The Cyberiad

But the dragon Klapaucius shot reacted strangely, to say the least. True, it did rear up on its hind paws with a howl that started a landslide or two, and it did thrash the rocks with its tail until the sparks flew all over the canyon. But then it scratched its ear, cleared its throat and coolly continued on its way, though trotting at a slightly quicker pace. Unable to believe his eyes, Klapaucius ran along the ridge to head the creature off at the mouth of the dried-up stream —it was no longer an article, or even two articles in the Dracological Journal he could see his name on now, but a whole monograph elegantly bound, with a likeness of the dragon and the author on the cover!

At the first bend he crouched behind a boulder, pulled out his improbability automatic, took aim and actuated the possibiliballistic destabilizers. The gunstock trembled in his hands, the red-hot barrel steamed; the dragon was surrounded with a halo like a moon predicting bad weather— but didn’t disappear! Once again Klapaucius unleashed the utmost improbability at the beast; the intensity of nonverisimilarity was so great, that a moth that happened to be flying by began to tap out the Second Jungle Book in Morse code with its little wings, and here and there among the crags and cliffs danced the shadows of witches, hags and harpies, while the sound of hoofbeats announced that somewhere in the vicinity there were centaurs gamboling, summoned into being by the awesome force of the improbability projector. But the dragon just sat there and yawned, leisurely scratching its shaggy neck with a hind paw, like a dog. Klapaucius clutched his sizzling weapon and desperately kept squeezing the trigger—he had never felt so helpless— and the nearest stones slowly lifted into the air, while the dust that the dragon had kicked up, instead of settling, hung in midair and assumed the shape of a sign that clearly read AT YOUR SERVICE GOV. It grew dim—day was night and night was day, it grew cold-—hell was freezing over; a couple of stones went out for a stroll and softly chatted of this and that; in short, miracles were happening right and left, yet that horrid monster sitting not more than thirty paces from Klapaucius apparently had no intention of disappearing. Klapaucius threw down his gun, pulled an anti-dragon grenade from his vest pocket and, committing his soul to the Universal Matrix of Transfinite Transformations, hurled it with all his might. There was a loud ker- boom, and into the air with a spray of rock flew the dragon’s tail, and the dragon shouted “Yipe!'—just like a person—and galloped straight for Klapaucius. Klapaucius, seeing the end was near, leaped out from behind his boulder, swinging his antimatter saber blindly, but then he heard another shout:

“Stop! Stop! Don’t kill me!”

“What’s that, the dragon talking?” thought Klapaucius. “I must be going mad…”

But he asked:

“Who said that? The dragon?”

“What dragon? It’s me!!”

And as the cloud of dust blew away, Trurl stepped out of the beast, pushing a button that made it sink to its knees and go dead with a long, drawn-out wheeze.

“Trurl, what on earth is going on? Why this masquerade? Where did you find such a costume? And what about the real dragon?” Klapaucius bombarded his friend with questions. Trurl finished brushing himself off and held up his hands.

“Just a minute, give me a chance! The dragon I destroyed, but the King wouldn’t pay…”

“Why not?”

“Stingy, most likely. He blamed it on the bureaucracy, of course, said there had to be a notarized death certificate, an official autopsy, all sorts of forms in triplicate, the approval of the Royal Appropriations Commission, and so on. The Head Treasurer claimed he didn’t know the procedure to hand over the money, for it wasn’t wages, nor did it come under maintenance. I went from the King to the Cashier to the Commission, back and forth, and no one would do anything; finally, when they asked me to submit a vita sheet with photographs and references, I walked out—but by then the dragon was beyond recall. So I pulled the skin off it, cut up a few sticks and branches, found an old telephone pole, and that was really all I needed; a frame for the skin, some pulleys—you know—and I was ready…”

“You, Trurl? Resorting to such shameful tactics? Impossible! What could you hope to gain by it? I mean, if they didn’t pay you in the first place…”

“Don’t you understand?” said Trurl, shaking his head. “This way I get the tribute! Already there’s more than I know what to do with.”

