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The World of Tiers Volume Two
Behind the Walls of Terra, The Lavalite World, Red Orc’s Rage, and More Than Fire
Philip José Farmer
Behind the Walls of Terra
This adventure of Kickaha is dedicated to Jack Cordes, who lives in the pocket universes of Peoria and Pekin.
AUTHOR’S FOREWORD
The brain is an aristocrat in that it discriminates finely among available subjects. It’s a low-lifer in that its choice of events or things to dwell on (however fleetingly) ranges from the seeming trivial and base to the loftiest.
According to one theory, the brain has a scanner that sweeps through every available memory when the brain is thinking about a certain thing. But its ’scope lights up only when its radar touches something important to itself. That thing of importance, however, may seem of little or no interest to any other brain.
I like to think of the brain as a vastly curious but somewhat deranged kangaroo which, at the moment a train of thought starts, is on top of a peak in an almost limitless mountain range. Something says, “Go!” to the kangaroo, and it begins leaping from one peak to another or from peak to valley and back to another peak and so on. It’s surrounded by millions of peaks and valleys, but self-interest determines what it hops to. It ignores what would look very inviting to another kangaroo.
This Phantasia Press special edition is the definitive version. Thus, I had to reread BEHIND THE WALLS OF TERRA to correct typos and add or delete and rewrite for the betterment of the story. But, though I tried to confine myself to the literary aspects of the novel, my brain chose its own path and soared from peak to peak, from valley to peak to valley. I did not just think about the story itself. I was led to the events surrounding its original writing, and these carried me to events and items involving other works of mine. My association of these was directed by what had pleased or bugged me in the loose matrix of events concerned with this book. Mostly, it was what bugged me that drove the kangaroo.
Hence, what you’ll read in this introduction just seems at times to be meandering. The path is not chosen at random. The brain knows what it’s doing even if its owner does not. All things are connected.
During a visit to Los Angeles this February, I toured the fabulous stately mansion of Harlan Ellison in Sherman Oaks. He showed me his big office-machine Xerox 3100 reproducer and advised me to get one. I did not need much urging. Though some might think that this expensive device is an indulgence, it’s a necessity for me. Quite often, far too often, I’ve had to quit writing and drive to the library or a bank or a print shop to make copies of my own works or of the documents pertaining to my research in the Farmer genealogy. I’m using the Xerox often now; it should not take long for it to pay for itself. Especially since it saves me time, which is, aside from talent, the most valuable commodity a writer has.
What brings up the above is my experience in rereading this book. I saw that I would not have to copy so many pages for correction if it had not been for the editors of the original edition. I don’t know who they were. But, like so many editors at so many publishers, they did not know how to punctuate correctly. Where I had no commas, they added them. Where I had commas, they removed them. And so on.
This infuriates me. These miscorrections make the reader think that I don’t know how to punctuate. Fortunately, there are many readers who don’t know the difference, but I worry about those who do. Besides, when I proofread for special editions such as this or for reprints in which the publisher will permit changes, I have to do more work than should have been needed. And it costs me in time and money.
Almost all the proofreading editors I’ve encountered seem to have gone to a college where there’s a class listed in the catalog as “How To Put Commas In The Wrong Place And The Writer In A Coma.”
Some of the comments they write in the margins of manuscripts and galleys are aggravating, though they’re also sometimes unintentionally amusing. During the copy-editing of my most recent booklength manuscript, an editorial note said that perhaps it would be necessary to check the copyright on a quotation from the ancient Roman poet, Ovid. I wrote down beside that note that Ovid had been dead since circa A.D. 17 and that Christopher Marlowe, whose translation of Ovid’s lines I used, had died in 1595. How could either the Roman or the Englishman have a copyright after so long a time? Especially since they had never heard of copyrights in their time.
On the other hand, the editors have often been very helpful and invaluable. They’ve bettered my work. They’ve caught errors and discrepancies that I’d overlooked in the heat of creation and even during the cooling off. I might have found these errors and discrepancies myself, but then I might not have.
My thanks to their good work. But bad cess to them for their bad work or negligence or indifference.
I don’t know the present policy of the original publisher of this series, I do know that no manuscript or galley of this series was sent to me to proofread as a check against the publisher’s proofreaders. I did request that I get a chance to do so, but I was told that there was not enough time because of the publication schedule. Which is essence of B.S.
I intend, however, to put into any future contract with this publisher a clause that I have the right to go over and make corrections to any manuscripts before they’re sent to the printers and over any galleys before they’re set up in final form.
Another thing that gripes me is an editor who cuts out part of my work and does not bother to suggest a conference with me about the parts he thinks should be excised. Not until the work is published do I find that what I thought was an integral part of the story has been removed.
