Norman Invasions

by John Norman

  Olaf was recruited for his unusual, deceitful, and foul work in Forest Hills, in Queens. a borough of New York City. Forest Hills is, as is privately well-known to various state and federal law-enforcement agencies, a notorious recruiting center for polar bear impostors.

  Let me explain how this assignment came about.

  “Bill, Tiger Mouse,” one day said my editor to me, “our circulation is lagging, and lawsuits abound, for example, this last one, brought by a Mr. Wu Chang. I have spoken to my father-in-law, your uncle, who owns the paper, and we feel you are owed a vacation, at least until the consequences of your recent set of articles blow over.”

  I knew my uncle owned the paper, and so failed to see the purport of my editor’s remark, calling this to my attention. I had not forgotten it. For those of you who might mistakenly and invidiously suspect that my post at the paper was due to sordid nepotism, I must remind you that I began work at the paper before I realized the connection. After ascertaining it, to my consternation, it did not seem fair to Uncle Harold for me to resign, and cost him his finest reporter, Tiger Mouse. We would both have to make the best of this embarrassing coincidence. (Harold, incidentally, like Olaf, are names I am using to protect identities.)

  My most recent set of articles constituted a detailed and forceful indictment of the Society of Friends, the Quakers, for their role in brokering deals amongst rogue nations in armaments, in particular, weapons of mass destruction. Earlier articles had revealed the links between the AAA, the American Automobile Association, and concealed chop shops across the nation supplying automotive contraband to intercontinental auto-theft rings, the involvement of Alcoholics Anonymous in bootlegging in Peru and Bolivia, the scandalous relationship of the BSA, the Boy Scouts of America, to Colombian drug trafficking, and so on.

  It was not surprising that some fallout might attend such revelations. I had expected as much when the stories went to press. My discoveries were vehemently denied, when noticed, but that was only to be expected in such cases.

  An investigative reporter must follow the story and go doggedly where it leads.

  Courage is a virtue which I do not lack.

  “I am grateful, Chief,” I said, “but I do not want to take a vacation. I do not have time to take a vacation. I am working. I am hot on a lead, as usual. Do you know what the Red Cross and the Veterans of Foreign Wars are really up to?”

  “That will have to wait, Bill,” said he. Then he winked. “You do not think this is a normal vacation, do you?”

  “Oh?” I said.

  “Not at all,” he said, rather conspiratorially, which intrigued me.

  “I just had a vacation last month,” I said.

  “Don’t think of this as a vacation,” he whispered.

  “Where am I going?” I asked.

  “To the Arctic Circle,” he said.

  “That is pretty far away, isn’t it?” I asked.

  “Far enough,” he said, “I think.”

  “There isn’t much up there but ice, is there?” I asked.

  “That’s what people think,” he said.

  “I see,” I said.

  “I have your tickets here,” he said. “You are leaving for London tonight.”

  From London I flew to Oslo, and from Oslo to Longyearbyen. I had mixed feelings about this assignment. Indeed, I did not even know what the assignment was. I began, bitterly, at length, to suspect that my editor had perhaps wished merely to remove me from the vicinity of the paper before the next wave of subpoenas might arrive. Or, perhaps, he thought I had been working too hard, and might profit from a vacation. This solicitude had been manifested several times in the past, even in the recent past.

  But an investigative reporter is restless, and alert.

  I had been booked on one of the more exotic cruises organized by the fabulous Linkblott line, associated with the great Linkblott magnates of Scandinavia, a polar bear spotting cruise.

  That was the main point of the cruise, to spot polar bears, and when the announcements would come over the sound system, at any time of the day or night, we would all rush up on deck, with our cameras, binoculars, and such, to spot the polar bears, who, by that time, would probably have jumped off their ice floes and be submerged. I suspect the bears kept track of the number of ship sightings, and compared and exchanged scores on the matter. There was no problem at spotting the bears at night, of course, given the latitude. Indeed, night would not show up for several months.

  We did, of course, spot some polar bears. In fact, we spotted twenty-eight of them. To be sure, they were usually several hundred yards away. One might think that a polar bear sighting would be the occasion for launching the zodiacs and rushing up for a closer view, but landings or close approaches would not be made in the wake of an actual sighting for reasons of safety. The polar bear as you may know is one of the largest and most dangerous predatory animals on the planet. Indeed, when landings were made, no polar bears being about as far as one could tell, our leaders were always armed. Sometimes, you see, seals are scarce. A consequence of this precaution of course, and the bears’ seeming concern for privacy, perhaps being miffed at having discovered that large, floating steel objects are not edible, was that we never saw one of these beasts at close range. Indeed, they were usually several hundred yards away. Still, we did have twenty-eight sightings, which, I gathered, was good, even typical. In the thrill of attempting to discern through my binoculars small white dots on ice floes far away, I forgot about investigative reporting. Too, the Linkblott line is famous for its cuisine and wine cellar, or wine hold, I suppose. There were also numerous lectures, mostly about the planet’s being doomed, and parties, and fun events on shipboard, by means of which the time was pleasurably whiled away between summons to the decks to attempt to distinguish between polar bears and pieces of ice. The pieces of ice did not scratch themselves.

