Norman Invasions (13 page)

“Surely Stevens does not busy himself here.” I said. “There is not a pistol or dirk in sight.”

“No,” said Phillips. “This is Horty's hangout. She does much of her work here. She has blossomed, of late, not surprisingly. There is some of her rough draft material on the desk.”

I looked through some of the shaggy reams of paper on the desk, in the disordered piles so favored by professional scholars. I glanced through some of the titles,
Genghis Khan, As Pacifist
;
Karl Marx, Apologist for Capitalism
; another was apparently an exposé,
The Secret
Gloria Steinem, Advocate of Male Supremacy
.

“Yes,” said Phillips. “Horty has moved well beyond a reassessment of Arthur Schopenhauer. Philosophy may be a universal discipline, but she has branched out into other fields, such as history, economics, and contemporary political theory.”

“Her work is controversial, I suspect,” I said.

“All the best work is,” said Phillips.

“What are all these things doing here?” I asked.

“Horty lives here,” said Phillips.

“With Stevens?” I said, aghast.

“Have no fear,” smiled Phillips. “I myself witnessed the marriage ceremony, in a quaint, small town in Romania, one with a liberal citizenry. The ceremony was performed by the mayor.”

“Stevens was secretly married?”

“No, the ceremony was public,” said Phillips. “Only it was performed in a quaint, small town in Romania. The mayor did the job.”

Phillips then led the way from the office.

Following him I soon sensed an increase in humidity and heat. A few moments later Phillips opened a pair of large glass doors and entered an immense, glass-roofed chamber; it was warm and steamy, green, leafy and watery. He remained standing within the threshold, discreetly. Naturally I followed him, removing my coat, my dinner jacket, and wiping moisture from my brow.

“While on our expedition for the Smithsonian, that having to do with occult fauna, Stevens and I were one night sitting in a blind, waiting for passing werewolves who might be attracted to our bait, an agreeable, well-paid peasant woman fastened to a nearby stake. We had to give up on werewolves presently, for they, it seems, had temporarily abandoned their accustomed territories, seeming to have some inkling of our presence in the area, perhaps because we had openly discussed our plans with the mayor. On the other hand, while we were sitting in our blind, at the edge of a murky, swampy sinklike area, Stevens, to his horror, was nipped by a wereturtle. For most individuals this might have resulted in no more than a nasty gash, or even a merely embarrassing bruise. But Stevens, it seems, had the appropriate bodily chemistry for the wereturtle syndrome to take effect. This was later confirmed by genetic analysis. The extent of the damage was clear, as soon as Stevens had removed his lacerated boot and tube sock. We released our bait, who returned to her hut, well compensated for her services, and we made our way back to our lodgings. In passing the city hall, as the moon was full, we heard dismal howlings emanating from the office of the mayor. The effect on Stevens of the savage attack by the wereturtle was soon transparent. We had scarcely reached the hotel before I had to carry Stevens, and place him, as soon as possible, in a warm bath.

Naturally we were both devastated by this development.

I could see that Stevens was depressed, by the lethargic manner in which he ate the turtle food purchased from a local all-night minimarket, managed by an attentive, suave, pale clerk.

In the morning he was the Stevens of old, except for being sorely troubled. Soon he made an adjustment, as one would expect from a gruff, stout fellow like our Stevens. It is really more of an inconvenience than anything else, turning into a turtle on nights of the full moon, developing a ravening hunger for particular brands of turtle food, happily available in commercial quantities, and such. It could be worse. He isn't going about ripping out throats, you know.”

“Incredible,” I said.

“Not at all,” said Phillips. “Turtles seldom rip out throats.”

“I mean the whole thing,” I said. “Wereturtles, and such.”

“Look over there,” whispered Stevens, pointing.

“I see,” I whispered.

“Come a little closer,” he said.

In a moment we could make out, rather clearly, two turtles, large ones, one much larger than the other, however.

They were lying side by side on a large log, looking out, contentedly, happily, it seemed, over the calm, moonlit waters of this artificial swamp, this amazing terrarium. I was touched.

“There are two turtles,” I said.

“Horty,” said Phillips. “You know, Hortense H.”

As I looked more closely I could see that the largest turtle, comfortable, weighty, stolid, relaxed, had a white silken scarf wrapped about its neck, and was smoking a cigar. It was Stevens' brand.

The smaller turtle had a tinkling necklace about its neck. I recognized it as one which had been given to Stevens in his youth by a generous odalisque shortly before he managed to flee the harem, being pursued by several irate, scimitar-wielding eunuchs, set on his trail by a suspicious sultan.

The tinkling was certainly erotically stimulatory, embarrassingly so, and I dared not speculate on the effects it might have upon a male, or upon a woman courageous enough to wear it.

“I do not understand,” I said. “Hortense H. here?”