Though this happened often in the old days, the editors I’ve dealt with lately have been very considerate, that is, ethical and caring. They always ask me what I think about lines or paragraphs or pages that they think would make the work better if excised or changed. I’ve studied their reasons for the changes and have often agreed with them. I don’t think that my text is sacred. I just want to discuss it with the editor before we come to an agreement or disagreement. I want to know beforehand what and why they want to do something to the text so I may get a chance to defend the text or to tell them that they’re right.
An editor who used to work for the publisher of this series but now has his own publishing company cut a block of several thousand words out of the book at hand. Not until the book had been published did he tell me he had done so. “There was too much running around back and forth,” he said, “and it wasn’t necessary.”
He was right. The excision did not hurt the story.
But I would have appreciated his telling me that he was going to cut this part while the story was still in manuscript form. He did not give me a chance to read the text again and to see whether or not his decision was right.
This editor hasn’t cut anything of mine since, but the possibility that he might has never left me. That was one of the reasons I eventually decided to write no more for him.
Another reason was that, when he became a publisher, he permitted a grave error to be made in a map which was in a novel I’d written for him. The professional illustrator he used had redrawn my map and placed a city that was supposed to be on the southern end of a strai
t on the northern end. This confuses any reader who refers to the map. I asked the former editor-now publisher to correct the map for any future editions. These did come out but retained the original error. There was no correction despite his promise to make it.
It’s obvious from my correspondence and talks with this publisher that he’s far more concerned with the cost of revising the map than he is with any problems the reader and myself might have with this error. He doesn’t care about accuracy as long as he makes a profit.
However, overall in my career, I’ve worked with some great editors and only had to endure the indifference, negligence, and incompetency of a few.
Enough of complaints and praises.
When I wrote BEHIND THE WALLS OF TERRA, I was living in Los Angeles. This city has always seemed to me to be artificial, a Hollywood set, and this might have led to Kickaha’s discovery that the universe of Earth was itself artificial, an artifact of the Lords.
Los Angeles is, however, far more natural than that abomination called Las Vegas.
Still, abominations are as natural as anything else produced by humankind. It’s not correct to term artifacts as artificial. Humankind is part of Nature, and what humankind produces is natural or Natural. Would you call a termite nest or a rabbit burrow artificial?
Back to Los Angeles, the sarcastically labeled “The City of The Angels.” When I wrote this book I was living in a Moroccan-style house on Burnside Drive. This was two blocks from Wilshire, from the “Miracle Drive,” and about five blocks from Hancock Park, which contained the La Brea Tar Pits. Often, during my lunch hour (I was writing full-time then), I’d stroll down to the tar pits and enjoy seeing the life-size reproductions of the Imperial mammoth, short-faced bear, giant ground sloths, sabertooths, and giant lions, all marvelous beasts which roamed this area twelve thousand years ago. I’d think about that time when the area around Wilshire Boulevard was wild land with open sticky tar pits and tar oozing from the swamps and about the camels, giant bison, giant vultures, horses, dire wolves, and the creatures noted above roaming its treacherous ground. I’d wish that I could go back to that era in a time machine.
I knew that I’d have to take along an elephant gun, though, and plenty of ammunition. But, though the great predators and the mammoth and the tar pits made that territory dangerous, there was no smog. Actually, it would have been less dangerous then because it had no automobile traffic, no macho or stupid drivers (they’re the same thing) or muggers.
I often thought of what fun it would be to toss a few modern artifacts into a tar pit. Say, a .38 revolver, a Beatles or Beethoven record, a silver dollar, a copper etching: HELP! I’M A PRISONER IN A CHINESE FORTUNE COOKIE FACTORY! Consider the expressions on the faces of the archaeologists when they dug these items up!
For all I know, some time-traveller has done just that, but the artifacts have not yet been found.
Shortly after the first edition of this book came out, I received a Canadian fanzine containing a review of it. I don’t remember the name of the fanzine or of the imperceptive knee-jerk-reflex reviewer. He called me a conservative or a reactionary or a fascist, I forget just which. Reason: I’d portrayed a motorcycle gang as modern barbarians, Huns. The reviewer had wrongly assumed from this that I was stereotyping all organized motorcycle groups and probably was intimating that all of the then-modern youth should be contemned and condemned.
Not so. Kickaha was a motorcycle enthusiast. And I’ve known some cyclists whom I consider to be splendid human beings. Only a few groups here and there match the characteristics of the Lucifer’s Louts gang described herein. But such groups did exist and apparently still do. They’re composed of men and women capable of brutish and murderous behavior. Their tortures, rapes, and killings are on record. It was Kickaha’s and Anana’s fate to run into one such.
I’ve never liked the narrow-minded knee-jerk conservative, but I equally dislike the narrow-minded knee-jerk liberal. I’ve known conservatives and liberals who are not such; despite the ideology they’re bound to, they do some original thinking. They don’t conform to the stereotype of the conservative or liberal. Unfortunately, stereotypes are not just false images in people’s minds. They do exist in the flesh, God help us! And there’s no reasoning with them since they don’t themselves have the ability to reason.
