thirty more days passed, though not without dangerous

 incidents. There were no more green chokers in their path,

 but they did see hundreds of thousands on the ground in

 another valley when they were going through a mountain

 pass. One afternoon, a sickening gas rolled down a hole in

 148

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 a mountainside, enveloped them, and left them vomiting for

 several hours and unwell for two days. The larger animals

 were similarly affected; all the small birds and animals died.

 They thought that they were getting close to the place

 where the gate was if Los had not lied. Ijim checked the

 map on his nephew's back.

 "The markings are almost at an end. Those wavy

 parentheses should mean the big lake just ahead of us."

 They were standing at the top of a steep slope. Two miles

 or more away, at the foot of the slope, was the immense

 lake Ijim had expected. It was about two miles wide at the

 end nearest to them and broadened out until it melted into

 the horizon. The forest grew almost to the water. About two

 miles east, towering cliffs suddenly bordered the lake and

 ran as far as Ore could see.

 "We'll have to build a boat or climb up and go along the

 edges of the cliffs," he said. "They're very rough and

 precipitous. I think we should make a canoe."

 "Agreed."

 Ijim continued his map reading.

 "Apparently, when we come to near the end of the lake, we

 bear right. The last mark must point out the gate place. It's a

 circle with a cross in it and many horizontal thin lines over the

 cross. Maybe close, maybe not. But . . . one step at a time.

 As the Grandmother of All, Manathu Vorcyon said, 'Who gets

 ahead of himself sees his own backside.'"

 Twenty days later, they had built an outrigger dugout

 with a mast and a woven-grass sail. It took them another ten

 days to kill enough animals, smoke and salt the meat, and

 collect nuts and berries for boatboard supplies.

 "Los is making us work hard," Ijim said. "If I get a

 chance to capture him, I'll make him pay for that. How

 about skinning him alive, just to start off with?"

 Ore smiled. If anyone was going to skin his father, he

 would be the one.

 749

 CHAPTER20

 I HE TWO LORDS had traveled an estimated three hundred

 miles since leaving the lakeshore. Yet they had seen nothing

 resembling the symbol on Ore's back.

 Ijim's fugues were becoming more frequent and longer-

 lasting. When he came out of them, he remembered nothing

 about them. In fact, he did not know that he had been in

 them. Ore, he said, was making up the whole business. He

 wanted to drive him crazy. Ore asked him why he would

 want to do that. Because, Ijim said. Ore was crazy, and the

 insane loved the company of their kind.

 The young Lord realized that it was useless to continue

 arguing with his uncle. Ijim was the mad one in this twosome.

 Therefore, he would have to be watched carefully. Ore had

 thought that his uncle was going to refrain from violence until

 the gate was found. Now, he was not sure.

 Jim Grimson was even more apprehensive than Ore. Ijim

 must die, and he must do it in Anthema. If he got to another

 750

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 world, he—the thing in him—might propagate its kind, and

 the next world and the next, all the worlds, might be taken

 over. Just how, Jim could not guess. The how no longer

 mattered. Ijim had to be killed here, and it would be best if

 his body and the thing possessing it were destroyed.

 He knew that. Ore did not.

 Ten days later, near high noon, the Lords were on top of a

 lofty ridge forming a wall along the right side of a river. They

 had been forced to climb up its slope and go along its back

 until they found more level ground. "For all we know," Ore

 told Ijim, "the landmark could be on the other side of the ridge."

 And it was.

 At the foot of the ridge was a plain stretching for perhaps

 forty miles. Another chain of mountains to the south

 bounded the plain. This contained scattered woods and

 rivers and creeks and some hilly country. A large, black,

 slowly moving object relatively near them was a herd of

 animals, grass-eaters.

 "There it is!" Ore said. He pointed at a circular object

 about two miles from the foot of the ridge and close to a

 river so small it barely escaped being a creek. The structure

 glittered in the sun as if made of glass. Its outer walls,

 forming the circle, were high and thick. Enclosed by the

 circle was a cross-shaped structure. Its walls were as thick

 as the enclosing walls. Thinner walls ran parallel to the

 horizontal wall of the cross. The whole structure had to be

 that represented by the symbol on Ore's back.

 "Great Mother of Us All!" Ore shouted, and he struck his

 hand against his forehead. "Mighty and wise Enion! How

 dumb can we be? We call ourselves Lords, and we're as

 mindless as worms! Why did we never connect the symbol

 on my back with that on the medallion! They both represent

 the grillwork in the end of Shambarimem's Horn! It was

 there right in front of us, and we never connected the two!"

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 Ijim was, at the moment, not in a fugue. He howled with

 delight and grabbed Ore's hands. They danced around and

 around, both grinning and yelling. Several times, they

 almost lost their footing on the narrow flat top of the ridge.

 Finally, panting, they stopped.

 Ore frowned then. He said, "But it's a building, an

 artifact! I didn't know there were humans here!"

 "Neither did I," Ijim said.

 "Where's the gate? Inside that building?"

 "Must be," Ijim said. Grimness had shouldered aside his

 joy. A few seconds later, he started to mutter. Knowing

 from experience that the Lord would follow him automati-

 cally, Ore started down the steep side of the ridge. Though

 he had to be careful because of loose stones here and there,

 he could stay on his feet. Ijim seemed to be enclosed on

 himself, but he did not fall. A part of him was still alert

 enough to handle simple situations.

 Halfway down. Ore exclaimed, and he stopped. Ijim,

 still muttering, halted a few feet above him. The grassy

 ground around the herd of black long-homed animals had

 opened in scores of places. Ore was too far away to make

 out the details, but the openings were like the doors of

 trapdoor spiders. Where there had been grass were now

 round black holes with discs, grass-topped on the outer

 side, sticking straight up from the ground.

 Out of the holes popped long lean gray creatures. They

 bounded toward the herd, which stampeded in the opposite

 direction. This was toward the woods fringing this part of

 the plain. Now, other gray killers were racing from the

 woods. The herd wheeled as one back toward the plain.

 Directly in its path, more trapdoors swung up. Scores of

 hunters leaped out of the holes and, like the greyhounds

 they resembled, sped toward the antelopes. When they got

 to the edge of the milling herd, they shot long, thin, gray

 752

 strands from their mouths. These arced up, shining in the

 sun, fell onto the prey, and stuck as if they were glue.

 Presently, many antelopes had fallen, their legs entangled in

 the strands. The hunters, whistling loudly, were on them

 within seconds and tore them apart with their teeth. The rest

 of the herd broke through the lines and galloped off.

 Ore started down, saying, "Ijim! Those beasts must come

 from the glassy building through underground routes to the trap-

 doors. Now we know how to get inside it, if we have the

 courage!"

 Ijim continued to mutter. When they were close to the

 beginning of the plain, they examined one of the trapdoors.

 Those in the woods had been closed. The gray beasts who had

 issued from them must intend to return via those on the plain.

 Ore pried up the round and partially grown-over lid with his

 spearhead. It rose up soundlessly. Around the neck of the hole

 was a rim into which the door fitted. The rim was a hard glassy

 substance, probably the same used to form the circular building.

 The trapdoor was also made from the glassy stuff. Earth

 had been glued to its top and heaped and impregnated with

 the fixative. Grass grew from this earth.

 The hinge was provided by a substance spread at the point

 where the lid would be raised. This was hard on the edges and

 semihard between them but flexible enough to permit the lid to

 be raised without breaking loose from the rim.

 Ore suspected that all the glassy substance had been

 spewed from the gray beasts' mouths just as the entangling

 strands had been.

 About three feet below the opening of the hole was a

 platform of dirt. The animals must have jumped out from this

 to the surface. Beyond that, the tunnel slanted down and

 probably became horizontal about ten feet below the ground.

 Its wall was enclosed with the gray glassy substance. This

 must line the tunnel all the way to the entrance inside the

 building and thus keep the tunnel from collapsing.

 753

  

  

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 Ore lowered the door. They then watched the hairless

 beasts tear off chunks of flesh from the carcasses and take

 these into the holes on the plain. They were much more than

 the canines they resembled at a distance. A set of insectine

 pincers projected from the sides of their mouths. These

 moved independently of the heads' movements and cut and

 sliced the meat and then closed on large pieces. The beasts

 had long prehensile tails which curled around other pieces.

 Those animals with full burdens leaped into the holes

 carrying meat with their jaws, pincers, and tails.

 Their ears were round, thick, and flat, and their pale-

 yellow eyes were large. After listening to their whistling for

 a few minutes, Ore decided that they were communicating

 in a limited form of code. He had counted seven variations

 of a series of long and short whistles.

 "These are no dummies," he softly told Ijim. "Look at

 their foreheads. Plenty of room for brains in those skulls."

 Ijim nodded. He had recovered from the fugue halfway

 through the woods.

 "Fantastic creatures!" Ore said. "They're a combination

 of dog, termite, spider, and monkey! The Vanished Ones

 went all out when they made these! I'm telling you, Ijim, of

 all the sciences, biology is the most fascinating! Life and its

 multitudinous forms! However, the brain, the brain! That's

 the apex of life, the jewel!"

 He told Ijim that kamanbur—"whistlers"—was as good a

 name as any for the beasts.

 "Have to have a name for everything."

 He and Ijim walked through the woods to the river. There

 Ore pointed out that the plain inclined downward to the

 kamanbur structure. "Dig a ditch from the river to the

 nearest trapdoor. Flood it. The water should fill the tunnel

 and drown the stories below the surface level. During the

 diversion, we enter the nest."

 154

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 "Dig a ditch!" Ijim howled. "Are you crazy? It'll take us

 months to make the tools to dig with and then to do the

 digging! It's not a small project! Also, we'll be in full sight

 of the kamanbur while we're working. You think they're

 going to give us the time we need?"

 "What else do we have beside time?" Ore said. "Or are

 you so busy with other matters?"

 Ijim grumbled. He spoke of soft beds, soft sheets, and

 even softer women, and the delicious food and heady liquor

 and rapturing drugs and his triumphant assaults on the Lords

 of other worlds in the days before the accursed Los had

 chased him into this nightmare universe. Ore paid him no

 attention. He was thinking that antlers could be made into

 diggers to break up the earth. Shovels and spades could be

 made from strips of animal homs fixed to a hardwood base.

 Baskets to carry the dirt could be woven. Their tools would

 wear out soon, but they would just make replacements.

 First, though, he had to check out the kamanbur nest. Ijim,

 expecting a ravening horde to burst from the trapdoors,

 followed him reluctantly. No kamanbur came out, though it

 was soon apparent that the men could be seen from the structure.

 There were thousands of holes, a half-inch in diameter, in the

 walls. These would pass through a certain amount of fresh air and

 of light and provide observation apertures for the kamanbur.

 During the next few days, the Lords built a treehouse for

 sleeping and to thwart any arboreal predators. Then they

 intensively explored the neighborhood when they were not

 making tools for their project. And, to Ore's delight, he

 found a number of trapdoors on the other side of the river.

 "Their tunnels go under the river!" he said. "Under! That

 means we won't have to dig that tremendous ditch on the

 other side! We'll let the river flood the nest!"

 "You mean we'll have to go down the tunnel under the

 river? And just how do you think we'll break the sheathing?

 155

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 And even if we can, the noise of hammering and pounding

 will bring the kamanbur running!"

 "You've been a deep pain in my ass for some time now,"

 Ore said. "You used to be so jolly I forgave you your irritating

 habits and your running off at the mouth. Not to mention your

 crazy fits. But I'm really tired of your pessimism."

 "What crazy fits?"

 Ijim was bristling.

 Ore went down into the tunnel. The trapdoor was left

 propped open. The young Lord hoped that this would make

 some fresh air flow through the tunnel. Ijim did not come

 along with Ore.

 "There's not enough space for two to work together," he

 said. "Anyway, this is just a reconnoiter. You don't need me."

 "Fine!" Ore said. "You can work with your flint. We're

 going to need a couple of hundred awls before we're through."

 Ijim had mentioned the night before Ore's descent into

 the tunnel that he should tell him that he tended to panic in

 closed small places. He would not like it if Ore told anyone

 about this. But there it was.

 "That doesn't mean I won't be going with you when we

 try for the gate. I'll make it through with you. Somehow.

 I've done it before when it was absolutely necessary. And if

 it didn't take too long."

 Thus, Ore was now alone as he crawled on hands and

 knees. He wore pads on his knees and gloves on his hands. He

 carried a lit torch and several extra torches. Attached to his belt

 was the end of a thin strip of rawhide. He had estimated the

 distance between the trapdoor and the point at which the tunnel

 would be deepest under the river. To make sure, he had probed

 the river in its middle to gauge its depth.

 When the strip became tight, it would indicate that he

 should stop crawling. He hoped that the estimate was near

 the reality. He also hoped that the torch fumes would not

 756

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 overcome him. As it was, they made him cough and burned

 his eyes.

 After a near unendurable length of time, the strip tau-

 tened. He took his gloves off, wet a finger, and held it up.

 There seemed to be a very slight flow of air, but he could

 just be imagining that. Wishful thinking or not, he had to go

 to work. He got down onto his back. After removing from

 his bag the wooden support he had built, he set it by his

 side. Having placed the torch upright in the support, he

 incised a square on the top of the tunnel with one of the

 sharp flint scrapers from the bag.

 Ijim was right. Hammering or pounding would bring the

 kamanbur. Eventually, he would have to use a stone

 hammer. But that could wait until the last moment. The

 scraper made a screeching noise which he hoped would die

 out before it reached the other end of the tunnel.

 He was taking a chance that some lone kamanbur or a

 pack of kamanbur would come along this tunnel. If that

 happened, it would happen.

 Though the glassy substance was hard, it was softer than

 iron. It could be cut as easily as bronze, though "easily"

 was only a relative term. Tiny flakes shining in the

 torchlight fell down onto his chest. Stopping now and then

 to wipe the sweat from his face or to drink water from his

 leather bottle, he moved the edge of the scraper across the

 lines of the square. After an indeterminate time, he stopped.

 The torch fumes seemed to be stronger, and he felt

 somewhat faint. His moistened finger could detect no

 movement of air. Alarmed, he took the torch from its

 support and crawled back toward the entrance trapdoor.

 He and Ijim had arranged signals for emergencies. The

 Lord of the Dark Woods would tug the strip twice, pause,

 then tug it twice again to call Ore out of the tunnel. Ore

 would do the same if something happened to him that

 757

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 required that Ijim drag him out by the leather strip. Ore

 crawled back to the platform. The trapdoor was closed. The

 end of the strip which Ijim was to hold was lying on the

 platform. Something must be wrong if Ijim had shut the door.

 He rolled the torch down the slope so that its light would not

 be seen when he raised the door. Slowly, he moved the door

 up about an inch. He saw several kamanbur moving around at

 the base of the tree which held the little hut he and Ijim had

 built. The lower branches were festooned with the shiny gray

 strands spat from the creatures' mouths. When he raised the

 door another inch, he saw that the treehouse was beyond the

 reach of these. Ijim's dark face was in a window.

 An hour later, the beasts had left. Ore crawled out of the

 tunnel and went to the tree. He called up softly, "What hap-

 pened?"

 Ijim, while climbing down, said, "They came to investi-

 gate. I think they came through a tunnel upriver and then

 circled around through the woods. I saw them before they got

 close, and I ran to the tree. I'm sorry I didn't have time to

 signal you. The only thing I could do was to close the trapdoor

 and hope they hadn't seen me doing it. I guess they didn't."

 "Maybe, now they've satisfied their curiosity, they'll

 leave us alone," Ore said.

 He went down the tunnel after a while and resumed work.

 The next day, he crawled to the other end of the tunnel

 before he began his scraping. He had to determine that that

 exit-entrance was open. Or, if it were closed, that it could

 be opened from the tunael side. A pale light in a round

 frame and loud whistling sounds showed that there was no

 trapdoor on this end. Since he might be smelled by the

 tenants, he went no closer.

 Six days later, while he was incising, a drop of water fell

 on his face. That was soon followed by a steady drip. He

 continued scraping away in the narrow trenches forming the

 758

 square. Water was soon oozing out from all four of the lines.

 Then, in one comer, it spurted out. He got out of the tunnel.

 "I don't think it's going to give way until it's hammered

 at," he told Ijim. "The kamanbur will hear me. But if I can

 loosen it enough so the water breaks through entirely, it

 won't matter."

 "You don't want to wait until tomorrow?" Ijim said. He

 was pale under his dark pigment.

 "Let's get everything ready now," Ore said. "That won't

 take more than a few minutes. Then I go back. Be ready."

 The sun was three-quarters of the way across the sky. Big

 black clouds were building up to the west, and the faint

 sound of thunder reached them.

 The trees on the north side of the bank partly obscured the

 vision of the watchers in the nest. Ore and Ijim had also

 transplanted several large bushes to conceal their activities.

 Ore was not worried about being seen. But a party of

 kamanbur, reinvestigating the men, could show up at any

 time.

 When he got back to the square, he drove several flint

 awls into its comers. His stone hammer struck again and

 again against a leather pad placed on the blunt end of the

 awl. He did not want to make much noise until he was ready

 to begin hammering on the square itself. The awls punched

 through the comers easily enough, though he had to use a

 different tool for each comer. The ends became quickly

 blunted or broken off.

 Water had formed in a pool below the square. He was

 half-sunk in it. Suddenly, water spurted out of the tiny hole

 just made in a comer of the incised square. Its high-pressure

 jet half-blinded him, and he had to stop several times to

 blow water out of his nose. Despite the difficulties, he

 finished with the awls. Then he used a heavy stone hammer.

 The force of the blows was decreased by lack of space to

 759

  

  

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER RED ORC'S RAGE

 swing the hammer and by his position on his back. Also, he

 had moved back so that his face was not directly below the

 square. That changed the angle of attack. He persisted,

 knowing that many lesser blows would equal a few strong

 ones.

 Between the impacts of the stone on the square, he could

 hear whistlings. The kamanbur would soon be on him.

 Then, as he had expected—no way to avoid it—the shiny

 gray square shot down and against his chest. It struck hard

 enough to hurt him. The water spouted through and hit him

 with a force harder than that of the square. He rolled over,

 though the water pressed him to the tunnel floor for a

 moment. He began crawling away as swiftly as he could.

 Water rose until he was swimming, though its advance bore

 him upward at a slight angle toward the trapdoor. The

 tunnel had become black as soon as the water had doused

 the torch flame. His tools were left behind. It was his life

 that concerned him now.

 Ijim was supposed to be hauling in the line as hard and as

 swiftly as he could. If his efforts were doing any good, they

 were not apparent. Ore could feel no tug on the line.

 He saw daylight ahead. The trapdoor had been left open.

 Then he could see nothing. The water had filled the tunnel

 and was rising faster then he could swim. A few seconds

 later, he burst into the nearly vertical part of the tunnel just

 below the trapdoor. Ijim grabbed Ore's outstretched hand

 and yanked him on out. The water surged up above the hole

 and fell back. Thereafter, it stayed level with the surface of

 the river.

 The thunderheads were closer, larger, and blacker. Ore

 hoped that the lightning, thunder, and possibly rain would

 come soon. For some reason, he thought that all that would

 aid the Lords' invasion of the nest. It would certainly make

 it more dramatic.

 760

 Some weapons, including bows and arrows and short

 spears, were in watertight cases. Ijim helped strap one on

 Ore; Ore helped Ijim with his case. With other weapons

 inserted in containers in their belts, they plunged. Ore first,

 into the dark tunnel. Ijim was still pale, and his teeth were

 chattering. But he looked determined. Ore, however, was

 not sure that his uncle would have the courage to follow

 him. The claustrophobia would be made worse by having to

 swim all the way into the nest. As it was. Ore was not sure

 that they would not drown before reaching their goal.

 Just as he believed that he could no longer hold his

 breath, he saw a glimmer above him. He thrust upward

 desperately, and his head broke the surface. A few seconds

 later, Ijim's dark face was beside him.

 Ijim drew in several long breaths, then gasped, "That was

 the most terrible thing I've ever endured! I thought ..."

 "Quiet!" Ore said softly. While dog-paddling and suck-

 ing in air, he looked around. There was just enough space

 between the water and the ceiling for their heads. The pale

 light from an opening in the floor of the story above shone

 on a ramp ascending from the water to the opening. Around

 them floated the bodies of many kamanbur, adults and

 puppies. No sound came from above.

 He swam to the ramp and went up it on his hands and

 knees. When he got to the room above, he took his ax from

 its container. Ijim, still gasping, was close behind him. A

 faint breeze moved over Ore's wet skin and brought him an

 unidentifiable stench. The room was empty of kamanbur

 but not of other living creatures. Some were in large cages

 constructed of the dried gray strands and set along the bases

 of the walls and halfway up them. The grasshopper-sized

 insects therein glowed intermittently but made a steady

 light. The off phases of half of them were balanced by the

 on phases of the other half.

 767

  

  

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 "Fascinating," Ore said. "A very unusual symbiosis

 between insects and mammals."

 In larger cages attached to the walls were two other types

 of insects. One had scarlet-and-yellow-striped wings which

 beat as swiftly as a hummingbird's. Their combined noise

 made a low roar. These obviously kept the air moving.

 There were also spidery things the size of Ore's head. He

 had no time to determine their function.

 He undid the waterproof case. From it, he took a short

 flint-tipped spear, a quiverful of arrows, and a bow. The

 spear was in a slender case within the larger case. After

 fitting the quiver strap over his shoulder, he strung the bow.

 Then he fitted an arrow to the bow. Having done all this

 very quickly, he trotted off along the curving wall. He

 passed a number of hallways. Not until he came to one with

 a larger entrance did he halt. This should lead to the room

 at the intersection of the two buildings that formed the

 horizontal and vertical arms of the cross within the circle, as

 seen from the top of the ridge. His guess was that Los had

 placed the gate at the intersection. But he had no idea on

 what floor it would be.

 "Hurry!" Ijim said behind him. "They'll be coming

 down as soon as they get over their scare!"

 Ore did not reply. He ran down the hallway past the

 insects in the walls. The light was not strong, though that

 coming through the thousands of holes in the walls added to

 the illumination. Abruptly, he was in the room in the central

 part of the cross.

 He stopped. He was in luck. There, in the center of the

 round-walled room, was the gate. It was made of the shim-

 mering more-than-diamond-hard metal called tenyuralwa.

 Around it were piled kamanbur bones. These were a

 warning to the nest tenants to stay away from the upright

 square. Some time ago, the gate had been erected by Los,

 762

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 who had by some means kept the kamanbur from attacking

 him. After he had left, the creatures had investigated the

 gate. Some had gone through the side which was set with a

 trap and had perished. The parts of the bodies that had been

 in this world when the foreparts were burned or cut off had

 been arranged around the gate by the kamanbur. All the

 skeletons were of the hind parts only.

 "If the kamanbur come down now," Ijim said, "we won't

 have much time to figure out how to get through!"

 The gate was a metal square seven feet high. Its base had

 been secured to the floor with a hard black stuff, Thoan glue

 that no acid could dissolve or any fire bum away. Ore put his

 bow and arrow down, removed his spear from its case, and put

 it by the bow. After picking up a bone, he went to the other

 side of the gate and threw the bone through the square. It

 passed through unhindered and landed on the floor. That

 meant that the opposite side of the gate was the entrance to the

 other world.

 Ijim had untied and unrolled a leather bundle and

 removed from it two torches and the ignition materials.

 They were a box containing wood shavings, splinters, dried

 grass, twigs, and two roughened flints set into wooden

 handlers. He arranged the inflammable material in a pile

 and began striking the flints together.

 Ore walked around the square, kicking bones out of the

 way. Then he cast one through the opposite side of the

 square. As he expected, it disappeared. Another bone thrust

 a few inches into the square and quickly withdrawn was

 unsheared. A second later, he repeated the same action.

 This time, all the bone extended past the middle of the gate

 had been sheared off. That part was not visible because it

 was in the other world.

 Ijim was cursing. The sparks struck from the flints had

 763

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 not set fire to the pile. He said, "Sometimes, it takes a lot

 of time! But we may not have that!"

 Ore was too intent on his tests to reply. He put a legbone

 in again and again, counting seconds, rientawon, rienshi-

 won, rienkawon, rienshonwon, riengushwon. Translated,

 one thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three,

 one thousand four, one thousand five. When he had used up

 that bone, he began testing with another.

 Ijim said, "Ah! Finally! Success!"

 Ore turned to face him. The Lord of the Dark Woods was

 holding the end of a pine brand just above the fiery pile. The

 smoke from the flames was drifting slowly toward the

 nearest exit, which was the square of the gate.

 "Listen carefully, Ijim. The trap seems to be a time-

 interval shears. I don't think the timing is random. We have

 approximately a second and a half to get through. The field

 goes off just that long. We have to stand close and jump

 through. But we must raise our hands up and hold our

 elbows close to our body. Our legs must be in the same

 vertical plane as our bodies. Anything sticking out too far

 ahead of our bodies or too far behind will be cut off."

 Ijim nodded, and he said, "One hop does it. It'll be

 awkward to do that and go through without bending our

 knees."

 Ijim understood as well as Ore—after all, he was many

 thousands of years older—that each man would have to use

 a bone first to test and thus to estimate the time base on

 which to start counting before taking the hop. There would

 be nothing accurate or guaranteed about the counting.

 Mostly, it would be luck that would get them through

 safely.

 "One chance only," Ore said. He started, then stared past

 Ijim.

