Norman Invasions

by John Norman

  “I see,” I said. Surely I had the makings of a great story here. A Pulitzer would be a cinch.

  “And so, too, now, do you, Tiger Mouse,” said a voice, from behind me.

  I spun about to see a middle-aged, pleasant-looking, well-dressed Asian gentleman. I would have thought little of this except that he had behind him several dacoits carrying small hatchets. All were wearing Linkblott parkas.

  “I see, Olaf,” said the new arrival, “that you are losing your nerve.” Actually he used my new friend’s name, but I am disguising that name, in order to protect his identity.

  “No!” said Olaf, defensively, rising.

  “Then perhaps your taste for raw fish?” asked the gentleman.

  Olaf looked down, in a surly fashion.

  “And you, Tiger Mouse,” said the Asian gentleman, pleasantly, “what shall we do with you?”

  “How do you know my name?” I inquired.

  He smiled.

  “You are an agent of Wu Chang!” I cried. “Then his tentacles extend well beyond San Francisco, and Berkeley, even to Forest Hills and Longyearbyen, not to mention Los Angeles, San Diego, Pittsburgh, and Cleveland!”

  “And many other places as well,” purred the gentleman, in melodious accents suitable for a villain of his particular ethnicity, “Chicago, Seattle, East Orange, New Brunswick, Burlington, Iowa, Bridgewater, South Dakota, and elsewhere.”

  “Fiend!” I cried.

  “It is all a matter of point of view,” he said. “Clearly you are not a subjectivist and moral relativist.”

  “Fiend! Fiend!” I cried.

  “Clearly,” he said.

  “You are all washed up,” I said.

  He looked at me, puzzled.

  “Well lathered” I explained, “and cleansed.”

  “I see,” he said, his eyes clouding.

  “Tiger Mouse is prepared to pounce,” I informed him.

  “You do not recognize me, do you?” he inquired.

  “No,” I said.

  “Perhaps we all look alike,” he speculated.

  “Not at all!” I exclaimed. I would not fall into that trap! I was not unaware of the requirements of contemporary civility.

  “Think hard,” he said.

  I put my mind to scanning all Asian faces of my acquaintance. Embarrassingly, they did look much alike, all Asian. Fortunately, for my moral self-respect, I realized that to Asians folks like me also looked much alike, and, upon reflection, I supposed we did.

  “I thought we were old friends,” he said.

  “Wu Chang!” I cried.

  “You put me out of the obsolete technology business,” he said. “Do we not, upon our birthdays, exchange small presents?”

  “Yes!” I said. I recalled the small hatchet, with several notches carved into the handle.

  “How you have fallen,” I cried, “to have become an agent of the notorious Wu Chang!”

  Many Han names, as mentioned earlier, are similar.

  “I am not an agent of the notorious Wu Chang,” he assured me.

  “Thank heavens!” I cried.

  “I am the notorious Wu Chang,” he assured me.

  I was certain he was joking. At least the dacoits behind him seemed amused, to the extent permitted by an aspect of sinister severity.

  “How else do you think I managed to afford, found, and extend a tentacle into a thousand retail outlets for technologically advanced gadgetry?”

  I refrain from mentioning the name of the enterprise, as it would be altogether too familiar to the reader, and might produce disruption and guilt amongst several thousand of its honest, law-abiding, unwitting employees.

  “Were it not for your earlier exposé, that brilliant set of articles proving that I could not be, despite seemingly overwhelming evidence to the contrary, the notorious Wu Chang of Tong fame my career might have been tragically terminated, or, at the least, slowed or stunted. The authorities had been closing in on me at the time. I thought that I was through. But thanks to your work, Tiger Mouse, I was saved to thrive in one of the economy’s most favored and select niches, that reserved for blood-thirsty criminal masterminds.”

  “I am pleased to have been of service,” I said, “I suppose.”

  “Still,” he said, “you do represent something of an economic drain, birthday presents, and such.”

  “I am not afraid of you, Wu Chang,” I said.

  “What of my dacoits, and their hatchets?” he inquired.

  “We are talking about you, Wu Chang,” I said. “Do not change the subject.”

  “I admire your courage, Tiger Mouse,” said he. “That is certainly your most prominent virtue.”

