A mescalanza is, in Spanish, a “medley” or a “potpourri” or a “miscellany.” In Italian (as mescolanza), it’s any sort of mixture, often a mix of people or of ideas. Either way, it’s a collection of disparate elements that combine to form something greater than the individual parts could ever have been alone; often, the combination brings out aspects in the originals that no one could have predicted.

The earliest extant drafts of “Among the Hairy Earthmen”—which for a good while went by the name “The Long Afternoon,” though others were considered—imply that the story was developed as just such a mescolanza, in much the same way as the later “Nor Limestone Islands” would be a lapidary work, or the later still “In Deepest Glass” would be a cathedral window. (Or further, in the way that almost every Lafferty work contains some sort of image of its own processes of inscription.)

Certainly this draft seems to be the first short story that really piled on the epigraphs—a fixture of Lafferty’s novel writing from the first, and very present just then from his work on Archipelago, but which he had been more reticent to deploy in shorter stories. What’s more, it may well be the first mention of “The Back Door of History,” that compendium of shadow historiography that provides excerpts for many a Lafferty tale—and it’s the author of this work who introduces the word mescolanza, though in this early stage the pseudonymous author is listed as Arpad Dotch, not Arutinov. The narrator of the story cites four epigraphs in all, alternating Lafferty inventions from “The Lighter Side of Geology”—by one A.E.C. Copps, who does not recur—and “The Back Door of History” with two actual quotations from John Addington Symonds’ magisterial history The Italian Renaissance and Frederick Rolfe / Baron Corvo’s History of the Borgias. (These two British eccentrics were quite different in most ways save one: they were both about as openly queer as it was possible to be in the societies of their time.)

There’s indications that a Chesterton quote may also have been part of the miscellany—something I think he would appreciate—but none of these quotes made it to the final draft; they were all removed amid extensive rewrites trying to get the story to the point that Fred Pohl would buy it. In a letter from February 1964—after Lafferty had already rewritten the story multiple times, including earlier in the month—Pohl notes that “you have something interesting, entertaining and stimulating to say, but because you say it in a jackdaw’s-nest of unrelated bits of scenes and snippets of history you make it hard to read. … my quarrel with THE LONG AFTERNOON is that it is an easy story which you have written in a hard way.” It would seem that the number of quotations has only grown since the first draft, and Pohl admits himself bewildered: “But do you really need the quotations? From the first you only take the words ‘from Byzantium’; and take them only to deny them—but you have thrown twenty-odd data at the reader; since he does not know which are important, he tries to hold them all in his head, and when he finds out that by-God none of them are, he grows to dislike your story.”

Pohl made a further suggestion—“Suppose you rewrite the story, without quotes, in some consecutive form—perhaps as a narration”—which Lafferty carried out, which is why we have the story in the form we do. The “easy story” Pohl wanted to highlight is still complicated, a synthesis of readings across a huge number of historical subjects in the 13th to 15th centuries, but at root it is a story of alien visitation, of the subvariety where the aliens accelerate human development at a particular place in time; Lafferty’s innovation is to place this in medieval Europe rather than in Pharaonic Egypt or Attic Greece or for that matter the future. The story zeroes quickly in on the children at their arrival and follows their activities over the two-hundred-odd years which saw the Renaissance kindle and burst into life, up until they leave on the heels of a disciplinary thrashing from a mysterious human pilgrim. There still isn’t really a plot, but there is a “continuity” to proceedings—or enough to satisfy Pohl, at least. And some parts of it are vastly improved between the first draft and published versions.

And yet I still wonder about the version that could have been: the hard-way story, the jackdaw’s nest, the mescolanza. It would’ve been yet another work of Lafferty’s that embodied the formal experimentation of the New Wave, years before editors like Moorcock and Knight and Carr and Goldsmith—and Pohl himself!—commissioned and championed them. What “The Long Afternoon” lacked in continuity, it could have made up in innovation, inviting the reader into a wholly different role than just the receptor of a narrative: by throwing all these selections at the reader, making them distinguish between the real ones and the invented ones (see, always see, Don Webb on this technique), Lafferty press-gangs his audience, turning them all into fellow researchers, sifting through textual evidence. And if the reader ends up uncertain which data are or aren’t important, or uncertain of the entire enterprise generally, then Lafferty has already succeeded by muddying the epistemological waters sufficiently that the “aliens spearheaded the Renaissance” theory no longer seems fanciful—or, at least, no more fanciful than the idea that humans just up and did all those things on their own.

It’s not as if “Among the Hairy Earthmen” is a bad story. There’s a lot to investigate within it, and quite a few interesting questions to ask—maybe if I can ever get an actual medievalist to read the tale, I can get more and better answers than my own scanty reading on that period allows, but at the very least: What do we make of the story’s implication that humanity may be better off without such periods of frantic activity? (Note the ultimate sterility of the rapid society in “Slow Tuesday Night”; though also contrast the rich fecundity of the sped-up science types in “Brain Fever Season.”) Who is that final Pilgrim, and how did he come to the knowledge of the children’s interventions? Are those same children, as implied, back for another long afternoon; and if so, what dubious gifts are they giving us now? And yet, it’s undeniable that the effect of such questions is different when they are handed directly to you by the narration, rather than when they emerge from your navigation of Lafferty’s peculiar bricolage. (On this, see Gregorio Montejo, in Feast of Laughter 4).

The archive does not record whether Lafferty genuinely thought the story better in Pohl’s preferred format, or if he just went along with it because it was the only way it was likely to see print. If the latter, then it doesn’t seem to have affected his other stories much; the following years would see Lafferty send out many more formal experiments, including “What’s the Name of That Town” and “Primary Education of the Camiroi,” both composed during these same months that he was rewriting “Among the Hairy Earthmen” (and both, moreover, bought by Pohl). But I have to wonder if the ordeal didn’t at least color his view of Pohl, perhaps even mark an early stage of the process whereby the editor who, in Lafferty’s own words, “picked me up out of the scrap pile” became the editor who “was never right, but sometimes he was pretty insistent.”

Completed December 1961. Rewritten March 1963, December 1963, January 1964, and twice in February 1964. Published in Galaxy, ed. Frederik Pohl, August 1966. Collected in Ringing Changes. New York: Ace Books, 1984.