 164

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 "We won't have time to practice jumping before we make

 the real one. Give me a torch."

 Ijim, who had been bent over while lighting the second

 torch, straightened up and whirled around. By then, the

 room near the archway was filled with forty or so kaman-

 bur. They spread out, their heads hanging low, jaws open,

 teeth gleaming, saliva dripping, pincers clacking together,

 prehensile tails straight up but curling at the ends. Their

 yellow eyes were fixed on the men.

 Ore saw directly down the mouth of one. Inside it were

 two hornlike projections. These would be the guns, as it

 were, out of which were shot the thin quick-drying strands.

 Ijim advanced to the pile of bones encircling the gate,

 shouted, and waved the torch at them. They shrank away

 from him. Then one of them, a large female, emitted a

 series of long and short whistles. The gray beasts formed a

 circle around the bone enclosure.

 Ore said, "They may have figured out that they can come

 through the gate on the other side without being harmed.

 They could attack us from two sides."

 He ran around the gate and swung the torch back and

 forth at the kamanbur. They moved back but not as far as

 when they had first been threatened.

 Ijim screamed, "Let's do it now! I'll go first! You watch

 my back!"

 Ore could not help wondering if Ijim was planning to

 shove him back through the gate when he jumped after him.

 The idea of doing that to Ijim had occurred to him, though

 he had rejected it. Why should Ijim do that? He would still

 need Ore. But the Lords, like the leblabbiy, did not always

 act logically.

 Ore ran back to the other side. He waved his torch as he

 did so. Gray strands shot out from the mouths of those in the

 front rank. They fell short by a few inches. After the

 765

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 range-finding tests, the kamanbur moved about a foot closer

 to the Lords. By the time he reached Ijim, the Lord was

 burning off several strands wrapped around his legs. The

 quickly flaming strands stank like a mixture of garlic and

 rotten potatoes.

 The leader whistled some more messages, and they

 retreated. Then a dozen advanced a few feet from the pack

 and crouched. They looked so much like runners at the

 blocks that Ore understood what they meant to do. They

 would dash forward in a body and, when very close, jump.

 While still in the air, they would expel the entangling

 strands. Their prey would not be able to bum them all away

 before the kamanbur fell upon them.

 "Now!" Ore yelled.

 Ijim turned around slowly. His eyes were as unmoving as

 glass balls set in cement. His lips, however, were writhing

 as he articulated very swiftly but not very clearly.

 Ore groaned. Of all the times that the fugue had over-

 come Ijim, this was the worst.

 There was nothing that Ore could do for him—except one

 thing. It would give his uncle little chance to live, but it was

 better than nothing.

 Ore snatched the torch from Ijim's hand and sent it

 whirling toward the crouched beasts. Whistling in alarm,

 they scattered as the torch fell near them. Ore grabbed Ijim

 and swung him around, then seized him by the waist and ran

 him forward. Ijim was still muttering when he was lifted

 and thrown through the gate.

 There had been no time to stick a bone through the gate

 and withdraw it while counting. Ore had, however, lifted

 him up and cast him in as vertical an angle as he could

 manage.

 Blood spurted from the empty air. Though the back

 portion of Ijim was severed, it had fallen on through. But

 766

 not quickly enough to prevent some blood on this side of the

 gate, from shooting back. The leader whistled. The beasts

 rallied and formed ranks again. Another series of whistles

 launched them. Those on the other side of the gate were

 coming as swiftly as those on this side. If he did not act fast,

 he would be knocked down or entangled before he could

 leap through the square. They would pass through that side

 of the gate unharmed and prevent him from coming through

 on his side.

 He threw the torch over the square. It spun in an arc and

 struck the lead kamanbur. It shied away, and others ran into

 it. The whistling was deafening.

 Ore did not look behind him. A delay of a second might

 be fatal. Then again, it might be just the time he needed for

 success.

 Yelling, he ran up to the gate, then stopped. He lifted his

 arms and held his legs as straight as he could. He was

 hoping that the kamanbur behind him would not get to him

 in time to knock him through the gate. Without pausing or

 taking enough time to check that his body attitude was as

 vertical as possible, he rose up on his toes.

 He gave another yell as he hopped forward.

 That was too much for Jim Grimson.

 He had been striving to tear himself loose from Ore. Ore

 might make it; he might not. Jim did not want to chance it.

 If Ore died, he might die, too. Though he had risked all the

 dangers up to now, he could not face this one.

 Abruptly, he was flashing through a lightless space. He

 could feel nothing except a vague sensation of speed. But he

 could hear whistles.

 Then he was back in his room. The clock indicated that

 he—rather, his astral soul or whatever it was—had been

 gone for two hours and three minutes.

 767

  

  

 CHAPTER 2 1

 I HOUGH JIM'S LIFE as Ore had been exhausting and peril-

 ous, it was surrounded by a light different from the light of

 Belmont City. The suns of the other universes shed a soft

 and golden light. Earth's was still gritty and harsh.

 If only he were not so tired, he would have returned at

 once to Ore. Should he fail to get into him, he would know

 that Ore was dead. That meant that he would have to choose

 another character with whom to integrate and to become. If,

 that is, he then chose to continue therapy. With Ore gone,

 what was there left for Jim Grimson?

 It did not matter that other patients were now using Red

 Ore as their personae. Their Ore was the fictional Ore. He

 had been in the brain of the real Ore, son of the real Los and

 Enithannon.

 What most delayed his return was his fear that Ore had

 been cut in two.

 Would Ore have allowed that to stop him from going

 back if he were in Jim Crimson's skin? No!

 168

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 Jim's birthday came. The only ones who celebrated were

 Jim and his fellow patients, with Doctor Porsena showing

 up briefly during the muted festivities. His mother and Mrs.

 Wyzak sent cards and phoned him. His mother could not get

 away from her job to visit him. The cake that Mrs. Wyzak

 said she had left in the lobby got lost somewhere along the

 delivery route. Just his luck, Jim thought. And he was still

 too depressed and still too fearful to attempt reentry into

 Ore.

 Two days after his birthday, he was called out from lunch

 in the dining hall. Gillman Sherwood, officer of the day,

 said, "It's your mother."

 "Now?" Jim said. "She's supposed to be working."

 Sherwood raised his eyebrows as if the thought of a

 mother who had to work was surprising.

 Jim's heart was beating hard when he entered the visitors'

 room. Only very bad news would bring her here at this

 time. It had to be a death in the family. His sister? His

 father? If it was his father, his son was feeling far worse

 about Eric's death than he had imagined he would. He

 should not have such distress, a pang of terrible loss. But,

 after all, whatever had happened between them, Eric was

 his father.

 By the time he had reached the entry, be was convinced

 that Eric Grimson had died. Booze? Accident? Suicide?

 Murder? Any of those was possible.

 Eva Grimson rose from a chair as Jim strode through the

 doorway. She was in a print dress which fitted far too

 loosely and was too thin for cold weather. Her face had

 become more gaunt and lined. The darkness around the eyes

 was blacker. Though her worn brown cloth coat hid the

 thinness of her body, her birdlike legs showed that she must

 have lost weight everywhere. But she smiled when she saw

 her son.

 769

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER                                                RED ORC'S RAGE

 Jim took her in his arms as he cried, "Mom! What's

 wrong?"

 Eva began weeping. Jim felt even worse. He had seen his

 mother weep only a few times. "Is Dad all right?" he said.

 She pushed herself away and sat down in the chair. "I'm

 sorry, Jim," she said. "So sorry. But your father ..."

 She began sobbing. He got down on his knees by her and

 put his arm around her heaving shoulders. "For God's sake!

 What is it?"

 "Your father ..."

 "He's dead!" Jim said.

 She looked surprised. Instead of answering immediately,

 she took a handkerchief from her handbag and dabbed at her

 eyes. Jim had the irrelevant thought that her tears would not

 destroy her makeup since she never used it.

 After sniffling, she shook her head. "No. Is that what you

 thought? In a way, it might be ..."

 "Be what?"

 She must have meant to say "better." But she would not

 allow herself to continue to have such thoughts, let alone

 voice them.

 "Nothing. Your father ... he insists that we move to

 Dallas! You know, in Texas!"

 It took Jim several breaths before he could think clearly.

 His chest still felt tight. Then he said harshly, "He might as

 well be dead then! You, too! You . . . you . . . you're

 deserting me!"

 She took his hand and pressed it against her wet cheek.

 She wailed, "I have to go with him! He's my husband! I

 have to go where he goes!"

 "No, you don't!" Jim said. He jerked his hand away from

 hers. "Damn you and damn him! All the way to hell!"

 Not until later, when he reran the scene in his mind, did

 he realize that he had almost never before spoken to his

 770

 mother like that. No matter how angry he had been with her,

 he had almost always been gentle. She had been hurt

 enough by his father.

 "For the sake of blessed Mary, mother of God, don't say

 that, Jim!"

 She reached out to take his hand again, but he moved it

 away.

 "He can't get a decent job here. It's killing him, you

 know that. He's heard ... a friend told him—you re-

 member Joe Vatka?—there's plenty of work in Dallas. It's

 a booming town, and ..."

 "What about me?" Jim said. He began pacing back and

 forth, his hands clenching and unclenching. "Don't I count?

 And who's going to pay for the insurance, for my therapy?

 Where am I going to live when I'm an outpatient? I don't

 want to give up therapy! This is my only chance to make it!

 I won't, I won't!"

 "Please understand, son. I'm torn, I'm being pulled

 apart. But I can't let him go without me, and he says he will

 if I don't go, too. He is my husband. It's my duty!"

 "And I'm your son!" Jim shouted.

 Kazim Grasser, a black nurse, put his head in the room.

 "Everything OK? Any problem?"

 "This is a family matter," Jim said. "I'm not going to get

 violent. Beat it!"

 Grasser said, "OK, man, just take it easy," and he

 withdrew his head.

 "And why doesn't he come here and tell me instead of

 sending you?" Jim bellowed at his mother. "Is he afraid to

 face me? Does he hate me so much he doesn't give a shit

 about me?"

 "Please, Jim, no bad language," she said. "No, he

 doesn't hate you, Jim. Not really. But he is afraid to face

 you. He feels like he's a failure ..."

 777

  

  

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 "Which he is!"

 ". . . as a husband and a father and a provider ..."

 "Which he is!"

 "... and he thinks you would attack him. He

 says ... he says . . ."

 "Say it! That I'm crazy!"

 Eva put out her hand. "Please, Jim. I can't stand much

 more of this. If it wasn't such a sin, unforgivable, I'd kill

 myself!"

 "You do whatever you think is best for you," he said, and

 he walked out of the room. Her voice shrieked through the

 doorway, "Jim! Don't do that!" Though he hesitated, he did

 not turn back. When he got to his room, he sat down and

 cried. Loneliness was a tide that swept him away over the

 horizon, far from all human beings, to an island also called

 Loneliness.

 Even in his grief, he thought that that phrase would make

 a great title for a song. "The Island Also Called Loneli-

 ness."

 The brain was a funny thing. In the midst of deep-purple

 grief, it sent strange messages. Always working, working,

 working simultaneously on many different subjects, and

 why it semaphored reports about certain workings when the

 timing was wrong, no one knew.

 Or was the timing wrong? Maybe the brain was trying to

 soften the grief by distracting itself from itself.

 If so, the ruse worked only for a minute. Jim dived deep

 into black and cold waters and would not come up for some

 time. His fellow patients did their best for him. Doctor

 Scaevola, who had taken over for Doctor Porsena while he

 was gone to a three-day conference, tried to bring light to

 Jim. He failed.

 That very evening, just after the group session, Jim was

 again called to the visitors' room. "Mr. and Mrs. Wyzak,"

 772

 the O.D. told him. "They aren't the bearer of good news,

 Jim. Not the way they look."

 The Wyzaks stood up as he came in. Mrs. Wyzak burst

 into tears, ran to him, and enfolded him in her big strong

 arms. His face was crushed against her big breasts. He

 smelled a cheap perfume.

 Mrs. Wyzak wailed, "Sam is dead!"

 Jim reeled inside himself. He felt numb. Her voice

 became distant, and he seemed to be drowning in soft cotton

 candy. Everything was floating away except for the breath-

 stealing cottony stuff. He could see through it as through

 many strips of gauze.

 Nor could he cry. The tears that had flowed that afternoon

 were all he had. The spring had run dry, and only the stone

 from which the water had issued was left. It was cold, hard,

 and dry.

 He sat down while Mrs. Wyzak told him about Sam. Mr.

 Wyzak sat voiceless, his head bent, his body sagging. Her

 story was brief. Sam had run away. He had hitchhiked

 several rides. The last one was with the driver of a

 semitrailer. No one knew why it had happened, but the rig

 had jackknifed, gone over the edge of a steep hill, and

 rolled many times to the bottom. The driver had been badly

 injured and was now in a coma. Sam had been thrown clear

 of the cab but was crushed by the trailer. The funeral would

 be in three days.

 "I didn't want to just phone you," Mrs. Wyzak said,

 dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. "I wanted to be

 here when you got the news. You and Sam . . . you've

 been best friends since you started walking."

 She began sobbing. Jim did all he could to console her

 though he did not share her heartache and grief. Nothing

 was getting through to him. Sam's death seemed to have

 taken place long ago.

 773

  

  

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 When Doctor Porsena, after his return from the confer-

 ence, had his first private session with Jim, he worked on

 Jim's nonfeelings. Near the end of the hour, the doctor said,

 "It's possible that you're suffering from doubly intensified

 grief. You have a very vivid and visual-tactile-olfactory-

 auditory imagination. Your journeys in the World of Tiers

 are usually realistic and intense. There, you live as fully as

 you do here.

 "What I'm saying is . . ."

 He paused, waiting for Jim to supply the explanations, if

 he had any. Self-revelation was superior to that given by

 another. The light should come from within.

 Jim could see the white fingers groping around in the

 blackness of his brain. What the hell did The Shaman

 expect from him? Did he think an eighteen-year-old

 screwup was Doctor Freud himself?

 What was Porsena's key word? He gave such words to his

 patients, though they were embedded in the various strata of

 his sentences. If the patient could dig up the key and then

 figure out how to use it, he could open the door to another

 blaze of light.

 Grief was a heavy liquid supposed to dilute memory. But

 being Ore had improved his memory considerably. It was as if

 some of the young Lord's near-photographic memory had

 rubbed off on Jim. He could recall almost verbatim everything

 Porsena had said during the session. So, run a scan. Let the

 cursor stop at the key word or phrase and highlight it.

 "Ah!" Jim said. "Double!"

 The Shaman smiled.

 " 'Doubly intensified grief,'" Jim said. "You think I have

 an extra burden of grief. I got one load as Jim Grimson, and

 I got another as Ore. Both of us were rejected—that's a mild

 word—by our fathers. Both of us are in a bad fix. I don't

 know about both of us having just lost our best friend. I

 doubt Orc'll feel bad about Ijim dying."

 774

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 Jim twisted his lips from one side to another. It was as if

 he thought that moving the mouth would activate his brain.

 Then the psychiatrist said, "Ijim is dead, as far as you

 know. Is he the only loss?"

 "Uh, well . . . let's see. There's, there's . . . how

 about Ore himself?"

 Porsena did not reply. He was leaving it up to his patient.

 "I mean, I don't know if Ore's dead, too!" Jim said. "If

 he is, then I've really lost! The whole ball of wax! That's

 more grief than I can handle!"

 "Others?" the doctor said.

 "Grief . . . grief? Well, as Ore, and he's really me, and

 I'm really him, I explained all that, there's my

 mother ... I mean Enitharmon. Lost her. And I love

 Aunt Vala, too. Lost her, also. I suppose their loss would be

 strong. I know Ore certainly went through some grief about

 maybe never seeing them again. But his grief got turned

 into hate for his father. He . . ."

 After a long silence. Doctor Porsena said, "He . . . ?"

 "He did something about it. Just didn't sit down and cry

 about it."

 "Was that the right or wrong way to behave?"

 "That's a . . ."

 Jim had been about to say that it was a stupid question.

 But he would not say that to The Shaman. Anyway, The

 Shaman always had a reason for voicing anything, even if it

 might seem irrelevant or dumb.

 "Right, of course. Except ..."

 "Except?"

 "It was the right way in that it was action taken to solve

 the problem. Only, Ore was taking the most violent course.

 I mean, he was going to kill his father and anybody else

 who got in his way! Maybe he should have figured out a

 better way. I don't know. It could be the only way there is."

 775

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 Jim blushed. That did not escape Porsena's eye. The

 doctor said, "You're embarrassed."

 Jim struggled with himself, then said, "OK. After all, it's

 not like I'm having the incestuous thoughts Ore has. I sure

 never had them about my own mother. Ore means to many his

 mother after he kills his father—after some torture, that is.

 He's also got the hots for his aunt. In fact. Ore's homier than

 a pack of minks in heat. I told you he's screwed twenty of his

 sisters, half-sisters, his father's children. All of them beautiful

 even if they are ... oh, jeez, what am I saying?"

 "Natives? Non-Lords? What the Lords call leblabbiyT'

 "Yeah. I'm sorry. It's like the leblabbiy are ni ... I

 mean, blacks. I didn't mean to use that word, you know. I

 don't really think blacks are subhumans. But I grew up

 hearing it everywhere."

 "I know," the doctor said. "What're your thoughts about

 the Lords' acceptance of incest?"

 "Well, look. Doc ... I mean. Doctor. I've read a lot

 about the ancient Egyptians, been doing it since I saw

 Caesar and Cleopatra on TV. You know, the movie version

 ofG.B. Shaw's play. With Claude Rains and Vivien Leigh.

 I know that brothers and sisters of ancient Egypt's ruling

 class married each other and had children. So did the Incan

 rulers. Anyway, I think Farmer had something in the Tiers

 books about brother-sister marriages. So, what with reading

 about that and reading the books on Egypt and seeing the

 movie, I didn't have much trouble accepting that. Anyway,

 when I'm Ore, I tend to accept what he accepts. It's a

 culture thing. The Lords don't have genetic defects, so

 there's no problem passing bad genes on to their children.

 So why shouldn't a mother marry her son?"

 When the session ended, Jim felt only a very slight

 lessening of the numbness and depression. Oh, well, it

 didn't matter. Nothing mattered.

 CHAPTER 22

 JIM HAD SUNK into the very center of his own pocket

 universe of depression. This was composed only of melan-

 choly and self-despising, two elements that were not going

 to make a sun to light up his world. He did what was

 required of him—except to dive through the tragil—but

 slowly and tiredly. Even then, he was counting the numerals

 in the arithmetic of the night. He listed his flaws and

 failures and did not stop until he got to number thirty-seven.

 He could recall all of them. Why not? He had spent much

 time after the age of twelve contemplating them. Though

 there had to be more flaws, these were enough to satisfy the

 most self-pitying.

 He did not get any sympathy from Doctor Porsena.

 "You cannot continue to drag your chains around and

 whine, 'Woe is me!' like some castle-haunting phantom.

 You were making excellent progress—in fact, phenomenal.

 Now, you've regressed. It's as if you've not only gone back

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 to the lowest previous point of lack of self-esteem in your

 life, you've plunged below that. Reached that personal

 nadir, as it were."

 Jim summoned up enough spirit to say, "As opposed to

 the Zenith, right? Well, I was never one for TV."

 That took the psychiatrist aback for a moment. Then he

 smiled, and he said, "If you've got enough fire to make a

 pun, rotten as it is, there's still hope for you."

 Jim did not think so. That remark was the last flicker of

 a dying flame.

 "What if Ore is dead?" Jim said. That question caught

 him by surprise. It had shot out of his mouth as if something

 had exploded in him.

 Porsena's lips formed the ghost of a smile. He was, Jim

 thought, not only The Shaman. He was The Sphinx. That

 expression was exactly like the smile on the stone face of

 the Great Sphinx of Giza. Jim could see the pyramids and

 the palm trees beyond him. The wisdom of the ages was

 behind that age-cut face and behind the doctor's, too.

 "What if Ore is dead?" Porsena said. "You select

 someone else to become."

 At least Porsena had not argued with him that Ore was

 only a fictional character. He must think that Ore was, but

 he was going to play by Jim's rules. Never invalidate. That

 was the Golden Rule, and Porsena was the Golden Ruler.

 "I don't want to be someone else," Jim said.

 "Then find out if Ore is dead or alive."

 "I'll do it," Jim said. "I'll do it for you."

 "No. You'll do it for yourself. You'll do it because it's

 the thing to do for you and you only."

 He leaned forward over his desk, his bright blue eyes

 locked onto Jim's. "Listen up, Jim. I'm aware that I'm an

 authority figure to you, perhaps a father/mother substitute.

 That's good in one sense because you've reacted differently

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 to me than you have with other authority figures. You've

 done your best to please me, though that is not necessarily

 desirable. But I am here only to guide you through your

 therapy. Perhaps that's too cold a way to put it. I like you,

 and I think we might eventually become friends after your

 therapy is complete. I do have authority, and I'm not your

 peer. At the moment, I'm your superior, though I won't take

 advantage of that—unless it's for your good.

 "But we may have to work a bit to temper your attitude

 toward me. I'm not God, I'm not your parents. I expect you

 to hear my advice and then to use your judgment concerning

 its value. Nevertheless, there'll be times when I'll override

 your judgment. I am older and wiser, and I am a thoroughly

 trained professional. However, I am human. I can make

 mistakes and errors.

 "On the other hand, I'll be far less likely than you to do

 so. Keep all this in mind. We'll do some work on your

 attitude, as I said. But your therapy is the big thing here.

 So, I insist that you reenter Ore or pick another character to

 enter. If you don't, your therapy will be ended. Do I make

 myself clear?"

 Jim nodded.

 "What would Ore do if he were in your shoes just now?"

 "Huh? Oh, I see what you mean! Sorry, I was thinking of

 something else. If he was me, he'd've jumped right back

 through the tragil. But I'm not him, not yet, anyway. Ore

 never would've been in a depression. Not for long, anyway.

 I know him, and ..."

 "Do what he'd do, even if it seems to be against your

 nature, no matter how hard it is to do. This isn't easy work,

 you know."

 "I'll try. Hard," Jim said.

 He did not think he could do it, not in his state of mind.

 But there were ways to alter those states. Porsena would not

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 approve those ways. In fact, taking any drugs except those

 prescribed was forbidden on pain of immediate expulsion.

 But desperate situations demanded desperate means. Before

 the group session that afternoon, Jim got Gillman Sherwood

 to one side in the main hallway.

 "I hear you're dealing. Gill."

 "Not at all," Sherwood said. "I wouldn't do that. Hell,

 I'm here to get rid of the monkey, among other things."

 "Let me put it this way," Jim said. "I understand you

 may have access to certain cures for what ails me. I'd like

 to get hold of one, preferably one of the speedy kind."

 "It could be," Sherwood said. "But there are a lot of

 rumors, mostly false, running around this place."

 "Speed's the word," Jim said.

 "Might be what the doctor ordered. However, nothing's

 free in this harsh world."

 "I know the price," Jim said. "I got the wherewithal."

 That morning, the mail had brought him a ten-dollar bill

 along with a note from his mother. At first, he was tempted

 to send both back. Yet, he needed money badly, so he had

 put the bill in his pocket after tearing up the note. And here

 he was, spending half of the ten on amphetamine when

 every cent he had should go for absolute necessities. He

 despised himself. At the same time he was looking forward

 to the rush through his body and mind.

 Gillman Sherwood put his hand on Jim's shoulder.

 "There are other ways to pay debts than with money."

 "Forget it!" Jim said. "I told you last time, no way!"

 Gillman's smile was aloof and haughty, so superior. Jim

 hated it, and he hated having to deal through this big prick.

 Gillman said, "Don't knock it until you try it."

 "Jesus Christ!" Jim said. "You've hit on every boy and

 girl in the place! Do you love being turned down? Is that

 part of your problem?"

 180

 "Hey, there's more than one here knows an offer they

 can't refuse! I don't need you, Grimson, any more than I

 need a wart on my ass! I'll slip you what you need when

 we're alone next time. Bring the wherewithal. Otherwise,

 no tickee, no shirtee."

 What would Red Ore do? Probably kill Sherwood and

 take his entire supply. Couldn't do that.

 Though Sherwood's parents were wealthy, they sent him

 little money. Thus, if he wanted extra cash, he had to deal

 in nickel-and-dime stuff. His father had been a steel

 magnate. Despite the shutting down of the industry in the

 Youngstown area, he had interests in other businesses and

 was said to own half of Belmont City. His only son had

 seemed destined to be one of those tall, athletic, blond, and

 handsome scions who would sweep through life untroubled

 by the anxieties and dire straits of the great unwashed, the

 rabble, the seething masses.

 Not so. Even the extremely rich had problems they

 shared with the lowly poor. Gillman was bisexual, with a

 leaning toward males. If his gay-hating father had known

 that, he would not have been so eager to make him into a

 businessman. Gillman was passionate about becoming a

 painter. The senior Sherwood was appalled by this. He

 insisted that Gillman go to Harvard to get an M.B.A. and

 then become his partner. If he wanted to paint as a

 recreation, fine, though he should not brag about it to

 anyone who might think only a pansy would be an artist. If

 he wanted to be a patron, that was different.

 Gillman, like so many now in therapy, had gone berserk.

