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.

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

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

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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file:///F|/rah/Philip%20Jose%20Farmer/Farmer,%20Philip%20Jose%20-%20Worl\d%20of%20Tiers%206%20-%20Red%20Orc's%20Rage.txtCHAPTER1November26,1979JIMGRIMSONHADneverplannedtoeathisfather'sballs.Hehadnotexpectedtomakelovetotwentyofhissisters.Hecouldnotforeseethat,whileridingawhiteSteed,hewouldsavehismoth...

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

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