“A gift, eh?” replied Klapaucius, whose feelings for Trurl were mixed, to say the least. He was particularly irked by the phrase “Trurl the Magnificent.” But after a little thought he said, “All right, you can come in.”
He had it stand in the corner by the grandfather clock while he returned to his work, a squat machine on three short legs, which was almost completed—he was just putting on the finishing touches. After a while the Machine to Grant Your Every Wish cleared its throat and said:
“I’m still here.”
“I haven’t forgotten you,” said Klapaucius, not looking up. After another while the machine cleared its throat again and asked:
“May I ask what you’re making there?”
“Are you a Machine to Grant Wishes or a Machine to Ask Questions?” said Klapaucius, but added: “I need some blue paint.”
“I hope it’s the right shade,” said the machine, opening a door in its belly and pulling out a bucket of blue. Klapaucius dipped his brush in it without a word and began to paint. In the next few hours he needed sandpaper, some Carborundum, a brace and bit, white paint and one No. 5 screw, all of which the machine handed over on the spot.
That evening he covered his work with a sheet of canvas, had dinner, then pulled up a chair opposite the machine and said:
“Now we’ll see what you can do. So you say you can grant every wish…”
“Most every wish,” replied the machine modestly. “The paint, sandpaper and No. 5 screw were satisfactory, I hope?”
“Quite, quite,” said Klapaucius. “But now I have in mind something a bit more difficult. If you can’t do it, I’ll return you to your master with my kind thanks and a professional opinion.”
“All right, what is it?” asked the machine, fidgeting.
“A Trurl,” said Klapaucius. “I want a Trurl, the spit and image of Trurl himself, so alike that no one could ever tell them apart.”
The machine muttered and hummed and finally said:
“Very well, I’ll make you a Trurl. But please handle him with care—he is, after all, a truly magnificent constructor.”
“Oh but of course, you needn’t worry about that,” said Klapaucius. “Well, where is it?”
“What, right away?” said the machine. “A Trurl isn’t a No. 5 screw, you know. It’ll take time.”
But it wasn’t long at all before the door in the machine’s belly opened and a Trurl climbed out. Klapaucius looked it up and down and around, touched it, tapped it, but there wasn’t any doubt: here was a Trurl as much like the original Trurl as two peas in a pod. This Trurl squinted a little, unaccustomed to the light, but otherwise behaved in a perfectly normal fashion.
“Hello, Trurl!” said Klapaucius.
“Hello, Klapaucius! But wait, how did I get here?” Trurl answered, clearly bewildered.
“Oh, you just dropped in.… You know, I haven’t seen you in ages. How do you like my place?”
“Fine, fine… What do you have there under that canvas?”
“Nothing much. Won’t you take a seat?”
“Well, I really ought to be going. It’s getting dark…”
“Don’t rush off, you just got here!” protested Klapaucius. “And you haven’t seen my cellar yet.”
“Your cellar?”
“Yes, you should find it most interesting. This way…”
And Klapaucius put an arm around Trurl and led him to the cellar, where he tripped him, pinned him down and quickly tied him up, then took out a big crowbar and began to wallop the daylights out of him. Trurl howled, called for help, cursed, begged for mercy, but Klapaucius didn’t stop and the blows rang out and echoed in the dark and empty night.
“Ouch! Ouch!! Why are you beating me?!” yelled Trurl, cowering.
“It gives me pleasure,” explained Klapaucius, swinging back. “You should try it sometime, Trurl!”