 He had slashed his wrists and painted a self-portrait with

 blood. Then his drug-addiction had been revealed, and here

 he was in the mental ward of Wellington Medical Center.

 Jim would have empathized with Gillman if he did not act

 as if he were the Duke of Kingdom Come. Jim also thought

 J8I

  

  

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 that Gillman's choice of Wolff as his persona was a hoot.

 Wolff would spit in the son of a bitch's face.

 A few minutes later, he was talking to Sandy Melton. She

 had not been able to get into a long conversation with him

 since she had entered the project. She was classified as

 schizoaffective and was now taking lithium carbonate. She

 adored her Caucasian father though she did not see him

 enough to satisfy her. He was a traveling salesman for a

 large pharmaceutical company with headquarters in Bel-

 mont City. Sandy detested her mother, who was Korean.

 From early childhood. Sandy had suffered because so many

 of her grade-school classmates had called her "slant-eyes,"

 "Chink," "Jap," "gook," and "Mongolian idiot." Her

 high-school friends had refrained from this, but her ac-

 quaintances were not so discreet.

 Yet, her long glossy black hair, uptilted eyes, and high

 cheekbones made a beautiful whole. And, though only five

 feet two inches tall, she had relatively long legs and a petite

 but full-busted figure. Despite this, she thought that she was

 ugly. Though shy, she had been a very energetic, sometimes

 overzealous and near-frenzied business manager and agent

 for the Hot Water Eskimos. But when she suddenly became

 depressed, she was very withdrawn and lethargic. She

 would then let her duties slide.

 From an early age. Sandy had not liked her mother,

 mostly because her mother had not seemed to like her. Kuo

 Melton was surly, untalkative, and a bad housekeeper who

 spent most of her time watching TV soap operas and game

 shows. Though she had been in the United States for twenty

 years, she spoke English very poorly.

 Sometimes Sandy was in a forgiving mood, and she

 would explain to her friends that her mother had had a hell

 of a childhood and youth. She had been sexually abused and

 half-starved and homeless for years before Abe Melton

 182

 married her. At that time, she was beautiful and looking for

 a way out of her country. Sandy's father had told her that

 Kuo was genuinely fond of him and he of her during the

 early years of their marriage. That was certainly no longer

 true.

 Sandy's method of entering the World of Tiers was

 unique. She would take all of her clothes off while chanting

 the first four lines of the Buddhist Lotus Sutra over and

 over. Then she would press her palms against the full-length

 mirror on the wall of her room. While doing this, she would

 use Jim's ATA MATUMA M'MATA chant. Two chants

 were better than one. After about seven minutes (seven was

 a magical and mystical number), and while she concen-

 trated on the entry point five inches inside the mirror (five

 was another mystical number), the glass would turn soft and

 rubbery.

 As soon as she felt the mirror become just a Jell-0, she

 would begin muttering swiftly the words of the song "Over

 the Rainbow." What was good enough for Dorothy of Oz

 was good enough for her. And three chants were better than

 one.

 Her ectoplasm, as she called it, would travel through the

 palms of her hands. It would fall forward through the

 ever-thinning substance into the universe she had chosen.

 When she had passed completely through, she (as ecto-

 plasm) was in a male body. She had long wanted to be a

 male because her father was, though she also felt that this

 desire was morally wrong.

 The universe beyond the mirror was like nothing de-

 scribed in the Tiers series. It was flat, and she could fall off

 its edge if she got too close to it. Its human inhabitants were

 all Caucasian males, except for one gigantic female kept

 under guard in a huge castle. She was like the queen termite

 in a nest and was force-fed with a honey that made her so

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 RED ORC'S RAGE

 large and so fat that she became larger than the kitchen in a

 mansion. The queen was the mother of the entire human

 population and bore five male babies in a single birth every

 three months.

 Once a year, a tournament was held—Sandy was a great

 reader of medieval romances—and the champion became

 the queen's lover and the begetter of that year's babies.

 After he retired, he had to help other ex-champions take

 care of the babies, dust the castle, wash dishes, and do other

 household tasks. Being permitted to do this service was a

 great honor.

 Sandy, in her persona as Sir Sandagrain, roamed the

 world in quest of the man who held the secret to everlasting

 happiness. While wandering, she had to joust with innu-

 merable knights, bad or good, and invade the many castles

 of evil warlocks and robber barons. Like all males in this

 world, they wore masks. So far. Sir Sandagrain had not

 found The Man with the Golden Mask, he who had the

 secret.

 These adventures as the questing knight, though bloody

 and perilous, helped to protect her against the sometimes

 overwhelming stresses of Earth. When she felt she had had

 enough relief from her terrestrial life, she pressed her palms

 against the mirror. She repeated the same three chants in

 reverse order. The Jell-0-like softness crystallized. At the

 moment of complete hardness, it was ready to admit her

 ectoplasm back to her female body.

 Sandy was making some progress in her quest for a

 stronger persona and lack of confusion about her sexual

 identity. She was beginning to come out somewhat from the

 wild swings of mood and her withdrawal tendencies. Like

 Jim and most of the others, she was slowly surrendering her

 own private and uncontrolled delusions to the controlled

 delusions of the World of Tiers.

 184

 "Jim, I've talked to my dad twice," she said excitedly.

 "He's always talked about divorcing Kuo, but it was just

 talk. He's very resistant to the idea of divorce. But now, I

 don't know, he may be coming around to it. He knows how

 much I hate leaving the hospital and going back to that

 house. It's terrible. But only because Kuo's there!"

 Sandy never referred to Kuo as her mother.

 "Aren't you thinking about adapting yourself to Kuo?"

 Jim said.

 "No. I couldn't do that unless she went into therapy, too,

 and did some changing herself. Takes two to tango, you

 know. She would never do that."

 , The dining hall was noisy, though it had quiet spots

 occupied by withdrawn juveniles. Jim and Sandy sat down

 across the table from a lovely, gentle, and fragile girl,

 Elizabeth Lavenza. Her stepfather had been sodomizing her

 since she was ten years old. Several months ago, the

 monster, as Elizabeth always called him, had tried to kill

 her when he had caught her phoning the police. She had

 managed to fight him off by jamming the receiver into his

 mouth and then hitting him over the head with a poker.

 These were the only violent acts she had ever committed,

 and she was suffering from guilt because of them. (This

 reaction was totally incomprehensible to Jim.) She had then

 run out of the house and down the street. Despite her

 stepfather's injuries, he had lurched after her swiftly enough

 to catch her. He was strangling her when the squad car

 arrived.

 Elizabeth used what she called her "powerpack" to enter

 the Lords' universes. This was the five books of the series

 taped together, forming her battery to energize the opening

 of the way. Several others in the therapy did the same.

 Near Jim was another table at which sat the members of

 a group in which he was particularly interested. These were

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 PH1UP JOSE FARMER

 whispering, their heads as close together as they could get

 them. Their universe was one they had made up with the

 help of Doctor Porsena. Though it was nominally in the

 World of Tiers, it was not one that its author would have

 been likely to create. This was ruled by a Lord called

 Kephalor. He was a brain the size of a pocket universe

 because he was also the universe. Its inhabitants were

 electrical entities whose forms were the neural impulses of

 Kephalor's brain. In fact, the group called itself The Neural

 Impulses. (Jim thought that this would be a great name for

 a rock band.)

 It had been agreed among the members that, when

 Kephalor forgot something, an impulse would die. That

 meant that the member embodying that impulse would also

 die. But he or she could return as a new thought, though his

 or her identity would be different.

 Jim had heard that the harmony in the group had turned

 a little sour. One member was claiming that she and she

 only was Kephalor's subconscious mind. Since the subcon-

 scious ruled the conscious, the other neural impulses would

 have to do as she commanded. This demand was to be

 expected. One of the behavior characteristics that had

 brought the girl to Wellington was her irrepressible desire to

 control others.

 After lunch, Gillman Sherwood and Jim stepped around

 a hall comer. No one else was in sight. Gillman held out

 five black beauties, uppers, in the palm of his hand.

 "Normal price is two dollars each. But my first customers

 get a discount. Only a dollar each."

 Jim handed him the ten-dollar bill at the same time that he

 took the capsules. Gillman opened his wallet, which was

 packed with paper currency, and made change for Jim.

 "Welcome back to the real world," Sherwood said.

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 RED ORC'S RAGE____

 "This is just temporary," Jim muttered. "I need it to get

 over a hump. After that ..."

 Sherwood smiled. "Sure. But if the temporary becomes

 permanent, I'm your man."

 Jim, hating Sherwood and himself, turned and walked

 away. That evening, he sat for a long time while looking at

 the black beauties, which did not seem so beautiful now.

 What would Ore do? Jim really did not know. Now and

 then. Ore had remembered, briefly, the ecstasy gotten from

 certain drugs. But Jim had also received the impression that

 these had no bad side effects and were not chemically

 addictive.

 In any event, Ore needed no drugs to give him courage.

 And then there was Doctor Porsena. No doubt at all, he

 would be very disappointed if his patient went back over the

 edge. Not that, Jim told himself, he had ever been really

 hooked. He was not a "dope fiend," as his father called

 drug-takers. He just used the stuff now and then. Though,

 to be honest to himself, he had been using uppers and

 downers and smoking marijuana more than he had last year.

 Still, he was a long way from jumping onto the bandwagon

 called Hooked.

 Or was he?

 After a half hour, he sighed, and he rose from the chair.

 He flushed the capsules down the toilet, though not without

 regret.

 Ten minutes later, he shot through the circle in the center

 of the tragil.

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 RED ORC'S RAGE

 CHAPTER 23

 URC WAS WRITHING in agony on a glittering and hard floor.

 Since there was no one else there, he did not have to play

 the stoic. He screamed.

 Jim suffered as much as Ore, which did not seem fair since

 he had no body. He should go back to Earth at once until Ore's

 pains were gone. Unfortunately, he could not concentrate on

 the techniques needed to effect the return. By the time he could

 do that, he would be able to endure the pain.

 Though half-blinded by the fire in the backs of his heels

 and in his buttocks. Ore could see that he was in a vast

 tunnel. Its walls shone with the light from a multitude of

 six-angled, vaguely insectoid creatures hanging on the

 walls. Additional illumination came from round knobs on

 the ceiling, walls, and floor. Intermingled with them were

 thick patches of green stuff that looked like lichen.

 In the middle of the tunnel was a deep trough through

 which clear water ran. Ore, standing on his toes, walked

 188

 stiffly to the stream, lay down in it, and immersed himself up

 to his neck. The water was very cold and shocked him. It also

 gave relief as it chilled his blood and somewhat soothed his

 pain.

 Sitting there. Ore could see the bloody footprints he had

 made on the crystalline floor. As he had hopped through the

 gate, the extreme tips of his heels and buttocks had been

 sheared off by the ray. They would heal in time, but was he

 going to get that time?

 That depended, just now, on how much blood he was

 going to lose. Also, if he survived that, how far he could

 walk while looking for food and then the gate. Unless, that

 is, the gate was nearby. He doubted that it would be.

 Los had said that the gate in Anthema would lead back to

 Ore's native world. He had lied. There was no such place as

 this on or in that planet.

 Ore crawled out onto the tunnel floor, which was a few

 inches above the surface of the stream. The agony would

 come back when he got warm again, but he could no longer

 stand the cold. He wished he had cloths, anything, to

 bandage his wounds.

 He saw the front half of Ijim's body. It was lying

 facedown. Ore, when coming through the gate, had landed

 on it and skidded on the organs and blood.

 Ore was wearing a skin loincloth and a belt with a sheath

 and a flint knife therein. All the other weapons and the food

 supply bag had been left behind. He walked on his toes,

 wincing at every step, and stripped the half-corpse of its

 severed loincloth and belt and a knife. This was now a

 half-knife, since the ray had cut it longitudinally, but it might

 be useful.

 With his own knife, he pried off pieces of the green stuff

 growing on the wall. Beneath them were small tubes

 projecting from the crystal. It seemed to him that these

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 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 might be conduits which fed the plants. When he saw some

 yellow liquid starting to ooze from the tips of the tubes, he

 thought that his idea could be correct.

 He wrung the fluid out of the plants, which felt like thick

 wet moss. He decided to call it omuthid, Thoan for moss,

 and placed pieces of it on the wounds. That made him

 wince, but they stuck to his skin as if they contained glue.

 The flow of blood was stanched. Then he ate a small bite of

 another piece of omuthid stripped from the wall. It was rich

 with fluid, easily chewed, and tasted like caramel mixed

 with raw broccoli. Though it might be poisonous, he did not

 care. Not at this moment, anyway. If he did not get sick

 from this piece, he would eat more of it later.

 What was left of Ijim's body could be a protein supply,

 for a while, anyway. If Ore had not known the Lord so well,

 he might have eaten him. But, though he felt that he might

 regret doing it, he shoved the half-corpse into the stream,

 which carried it away.

 He would be stuck in this area until his wounds healed

 enough for him to walk easily. Normally, three days would do

 it. Meanwhile, he would eat, sleep, drink water, and hope that

 no predator came along. He had no way to estimate the time

 except by his sleeping requirements. It seemed to him that

 roughly three days had passed since he had been here. During

 this period, he explored, mostly on tiptoes, a quarter mile each

 way. He found nothing that he had not seen near the gate. He

 also investigated this. The square of metal looked the same on

 this side as it did on the other. He made a rope of the omuthid

 and threw one end through the gate. The part that went through

 the gate was cut off.

 Because of the wounds, he had to sleep on his face on the

 hard crystalline floor. Unfortunately, he rolled and turned

 then, and he awoke often and painfully. The only good

 thing about his situation was that the temperature remained

 790

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 comfortable. Also, the air did not become stale but moved

 slowly through the tunnel.

 Each "day," after awakening, he removed the omuthid

 patches from the wounds and replaced them with fresh

 pads. They came off as if they were indeed glued. The

 wounds were healing, but the areas of skin covered by the

 patches were pricked with many red dots. They looked as if

 the omuthid had applied tiny suckers to the skin, and the

 green stuff had a distinct reddish underlay. At the end of the

 three days, he concluded that the omuthid was sucking his

 blood, though not in large quantities. He was not as strong

 as when he had entered this world. Of course, his diet might

 be lacking in vitamins and minerals.

 Nevertheless, he could walk without too much pain, and

 he could sit down for several minutes before he had to

 remove his buttocks from pressure. After another sleep, he

 set out upstream as instinctively as a salmon seeking its

 hatching place. The tunnel ran straight for an estimated

 twenty miles, which he traversed after sleeping only once.

 The light stayed steady, as it had done since he had been

 here. The tunnel was silent except for the drumming of his

 blood in his ears. To get rid of that, he began talking to

 himself and also sang often.

 The feeling of loneliness and the thought that he might be

 here until he died kept him company. It was not the sort of

 company he cared for.

 Finally, he came to a fork in the tunnel. At the base of the

 wall between the two tunnels was a bubbling pool. Along one

 side of each of the forks was a shallow trough through which

 water ran. These emptied into the pool, but the bubbling and

 the swirling in it indicated that it was also fed by a spring.

 Ore took the tunnel to his right. After a while, it widened

 and became as big as that which he had left. He trudged on,

 singing a song his mother had taught him when he was a

 797

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER RED ORC'S RAGE

 child. Suddenly, he stopped, and he turned to face the

 left-side wall. Something flickering along the wall, halfway

 down its height, had caught his eye.

 Whatever it was had ceased, but he kept his head turned

 toward the wall while he walked on. Then, he stopped

 again. His brain had not been playing tricks on him, not

 unless he had gone crazy from solitude. A series of large

 black figures, symbols, perhaps, moved in a rather speedy

 parade along the wall. They came from behind him and

 traveled ahead of him until he could no longer see them.

 They ceased for a few minutes. Or perhaps it was for an

 hour. Ore had lost his sense of time. Only when he counted

 the seconds and the minutes could he be sure of its passage.

 Suddenly, the first of a series of the symbols, many of

 them repeated in different combinations, sped along on the

 wall. Parts of them were obscured when they passed

 beneath the omuthid and knobs. After several hundreds had

 sped by, they stopped. Ore resumed walking. Some time

 later, another series began. Ore counted the seconds then.

 The train took thirty-one to pass him.

 If they made a message, its transmission was slow. But he

 was quickened by it. No natural process could produce such

 distinct and differentiated figures in an obviously artificial order.

 Some minutes later, another string of the same symbols,

 repeated in the same arrangement, shot by. After that, the

 wall was blank.

 Ore hastened onward. The tunnel curved gradually to the

 right until it seemed to be going at right angles to its original

 direction. When he got very tired, he stopped and ate. By

 now, he was sick of the taste of caramel-cum-broccoli.

 Jim Grimson was as fed up as Ore with the omuthid.

 When the Lord ate it, Jim ate it. Ore's problems were also

 Jim's. But Jim had others, too. The ghostbrain, his shadowy

 cotenant, seemed to be getting larger. Now that Ore was just

 792

 sitting and chewing, no emotions raging in him, though his

 mind was active, he was in a relatively quiescent state. Thus,

 Jim was able to concentrate on his own thoughts and act as he

 wished. But he was still half Ore and likely, when his host was

 aroused or irate, to be slammed back into a near-Ore persona.

 Jim "moved" closer to the ghostbrain. It "retreated." There

 could be no movement in the physical sense, just as there

 could be no "seeing" or "hearing" or "touching" by beings

 without limbs or sensory organs. Jim "knew," however, that

 he had advanced and that the ghostbrain had backed away.

 He continued to go toward the thing. It kept on moving

 away. Was it afraid of him? Perhaps Jim was dangerous to

 it. If that was so, he would have to find out how it could be

 attacked. Easy to say; hard to do.

 Ore slept, ate with little appetite, and started walking

 again. Presently, the tunnel opened into a vast glittering

 cavern. The growths furnishing the light were far more

 numerous per square foot and larger than those in the

 tunnels. Also—what a delight—there was sound! Many

 small birds or animals lived among various plants and

 twittered, squealed, trumpeted, and cawed.

 The creatures looked as ifTenniel had been on LSD when

 he had illustrated Alice in Wonderland. Or as if they had

 been designed by a deity whose own god was Euclid. They

 were many-angled, some of them long-legged cubes or

 nonahedrons on wheels, their skins spotted with triangles,

 circles, squares, and crosses.

 The plants looked as if they were part crystal, part vegeta-

 ble. Some of them bore berries or hexagonal fruit. The green

 mosslike omuthid was everywhere, on the floors, walls, and

 ceiling. At least a hundred feet above him was the ceiling, and

 the cavern itself extended beyond his eye's reach.

 Standing on a ledge about twenty feet above the cavern's

 floor. Ore could see several creeks. They did not run straight,

 as in the tunnels, but meandered as proper creeks should.

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 RED ORC'S RAGE

 He had been taken with the ecstasy of the sounds of living

 creatures. Shortly thereafter, he was seized with a rapture

 caused by sight of a human being. He was naked and walking

 slowly through the forest toward Ore. But he did not seem to

 be aware that an intruder was in his exotic Garden of Eden.

 Ore had to fight against rushing down and greeting the man.

 He crouched down close to a boulder and studied the person as

 he made his way through the plants. There was something

 peculiar about him. He did not seem to have a quite human

 construction. His gait was unhurried and stately as if he owned

 this world, which, indeed, he might. When the man was

 closer, the details of his face and body became clearer.

 He walked slowly and dignifiedly because he could not

 walk otherwise. The joints of his shoulders, hips, elbows,

 knees, and wrists were bulbous and somewhat shiny. And

 the head, neck, and trunk were larger than they would be in

 a normally proportioned man.

 Ore shook his head. He had been momentarily under an

 illusion. His imagination had supplied what the man did not

 have because Ore expected him to have it. Where Ore had

 seen male genitals was now a smooth place, skin dotted

 with gleaming crystals. The he was an it.

 It had no weapons, though. Ore stood up and shouted

 through cupped hands at the being. It stopped, though it did

 not look startled. Then the mouth opened. It could have

 been a smile, but its teeth shone like jewels.

 Ore climbed down and walked to the creature, which had

 resumed its slow pace. When they were ten feet apart, they

 halted. Ore greeted it in Thoan. "Koowar!"

 It said, "Koowar-su shemanithoon!"

 "Greetings and come in peace!"

 The teeth were white diamonds and obviously had been

 made in a biofactory. They had been fashioned so that they

 resembled human canines, incisors, and molars.

 794

 "Neth Ore," the young Lord said. "I am Ore."

 "Neth Dingsteth."

 The being's name was Dingsteth, one Ore had never

 heard before. It spoke with a slight impediment. No doubt

 the diamond teeth caused that.

 To Ore's rapid-fire questions, Dingsteth responded slowly.

 In due time. Ore learned that this world had been made by the

 Lord called Zazel. Zazel of the Cavemed World. He was also

 the maker of Dingsteth, who was now the only sentient being

 in an entire universe. The world consisted of rock perforated

 with tunnels and caves, some of which had floor areas a

 thousand miles square. But it was, in a sense, a living being.

 It did not seem to have a consciousness. Or, if it did, it had

 given no sign of one to Dingsteth.

 "It's a vast semimineral-semiprotein computer in which

 many different forms of life exist. Half of the fauna and

 flora herein are symbiotes of the world of Zazel. I'll explain

 all that later. It detected your presence and notified me. I

 am, in reality, the Lord of this world even if I did not make

 it. Perhaps you saw the message traveling along the wall?

 It's a very slow computer."

 "I saw the message. What happened to Zazel?"

 "He killed himself. He went mad. Or madder. I think he

 was crazy from the beginning. Who else but an insane

 person would create this kind of world? But he had an easy

 death. He let the computer suck his blood, drain him dry.

 Then, as he had ordered me to do, I cremated him."

 Dingsteth looked at Ore from head to toe, then said,

 "Turn around, please."

 "What?" Ore said. "Why should I?"

 "Tell you later. Please do as I requested."

 Frowning, Ore rotated. He had never obeyed anybody's

 orders except his parents', and, for some years, he had

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 RED ORC'S RAGE

 disliked doing that. He was a Lord, and Lords commanded,

 not non-Lords.

 Dingsteth did not nod because the swollen ring which

 was its neck prevented that. It said, "Good! So far! There

 are no indications of crystallization!"

 At Ore's somewhat alarmed question, Dingsteth said, "If

 you're active enough, your metabolism is able to stave off

 the crystallization of your flesh. But you have to sleep, and

 it is then that the cells slowly begin to turn into stone."

 "What kind of a world is this?" Ore said. At the same

 time, he decided that he was going to get out of it as quickly

 as possible. "And how have you kept from being crystal-

 lized?" he added.

 "Zazel made me so that I have an innate resistance, a

 biological defense."

 "Is there a gate out of the Cavemed World?"

 "There could be. I may be able to find out for you. I have

 access to all the tremendous amount of data that Zazel

 stored in the world."

 Ore was not accustomed to being humble, but this

 situation demanded that he be. He was not going to risk his

 survival just because of his pride. He would bend, though

 not break it, if he had to.

 "Would you find out for me?"

 "Why not?" Dingsteth said. "I will unless some reason for

 not doing so occurs to me or I find the reason in the computer."

 "Thank you. One immediate question, though. How did

 Los manage to penetrate this world and set up the gate I

 used to get here?"

 "Los?"

 Ore told his story.

 Dingsteth said, "The fatal flaw in Thoan culture is that

 the children of the Lords of a particular world want to be its

 sole ruler. That desire was understandable and feasible in

 796

 ancient days when the Lords had the means to create new

 worlds. Then the children, when they became adult, could

 move out of their parents' universes into their own. Now,

 they are restricted to those worlds already made. If they

 knew that the means for making new worlds still existed,

 they could abandon their bloody conflict. That has kept

 their population down considerably, as you know, and is

 responsible for your present plight. If the Thoan were

 logical, they would get rid of that cultural trait."

 "Hold it!" Ore said excitedly. "You said that the means

 for making new worlds still exists! Where?"

 "Here. I did not mean that the creation engines are still

 around. I meant that this world has the data for making new

 ones. Not only the instructions for operation but how to

 make the materials needed and how to construct them and to

 supply them with power. Et cetera."

 "You can access all this?"

 "Of course."

 Ore shook his head, then rolled his eyes. "All this time!

 The knowledge has been thought lost for thousands of

 years! And it's here! In this desolate and undesired world!"

 "It's not such a bad place," Dingsteth said.

 "I apologize if I hurt your feelings," Ore said. "I've only

 been here a short time, so I shouldn't judge the place with

 the little data I have of it. But you must understand that it's

 not my kind of place. Anyway, I'm eager to get back to my

 own world, for reasons I've explained."

 "I don't understand revenge," Dingsteth said. "The

 capability for that was left out of me when I was made. A

 good thing, too, I think. By the way, the video data of your

 father setting up that gate you came through are stored in the

 world's memory. Would you care to see them?"

 "I was wondering how he managed to gate into and out

 of this world."

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 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 "I let him in. I am always curious, and I wanted to talk to

 him and fmd out all about him. He was the first in centuries to

 try to get in. Zazel did not play the game you Lords play. He

 set up codeless gates, though they can be opened from this

 side. I permitted Los to come in, but I was disappointed in

 him. He was in a hurry, so he said, but he promised to come

 back later. He never did, and that was over five hundred years

 ago. Evidently, he's not to be trusted. When you first men-

 tioned his name, it didn't register. But, as we've been talking,

 I recalled him. I ..."

