Norman Invasions

by John Norman

  We do not know what the goals were, perhaps it was something as simple as being poised between calculating the sum of five plus six as opposed to calculating the sum of six plus five. One does not know. Or, perhaps it was as simple as finding itself between two equally attractive wedges of Jarlsberg cheese, or two bales of hay.

  The engineer watched the machine in its predicament, until it perished, from rust, or whatever.

  At this point it seemed to the engineer that he was hoist on his own petard, so to speak, that his own expertise had done him in. Not only was he bored with his toys, for he knew their every move in advance, after all, he had built them, but he now also realized that the astounding and impeccable precision of their programming bore within itself the concealed liability of cybernetic paralysis. They would, in certain situations, be inevitably doomed by the very perfection of their design.

  Perfection bore inevitably within itself its own demise.

  The engineer had discovered the problem of Buridan’s ass.

  At this point perhaps many of us might have contemplated suicide but not the engineer, as it was not in his nature. For him this was not a viable option.

  Then, with one of those strokes of inspiration which so frequently characterize the juggernaut of progress, it occurred to the engineer that if perfection necessitated imperfection, why should not imperfection necessitate perfection.

  Perhaps the most perfect mechanism would be that which was imperfect!

  Accordingly the engineer gathered together his toys and put in some random elements.

  He had now produced machines that worked, but you couldn’t know for sure how they would work.

  You never knew for sure.

  They could surprise you.

  Now the engineer was never bored with his toys.

  And thus, too, was the problem of Buridan’s ass solved. Some random jostle or jiggle, inclination or trepidation, sooner or later, would save the beast.

  The engineer was so pleased with his new toys that he thought he should give them a name.

  He called them human beings.

  Copyright

  We will leave open the question as to whether gods have gods. That, it seems, is their concern, not ours.

  We will leave open the question, as well, as to whether gods could, or should, commit suicide.

  If they are necessary beings in some sense then one supposes they are stuck with themselves. Perhaps they deserve themselves.

  One wonders if they are satisfied with the worlds they create.

  Not all gods bother creating worlds, of course. Most have other things to do, perhaps better things to do, cutting out paper dolls, collecting stamps, origami, such things.

  They can always visit worlds created by other gods, or trespass on such worlds, or meddle with them, and so on. That saves creating your own world. This is not particularly dangerous as most creating gods are not territorial, for they may, at any time they wish, create new territories.

  Creating worlds, we gather, for those gods who are interested in such things, is easy enough, but it is not easy to create one that works, a good one, so to speak. Many worlds are simple failures, simply botched up, with lousy laws, eccentric planetary orbits, autistic, nonaggregating molecules, shortages of dark matter, stars that sputter out prematurely, life forms that spend their time attacking and eating one another, and so on.

  Many gods have given too little attention to their hobbies. They are careless. Others, even conscientious ones, often take a long time to become good at world making. The better worlds receive prizes, awards, blue ribbons, and other distinctions. That may be why some gods keep on making worlds.

  Most worlds, of course, are discarded, when one tires of them, or they are rendered obsolete by new technologies, or styles.

  Too, what sort of world you are trying to create should be taken into consideration. If you are out to create the most purple world possible, or the smallest world possible, or the largest world possible, or the squarest world possible, or the worst world possible, then the criteria of evaluation must in all fairness be adjusted to the intention involved. To be sure, the intention must be first filed with us. It would not do at all for a god to claim he wanted to create just the world he ended up creating, trying to take credit for the exact nature of its flaws, and such, as they were intended to be perfect flaws, and so on. That would be tantamount to cheating.

  Sometimes gods try to mar or spoil the worlds other gods have created. Perhaps you live in such a disfigured, defaced world. This sort of cosmological vandalism seems deplorable to many of us, but as gods, being gods, cannot be subject to external constraints, such as moral principles, but in effect have the privilege of defining morality as they wish, we shall effect nothing critical on this score.

  I am supposing that most of what we have hitherto stated is familiar to the reader.

  On the other hand, it has come to our attention that not everyone is aware of the charge and activities of the office of registration.

  I work there.

  When a god goes to work and creates a world, if he regards it as worthy of registration, and cares to expend the fee, he is likely to bring his world to our attention. Gods, as is well known, are often jealous, which would be a character flaw, except in a god, for reasons already noted. Some worlds are, so to speak, pirated. Others, or substantial parts of others, have been clearly plagiarized. Hard feelings and denunciations, even cosmic strifes, worlds being used as cannonballs, and such, abounded. It was scandals and abuses of this nature, piratings and plagiarizations, and allegations of piratings and plagiarizations, and cosmic hostilities, which first made clear the need for our office. It was accordingly founded, though in the midst of continuing controversy. Many were the gods who insisted on a variety of rights, those of theft, of piracy, of cosmological plagiarization, and so on.. Should reality not be free to all, like space, where it was created. The roads were to be open. What was the point of being a god if one could not do as one wished? The commons were not to be fenced in. One of the most adamant foes of the registration office was a feathered god who had created several worlds of ducks, each created in his own image.

