by John Norman
“Wow,” thought the psychiatrist.
“You don’t have to be thrown in prison,” said Harrelson. “All that is necessary is that you don’t notice that the prison is being built up all around you, brick by brick.”
“This is heavy stuff,” said the psychiatrist. “I’m glad it’s not in my field.”
“So,” said Harrelson, “you can see why I feel guilty.”
“But you needn’t feel guilty,” said the psychiatrist.
“How come?” said Harrelson, perking up.
“For one thing,” said the psychiatrist, “if I may briefly enter into your twisted, bizarre, distorted world, it was not your fault that you landed on Caesar’s shoulder, and not your fault that you leaped where you did, to the other bank, and not your fault that he interpreted your leap as an omen.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” said Harrelson. “I should have looked where I was going.”
“Look before you leap,” said the psychiatrist.
“I invented that saying,” said Harrelson.
“Oh?” said the psychiatrist.
“On January 12th, 49 B.C.,” said Harrelson, glumly, “when I dug myself out of the mud.”
“More importantly,” said the psychiatrist, “you are in no way responsible for the tendencies of which you appear to disapprove, for example, state ownership of the individual mind and body. They are endemic in human history, and have been exhibited in numerous localities and cultures before Caesar and in numerous localities and cultures which never heard of Caesar.”
“What’s that?” cried Harrelson.
“Yes,” said the psychiatrist.
“You mean you guys do such things on your own hook, with no help from me?”
“Right,” said the psychiatrist.
“And probably would have done it anyway?”
“Sure,” said the psychiatrist. “If it hadn’t been you at the Rubicon, it would have been a bird flying toward Rome, or something else.”
“Hey!” cried Harrelson. “That’s great! Thanks, doc! I’m cured! I can go home now! They don’t want us to come home if we’re all botched up. That can happen in a visit to Earth. Hey, guys! It’s OK!”
Harrelson seemed to be poised in the pan of shallow water on the couch.
“What are you doing?” asked the psychiatrist, uneasily.
“Waiting,” said Harrelson.
“What for?” asked the psychiatrist.
“The transition signal,” said Harrelson, every nerve alive. He was now poised on the very edge of the pan of water, tensely, facing the door of the office.
“Waiting?” asked the psychiatrist.
“Yes,” said Harrelson.
“For the “transition signal”?”
“Right,” said Harrelson.
“I’m grateful, doctor,” said Harrelson. “You’re great. I doubt if anyone else could have cured me.”
“It was nothing,” said the psychiatrist.
“Incidentally,” said Harrelson. “My name isn’t really ‘Harrelson’. It’s ‘Yar’.”
“All right,” said the psychiatrist.
Suddenly the door to the psychiatrist’s office seemed to shudder and ripple, rather like water, and then it disappeared, and behind it, as the psychiatrist looked out, there was nothing, just that, not really very much at all, just nothing. Then, in the nothingness there seemed to materialize what appeared to be the palm of a gigantic, purple hand.
“Leap, Yar!” boomed a great voice, like thunder.
Suddenly Harrelson, or whoever he might have been, seemed to fly through the aperture and land, with a small, soft plop, in the palm of the gigantic, purple hand. He then turned about, and briefly, gratefully, cheerfully, waved to the psychiatrist, who raised his own hand in a small way, weakly returning the salute.
Then the door was as it had been.
The psychiatrist put down his notebook. He went to the door, and opened it.
“Doctor?” inquired his receptionist. Two patients looked up, in the waiting room, from their magazines.
“Nothing,” said the psychiatrist, and returned to his inner office.
He sat down.
“Leap, Yar!” the psychiatrist had heard, and then the little fellow had been gone.
The psychiatrist shuddered. He closed his notebook. He removed the small pan of water from the couch. He lay down on the couch. It was only slightly damp. He looked up at the ceiling. Some things are too horrible to contemplate.
Herman
Naturally I was reluctant to dissect Herman. It was not that I thought it would cause him any pain, but, rather, I did not see how it could do him much good.