 Ore said, "You didn't tell him about the creation engine

 data, did you?"

 "No. The subject didn't come up during our brief

 conversations. I would have, but ..."

 "Dingsteth," Ore said, "Listen to me! Hear my words of

 advice and caution! Do not ever tell anybody else about the

 engines! If you do, you might be killed—after you've

 shared that knowledge! There are many Thoan who would

 like to get the secret and keep it for themselves! They would

 torture you, then slay you."

 "How about you?" Dingsteth said.

 "I would be very grateful if you would show me that

 data, then open the gate long enough for me to pass on to

 Los's world."

 "You did not answer my question," Dingsteth said.

 "Which means, I'm afraid, that you are concealing from me

 some of your intents and purposes. I don't know you well

 enough to understand your personality. But, if it's like most

 of the other Lords, Manathu Vorcyon is a notable excep-

 tion, you'd be thinking about killing me after you learn all

 you can about the creation engines."

 Ore had to laugh. Then he said, "Zazel certainly made

 you an open and exceedingly frank person!"

 "If I told you how to operate, rather, cooperate, with this

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 RED ORC'S RAGE

 world, you would have to give some of your blood to get the

 data you desire. You have to apply your face to a monitor-

 input and let it suck your blood before it'll give you what you

 want. But it wouldn't let you go unless you knew certain

 codes, which I am not going to tell you. You'd be sucked dry."

 "Just tell me how to gate out," Ore said. "That's all I

 want."

 He was thinking—Jim was aware of this—that he would

 return some day in a small armed vehicle and get the

 information. Dingsteth was the only one who could let him

 in, but Ore would find a way to cajole it into doing that. Or

 he would come back through the kamanbur gate.

 He said, "Why did you admit my father? Also, why did

 you let him set up a gate which kills others when they try to

 get through it?"

 "Why not? What do I care? As it stands, you're the first

 Lord to get through. Your uncle, Ijim, did not make it through,

 and the chances are that the next one to try it will fail. It'll be

 interesting to observe those who follow you, if any ever do."

 Ore did not want to dwell on the gate. Dingsteth might

 get the idea that it would be a good thing to remove it

 because of the possible danger for itself. Another possibility

 was that Dingsteth might lack the means to dismantle it.

 Also, Los would have set up the gate so that anybody trying

 to dismantle it would be killed.

 Dingsteth looked as if it had been encoiled in thought,

 too. Suddenly, it said, "I'll go with you!"

 Ore was surprised. After a long silence, he said, "Why?"

 "I know everything about this world. I am bored with it.

 Zazel did not set me up to be invulnerable against that. As

 for loneliness, I do not know what that means. Zazel made

 me so that that feeling, which afflicts all humans, is absent

 from me. I only know that because the world told me, and

 I've no idea what loneliness feels like.

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 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 "I do have an intense curiosity. I need other worlds to

 feed that. Therefore, I will go with you. You can be my

 guide and instructor until I am able to proceed on my own.

 In return for your services, I will let you pass through the

 gate and I'll go with you and provide you with much data."

 How naive it was! Ore thought. No matter how much

 knowledge the being had, it was, in many respects, igno-

 rant. It did not know that, once Ore got to his native world,

 it would be a burden. He could not afford to have it

 wandering around and perhaps telling the natives that Los's

 son was back and seeking revenge. Also, Dingsteth should,

 for Ore's purposes, remain in the Cavemed World. It could

 open the gate for him when he returned to get a creation

 engine. Which, Ore now remembered, could be reversed to

 become an engine of destruction. Or so the historians said.

 He would have to string Dingsteth along until the

 moment of departure. Perhaps he could get it to stay here

 but also promise to let him back in when next he showed up.

 Dingsteth said, "Wait here."

 It returned ten minutes later. Ore had thought of follow-

 ing it to watch it, but he decided against that. From the little

 information he had gotten, he thought that the walls were in

 league with the being. Their monitors would see him

 following Dingsteth and report that to it.

 "I gave some blood, and the world agreed to open the

 gate for us," it said. Its upper lip bore a small wound. "Let

 us go now."

 Ore walked with it to the other end of the cavern and down

 a tunnel. At the end of approximately thirty minutes, the being

 stopped. Ore looked around. There was nothing to differenti-

 ate this area from any other. Dingsteth placed its hand on the

 near wall. The wall here was free of the omuthid. After several

 seconds, it said, "The gate is now open."

 There still seemed to be nothing except glittering crys-

 200

 talline stone before them. Ore was about to say something

 when Dingsteth plunged its hand through the stone up to his

 ring-shaped wrist. "See?"

 "You may go first," Ore said. His politeness was actually

 caution. He still did not trust the being; it might be asking

 him to step into a fatal trap.

 "Very well," Dingsteth said. Its voice seemed very tight,

 and its face was set in an unreadable expression.

 It walked forward but stopped just before its nose

 encountered the wall. For a long time, while Ore, puzzled,

 watched it, it stood still. Then it stepped back, hesitated,

 and advanced again. Only to halt a half-inch from the wall.

 Finally, Dingsteth turned toward Ore. "I can't do it!" it

 said, and it groaned.

 "Why?" Ore said. His distrust might be well-founded. A

 trap could be, probably was, on the other side.

 "For the first time in my life," it said, "I am afraid. Until

 now, I've never known what apprehension and fear meant,

 though I've read those words in the records. Zazel must

 have put those states in me because a being without fear and

 caution eventually perishes.

 "The moment we started out toward the gate, I began

 feeling very strange emotions. My heart began pounding,

 my stomach seemed to grab itself and try to fold itself into

 itself, and I began shaking. The closer we got, the worse the

 symptoms were. At this moment ..."

 Its teeth began chattering. The sound of diamonds click-

 ing against diamonds was one which Ore would never forget.

 Finally, Dingsteth mastered itself enough to stop shivering.

 "I can't!" it wailed. "I feel as if something on the other

 side will destroy me if I go there! I feel ... I feel as if a

 great void will be waiting for me! I'll step through the gate

 and fall into an immense space and fall and fall! Then I'll hit

 the bottom and be broken, smashed, into a thousand pieces!

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 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 And that's very peculiar, you know! I don't even know what

 a vast space would look like! I've lived in this enclosed and

 straitened world all my life and have no idea what a really

 large space would be!"

 "You're suffering from intense cases of agoraphobia and

 acrophobia," Ore said. He was, however, wondering ifDingsteth

 was putting on an act to get him to go through the gate first.

 "I know those words, but, until now, I never knew what

 their true meaning was! What it is, it's fear of the unknown!

 I am unable to leave this world! I just can't, I just can't!"

 Ore was not going to coax it through the gate. And he

 might as well take advantage of it while its wits whirled

 around as if in a centrifuge.

 "Listen, Dingsteth! Your curiosity and desire for new

 knowledge drive you to leave this place. These are valuable

 factors. Your excessive fear of the unknown is a crippling

 aspect of your persona. It's a mental sickness, and I know

 you cannot conquer it by yourself. I'll tell you what I'm

 going to do. When I return, I promise I will, I'll bring a

 drug that will suppress that fear. Then you'll be able to

 venture forth and do what you want to do."

 "That would be thoughtful of you," Dingsteth said.

 "Only . . . I'm not sure that any drug could overcome

 this great fear."

 "I promise you it will."

 "But I'm not sure that I want to take any such drug. It

 could make me do something that would kill me!"

 "I'll bring it, and you can take it or not, depending on

 how you feel about it."

 Ore did not care whether or not Dingsteth used the drug.

 All he wanted was for the being to let him back through the

 gate. He would have to test its existence himself. To throw

 Dingsteth through the gate to activate a trap was to put Ore

 in a losing position, whatever happened. If the being died,

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 RED ORC'S RAGE

 it could not admit him when he returned. If there was no

 trap, Dingsteth would be horrified and forever offended It

 would never allow him in after that.

 "I will bring back the drug," Ore said.

 "I'll admit you so I can try it," the being said. "At least,

 I think I will. Good concatenation of events for you Ore

 son of Los and Enitharmon!"

 "For you, too," Ore said.

 He stepped through the gate that was also a crystalline

 wall.

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 RED ORC'S RAGE

 CHAPTER 24

 URC WAS NOT in Los's world. His father had not told him

 the truth about the gate on Anthema leading back to his

 native universe. Or had Los lied or just been misleading?

 Ore had gone from Zazel's Cavemed World to one which

 the local natives called Lakter. After a while. Ore realized

 that the Thoan knew it as Jakadawin Tar. That is, Jadawin's

 World. It had once been Thulloh's World, that is, Thulkaloh

 Tar. But Jadawin had gotten through the gate-traps, and

 Thulloh had been forced to gate out to save his life.

 Lakter was a planet where the stars "seemed" to swarm

 through the night sky like fireflies. Ore thought "seemed"

 because so many things in the pocket universes were

 illusions. The gate was in a cave at the foot of a mountain

 on a large tropical island. Ore had gone down through the

 jungle to the seashore. After watching the natives for some

 days, he had revealed himself to them. They were peaceful

 and friendly, though they had some customs that Ore thought

 were bizarre and sometimes brutal.

 204

 The Poashenk language was not derived from Thoan. He

 learned it quickly enough despite encountering some sounds

 unknown to him until then. He lived in a hut made of

 bamboolike wood and grass with a good-looking woman,

 hunted and fished, ate well, slept much, and healed his

 body. His soul was not so quickly repaired. Despite his

 seeming patience, he burned to find the next gate. After he

 became fluent in Poashenk, he questioned all who claimed

 to know something about the world outside the island. That

 was little and was mostly half-legend.

 Meanwhile, his brown-skinned hosts gave him a drug,

 aflatuk, made from the juices of three plants. Ore drank it

 and also smoked the shredded bark of the somakatin plant.

 Both put him in a pleasant and dreamy state where he

 moved and thought in slow motion. The taste of a fruit or of

 roasted meat lasted for hours, or seemed to. Orgasms

 seemed to span both ends of eternity. Eternity, of course, in

 reality had no beginning or end—unless you had taken in

 aflatuk juice and somakatin smoke. Then you saw the start

 and the finish of what could not be begun or finished.

 Ore might have tried the drugs just once or perhaps

 several times and then quit. But these two had no bad

 aftereffects, and he was told that they did not hook the user.

 It was some time before he observed that the tribe's adults

 did not have good memories. Then Ore's wife had a

 miscarriage, and he found out that miscarriages were rather

 frequent. Though he noted these facts, he was not disturbed

 much by them. However, when he began missing his aim

 while hunting—he had always been a superb archer—he did

 get alarmed. And when he began to forget significant items,

 he was even more perturbed. But these mental upsets passed

 with time.

 On certain days, the Poashenks traveled to other villages

 of the super-tribe of Skwamapenk for ritual festivals or just

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 RED ORC'S RAGE

 to have a good time. Ore saw that the five tribes meeting for

 these occasions were equally hooked on aflatuk and so-

 makatin.

 It was not until the fifth festival that he felt a vague

 alarm. The revelation was slow in coming, but, when it did,

 it jolted him, though not strongly. Hooked. All the users of

 the drugs were hooked, and that included himself!

 That night, despite the painful urgings to drink the juice

 and smoke the bark, he resisted. Without saying good-bye

 to anybody, he put out to sea in his dugout. Though he had

 food and water, he did not take any of the drugs.

 The next day, he regretted leaving the aflatuk and

 somakatin behind. Why had he been so stupid? Before

 nightfall, the craving was twisting his body with agony, and

 his cries were swept away by the wind, heard only by

 himself and a few seabirds. He was being carried away from

 the island, and he had no idea where other land was.

 Willingly or not, he was taking the cold turkey cure.

 Jim Grimson also suffered, agonized, and, figuratively,

 bit his own wrists and tore at his flesh with his fingers. He,

 with Ore, screamed, saw demons rising from the sea and

 vast menacing ghostly figures looking down from the

 clouds, and felt as if his flesh was gnawing into his bones

 and spitting pieces out and the bones were trying to eat their

 way through the flesh to his skin while being eaten by the

 flesh.

 Between these tortures. Ore, hence Jim, plunged into

 abysmal depressions. Ore saw himself sitting on the dugout

 bow and grinning at him. The strange thing about this vision

 was that it told him that, in some perverted way, he was

 enjoying his depressions.

 He came close to leaping into the sea to end it all.

 Then, suddenly, he suffered no more. The drugs had fled

 his body. He was weak, gaunt, and thirsty from not eating

 206

 and drinking, but he had won one battle. No. He had won

 the war. He swore that never again would he take any drugs.

 Unfortunately, during his deliriums, he had thrown the

 food and water supplies overboard. He now had a war

 against thirst and starvation to wage. He would have lost

 this if a ship had not rescued him. This, however, was

 manned by slavers. He was shoved into the hold and

 manacled along with several hundred other unfortunates.

 His captors were very tall men from the far east of the

 large landmass reported by the Poashenks. They were

 lighter-skinned than the islanders and armed with steel

 weapons. Their vessel was equipped with sails and with

 oars to be used when the wind was light or nonexistent.

 The slaver-pirates made two raids on a large island. With

 the ship packed to overcapacity with slaves, they sailed for

 three weeks northward. Ore survived the horrors of the

 hold. He was not sure that he would live through the

 slavehood itself. He was sold to a grower of a hemplike

 plant and put to work in the fields. The labor from dawn to

 dusk under the killer sun, the bad food, the unremitting

 humiliation, and the busy whips of the overseers put a

 heavy strain on his patience and toleration.

 He knew what the penalty was for not obeying orders

 completely and industriously. He realized what talking back

 to the overseers or even being slightly surly would bring on

 him. He still had to control himself with great effort. He

 observed everything carefully, and he looked for ways and

 means to escape.

 Jim Grimson not only shared Ore's sufferings, he had his

 own. He had stuck to Ore no matter what ordeals and

 dangers the Lord went through. When the agonies of

 withdrawal came, they were too much for Jim. He chanted

 the release phrase. He remained in Ore's mind. Horrified,

 he tried again and again. He could not get loose. Then he

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 RED ORC'S RAGE

 was swallowed up in the self-rending and the brain-fever

 nightmare visions and deliriums. He was too much Ore to

 be Jim Grimson.

 After the withdrawal agonies were gone, Jim thought that

 he could now spring himself and return to Earth. But he

 decided that he could hang on and in a little longer. He

 endured the slave ship because Ore did not find the ordeal

 unendurable. For the same reason, Jim stayed while Ore

 was a plantation slave.

 One day, he concluded that he had had too much too

 long. He would leave. When enough time had passed for

 the situation to change, he would return.

 Again, he was horrified because he could not tear himself

 away. Now, though, the ghostbrain was holding him. It had

 moved closer and had "seized" Jim with phantom pincers.

 Somehow, Jim knew that it had put forth something similar

 to a crab's claws and clamped them down on him.

 After that, the ghostbrain did nothing. It seemed content,

 for a while, anyway, just to hold on to him. Jim was

 anything but content. He struggled. He chanted. He cried

 aloud, figuratively, to a God he did not believe in. All was

 in vain.

 Shortly after this. Ore rebelled. He had not planned to do

 so; he just stepped over, or was forced to step over, his limit

 of endurance. His overseer, Nager, did not like any slave in

 his gang, and he particularly disliked Ore. He made fun of

 Ore's white skin, spat on him, lashed him more than he did

 the other slaves and for lesser offenses, and always put Ore

 on double duty when that was needed.

 That late afternoon, just after Nager had told the water

 bearer not to give Ore a drink because he did not look

 thirsty. Ore reached out and lifted the whole bucket to his

 mouth. The next second, he was knocked down. Nager's

 foot drove into his stomach. Then he brought the whip

 208

 down on Ore's back. The young Lord took six lashes before

 he saw red. He jumped up through the scarlet cloud that

 seemed to envelop everything, and he kicked Nager in the

 crotch.

 Before the other overseers and some guards could get to

 him. Ore snapped Nager's neck.

 Despite his struggles, during which he killed a guard and

 crippled an overseer, he was brought down to the ground.

 The chief overseer, pale under his dark pigment, almost

 frothing at the mouth, ordered that Ore be beheaded at once.

 The slaves, having abandoned their duties to watch, had

 formed a ring around Ore and the men who held him. They

 were a silent group, but their faces revealed their hatred.

 There was not one among them who would not have done

 what Ore did if they had been able to do it.

 Ore was on his knees, his trunk bent forward, his hands

 gripped behind him, his head pushed forward. The chief

 overseer had unsheathed his long sword and was approach-

 ing Ore. He was saying, "Hold him steady! One cut, and

 I'll take his head to the master!"

 Jim was more than just terrified. If Ore died, he would

 die. He was convinced of that. He screamed out the

 releasing phrase and made the most violent mental effort of

 his life, which lately had been filled with such.

 He had the sensation of passing through a colorless void.

 Not black. Colorless. Cold burned him. And he was back in

 his room.

 Its lights were on. He was on his feet but bent over. His

 hands were squeezing the neck of Bill Cranam, a security

 guard. Bill was on his knees, and he was bent backwards.

 His eyes were popping; his face was turning blue; his own

 hands were clamped on Jim's wrists.

 Someone was screaming at Jim to let loose of Cranam.

 209

  

  

 CHAPTER 25

 Two BLOWS OF a billy club on the backs of his elbows

 paralyzed Jim's arms. His hands fell away from Cranam's

 neck. An arm clamped down on his neck from behind.

 Choking, he was dragged from Cranam and thrown down

 onto the floor. The other guard, Dick McDonrach, stood

 over him, holding his billy club high.

 "Don't move, damn you, don't move!" McDonrach said

 hoarsely.

 Despite this warning, Jim sat up. He was naked. Before

 the last two entries, he had removed his clothes. He had had

 the idea, probably wrong, that they interfered with the ease

 of transition.

 "What's going on?" Jim said hoarsely, looking up at

 McDonrach. He felt his neck.

 "We made a surprise drug sweep," the guard said. "We

 found you sitting in that chair; you didn't seem to hear us.

 We searched your room. We found this!"

 210

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 He reached into his pocket and brought out a plastic bag

 containing some black capsules. Triumphantly, he said,

 "Uppers!"

 Jim felt dazed and stupid. He said, "They're not mine! I

 swear they're not mine!"

 At the same time, he saw out of the comer of his eye

 faces in the doorway. He turned his head. The doorway was

 packed with patients in their pajamas and dressing gowns.

 Sandy Melton looked very sad. Gillman Sherwood was

 grinning.

 Bill Cranam, tenderly feeling his neck, staggered over to

 McDonrach's side. His voice was hoarse and squeaky.

 "Jesus Christ, Grimson! What got into you? I had a hell

 of a time waking you up, and then you attacked me! Why?

 Haven't we always been good buddies?"

 "I'm sorry. Bill," Jim said. "I was still in ... that

 other world. I mean, I wasn't all here. I didn't even know

 what I was doing."

 "Godamighty!" McDonrach said. "I got blood all over

 my shirt!"

 Jim had seen the stains, but they had not registered. He

 was numb. He would have sworn that he had flushed the

 black beauties that Sherwood had given him down the

 toilet.

 "You got it when you grabbed Jim from behind," Bill

 said. He went around Jim and stopped behind him.

 "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Your back's bleeding like a

 stuck pig! How'd you get those deep cuts? We never

 touched your back, I'll swear on a pile of Bibles!"

 Jim could feel now the agony of the whiplashes and the

 wetness and salty sting of the flowing blood.

 He said, "I got them ..."

 He fell silent. How could he explain? For the moment, he

 did not have to do that. What was really important was

 211

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 clearing up how the drugs got in his room. That son of a

 bitch Sherwood! He had to have something to do with it!

 But why would he try to frame anybody? How had he done

 it, if he had?

 McDonrach, a big, burly, and huge-paunched middle-

 aged man, led Jim into the bathroom. He stood Jim before

 the mirror with his back to it. Jim, twisting his neck around

 as far as he was able, could see his back in the glass. There

 were at least six long and deep cuts. These had been

 inflicted on Ore by the overseer's whip. Yet they were also

 on his back. The blood was starting to cake.

 "I'll clean you up," McDonrach said. "But don't make

 any sudden moves. I don't trust you."

 "I'm not crazy," Jim said. "I was just, well, immersed,

 really into it. I didn't know what I was doing. But those

 capsules, Mac, they're not mine. Somebody's trying to

 frame me."

 "That's what they all say."

 Mac used a towel to wipe the blood off, then washed the

 cuts with soap and water and patted them dry with a paper

 towel. After that, he applied rubbing alcohol to the wounds.

 Jim clamped his teeth together hard but made no sound.

 "You'll have to go to the emergency room for profes-

 sional care," McDonrach said. He was grinning as if he

 enjoyed hurting Jim. "But I don't think those're going to get

 infected. Get your robe and slippers on."

 "OK," Jim said. "But I didn't buy those uppers or bring

 them here. I'm innocent."

 "Nobody your age is innocent."

 "A fucking philosopher!" Jim said, snarling.

 The red haze that had surrounded Ore was now around

 him. He had thought that he could be cool and play it

 cautiously and wisely. But McDonrach's last remark trig-

 gered the rage that Ore—that he—bore always within

 2/2

 himself like a low-grade fever. Add to that the injustice of

 being accused of using drugs, and the fever boiled up into

 a very high grade, indeed.

 He did not know what he had done to McDonrach. It may

 not have been he, it may have been Ore. Whatever he did

 do, it was Ore's fighting skill that he had used. McDonrach

 was lying on his back on the green and white tile floor, now

 touched with red splotches. He was unconscious, and blood

 was flowing from his ear.

 Jim screamed, and he lunged out through the bathroom

 door. He saw Cranam bringing the billy down against his

 skull. After that, blackness.

 When he came to his senses, he was on his back on a

 table in the emergency room on the first floor of the

 hospital. His back pained him, but his head hurt worse.

 Doctor Porsena, dressed in a checked woolen shirt and

 Levi's, was talking to the intern on duty. Two uniformed

 policemen stood just inside the door. A few minutes later,

 they were joined by a plainclothes cop. She talked to the

 two fuzz, then held a low-voiced conference with Doctor

 Porsena.

 Jim had rolled onto his side but facing them to watch

 them. After a lot of hand waving and head shaking by the

 doctor and the cop, the doctor came over to Jim. He said,

 "How are you, Jim?"

 "'Excelsior!" Jim said. "And I don't mean the stuffing for

 couches."

 Porsena smiled thinly. "Ever upwards! No need for me to

 tell you you're in a hell of a mess. But I think we can work

 things out, though that won't be just to make it easy for you.

 Roll over. I want to look at your back."

 Jim did so. Porsena whistled. "How'd you get those?

 They can't be self-inflicted?"

 2/3

  

  

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 "They are . . . in a way. They're Ore's wounds. He got

 them from a slave driver he was uppity to."

 "You have had stigmata, Jim."

 Jim wished that he could see Porsena's face. He said,

 "Yeah, but I only had the bleeding. Doctor. Never had the

 wounds. My flesh was unbroken. The blood just sort of

 oozed out from the skin. Those are real cuts, deep. They

 hurt, too. They're not psychologically induced, as you

 shrinks say. You're not trying to invalidate me, are you?"

 "We'll talk about them later. There's also the matter of

 the drugs to investigate. I understand you claim they were

 planted. Meanwhile, you'll be kept down here overnight for

 observation of a possible concussion. I'll be up and around

 for some time trying to find out what happened. Good

 night, Jim."

 Next afternoon, Jim was back in his room. His cuts were

 covered with taped-down gauze, and they pained him far

 less than he had expected. Maybe, just maybe, he had

 absorbed Ore's ability to heal wounds quickly. It did not

 seem likely, but anything was possible.

 Jim did some detective work of his own, though he was

 restricted to his room except for meals and the therapy

 sessions. The Thorazine Doctor Porsena had prescribed for

 him made him too complaisant and fuzzy-minded. Despite

 this, he had little trouble figuring out what had happened

 while he was in the Tiersian worlds. Or, as everybody else

 believed, in a trance.

 Sherwood's connection was an attendant, Nate Rogers.

 The patients knew this, but their "code" forbade them to

 inform the staff. Jim had seen Rogers pass drugs to

 Sherwood only once, which was enough. What must have

 happened the night before was that the drug sweep had

 surprised Rogers. Panicked, he had ditched the drugs in

 Jim's room. He could have done it easily, right in front of

 2/4

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 the patient. Jim was out of this world—literally. Of course,

 it was possible that Sherwood had done it out of spite.

 Never mind the speculations. Get to the heart; bite down

 on the jugular. Ore wouid do that. Hence, Jim Grirnson

 would do that.

 It was not yet lunchtime. Jim walked down the hallway,

 greeting the few patients. No staff or nurses or attendants

 were present to send him back to his room. Nate Rogers, a

 tall and well-muscled but ugly man in his late thirties, was

 leaning against the door of the linen closet. He was

 contemplating a cigarette in his hand as if wondering if he

 should light up here or do it in the smoking lounge. When

 he became aware that Jim was approaching, he smiled.

 "How's the boy, Jim?"

 "Not in a good mood, you sneaky son of a bitch!"

 Jim grabbed Rogers, spun him around, and pushed him

 through the door. Rogers stumbled ahead, trying to keep

 from falling. Jim switched on the light. The attendant

 caught himself on the far wall and spun around. He was

 red-faced, and he looked menacing.

 "What the hell is this, shithead?"

 Jim told him what it was all about, though Rogers must

 have already guessed.