  So I supposed, it was indeed merely a jolly, and perhaps well-earned, vacation, a respite from the ardors of investigative reporting, a welcome and profitable recharging of the batteries of journalistic inquiry, following which one might once again plunge into the exhilarating, invigorating maelstrom of society’s iniquity, mismanagement, and deceit.

  I might have mentioned, but in rereading this account realize I did not, that when we deplaned in Longyearbyen, another group of tourists, if I may use such an unkind word of polar bear spotters, were waiting to plane, or enplane, or whatever the word of choice might be. In short, they would leave on the same plane on which we had arrived. This arrangement demonstrated the sound thinking, and keen awareness of economics, which abounds amongst European airlines.

  “Did you see any polar bears?” we new arrivals asked our predecessors as they filed past, with sweaters, parkas, posters, statuary, models of zodiacs, and such. “Yes,” we heard. “We had twenty-eight sightings. We saw twenty-eight polar bears.”

  We whistled in astonishment, rejoiced in their good fortune, and hoped our efforts in this area would be crowned with similar success.

  As a matter of fact, they were.

  As our ship returned to the harbor at Longyearbyen, I recalled that intelligence. That was interesting, I thought.

  I thought little of it at first.

  It was a coincidence, surely.

  Still, it was an interesting coincidence.

  We, too, had seen twenty-eight polar bears, precisely twenty-eight polar bears.

  You must understand, of course, that the travel industry is intensely competitive. Like life, the travel industry seems to flow into any available niche. As life can exist in the stratosphere, in polar ice, in sulfur springs, without oxygen, in the depths of the sea without light, deriving its energy from submerged volcanoes, and such, so, too, the travel industry seems to locate itself in any economically viable habitat. How else explain an interesting voyage with the primary intent of spotting polar bears? To be sure,
are there not trips thinking about whales, about exotic birds, about deserts, about jungles, and so on? Once you have seen eight thousand cathedrals and six thousand castles, and eleven thousand aqueducts, bridges, walls and temples, and three pyramids, it is natural, I suppose, to think about polar bears. You are perhaps aware of aardvark expeditions, expeditions with python sightings in mind, and, in the southwest of the United States, gaining in popularity every season, trips for Gila monster spotting, and such.

  In such a competitive industry, I thought, would there not be almost irresistible temptations to cut corners, to practice chicanery, perhaps even to admit, where necessary, fraud. Would such an industry not be tempted to guarantee results, and see to it that these results materialized?

  I was struck with horror at the ignominy of such a suspicion, and banished it instantly from my mind.

  Back, I thought, to the Red Cross and the Veterans of Foreign Wars.

  Before taking the plane back to Oslo, and thence to London, and thence to New York, we were to have a farewell lunch at the lovely, local hotel in Longyearbyen. I would certainly, personally, give it several stars, and even a planet or two, or such, and, if you are ever in Longyearbyen, I would recommend it highly. Longyearbyen, incidentally, is itself a small, beautiful city, with the harbor, the mountains, the “watch out for polar bears” signs, and such. It used to mine coal, but, today, I think most of its wealth comes from the tourist trade, or more kindly, the polar bear spotting trade, for it is not only the ships of the redoubtable Linkblott line which venturously ply the icy waters of the north, but those of many other lines, and nations, as well. There seem to be enough polar bears to go around. Many are the shops, and businesses, thriving, too, in this small, lovely city, seemingly muchly dependent on the tourist trade, so to speak, and the polar bears.

  During lunch I sat across from, we shall say, X, who was a typically tastefully grizzled professional photographer. He seemed troubled. I did not understand this, for he could doubtless charge this trip off his income tax; yet he seemed troubled. X had had a cabin to himself, in which he had constructed himself a makeshift darkroom. Too, many of us had admired his extensive paraphernalia and supplies. He seemed a veritable human baggage train, as many in his profession. The zoom lens on certain of his cameras might have noted a dropped lens cap in a lunar crater.

  “What is wrong?” I asked him.

  “I am troubled,” he said.

  “I have noted that you seemed so,” I acknowledged. “Why are you troubled?”

  “It is nothing,” he said.

  I then dismissed the matter, understanding it to be nothing.

  Before our plane was to leave, some hours had been set aside for sightseeing, and shopping, mostly shopping, as most of the sights to be seen were shops. This arrangement demonstrated the sound thinking, and keen awareness of economics, which abounds amongst business communities in European municipalities.

