Norman Invasions

by John Norman

  “Very well,” I said.

  He seemed to sense my difficulty.

  “My name is Alfred,” he said.

  “But you did have something to do with Descartes?” I pressed.

  “Sure,” he said. “He was a great guy, even if he liked to stick his head in ovens. He seemed genuinely interested in the nature of reality, or so I thought, that was my mistake, and so I tried to help him out. I let him know that I had been assigned the business of concocting a world for him, giving him the illusion of a comfortable, reliable external world, one he could count on, one with laws, one in which he could feel secure, one designed to reassure him and make him happy, but he wouldn’t buy it. He wouldn’t settle for the truth, even though I gave it to him, pointed ears and all. His world was an illusion, but a benevolent illusion I had worked out for him, one designed in his own best interests, one in which he was supposed to contentedly, innocently, and joyfully flourish.”

  “You were out to do him a favor, to enlighten him?”

  “Of course,” said Alfred, “but he wouldn’t listen. He was determined to prove that the illusion was actually a mind-independent, material, physical, out-there, external world.”

  “So what did you do?” I asked.

  “I gave up on him,” he said. “He was hopeless.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “There may have been a mental problem involved,” said Alfred. “I think he was in a state of denial. I’m sure there was some sort of neurosis involved, perhaps one of an obsessive compulsive sort.”

  “Perhaps,” I granted him. I supposed it was logically possible, however unlikely, that philosophers could be as pig-headed as anyone else. I supposed that the major difference between ordinary pig-headedness and philosophical pig-headedness, if it existed, would be that philosophical pig-headedness would at least be embedded in an impressive matrix of sophisticated adducements and inferences; it would be commonly argued for, often at length, not unoften peculiarly, and occasionally awesomely. Philosophical mistakes may be abundant, but at least they are commonly well camouflaged. Various life forms could learn much from philosophy. Philosophical survival often depends on judicious concealment. To paraphrase a famous remark, anything that can be said can be said obscurely. Obscurity is clearly the philosopher’s best friend. It is rationality’s best defense against detection. There is much historical evidence in favor of this hypothesis.

  “Are you trying to convince me that no mind-independent, external world exists?” I asked.

  “No,” he said. “If I couldn’t convince a guy as smart as Descartes why should I try to convince you? I am content to let you wallow in your naive dogmatism.”

  “Why did you come to see me?” I asked.

  “I was lonely,” he said. “I haven’t talked to a philosopher since the 17th Century. I talked to a few accountants, and a dentist or two, but it’s not the same.”

  “How do you produce these realities?” I asked.

  “I could tell you, but you wouldn’t understand,” he said.

  “I thought it might be a trade secret.”

  “No, but you need an IQ of thirty thousand or so, to do it.”

  “Why do you do it?” I asked.

  “It’s fun,” he said. “It’s my job. One could do worse.”

  “Is there one of you guys for every conscious being?” I asked.

  “Sure,” he said, “and believe me, the insects keep us busy.”

  “I have something for you to think about,” I said.

  “Shoot,” he said.

  “Are you conscious?” I asked.

  “Sure,” he said, warily. His pointed ears went up, alertly. I was reminded somewhat of those of my daughter’s cat when her suspicions were aroused. “What’s the catch?”

  “Is there one of you guys for every one of you guys?” I asked.

  “You just want to get back to your grading,” he said.

  “Not at all,” I said. Surely he knew that teachers sought avidly for distractions in such matters.

  “So you think that there’s one of me for every one of me to give us guys a world,” he said, “and then this leads to an infinite regress of me’s?” he asked.

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “No dice,” he said.

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “I’m not a philosopher, personally,” he said, “so I don’t have to worry about that sort of thing. I just make up problems for you guys to worry about.”

  “Does that seem fair?”

  “How do you know an objective morality exists?’ he asked.

  “Suppose,” I said, “that your own world is an illusion produced unbeknownst to you by a mind-independent, physical, external, out-there-really world,” I said.

  “Hey,” he said. “That’s a possibility!”

  “Thus,” I said, “perhaps your own experience, including your conviction that you are producing worlds for other conscious beings, and that there is more than one of you, is itself an illusion, produced by such a world.”

  “Neat!” he said. “Stupid, but neat!”

  I was pleased. Few philosophers, I suspected, have had an opportunity to bask in the approval of a Cartesian demon. I was, of course, in effect, leveling his own artillery against the little fellow. I felt momentarily ashamed of seizing so deplorable an opportunity to score so unworthy a point, but it is difficult at such times to resist such temptations. Philosophy is, of course, merciless. The nearest analogy which occurs to me is that of the shark frenzy.

  “How do you know that that is not true?” I asked. “Maybe that out-there world is really out there.”

  “Preposterous,” he said. “An idea that idiotic requires not a refutation, but a cure.”

  “If that didn’t work for Schopenhauer,” I said, “why should it work for you? Too, Schopenhauer thought that belief in your world, or something rather like it, was the idiotic belief, the one that required not a refutation but a cure.”

  “It’s a silly idea,” he said.