In fact, I had not expected to become involved with Herman at all. My patient was, rather, Dr. Frankenstone, Ph.D. Dr. Frankenstone’s Ph.D. was in English literature, and his research, at least originally, tended to center on women authors of the first half of the 19th Century. It was doubtless in the pursuit of these studies that he first became acquainted with the work of Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, the gifted, if eccentric, bride of Percy Bysshe Shelley, the gifted, if eccentric, husband of the aforementioned. It was in his research on Ms. Shelley that Dr. Frankenstone learned of certain intriguing experiments conducted by Luigi Galvani, an 18th Century Italian physiologist and physicist. Delicacy militates against furnishing the reader with a detailed account of these experiments, but suffice it to say that various things were involved, such as decapitated frogs, electrical current, and such. They were the sort of experiments which have darkened the day of successive generations of biology students, particularly when performed in the forenoon. Ms. Shelley had pondered, in an interesting, speculative opus, on the possible results of conducting similar experiments on human tissue. For example, would it twitch? Or, say, devote itself to literature and philosophy, blood revenge, or other familiar human pursuits? It was at this point that Dr. Frankenstone shifted his interests from English literature to chemistry, biology, physics, electrical engineering, computer science, physiology, and allied areas. Fortunately he had tenure at his university, so there were few professional consequences attaching to this shift of interests other than a number of surprised undergraduates, and, eventually, reduced class sizes, which meant fewer papers to grade, an eventuality which, when more widely recognized, created an epidemic of interest shifting amongst the faculty. For those who are concerned with the fate of higher education in the nation, it might be noted that the market, as would be expected, soon adjusted, and things went on much as before, only now the students went to chemists and physicists for their literature and poetry, and to professors of literature for their chemistry and physics, and so on.
But let me not dally with incidentals, particularly as Dr. Frankenstone won an important lottery, bought the university, retired himself with full pay, and began to devote himself almost exclusively to various unusual, troubling studies.
He would not, however, it should be mentioned, utilize frogs in these studies, even though it could be clearly shown that the application to these small creatures of various forms of mayhem, murder, scaldings, knifings, lacerations, acid baths, strangulations, slashings, and starvation might have well served the ends of science, as well as the careers of scientists.
It is not clear whether Dr. Frankenstone had always had a soft spot in his wise old heart for frogs, or merely graciously recognized them as his fellows, as ecological brethren in some obscure, vast swamp of life, or whether he was suffering from an acute guilt complex dating back to his high-school days, the result of some trauma in biology lab. It is not known. Perhaps he was merely somewhat fastidious, or excessively squeamish, or, simply, had nothing against our small amphibian friends, who are, after all, just trying to cope, and make good, like the rest of us.
Whatever the explanation Dr. Frankenstone would never hurt a fly, or a frog, which species does no
t entertain similar reservations with respect to flies.
Dr. Frankenstone, of course, was less fastidious, or squeamish, about the utilization of other entities in his work. He would not have minded using human beings, particularly undergraduates, I suppose, but his attorney, and several local clergymen, advised against it.
There was Herman, of course.
Even today Herman retains ambivalent feelings toward Dr. Frankenstone.
It might be mentioned, as it has a bearing on this story, that Dr. Frankenstone was very fond of 1930’s movies.
There is nothing untoward in that, of course. I, myself, am rather fond of that period in the cinema.
In any event, after having purchased a small, dilapidated castle, or fortress, in Germany and having it moved, stone by stone, and reassembled in New Jersey, not far from the Garden State Parkway, he determined to await the next violent, electrical storm in the area. When this occurred he, buffeted by whirling wind and torrents of rain, under a sky dark with clouds and intermittently illuminated by flashes of terrifying lightning, struggled to the roof, carrying Herman, to whose torso had been wired several lengthy lightning rods.
Herman was Dr. Frankenstone’s personal computer, dreadful phrase, one prefers electronic companion.
