The World of Null-A n-1 Read online

  The World of Null-A

  ( Null-A - 1 )

  Alfred Elton Van Vogt

  It is the year 2650 and Earth has become a world of non-Aristotelianism, or Null-A. This is the story of Gilbert Gosseyn, who lives in that future world where the Games Machine, made up of twenty-five thousand electronic brains, sets the course of people’s lives. Gosseyn isn’t even sure of his own identity, but realizes he has some remarkable abilities and sets out to use them to discover who has made him a pawn in an interstellar plot.

  Alfred Elton van Vogt

  The World of Null-A

  Author’s Introduction

  Reader, in your hands you hold one of the most controversial—and successful—novels in the whole of science fiction literature.

  In these introductory remarks, I am going to tell about some of the successes and I shall also detail what the principal critics said about The World of Null-A. Let me hasten to say that what you shall read is no acrimonious defense. In fact, I have decided to take the criticisms seriously, and I have accordingly revised this first Berkley edition and have provided the explanations which for so long I believed to be unnecessary.

  Before I tell you of the attacks, I propose swiftly to set down a few of The World of Null-A’s successes:

  It was the first hard-cover science fiction novel published by a major publisher after World War II (Simon and Schuster, 1948).

  It won the Manuscripters Club award.

  It was listed by the New York area library association among the hundred best novels of 1948.

  Jacques Sadoul, in France, editor of Editions OPTA, has stated that World of Null-A, when first published, all by itself created the French science fiction market. The first edition sold over 25,000 copies. He has stated that I am still—in 1969—the most popular writer in France in terms of copies sold.

  Its publication stimulated interest in General Semantics. Students flocked to the Institute of General Semantics, Lakewood, Connecticut, to study under Count Alfred Korzybski—who allowed himself to be photographed reading The World of Null-A. Today, General Semantics, then a faltering science, is taught in hundreds of universities.

  World has been translated into nine languages.

  With that out of the way, we come to the attacks. As you’ll see, they’re more fun, make authors madder, and get readers stirred up.

  Here is what Sam Moskowitz, in his brief biography of the author, said in his book, Seekers of Tomorrow, about what was wrong with World of Null-A: “. . . Bewildered Gilbert Gosseyn, mutant with a double mind, doesn’t know who he is and spends the entire novel trying to find out.” The novel was originally printed as a serial in Astounding Science Fiction, and after the final installment was published (Mr. Moskowitz continues), “Letters of plaintive puzzlement began to pour in. Readers didn’t understand what the story was all about. Campbell [the editor] advised them to wait a few days; it took that long, he suggested, for the implications to sink in. The days turned into months, but clarification never came—”

  You’ll admit that’s a tough set of sentences to follow. Plain, blunt-spoken Sam Moskowitz, whose knowledge of science fiction history and whose collection of science fiction probably is topped only by that of Forrest Ackerman (in the whole universe) . . . is nevertheless in error. The number of readers who wrote “plaintive” letters to the editor can be numbered on the fingers of one and a half hands.

  However, Moskowitz might argue that it isn’t the quantity of complainers, but the quality. And there he has a point.

  Shortly after The World of Null-A was serialized in 1945, a sci-fi fan, hitherto unknown to me, wrote in a science fiction fan magazine a long and powerful article attacking the novel and my work in general up to that time. The article concluded, as I recall it (from memory only) with the sentence: “Van Vogt is actually a pygmy writer working with a giant typewriter.”

  The imagery throughout this article, meaningless though that particular line is (if you’ll think about it), induced me to include in my answering article in a subsequent issue of the same fan magazine—which article is lost to posterity—the remark that I foresaw a brilliant writing career for the young man who had written so poetical an attack.

  That young writer eventually developed into the science fictional genius, Damon Knight, who—among his many accomplishments—a few years ago organized the Science Fiction Writers of America, which (though it seems impossible) is still a viable organization.

  Of Knight’s attack so long ago, Galaxy Magazine critic Algis Budrys wrote in his December, 1967, book review column: “In this edition [of critical essays] you will find among other goodies from the earlier version, the famous destruction of A. E. van Vogt that made Damon’s reputation.”

  What other criticisms of The World of Null-A are there? None. It’s a fact. Singlehandedly, Knight took on this novel and my work at age 23-1/2, and, as Algis Budrys puts it, brought about my “destruction.”

  So what’s the problem? Why am I now revising World? Am I doing all this for one critic?

  Yep.

  But why?—you ask.

  Well, on this planet you have to recognize where the power is.

  Knight has it?

  Knight has it.

  In a deeper sense, of course, I’m making this defense of the book, and revising it, because General Semantics is a worthwhile subject, with meaningful implications, not only in 2560 A. D. where my story takes place, but here and now.

  General Semantics, as defined by the late Count Alfred Korzybski in his famous book, Science and Sanity, is an over-word for non-Aristotelian and non-Newtonian systems. Don’t let that mouthful of words stop you. Non-Aristotelian means not according to the thought solidified by Aristotle’s followers for nearly 2,000 years. Non-Newtonian refers to our essentially Einsteinian universe, as accepted by today’s science. Non-Aristotelian breaks down to Non-A, and then Null-A.