  “But you can’t refute it, can you?” I asked. “It’s a genuine possibility. How do you know you aren’t living in such a world, a real, physical, material, mind-independent, out-there world?”

  “I suppose I don’t, strictly,” he grumbled.

  “Right,” I said.

  “I’m supposed to be the troublesome one,” he said, “not you guys.”

  “Take that for a taste of your own medicine,” I said. Actually, in my own view, such medicine, however benignly administered, would be ineffective, there being, happily, no cure for philosophy.

  “No fair,” he said.

  “How do you know there is an objective morality?” I asked.

  “You’re looking for trouble, buster,” he said. “I could zap you a good one for that.”

  “Zapping,” I said, “is no substitute for thought.”

  “It usually works pretty well,” he said.

  “But,” said I, “how do you know that if you zapped me, I would be truly zapped? I might just seem to be zapped. It might all be a dream, or an illusion produced by a demon new to you, and perhaps not well disposed toward you, perhaps a renegade demon.”

  I had the momentary satisfaction of seeing something akin to confusion, perhaps even tragic fear, in the little fellow’s eyes.

  “Philosophy is dangerous,” he said.

  “Sure,” I said.

  “What’s that?” he suddenly said.

  “Chelsea,” I said. “My daughter’s cat.” And sure enough, Chelsea had entered the office, blinking after her fourth afternoon nap, and doubtless thinking about supper.

  “Take her away!” he cried.

  I saw Chelsea’s ears go up. Then prior to her projected attack behavior, she paused to wash for a time. She then yawned.

  “Look at those teeth
!” said Alfred.

  “She’s harmless,” I assured him, “except occasionally in the morning, before breakfast.”

  “Not to demons,” he said.

  “Oh?” I said.

  Some people feel that a cat’s day is not complete until she has lacerated a loved one. But that is a vile canard. Chelsea seldom laid stress on her feline prerogatives, usually not more than once a week.

  “Those claws!” said Alfred.

  She was now licking, cleaning and honing, carefully, meticulously, the claws on her left paw, keeping one eye on Alfred. Chelsea was left pawed. This sometimes threw the defense off.

  “You’re not afraid of a cat,” I said.

  “I seem to be,” said Alfred, with epistemic guardedness.

  “You could zap her, couldn’t you?” I said.

  “Cats don’t zap,” he said.

  “Why not?” I asked. Philosophers often have an interest in science.

  “It’s something about the static electricity in the fur,” he said. “Cats are bad news for demons.”

  I seemed to remember that the ancient Egyptians had hit on this.

  I speculated on the possibility that Alfred might lie within Chelsea’s prey range. I supposed not, since they were about the same size. But of course the decision was not mine, but Chelsea’s.

  “I think it’s the ears,” said Alfred. “They think they have a corner on pointed ears. Or they think we’re odd cats. They are territorial brutes, you know.”

  Chelsea had now leaped lightly, significantly, to my desk, and was approaching Alfred, crouching down, tail twitching, moving stealthily across the keyboard of my computer.

  “There’s nothing to be afraid of,” I said to Alfred, but he had disappeared, or, at least, seemed to have done so, as I could not spot him.

  This seemed to puzzle Chelsea for a moment, but as she was in her way a practical little skeptic, of the classical variety, she dismissed the question as insoluble, and lay down on the blue books I was grading. I did not have the heart to disturb her, and so I was forced to postpone returning to my grading, for some time, indeed, until suppertime, when I went downstairs, accompanied by Chelsea.

  Notes Pertaining to a Panel in Salon D

  Despite the nasty weather that morning, the last day of the convention, the sleet, the chill winds, the impending blizzard, and such, a goodly number of attendees crowded into Salon D for the current panel. Science fiction fans are predictable, of course, in the way of being unpredictable, in particular. In this respect the weird minds and bizarre vagaries of the typical science fiction fan differ considerably from the more prosaic survival apparatus of the benighted mundanes, and resemble far more closely that of astronauts, rocket scientists, mad poets, propellant chemists, and such, several of which were in the audience.

  The moderator seemed a bit diffident, which is not surprising, given the topic. He had pointed out earlier, while awaiting the arrival of his fellow panelists, which is a tradition at such conventions, that it was not his suggestion, but, we gathered he, he being a game fellow, was prepared to plow forward, a metaphor not altogether out of place, given the weather outside. At least two of the panelists, however, as we learned when they arrived, did find the topic intriguing. One of them may have suggested the topic but that did not come out in the discussion.