  Eventually, however, as a gesture of good will, and to minimize the possibility of civil war, most gods accepted, pointedly of their own free will, the existence of the office. Thus some order and discipline was at last introduced into an arena which had hitherto resembled at best a void of reckless and rampaging chaos. To be sure, there is still many a cosmos, in one dimension or another, which remains outside our jurisdiction, and refuses to sign the appropriate conventions.

  For those of you who have created one or more worlds you might consider availing yourself of the protection of registration. Whereas there is no doubt that a world you have made is your world, whether it should be or not, it is one thing to make a world, and quite another to be able to prove that it is your world. What if your world is stolen and brought to public view by another, he claiming it as his own? What can you do about this? Have you no recourse? You do, you can register your world, thereby establishing your indisputable proprietorship. To be sure, this may do you no good, unless you are outrageously affluent and in the pursuit of your proprietary rights are prepared to compulsively enrich successions of incompetent and greedy attorney gods, but it will, at least, render secure, and certify, your entitlement to righteous indignation.

  So register your worlds.

  The policies, practices, fees, and such, of the office are a matter of public record. Forms with instructions are available at many libraries, and from the office, upon request. Please fill out the forms carefully, according to the instructions. Fees are subject to change without notice.

  Do not forget to submit two copies of your world with your application. A failure to fill out the form, or forms, properly, or to submit the proper fees, or the required two copies of your world, will result i
n a delay in the processing of your application.

  Some gods, of course, see no point in the registration office.

  I think there is some point to the registration office, seeing that gods do go about creating worlds.

  Some people may wonder why gods bother creating worlds. I myself have given it some thought, possibly because of my working in the office. There are so many worlds created, and so many gods. Sometimes I am amazed. There are probably many reasons. Some, one supposes, have nothing better to do; others may feel a need to do so; some may just like to keep busy; some may be lonely; some may want to do nice things, or bad things; some, insecure sorts, one supposes, perhaps with few internal resources, may relish courtiers and sycophants, hanging about, praising, and such, looking forward to rewards. There are probably many reasons. And, some, as suggested, may be interested in getting recognition, having their eye on prizes, and such. Gods come in various shapes and sizes, moral and otherwise. Some are congenial, friendly, decent fellows; others would just as soon be left alone; some construct their worlds and then abandon them to their own devices; they desert their worlds; others may have an artistic streak and be interested in dramatic spectacles, hurricanes, floods, wars, famines, pestilences, slaughters, plagues, crashing airplanes, sinking ships, collapsing bridges, avalanches, cruelty, horror, insanity, and such. Some gods enjoy roasted human sacrifices and the feeding of infants to sacred crocodiles, and so on; on the other hand, some gods, cousins even, would just as soon their creations were nice to one another, and even, here and there, that they might like one another. There are all sorts of gods. That is to be expected. I suppose it is not surprising. And if there are all sorts of gods, why not all sorts of worlds? That, too, I suppose, is only to be expected.

  The registration office exists largely to protect worlds from being illegitimately copied, plagiarized, and so on.

  Not all gods, however, as you may have gathered, choose to avail themselves of this protection.

  In particular I can think of one outlaw god, in his way, a sort of rogue god. He comes to mind because his motivation for refusing to avail himself of the protection of our office is an unusual one.

  He desires his world to be copied, to be pirated, to be stolen, to be plagiarized.

  Let us consider his world, briefly. It is a pretty average world in many ways, although it seems to contain more than its share of grief, misery, pain, cruelty, suffering, and hardship. In many respects it is not much of a world, and one supposes that there would be little interest in copying it in any event. It is probably safe from plagiarization. It is not very purple, or square, or large, even. It does contain something rare among worlds, however. It contains something which appears only now and then, and it doesn’t last long. It is called joy. The god in question, and some of his creatures, seem to feel that this episodic phenomenon, little more than an occasional, brief flicker against a wall of solitude and darkness, is redemptive. Redemption, you see, for them, at any rate, is not a matter of pain and suffering, but of joy. It is that which makes things worthwhile. This little bit of joy, now and then, you see, or as they see it, overcomes the night and the pain. It justifies the world; it redeems it; it makes it all worthwhile. How puzzling all this is. Strange that such a cosmological eccentricity, one so transient and rare, which so few have experienced, should be ascribed such value.

  The god in question refuses to register his world.

  Surely he knows it could be stolen, or copied.

  But, interestingly, that is precisely what he has in mind. He wants to give such a world away, not because it is worthless, but because it is so precious, so valuable.

  In any event, do not forget to submit two copies of your world with your application. A failure to fill out the form, or forms, properly, or to submit the proper fees, or the required two copies of your world, will result in a delay in the processing of your application.

  A Gorean Interlude

  Prefatory Remarks:

  I regard myself as privileged, as honored, in a sense, to be the editor of the Cabot manuscripts.

