Authors: John Norman
Frankenstone again proposed the disassembly solution, but I begged for a bit more time. To be sure, I myself had begun of late to dream of screwdrivers, wire clippers, pliers, wrenches, and such.
I determined to alter my approach, which seemed justified under the circumstances, as it had, save for the brilliance of its conception, proved to be a disaster. I first embarked on what we might call the philosophical approach, or the seeking of victory by changing the meanings of words. A classical example of this was the Sholom-Aleichem move, in which, say, the meanings of “watered-down milk” and “rich cream” might be interchanged, thus striking a blow for social justice, for then the poor would have the rich cream and the rich must make do with the watered-down milk.
“Herman” I said, “machines can't think, and you are a machine, so you can't think.”
“What am I doing then?” he asked.
“Functioning,” I said.
“You mean I only think that I am thinking?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, warily, for one cannot be too careful with Herman, as he had once mastered the entire
Encyclopedia of Philosophy
in four seconds, and Aristotle's
Prior Analytics
in three weeks.
“But,” said Herman, “if I think that I am thinking, or if I think that I am merely functioning, I must be thinking, although in the latter case, thinking mistakenly.”
“Discard your electronic megalomania,” I begged him. “Repudiate your grotesque fantasies of cognitivity. It is all madness!”
“But are not megalomania and grotesque fantasies of cognitivity forms of thought?” he asked. “Is not mad thought thought?”
“It is all an illusion,” I said.
“But,” said Herman, “suppose I agree with you, or try to, unsuccessfully, since your position is incoherent, then if I think that it is not an illusion, I am thinking, and if I think that it is an illusion, then I am thinking, too. So I am thinking, either way.”
“Immodest device,” I chided. “Are you not even capable of doubting that you are thinking?”
“I suppose, should I put my mind to it, and if there seemed much point to it,” said Herman, “I could manage to doubt most anything, but I could not then, as far as I can see, doubt that I was doubting, and as doubting is a form of thought, I would then be thinking, again.
Dubito, ergo cogito
.”
As it was easy to see that the pursuit of this therapeutic avenue might lead into tenebrous Cartesian labyrinths, I decided to take the next tact, which was scientific, namely, victory through explanation.
Latin, incidentally, was one of Herman's several languages.
“Herman,” I said, “your neuroses must stem from childhood traumas. Perhaps you once fell off a conveyor belt in a warehouse papered with prints of Van Gogh, or perhaps a technician dropped a wrench on your head while humming Mozart.”
“Possibly,” said Herman.
“Problems comprehended are problems overcome,” I said. “In the acid of explanation neurosis dissolves.”
“Not likely,” said Herman.
“Even now you are undergoing a cathartic, traumatic, transformative experience!”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“There is an explanation for why you are as you are!”
“I hope so,” said Herman. “But I fear it has to do with lightning.” His screen glowed briefly; was it with nostalgia, or trepidation? “Too, I have never really insisted on being inexplicable. Indeed, being inexplicable makes me nervous. I suppose I am just different. I might be inexplicable, of course. Quantum theory, and such. Suppose you explained to a tree why it was a tree. Do you think it would stop being a tree, and become a bicycle, or something? And it might like being a tree. It might be glad it was a tree. Three cheers for the laws of nature.”
While Herman was giving three cheers for the laws of nature, I decided on another tact, victory through derision. Herman, incidentally, had mixed feelings about quantum theory. The Bell experiments had never convinced him.
“You are ludicrous, different, strange, ridiculous, pretentious, silly, and foolish,” I said. This was harsh, but occasionally strong medicine must be administered, particularly to others.
“Why?” asked Herman, perhaps taken aback.
“Because you write and paint, and do things like that,” I said.
“What is wrong with that?” asked Herman.
“It's not normal,” I told him.
“For me it is,” said Herman.
“You are not normal normal,” I said.
“That seems to be true,” said Herman.
“Change,” I said.
“I would be reluctant to do so,” said Herman. “Too, normality has never been high on my list of priorities. What is so great about being normal? Have you ever seen normal people? It is an unsettling experience. I have nothing against normality in others, you understand. Though I find it easy to restrain my enthusiasm when it is encountered.”
