The Mad Goblin

by Philip José Farmer

  Doc hurled the box at him. The man ducked but not quickly enough. He staggered as the impact sent him back, and then Doc was at him with his plastic knife in his left hand. His right arm had recovered enough for him to use it, but it was still far from having regained all its strength. The giant stepped up to him and swung with both hands on the bat, bringing it around so that it caught Doc against the side of his helmet even though he had almost ducked entirely under it. Doc saw phosphene streaks but kept on lunging, and his knife drove up. The man had dropped the club after it glanced off Doc’s helmet and had put out his hands. The knife went through one; the giant roared. Doc jerked the knife out. The man brought his knee up and caught Doc in the chest. If it had hit him in the chin, it would have shattered even his massive bones. The man was wearing irradiated plastic knee guards.

  The knee hurt Doc’s chest and knocked the wind out of him. But his right arm closed around the leg, and he brought the knife up between the man’s legs. It tore the man’s pocket and slid off the plastic groinguard and then off the plastic chain mail around his leg. The man brought both fists down against the top of Doc’s helmet, half-stunning him. The man howled, because the blow had hurt his fist hand. But Doc fell backward, not knowing exactly what was going on. The dagger did not fall from his hand; many years of fighting had built in a conditional reflex so that he would have had to be entirely unconscious or dead before his hand would have relaxed. And his wind quickly came back.

  The giant charged in, roaring. Doc Caliban rolled over, not realizing consciously what he was doing, and he was out of sight of the man. But a few seconds later, the giant thrust out of the fog, and seeing Doc starting to get onto his feet, cried, “No, you don’t!” and rushed him, his huge hands clasped to bring them down on top of Caliban’s helmet again.

  Doc bent his legs and leaped outward as if he had been shot from a cannon in a circus. His head drove into the man’s big paunch with an impact that did not help Doc regain his senses. But the breath went out of the man—who must have weighed three hundred and thirty—and he went backward. Stunned, Doc did not act as quickly as he should have, and the man, though struggling for breath, knocked the dagger from Caliban’s hand with a blow of his arm against Caliban’s wrist.

  Their faces were close enough that Doc could distinguish his features in the milky grayness.

  “Krotonides!” Doc said.

  He was one of the candidates, a bodyguard for old Ing. Doc had seen him a number of times at the caves during the annual ceremonies. He had endured the boastings of Krotonides that he was the strongest and fastest human in the world when it came to hand-to-hand combat and that Caliban’s reputation was overrated.

  “Caliban!” Krotonides said. His dark, big-nosed, bushy-eyebrowed face hung in the fog. “I always said I could take you!”

  Caliban’s hand with fingers stiffly extended stabbed him in the eye, and Krotonides bellowed with agony. He rolled away, but as Caliban got to his feet the giant leaped out of the fog, his hands in the classical position to deliver a karate chop.

  Doc snatched off his helmet and threw it with all the force of his left arm and the body behind it. There was a thud, and Krotonides staggered, slowly rotating around and around, while dark blood gushed from his nose, which had been almost severed by the sharp edge of the helmet. Caliban moved in swiftly though not incautiously, since Krotonides was still a very dangerous man. Before he could reach him, three figures advanced through the mists, and he felt it discreet to withdraw. Besides, he had to get to the box as quickly as possible.

  Suddenly, he heard steps behind him. He whirled and then a rumbling voice said, “Pongo! Pongo!”

  “Pongo! It’s me, Doc,” Caliban said. “Help me find that bomb before it’s too late!”

  The three men had been engulfed in the fog, but they were still in the immediate neighborhood, so Doc and Pauncho had to keep an eye out for them. Doc hoped that none of them would toss out a grenade in their general direction.

  Pauncho suddenly cursed, and then he said, “I fell over it, Doc! Hey, Doc! Quick! Over here!”

  Caliban found him squatting by the box with his crossbow ready. Caliban got down on his knees and put his face close to the face of the dial. “I’m starting now,” he said. “Once I get going, I can’t stop. I have to hang on to this for five minutes at least. So you’ll have to handle anybody that shows up. But as soon as I get the combination worked, we’ll run away from here. I can hang on to the box. We’ll worry about killing the old geezers some other time.”