 "You'll tell Porsena what you did or I'll beat you into

 doing it."

 "What? Are you crazy? Yeah, of course, you are! You're

 all crazy as bedbugs!"

 "Don't forget that," Jim said. "We'll cut your throat if

 you turn your back on us. I will, anyway. You coming with

 me to Porsena's office?"

 "Shit!" Rogers said. "You got nothing, absolutely noth-

 ing, on me! Get lost, punk, or I'll wipe the floor with you!"

 "Your cliches could do that."

 "What? What's that?"

 215

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 "Listen," Jim said. "You won't believe me, maybe, but

 I know how to kill you in two seconds with my bare hands."

 "Bullshit!" Rogers said, and he sneered. "Even if you

 could, you wouldn't! You wanna go to prison for life?"

 "I've seen you give Sherwood drugs," Jim said. "So've

 a lot of other kids. If they think I've been framed, they'll

 forget about this stupid code of silence. They'll stand up for

 me."

 "Sure they will! In a pig's ass! You think they want their

 supply cut off?"                                         ;

 "There's only a few buying illegal drugs from Sher- |

 wood," Jim said. "They'll be outnumbered. OK. What |

 about it? You got five seconds. One, two, three, four, five!" j

 Rogers, swinging his fists, ran straight at Jim. A second

 later, he was flat on his back, his eyes glazed and his mouth

 open. Jim waited until Rogers had recovered his wits.

 "I just clipped you on the chin," Jim said. "That didn't

 do my hand any good. Next time, I kick you in the belly or

 ram three fingers just under your heart and squeeze it until

 stops. I don't like to do this, Rogers. No, that's wrong. I'm

 really enjoying this."

 He was lying. It had suddenly occurred to him that he

 should be doing something tricky but nonviolent to get

 Rogers to confess. Wasn't that what Ore would do? Maybe

 he had, after all, done the wrong thing. He might be making

 this mess worse.

 Too late now. His course was set. No turning back.

 "So you can do all that?" Rogers said. "I'm just staying

 here on the floor until you leave. I might start yelling, too.

 You think you're in trouble now? Wait and see what deep

 shit you'll be in!"

 The door swung open, its edge barely missing Jim. He

 stepped to one side and saw that Sherwood was standing

 216

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 there, the door swinging shut behind him. The big blond

 youth was blinking with surprise and alarm.

 Jim stepped in behind him with his back to the door, now

 closed. He said, "Going to make a deal here, Sherwood? I

 got one for you!"

 Rogers had to have in his pockets the drugs that Sher-

 wood was going to buy. Without thinking about what he

 intended to do, Jim shoved the youth forward. Immediately,

 he opened the door, stepped into the hallway, slammed the

 door shut, and leaned hard against it. Sandy Melton was

 coming down the hall. He called to her to bring the security

 guards.

 "Tell them I caught Sherwood and Rogers in a drug

 deal!"

 Sandy was confused.

 "What? You're turning them in? But . . . !"

 "It's my ass or theirs," he said. "Get going!"

 She came back a minute later, followed by two day

 guards, Elissa Radowski and Bee Vamas. Jim had to strain

 against the door to keep Sherwood from ramming it open.

 He said, "Quick! Rogers and Sherwood were dealing in

 there! I caught them! You better get in fast before Rogers

 ditches the stuff!"

 He stepped back, unlocking and swinging the door open.

 Sherwood fell through it onto his hands and knees. The

 guards charged into the room. Jim saw Rogers with a plastic

 bag in his hand. Evidently, he had just swallowed its

 contents. Only a person in a mindless panic would do that.

 And it did him no good. The guards pulled six other bags

 from the inner pocket of his white attendant's jacket. Then

 he was taken to emergency, where his stomach was pumped

 before the downers killed him.

 Sherwood made a bad mistake while the guards were

 taking Rogers away. He came up off the floor and grabbed

 2/7

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 Jim's testicles. Before he could squeeze them, he was

 knocked backward by the heel of a palm slammed against

 his forehead. His neck and back bent backward; he

 screamed with pain. Some minutes later, strapped down on

 a gumey, he followed Rogers to the emergency room.

 Jim stood against the wall, shaking his head and blowing

 out air. Again, the red cloud had settled over his mind, and

 he would have kicked Sherwood in the ribs if Sandy Melton

 had not clung to him while she screamed at him to be cool,

 for God's sake.

 Doctors Porsena, Tarchuna, and Scaevola came then,

 pushing through the crowd of patients and attendants. It

 took some time for them to quiet down and disperse all but

 Sandy and Jim and more time to get their story.

 After the questioning, Porsena ordered that Jim be locked

 in his room. "Mainly to keep you out of trouble and to allow

 you to settle down," he said. "I'll be seeing you when this

 mess is cleared up. I don't want you making still another."

 The usually unflappable psychiatrist was angry. His set

 face and his tone of voice made that obvious. Jim went

 unprotesting to his room. That even Doctor Porsena was

 upset with him impressed him very deeply. But Porsena did

 not, as Jim had expected, summon him to his office later

 that day. He did give Jim another Thorazine after ascertain-

 ing when he had taken the previous one.

 The tranquilizer did not soothe Jim. He became furious,

 then agonized with repentance, then furious again. Instead

 of going to bed after lights-out, he paced back and forth in

 his room, freezing with misery, burning with rage.

 218

 CHAPTER 26

 JIM WAS IN the psychiatrist's office for his private session-

 A new framed paper with big fancy printed letters was

 hanging on the wall. Jim could not read it from his position,

 but he supposed that it was a recent honor. The doctor had

 more diplomas and citations than a Hollywood magnate had

 yes-men.

 A new bust was on the top shelf in a comer. Below it

 were the white, stony-eyed, and bushy-bearded busts of

 some ancient Greek and Roman philosophers and statues of

 a sitting Buddha and St. Francis of Assisi. Curious about

 the addition, Jim got out of his chair to look at it while

 Porsena was still scribbling on a paper.

 The face, except for the mustache, closely resembled

 Julius Caesar's bust. It was Doctor Porsena's. Below it was

 inscribed: TO THE UNKNOWN PSYCHIATRIST.

 Though Jim was in no mood to laugh, he broke up. The

 doctor had a hell of a sense of humor, though it was usually

 rather restrained and quiet.

 2/9

  

  

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER                                                 RED ORC'S RAGE

 At the beginning of the session, Porsena had outlined the

 "mess" Jim was still in. His words were very rapid but

 clearly articulated and lacking pauses, almost as fast as an

 auctioneer's. He always spoke thus when he was dealing

 with a subject that had to be disposed of before the real

 business, therapy, was gotten to.

 Rogers had been allowed to quit his position without

 being charged with drug dealing. To get that, he had had to

 make a full confession and to drop the charges of assault

 and battery he had threatened to make against Jim. Gillman

 Sherwood had also not charged Jim with assault and battery

 and intent to kill. The doctor had made it clear that, if he

 did, he would be accused of dealing, too. Moreover, he

 would be kicked out of the project.

 Sherwood was back in his room but under strict proba-

 tion. He walked with a stiff back, his neck hurt when he

 turned it, and he kept out of Jim's way.

 Cranam and McDonrach had also not pressed charges

 against Jim. They were in trouble because Doctor Porsena

 claimed that they had mishandled the situation with Jim.

 Though they could continue to work as security guards,

 they would not be attached to the mental ward.

 "I believe firmly in giving a person a second chance," the

 doctor had said. "In this case, you're getting one, too.

 You're as much on probation as the others. Now, I spoke of

 your unusually vivid imagination. It has helped you

 progress faster in your therapy than your fellow patients. I

 don't want you to get a swelled head just because of that.

 You were just lucky to have been bom with it."

 The doctor paused. His blue eyes invoked images of the

 Vikings of whom Jim's grandfather had told him. The eyes

 were those of Leif the Lucky, staring across the sullen and

 dangerous sea which seemed to go on forever. Somewhere,

 beyond some distant horizon, was undiscovered land. Was

 it too far away? Should he turn back to Greenland?

 Doctor Porsena's expression changed subtly. He had

 made up his mind. He said, "It's time to begin shedding

 Red Ore's undesirable characteristics."

 Jim said nothing. He sat in the chair as rigidly, except for

 the blinking of his eyelids, as if Porsena had dipped him in

 a cryogenic cylinder.

 Finally, the doctor said, "How do you feel about this?"

 Jim shifted his buttocks, looked at the ceiling for a

 moment, and then licked his lips.

 "I ... I'll admit I'm scared. I feel ... I feel as if

 I've had a . . . a great loss. I don't know ..."

 "You know," Porsena said.

 "Is it really necessary? Aren't you rushing things? I've

 just gotten into Ore. Jesus, how many days has it been since

 it started? Not many!"

 "The number of days in therapy is not significant. We're

 not a penal institution. What counts is the rate of progress in

 your therapy. And you need not be ashamed because you're

 frightened. At this stage, every patient is panicked. I'd be

 very suspicious if your reaction was casual. I'd wonder if

 you were genuinely and deeply in Ore's persona. But I've

 not the slightest doubt that you are."

 "Too deeply?" Jim said.

 "That remains to be seen."

 "What are his bad features?" Jim said loudly.

 "You tell me."

 "I'd rather go over his good features first."

 "Whatever order you desire. Before you do that, what are

 your feelings, emotional and physical, just now? Besides

 being scared."

 "I feel better when I'm talking about what's good about

  

  

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 Ore. My heart is still hammering hard, though. And my

 bowels, they feel kind of greasy. I have to urinate, too."

 "Can you hold it? Or would you be too uncomfortable?"

 "I don't know," Jim said. "I guess so. It isn't as bad as

 I thought a moment ago."

 "Ore's desirable characteristics? Those you felt you

 lacked or were too weak?"

 "Listen!" Jim burst out. "I can't quit going into him! He

 needs me! There's the ghostbrain! I got to get him rid of

 that! If it takes over, he won't be Ore anymore! Not really!

 I wouldn't want to enter that body if its mind was no longer

 Ore's! I'd hate that! Besides, what would be the point?"

 He paused to swallow. His lips and mouth were very dry.

 "Besides, you aren't going to let me enter again!"

 "I didn't say that," the doctor said. "That's something

 you assumed, and I want you to look into that assumption.

 When you know why, tell me why you think I'll make you

 abandon Ore. That's what you think, isn't it? That you'll

 have to give up Ore? But I haven't said you'll have to do

 that. I don't want you to enter him for some time, which

 time will be determined by your progress. Later, you will

 continue the entries. Now, what are his good traits?"

 "Ah . . . undaunted courage. Determination that won't

 stop. Ingenuity, using the materials at hand to attain his

 goal. A burning desire to leam all sorts of things. Curiosity.

 A great self-esteem. Boy, do I wish I had it! Ability to adapt

 to any situation, to get along with people, high or low, if it's

 to his advantage. Patience of a turtle. But he's rabbit-fast

 when he has to be."

 "Anything else?"

 "Well, there's his relations with his family. Not all good,

 but he really loves his mother, though he gets mad at her

 because she doesn't stand up strongly enough or often

 enough to his father. Still, she is strong. Also, Ore is crazy

 222

 about his Aunt Vala. As for his relations with the natives,

 especially his half sisters, he's never been cruel to them. I

 suppose you could say his seducing them, knocking them

 up, was not exactly Christian behavior. But he never forced

 them, and the natives think bearing a Lord's child is a great

 honor. It sure makes life in general better for them."

 "What is your estimate of your success in absorbing, as

 it were. Ore's good characteristics? Have you been able to

 raise your own self-esteem, for instance?"

 "You're the one's supposed to judge things like that!"

 "I'm asking you."

 "Well, I think I've got a lot more sense of my own worth,

 which is good. I mean ... my self-esteem is much bigger

 than it was. Better. Only ..."

 "Only what?"

 "Is that self-esteem mine? Or is it borrowed from Ore?

 Am I still playing Ore when I'm on Earth, and is it going to

 stick?"

 "A person with genuine self-esteem does not care what

 people think of him," the doctor said. "He or she is his own

 judge of self-worth. I'd say that a true indicator of your

 genuine self-esteem is your behavior when you're presented

 with a problem. You seem to take matters in your own

 hands now. You don't mope around. You don't just wish

 you could do something about a situation but don't do it. Is

 my observation correct?"

 Jim nodded, and he said, "Seems to be on the mark. I'm

 not as cowardly as I used to be. I don't think so, anyway."

 "Perhaps you were never as cowardly as you thought you

 were? You fought the bully, Freehoffer, when you could

 have walked away from him."

 "Sure!" Jim said. "And have everybody thinking I had a

 yellow streak a mile wide down my back?"

 "If that happened now, would you fight because you were

 223

  

  

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 more afraid of social condemnation than of physical vio-

 lence or because you just were not afraid of him? And you

 thought that to continue to give in to his bullying was

 wrong?"

 "The latter, I suppose. How would I know unless it

 happened again?"

 "It did happen again, in a sense. You did not have to be

 pushed into a comer until you got so desperate you tackled

 Sherwood and Rogers. As soon as you knew what the

 situation was, you charged on in and solved it. You could

 have done it differently and better. The point is that you did

 it at once.

 "Now let's discuss Ore's undesirable characteristics."

 "That's easy. He's arrogant. But he can't help that. He's

 been raised as a Lord. They think they're God's chosen

 people, even though they don't believe in God. In fact,

 they're the only people, so they think. Other humans aren't

 real people."

 "You're excusing him. Do you think that arrogance is an

 undesirable characteristic? For you?"

 "Yeah, sure. I don't want to be a big prick."

 "Is Ore, as you say, a big prick? In the sense you mean,

 that is?"

 "Yeah."

 "What else?"

 "Well, there's his cruelty. That seems to go along with

 being a Lord. But in the beginning, when I was first in him,

 he did have some compassion. He got into trouble with his

 father because he refused to kill his half-brother, even if he

 was a leblabbiy. I don't think he's got any compassion or

 empathy left. Not much, anyway.

 "Then there's his continual rage. Most of the time,

 anyway. He's always mad. But it's because of the way his

 224

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 father treated him and his mother's failure to stop his father

 from gating him out to Anthema. Why did they do that to

 their son? He was just not going to bow and scrape to his

 father and kiss his ass all the time and put up with Los's

 uncalled-for blows and kicks and insults, that's all. Of

 course he was in a rage. You can't blame him for that. I'd

 be madder than hell, too. So, is that bad?"

 "We've discussed appropriate anger and inappropriate

 anger," Doctor Porsena said. "You told me that Ore was

 considering using the destruction engine in Zazel's world to

 destroy his own world. That would not only kill his father.

 His mother, brothers, and sisters and several million natives

 and, in fact, all living creatures in that world would die. Is

 that appropriate revenge?"

 "It was just a fantasy!" Jim said. "Hell, everybody has

 fantasies like that! But they don't act them out! Besides, he

 was going to rescue his mother and brother first!"

 "And let everybody else die. As for these common

 fantasies of revenge, those who have them usually don't act

 them out. But Ore does. That is, he will if he goes back to

 get the destruction engine. If he does get it, will he use it?"

 "I hope not. That'd be horrible. But I won't know if he

 will do that unless I reenter, will I?"

 "You probably do know now," the doctor said. "But you

 won't admit that you do. However, what would Ore have

 done if he had been framed as you were?"

 "The same thing," Jim said proudly. "I did what I

 thought he'd do."

 "Would he have assaulted the two guards? Not if he was

 thinking as coolly as you say he does in most situations. I

 admit you were provoked. Not enough, in my judgment, to

 react so violently. And do you think it was necessary to

 assault Sherwood and Rogers? Couldn't there have been

 another way to expose them?"

 225

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER                                                RED ORC'S RAGE

 "Yeah, sure. If I snitched on them. But 1 couldn't prove

 anything just by telling the guards or you. I had to catch

 them in the act. There was no other way. Anyway, I'd never

 snitch!"

 "You had exposed them. But you hurt Sherwood."

 "He attacked me!"

 "Your defense was more like offense. A very violent

 offense."

 "That's what Ore would have done!"

 "Exactly. Was it appropriate for you?"

 Jim frowned and bit his lower lip. Then he said, "You're

 telling me that acting like Ore then was wrong behavior for

 my situation."

 "I didn't tell you that. You told me. And . . . ?"

 "OK. I see now. I hadn't sorted out what was appropriate

 in Ore's behavior and what was inappropriate."

 "And for you."

 The psychiatrist pursued the subject. Jim realized that

 Doctor Porsena was being a guide who let his client make

 his own map as they traveled. But he could not anticipate

 the direction in which the guide was taking him.

 At the end of the session, the doctor told Jim to get, each

 day, the prescribed amount of Thorazine from the phar-

 macy.

 "You'll be on it for a while. Not very long, perhaps.

 Meanwhile, you are not to reenter. I'll tell you when you

 can do that. I want you to have time to evaluate your

 experiences and your feelings about them. Then we'll talk

 about reentry. I stress strongly, and I know what I'm doing,

 that you do not use your tragil until I say you can. No

 launch until the mental weather is good, right?"

 "OK. I hear you loud and clear."

 When Jim stepped out into the hallway, he was suddenly

 226

 in a bright light. He could not tell Doctor Porsena what the

 light had revealed to him. He would be very alarmed and

 would take measures that Jim would not like. Maybe,

 though, the doctor already suspected the truth.

 Jim was addicted to being Ore.

 227

  

  

 CHAPTER 27

 i HERE WERE SEVERAL items that neither the doctor nor Jim

 had mentioned. One was that Jim did not have to worry

 about Ore having been beheaded by the slavedriver. After

 all, had not Farmer written that the young Lord, now known

 as Red Ore, was alive in the middle twentieth century

 A.D.? Thus, Jim's worry that Ore might be killed was

 unfounded. Knowing this, why was he so concerned?

 Another item was the discrepancy between Farmer's

 account of the Lords and Jim's direct knowledge of them. In

 the World of Tiers series, Vala was sister to Rintrah and

 Jadawin. In the real worlds of the Lords, Vala was sister to

 Enitharmon, Ore's mother. Rintrah was the second child of

 Los and Enitharmon and was Ore's younger brother.

 After some thought about this, Jim had concluded that

 Farmer's knowledge was fragmentary or received through a

 filter which let some but not all information through.

 Doctor Porsena and his staff believed, though they had

 225

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 .never said so to the patients, that the World of Tiers series

 was pure fiction. Jim knew better. Farmer was said to have

 had some genuine mystic experiences, and he must have

 been or maybe still was a receiver of a sort. Somehow,

 impressions of the Lords' worlds had been transmitted to

 him. Their light had come to him through a glass darkly by

 interuniversal psychic vibrations or other means. But he did

 not always have their exact frequencies, and "static"

 interfered with his reception. Thus, he could be expected to

 receive not quite accurate messages. Also, since he was

 writing what most people thought was fiction, he could

 make up stuff to fill in the cracks, as it were.

 Nevertheless, despite some errors in chronology and

 identification. Farmer's WOT arrows were usually in or

 near the bull's eye. Also, some Lords whom Jim knew or

 knew about were not necessarily those of whom Farmer

 wrote. They could be descendants of the originals or their

 relatives. How many Robert Smiths and John Browns living

 in the fifteenth century had numerous descendants in the

 twentieth century? Los, Tharmas, Ore, Vala, Luvah, and

 other names could be, though not common, not rare.

 Jim had more urgent problems than these. Since he was on

 probation, he had to control his "antisocial" behavior. That

 became increasingly difficult because of his mounting grouch-

 iness and quick-to-ignite temper. He was hooked on Ore, and,

 since he could not enter him, he was suffering withdrawal

 symptoms. If his brain could have teeth, they would ache. If

 it had a nose, it would drip and sniffle. If it had a voice, it

 would be pleading, between screams, for a fix.

 However, he was able to temper his temper somewhat with

 a technique Ore used. It seemed to Jim to be similar to some

 Yogic mental techniques he had read about. But it could be

 learned much more quickly. After all, the Lords had had many

 thousands of years to perfect it. Though it was not able to

 229

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER                                                 RED ORC'S RAGE

 dissipate the withdrawal effects, it did dilute the pain and

 irritability. The technique was like lifting now and then the

 cover on a boiling pot to let out some steam. Meanwhile, Jim

 managed to keep from snarling at and insulting people.

 He did feel a little better when Mrs. Wyzak phoned to

 reaffirm her invitation for him to live at her house while he

 was an outpatient. At Sam's funeral, Mrs. Wyzak, sobbing,

 had enfolded Jim in her arms and promised him that he

 would have a place he could call home. Despite her grief,

 she had also told him that he would have to obey her rules.

 No drugs, no smoking in the house, no foul or blasphemous

 language, strict attention to his schoolwork, daily bathing,

 punctuality at mealtimes, no loud music, and so on.

 Jim had promised that he would do as she wanted. He did

 not think that he would have much trouble. He had

 progressed greatly in outward behavior—except for the

 present withdrawal symptoms—and he could keep his

 "antisocial" thoughts to himself while around her.

 His elation about Mrs. Wyzak's offer was quenched the

 next day. His mother phoned that she was visiting him that

 evening. He expected her to tell him exactly what she did

 tell him. His parents were leaving for Texas in five days.

 He felt tears rising; his heart seemed to fall in on itself.

 Though he had toughened himself for this moment, or

 thought he had, he was badly hurt. But he succeeded in

 closing the valves on the tears. He was not going to let her

 see him cry. He did not want her to tell his father that he was

 so deeply affected. Eric Grimson would rejoice at the

 thought that his son was a sissy.

 Jim did not ask why his father was not there to face him.

 He knew why. The coward!

 Eva Grimson, sobbing, left him. She promised that she

 would send money for his hospital insurance. Also, she was

 sure that she could send money for clothing, schoolbooks,

 230

 and other necessities. His father would find a good job, but

 Jim would have to be patient.

 "I'll be patient forever," he called to her as she stumbled

 to the elevator. "It'll be forever before I come to Texas!

 Maybe I'll come before then if my father dies!"

 That was cruel. Not cruel enough for him in his present

 mood.

 A few minutes later, as he walked down the hallway

 toward his room, he was stopped by Sandy Melton. She was

 very happy though not superexcited. Her manic phases had

 been toned down by her therapy. Besides, this time, there

 was a reason for her happiness. She had gotten a letter from

 her father which she wanted to read to Jim.

 Ordinarily, he would have been glad to share her joy. It

 angered him just now to see someone else happy.

 Nevertheless, he mastered his impatience.

 "Daddy's going to get a job here at his headquarters

 company! Listen! 'Dear Sandy, my favorite daughter.' He's

 only got one child, me, you know. 'As I've told you far too

 many times, I'm tired of traveling-salesman jokes, and I'm fed

 up with being one.' He means with being a salesman, not a

 joke. 'I wouldn't mind so much if I was a great traveling

 salesman. But I just can't hope to ever be in the same class

 with St. Paul of Tarsus, who's maybe the greatest of all,

 Genghis Khan, who sold death to millions of slaughtered

 people, the man who sold refrigerators to Eskimos, and Willie

 What's His Name, Arthur Miller's salesman, great only in his

 struggle against failure. Anyway, I've been offered the posi-

 tion of sales supervisor at my favorite cold heartless corpora-

 tion, Acme Textiles. Do you think I'm going to turn it down

 for any ethical, moral, philosophical, or monetary reasons?

 Think again! So, my darling daughter, I'll be crossing the

 Rubicon, burning my bridges behind me, and storming the

 breach once again, the latter being, namely, your mother, poor

 231

  

  

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 wretch. Whether or not it's high noon or midnight dreary, she

 and I are having a showdown. I'll be in a position to support

 her on separate maintenance or a divorce, whatever God and

 her evil temper decide.'"

 Sandy jumped up and down, the letter fluttering in her

 hand like a flag of victory.

 "Isn't he great? Isn't he marvelous? I know what he has

 in mind. Divorce! He must've got over his guilt about her,

 wish I could but I will, and he's going to be home nights,

 and I'll be there!"

 Jim hugged Sandy, then said, "I just have to go."

 "But I want to celebrate!"

 "Damn it. Sandy! I don't want to hurt your feelings, but

 I can't stand it! I'm sorry. I'll see you later!"

 He strode away. His tears were going to stream before he

 got to his room. Sandy called after him, "If there's anything

 I can do to help, Jim?"

 Her sympathy and care touched the lachrymic button. He

 began to weep and sob. He ran to his room, slammed the door

 shut behind him, and sat down to let his grief flow. He would

 have liked to throw himself on the bed and press his face into

 the cover. He did not do that because that was what a woman

 would do.

 In the midst of the outpouring of tears, that thought came

 to him. And that set up a domino effect somewhere in his

 brain. The last thought to be bumped out—the others

 toppled in the dark—was the advice his grandfather, Ragnar

 Grimsson, had once given him.

 "It's a peculiarity of the Norwegian culture and of the

 English and American, too, that men are not supposed to cry.

 Stiff upper lip and all that. But the Vikings, your ancestors,

 Jim, cried like women in public or privately. They soaked their

 beards with tears and were not one bit ashamed about it. Yet,

 they were as quick to draw their swords as they were to shed

 232

 tears. So, what's all this crap about men having to bold in their

 sorrow and grief and disappointment? They get ulcers and

 heart damage and strokes because of the stiff upper lip, don't

 you know, old bean, old chum, old chap?"