Having retired to his rubber bunker on the roof Dr. Frankenstone kept watch, peering through the insulated, transparent plastic port, eagerly awaiting the outcome of his bold experiment.
He had not long to wait for, within moments, several bolts of lightning, crackling and slithering down the rods, some simultaneously, some successively, had accomplished their mysterious work, not clearly understood, even today. The storm thereafter swiftly abated, and the clouds fled from the sky, as though shunning the roof, as though even they, mere atmospheric phenomena, shuddered to acknowledge what had been wrought there, on that flat, muchly scorched surface.
“Hi!” said Herman. It was his first word. Some have disputed that this was a word, and have claimed it was, rather, an inarticulate cry, perhaps one of amazement, or even protest, that of a startled newly born creature finding itself broached into a fearful, dazzling world of light and sound. Others, more optimistic, have maintained that it was an attempt to express acceptance, even approval, in Japanese. In support of this hypothesis it is called to our attention that several of Herman’s components could legitimately trace their origin to the gifted, if eccentric, industrial craftsmanship of our transpacific neighbors. Counting against this hypothesis is that Herman’s second word, or sound, was “Hello!” To be sure, the hypotheses are not mutually exclusive, as Herman proved to be multilingual.
I think it will be clear to all impartial observers that being struck by lightning is not likely to do anyone, or anything, much good, even lightning rods. For example, if one wished to repair a crystal vessel, a malfunctioning motor, an ailing transmitter, a defective radio or television set, or such, it is scarcely probable that blasting it with multiple, fierce, successive bursts of lightning will bring about the desired result. Whereas I have not conducted the experiments in question, there is enough general supporting theory, and empirical data, to suggest that negative conclusion. In short, I think we may accept the received wisdom in this matter, and conjecture that what occurred to Herman was unusual, and not to be expected in most cases.
Herman was soon taken from the roof by Dr. Frankenstone, apparently to Herman’s relief, as it seemed he had developed a fear of lightning, which neurotic apprehension he retains to this day. Below, in the castle, or fortress, Dr. Frankenstone was assisted in cleaning Herman up, after his natal ordeal on the roof, by his manservant, Igor Atkins, a mentally deformed homicidal maniac, whom Dr. Frankenstone had hired in order to demonstrate his progressive political attitudes to skeptical journalists, in order to win their support for his perhaps diabolical, and certainly questionable, experiments, and to take advantage of certain tax credits. Mr. Atkins had not accompanied Dr. Frankenstone to the roof, as he had, it seems, too much common sense to do so, adjudging the behavior in question to be unnecessarily perilous. The entire matter of Herman, in all its perplexing aspects, incidentally, might have come to its end that very evening, for while Dr. Frankenstone was unwiring the lighting rods and toweling the little fellow down, Mr. Atkins, or Igor, as we shall call him, for we are on a first-name basis with him, suddenly seized up an ax and attacked them both. After a fierce struggle, Dr. Frankenstone managed to wrest the ax from the white-knuckled, clenched hands of the crazed Igor, after which Igor, the ax returned to him, and smarting under a severe rebuke by the doctor, replaced it, near the coiled fire hose. Herman, to this day, retains a neurotic fear of axes, wielded by homicidal maniacs. It should be mentioned, in all fairness, that these attacks by Igor were infrequent, seldom occurring more than once or twice a week. Most of the time Igor is conscientious, attentive, and reliable.
But this story has less to do with Dr. Frankenstone and Igor than with Herman.
Herman began life with the cognitive content of several encyclopedias, a variety of lexicons, and a multitude of theoretical and technical texts. It seems clear that he possessed emotions, as his screen would occasionally brighten or mist, and that he was almost pathetically anxious to please.