  I did not appreciate a subtle innuendo perhaps implicit in his last remark. There seemed something snide in the intonation contour. What of my probity, tenacity, and vigor, my unerring investigative intuition? My keen mind?

  “I am going to blow you out of the water, Wu Chang,” I said.

  “I do not understand,” he said.

  These cultural barriers!

  “It is like a wind machine,” I said, “which will lift you up and deposit you on the beach.”

  “I see,” he said, his eyes clouding.

  “Tiger Mouse is here,” I said. “Your insidious scam is over! I am going to walk out of here right now, right past you, and write the most brilliant, devastating series of exposé articles in the history of brilliant, devastating exposés. You have made the fatal mistake, Mr. Wu Chang, of tangling with Tiger Mouse! You are finished. Step aside!”

  I noted that he had failed to step aside.

  Once again cultural barriers had intruded.

  I saw something like eleven hatchets raised and, if I am not mistaken, a light film of saliva forming about the lips and jaws of several of Wu Chang’s dacoits.

  Olaf stepped to the side, rather out of the way. I think I might have done so, as well, had I been in his place, which place, in this instance, was directly behind me.

  “I am disappointed in you, Tiger Mouse,” said Wu Chang. “I had thought you were a true investigative reporter.”

  “I do not understand,” I said.

  I had expected to be set upon by eleven dacoits, a hazard such as those which go with the territory I had chosen for myself. Already I was planning on inscribing my exposé on the bloody floor boards of a burning cabin, or the cold pavement leading into Longyearbyen, or, with luck, dictating it from splints and traction in a remote Norwegian hospital.

  “It seems to me,” said Wu Chang, “that you have not really investigated this matter. What do you truly know of these things? Have you gone undercover?”

  “Well, no,” I admitted. Candidness is another of my virtues.

  “I submit,” said Wu Chang, “that you are an outsider here, uninformed and opinionated, that you will write boldly of things you do not understand and know little about.”

  “That is the way of the investigative reporter,” I said, defiantly. I knew my work, my job.

  “Olaf,” said Wu Chang, “you have lost your nerve. Judging by the bullet holes in the wall and door you have missed Tiger Mouse twice. You are no longer to be trusted on the ice floes. I am not tolerant of failure. I give you the choice of dying a terrible death or taking advantage of an opening in my accounting department. Which will it be?”

  “Might I have time off to prepare independently for my CPA degree?” asked Olaf.

  “Certainly,” said Wu Chang.

  “Do you double book?” asked Olaf.

  “Yes,” said Wu Chang. “The IRS expects it.”

  “Do I get to keep the first set of books, the phony books, or the real, secret set of books, those that really count?” asked Olaf.

  “The second set, of course,” said Wu Chang.

  “Done!” said Olaf.r />
  He began to remove the polar bear suit. I noted, in an interior pocket, a pocket protector, with various pens and pencils, two erasers, and a high lighter. It occurred to me that Olaf might have originally taken his work with Wu Chang on the very chance of eventually being promoted to a position of such responsibility. I had little doubt that Olaf was an accountant at heart, and would bring zest, brilliance, and, if called for, an astonishing creativity to his work. To be sure, creativity would not be much in demand, given that he was to be in charge of the private records of Wu Chang’s diversified and far-flung enterprises.

  It crossed my mind, a statistic I had heard long ago, that IRS auditors are almost uniformly fond of fiction, and often drive expensive automobiles. But economics is not my subject. For example, it has always been hard for me, a layman, to grasp how many major firms can lose millions of dollars a year, sometimes billions, year in and year out, and still remain flourishingly in business. This record, one gathers, is to be attributed somehow to advances in the techniques of professional accounting. To be sure, many Renaissance firms, I understand, are still in business, as well.

  “And what of you, Tiger Mouse?” inquired Wu Chang. “Are you a true investigative reporter, or not?”

  “Give me the suit,” I said.

  As I donned the suit, I noted that the saliva about the lips and jaws of certain of the dacoits no longer glistened, but now appeared to have dried. Too, a number of them now looked disappointed, at least to the extent permitted by an aspect of sinister severity.

  It was thus that I began my tour of duty as a polar bear impostor.