 Ore, like most Thoan males, was a stoic in certain situations

 and a weeper and groaner in others. If he was in physical pain,

 he did not show it. But when joyous or grief-stricken, he could

 howl, weep, and carry on as much as he wished.

 The latter behavior seemed to Jim to be a desirable character

 element. However, in this Earthly time and place, he would be

 regarded as a weak sister if he incorporated that part of Ore's

 persona. Whatever strength of character he had absorbed from

 the young Lord, he was not strong enough—as yet, any-

 way—to ignore others' opinion about this trait.

 By the time for group session, he had gotten over much of

 his grief and anger. At least he felt as if he had, but he knew

 that strong emotions were sneaky things. They hid, and then

 they popped out when something opened the gate for them. At

 the moment, he was thinking that, if his parents had deserted

 him, they had done so under duress. They should get away

 from here so that they could climb out of the poverty pit. It was

 really not their fault that he was unable to come with them.

 Well, it was partly their fault. But what else could they do?

 And he was strong enough to take care of himself—after the

 therapy was complete.

 It would be hard to tackle his studies now and hope to

 graduate from high school with at least a B-minus or C-plus

 average. Going to college and supporting himself while

 striving to get good grades would be even more difficult.

 But he could do it. Others less equipped with will and

 intelligence had done it.

 That thought surprised him. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! What

 had happened to him? Not so long ago, he had believed that he

 was too dumb to earn, really earn, graduation from high

 233

  

  

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 school. Suddenly, he was going to go to college and do well at

 it. He was even eager to plunge into his studies.

 Strange sea-change, he thought. Metamorphosis. The

 cockroach had turned, seemingly overnight, into a human

 being. Maybe not a high-class human but a better class than

 he had been. He owed that change to Ore. No. Ultimately,

 he owed it to Doctor Porsena, The Shaman, The Sphinx.

 But the psychiatrist would tell him that Jim Grimson owed

 the change to himself. Though he had gotten help, he had

 done what no one could do for himself.

 Feeling high, he went to the session to tell the thirteen

 other members just how good he felt and why he was on the

 Yellow Brick Road and the rainbow was just around its

 bend. Today, though, most of the Tiersian Musketeers, as

 they called themselves, were also in a mild manic phase.

 Mild was a relative word. Compared to their gloomy and

 hopeless mood when entering therapy, mild was wild.

 They were so eager to talk that Doctor Scaevola, the

 group leader, had a hard time keeping order. Part of his

 difficulty sprang from their attitude toward him. Though he

 was enthusiastic about Tiersian therapy as an "as-if" or

 fantasy-using technique, he obviously did not believe that

 their trips were real. His tone of voice and facial and body

 language betrayed his incredulity.

 According to one patient, Monique Bragg, who had been

 filling in as an office clerk now and then, she had overheard

 Porsena and Scaevola arguing about the concept of parallel

 worlds. Porsena had not said that there were such things.

 But he had maintained that recent speculation in theoretical

 physics indicated that parallel worlds were possible. Scae-

 vola had been outright scornful of this.

 Scaevola also had some trouble relating to juveniles, or

 anyone else, addicted to rock music. He liked only Italian

 opera and classical composers.

 234

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 Scaevola finally quieted the group down. Brooks Ep-

 stein, eighteen years old, spoke first. He was tall and rangy

 and had a Lincolnesque face. His voice embarrassed him

 because it was so thin and shrill. It was not fitting for a

 lawyer or surgeon. Despite this, his parents wanted him to

 be one or the other. Brooks admitted that these professions

 were reasonable and desirable—if you cared for them. But

 he passionately desired to be a baseball player. He had told

 his parents that he would go to college and then Harvard if

 he failed to become a major league player. That had not

 satisfied them. But he had held out against them and also

 against his fiancee, who was wholly on their side.

 While the argument was raging and Brooks was becoming

 more despondent but increasingly stubborn, his father had

 killed himself. Though the cause seemed to be the failure of

 his hardware store chain and an inevitably fatal case of

 myeloma cancer. Brooks was devastated with guilt. His

 abandonment of the Jewish faith had enraged and hurt his

 parents and deeply shaken his fiancee. His mother had never

 said openly that his father's worry about this had brought on

 his bankruptcy and cancer, but it was evident that she believed it.

 Attending Harvard had then become an impossibility.

 Brooks was happy about this, though at the same time he

 felt guiltier. Then a rich uncle in Chicago had offered to

 finance his studies in whatever university Brooks selected.

 The catch was that he return to his faith and get either a

 legal or medical degree. His mother and fiancee had pressed

 him hard to accept the offer. They were as relentless as

 hungry v/olves circling an elk floundering in deep snow.

 One night. Brooks went ape, as he put it. Using his

 baseball bats, he had broken furniture, expensive art ob-

 jects, and windows. Worse, he had threatened to bash in the

 skulls of his mother and fiancee. The police had hauled him

 away. After failure with Freudian, Jungian, and Sullivanian

 235

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 therapists and a stint at Est in California, he had ended up

 in the care of Doctor Porsena.

 The persona he had chosen was that of the Yidshe knight,

 Baron funem Laksfalk. The baron was a character in the first

 book of the series. He lived in the Dracheland der of the

 tower-of-Babel-shaped planet ruled by Lord Jadawin. Though

 this was inhabited by creatures Jadawin had made, it was also

 populated by the descendants of people from Earth. Jadawin,

 as conscienceless as any Thoan, had abducted some groups of

 medieval Germans and German Jews and gated them to his

 world. These had twoseparate feudal societies which Jadawin

 had encouraged to resemble those found in the Arthurian tales.

 In the first book of the series, the wandering knight, funem

 Laksfalk, had fallen in with Kickaha and Wolff after a joust.

 He had died fighting bravely by Wolff's side against a band of

 savages. But Brooks chose to enact his adventures during the

 years before funem Laksfalk's last stand.

 Brooks Epstein reported that, as of today, his heavy

 burden of guilt and anger seemed to be lighter. This was

 because he knew that the baron, should his father die,

 would not suffer guilt if he was not responsible for it. He,

 Brooks, had not caused his father's bankruptcy, cancer, or

 suicide. Therefore, he should not suffer from guilt. Despite

 his rationalizing, he was still suffering. But he felt that he

 would get over that.

 As for his profession, he still intended to become a

 baseball pitcher. It was not a criminal line of work, which

 was more than you could say for that engaged in by many

 lawyers and doctors.

 After Brooks had narrated the previous night's adventure,

 the group talked about how they felt about the Yidshe baron

 and how they would have altered his situation. Jim was

 aware that Doctor Porsena and his assistants were interpret-

 ing the remarks as they applied generally to the group. He

 236

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 guessed that, later in therapy, they would interpret these as

 they applied to the individuals uttering them.

 It seemed to him that the World of Tiers was being used

 as a sort of communion. The patients had very personal—

 idiosyncratic?—and uncontrollable delusions, unrealistic

 desires, and hallucinations of various degrees. But all now

 shared in this communion, the Tiers series. They were

 heading toward each other, converging, drawn together like

 flies scenting honey. And they were unconsciously modi-

 fying their views of the Lords' worlds, shaping them into a

 dimly seen common world. Its shape would be realized

 when they were well advanced in therapy. They would

 know then that they had torn apart their own little boats and

 put the pieces together as a large ship.

 Maybe he was just allowing his imagination, not to mention

 his metaphors, to run away with him. In any event, he sensed

 that the therapy was working well for most of them. However,

 the world he entered. Ore's world, was not fantasy. It was as

 real as this one. More real, in some respects.

 The next to speak was fourteen-year-old Ben Ligel. He had

 had some hallucinations when he was on drugs and just as

 many as when off. The primal loner, his main problem was his

 close-to-panic unease in unfamiliar situations or when with

 anybody but a few close friends. Now, he was not, most of the

 rime, unbearably uncomfortable when with his fellows. But

 when the times came that he could not stand being too close to

 others, he escaped to the other worlds.

 To do this, he put a Tiers book on his head and used it as

 a "gravity gate." Headfirst, he was pressed down into the

 pocket universe he had chosen. Simultaneously, gravity

 pulled the book downward on that part of his body still on

 Earth. When the cover of the book reached the floor, he

 would find himself in the other world.

 Ben stayed there until the "latent tug of gravity" pulled him

 237

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 back to Earth. He was always refreshed by the voyage, and he

 was able to endure the "social pressures" for some time.

 Third to speak was seventeen-year-old Kathy Maidanoff.

 She was not backward in telling the group that she had been

 diagnosed as having a borderline personality disorder, gender

 confusion, and nymphomania. Though she had, so far, been

 chaste while in the hospital, she did get sexual relief through

 erotic dreams. She would put a Tiers book close to her head

 and another on her crotch. Then, almost always, she would

 dream of sex with a male or female character. She had just

 entered a phase of therapy in which she was being taught how

 to control her dreams. Jim was astute enough to guess that the

 staff was not doing this just to enable her to enjoy the dreams

 better. The process had something to do with getting her to

 control her delusions. Then, these would gradually be stripped

 from her through other techniques.

 Jim had not mentioned that he was master of the controlled

 dream technique. He did not, however, require book aids.

 While in Ore, he had learned through him how to prefabricate

 dreams. Now, when Jim slept, he used these controlled wet

 dreams to relieve himself. They were much more satisfactory

 than masturbation. "Look, Ma, no hands!" Their danger was

 that the dreamer could become addicted to them. In time, he or

 she would regard flesh-and-blood lovers as cumbersome,

 time-wasting, and unnecessary.

 Jim had noted that Ore's partners in the dreams were

 usually his aunt, Vala, and his mother, Enitharmon.

 Quite often, Jim also put the women, lovelier than Helen

 of Troy or Vivien Leigh, in his programmed night visions,

 sometimes at the same time. That it was incest, though

 secondhand, was the dressing on the salad.

 Early that night, Jim made a decision that he knew might

 ruin everything for him. He could not help it. His own

 arguments against the idea did not help him resist it. He

 238

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 would be disobeying Porsena's orders. He did not want to

 do that. Yet, he would.

 At ten minutes to eight, he passed through the black hole

 in the center of the tragil. Despite Porsena's forbidding it,

 he planned to enter Ore. Not just once but many times

 during this night. And, since he dare not journey every

 night—too much danger of being caught—he would com-

 press the many into a single night.

 From ten minutes to eight in the evening to six in the

 morning would give him time to hurl himself over spans of

 many years.

 What had he read when in Mr. Lum's class? It was from

 the poet, William Blake.

 "Hold infinity in the palm of your hand/And eternity in

 an hour."

 He would not go so far as to say that he would time-hop,

 via Ore, through eternity in one night. But he would try to

 squeeze into ten hours as many slices of eternity as he

 could.

 Just before he started chanting, he saw Porsena's face. It

 was disapproving and sad. The chanting faltered and almost

 faded away into silence. But Jim felt a stronger pull. Ore

 and the exotic worlds behind the walls of Earth punched

 through the black hole and shattered Porsena's face. Its

 fragments flew away and Jim flew through the fragments

 into the tragil like a World War II bomber through flak.

 Suddenly, he was in intense pain. He screamed voice-

 lessly. Ore, however, was grinding his teeth together and

 was not even moaning softly. He would not give his father

 any satisfaction from hearing him cry out.

 Ore was stretched out against a cross. His feet rested on

 the ground, but his hands were nailed to the horizontal

 arms. He did not think he could endure the agony for

 another second. Yet, he did.

 239

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 CHAPTER 28

 NOT so JIM. He had suffered enough with and through

 Ore. Enough was enough and more than enough. Despite

 this, he managed to hang on for a minute. Ore was high on

 the side of a mountain. Far far below, at the foot of the

 mountain, was a broad lake fed by a river. On the lakefront

 was Golgonooza, the new palace of Los, the City of Art. A

 river ran on its far side. The buildings were of varicolored

 metal, soft looking and all rising from the ground at a gentle

 angle and then becoming steeper, but never entirely verti-

 cal, until they got to perhaps a thousand feet. After that,

 they went straight up for many hundreds of feet, then leaned

 outward. They seemed to melt into each other at various

 levels. Green, scarlet, orange, and lemon-colored vegeta-

 tion grew on many of these. Much of this consisted of trees,

 some of which grew at right angles to the vertical surfaces

 of the buildings.

 Los had been working on the city-palace, on and off, for

 240

 several centuries. He planned it to be the most magnificent

 of Thoan structures, greater than Urizen's Insubstantial

 Palace.

 Los had caught Ore just after he had entered a gate into

 this world. Yesterday, he had crucified his son despite

 Enitharmon's desperate pleas. Los was about to drive in the

 second nail himself when he was attacked by her. Before

 she had been knocked out, she had clawed his face bloody.

 Now, Ore's mother was imprisoned somewhere in Golgo-

 nooza.

 Unable to withstand the pain any longer, Jim changed the

 mantra, and he was back in his room. The time was still ten

 minutes to eight. The minor hand had moved an almost

 imperceptible degree. Shaking from the ordeal, he got a

 drink of water in the bathroom and rested in the chair for a

 while. Then, sharply aware that he was losing time and he

 had many trips to go, he began droning, "ATA MATUMA

 M'MATA!" This time, the chant did not have to go on so

 long. Seven repetitions hurled him through the black hole.

 The next time, he was sure, it would only take five. The trip

 after that would need only three. The remaining trips would

 continue to take three. He did not know why. It just was that

 way.

 His time target was a year later. He landed in Ore in a

 situation which would once have embarrassed him. But he

 had been in the young Lord in too many similar circum-

 stances to be taken aback. Ore was making violent love to

 his aunt Vala. That, apparently, was how she desired it. A

 gentle lover was not for her. Jim was caught up in the raging

 maelstrom of lust and had no time or inclination to think

 about the surroundings. Not until both were spent was Jim

 able to do anything on his own. Though also suffering the

 effects of the "little death," as some called postcoital

 241

  

  

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 lassitude, he was lively enough to note the immediate

 environment.

 The two Lords were in a magnificently furnished bed-

 room as large as a mansion. The walls and the pillars

 crawled with changing colors. The windows were twice the

 size of a football field. They, too, bore shifting colors, tints,

 and hues. Now and then, they became transparent. Then,

 Jim could see a black sky with many stars. Later, the top of

 a planet came into view. As Jim discovered after a while

 from Ore's and Vala's conversation, they were in a satellite

 with a figure-eight orbit.

 They had fled through various universes after Vala had

 rescued Ore from the cross. They did not go to the world of

 Luvah, Vala's husband, because Luvah and Vala had split i

 up. Unlike most Lords, Luvah had not killed his spouse but |

 had allowed her to try her luck at dispossessing another |

 Lord of another world.                                 .

 Los, like a hound of heaven, had dogged his son and i

 sister-in-law as they passed through gate after gate. Then

 they had been separated—they did not say why—and Ore '•

 had gone on. But they had found each other after many

 adventures. This world was—had been—Ellayol's. After

 getting through several gates set with many traps. Ore and

 Vala had killed Ellayol, his wife, and his children.

 This news deeply disturbed Jim. The Lords were so

 murderous, and Ore seemed to have lost whatever humane

 feelings he had once had.

 Vala and Ore had gated to this satellite to enjoy a lovers'

 vacation. Shortly after learning this, Jim was on fire with

 the same flames burning in the two. There was another rest,

 and then they were at it again. This went on and on with not

 much talk between the bouts nor many thoughts about the

 past. When they started to gash each other with their

 fingernails and to lick each other's blood, Jim loosed

 242

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 himself. Not, though, before "touching" the ghostbrain.

 Jim still did not know if the thing had distenanted Ore's

 intelligence or was taking it over as slowly as some cancers

 ate up a body. What made him "shudder" when he touched

 it was that it touched him back. Something had definitely

 though briefly put its "finger" on him. Jim had been shot

 with loathing then. Yet, he had had the feeling that there

 was something vaguely familiar about it.

 After returning to his room, Jim rested a few minutes.

 Faintly through the wall on one side came the sound of a girl

 sobbing. Through the other wall Jim Morrison shrieked the

 words of "Horse Latitudes" while The Doors banged,

 twanged, and pounded. The lyric was one of Jim's favor-

 ites, true poetry, he thought. He had not heard this 1967 hit

 for a long time, but Monique Bragg liked to tune in the

 "Golden Oldies" program.

 Jim sighed. He did not want to put off reentry. For the

 moment, he was too wrung out by the sexual frenzies to

 start chanting again. Though he had not exerted himself

 physically in a direct sense, his role as a not so innocent

 bystander had worn him out. He now knew all there was to

 know about tender love, learned while Ore was making love

 to the native woman. He also knew too much of violent

 love, as demonstrated by Vala and Ore. Though his erotic

 adventures had been few on Earth, he, as Ore, had had

 enough to make Casanova and Henry Miller look like

 bumbling lovers.

 More minutes passed. Finally, he shot himself through

 the black center. His target was six years later. Surely, this

 time. Ore would be in a relatively happy situation. Statis-

 tically, there were bound to be such.

 By Shambarimem's Horn! Ore was back in a suite in his

 father's original city-palace. No one else was in it, and no

 sound came through the heavily barred and open window.

 243

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 He had been captured again while trying to make his way

 through the city of Golgonooza, the killing of Los his goal.

 Vala had gated out to somewhere. That was seven months

 ago. And he, Ore, had been taken to his childhood home,

 the palace of the clouds, and imprisoned there.

 Jim was shocked to find out that that was not all Los had

 done to his son. Ore's body felt peculiar. It had muscles it

 had never possessed, and its legs and feet were numbed past

 feeling, and it moved in a frightening and strange manner.

 Then Jim saw Ore's reflection in a towering mirror. His

 surprise and horror were so intense that he came close to

 tearing loose and returning to Earth. The naked body of the

 Lord was, from the genitals upward, just as it had been. But

 the lower part was a serpent's. Ore had no legs. He was

 joined to a gigantic snake's body fifty feet long, its scales a

 bright green. At regular intervals, the green bore five-

 angled scarlet patches. Ore's torso was held upright by the

 powerful forward part of the reptilian body. He moved

 across the floor as a python moved.

 He had become an ophidian centaur, half-man, half-

 snake.

 Jim knew enough of Thoan science and history to know

 who had brought about this metamorphosis. Los, instead of

 killing his son, was torturing him again. He had used the

 biological knowledge and means still available to the Lords

 to make this monster. His son's legs had been lopped off,

 and he had been fleshily welded to a headless snake.

 Sometimes, Los came to this now-deserted palace to

 mock and to jeer at Ore. He had told his son that

 Enithannon was back with him. After their reconciliation,

 they had had three more children. These were Vala, named

 after the aunt because Enithannon desired it, Palamabron,

 and Theotormon. All had been bome by surrogate mothers.

 Ore had been the only one Enithannon had carried. She had

 244

 wanted to experience natural childbirth at least once. That one

 time had been enough to discourage her from having more.

 "However, I have learned my lesson," Los had said.

 "From now on, as soon as the children become adults, I will

 send them on to other worlds. Some of these will be

 unoccupied by Lords, their masters or mistresses having

 been slain. On others, my children will have to test their

 wits and agility against the rulers."

 Enithannon did not know that her son was being held

 prisoner or that he had become a monster. Los had told her

 that he had learned that Ore was safe in the world of

 Manathu Vorcyon. That ancient woman had adopted him,

 and he was continuing his education in her peaceful

 universe. Someday, Los would permit Enithannon to visit

 Ore. That would have to be a long time from now, though.

 It would happen when the passionate hatred of Los and Ore

 had cooled down.

 Meanwhile, Los was keeping Enithannon busy with

 raising children—with the help of many servants.

 Ore did not know if his father was telling the truth or not.

 It was possible that his mother was still imprisoned or had

 been murdered.

 Jim touched the ghostbrain again and was touched back.

 It definitely had become larger.

 He decided to stay with Ore for a while. He was

 fascinated with the study of the conjunction of man and

 snake. The first thing he noted was the connection of the

 circulatory systems of the two bodies. The reptile was

 warm-blooded, which meant that it was not really a reptile.

 Its body had been made in Los's laboratory to meld with

 Ore's, which required that the same kind of blood run

 through it. The serpent body had its own heart since the

 human heart alone could not have pumped nearly enough

 blood for the immense bulk.

 245

  

  

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 The front end merged with the human part just below

 Ore's anus and his genitals. But he was spared the humili-

 ation of having to excrete on the back of the serpent and

 befouling himself. The food he ate went through intestines

 in his stomach and then was shunted to the ophidian's

 stomach. Part of his urine had to go through his own urinary

 canal; most of it went through the serpent part.

 To stay alive and healthy, he was forced to eat and drink

 huge quantities. If he tried to starve himself to death, he would

 suffer not only his own hunger pangs but the serpent's.

 "Metaphorically, you've always been a snake," Los had

 said. "Now, you're metaphor and reality combined."

 "A snake who can bite!" Ore had howled. "A serpent

 who can crush you!"

 His father had laughed. Then he had said, "When I catch

 Vala, I'll make her into a fit mate for you. I look forward to

 watching you two coiled together while making snakish

 love. Trying to do it, anyway. That'll be a sight never seen

 before!"

 Ore did not reply. He did not wish Los to know how

 much he longed for companionship, especially female,

 especially Vala's.

 Escape seemed to be impossible. Trap-beset gates were

 just beyond the single door and the four windows. Los

 never entered the room, though he sometimes opened the

 door to jeer at his son. Usually, he talked to Ore from a TV

 wall-screen. He liked waking Ore up in the middle of the

 night. Ore did not become angry about this. The time of day

 or night meant little to him, and he welcomed the sound or

 sight of a human being, even of his father. Of course, he

 would not let Los know that.

 Three months after capture. Ore's two bodies broke out in

 jewels.

 246

 CHAPTER 29

 /\T FIRST, ORC thought that he was suffering from a carbun-

 cular infection. Hard nodes sprang up mushroom-swift on

 both bodies, though his face and neck were free of them. They

 itched intensely, and the thin skin over the hard swellings

 broke at the slightest scratch. A little blood but no pus flowed

 from the ruptures. The broken skin revealed a many-faceted

 substance that was rubbery in its initial stages. Then it became

 as hard as a gem. The growths could be of any color or shade.

 Ore realized that he was not infected with any ordinary

 disease. The Thoan were immune to pimples and boils or, in

 fact, any skin infection. Los must be responsible for the

 outbreak.

 In a week's time, the swellings had grown larger. They

 were the size of a walnut and much harder than the shell.

 The skin over them stretched without breaking. After the

 first three days of growth, they had ceased to make the skin

 itch. Ore had quit scratching, and the cuts made by his nails

 had healed within five hours.

 247

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 Fortunately, the swellings had not appeared on the

 underside of the serpent body. It would have made move-

 ment across the smooth floor both painful and difficult. As

 it was, even its sidewinder method of locomotion did not

 prevent his ever-looping tail from slipping now and then.

 When Los came to the doorway or his face was videoed, he

 refused to answer Ore's questions. He only said, "It is not a

 disease."

 All the skin over the bumps broke in the same hour. Their

 contents fell onto the floor, clinking as they did. They

 looked like cut gems, and they twinkled in the light.

 Shortly after that, Los opened the door. He stood there

 and laughed for a long time. Then, he said, "You're a living

 treasure. Ore, your own gem mine and jewelsmith. You'll

 be up to your ass, your human ass, in diamonds, emeralds,

 garnets, rubies, sapphires, amethysts, and chrysoberyls.  i

 You may even drown in them.                           ,

 "Thank me, my son. Your father has heaped riches upon  j

 you, though you deserve only ashes and dung. The tale of your  |

 unfortunate fortune and strange death will spread throughout

 the worlds—I'll see to that—and you will become a legend to

 rival Shambarimem's and Manathu Vorcyon's."

 For reply. Ore bent his body so that he was a few inches

 above the floor. He scooped up a handful of the still-wet

 gems, straightened back, and hurled them through the

 doorway. Los did not move except to make a slight step

 backward, then to resume his position.

 As the jewels shot through the doorway, they vanished.

 Ore had established that a gate was there.

 "You'll see only my face on the wall from now on," Los

 said. "You've no way to get rid of the gems. Drown in your

 sea of beauty!"

 He closed the door. Shortly thereafter, a small round

 ceiling panel slid aside. Through the hole dropped the

 248

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 gems, one by one, that he had cast at Los. Ore took these

 and the others and dropped them into the privy hole. Ten

 minutes later, all reappeared from the ceiling hole.

 Jim unmoored himself from Ore and returned to his room

 on Earth. Immediately, he began chanting. On his return to

 Ore, four Thoan months had passed. The Lord was taking

 plates piled with food from the revolving tray in the wall.

 He had been forced to eat and drink immense quantities to

 provide the energy to make the jewels. Almost all his time

 had been spent in ingestion and excretion. Because his

 hunger and thirst woke him up every two hours, he slept in

 spurts. If he had tried to cut down his intake to a normal

 diet, he would have dehydrated in less than a day and would

 have starved to death in three days.

 The jewels were three inches thick on the floor. When Ore

 tried to crawl over them, he slipped and slid and had much

 trouble getting from one place to another. However, he had

 tried a new technique of locomotion recently, and it worked.

 Instead of carrying his human body vertically, he put it in a

 straight line with his serpent body. Then he cleared the jewels

 ahead of him out of the way with his hands.

 Eventually, the gems would be piled so high that he

 would not be able to make a path.

 The question now was whether he would die of weakness

 or of suffocation first. The time would come when he would

 not be able to get to the food tray and the water faucet. The

 jewels would cover them too deeply.