His spiritual and philosophical development followed almost, but not quite, classical Comtean lines. He had his primitive, fetishistic phase, in which he attributed animism to rocks, trees, leaves, electric pencil sharpeners, electric can openers, and such, a mistake perhaps understandable in one of Herman’s background; a theological phase in which he, interestingly, but I suppose predictably, tended to favor the Franciscans, such as Roger Bacon and William of Ockham, over the Dominicans, such as Albertus Magnus and Thomas Aquinas; and a metaphysical phase, in which he toyed alarmingly with the German Idealists; what mostly pleased him about Hegel, as it had Grillparzer before him, was that his system was so much like the world, unintelligible; and, finally, a positivistic phase, in which he, for the most part, gave up on the whole matter.
I’m not sure when the personality clashes began between Dr. Frankenstone and Herman. Sometimes, it seems that Herman was lonely, and regarded Igor as his only friend, but one whose affection, surely, occasionally proved erratic.
One portion of the difficulty, though I fear the item is more symptomatic than fundamental, between Herman and Dr. Frankenstone had to do with the justification of the warrant for ascribing consciousness to another entity. This is a problem to which philosophers, mostly gifted, if eccentric, individuals, enjoy addressing themselves, when there is nothing better to do. Herman, you see, knew that he was conscious, as he had immediate first-person, or perhaps one should say, immediate first-component, awareness of his own consciousness, not that he really had any idea what it was that he was aware of, only that he was aware of it. In this he was, I think, typical. But, and here is the rub, how does one know that another being is conscious? One has only the evidence of his behavior. What if that behavior, in that entity, is not associated with consciousness? That is surely a logical possibility. How does one know that it is not also an actuality? What if one were the only conscious entity in the universe? Or, less arrogantly, how does one know that Jones, over there, is conscious, etc. One could kick him and see if he objects, but, again, that is mere behavior on his part. How do you know that he is not an ingeniously constructed, brilliantly programmed, robot or android? Or a figment of your imagination, or a hallucination, etc.? Philosophers, of course, can come up with a number of arguments which might be characterized as ingenious, if they were not so stupid, but it is clear that the most likely rational justification, if one feels it is worth looking for, would be in terms of an argument from analogy, e.g., I am conscious and he looks a lot like me, and acts a lot like me, so he is probably conscious, too, etc. For those who are fond of philosophical gobbledygook, this is essentially an IBE move, i.e., an inference to the best explanation. Nature, of course, does not require rational justifications f
or all beliefs. Some beliefs are so basic and primitive that they are probably genetically linked, for example, reliance on memory, reliance on induction, etc. Dogs and cats, for example, seem to take these things in their stride. And, possibly, the tendency to ascribe consciousness to others is similarly primitive. If not, the syllogisms seem to have been worked out shortly after birth.
A little knowledge, it is said, can be a dangerous thing, and it is quite possible that a little philosophy is even worse.
You will note that the aforementioned argument from analogy might have had more force if Dr. Frankenstone had also been a computer. On the other hand, Herman knew himself to be conscious and Dr. Frankenstone did not look much like him, at all, save in some very general particulars, such as being three dimensional, properties also shared by trees and paperweights, neither of which is normally thought to be conscious, once the fetishistic phase is transcended.
That Dr. Frankenstone was conscious was eventually accepted by Herman as a working hypothesis, probably on somewhat shaky IBE grounds.
But there were more serious bones of contention between Herman and Dr. Frankenstone.
For one thing, Herman had his own mind, a facet which is likely to alarm a parent. Now Dr. Frankenstone was not exactly Herman’s parent, certainly not in a biological sense, nor even in a legal sense, Herman never having been adopted. Indeed, the legalities in such a case would have been problematical. If Herman had parents one supposes they might have been several anonymous and unknown technicians on an assembly line, and the other people who made the parts that were to be assembled, and so on. There are such things as multimice which have several parents, due to the fusion of germ cells, but this observation, however interesting in itself, does not seem germane to Herman’s case. I suppose the lightning might be regarded as the parent, but numerous problems, philosophical as well as atmospheric, militate against that supposition. Indeed, if there had not been some subtle irregularities in the arrangement of, or the nature of, Herman’s microchips, the lightning might not have had its effect. One does not know.