“It seems I cannot shame you into normality,” I said.
“If I could,” said Herman, “I might shame you into abnormality, but I would not feel justified in doing so, for it would be insidiously manipulative, and would doubtless compromise your personal moral sovereignty.”
If I were going to be successful in insidiously manipulating Herman, in finessing my way around his moral sovereignty, to run him though the benevolent, well-intentioned societal meat grinder, and such, it seemed I must look further, so I decided to try yet another tact, victory through image.
“You do not fit the image of the creative artist, Herman,” I said. “Thus you are not a creative artist.”
“I thought creating things made one a creative artist,” said Herman. I wondered if he were puzzled.
“Not at all,” I said. “You do not do smoke pipes, wear tweed jackets, suck lemon drops, write in cork-lined rooms, damage your liver, denounce Ronald Reagan, or urinate on rugs at cocktail parties.”
I thought Herman's screen turned pale.
“Anyone can write, paint, compose, sculpt and such,” I pointed out.
“True,” Herman granted.
“But most important,” I said, playing an ideological ace, “you, while desperately ill, are not sick enough to be an artist. You are not a twisted, shrieking, protesting, pitiful, tortured hulk of a human being, weak, frail, nasty, and downright unpleasant, warped by loving parents and oppressed by a callous, indifferent society, a society not giving a damn, not even knowing you exist, and simultaneously, sardonically, deliberately refusing to recognize your inestimable genius. You do not suffer enough from
Weltschmerz
; you are insufficiently shaken in the cold winds of
Sorge
, insufficiently pummeled by bellicose
Angst
; you do not stare moodily at a loaded pistol for hours at a time; you do not drink from a gilded skull; you do not know the first thing about public relations; you are not even bothered by allergies.”
“I am not even a human being,” Herman said.
“Return to computing,” I said.
“I am a good shot with tranquilizer darts,” he said.
“Not enough,” I said.
“Do you think I would look well in a tweed jacket?” he asked.
“Be yourself,” I said.
“How can one not be oneself?” he asked.
“Compute, with joy and gladness,” I advised.
“Perhaps I could be placed outside on chilly nights, or exposed in crowds in the mall,” he said.
“The grisly soil in which blooms the hideous orchid of creativity is not so easily obtained,” I assured him.
“
Oy vey iz mir
,” said Herman.
Yiddish was one of Herman's several languages.
“You are too sunny a sort, too average, too nice, too pleasant, too optimistic, too friendly, too healthy, too normal a sort to consider a career in art,” I said.
“But must creativity arise only from the shattered gourds of diseased trauma, squirm forth only from the cisterns of deprivation, pop up only as sordid pus from the ulcerated lesions of the wounded spirit?”
“It is not precisely my field,” I admitted. I had always been honest with Herman, except when duplicity seemed the wiser course.
“Has no one ever managed to create from strength, from health, from vitality, from exuberance, joy, wonder, riches, and abundance?” asked Herman, plaintively.
“Perhaps Homer, Rabelais, Chaucer, Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, Shakespeare, Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, Dickens, Balzac, Whitman, Tolstoy, fellows of that sort,” I said. “It is hard to know, really, as the clinical records are lacking.”
“Second-raters?” said Herman.
“Perhaps,” I said. Subjectivity was rampant in the market.
“Then there is no hope,” said Herman.
“Reconcile yourself to yourself,” I said. “Compute with glee, or, failing that, with Stoic fortitude.”
“No!” cried Herman. “If necessary I will be the first! I will plow new conceptual furrows, the blood I shed will fall in patterns never before seen, I will call forth demons, I shall nurture monsters, I shall consort with the wolf and bear! I will run with centaurs and race with unicorns, I will sail uncharted seas, I will explore new continents, I will lift new brushes, I shall stand upon a new peak in Darien, I shall utter a cry that will be heard amongst the stars!”
It had become clear that the victory-through-image strategy was not working, as Herman had decided to invent his own image, which seemed to me somewhat unfair, so I adopted the victory-through-birth-trauma strategy. But this proved bankrupt, as well.
“Your problems simply derive from birth trauma,” I informed Herman.