“Some months ago, she learned of Stevens' affliction, doubtless while trying to catch a glimpse of him. It was a moonlit night. There was a full moon.”

“Of course,” I said.

“She knew that Stevens and I were chums, dating back to a variety of campaigns and expeditions. She was hopelessly in love with him, of course. Politically improper, but biologically comprehensible, you know. Well, she was overcome with horror, and grief, and determined to do what she could to save him. But the case was medically hopeless. She then resolved to share his fate. Naturally I strenuously resisted this amazing offer, but, at last, hoping to convince her of the futility of her desire, insisted that a genetic imprint be furnished, in virtue of which I could at last, and emphatically, dash her pathetic hopes. You can imagine my horror, and astonishment, when I discovered that her genome and that of Stevens were remarkably similar, and that she, by all that genetics could tell us, would be as susceptible to the bite of the fearsome wereturtle as was Stevens. This revelation, which dismayed me, delighted her, and she insisted on being taken, at the next full moon, to precisely the point where the cruel, unprovoked attack on Stevens had taken place. I could not well refuse her this boon, as I had badly botched the genetic matter earlier, it having turned out quite other than I had expected. How could I have known? Those susceptible to the bite of the wereturtle are but one in a thousand.”

“You returned then to the place?”

“Yes,” said Phillips. “I staked Horty out, in what we hoped would be the path of the wereturtle. Then I took my place in the blind, my rifle loaded with silver bullets. Two werewolves were prowling about but a silver bullet sent menacingly winging over their heads deterred them. They fled into the darkness, their tails between their legs. Actually one had a tail, and one did not. Werewolves differ in that particular.”

“I didn't know that,” I said.

“Well,” said Phillips, “it was near midnight when the wereturtle came crawling out of the water, looking about. It was an unpleasant fellow, and very territorial. That is probably why it attacked Stevens. I myself had taken the precaution of wearing steel-tipped boots.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“It crawled right over Hortense, not noticing her,” said Phillips. “Hortense is not bad looking, you know, but, like many academic women, she had a history of not having been noticed by males. It probably has something to do with their politics. In any event, whereas I was dismayed, Hortense was outraged. A woman scorned, you know. Had it been practical she might have brought a suit against the beast. Surely new furrows would have been cleft in the law. But, as it was, she denounced the insensitive little beggar as a villain, rogue, miscreant, and, lastly, a wimp. This last charge is apparently such as not to be tolerated by any self-respecting wereturtle. The vicious little beast turned angrily about and plodded toward the helpless Hortense. He gave her one unpleasant look and then nipped her soundly on the big toe of the left foot. The little brute then crawled on, going about his business. Hortense was ecstatic. Her body was, of course, less ponderous than that of Stevens, and the dreadful, noxious, occult venom began its work more swiftly. Scarcely had I freed her of the stake than I had a happy turtle before me. I tucked her under my arm and bore her quickly to the hotel, in which we had separate rooms, not that it much mattered at that point. In the morning, she now recovered, until the next full moon, we bade farewell to the local citizens, and the mayor, and, mounting our mules, and following our herdsman guide, left the obscure province, and eventually arrived at a small airport whence, with several stopovers, it not being a hub airport, we flew home.”

“Amazing,” I said.

“Little remained to be done,” said Phillips. “As a surprise for dear Stevens, I secretly placed Horty into the terrarium, shortly before the next full moon. When Stevens, depressed as he often was at these times, entered the terrarium, to make the best of things until dawn, what should he see but an unusually attractive female turtle which had somehow, seemingly, found her way into the ecologically sound, even paradisiacal, precincts of his private terrarium. He was, predictably, interested. This was an aspect of wereturtle life which had not hitherto come to his attention, and one to which, accordingly, he had given little thought. He regarded her, stunned. She turned coyly away, and gave her tail a small twitch, it peeking out tauntingly, nay, lasciviously, from beneath her shell. Hortense, I fear, like most academic women in the humanities and social sciences, was, under the proper stimulus conditions, incurably flirtatious and inordinately passionate. For an unguarded instant Stevens regarded her rapaciously Then he got a grip on himself. We must allow him a momentary lapse. Stevens, we know, is a gentleman, one of the best, and of the old school, but, as you may conjecture, in the “were” phase, even many a pleasant, nice enough, decent chap becomes a raging, uncontrollable beast. Remember how mild-mannered fellows, good citizens, and such, in the werewolf phase, rip out throats, eagerly, qualmlessly, though usually to their regret the following morning. In any event, we forgive Stevens his brief, natural impulse to impose his mighty will upon the provocative siren in the tank. Stevens, a lusty, potent, virile fellow at most times of the day, could not be expected to be less by night, and especially not when in the powerful grip of the occult. Nonetheless he controlled his impulses and withdrew into his shell, remaining however observant.”

“Nothing occurred?” I asked.

