Perhaps it was because the pull of gravity was so much reduced. The only gate out is in my palace, which is somewhere on the surface of this mass. The only analogy I can think of is a lavalite. This is a lavalite world. But he rammed into him and both went cartwheeling. Anana dived after it, got it, and landed so awkwardly and heavily that Kickaha feared for her. She rose somewhat shakily but grinning. Urthona walked back to them; Red Orc crawled. But I need someone to carry Kickaha, so you two will do it.
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You should be thankful that the lesser gravity will make the task easier. And I need you, Urthona, because you know something of this world. You should, since you designed it and made it.
Nothing is fixed here. They are somewhere on its surface. Or on that mass. I thought that it would be the worst thing I could do to them. And, of course, they do have some chance of finding my palace. Hostile human beings? I hope its charge lasts. Edson, author of the Dusty Fog sagas, for his kind permission to integrate the Texas fogs with the British Foggs. This was to indicate to the proofreaders at Ace Books that the page was the last one. However, the proofreaders, in setting up the manuscript for galley proofs, failed to delete the terminal signal.
They also failed to catch many typos in the galleys when they came back from the printer. No harm done, I thought, when I saw the printed book. But I was wrong. Many readers thought that The End had a special significance.
Many sent letters to me which expressed sadness or indignation. This foreword for this special edition gives me an opportunity to assure the readers that there will be two more books. Seven in all. One of the reasons for this is that I get so many ideas for stories that I just have to write immediately after inspiration strikes.
Result: there may be years between the writing of, say, the second and third volumes of a particular series. The creative battery connected to a series has a chance to get recharged. A disadvantage is that the reader caught up in a series gets impatient; he or she would like to see the next book soon. Another disadvantage is that I may lose interest entirely in the series. As time passes, I change. Then someone writes to m e and asks when the hell the next volume in a series is coming out.
The Neverending Stories: "Behind the Walls of Terra" by Philip Jose Farmer ()
I feel guilty, and I should. After all, I have a definite responsibility to the reader. And so I write the next book. I tell myself that I really ought to live to A. But I know better.
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Or in one far worse. Who knows how many more series I may start in the future while at the same time neglecting those I began long ago?
What to do about it? I did not start selling fiction steadily until , when I was thirty-three years old. By the time you read this, I will have been writing successfully for thirty years and will have about fifty-six books—novels, short-story collections, and two biographies—to my credit or discredit.
Behind the Walls of Terra (World of the Tiers / Philip José Farmer)
In my early manhood, I dreamed of being the American Dostoyevsky or Balzac or the 20th-century Melville. Somehow, my path veered into science-fiction, perhaps because my unconscious knew better than my conscious what I should do. Sidetracked once again, not in the particular this time, but in the general. However, though I backslide, fall from grace, as it were, tend to follow the primrose path, slide along on a Moebius strip, I do straighten out now and then.
Thus, I go back to earlier projects and ambitions. Often stalled or lost but eventually getting the motor started and finding my way again. This was conceived in , and the notes and outlines for it and a hundred pages of text have been sitting around for thirty-eight years, waiting patiently. It will, though mainstream, embody some science-fiction techniques. The age of sixty-three seems to be rather late for a person to launch a new career.
But I have precedents.
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Among them, Thomas Hardy. And, after he was sixty-nine, he began his third career, lyrical poetry. As an example of my tendency to get sidetracked, take my interest in linguistics. But broadly, not deeply. And my reading knowledge of any of them is limited indeed. To know one tongue well, you have to stick to it, spend years not only studying it but live among those who speak it.
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But my years are numbered. They always were, but I was too young to be keenly aware of the limitation. How about that long essay in which you were going to show how English, in six thousand years, could develop into a language similar in sound and structure to Swahili? Should I go on? Andre Norton. Dragon and Thief. The Five Senses Set. Carrie Vaughn. The Shipshape Miracle. Portal of a Thousand Worlds. The Seafort Saga Books 1—3. David Feintuch. Good Night, Mr. A Case of Conscience.
Behind the Walls of Terra (World of Tiers Series #4)
James Blish. Tales of Old Earth. Michael Swanwick. There Will Be Time. Poul Anderson. I Am Crying All Inside. The Quadrail Series Books 1—3. Night of Masks. The Iron Dragon's Daughter. The Cluster Series. Piers Anthony. Fritz Leiber. Fata Morgana. Steven R. A Man of His Word. The Domino Pattern. The Seventh Sword.
Two Science Fiction Adventures.