Without another word Trurl rushed back to his ship, but saw that his friend was coming with him. When he had blasted off into space, pointed the bow between two great clusters of eternal flame and opened the throttle all the way, Klapauciussaid:
“Trurl, you’re hopeless. You always act first, think later. And now what do you intend to do when we get there?”
“I’ll take the kingdom away from him!”
“And what will you do with it?”
“Destroy it!” Trurl was about to shout, but choked on the first syllable when he realized what he was saying. Finally he mumbled:
“I’ll hold an election. Let them choose just rulers from among themselves.”
“You programmed them all to be feudal lords or shiftless vassals. What good would an election do? First you’d have to undo the entire structure of the kingdom, then assemble from scratch…”
“And where,” exclaimed Trurl, “does the changing of structures end and the tampering with minds begin?!” Klapaucius had no answer for this, and they flew on in gloomy silence, till the planet of Excelsius came into view. As they circled it, preparing to land, they beheld a most amazing sight.
The entire planet was covered with countless signs of intelligent life. Microscopic bridges, like tiny lines, spanned every rill and rivulet, while the puddles, reflecting the stars, were full of microscopic boats like floating chips… The night side of the sphere was dotted with glimmering cities, and on the day side one could make out flourishing metropolises, though the inhabitants themselves were much too little to observe, even through the strongest lens. Of the king there was not a trace, as if the earth had swallowed him up.
“He isn’t here,” said Trurl in an awed whisper. “What have they done with him? Somehow they managed to break through the walls of their box and occupy the asteroid…”
“Look!” said Klapaucius, pointing to a little cloud no larger than a thimble and shaped like a mushroom; it slowly rose into the atmosphere. “They’ve discovered atomic energy… And over there—you see that bit of glass? It’s the remains of the box, they’ve made it into some sort of tern-pie…”
“I don’t understand. It was only a model, after all. A process with a large number of parameters, a simulation, a mock-up for a monarch to practice on, with the necessary feedback, variables, multistats…” muttered Trurl, dumbfounded.
“Yes. But you made the unforgivable mistake of over-perfecting your replica. Not wanting to build a mere clock-like mechanism, you inadvertently—in your punctilious way —created that which was possible, logical and inevitable, that which became the very antithesis of a mechanism…”
“Please, no more!” cried Trurl. And they looked out upon the asteroid in silence, when suddenly something bumped their ship, or rather grazed it slightly. They saw this object, for it was illumined by the thin ribbon of flame that issued from its tail. A ship, probably, or perhaps an artificial satellite, though remarkably similar to one of those steel boots the tyrant Excelsius used to wear. And when the constructors raised their eyes, they beheld a heavenly body shining high above the tiny planet—it hadn’t been there previously—and they recognized, in that cold, pale orb, the stern features of Excelsius himself, who had in this way become the Moon of the Microminians.
TALE OF THE THREE STORYTELLING MACHINES OF KING GENIUS
TALE OF THE THREE STORYTELLING MACHINES OF KING GENIUS
One day to Trurl’s abode there came a stranger, and it was plain just as soon as he alighted from his photon phaeton that here was no ordinary personage but one who hailed from distant parts, for where all of us have arms he had only a gentle breeze, and where there are usually legs he had nothing but a shimmering rainbow, and in lieu of a head he sported a plumed fedora; his voice issued forth from his center, and indeed, he was a perfect sphere, a sphere of the most engaging appearance and girdled with an elegant semipermeable cummerbund. Bowing low to Trurl, he revealed that there were really two of him, the top half and the bottom; the top was called Synchronicus, the bottom Symphonicus. To Trurl this seemed an excellent solution to the problem of constructing intelligent beings, and he had to confess he had never met an individual so well turned, so precise, and with such a fine shine. The stranger returned the compliment by praising Trurl’s corpus, then broached the purpose of his visit: a close friend and loyal servant of the famous King Genius, he had come to place an order for three storytelling machines.
“Our mighty lord and sovereign,” he said, “has long refrained from all reigning and ruling, to which total abdication he was brought by a wisdom achieved through careful study of the ways of this and other worlds. Leaving his kingdom, he retired to a dry and airy cave, there to give himself up to meditation. Yet oft times sorrow comes upon him, and self-abhorrence, and then nothing can console him but stories, stories that are new and unusual. But alas, the few of us who have remained faithfully at his side ran out of new stories long ago. And so we turn to you, O constructor, to help us divert our King by means of machines, which you do build so well.”
“Yes, that’s possible,” said Trurl. “But why do you need as many as three?”
“We should like,” replied Symchrophonicus, spinning slowly, “the first to tell stories that are involved but untroubled, the second, stories that are cunning and full of fun, and the third, stories profound and compelling.”
“In other words, to (1) exercise, (2) entertain and (3) edify the mind,” said Trurl. “I understand. Shall we speak of payment now, or later?”
“When you have completed the machines, rub this ring,” was the reply, “and the phaeton shall appear before you. Climb into it with your machines, and it shall carry you at once to the cave of King Genius. There voice your wishes; he shall do what he can to grant them.”
And he bowed again, handed Trurl a ring, gave a radiant wink and floated back to the phaeton, which was instantly wrapped in a cloud of blinding light, and the next moment Trurl was standing alone in front of his house, holding the ring, not overly happy about what had just transpired.
“Do what he can,” he muttered, returning to his workshop. “Oh, how I hate it when they say that! It means only one thing: you bring up the matter of the fee, and that’s the end of the curtsies and courtesies; all you get for your pains is a lot of trouble, and bruises, more often than not…”
At which the ring stirred in the palm of his hand and said:
“The expression ‘do what he can’ indicates merely that King Genius, lacking a kingdom, is a king of limited means. He appeals to you, O constructor, as one philosopher to another—and apparently is not mistaken in so doing, for these words, I see, uttered though they be by a ring, do not surprise you. Be then not surprised at His Highness’ somewhat straitened circumstances. Have no fear, you shall receive your payment as is meet, albeit not in gold. Yet there are things more to be desired than gold.”
“Indeed, Sir Ring,” observed Trurl wryly. “Philosophy is all very well and good, but the ergs and amps, the ions and the atoms, not to mention other odds and ends needed in the building of machines—they cost, they cost like the devil! So I like my contracts to be clear, everything spelled out in articles and clauses, and with plenty of signatures and seals. And, though I am hardly the greedy, grasping sort, I do love gold, particularly in large quantities, and am not ashamed to admit it! Its sparkle, its yellow hue, the sweet weight of it in the hand—these things, when I pour a sack or two of tinkling ducats on the floor and wallow in them, warm my heart and brighten my soul, as if someone had kindled a little sun within. Aye, damn it, I love my gold!” he cried, carried away by his own words.
“But why must it be the gold that others bring? Are you not able to supply yourself with as much as you desire?” inquired the ring, blinking with surprise.
“Well, I don’t know how wise this King Genius of yours is,” Trurl retorted, “but you, I see, are a thoroughly uneducated ring! What, you would have me make my own gold? Whoever heard of such a thing?! Is a cobbler a cobbler to mend his own shoes? Does a cook do his own cooking, a soldier his own fighting? Anyway, in case you didn’t know, next to gold I love to complain. But enough of this idle chatter, there is work to be done.”
And he placed the ring in an old tin can, rolled up his sleeves and built the three machines in three days, not once leaving his workshop. Then he considered what external shapes to give them, wanting something that would be both simple and functional. He tried on various casings, one after the other, while the ring kept interfering with comments and suggestions, until he had to close the can.