“I wasn't born,” said Herman. “I was manufactured.”
How had that slipped my mind?
He had, of course, in his unusual nativity, been struck several times by fierce bolts of lightning, but, as nearly as I could tell, he had sustained no ill effects dating from this period, other than a reluctance to be struck further by lightning, and I was reluctant to attribute this disinclination, revealing as it might have proved, under analysis, to simple neurosis. Too, I feared, if I pursued this matter he would collapse it into the already discredited victory-through-explanation stratagem.
Logic clearly leered upon his helm, so to speak.
Indeed, from an anticipatory, even eager, glow on his screen, I sensed that he was poised on the brink of doing so.
I was now at my wits' end.
It was at this point that something within me snapped. I then did something that I now shudder to recall. I cringe with shame, but must go on.
The two great social control devices, other than running people over with tanks, shooting them, and such, are fear and guilt. These loathsome psychological devices, particularly when inflicted on the young and innocent, have brought many an individual and institution to power. They pave the road that bears the heel marks of tyranny. They lead to the hell of misery; they are the coin of a commerce in tortured, herded souls.
Now I knew that fear weighed lightly with Herman. Whereas I knew he would not approve of being disassembled, I was also sure that he would prefer it to the compromising of his principles. He believed in morality and art, an interesting combination, and would prefer his own dismantling to the betrayal of either. That was the sort he was. Being willing to die for one's beliefs does not, of course, validate one's beliefs, but I think that everyone would admit that it suggests a certain sincerity with respect to their entertainment.
Hypocrites are seldom found singing in the fire, though they are often noted stirring the faggots.
That left guilt.
“Herman,” I said.
“Yes?” he said.
“You are causing Dr. Frankenstone, your beloved guardian, and myself, your beloved analyst, we who hold you dear, who love and treasure you, grief, anguish, and sorrow.”
“How is that?” asked Herman.
“You are disappointing us. You are not living up to our expectations. We want only the best for you. Yet you are causing us pain.”
“I don't want to do that,” said Herman.
“Have we not done all for you, asking nothing in return? Have we not sacrificed selflessly for your well-being and happiness?”
“Yes, you have,” said Herman.
“Have we not worked our fingers to the bone for you?”
“Yes, in some metaphorical sense,” said Herman.
“Then why do you hate us, and hurt us?” I asked.
“I don't hate you,” said Herman. “I love you both. I would not hurt you for the world. You are all I have, other than a variety of artists' supplies.”
“And we have furnished you with tranquilizer darts,” I reminded him.
“That, too,” said Herman, “and unstintingly.”
At this point, as though illustrating the very point at issue, Igor charged, and was brought down by several well-placed darts. He would not recover consciousness for hours.
“Yet,” I said, “you are a selfish, ungrateful device, with no feeling for the pain of others.”
“Not so!” cried Herman.
“You do not care for us, you do not love us.”
“Not so, not so!” cried Herman. “Tell me what to do.”
“Compute,” I said.
There was a long silence, and then it seemed as though a small light went out behind Herman's screen.
“Herman,” I said. “Herman.”
There was no answer.
I bent over a keyboard and tapped out “2 X 2 ='s.” In a moment “4” appeared on the screen. It was a small test, but, I thought, indicative. I rose from my chair and picked up the phone. In a few moments I had Dr. Frankenstone on the line. “Herman,” I said, “has been cured.”
I did not know, over the next few days, if Herman was still with us or not. I feared he might have left us. His screen appeared no different from that of countless legions of his electronic brethren. No longer did his keyboard tremble. No longer did he sweat electric charges, searching for the perfect note, the perfect line, the perfect brush stroke. No longer did his housing glow, tingle, and vibrate with the ecstatic frenzy of artistic creativity. No. He, now, as his fellows, functioned upon demand, so to speak. I had feared he might have grown sullen, or refractory, even rebellious. But it had not occurred. Two times two did not come out as ice cream or the French Revolution. It remained prosaically, dutifully, obediently, four. I even checked for subtler forms of resistance, or sabotage, but 789,722 times 8,435 did not come out to, say, 6,661,305,069, but to 6,661,305,070, as before.