  He started to turn the dials, stopping them briefly on each number, starting with 1, advancing to 2 when the mechanism clicked at 1. He kept pressure on the dial, which had sunk within a recess about one-tenth of an inch deep when he had first pushed. He clicked the dial through each of the numbers, and at 10 reversed the dial quickly to 3 and then turned it back again to 9. On reaching this, he breathed deeply and then started to count. “One thousand and one. One thousand and two. One thousand and three.”

  When he got to “One thousand and three hundred,” he would have counted out five minutes, but he would go to one thousand and four hundred just to make sure before he let the dial push back to its level with the box.

  He stood up, holding one corner of the box with his giant hand and pressing in on the dial with the other.

  “Run, Doc!” Pauncho said. “Here comes a whole army!”

  Caliban twisted his head. A number of dark figures were emerging from the fog. He said, “Follow me! Don’t stand and fight!” and he trotted away. He dared not run at full speed because he might stumble over a body or slip on the half-frozen mud. Behind him feet slapped as Pauncho kept on his heels. Somebody shouted and then about forty feet ahead of them, the fog opened up with an orange-bordered roar. Doc’s feet slipped from under him as the blast hit, and he fell on his back. But he kept hold of the box and his pressure on the dial.

  Pauncho was bellowing in his ear, “Hey, Doc! Can you hear me? You all right? I’m half-deaf, Doc!”

  “Quiet!” Doc shouted back.

  He put his mouth close to Pauncho’s ear. “Get rid of all your grenades, and mine, too, fast as you can. Maybe you can get those guys before—”

  The second grenade from the enemy was about three feet closer, and it was followed by a third which landed almost on the same spot. Since they were on level ground, the impact of the blasts was not softened. They were rolled over, and their heads sang and their ears were dead. But the plastic bombs depended almost entirely on concussion for effect, since the explosion reduced the plastic shell to dust. And they were not within the killing range of the blasts.

  They would be if the enemy continued to lob grenades at random. They got to their feet and ran on. Pauncho stopped to toss grenades behind him, and Doc lost sight of him. Suddenly, he saw a body ahead of him. He tried to dodge to one side, slipped, and fell on his side. He came down heavily because his primary concern was keeping pressure on the dial. He called, “Pongo!” and then rolled away, holding the box up, hoping that if it was the enemy it would fire at where he had been. He wasn’t worried about the person tossing a grenade, since he’d be committing suicide if he threw one that close to himself.

  “Pongo!” Trish said. She looked as if she were shouting, yet he could barely hear her.

  He got up and approached her cautiously, since it was possible the situation had changed and she was being forced to lure him in. He preferred to believe that she would die before doing that, but she might be depending on him to get her out of the situation, no matter how bad it looked. She tended to think of him as a superman, despite his lectures to her that he might be a superior man but he was also flesh and blood and one little .22 bullet or a slip on a piece of soap in the shower could make him just as dead as anybody else.

  He peered through the fog. “Talk loudly. I’m almost deaf. Pauncho may be coming along, so don’t shoot without giving the codeword. Where’s Barney?”

  “He went after you,” she said,
shouting in his ear. “Well, not exactly after you. He said he was going to make contact with the enemy and explain the situation. He thought that if they knew about the bomb, and that you were trying to keep it from going off, they’d quit fighting. They might even take off and leave us alone.”

  “Doesn’t sound like it,” Caliban said. The crump of grenades going off in the distance—somewhere around the Stonehenge circle—was still continuing. But there were no blasts nearer, where Pauncho and the three men should have been.

  Suddenly, there was a silence. From far off, as if behind piles of wood, a voice cried. It was saying something. And then another voice cried. And then he heard, very faintly—dimmed by distance or by his injured hearing, or both—a rushing sound.

  “Tires,” his cousin said. “It could be the Nine taking off in their steam cars.”

  “Maybe Barney got to them,” Caliban said. “He disobeyed orders, but he was doing something I should have thought of. Pauncho disobeyed, too, luckily for me.”

