The World of Tiers Volume Two: Behind the Walls of Terra, the Lavalite World, Red Orc's Rage, and More Than Fire

by Philip José Farmer

  “Ah … undaunted courage. Determination that won’t stop. Ingenuity, using the materials at hand to attain his goal. A burning desire to learn 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, Orc is crazy 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, Orc’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 Orc? Am I still playing Orc 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 more afraid of social condemnation than of physical violence 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 corner 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 Orc’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 Orc, 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 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 Orc 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 Orc 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 Orc 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?”

  “Yeah, sure. If I snitched on them. But I 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 Orc 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 Orc 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 Orc’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 pharmacy.

  “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 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 Orc.

  CHAPTER 27

  There were several items that neither the doctor nor Jim had mentioned. One was that Jim did not have to worry about Orc having been beheaded by the slavedriver. After all, had not Farmer written that the young Lord, now known as Red Orc, was alive in the middle twentieth century A.D.? Thus, Jim’s worry that Orc migh
t 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, Orc’s mother. Rintrah was the second child of Los and Enitharmon and was Orc’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 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, Orc, 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 grouchiness and quick-to-ignite temper. He was hooked on Orc, 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 Orc 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 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, 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 position of sales supervisor at my favorite cold heartless corporation, 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 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 tears. So, what’s all this crap about men having to hold 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?”

  Orc, 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 Orc’s persona. Whatever strength of character he had absorbed from the young Lord, he was not strong enough—as yet, anyway—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 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 Orc. 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.