Philip Jose Farmer - WOT 7 - Red Orc' s Rage

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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

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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

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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.

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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.

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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-

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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

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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

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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

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Philip Jose Farmer - WOT 7 - Red Orc' s Rage

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