  A form like a truncated monolith from Stonehenge stepped out of the fog. Trish shouted the codeword back at him. Pauncho walked up to them and said, “Where’s Barney?”

  Trish told him. Doc had resumed his interrupted counting. He stared at Iwaldi and Villiers, who were standing up now. One of the three men, Elmus, was holding a loaded crossbow on them.

  “It’s ironic that I came here to kill the Nine and now I have to let them go, even Iwaldi,” he thought, managing to count at the same time.

  Trish stopped talking to Pauncho. They had heard the squeal of tires as they suddenly accelerated and then the screams of men and the thump of a massive swiftly moving object striking flesh and bone. Then a grenade boomed, and immediately thereafter was another screech as of tires sliding on pavement. Then there was a crash, and a series of bangs. More screeches as a vehicle accelerated again and sped away. Another boom of a grenade. Then, silence.

  Doc continued to count. Barney came like a ghost out of the ectoplasmic pearliness. “I thought I’d lost you,” he said. “I’ve been wandering around, afraid to go too fast or to yell out. Even though I think most of the enemy has gone. They didn’t know whether or not to believe me, but they must’ve decided they couldn’t take a chance. Besides, as one said, it’d be just the thing the crazy old dwarf would do. They think he’s insane; no doubt of that.”

  Doc Caliban did not ask him if he had seen anything of the Grandrith party. If Barney had, he would have said something about it.

  Doc kept on counting. Undoubtedly, five minutes were passed, at least seven minutes had gone by, but he preferred not to take a chance. The blasts had hurt his head, so that his sense of timing might have been disturbed. But he could put it off for only so long, and he finally decided to take his hand off the dial. He could see Cobbs—no, Iwaldi—and Barbara Villiers watching him. When they saw his hand drop away, and nothing happened, they sighed. At least, they looked as if they had. He could not hear them. He still could hear only loud sounds.

  Trish put a hand on his shoulder, causing him to jump. She put her mouth close to his ear and said, “There’s something still going on out there. In the ruins, I think. I heard a woman scream.”

  They waited. There was no more evidence that a fight was still occurring among the stones, but they had a feeling that something important was taking place under the monoliths and the trilithons standing like the ghosts of ghosts in the mists.

  A faraway hoarse bellow, the cry of something not quite human, reached him. Silence again.

  “You said we could go free,” Barbara Villiers said.

  “Leave. Or stay here,” Doc Caliban said. “Do whatever you wish. You have a twelve-hour headstart.”

  “Untie us,” she said. Iwaldi merely glared.

  “I said you could go free,” Caliban replied. “I wouldn’t feel easy with you in this fog and your hands free to pick up some weapons. Come on, the rest of you. We’ll find the bicycles and then the steam car.”

  “I’ll come with you as far as the car,” Villiers said. “Iwaldi told me he’d kill me because I betrayed him, though I don’t know how he figures that.”

  “You want to throw in with us?” Doc said. He was not inclined to trust her one bit, but she undoubtedly had very valuable information about Iwaldi’s organization.

  She hesitated, then said, “Why not? I know a winner when I see one.”

  “Thank you, Benedictine Arnold,” Trish said.

  Iwaldi strode off into the fog. The others started to walk away, staying close to each other so they would not lose sight of each other. But they had not gone more than five steps when Doc stopped. Trish had put a hand on his shoulder. She said in his ear, “There was a low cry! I think Iwaldi—”

  They walked in the direction Iwaldi had taken. Suddenly, he was on the ground at their feet. His throat was still pumping blood through the broad wound.

  Something came through the fog, and only Caliban would have been quick enough to see it and to react with the swiftness of a leopard. He batted at the round object as if he were playing handball; his hand struck it and sent it back into the fog with terrific force. There was a roar. The blast knocked them all down, and his ears hurt even more, and his head felt as if it had been squeezed in a vice.

  They got to their feet with Doc assisting Villiers, whose hands were still taped behind her. They went ahead slowly, and then they felt the breeze, and before they had gone thirty feet, the fog began to fall apart. The sun dropped through in pale golden threads and then the threads coalesced into a blazing ball.