  Many rifles are available in Longyearbyen.

  Shops are full of them.

  And ammunition, and much of what you would want to have on hand, if you encounter polar bears. They do wander about, you know, but seldom on the main street, amongst the shops, at crowded hours, perhaps because of the rifles. Those who were once accustomed to do so, if we may believe the neo-Darwinists, may not have managed to replicate their genes. In any event, rifles are common amongst the natives in this area, and it is not unusual to see baby carriages and strollers about, packed with assortments of delightful Norwegian moppets and cherubs, being propelled by attentive fathers with rifles strapped to their backs. Too, Longyearbyen has the only bank in the world, as far as I know, in which fellows frequently enter with ski masks and rifles, and no one thinks twice about it. To enter unarmed and unmasked might, I suppose, instantly attract attention, and provoke suspicion.

  “No,” I said. “There is something wrong. I am sure of it.”

  I suspect that this remark was motivated by the unerring instinct of the natural-born investigative reporter. Otherwise it would be inexplicable.

  “No,” he sobbed. “No!”

  I was, of course, prepared to take his word for this. After all, who better than he to know if something was wrong?

  Yet the investigative reporter in me remained unconvinced.

  As our delightful lunch was concluded, I noted that he left a tip for the waitress. It was something like ten thousand Euros, which, even at the current exchange rates, seemed high for a tip, too, even allowing for beneficent intentions to reduce income inequality.

  “You are overtipping,” I pointed out to him. “Thus you are attempting to assuage an acute guilt complex. Why do you feel guilty? What have you done?”

  Tiger Mouse had pounced, almost as a reflex.

  My own tipping, incidentally, leaves nothing in doubt as to my own moral stability and clear conscience.

  He flung his head down to the table and began to sob wildly, uncontrollably.

  It seemed I had touched a nerve. It is something investigative reporters are good at.

  “Come away,” I said to him. “Come to the bar. We will find a booth. You must tell me all about it.” Many times I had pretended to be an off-duty bartender, to encourage informants to open up. This charade, in this instance, I was sure would be unnecessary.

  Soon we were ensconced in the hotel bar, which, incidentally, I commend to you, if you are ever in Longyearbyen.

  Our waiter was a large fellow, young and broad-shouldered, with a large mop of tastefully shaggy blond hair, rather of the sort favored by large, young, broad-shouldered Norwegian males who frequent discos. In an earlier century I speculated he might have broken the hearts of many a rural maid in the land of the Midnight Sun.

  I ordered, using five of my forty-one words of Berlitz Norwegian.

  He took our order, and withdrew, but, it seemed, not too far away.

  I regarded the photographer, sympathetically, encouragingly.

  Tears ran down his tastefully grizzled face. “Look!” he said, opening one of his trunks, which he had had at the table and subsequently had dragged behind him to the bar, to the dismay of the clerk on duty at the registration desk, apprehensive as to the effect of this transit on the polished hardwood floors.

  As he had bade me I looked into the trunk, but briefly, as it was quickly shut. It was packed with a variety of currencies, of various nations, pounds, pesos, kroners, dinars, zarduks, shells, and such. I noted, amongst these, what appeared to be a large number of bills in U.S. currency, thousand-dollar bills.

  We were silent as the waiter brought our order, and then withdrew, but, again, not too far away.

  “Dare I ask how you came by these gains, presumably ill gotten?” I inquired.

  “I think not ill gotten,” said my friend.

  “Then why are you overtipping?” I asked.

  He twitched, jerking about, his face and body writhing in what I supposed to be the expression of a contorted, semaphoric mass of subconscious conflict.

  “Perhaps I am undertipping,” he said. “Surely you are aware of the legitimacy of a graduated income tax. Why should a rich man not pay a thousand dollars for a cup of coffee, ten thousand dollars for a bottle of aspirin, a million dollars to see a movie?”

  He had me there, so I was silent.

  “I sold a photograph,” he said.

  “That is legal, I suppose,” I said, “though it might depend on the nature of the photograph. Did it compromise the queen? Was it the photograph of a secret Norwegian naval base or something?”

  “I sold the negative, as well,” he said.

  I whistled softly. This was apparently serious business.

  “I kept one print,” he whispered. “For my own protection.”

  “I see,” I said. I recalled hearing earlier, when we had first arrived in Longyearbyen, in a remark seemingly casually dropped by a local travel
guide, about a photographer who had been recently run down by a sled-dog team on the highway outside of town. Dog teams in Longyearbyen often draw wheeled sleds, which are more practical on cement surfaces than runners. Too, of course, out of town, on ice and snow, they draw ordinary sleds, vehicles of a sort more familiar to those who have attended movies about the far north. The natives of Longyearbyen tend to be fond of dogs. They are warm, loving, trustworthy, loyal, turn around three times before retiring, and bark at polar bears.