  Thus, the titles World of—and Players of—Null-A.

  General Semantics has to do with the Meaning of Meaning. In this sense, it transcends and encompasses the new science of Linguistics. The essential idea of General Semantics is that meaning can only be comprehended when one has made allowances for the nervous and perception system—that of a human being—through which it is filtered.

  Because of the limitations of his nervous system, Man can only see part of truth, never the whole of it. In describing the limitation, Korzybski coined the term “ladder of abstraction.” Abstraction, as he used it, did not have a lofty or symbolical thought connotation. It meant, “to abstract from”, that is, to take from something a part of the whole. His assumption: in observing a process of nature, one can only abstract—i. e. perceive—a portion of it.

  Now, if I were a writer who merely presented another man’s ideas, then I doubt if I’d have had problems with my readers. I think I presented the facts of General Semantics so well, and so skilfully, in World of Null-A and its sequel that the readers thought that that was all I should be doing. But the truth is that I, the author, saw a deeper paradox.

  Ever since Einstein’s theory of relativity, we have had the concept of the observer who—it was stated—must be taken into account. Whenever I discussed this with people, I observed they were not capable of appreciating the height of that concept. They seemed to think of the observer as, essentially, an algebraic unit. Who he was didn’t matter.

  In such sciences as chemistry and physics, so precise were the methods that, apparently, it did not matter who the observer was. Japanese, Germans, Russians, Catholics, Protestants, Hindus, and Englishmen all arrived at the same impeccable conclusions, apparently bypassing their personal, racial, and religious prejudices. However, everyone I talked to was aware tha
t, as soon as members of these various nationalities or religious groups wrote history—ah, now, we had a different story (and of course a different history) from each individual.

  When I say above that “apparently” it didn’t matter in the physical sciences, or the “exact sciences” as they are so often called, the truth is that it does matter there also. Every individual scientist is limited in his ability to abstract data from Nature by the brainwashing he has received from his parents and in school. As the General Semanticist would say, each scientific researcher “trails his history” into every research project. Thus, a physicist with less educational or personal rigidity can solve a problem that was beyond the ability (to abstract) of another physicist.

  In short, the observer always is, and always has to be a “me” . . . a specific person.

  Accordingly, as World of Null-A opens, my hero—Gilbert Gosseyn—becomes aware that he is not who he thinks. He has a belief about himself that is false.

  Now, consider—analogically, this is true of all of us. Only, we are so far gone into falseness, so acceptant of our limited role, that we never question it at all.

  . . . To continue with the story of World: Not knowing who he is, nevertheless, my protagonist gradually becomes familiar with his “identity.” Which essentially means that he abstracts significance from the events that occur and gives them power over him. Presently he begins to feel that the part of his identity that he has abstracted is the whole.

  This is demonstrated in the second novel, The Players of Null-A. In this sequel story, Gilbert Gosseyn rejects all attempts at being someone else. Since he is not consciously abstracting in this area (of identity), he remains a pawn. For a person who is rigidly bound by identifications with what might be called the noise of the universe, the world is rich and colorful, not he. His identity seems to be something because it is recording this enormous number of impacts from the environment.

  The sum total of Gosseyn’s abstractions from the environment—this includes his proprioceptive perceptions of his own body—constitutes his memory.

  Thus, I presented the thought in these stories that memory equals identity.

  But I didn’t say it. I dramatized it.

  For example: a third of the way through World, Gosseyn is violently killed. But there he is again at the beginning of the next chapter, apparently the same person but in another body. Because he has the previous body’s memories, he accepts that he is the same identity.

  An inverted example: At the end of Players, the main antagonist, who believes in a specific religion, kills his god. It is too deadly a reality for him to confront; so he has to forget it. But to forget something so all-embracing, he must forget everything he ever knew. He forgets who he is.

  In short, no-memory equates with no-self.

  When you read World and Players, you’ll see how consistently this idea is adhered to and—now that it has been called to your attention—how precise is the development.

  I cannot at the moment recall a novel written prior to World of Null-A that had a deeper meaning than that which showed on the surface. Science fiction often seems so complicated all by itself when written straightforwardly without innuendoes or subtle implications on more than one level, that it seems downright cruel of a writer to add an extra dimension that is hidden. A recent example of such a two-level science fiction novel is the first of that genre written by the British existentialist philosopher, Colin Wilson, titled The Mind Parasites. The protagonist of Parasites was one of the New Men—an existentialist, in short.

  In World, we have the Null-A (non-Aristotelian) man, who thinks gradational scale, not black and white—without, however, becoming a rebel or a cynic, or a conspirator, in any current meaning of the term. A little bit of this in the Communist hierarchies, Asia and Africa in general, and our own Wall Street and Deep South, and in other either—or thinking areas . . . and we’d soon have a more progressive planet.