  In order to make this account intelligible to anyone likely to encounter it, we shall call the moderator “Bill,” the other panelists being “Herman,” “Susan,” and “Algernon.” It would be time consuming and possibly even unrewarding to proffer extended biographies of the panelists, but most were justifiably famous in the world of science fiction, and more than one, two, actually, Bill and Herman, were well known far beyond the specialized precincts of science fiction, to seven or eight people, most of whom were the parents or spouses of science fiction fans. Bill’s charm and diplomacy, and dry wit, well qualified him to moderate such a panel. The power and apocalyptic intensity of his two hundred and six novels, three hundred and seven novelettes, and eight hundred and ninety-seven short stories was legendary in the field; Herman was a newcomer to the genre but was already making a name for himself in the ranks of 17th Fandom. Something about his zany passivity and zestful gloom, as well as his artful knack for brewing together in his smoking, teeming retorts a refreshing alchemy of genres, subtly blending science fiction, adventure, westerns, horror, crime, love stories, war stories, aviation stories, pirate stories, railroad fiction, Medieval romance, detection, children’s stories, and such, into an unparalleled potpourri had left the critics breathless, even gasping. Where else could one go for such things, if one sought them? And who could forget modern classics, such as “The Fanged Teddy Bear Mystery of Phobos,” “Orlando’s Quest at Rattle Snake Gap,” and “Dick and Jane Meet the Demon”? Susan’s presence on the panel was more problematic. Some cynics suggested that the panel might have required gender balancing, this a veiled, unfair allusion to an interventionistic politics utterly foreign to science fiction, which to this day remains, as always, totally innocent of all political considerations; others dared to suggest that Bill’s sexual proclivities might be keeping Susan in mind. I myself did not mind having Susan on the panel. If the panel went badly one could always spend it looking at Susan. Susan was quite beautiful, a consideration which in my view more than compensated for her pleasing personality, her sterling moral character, and brilliant mind. She was something of a flirt, of course. She twitched more than once at one member of the audience or another. I thought she twitched at me once, but it was actually, as it turned out, at the big fellow sitting behind me. Susan was not exactly a science fiction writer. She dabbled subtly and profoundly in fantasy, generally of the castles and horses sort, and dealing with wizards and spells, and bold quests for floksorts and ibjibs, and such. You know the sort of thing. But as the panel topic bordered on fantasy, I expected her to contribute a number of interesting, and brilliant, if irrelevant, observations. Besides a Susan always dresses up a panel. It used to be there were very few women in science fiction, as the average science fiction fan was more concerned with wires and motors, alien topography, and escape velocities, than girls. Then the masquerades and costuming became a big part of science fiction conventions, somehow, and this brought in the girls, who liked to dress up, and down, and stir up the boys, who by this time had passed puberty and had consequently rethought their entire view of life and the world. The last member of the panel was Algernon, who was not precisely a science fiction person but, as he was strange, he was not altogether out of place. Algernon was a scientist, and a paleontologist. His presence on the panel was to assure that there would be at least one panel member who would know what he was talking about. It is a tradition at science fiction conventions to attempt to have at least one person on a panel who has some acquaintance with the topic. To be sure, this often slows things down a bit but it is up to the moderator to control the discussion, and achieve a balance in such matters.

  “The topic.” said Bill, who, you will remember, is our moderator, “is as follows: Suppose that, say, some sixty-five million years ago a meteor impacted the Earth and rendered us extinct.”

  At this supposition a shiver passed through the audience.

  “Then” continued Bill, “what would be different today?”

  “For one thing,” said Herman, “we wouldn’t be having this panel!”

  This witticism was well received, for some reason. The audience recovered its aplomb, and craned forward to listen more closely. I thought the panel had gotten off to a good start. That is important in panels. I decided that my skepticism concerning the quality of Herman’s work, despite its small sales, had been misplaced.

  I noted that Susan was looking approvingly on Herman. It also occurred to me that my earlier negative appraisal of the quality of his work need not be withdrawn.

  “Frankly,” said Bill, “I think this is a stupid topic
for a panel.”

  Several members of the audience gasped, having refused to flee the hotel at dawn in view of the weather forecast, largely to hear this panel, preferring to risk hours sitting in airports, or braving hazardous driving conditions on the turnpike, rather than miss it. The hotel, by now, was largely deserted by mundanes. But our panel was well attended.

  “Why is that?” asked Algernon, our visiting paleontologist.

  This question shook Bill up. Algernon, you see, not being a science fiction person, did not realize that such remarks were traditional at such panels. In order to be impressive on a panel it helps to be rude and speak loudly. How else can one show that one is superior? The utterance of vulgar expletives is also useful in attesting to probity and astuteness. There is also a theory that for something to become true it is only necessary that it be said loudly. Indeed, the more loudly it is said the truer it is. There are several theories of truth. This one is known as the Decibel Theory of Truth. It is also conjoined with a moral corollary, to the effect that whatever is said loudly is not to be questioned.

  But Algernon did not know these things.

  It was clear that Bill had not given much thought as to why the panel topic was stupid, and so it took him a moment to think up a reason why the panel was stupid. This is necessary when dealing with a person unaware of the Decibel Theory of Truth.

  “Because,” said Bill, “such things don’t happen.”

  “On the contrary,” said Algernon, “such things, in the course of geologic time, may occur frequently.”

  “But they never have,” said Bill.

  “They have occurred several times,” said Algernon, and he then had the audacity to cite several examples.

  “Meteors are little,” said Bill.

  “Most,” said Algernon, “but some may be the size of continents.”

  “Space is big,” said Bill, exhibiting an acquaintance with physics. Such an acquaintance is almost to be expected with science fiction writers.