  In the beginning it was freezing upon the ice floes. There were problems, too, with jeering seals and marine birds, many of whom suffered from intestinal incontinence. Eventually one develops a taste for raw fish, but, to be honest, not much of a taste. The water, of course, was quite cold, but polar bears manage quite nicely in it, and eventually one learns to do so, as well, thanks largely to the careful engineering of the suit. I was twice approached by amorous she-bears brazenly seeking a mate but I rebuffed their advances, and only twice had to rely on the tranquilizer pistol with which my suit was equipped. My narrowest escapes took place not on the floes but in the vicinity of Longyearbyen, as I was making my way to the harbor. Fortunately one fellow’s gun jammed. Another fellow happily entangled his arm in his rifle sling and managed to do no more than blow out a street light. The closest thing was with a father and stroller who was drawing a bead on me, but his infant lost his pacifier, and by the time he had retrieved it for the grieving child I had slipped into the water and was away.

  The suit, of course, is equipped with a map, and compass, and global positioning device, and we are furnished with the schedules and routes of the cruise ships. It is important to be seen, but not closely. One look, from far off, and then disappear, seems to be the key to success here. Fur must also be folded over the zipper in the back of the suit, lest another debacle occur with some nature photographer. Once I nearly lost my nerve and leaped up and down on an ice floe, waving my arms about, calling for rescue. But a number of shots fired from the bow of the approaching ship, splintering and gouging the ice about me, reminded me that some on board that ship would be likely to be privy to this little-known and secret side of the travel industry. This close brush with death encouraged me to regain my nerve. I sluggishly returned to the water, with an almost unnoticeable plop, as might a typical gigantic, annoyed, and blasé predator of the north.

  Mostly, of course, the game is a lonely one.

  One does catch up on one’s sleep, which is a plus, and there is little danger of missing a ship, or permitting one to approach too closely. The small radar device, with its alarm located in the vicinity of the left ear of the suit prevents that. A similar device, but sensitive to heat, such as that generated by engines, is located in the vicinity of the right ear. This is also helpful in warning one of the approach of enflamed she-bears.

  But on the floes, you see, in the loneliness, and the days between ship sightings, one has a good deal of time to think.

  One is much alone with one’s thoughts out there.

  I remember Wu Chang, who was not such a bad guy, who always remembered my birthday, and I recalled Olaf with fondness. He had missed me twice. I hoped he was happy now, in his cubicle, in some bunker or such, fulfilling his dreams.

  Was it so wrong, really, to be a polar bear impostor, I asked myself.

  What if the travel industry went under? The effect of that on the international economy would be tragic. Think of the thousands of people working in that industry, who would be thrown out of work, who would be destitute and miserable. And the other thousands who supplied the travel industry, who flew the planes to get people to Longyearbyen, and the folks who raised the grapes for the wine to be kept in the ship’s wine hold, or whatever, and the lecturers, and guides, and all the others, and those who depended on them, and so on. It was easy, out there on the ice, to anticipate the domino effect which might plunge the entire planet into anarchy and chaos, precipitate inevitable imperialisms, revolutions and wars.

  I thought of the cherubs and moppets in Longyearbyen.

  Who would buy their pacifiers if the ships sailed away, never to return? I owed much to one pacifier.

  And what of the thousands of naturalists, adventure seekers, photographers, writers of travel memoirs, members of various fraternal organizations, and thousands of others, folks who had wearied of castles and pyramids, and wanted to see the world wild and beautiful as it once was, who wanted to commune with nature, who eagerly hoped to catch at least a glimpse of some fine, brave, proud, defiant life form, pursuing its wild and natural ways with all the menace and regality of old.

  Who would deny them this pleasure, this added meaning in their life, these treasured, beautiful moments?

  Yes, out on the ice I thought long and deeply.

  Perhaps, I thought, there is more to life than harsh truths and investigative reporting. Perhaps, I thought, there are other truths, too, softer truths, more beautiful truths, truths pertaining to what is beautiful, to what gives pleasure, to what can make people happy.