 For the first time in Ore's life, he despaired. Death

 seemed to be the only exit from this room. Jim felt just as

 hopeless and spiritless as Ore. Also, the ghostbrain seemed

 to be getting larger, though its menace would cease when

 Ore died. At the moment, it looked as if the solution to both

 problems could be that.

 After twelve trips, Jim entered Ore on the night that the

 249

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 Lord had to escape or die soon. The jewels were only

 several feet from the ceiling. To reach the food tray and the

 water faucet, Ore had to dig two wide and deep holes.

 These had been caving in soon after being made, thus

 forcing him to excavate every day. He had given up on

 trying to get to the privy hole. As a result, the room stank,

 reminding Jim of old man Dumski's outhouse pit.

 The room was being monitored through wall screens and,

 perhaps, with other sensors. Los would be observing only

 occasionally unless he carried a small receiver with him. He

 might have stationed servants to observe the room on a

 twenty-four-hour basis. Certainly, he would be instantly noti-

 fied automatically by machine or by an operator if his prisoner

 did anything untoward. However, the wall panels up to several

 feet within the ceiling were now covered with the jewels. But

 disguised monitor screens would be on the ceiling.

 Ore thought of covering the exposed areas of the wall and

 the ceiling with his excrement. But, as soon as the monitors

 were blinded, Los would be called.

 He scooped a hole by the wall above the faucet. That

 would not alarm the monitors; they had seen him do this

 every time he wanted a drink of water. When he came to the

 faucet, he gripped it. It would, he hoped, not tear out from

 the wall from the stress he planned to put on it. Most of his

 serpentine body was stretched out across the room. Holding

 on to the metal faucet while he exchanged hands to maintain

 his grip. Ore rolled around and around.

 Observing this, the human watchers might believe that he

 was having a seizure of some sort. They might call Los.

 However, it would not look to them as if he were doing

 anything that could aid him to escape. And they would wait

 a while to see what, if anything, he was up to.

 As he rolled, the jewels around his human body fell in

 and covered him. The snake body was also soon buried,

 250

 though it was closer to the surface than the human part. He

 then groped around with the tip of the tail until he felt one of

 the upright tempered-vanadium bars making a frame in front

 of a window. Extended a few feet more, the tail coiled around

 the bar.

 If the frame had been welded to the metal wall, it would

 resist his mightiest efforts. As it was, he did not have his

 full strength. But, after he strained until sweat slicked his

 body and stung his eyes and the veins swelled to the size of

 tiny serpents, the frame popped out. It screeched, a sound

 the monitors would detect.

 Though of very thick and hard metal, the faucet had bent

 sideways.

 Now, he came up and out of the hard but loose pile over

 him. His fore part forming a straight line with the serpentine

 part, he clawed at the jewels before him while the tail

 sidewound frantically. He got to the window quickly. Then,

 he pushed himself along the wall for several feet. After he

 stopped, he began to hammer his tail against the window.

 At first, the mineralline growths under the skin softened the

 pain from the blows. The only hurt he suffered, and it was

 almost too much, was from the skin breaking over the

 immature jewels. But these were ripped out and off after

 twenty or so impacts. This caused him a greater pain. And

 the unbuffered slamming of the tail made him clench his

 teeth with agony. Blood smeared the window.

 Just when he thought that he could no longer continue his

 weakening blows, the window fell out. Immediately, the

 jewels by it cascaded outwards. He writhed to the opening

 and stuck his tail out and above the opening. It groped

 around along the wall above the window until it found

 something upright and standing in a niche. He curved his

 tail around its base as an anchor. Then he extended his head

 and shoulders through the opening.

 257

  

  

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 The only illumination was moonlight, but he could see

 that the object his tail had gripped was a metal statue. Now

 he knew exactly where he was in this huge and complex

 palace-city. He was on the north side of one of the first

 buildings erected on the lowest level. It was over two

 thousand years old, and his parents had been talking for a

 long time about tearing it down and building a new one. Its

 too ornate rococo style was no longer to their taste.

 The palace lights came on. He saw no sign of life. The

 TV watchers were probably the only tenants left, the others

 having gone to Golgonooza. Los, of course, would have

 been awakened. He may already have gated through to this

 building or one nearby.

 He tightened the tail's grip around the legs of the statue

 and slithered out of the window. For a moment, he was

 hanging face down to the full length of his two bodies. Then

 his mighty ophidian muscles raised him, and he twisted the

 snake body until he faced the wall. He rose until he could

 grasp the shoulders of the statue. He uncoiled his tail from

 the base of the statue. Almost, his fingers gave way under the

 weight of the momentarily dragging tail. Then he raised the

 latter part and coiled a length around the statue above. Thus

 progressing from statue to statue, he got to the roof.

 As he had expected, several flying craft of various types

 and sizes were hangared in one comer. When he got to

 them, he chose an all-white craft of the Steed II class. This

 was large enough to accommodate his huge bulk. Getting

 into the pilot's front seat so that he could operate the Steed

 was not easy. He had to jam the front part of the serpent

 through the space between the two seats. Then, he had to

 curve it so that his human part would be able to reach the

 controls. Since he lacked feet, he had to operate the pedals

 with his hands. That made for awkward flying when the

 252

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 craft was not on automatic, but he could do it safely if he

 was careful during certain maneuvers.

 He hoped that the vocal code which started the engine

 had not been changed. It had not. But that did not mean that

 the concealed self-destruction device would not explode. It

 could be set for automatic activation or by a radio signal

 from Los. Also, there could be an override which would

 take control from the unauthorized pilot. Then Los could

 direct it to land wherever he chose.

 Ore was going to take his chances. He had no other choice.

 None of the craft was armed or had hand weapons aboard.

 Light beams sprang out from each side. They were about

 ten feet long and fan-shaped. Under Ore's control, they

 began flapping up and down as swiftly as a hummingbird's

 wings. The craft rose slowly, the light flashes of the Sethi

 engine becoming a blur. Ore turned on the radar, infrared,

 and headlights. The bright flashes from the side were going

 to be seen by anyone in his path so he might as well have a

 good view ahead of him.

 It took six minutes of savage acceleration to put one

 hundred and fifty miles behind him. The lights of Golgo-

 nooza brightened swiftly as he decelerated. By now, Los

 must have gated to the palace, learned what had happened,

 including the theft of the Steed, and gated back to Golgo-

 nooza. Or he was just about to do so. He would guess

 correctly that his son would not fly elsewhere to take refuge

 while he was still part serpent.

 Whether Los had gone to the palace and returned or had

 never gone, he was now in his new city. Ore angled the

 vessel steeply downward toward his landing place, the plaza

 by the swirl-domed towering residence of Los. As he did

 so, he saw his father. He was running, staggering rather,

 across the plaza. He was clad only in a short kilt, and he

 wore a belt holding a holster that contained a beamer. One

 hand was clasped to his side as if it hurt.

 253

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER                                                 RED ORC'S RAGE

 Ahead of him, her white and gauzy night robe flapping be-

 hind her, ran his mother. Enitharmon's slim legs were pump-

 ing swiftly, and she looked desperate. Although Los could

 have stunned or killed her with his beamer, he was so furious

 and, possibly, so injured that he had forgotten about the weapon.

 Or he did not want to use it unless he was forced to do so.

 As Ore brought the Steed around in a curve to get behind

 Los, he saw that the hilt and part of the blade of a dagger

 stuck out between Los's fingers. Evidently, Enitharmon had

 stabbed him between the ribs, though not deeply. That

 meant that she had not been imprisoned in one section of the

 palace or had been released from it. Or his father had been

 lying about locking her up. In any event, his mother had

 found out what he had done to their son. She had inter-

 cepted him before he could take effective action against

 Ore. There had been a struggle, and she had slipped the

 blade into his side. Then, she had fled.

 The Sethi wings made no noise. Los had not seen their

 flashing or was too intent on catching his wife for the lights

 to register. Ore took the craft down to about six feet above

 the multicolored luminescent pavement and shot it toward

 Los's back. Enitharmon had stumbled and fallen on one

 knee. That was long enough for Los, screaming, to overtake

 her. He clutched her by the throat with both hands as she

 tried to get up. She was now on both knees, her body bent

 backward as she clutched Los's wrists.

 Before the bow of Ore's craft rammed into a point

 between Los's shoulders, Enitharmon had released her right

 hand and jerked the dagger loose from his body. He cried

 out with the pain. She started to plunge it into Los's belly,

 but he was knocked forward by the aircraft's prow, and her

 dagger struck his breastbone at an angle. Then his body

 carried her to the floor. The dagger lay close to her hand on

 the ground. But the impact of the bow against Los was not

 254

 as violent as Ore could have made it. Even though rage

 filled him, it had not taken over all his wits. He did not wish

 to injure his mother by driving Los too hard against her.

 And he did not want to kill Los. Not yet.

 Even so, she sprawled beneath Los. He lay heavily

 facedown upon her, his arms outflung. He was stunned or

 unconscious. Enitharmon was not trying to roll him over

 and away from her. She must have been stunned when the

 back of her head struck the pavement.

 Ore raised the canopy of the aircraft. He crawled out of the

 vessel and to his parents. Enitharmon, looking up and past

 Los's shoulder, screamed. Even if Los had told her what he

 had done to Ore, the sight of him far exceeded the shock of the

 mental image. And the blood covering Ore must have added to

 the horror caused by his monstrous body.

 "It is I, Mother!" he croaked.

 He bent down and picked up the dagger from the pavement.

 She was silent now and staring with eyes as wide open as

 possible. Ore rolled the still-unmoving body of his father over

 and slid off his kilt and loincloth. A few seconds later,

 Enitharmon screamed again and did not stop for some time.

 Ore had cut off Los's testicles. Then, straightening up to a

 vertical position, he slipped the two balls from the sac and

 popped them into his mouth. Cheeks bulging, he began chewing.

 Rage and the legends that the ancient Lords had done this

 to then- enemies had inspired him to do this deed. And it

 was possible that the serpentine part of him overrode the

 human revulsion at the act. Ore had become half animal in

 more than his conjoining of flesh with a snake.

 Whatever had driven Ore to this act, it was too much for

 Jim Crimson. He did not have to chant to release himself

 from the Lord. The shock and disgust cut the mental cord,

 and he was back in his room. He was shaking and felt as if

 he had to vomit.

 255

  

  

 CHAPTER 30

 f i

 I KNOW YOU'RE anything but pleased with me, Doctor,"

 Jim Grimson said. "You ordered me not to reenter, but I

 couldn't help it. Ore was as much a drug as angel dust. I

 swear I'll never reenter again! Never! Not until you tell me

 to do it! And I won't want to do that, I can tell you for sure!

 I got that compulsion out of my system!

 "I loathe Red Ore! I'll admit, like I told you, that I got a

 very funny sensation when he bit into his father's balls! I

 enjoyed it, just for a couple of seconds, though! That's

 because I was so far into being Ore I almost was him! Then

 I got real sick! For a moment, the sickness made me become

 myself enough to get out of Ore! If that hadn't happened, I

 might still be in him!"

 Porsena's face was unreadable. Jim believed that he was

 really pissed on" at him. He just wasn't showing it. However,

 his words so far had been as sharp and as hard-driven as arrows.

 The psychiatrist now spoke more softly. "You've been

 256

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 told to call me or my staff at once if you feel your desire is

 getting too strong for you to resist it. You should have done

 that. I expect that, from now on, you will. You are, in a

 psychological sense, in shark-filled waters. To be precise,

 you're at a turning point. When a person is at that stage, he

 can go ahead or go back. You understand?"

 Jim nodded. He said, "God knows I tried! I know now I

 can't make it on my own. I'll do everything exactly as you

 tell me to do."

 "Not until the reason for the orders or suggestions has

 been explained to you. The patient should fully comprehend

 the why and wherefore of his therapy."

 "I know. You tell me that every time we're about ready

 to go into another therapy phase."

 The doctor smiled. He said, "You're astute, in some

 things, anyway. That's one reason your therapy has pro-

 gressed more swiftly and along somewhat different lines

 from the others. You're ready, in my judgment, for the

 shedding phase."

 Jim said, "But . . . but! I mean, there are some things

 I just have to know! Like, what about the ghostbrain? And

 I wanted to be there when Ore made the Earth-universe and

 its twin! God, what a sight that would've been, like

 watching God create the world! No, like being God because

 Ore would be doing it, and I'd be Ore!

 "And I wanted to find out how Ore got his complete

 human body back! And there's Los! When I left, it looked

 like Los was dead and done with. But Farmer says Los was

 still living when Kickaha went into the Lords' worlds!"

 "Farmer may write the sixth book in the series and

 enlighten you about all those. Whether he does or not, we

 have certain absolutely required procedures to follow. What

 if you were addicted to heroin and pleaded with me to allow

 you to keep taking it because you'd miss future highs if you

 kicked the habit? You do see the parallel?"

 257

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 "Well, OK," Jim said slowly. "Easy for you to say,

 though."

 "That's because I am objective."

 "Yeah, I know."

 "Think about Ore when he was on the island of the dmg

 users, the lotus eaters. Do you want to be in his condition?

 He certainly had no craving to continue taking the drugs

 after he had gone through the agonies of quitting cold

 turkey. You went through his pain with him. Keep that

 torture in mind if you're ever tempted to take drugs again."

 Doctor Porsena leaned forward over his desk and church-

 steepled his hands.

 "I want you to think hard about the questions I'm going to

 throw at you. Consider all the angles you can think of. Ore

 was in Anthema, the Unwanted World. Ore's father placed

 him there. What does that suggest and imply to you?"

 There was silence while Jim thought, his mouth twisted

 with the effort and his eyes rolling around. Finally, he said,

 "My father, I mean Ore's father, put him there. I suppose

 you're thinking I named Anthema the Unwanted World

 because my father did not want me? He sent me, I mean

 Ore, there because he was not wanted. That sounds good,

 but I didn't make up the name of Anthema. It wasn't just my

 unconscious mind working overtime."

 For some reason, Jim's heartbeat had stepped up. He was

 beginning to sweat a little, too.

 The doctor said, "Los loved Ore when Ore was a child

 or, at least, was very fond of him. He treated his son with

 kindness and care then. But, occasionally, he was very

 abusive, even then. When Ore became an adolescent and

 was no longer the cute and lovely infant, his father seemed

 to hate him."

 "No 'seemed,'" Jim said. "He did!"

 "That suggests?"

 258

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 "My relations with my father were sort of like Ore's,

 weren't they?"

 Porsena, instead of answering, said, "What about your

 visions when you were a child?"

 "Hallucinations, you mean?"

 "Let's call them visions. Your first attack of stigmata

 occurred when you were five. You were in church with your

 mother. The statue of the crucified Christ fascinated you.

 You suddenly saw it as a real man, not a carved wooden

 figure who was suspended by nails from a cross and whose

 blood was merely paint. You screamed."

 "I still don't know what scared me."

 "That's not vitally important. Immediately after you

 screamed, blood welled from your hands and feet and on

 your forehead. You became hysterical, your mother, also.

 Then ..."

 "Then there was the man I saw floating by my bedroom

 window when I was four!" Jim said. "And the naked green

 man I saw out in our garden six months later. He was eating

 the ears of corn! I yelled for Mom, but when she came, the

 green man was gone! I got whipped by my father for lying!

 But I did see that man! I did!"

 "How do you feel about the vision you had just before

 you passed out in your burning house?" the doctor said.

 "You were naked and chained to a tree and a giant sickle

 was about to castrate you. Also, what are your feelings

 about the vision you had of the man-serpent?"

 "They were prophetic. They predicted what was going to

 happen when I was in Ore. Sort of, anyway. They were

 mixed up, but their elements were true. They did happen."

 "I didn't ask you if you thought they were true or what

 their psychological explanation was. I asked you how you

 feel when you think of them."

 "For Christ's sake, Doctor!" Jim burst out. "I don't feel

 259

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 anything at all about it! I can see what you're getting at!

 You think I made up Ore being made into a half-snake thing

 because I'd dreamed about the man-serpent!"

 "I am not trying to invalidate your experiences. I am

 merely suggesting certain parallels. The interpretations will

 be yours. However, allow me to point out that you deny

 feeling anything about it. Yet you responded with more than

 a little anger. For the present, we'll not go into that. You

 think about it, then tell me your conclusions."

 Jim leaned forward, his hands holding tight to the arms of

 the chair. His heart was beating even harder than it had a

 moment ago, and he was sweating more heavily. What he felt

 was, he felt as if he'd like to get out of the office. Right now.

 "Look, Doc!" he said harshly. But even he could hear an

 underlying note of pleading. "Where I went and what I saw

 and did, I mean, what Ore did, was no fantasy! It was all

 true, and I don't care what parallels there are to my life here

 on Earth and there in the Lords' universes! Hell, I could

 find parallels between my life and a thousand others on

 Earth! There is such a thing as coincidence, you know! No

 matter how crazily I might fantasize, I can do things, know

 things, no fantasies could teach me! Like speaking Thoan,

 for instance! You want to hear fluent Thoan?

 "Samon-ke fath? Meaning, Where do I go from here?

 Orc-tam Ore man-kirn. Yem tath Orc-tha. Meaning, Ore

 was once just called Ore. Now, he's called Red Ore. If you

 want me to, I'll rattle off a long story in Thoan. And I'll

 give you the grammar, too!

 "And where would I learn how to work flint into knives,

 arrowheads, spearpoints, scrapers, chisels, you name it?

 Bring me a core of raw flint, I'll shape from it any tool

 anybody can make from flint! How could I know how to do

 that unless I'd really been in Ore's mind and had seen him

 260

 and Ijim work flint and then brought back how to do it

 stored in my memory?

 "Then there's the whiplashes I brought back from the time

 Ore got whipped by the slave driver! Yeah, I know I've had

 stigmata, and maybe that's just psychosomatic stuff! But that

 time, I just didn't bleed from my back! The cuts made by the

 whip were there, too! They hurt like hell, they were real!

 "Then there's the controlled wet dreams I learned from

 Ore! You're starting to control the dreams and delusions of

 the patients, but they can't hold a candle to my controlled

 dreams for control or realism! How'd I leam to do that? On

 my own? No way! I learned it from Ore!

 "I could go on, but you got more than enough to make

 you wonder if maybe I'm not telling the truth, haven't you?

 And I suppose you think just because Ore cut off his father's

 balls I'd like to cut off my father's?"

 Doctor Porsena said, "Would you?"

 "Yeah, there're times when I'd've been glad to! But I

 swear, mad as I've been at him, I never once thought about

 doing that. Maybe stringing him up by them. But cutting

 them off and eating them—raw, for God's sake—never! So

 how come, if I'm just imagining Ore and what he does, did

 he do something I'd never thought of?"

 "You tell me."

 "Oh, sure, it was my unconscious mind did it!"

 "And . . . ?"

 "And? What else? Oh, well, there's my imagination. It's

 a free-wheeling extrapolator, according to Mister Lum.

 Takes a basic premise or fact or idea and builds logically

 from that. Maybe you could be right about that. But not

 about the other stuff. Not my speaking Thoan and working

 flint and, I didn't mention this before, my knowledge of

 biology and chemistry I couldn't have learned unless I'd

 tapped into Ore's mind. That can't be explained."

 267

  

  

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 Jim tried to lean back and relax.

 "Listen, Doctor! We can settle this! You can put me on

 the lie detector machine, question me all you want, and then

 you'll see I'm not lying!"

 "You're my patient, not a criminal. Besides, if you

 believe that you have actually gone into Ore's universe, the

 lie detector would indicate that you're not lying. But I'm

 not the inquisitor, and you're not on the rack. The truth or

 falsity of the patient's experiences are not my consideration

 or concern. I don't care whether they really happened or

 not. I accept that they did happen inasmuch as they concern

 the therapy. That is, what is the relevance of the experiences

 to the therapy? What progress or regress derives from them?

 Those are the only significant questions. Do you read me?"

 "Sure! But . . . isn't it important, needful to science, to

 everybody, to know that there might be other worlds out

 there? Parallel universes? And at least one person, me,

 maybe three, since Kickaha and Wolff went there, has been

 there! Aren't you interested at all in that? If I can go, if they

 can, too, then everybody should be interested!"

 "That is true, given your premises. As I said, at the moment

 only your therapeutic progress concerns me. It's all that should

 concern you. Now, Jim, I understand that your parents are

 coming here tomorrow to say good-bye to you. They're

 leaving for1 Texas the day after. Your father has finally

 consented to face you. That meeting is very important as a test

 of how you'll react to stress. Will you be so angry that you

 become violent and attack him? What will you do if he attacks

 you first? Will you avoid provocative behavior? And what will

 your reaction be after the meeting is over?"

 He and Jim talked about the possibilities and how Jim

 could handle the situation. The psychiatrist did not expect

 Jim not to be angry. He did want Jim's display of rage,

 whatever form it took, to be appropriate.

 262

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 "As you know, shortly after you were admitted here, I

 advised both your father and your mother to go into

 therapy," Doctor Porsena said. "When a patient enters

 treatment, his family should also enter. They refused. Their

 main plea was that they could not afford it. But ..."

 "The real reason was that they thought I was the only

 crazy one in the family!" Jim burst out. "They thought they

 didn't need therapy! Hah!"

 "Then you'll have to leam how to handle all that

 appropriately and positively."

 Doctor Porsena glanced at the clock.

 "Just one more question, Jim. It was put to you some

 time ago, but I want to hear your response as of this

 moment. What is the main thing that you have learned about

 Ore's character?"

 Jim hunkered down in the chair, frowning. Then he sat up.

 "The night I took all those trips ... it was a lifetime.

 I'd say that the main thing I learned was this.

 "Ore had a lot of good qualities, courage, endurance, inge-

 nuity, and desire to leam. He was passionate about everything

 he did. Oh, he was passionate, all right! But his passion was

 separated from real love. I don't think he really loved anybody

 but his mother and his aunt. And I'm not sure that that love

 wasn't basically lust. Passion without love is no good.

 "Not bad for an eighteen-year-old blue-collar dummy,

 heh?"

 "Not bad," the doctor said. "I don't know if you mean it

 when you call yourself a dummy. But we're not through

 working on your self-esteem."

 "Another thing," Jim said. "The Thoan. My God!

 They're thousands of years old and like gods in many

 respects. But they're locked into war and conquest and

 jealousy and murder and torture and all sorts of bad things.

 They haven't progressed spiritually or emotionally in all

 263

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 those thousands of years. They're stuck, and there's no

 hope for them to get unstuck. That, I say, is like most

 people on Earth. They're stuck!"

 The psychiatrist nodded. "I'll point out another item," he

 said. "Ore is to be admired for his ingenuity and wit in getting

 through the many obstacles in his way and in getting out of the

 many traps set for him. What Ore did, you can do. There are

 many obstacles on Earth and many traps, economic, social,

 psychological. You, like Ore, can use your ingenuity and wit

 to overcome the obstacles and spring yourself from the traps.

 "And you don't have to be a dull conformist, as you have

 phrased it during previous sessions. You're afraid you'll be

 a square, part of the establishment, if you behave within

 certain moral and ethical bounds. But you can be a genuine

 individualist without being antisocial."

 "Yeah," Jim said, his tone indicating that he was not

 fully confident. "Still, there are things I'd like to know. The

 ghostbrain, for instance. What was it really? I don't suppose

 it makes much difference if it takes over Ore. It'll act just

 like he would. In a sense, it'll be Ore. At least, that's what

 I thought. Only ..."

 "Only what?"

 "Well, just before I parted from Ore the last time, I was

 so sickened that I didn't pay much attention to what the

 ghostbrain was doing just then. It seemed to have advanced

 on me. I mean, it had gotten a lot closer or a lot bigger,

 depending on the way you look at it. In fact, it seemed,

 somehow, to have surrounded me, half-surrounded, any-

 way. It was like a giant black amoeba getting ready to

 surround and ingest a smaller cell. If I hadn't left Ore just

 then, well, I don't know.

 "I was thinking about it the other day. How about this

 idea? I was wrong thinking it came from that blue stuff

 floating around on Anthema. Suppose it was—this'll kill

 264

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 you—suppose the ghostbrain was not some alien thing

 menacing Ore? I mean, what if it was some kind of a

 shadow of Ore's brain? What really happened was that I was

 sensing that Ore's brain was about to take me over, and it

 looked like a sinister alien shadow to me? I scared myself

 into thinking it was a danger to Ore. But there really wasn't

 any alien in Ore's brain except me? And something in Ore

 sensed me and was going to absorb me? Ore was uncon-

 scious of this. But a mechanism in his neural system was

 automatically treating me as if I was an enemy?

 "If that's true, then I was scared for nothing about it

 being a force ready to become Ore and throw him out. But

 I had good reason to be scared. I was going to be the victim,

 the possessed, or, I should say, the ingested! Only Ore was

 going to do the ingesting!"

 "An excellent hypothesis," the psychiatrist said. "Quite

 possibly, perhaps most probably, that was what it was all about.

 I congratulate you on a brilliant solution to that problem."

 "Thanks. But what does that mean? You didn't say it was

 the right solution."

 "No," the doctor said, "but it is very probably the correct

 one. If you think it is, then it is. You're the person to know."

 He smiled, and he rose from his chair. "Time's up, Jim.

 See you next session."

 He flipped the intercom switch. "Winnie. Send in Sandy

 Melton, please."