  Science fiction writers have recently been greatly concerned with characterization in science fiction. A few writers in the field have even managed to convey that their science fiction has this priceless quality.

  To set the record straight as to where I stand in this controversy—in the Null-A stories I characterize identity itself.

  Of greater significance than any squabble between a writer and his critics . . . General Semantics continues to have a meaningful message for the world today.

  Did you read in the newspapers at the time about S. I. Hayakawa’s handling of the San Francisco State College riots of 1968—69? They were among the first, and the most serious—out of control and dangerous. The president of the college resigned. Hayakawa was appointed interim president. What did he do? Well, Professor Hayakawa is today’s Mr. Null-A himself, the elected head of the International Society for General Semantics. He moved into that riot with the sure awareness that in such situations communication is the key. But you must communicate in relation to the rules that the other side is operating by.

  The honest demands of the people with genuine grievances were instantly over—met on the basis of better—thought. But the conspirators don’t even know today what hit them and why they lost their forward impetus.

  Such also happens in the fable of Gilbert GoSANE in The World of Null-A.

  A. E. VAN VOGT

  I

  Common sense, do what it will, cannot avoid being surprised occasionally. The object of science is to spare it this emotion and create mental habits which shall be in such close accord with the habits of the world as to secure that nothing shall be unexpected.

  B. R.

  The occupants of each floor of the hotel must as usual during the games form their own protective groups. . . .”

  Gosseyn stared somberly out of the curving corner window of his hotel room. From its thirty-story vantage point, he could see the city of the Machine spread out below him. The day was bright and clear, and the span of his vision was tremendous. To his left, he could see a blue-black river sparkling with the waves whipped up by the late-afternoon breeze. To the north, the low mountains stood out sharply against the high backdrop of the blue sky.

  That was the visible periphery. Within the confines of the mountains and the river, the buildings that he could see crowded along the broad streets. Mostly, they were homes with bright roofs that glinted among palms and semitropical trees. But here and there were other hotels, and more tall buildings not identifiable at first glance.

  The Machine itself stood on the leveled crest of a mountain.

  It was a scintillating, silvery shaft rearing up into the sky nearly five miles away. Its gardens, and the presidential mansion near by, were partially concealed behind trees. But Gosseyn felt no interest in the setting. The Machine itself overshadowed every other object in his field of vision.

  The sight of it was immensely bracing. In spite of himself, in spite of his dark mood, Gosseyn experienced a sense of wonder. Here he was, at long last, to participate in the games of the Machine—the games which meant wealth and position for those who were partially successful, and the trip to Venus for the special group that won top honors.

  For years he had wanted to come, but it had taken her death to make it possible. Everything, Gosseyn thought bleakly, had its price. In all his dreams of this day, he had never suspected that she would not be there beside him, competing herself for the great prizes. In those days, when they had planned and studied together, it was power and position that had shaped their hopes. Going to Venus neither Patricia nor he had been able to imagine, nor had they considered it. Now, for him alone, the power and wealth meant nothing. It was the remoteness, the unthinkableness, the mystery of Venus, with its promise of forgetfulness, that attracted. He felt himself aloof from the materialism of Earth. In a completely unreligious sense, he longed for spiritual surcease.

  A knock on the door ended the thought. He opened it and looked at the boy who stood there. The boy said, “I’ve been sent, sir, to tell you that all the rest of the
guests on this floor are in the sitting room.”

  Gosseyn felt blank. “So what?” he asked.

  “They’re discussing the protection of the people on this floor, sir, during the games.”

  “Oh!” said Gosseyn.

  He was shocked that he had forgotten. The earlier announcement coming over the hotel communicators about such protection had intrigued him. But it had been hard to believe that the world’s greatest city would be entirely without police or court protection during the period of the games. In outlying cities, in all other towns, villages, and communities, the continuity of law went on. Here, in the city of the Machine, for a month there would be no law except the negative defensive law of the groups.

  “They asked me to tell you,” the boy said, “that those who don’t come are not protected in any way during the period of the games.”

  “I’ll be right there,” smiled Gosseyn. “Tell them I’m a newcomer and forgot. And thank you.”

  He handed the boy a quarter and waved him off. He closed the door, fastened the three plasto windows, and put a tracer on his videophone. Then, carefully locking the door behind him, he went out along the hall.

  As he entered the sitting room, he noticed a man from his own town, a store proprietor named Nordegg, standing near the door. Gosseyn nodded and smiled a greeting. The man glanced at him curiously, but did not return either the smile or the nod. Briefly, that seemed odd. The unusualness of it faded from Gosseyn’s mind as he saw that others of the large group present were looking at him.

  Bright, friendly eyes, curious, friendly faces with just a hint of calculation in them—that was the impression Gosseyn had. He suppressed a smile. Everybody was sizing up everybody else, striving to determine what chance his neighbors had of winning in the games. He saw that an old man at a desk beside the door was beckoning to him. Gosseyn walked over. The man said, “I’ve got to have your name and such for our book here.”