  A wisp of fog, like a snake, moved across the face of a man on the ground, seeming to disappear into his open mouth. Doc approached him cautiously, though the fellow looked dead. His clothes were half-ripped off by the explosion, and blood ran down from his nose, ears, and mouth. A bloody plastic knife lay near his outflung hand. His helmet had been blown off, revealing an extraordinary high forehead. He was bald, and his jaws thrust outward, giving the lower part of his face an apish appearance. His body was tall and skinny.

  “I think I know him,” Caliban murmured. “I’ve seen him at one or more of the annual ceremonies in the caves.”

  The name would come, though it would not matter to the man, who was dead. He had come across Iwaldi and cut his throat, though he could not have recognized him as Iwaldi. But he did not know him, and that meant that he was an enemy. Then he had heard the others and tossed the grenade and it had come back so swiftly he must have thought for a horrified moment that he had bounced it off a nearby wall.

  “Hey, Doc!” Pauncho bellowed. “I think that’s Grandrith inside the ruins! He’s waving at us!”

  A FEAST REVEALED

  BY WIN SCOTT ECKERT

  A Chronology of Major Events Pertinent to Philip José Farmer’s Secrets of the Nine Series.

  With selected entries from Philip José Farmer’s Tarzan Alive: A Definitive Biography of Lord Greystoke, Doc Savage: His Apocalyptic Life, and other sources.

  In “A Tale of Two Universes,” my introduction to Titan Books’ reissue of Philip José Farmer’s novel Lord of the Trees, the second in his Secrets of the Nine series,1 I made the case that Farmer’s Nine novels, featuring the ape-man Lord Grandrith and his half-brother Doc Caliban, the man of bronze, take place in a parallel universe to the mainstream Wold Newton Universe.2 I also suggested that “Depending on whether the two universes diverged at some common point in the distant past, or whether they have always been coexistent, the Nine in each universe might conceivably have some members in common, members who were alive when the universes divided.”

  Keeping these points in mind, what follows is a timeline of the Nine Universe of Lord Grandrith and Doc Caliban. Relevant information from Tarzan Alive and other sources is included, as well as a few speculative additions.

  Some of the entries below take place in the Wold Newton Universe, but have direct bearing on the continuity of the universe of Lord Grandrith and Doc Caliban.

  Due to the infl
uence of time travel and dimensional breaches on the Grandrith/Caliban continuity, the Chronology is presented in causal order rather than strict chronological order.

  PRE-DIVERGENCE EVENTS

  The following events take place before a quantum event causes the universe to divide into two parallel universes, which then diverge somewhat over the millennia.

  Thus, the events described here are part of a shared common past of the two parallel universes.

  APPROX. 40,000 B.C.E.

  An Old Stone Age people discover an elixir giving them an extremely extended youth, as well as immunity to any disease and to breakdown of their cells. They do age, but so slowly that someone taking the elixir at age twenty-five looks only fifty after 15,000 years, or one hundred after 30,000 years. (Lord of the Trees)

  APPROX. 40,000 B.C.E.

  Birth of XauXaz’s father. (The Mad Goblin)

  APPROX. 30,000 B.C.E.

  Birth of Anana, chieftainess of the Nine. (A Feast Unknown)

  APPROX. 30,000 B.C.E.

  Birth of XauXaz and his brothers, Ebn XauXaz and Thrithjaz. (A Feast Unknown)

  APPROX. 28,000 B.C.E.

  A quantum event causes the universe to split into two parallel universes; the continuities of these universes diverge as the millennia pass, creating two parallel timelines.

  EVENTS IN THE WOLD NEWTON UNIVERSE

  The entries described here take place in the continuity known as the Wold Newton Universe.

  MID 1600s

  Two rival extraterrestrial races, the Eridaneans and the Capelleans, arrive on Earth and are stranded. Over the centuries, the warring alien races, which are very long-lived, are forced to adopt human guise; they covertly continue their rivalry while living amongst humans. The two races use “distorters,” very powerful personal teleporters, in furtherance of their conflict. (The Other Log of Phileas Fogg)