 Reluctantly, feeling that there was so much more to

 discuss, Jim went into the waiting room, nodded at Winnie,

 and stepped into the hall. It was, for the moment, empty of

 people. Music came down the hall from a half-closed door.

 When he was closer to Sue Binker's room, he recognized

 Philip Glass's Einstein on the Beach, issued by Tomato

 Music, a record company that dared take chances on

 unconventional stuff.

 265

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 As he strode by the door, he glanced through the opening.

 He saw Sue Sinker's mantra on her wall. It was a looped

 cross, the ancient Egyptian ankh, formed by the Tiers series

 covers. One illustration, that from the British edition of A

 Private Cosmos, caught and held his eye. The background

 was an eerie landscape. In the foreground were Kickaha,

 holding the Horn of Shambarimem, and the laboratory-

 made harpy, Podarge. She was either attacking Kickaha or

 about to screw him. It was hard to tell.

 Whoosh!

 Subaudio sound.

 Jim was hurtling through the eye of the loop on top of the

 cross.

 The eye expanded to admit him.

 Before he could scream, he was in Ore.

 Behind him, or seeming to be behind him, was another

 unheard sound. It was the clang of an iron door shutting.

 Jim knew instantly (without knowing how he knew) that

 the young Lord was now called Red Ore. His many slayings

 of Lords and leblabbiys had earned him that title. He was

 standing on the edge of a high plateau in a flickering

 crimson light which came from the horizon and stained the

 blue sky. Around him were warriors, all of them leblabbiy,

 clad in green armor and scarlet feathers, their faces heavily

 tattooed. They were firing with howitzer-sized beamers at

 the horde below. The purple rays were blowing up the

 forest, earth, and men; huge trees and men's bodies were

 flying through the red-shot black smoke.

 That non-Lords were operating such technologically

 advanced weapons meant that the war between Ore and Los

 had made both sides desperate. Never before had the

 leblabbiy been allowed to use any but the most primitive

 weapons. The plains forces' (Los's) projectors were knock-

 ing off chunks of the cliff and precipitating groups of Ore's

 266

 RED ORC-S RAGE

 warriors with them to the ground four thousand feet below.

 Red Ore was very anxious about the flickering crimson

 light on the horizon. He thought that it must be made by a

 long-lost pre-Thoan weapon that Los had found during his

 long flight from his son. Ore now regretted more than ever

 that he had not killed Los at once after castrating him in

 Golgonooza. While Ore was attending to his mother, Los

 had escaped.

 Through the smoke. Ore saw the wall, vengeful as an

 angry god's eye, speeding toward the plateau. Mountain-

 sized orange gouts were mixed with it, gouts that left behind

 them, where Ore could see through the smoke, vast craters.

 (The size of those on Earth's moon, Jim thought.) They

 would destroy Los's own Lord allies and leblabbiy auxilia-

 ries before they reached Ore's army. Los, who must be far

 away over the horizon and operating this apocalyptic

 weapon, did not care. If he cracked the planet in half but

 killed his son, he would be happy.

 Ore turned and sprinted toward a gate he had set up for

 escape if things did not go well.

 Just as Red Ore leaped through it, Jim managed to tear

 himself loose by chanting the Siberian shamanic spell. He

 felt a pain as if he had been attached to Ore by an umbilical

 cord which had been yanked away from him, tearing off the

 tender flesh.

 The pain came and went swiftly. Jim heard two other

 noiseless noises: a whooshing and then a clanging. He had

 just enough time in transit to hope that he was back in his

 own body.

 He was not. But, though again in the young Lord, he was

 in another time and place. This world had belonged to

 Uveth the Vortex, one of Urizen's iron-hearted daughters

 and Los's ally in the apocalyptic struggle between Ore and

 his father. Ore had, after suitable torture, slain her. It was

 267

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 also many years after Ore had fled the cracking in two of the

 planet on which he had been fighting Los.

 He was locked in a sexual frenzy with his own child,

 Vala, named after his aunt. His ecstasy was so intense that

 his loins seemed to be interwoven with silken fires. A choir

 with voices too beautiful to be real sang around him.

 Jim detected the shadowy ghostbrain, but it was moving

 very slowly toward him. That pace, he figured later, was

 sluggish because Ore was so raptured that every atom of his

 being was caught up in it. Jim was also entangled in the

 silken and fiery threads, but he made the most desperately

 violent effort of his life. He slipped loose.

 He was in the ward hall and was just completing the step

 which he had started as he glimpsed Sue's mantra. His visits

 had taken only half a second of Earth time.

 He stopped, wheeled, closing one eye so that he could

 not see the mantra again, and headed back toward Doctor

 Porsena's office. The psychiatrist would not be available

 because he was in a session with Sandy Melton. But he had

 told Jim to go to him or a staff member at once if he ever

 had a flashback. Jim had verbally agreed, though, in his

 mind, he had pooh-poohed the idea that he would succumb

 to the siren call of the World of Tiers.

 Shaking, sweating, anxiety brooding in him like a big

 black bird over her black eggs, he ran to Doctor Tarchuna's

 office.

 Jim now believed that there was a hell. It was in Red Ore

 in the worlds of the Lords. But a heaven was also there,

 though one could not exist without the other.

 Jim wanted nothing of either one.

 "Holy Mother!" he shouted as he banged open the office

 door. "Help me! Help me!"

 268

 CHAPTER 3 1

 L/OCTOR PORSENA SAT in his office and considered the next

 session with Jim Crimson. It would be his last as an

 inpatient. On the same day, Jim would start living with the

 Wyzaks. Leaving the ward environment would frighten

 Jim. Departure was often as traumatic as entering the

 hospital. Jim, however, was much better equipped emotion-

 ally and mentally to withstand the shocks and troubles of the

 "world out there" than the night on which he had been

 admitted.

 Jim had been in great danger of being cocooned into his

 fantasy. A fully withdrawn patient, ceasing to respond to

 any stimuli outside his mind, he would have adventured

 inside his skull as Red Ore. Nor would he have been the Jim

 Grimson who was copartner in the Lord's physical and

 mental life. He would have been absorbed into Ore like

 water into a superdry sponge. Nothing of him would have

 been left.

 269

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 After his flashblack, Jim had stayed as an inpatient for an

 extra week. He had not been given intensive treatment until

 after he was tranquilized for several days. Then, no longer

 taking Thorazine, he had had as many private sessions as he

 had needed. Neither Jim nor the psychiatrist had slept much

 during this period. Porsena had kept up with the regular

 work schedule while treating Jim.

 In the meantime. The Scarlet Letterer had been caught

 while putting up on the wall one of his rest-room graffiti.

 This time, however, he had aspired higher. The wall was in

 Doctor Scaevola's office. The culprit was the deformed

 patient. Junior Wunier, no surprise to Porsena. Wunier had

 a very defiant attitude.

 Even though he promised never again to put up his

 epigrams, Wunier was punished by having some of his

 privileges suspended. He did not mind. For a brief time, he

 became a hero to the other patients.

 Jim's parents had not been able to make their final visit

 on the day scheduled. Porsena would not allow Jim, who

 was in no condition to handle a traumatic event, to see

 them. The psychiatrist was pleasantly surprised when Eric

 and Eva Grimson agreed to put off leaving for Texas until

 they could talk to him. That was over with now and with

 results that Porsena had not expected.

 Some elements in Jim's stories puzzled and disturbed the

 psychiatrist. These had caused him, though he felt slightly

 foolish doing so, to research these elements. He had not told

 Jim about it, nor did he intend to. Not for a long time and

 perhaps never.

 Jim's accounts of his adventures had faintly rung a bell in

 Porsena's mind. They were like chimes drifting over the

 horizon of a faery sea. To make certain that he had no

 grounds for doubt or unease, he had phoned an acquain-

 tance, Doctor Mary Brizzi. She was not only an English-

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 RED ORC'S RAGE

 literature professor but an ardent reader of science fiction

 and fantasy. He had given her the names of Lords, places,

 and events recounted by Jim. He did not tell her that they

 came from a patient.

 "They're from William Blake's Didactic and Symbolical

 Works," Brizzi said. "But they're also in some of the World

 of Tiers series, as you know. However, Farmer also writes

 of Lords who are not in Blake's works. Using his creative

 imagination, I suppose. Farmer's description of the Lords'

 family relationships also differs in some respects from

 Blake's."

 And Jim's differs in some respects from both of those

 men, Porsena thought.

 "Blake's city of Golgonooza and certain Lords, such as

 Manathu Vorcyon, Ijim, and Zazel of the Cavemed World,

 are not mentioned in Farmer's series. He also has not, so

 far, anyway, written that Red Ore was once a man-serpent.

 In Blake's works. Red Ore is transformed for a while into a

 sort of snake-centaur. But not by Los, his father. I'll check

 it for you, but I think it was another Lord, Urizen, who did

 it. That part about Ore sweating jewels, that was in Blake,

 too.

 "There's an interesting interlude in the latest book in the

 series. Kickaha sees, at a distance, an old man dressed in

 strange garb, obviously not a Lord. I think that that old man

 is William Blake, and his identity will be revealed in the

 next novel, if there ever is any. Just how Blake, who died

 in 1827, could show up alive in the pocket universes of the

 Lords, I don't know. Maybe Farmer will explain it in the

 next book. What, if I may inquire, is your interest in these

 two myth-makers, since you're a psychiatrist?"

 "They figure in a paper I'm working on," Doctor Porsena

 said. "If the paper is published, I'll send you a copy."

 After he hung up, the doctor sat for a long time. He told

 277

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 himself: Take as a premise that parallel worlds and artificial

 pocket universes were a reality. Premise that there really are

 Lords. Premise also that Blake had somehow acquired some

 knowledge of these. Jim's theory that Farmer had learned of

 them through psychic "leaks" or "vibrations" in the walls

 between those worlds and Earth's might have some

 validity—if the premise was valid. Accept for a moment

 that Blake had also gotten images or some kind of data

 through these leaks. They had formed the bases from which

 sprang his Didactic and Symbolical Works.

 Blake, an acknowledged genius and perhaps a madman,

 had mixed his knowledge of the Thoan worlds with Judaeo-

 Christian theology and other subjects. The result was the

 Works, a mishmash of truth and poetry and mysticism and

 allegory.

 But how could Farmer, an American writer born ninety-

 one years after Blake's death, have also tuned in, as it were,

 to much the same data? There were certain similarities in

 the lives of Blake, Farmer, and Crimson. All three had had

 vivid visions or strong hallucinations. Blake and Grimson

 had first experienced them when very young. Fanner had

 had them when he was an adult. He claimed to have seen

 ghosts on two occasions and to have had two mystical

 experiences. None of the three had been on drugs when

 these happened.

 Did this tenuous connection among the three mean

 anything? Were there parallel universes which all three had

 somehow "contacted"?

 No, no, no! He, Doctor Porsena, could not accept as

 valid either the premises or the conclusions therefrom. The

 most rational explanation was that Blake had originated his

 wild poetry with no help from vibrations, transmissions, or

 leaks. Fanner had based part of his series on Blake's works.

 And Jim Grimson had read at least some of Blake's words.

 272

 But he did not remember having done so. After all, Jim

 admitted several times that he often read while he was

 stoned or drunk.

 Yet . . . there were the whiplash cuts. But there was no

 reason stigmata could not produce incisions in flesh.

 There was his claim to be expert in flint-working and to

 know certain data about advanced chemistry. These could

 be tested.

 Also, he claimed to be fluent in Thoan. That could be

 checked. No eighteen-year-old ignorant of linguistics could

 make up a language that would be self-consistent in syntax

 and vocabulary and pronunciation. Nor would he have a

 Lord word stock.

 There was one disturbing fact. Porsena's keen ear had

 noticed that, when Jim had rattled off those Thoan phrases,

 he had pronounced the "r" in Ore in a most un-English

 manner. It had sounded to Porsena like a Japanese "r,"

 though not quite that. And his "t" when followed by a

 vowel had not been aspirated. That is, the little puff of air

 following the consonants had been missing. That was not

 Jim's native pronunciation.

 The doctor did not believe that Jim was faking anything.

 Jim really believed his stories. However, the human mind

 was capable of very strange and, indeed, unbelievable feats.

 If anyone should know that, a psychiatrist should.

 If the tests were to be done, they would be carried out

 discreetly. It would not be good for any psychiatrist's

 professional reputation if his colleagues thought that he was

 taking Jim's claims seriously. But if it did become known

 that such tests were being conducted, some kind of satis-

 factory explanation could be offered for doing them. Such

 as a study of the psychological bases for the patient's

 delusions, their history, and so forth. That was legitimate.

 For the time being, such a project would be in abeyance.

 273

  

  

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 What he had to concentrate on now was seeing that the

 patient was "cured" or in remission.

 Winnie's voice came over the intercom then.

 "Mister Grimson is here. Doctor."

 "Send him in, please."

 Jim entered the room and sat down after greeting the

 psychiatrist. On the whole, he looked healthy and confi-

 dent. The dark rings around his eyes were gone. He was

 smiling. But Porsena knew that Jim could put up a convinc-

 ing front. On the other hand, he might not be frightened. He

 might even be eager to live with the Wyzaks and have a

 near-normal life. His true attitude would be revealed during

 the session.

 "I still can't get over it!" Jim burst out. "Who'd've

 dreamed that my father'd suddenly be sorry for what he's

 done to me? I never imagined, no way, that he'd cry like a

 baby and get down on his knees and beg me to forgive him!

 I still can't believe that he really means it! Next time, he'll

 be the same old son of a bitch he's always been!

 "And I was overcome by emotion! I actually forgave

 him, and I meant it! Then! But I still hold a lot of things

 against him!"

 "I've not treated your father. Thus, I have only a

 superficial knowledge of his character and his motives. But

 my own experience and reading of case histories convince

 me that such reversals of behavior do occasionally occur."

 He was thinking that Eric's remorse and plea for forgive-

 ness had a parallel in Blake's Works. Doctor Brizzi had told

 him that Los and Enitharmon had repented of their ill

 treatment of their son. They, like Eric, had hastened to

 make amends as best they could.

 Brizzi had been puzzled by Porsena's questions about

 Red Ore castrating his father and eating the testicles.

 274

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 "There's nothing like that in Blake. Nor in Farmer. Where

 did you run across a reference to that?"

 "It has to do with a fantasy of a patient of mine," Porsena

 said-

 "Oh? Well, anyway, Los's testicles would have regener-

 ated, grown back out, according to what Farmer says of the

 Lords' biological capabilities. Is your patient into Blake's or

 Farmer's works?"

 "Somewhat," Porsena said. "That's really all I may tell

 you about him."

 It seemed to him that the castration and cannibalism

 sprang wholly from Jim's wish-fantasies. Neither Blake nor

 Fanner was responsible for that. And it was, of course, a

 coincidence that both Jim's father in reality and Ore's

 parents in Blake should have apologized to their sons.

 The doctor said, "I'm sorry, Jim. I was thinking about

 something. You're sticking to your determination to stay

 with the Wyzaks? You haven't reconsidered your parents'

 offer to let you live with them once they're on their financial

 feet?"

 "No way. I'm staying here even after the therapy is

 complete. My father may be sincere, for now, but I'm afraid

 that things'll fall into the same old sordid groove after a

 while. I will go see them for a while someday. Not now, not

 soon."

 In their conversation after that, Porsena stressed the

 difficulties and dangers the outpatient would run into.

 "Mrs. Wyzak should be a stabilizing influence on you.

 From what you've told me, she's a strong disciplinarian.

 You need someone like her. But she may regard you as an

 adopted son, one who'll replace her dead son. She could try

 to smother you with love and be less strict than she was with

 Sam. Spoil you, in other words, because she'll be afraid of

 losing you, too.

 275

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER                                                  RED ORC'S RAGE

 "There's also the possibility that you'll identify her as

 your mother. You'll have to be careful about that. She is not

 your mother, whom you've blamed for not protecting you

 against your father. She's Mrs. Wyzak, a big-hearted

 woman who's taking you into her home. Keep all this in

 mind, and report to me how it's going there."

 "I will," Jim said. "I believe I can make it."

 They discussed Jim's "shedding" procedure, which had

 already started. Jim was using the technique some others

 had adopted. As therapy progressed, he would tear the

 covers off the first book in the series, then rip off pages until

 all were gone. After that, he would start on the second book

 and work through to the last one. But he would go a step

 further than the other patients. He would put the tom-out

 pages into a shredder.

 Jim and the psychiatrist had agreed that he would not

 reread any of the series. According to Jim, Porsena did not

 have to worry about that. He had found it hard enough to

 just look at the covers without being afraid of another

 flashback.

 "I don't ever want to go back into that evil son of a

 bitch!" Jim said.

 Then they talked about the means the patients used to

 enter the worlds. Many of them thought that the mantras

 and chants were magical tools. Part of the therapy was

 convincing the patients, in the latter stages of therapy, that

 the means were psychological, not magical.

 "There is no such thing as magic," Porsena said. "But if

 the patient wishes to act as if the entry methods are magical,

 we don't discourage that. Whatever works is OK with us.

 But we don't want the patients either in remission or cured

 to still believe that there is such a thing as magic when they

 are through with the therapy. Please don't tell this to any

 patient who hasn't progressed as yet to your stage."

 276

 When the time came for Jim to leave, he stood up, and

 they shook hands.

 "I'm not really leaving you since I'll be seeing you once

 or twice a week," Jim said. "But this is kind of a farewell."

 He walked to the door, then turned around before he

 opened it.

 "I encountered many mysteries in the Lords' worlds," he

 said. "Most of these I solved or at least had a good

 explanation for. But I haven't penetrated The Mystery."

 "Which is what?" Porsena said.

 "If all universes except for one, the original, were created

 by the Lords, who created the original? And why?"

 "Only the young concern themselves seriously with

 matters such as ultimate origins and the reasons for them.

 When you get old enough to know that such questions have

 no answers, you'll quit asking."

 "I hope I never get that old," Jim said.

 Porsena smiled. He supposed that the smile looked to Jim

 like The Sphinx's inscrutable expression. Perhaps Jim

 thought that his doctor was concealing the wisdom of the

 ages behind the smirk of the stone-headed Egyptian statue.

 He was. He knew what The Sphinx knew about the

 ultimate mysteries. That is, nothing.

 The Mysteries were unassailable in this world and in all

 worlds.

 The most that any human being could do was to try to

 solve the "little" mysteries. Those were huge enough.

 277

  

  

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 AFTERWORD

 A. James Giannini, M.D.

 On an otherwise unremarkable English afternoon, a remark-

 able English girl named Alice walked through a looking

 glass. On the other side, she found a land of fantasy and

 distortion. Her ability was unusual because she could enter

 a fantasy created by someone else and then return to the

 alternative "real" world. Schizophrenics and other psychot-

 ics inhabit their own world of delusion and also have

 difficulty reentering the real world—that common interface

 that humanity shares. Children can also inhabit a secret

 place of fantasy. While they seldom have trouble skipping

 across the twin planes of fantasy and reality, they do not

 have the ability to transport adults into their secret worlds.

 It is the lack of Alice's gift that makes the practice of

 psychiatry so difficult. Each delusional patient is truly a

 master of his own universe. This universe is an entity

 unique to the individual. It has its own terrain, its own

 memory-base and its own symbolic language. The under-

 standing of each of these worlds provides the therapist with

 the ability to discover the root trauma and modify the

 results. Unfortunately, the patient retains the ability and

 prerogative to alter his personal reality at any time. For

 some, alterations occur in a chaotic fashion, while for

 others it seems to occur whenever a breakthrough is

 imminent.

 The great English therapist, R. D. Laing, developed a

 school of thought in which a schizophrenic's psychosis

 would be considered an alternative valid reality. For the

 initial therapeutic phase, as least, this school provided a

 useful model. In trying to understand the patient's psycho-

 sis, however, one had to consume a large amount of

 professional resources. Many times, this expenditure was

 wasted. The patient was sole master of his delusional

 scheme; he controlled its access and could alter its form.

 Frustration with these inherent limitations causes many

 psychiatrists to rely solely on a specific class of medication,

 the "neuroleptics," to reduce and control their patient's

 psychoses. This has always seemed to me a solution to

 one-half of the physician's classic problem. Dependence

 upon neuroleptics alone resolves the symptoms but does not

 remove the cause of the disorder. With the resolution of the

 delusional symptoms may come the disappearance of the

 very key that might provide insight into the damage that

 begat the delusion.

 Alice was able to pass unhindered through an alternative

 universe. This was a universe of some stability. While such

 characters as the Duchess' child could change their shape,

 the underlying form of the chessboard-mirror world was

 stable. It is the accessibility and stability of this world that

 makes it an attractive alternative to the locked-off morass of

 each patient's separate delusional subreality. A therapeutic

  

  

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 anodyne would then be a world with fixed reference points

 and a door that permits universal ingress and egress.

 While completing my psychiatric residency at Yale Uni-

 versity, I encountered many patients whose worlds were

 closed off to me. Their personal fears and my neuroleptic

 medications seemed to function as twin seals forever

 removing me from the dreadful fears that pushed them away

 from reality. It was at Yale that I conceived using science

 fiction or fantasy novels as the source of an alternative

 reality that the patient and I could explore together.

 Providentially, I discovered Philip Jose Fanner's World

 of Tiers series. It seemed to be a tool designed for the

 purpose of investigating and resolving psychotic distur-

 bances. Its "Gates" provide the access mechanisms. Its

 characters were a Jungian delight; an entire panoply of

 archetypes were available for retrospective analysis. The

 variety of pocket universes presented a large but fixed

 number of multiple realities.

 In the initial approaches with "Tiers-therapy," several

 patients with psychotic presentation were asked to read the

 series. Therapy then shifted from a review of the patients'

 activities to a discussion of the books. Gradually, these

 discussions became more focused so that the patient would

 gradually relate his experiences with those of Tiers charac-

 ters. When stress would occur between therapy sessions and

 the patient would break down, the psychotic perceptions

 would gradually incorporate an ever-expanding fraction of

 the Tiers system. As an adapted Tiers universe replaced the

 highly idiosyncratic forms of alternative reality, I was able

 to enter each patient's private world. Finally, the metaphor-

 ical means were available to conduct work on-site. It was as

 if I were an astronomer, who, after gazing at Mars through

 a distorted mirror, was finally able to walk on that planet's

 280

 RED ORC'S RAGE

 red sands. Once the patient and I met on a common world,

 meaningful therapy proceeded quickly.

 In this form of therapy, I noted that adolescents and

 younger adults had the best results. Those who were

 possessed of a love for books were the most eager. Therapy

 was quickly engaged if these young men and women felt

 themselves to be misfits who belonged in another age.

 Some had psychoses; others were addicted to their own

 fantasy world. When I moved to Ohio, I found a corps of

 willing patients (and supportive parents) who quickly ac-

 cepted the tenets of Tiersian therapy. Since these patients

 were comfortable with expressing themselves, I was able to

 utilize the powerful tool of group therapy to project our-

 selves into a Tiersian model.

 In standard group therapy, what is discussed ("content")

 is less important than the act of discussion ("process"). It is

 after all the flow of water rather than the nature of water that

 gives a river its special properties and attractions. Since

 every patient had a unique way of relating to the Tiers

 worlds, the de-emphasis on content worked well. Because

 all of our group members now shared the same basic

 symbols and archetypes, each patient could relate to another

 in a way that enhanced the process. By relating to each

 other, the group was able to resolve the earlier conflicts of

 its members and gradually reenter the real world. Using the

 Tiers series as a halfway house, they moved from private

 reality to shared reality to that reality which all humanity

 holds in common.

 Farmer's re-creation of Tiersian therapy at Wellington

 Hospital captures the essence of this particular process.

 Tiersian therapy is currently undergoing a punctuated evo-

 lution. It has been discontinued and continued many times.

 281

 PHILIP JOSE FARMER

 Each manifestation has brought with it many refinements.

 As the strangely familiar Dr. Porsena emphasizes, the trick

 of the game is to ensure that Tiersian therapy becomes an

 entry into reality, not a substitute for it. Generally, our

 patients were able to distinguish their delusions or fantasies

 from reality; they simply chose to avoid reality. Tiersian

 therapy is not yet applicable for the profoundly psychotic

 individual. Schizophrenics are not candidates for therapeu-

 tic systems that utilize evolving realities.

 In reading the fictional re-creation of group process and

 the individual reaction to it, I felt I was an observer in my

 own therapeutic groups. Though Philip Farmer has never

 observed any of these sessions, he has reconstructed them

 accurately. While all persons and processes are totally

 fictional, any of my former patients and cotherapists should

 feel a sense of familiarity.

 Future scientific papers on Tiersian therapy will analyze

 the components of this technique. It is to be hoped that my

 professional colleagues will then attempt to replicate the

 methods and results of this approach. Scientific papers,

 while a necessary part of the transmission of knowledge,

 lack the gestalt of the exploration: the experiment, the

 analysis, the therapeutic techniques. The novel, however,

 while short on absolutely accurate detail faithfully repro-

 duces the sweat and fire of scientific enquiry. Red Ore's

 Rage carries on its pages the intuitive "feel" of psychother-

 apeutic treatment. In it, we can truly experience Jim's

 emergence into reality as he takes control of his own life.

 Ill

 Alice learned to run twice as fast and so became a queen.

 She then was able to walk through the nether side of the

 looking glass and reenter England.

 252