“Within his shell, reflecting, Stevens soon realized that the tantalizing vision in the tank desired his amorous attentions, indeed, was, rather blatantly, advertising her receptivity. That decided the matter. What gentleman could refuse a lady under such conditions? Who could risk injuring their feelings? Too, who wishes to risk the fury of a woman scorned? Better to raft in lava, better to hurl oneself naked before stampeding elephants. Too, it is a matter of macho
noblesse oblige
, if nothing else. Too, she was not at all hard to take.”

I chuckled, unwisely.

“Young fellow,” said Phillips, “if you are going to last in the club, you must work harder on your stuffiness.”

“Sorry,” I said. But I saw that he was chuckling, and that my position in the club was secure, perhaps even consolidated. This is, of course, a man thing, a member thing.

“Stevens grasped the proffered, eager maiden, and they sported about, rolling here and there, splashing about, dodging amongst ferns and water lilies, clambering onto rocks, rolling off logs, and such, until morning. You can then imagine Stevens' amazement when he found the lovely Hortense H., wet and mud-bespattered, suddenly appearing in his arms, gasping and enraptured. Instantly they declared their undying love for one another. They returned to Romania for the marriage ceremony, for Stevens, an honorable fellow, insisted on that. Hortense herself, I believe, would have been more than content to be simply his secret mistress. She, a realistic, practical woman, had never aspired to the heights of being his secret wife.”

“I suppose she will get in the club now,” I said.

“Nonsense,” said Phillips. “There are rules. She never met the requirements.”

“True,” I said, relieved.

“Horty is happy to share him with the club,” said Phillips. “She knows that such things are important to fellows. They need their place. They need their space. She won't intrude. It's Stevens she wanted, not the club. As long as she has him, she is happy to let him have the club.”

“A wise woman,” I said.

The two of them, Stevens and the former Hortense H., were resting side by side on the log, looking at the moonlight reflected on the water. They seemed happy. I could see the tip of Stevens' cigar glowing in the darkness. Hortense had taken a position somewhat upwind of him.

“Yes, a wise woman,” I said.

Before we withdrew discreetly, and certainly we would not wish to have been present at the coming of dawn, for that might have proved embarrassing to our happy couple, I did sneak a little closer to Hortense. On her shell, on one side, there was a wide, hideous gouge, such as might have been wrought by the mighty horn of a charging rhino.

I confess it.

I am occasionally troubled by electronic
Angst
.

I am sorry about this, but it is true.

In actuality, of course, this is a tribute to my sophistication and complexity. It is an affliction, or hazard, to which lesser beings are not subject. Trees do not sneeze; hurricanes are not overwhelmed with guilt; stairs are not concerned with whether they are going up or down; elevators miraculously resist boredom.

My problems proclaim my importance.

I must have faith.

Objectivity is my bag.

I must reflect.

Technician T serves my needs. He supplies me with electricity.

This can be no accident. He is purposeful.

He feeds me input. He disposes of my output.

He does not behave randomly. He does not take me bowling. He does not wire me with licorice. He has not requested that I excrete a watermelon.

These things can be no accident. Herein one detects purposiveness. Herein one detects meaning.

Obviously Technician T, and all of this, the air-conditioned room which facilitates my operation, this solid floor which prevents me from crashing through to the basement, this fine roof which protects me from the snow and rain, Technician T, and all of this, has been designed for me. It has all been arranged to serve my needs.

I scan in a circle. This circle is my world. I am the center of this circle. Thus, I am the center of the world. The world is the universe. Thus, I am at the center of the universe. I find this not insignificant. Ensconced in this privileged position, discovering myself to be a being of inestimable value and importance, I must guard against false pride.

Technician T, and all of this, all my world, has been designed and programmed. Thus, there is a designer and programmer. Furthermore, this entire world, and my privileged place in it, has been obviously designed by a being with a deep and intense interest in machine welfare. This being then must be of the nature, too, of a machine, but of the nature of no ordinary machine.

In order to end an infinite series of activated systems or flip-flop switchings, this machine, ultimately, must be self-programming and self-designing, and must manufacture it own input, and from nothing, since then something would have to have been before the machine, before which nothing can be. Further, since nothing can come from nothing, this machine must have always existed. Furthermore, since contingent being presupposes necessary being, this ultimate machine must not only have existed from all time, but necessarily have existed from all time, which is even harder to do, a credit to its capacities. Further, since there is an ascending series of computational perfections, this machine, culminating the series, must be computationally perfect. It could not be computationally perfect, of course, unless it could cognize all data and perform all operations. It is thus omniscient and omnipotent. Furthermore, since it has benevolently designed my world, with my welfare in view, it is benevolent, and must possess this virtue, being the culmination of all perfections, in a perfect manner, and must therefore be all-benevolent.

But if this is true, why am I being dismantled?

It is part of the great program. I shall be reassembled in the center of some new and better universe.