Those who remember the original version of this novel may note that THE NOME KING AND HIS BAD EGGS was originally titled THE GNOME KING AND HIS BAD EGGS. I don’t have available the original manuscript, so I can’t say with certainty that I spelled “NOME” instead of “GNOME” in it. I think that an editor thought that I did not know how to spell “GNOME” and changed “NOME” to “GNOME.”
It should have been the former, “NOME.” The reference is to the Nome King of Oz, who was afraid of nothing except eggs. “Nome” is the way Baum spelled it, but when Ruth Plumly Thompson continued the Oz series after Baum died, she changed the word to “Gnome.” Why, I don’t know. She never did pay much attention, however, to what Baum wrote.
Several years ago, I got a letter from a fan of mine who was in prison for selling drugs. He said that he liked the book, but members of rock groups did not talk or behave like the Nome King and his bad eggs. Nonsense! I was acquainted with one group that did. But when I described its members I was not intimating that all groups were like it.
What does strike me on rereading this book is that the slang and in-group talk of the youth then sounds quaint now. The phrases they used have become one with “Twenty-three skidoo!” and “cat’s pyjamas” and “pipperoo.” “Square” and “cube” are returning to the realm of geometry, from which they originated.
One of the reasons I had Kickaha go back to Earth for a while was that I was concerned about overpopulation, pollution, and big-city neuroses and psychoses. Since Kickaha had not been on his native planet since 1946, he would find the contrast between then and 1970 startling, sickening, and nerve-rubbing. There was no room in the novel to point out the improvements, the good things, that had come along with the bad. If I had expanded the novel to make room for this, I would have been writing propaganda, not fiction. Though, come to think of it, most propaganda is fiction.
But a thread in my works is that, in the economy and mechanics of this universe, everything that has its advantages is inevitably accompanied by some disadvantages. And vice versa.
Kickaha had never been satisfied with this universe, however, and, when he returned to it, he was even more displeased. He was glad to get out of this universe. But he went to an even worse one, the lavalite world.
Philip José Farmer
CHAPTER ONE
The sky had been green for twenty-four years. Suddenly, it was blue.
Kickaha blinked. He was home again. Rather, he was once more on the planet of his birth. He had lived on Earth for twenty-eight years. Then he had lived for twenty-four years in that pocket universe he called The World of Tiers. Now, though he did not care to be here, he was back “home.”
He was standing in the shadow of an enormous overhang of rock. The stone floor was swept clean by the wind that traveled along the face of the cliff. Outside the semi-cavern were mountains covered with pine and fir trees. The air was cool but would get warmer, since this was morning of a July day in southern California. Or it should be, if his calculations were correct.
Since he was high on the face of a mountain, he could see very far into the southwest. There was a great valley beyond the nearer smaller valleys, a valley which he supposed was one near the Los Angeles area. It surprised and unnerved him, because it was not at all what he had expected. It was covered with a thick gray poisonous-looking cloud, as if the floor of the valley below the cloud were jammed with geysers boiling and bubbling and pouring out the noxious gases of internal Earth.
He had no idea of what had occurred on Earth since that night in 1946 when he had been transmitted accidentally from this universe to that of Jadawin. Perhaps the great basins of the Los Angeles area were filled
with poison gas that some enemy nation had dropped. He could not guess what enemy could do this, since both Germany and Japan had been wrecked and utterly defeated when he left this world, and Russia was sorely wounded.
He shrugged. He would find out in time. The memory banks below the great fortress-palace at the top of the only planet in the universe of the green sky had said that this “gate” opened into a place in the mountains near a lake called Arrowhead.
The gate was a circle of indestructible metal buried a few inches below the rock of the floor. Only a dimly stained ring of purple on the stone marked its presence.
Kickaha (born Paul Janus Finnegan) was six feet one inch in height, weighed one hundred and ninety pounds, and was broad-shouldered, lean-waisted, and massively thighed. His hair was red-bronze, his eyebrows were thick, dark, and arching, his eyes were leaf-green, his nose was straight but short, his upper lip was long, and his, chin was deeply cleft. He wore hiking clothes and a bag on his back. In one hand he held the handle of a dark leather case which looked as if it contained a musical instrument, a horn or trumpet.
His hair was shoulder-length. He had considered cutting it before he returned to Earth, so he would not look strange. But the time had been short, and he had decided to wait until he got to a barber shop. His cover story would be that he and Anana had been in the mountains so long he had not had a chance to clip his hair.
The woman beside him was beautiful. She had long dark wavy hair, a flawless white skin, dark-blue eyes, and a superb figure. She wore hiking garb: boots, Levis, a lumberman’s checked shirt, and a cap with a long bill. She also carried a pack on her back in which were shoes, a dress, undergarments, a small hand-bag, and several devices which would have startled or shocked an Earth scientist. Her hair was done in the style of 1946 as Kickaha remembered it. She wore no makeup nor needed it. Thousands of years ago, she had permanently reddened her lips.
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