  So we polar bear impostors were out on the ice, garrisoned there, sentinels, in a way, keeping our post in a far country, one unspoiled, one beautiful and unpolluted, one much as the Earth once was, and reminding the lovely, wonderful, curious members of our own species, so incredulous and eager, of a world that still exists, albeit in a distant, cold place.

  So I thought there are worse things than being a polar bear impostor.

  There aren’t so many polar bear impostors now, as, interestingly, the polar bears are coming back.

  I think that is nice.

  During my vacation I had an opportunity to discuss these matters with Mr. Wu Chang, who nodded and smiled, and I understood then why I had been permitted to go out upon the ice, that I might have time to think these things out, in a quiet place.

  I am writing the exposé here, of course, but I hope no one believes it.

  Too, interestingly, in all my thinking on the ice, I was able to come up with an idea for yet another tentacle for my friend, Mr. Wu Chang. He has now branched out, extending his enterprises into Africa.

  On the ice, it is easy to think of warmer places.

  We still exchange small gifts on our birthdays.

  He will need some lion impostors.

  Letters from Gor

  I.B.:

  Help me! Help me!

  I do not understand what has happened, or what has become of me!

  They are letting me write this, why I do not know. I do not know what will be done with it. Is it to be sent to you? I do not know. I hope so, I fervently hope so. I am in desperate need of rescue. It is hard to understand them. Two speak some English, and that with a foreign accent, which I cannot place. One seems capable of reading cursive script. I must be careful of what
I write. Most here speak no English, or little English, and I do not speak their language, whatever language it may be.

  You must help me!

  The assignment has turned into madness. You must believe me! The exposé has gone awry! I have not run from you, or deserted the firm! I do not know the date, or how many days it has been. Your informant was more accurate than we had dared dream.

  I am writing this literally on my knees, I. B., and I am stripped naked! And there are men here! How casually, how boldly, sometimes how indifferently, they look upon me! They have taken my clothes, completely, even to hairpins and a barrette! My hair is down, about my shoulders. You never saw it thusly. It is long and glossy, I.B., and, I think, has somehow been made more so. I must brush it back, that it not touch the paper, that it not touch the inked lines, still wet. They do not want that to occur. The lines are not to be spoiled, marred or disarranged in any way. They are very strict about such things. Too, the lines must be evenly spaced, and legible, and the letters are to be more rounded than was my wont with the firm. I am to write in a more feminine script. Why? I have not written that way in years, deliberately, forcing myself not to. I suppose you did not know this, but I had tried to disguise my script, to make it more masculine, as I had tried to disguise my body, with straight shirts, high collars, neckties, jackets, slacks and mannish suits. Surely I impressed you with my cool airs and professionalism. Was that not why I earned this assignment, that amazing, remarkable assignment? I am trying to comply with their wishes. Can you imagine that, knowing me, me, trying to comply with the wishes of a man? And fearful that they might not find my compliance satisfactory! But these are not ordinary men, I.B. I have no choice. They have given me no choice. I do not think they give women choices, or not women such as I. I do not think I am different. I think any woman would do the same, any woman. Do not blame me! Do not think the worse of me! Kneeling here, naked, it is hard to forget that you are a woman. It would be meaningless to deny it, a senseless, stupid, embarrassing joke, even a blatant effrontery to reason, reality, and truth. Here I cannot doubt that I am a woman. It is something that I am not permitted to deny, ignore or neglect. How silly it would be here to deny that we are different from men, to pretend that we are identical with them. How could I not have understood this before? Did men collude in this deception? Well, they do not do so here. We are so different from them! Our bodies are so small, so soft, so curved, so weak, so vulnerable, compared to their large, virile, vital, powerful, cruel bodies. I find them strangely attractive. How wicked I am! It is so strange here. So different! As you can see, even the paper on which I am writing is unusual, a thick, scraped, smoothed, cream-colored paper of some sort. Holding it to the light, you can see the mesh of the plaited fibers of which it is made. I am kneeling on a soft, deeply piled rug, my knees sunk deeply into it, before a low, small, heavy, sturdy, thickly legged wooden table. The top is of dark, polished wood. To my right is a small bowl filled with black ink. I am writing this with some sort of reed pen. I must try not to blot the writing. Sometimes it is hard. I am afraid of what they might do to me. This place is unbelievably primitive.