  I do not regret, for one instant, that this opportunity, this responsibility, this honor, has been bestowed on me.

  To be sure, as I have learned, it is one not without its perils, social, political, and professional. As the Armenian proverb has it, one who tells the truth must have one foot in the stirrup. But, alas, I fear my foot missed the stirrup. Accordingly I have found myself in the unenviable position of having spoken the truth, and remaining afoot. As is well-known, the last thing most individuals wish to do is seek the truth. It is hard to blame them, for there are dangers in seeking the truth, foremost amongst them that one might find it.

  As far as I know, I am the only individual to whom these various mss., or similar mss., have been entrusted, at least for a particular purpose, that apparently of bringing them to the attention of a presumably small, but, I suspect, extraordinarily select, public.

  Surely they are not for everyone.

  Apparently several individuals have failed to understand that. Their view, it seems, is that everything should be for everyone. Or rather, perhaps, that everything should be for them, for they seem to take themselves, with their various interesting and impressive lacunae and limitations, intellectual and otherwise, for everyone. We are all free, it seems, to be just like them. It is only to be expected then, one supposes, that they are troubled, if not astonished, even occasionally outraged, by those who, however reluctantly, and deplorably, decline to avail themselves of their so generously and cordially accorded opportunity, that of being just like them.

  Better perhaps to be dead.

  The human being makes an excellent bigot. Millennia have gone into honing such skills.

  The difficulty, of course, is that there are competitive bigotries. And, unfortunately, several of them are well armed.

  Naturally they deny what they choose not to see, and denounce what they are afraid to hear.

  This is common to bigotries.

  And what else would you expect them to do, to look, to listen?

  To think, to feel?

  Those who claim the human being is manufactured, and should be produced according to one and only one plan, theirs, neglect to note that there must be raw materials for such a project, and, furthermore, that these materials have natures of their own.

  This may be inconvenient, but nature, nonetheless, got there first. It is not to be denied that a human being, like any other form of life, animal or vegetable, may be cut, clipped, chopped, twisted, stunted, tortured, poisoned, and burned into any number of diverse and bizarre forms. There is much historical evidence supporting this claim. But still, nature got there first, and while she may be thwarted, even destroyed, she cannot be benignly replaced. It doesn’t work. The great, slow, vast, patient systemic processes of biological evolution are not so easily set aside as the superficial and uninformed might suspect. Let those who will, should it please them, lecture chemistry and advise physics; let them dictate to heat and light, legislate planetary routes and scold molecules. But let them not dictate to the mind and heart of man, or woman.

  Words may mask as well as reveal truth; it is fortunate that reality cannot read; otherwise it would doubtless be much confused. If trees could read they might eschew rainfall and minerals, apologize for their leaves, suspect their roots, and fear to grow.

  The problem is not to deny nature but to attend to her.

  But enough of such considerations.

  One digresses.

  It sometimes seems to me unlikely that the Priest-Kings of Gor, if they exist, and I fear they might, would place such troubling, surprising documents, the originals, in so limited a venue, that of a given editor and a small number of other individuals who are aware of their existence, this seemingly subjecting the documents to a precarious jeopardy, particularly if they, the Priest-Kings, supposing them to exist, were concern
ed that their contents should become broadcast, but perhaps that was not their intention; that they should become broadcast, but why, if so, if it were indeed their intention that these matters should become a matter of public record, would they limit the very knowledge of their existence, that of the original materials, that is, to no more than a handful of organisms, and those of a sort which, as we are given to understand, would be alien to themselves. I wonder if friendship can exist amongst diverse species. To be sure, are not our dogs our friends? And I wonder, sometimes, how the Priest-Kings view us. As we view our dogs? No, I think not. They are too ready to kill. Perhaps the better analogy would be between ourselves and insects, which we prefer to leave alone unless annoyed, or menaced. But I think, too, sometimes, in some places, there might be a commonality amongst species, a moment of respect, or affection, founded on the frail reed of rationality, so easily bent, so easily broken, so easily uprooted. The hands of genes, those of consciousness and consistency, might touch occasionally, if only briefly, perhaps at the fingertips. In any event, it seems unlikely that these mss., if they are genuinely what they purport to be, could have reached this world without the indulgence, if nothing else, of Priest-Kings. Is there one, or more, amongst them who know, even respect or care for, an unusual individual whom I, personally, have never met, though whose existence I have ascertained, from various records, and reports, is established beyond all doubt, a Mr. Tarl Cabot? Too, it seems there are others, as well. Certainly not all the mss are in the same hand. But enough of that. It seems to me also possible that friendship, or such, may not enter into these matters, but rather that the mss are permitted to filter into our world in accord with well-conceived but covert designs. Perhaps they are a way in which these Priest-Kings, as they are called in the mss, wish, for some reason, to let us know that we are not alone, that there is life not only elsewhere in the broad universe, but closer to us, more locally, than we suppose. Certainly there is evidence that some of those in high places, in one country or another, have taken note of the mss.