Farmer, Philip Jose - The Gate of Time

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Philip José Farmer

A RED INDIAN AIRMAN GOES AWOL. . . INTO A PARALLEL UNIVERSE!

There was always a chance of not making it back. Death or capture were likely ends to this raid

over Nazi-occupied Romania. But for two of the crew a much less predictable fate was in store.

Suddenly, they had been shot down. And suddenly, strangely, they found themselves not in

enemy territory, but in another country and another time. No 20th-century language was spoken,

and the men were carrying bows and arrows.

One man, the navigator, died. The other, a science fiction fan, could only assume that they had

entered a parallel universe through a temporarily opened gate in time. And as an Iroquois Indian,

he had an idea where he had ended up.

Author Notes:

Philip Jose Farmer has written over thirty novels and over fifty novellas and short stories, and

between this book’s publication and your reading it he will doubtless have written several more.

But it is not simply his remarkably prolific output for which he is regarded as one of the very

greatest science-fiction authors: his wild imagination, his equally wild sense of humour, his

technical knowledge and his beautifully dry, satirical style of writing have also contributed to his

reputation. Three times the winner of the coveted Hugo Award, official biographer of Tarzan and

Doc Savage, spare-time Greek historian, mythologian and zeppelin freak, he’s as amazing as but no

less credible than a character from one of his own novels.

THE GATE OF TIME

First published in Great Britain by

Quartet Books Limited 1974

27 Goodge Street, London W1P 1FD

ISBN 0 704 31171 2

Printed in Great Britain by

Hunt Barnard Printing Ltd, Aylesbury, Bucks.

Contents

Author Notes:

A year after the war, my publisher sent me to Stavanger, Norway, to interview Roger Two

Hawks. I had full authority to negotiate a contract with him. The terms were very favorable,

especially when the lack of printing facilities and distribution of that postwar period is considered.

I had asked for the assignment, since I had heard so much about Roger Two Hawks. Most of the

stories were incredible, even contradictory yet my informants swore to the truth of their

testimonies.

So high-pitched was my curiosity, I would have quit my job and gone on my own to Norway if

my publisher had refused me. And this was at a time when jobs in my field were not easy to get.

Rebuilding our destroyed civilization was the foremost goal; craftsmanship in steelworking or

bricklaying was more desired than facility with the pen.

Nevertheless, people were buying books, and there was a worldwide interest in the mysterious

stranger, Roger Two Hawks. Everyone had heard of him, but those who had known him well were

either dead or missing.

I booked passage on an old steamer that took five days to get to Stavanger. I did not even wait to

check in at the hotel, since it was late evening. Instead, I asked directions, in my abominable

Norwegian, to the hotel at which I knew Two Hawks was staying. I had tried to get reservations

there with no success.

The taxi fare was very high, since fuel was still being rationed. We drove through many dark

streets with unlit gaslights. But the front of the hotel was brightly illuminated, and the lobby was

crowded with noisy and laughing guests, still happy about having lived through the war.

I asked the desk clerk for Two Hawks’ room and was told that he was in the ballroom, attending

a large party given by the mayor of Stavanger.

I had no trouble locating Roger Two Hawks, since I had seen many photographs of him. He

stood at one corner of the room, surrounded by men and women. I pushed my way through them

and soon stood near him. He was a tall well-built man with a handsome, although aquiline, face.

His hair was a dark brown; his skin was dark although not much darker than that of some of the

Norwegians present. But his eyes were unexpectedly grey, as cool and grey as a winter Icelandic

sky. He was holding a drink of Norland in one hand and chatting away with frequent flashings of

his white teeth. His Norwegian was no better than mine, that is, fluent but heavily accented and not

always grammatically acceptable. Beside him stood a beautiful blonde whom I also recognized

from photographs. She was his wife.

When a short pause came in the conversation, I took the opportunity to introduce myself. He had

heard of me and my visit, of course, because both my publisher and myself had corresponded with

him. His voice was a deep rich baritone, very pleasant and at the same time confidence-inspiring.

He asked me how my trip was, and I told him that it was endurable. He smiled and said, “I had

begun to think that your publisher had changed his mind and you weren’t coming after all.

Apparently, the wireless had also broken down on your ship.”

“Everything did,” I said. “The vessel was used for coastal shipping during the war and was

bombed at least four times. Some of the repairs were pretty hasty and done with shoddy materials.”

“I’m leaving Norway in two days,” he said abruptly. “That means that I can give you about a

day and a half. I’ll have to tell you the story and depend on you to get it right. How’s your

memory?”

“Photographic,” I replied. “Very well. But that means that neither of us will get much sleep. I’m

tired, but I’d like to start as soon as possible. So. . .?”

“Right now. I’ll tell my wife we’re going up to my room and I’ll be a moment explaining to my

host.”

Five minutes later, we were in his room. He put on a big pot of coffee while I got the contract

and my pen and notebook out. Then he said, “I really don’t know why I’m doing this. Perhaps I’d

like. . . well, never mind. The point is, I need money and this book seems to be the easiest way to get

it. Yet, I may not come back to collect any royalties. It all depends on what happens at the end of

my voyage.”

I raised my eyebrows but said nothing. With one of the quick yet fluid motions characteristic of

him, he left my side and strode across the room to a large table. On it was a globe of the world, a

prewar model that did not show the change in boundaries that had taken place in the past year.

“Come here a moment,” he said. “I want to show you where my story begins.”

I rose and went to his side. He turned the globe slowly, then stopped it. With the point of a

pencil, he indicated a spot on the land a little to the left of the central western shore of the Black

Sea.

“Ploesti, Rumania,” he said. “That’s where I’ll begin. I could start much further back, but to do

that would take time which we don’t have. If you have any questions about my story before then,

you’ll have to insert them whenever you get the chance. However, I have a manuscript which

outlines my life before I went on the mission against the oil-fields of Ploesti.”

“Ploesti, Rumania?” I said.

“Ploesti, the great oil-producing and refining heart of Deutschland’s new empire. The target of

the 9th Air Force, based in Cyrenaica, North Africa. It took five years of war before the Americans

could launch an attack against the lifeblood of Germany’s transportation and military

effectiveness. Overloaded with bombs, ammunition, and gasoline, 175 four-motored bombers set

out to destroy the oil tanks and refineries of Ploesti. We did not know that it was called Festung

Ploesti, Fortress Ploesti, that the greatest concentration of anti-aircraft guns in Europe ringed that

city. Nor would it have made much difference if we had known, except that we might not have been

so shocked when we found out.

“I was first pilot on the Hiawatha; my co-pilot was Jim Andrews. He was from Birmingham,

Alabama, but the fact that I was part Iroquois Indian didn’t seem to bother him any. We were the

best of friends.”

He stopped, then smiled, and said, ‘By the way, you are looking at Ye Compleat Iroquoian. I

have ancestors from every existing Iroquois tribe, including great-grandparents from the

Iroquoian-speaking Cherokees. But my father was part Icelandic and my mother was part Scotch.”

I shrugged and said, to explain my blank look, “Can I expect to get some explanation of this

from the manuscript you spoke of?”

“Yeah, sure. Anyway. . .”

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摘要：

PhilipJoséFarmerAREDINDIANAIRMANGOESAWOL...INTOAPARALLELUNIVERSE!Therewasalwaysachanceofnotmakingitback.DeathorcapturewerelikelyendstothisraidoverNazi-occupiedRomania.Butfortwoofthecrewamuchlesspredictablefatewasinstore.Suddenly,theyhadbeenshotdown.Andsuddenly,strangely,theyfound hemselvesnotinen...

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