THE GREEN ODYSSEY
by Philip José Farmer
Make friends fast.
—Handbook For The Shipwrecked
Ballantine Books
New York
Copyright 1957, by
Philip José Farmer
Library of Congress Catalog Card No. 57-10603
Printed in the United States of America
Ballantine Books, Inc.
101 Fifth Avenue,
New York 3, N. Y.
[Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any
evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
This is an original novel—not a reprint—published by BallantineBooks, Inc.
To Nan Gerding
DANGER! THRILLS! ADVENTURE!
Alan Green was not exactly a hero. In fact he liked peace just aswell as the next man. Not that he was really afraid of that crazy,hot-blooded hound-dog Alzo, or even of the hound's gorgeous owner, theDuchess Zuni—who was also hot-blooded (to say nothing of the Duke).After all, these things were understood on this backward, violentplanet, and a man could manage, provided he was alert twenty-four hoursa day.
And as a matter of fact, Alan was only normally apprehensive of hisJunoesque, tempestuous (but altogether lovable) wife Amra. Delightful,demanding Amra—and her five uproarious kids. The trouble was, he wastired. And homesick.
So when he heard of two other downed spacemen, he hitched a ride witha piratical merchant-captain on a windroller destined to carry him tothe spaceship and thence to the peaceful green hills of Earth. Buthe had reckoned without the vagaries of the windroller, pirates, the"traveling islands," the rascally Captain, and various flora and faunapeculiar to this planet—all of which, it now seemed, regarded Alanwith unnerving malevolence.
And worst of all, Amra was determined that he should be a hero. Amrawon.
1
For two years Alan Green had lived without hope. From the day thespaceship had crashed on this unknown planet he had resigned himselfto the destiny created for him by accident and mathematics. Chancesagainst another ship landing within the next hundred years were amillion to one. Therefore it would do no good to sit around waitingfor rescue. Much as he loathed the idea, he must live the rest of hislife here, and he must squeeze as much blood as he could out of thisplanet-sized turnip. There wasn't much to squeeze. In fact, it seemedto him that he was the one losing the blood. Shortly after he'd beencast away he'd been made a slave.
Now, suddenly, he had hope.
Hope came to him a month after he'd been made foreman of the kitchenslaves of the Duke of Tropat. It came to him as he was standing behindthe Duchess during a meal and directing those who were waiting upon her.
It was the Duchess Zuni who had not so subtly maneuvered him from thelabor pens to his coveted, if dangerous, position. Why dangerous?Because she was very jealous and possessive, and the slightest hint oflack of attention from him could mean he'd lose his life or one limbor another. The knowledge of what had happened to his two predecessorskept him extremely sensitive to her every gesture, her every wish.
That fateful morning he was standing behind her as she sat at one endof the long breakfast table. In one hand he held his foreman's wand,a little white baton topped by a large red ball. With it he gesturedat the slaves who served food, who poured wine and beer, who fannedaway the flies, who carried in the household god and sat it on the godchair, who played some