“Ah! Of course!!” Klapaucius saw it all now. But he added, “Still, it wasn’t right to force them…”

“Who was forcing them? I only walked around in the mountains, and in the evenings I howled a little. But really, I’m absolutely bushed.” And he sat down next to Klapaucius.

“What, from howling?”

“Howling? What are you talking about? Every night I have to drag sacks of gold from the designated cave— all the way up there!” He pointed to a distant ridge. “I made myself a blast-off pad—it’s right over there. Just carry several hundred pounds of bullion from sundown to sunup and you’ll see what I mean! And that dragon was no ordinary dragon—the skin itself weighs a couple of tons, and I have to cart that around with me all day, roaring and stamping —and then it’s all night hauling and heaving. I’m glad you showed up, I can’t take much more of this…”

“But… why didn’t the dragon—the fake one, that is— why didn’t it disappear when I lowered the probability to the point of miracles?” Klapaucius asked. Trurl smiled.

“I didn’t want to take any chances,” he explained. “Some fool of a hunter might’ve happened by, maybe even Basiliscus himself, so I put probability-proof shields under the dragonskin. But come, I’ve got a few sacks of platinum left —saved them for last since they’re the heaviest. Which is just perfect, now that you can give me a hand…”

The Fourth Sally or How Trurl Built a Femfatalatron to Save Prince Pantaloon from the Pangs of Love, and How Later He Resorted to a Cannonade of Babies

One day, in the middle of the night, as Trurl lay deep in slumber, there came a violent knocking at the door of his domicile, as if someone was trying to knock it off its hinges. Still in a stupor, Trurl pulled back the bolts and saw standing there against the paling stars an enormous ship. It looked like a giant sugar loaf or flying pyramid, and out of this colossus, which had landed right on his front lawn, long rows of andromedaries laden with packs walked down a wide ramp, while robots, garbed in turbans and togas and painted black, unloaded the bags at his doorstep, and so quickly, that before Trurl knew it, he was hemmed in by a growing embankment of bulging sacks—though a narrow passageway was left therein, and through this approached an electroknight of remarkable countenance, for his jeweled eyes blazed like comets, and he had radar antennas jauntily thrown back, and an elegant diamond- studded stole. This imposing personage doffed his armored cap and in a mighty yet silken voice inquired:

“Have I the honor to speak with his lordship Trurl, Trurl the highborn, Trurl the illustrious constructor?”

“Why yes, of course… won’t you come in… I wasn’t expecting… that is, I was asleep,” said Trurl, terribly flustered, pulling on a bathrobe, for a nightshirt was all he was wearing, and that wasn’t the cleanest.

The magnificent electroknight, however, appeared not to notice any shortcoming in Trurl’s attire. Doffng his cap again, which purred and hummed above his castellated brow, he gracefully entered the room. Trurl excused himself for a moment, perfunctorily performed his morning ablutions, then hurried back downstairs. By now it was growing light outside, and the first rays of the sun gleamed on the turbans of the robots, who sang the old sad and soulful song of bondage, “Tote Dat Jack,” as they formed in triple rows around both house and pyramidal ship. Trurl took a seat opposite his guest, who blinked his shining eyes and finally spoke as follows:

“The planet from which I come to you, Sir Constructor, is at present deep in the Dark Ages. Ah, but Your Excellency must forgive our untimely arrival, which did so incommoditate him; on board we had no way of knowing, you see, that at this particular locus of this worthy sphere, which your abode is pleased to occupy, night still reigned supreme and stayed the break of day.”

Here he cleared his throat, like someone playing sweetly upon a glass harmonica, and continued:

“I have been sent to Your Exalted Person by my lord and master, His Royal Highness Protuberon Asteristicus, sovereign ruler of the sister globes of Aphelion and Perihelion, hereditary monarch of Aneuria, emperor