“You think the tunnel safe,” he said, “because it was I who flew it. But you would be of an altogether different opinion had it been you, instead. But enough of the tunnel. As far as the Shroud and Anonymoid are concerned, it isn’t my habit to settle such things with words. We’ll go there, and then you’ll see'—and he held up the heavy book— “you’ll see what’s true in here, and what is not!”
Klapaucius did his best to dissuade him, but when he saw that Trurl, stubborn as usual, had absolutely no intention of backing down from so singularly conceived a sally, he first declared that he would have nothing more to do with him, but before very long had joined in preparing for the voyage: he didn’t wish to see his friend perish alone—somehow, two can look death in the eye more cheerfully than one.
Finally, having stocked the larder with plenty of provisions, for the way would lead through vast, barren regions (not as picturesque, to be sure, as the book depicted), they took off in their trusty ship. During the flight, they stopped now and then to ask directions, particularly when they had left far behind the territory with which they were familiar. Not much could be learned from the natives, however, for these spoke reliably only about their immediate surroundings—of things that lay beyond, where they had never ventured themselves, they gave the most absurd account, and in great detail, elaborating with both relish and a sense of dread. Klapaucius called such tales “corroded,” having in mind the corrosis-sclerosion that attacks all aging brains.
But when they had come within five or six million light-blocks of the Black Wastes, they began to hear rumors of some robber-giant who called himself The PHT Pirate. No one they spoke to had actually seen him, nor knew what “PHT” was supposed to mean. Trurl thought this might be a distortion of “pH,” which would indicate an ionic pirate with a high concentration and very base, but Klapaucius, more level-headed, preferred to refrain from entertaining such hypotheses. To all accounts, this pirate was an ill-tempered brute, as evidenced by the fact that, even after stripping his victims of everything, he was never satisfied, his greed being great and insatiable, and beat them long and cruelly before setting them free. For a moment or two the constructors considered whether they shouldn’t arm themselves with blasters or blades before entering the Wastes, but soon concluded that the best weapon was their wits, sharpened in constructorship, subtle, agile and universal; so they set out just as they were.
It must be confessed that Trurl, as they traveled on, was bitterly disillusioned; the starry starlight, the fiery fires, the cavernous voids, the meteor reefs and shooting shoals were nowhere near as enchanting to the eye as promised in the ancient tome. There were only a few old stars about, and those were unimpressive, if not downright shabby; some barely flickered, like cinders in a heap of ashes, and some were completely dark and hardened on the surface, red veins glowing dully through cracks in their charred and wrinkled crusts. Of flaming jungles of combustion and mysterious vortices there was not a sign, nor had anyone ever heard of them, for the desolate waste was a place of tedium, and tedious in the extreme, by virtue of the fact that it was desolate, and a waste. As far as meteors went, they were everywhere, but in that rattling, clattering swarm was a good deal more flying refuse than honest magnetites, tektites or aerolites—for the simple reason that the Galactic Pole was only a stone’s throw away, and the swirling dark currents sucked to this very spot, southward, prodigious quantities of flotsam and jetsam from the central zones of the Galaxy. Hence all the tribes and nations in the neighborhood spoke of this area not as any sort of Shroud, but as nothing more or less than what it was: a junkyard.
Trurl hid his disappointment as best he could, in order not to occasion sarcastic comments from Klapaucius, and steered straight into the Wastes. Immediately sand began to patter on the bow; every kind of stellar debris, spewed from prominences or supernovae, collected and caked up on the ship’s hull, forming such a thick coat, that the constructors lost all hope of ever getting it clean again.
By now the stars had vanished in the general gloom, so the two proceeded gropingly, till suddenly their ship lurched, and all the furniture, pots and pans went flying; they felt themselves hurtling forward, faster and faster, then at last there was an awful crunch and the ship came to a stop, landing softly enough though at an angle, as if its nose had stuck in something doughy. They ran to the window, but couldn’t see a thing, as it was pitch black outside—and now they heard someone banging, someone fearfully strong, whoever it was, for the very walls were buckling in. At this point Trurl and Klapaucius began to feel a little less confident in the power of their unarmed wits, but it was too late now, so they opened the hatch, since otherwise it would be forced from without and broken for good.
As they looked, someone stuck his face in the opening— a face so huge, that it was clearly out of the question for the rest of the body to climb in after it, and not only huge, but unspeakably hideous, studded up and down and every which way with bulging eyes, and the nose was a saw, and an iron hook served for the jaw. The face didn’t move, pressed up against the open hatch, only the eyes darted back and forth, avidly examining everything, as if appraising whether or not the take was worth the trouble. Even someone far less intelligent than our constructors would have understood what that scrutiny meant, for it was unmistakable.
“Well?” said Trurl finally, exasperated by such shameless eyeing, which went on in silence. “What do you want, you unwashed mug?! I am Trurl, constructor and general omni-potentiary, and this is my friend Klapaucius, also of great renown, and we were flying by in our ship as tourists, so kindly remove your ugly muzzle and take us immediately out of this unsavory place—full of litter and rubbish, no doubt—and direct us to some clean, respectable sector, or we’ll lodge a complaint and they’ll have you broken down into little scrap—do you hear me, you scavenger, ragpicker, pack rat?!”
But the face said nothing, just looked and looked, as if calculating, making an estimate of how much.
“Listen here, you unmitigated freak,” yelled Trurl, throwing all caution to the winds, though Klapaucius kept elbowing him to show some restraint, “we have no gold, no silver, no precious stones, so you let us go this instant, and above all cover up that oversized physiognomy of yours, for it’s unspeakably hideous. And you'—he said, turning to Klapaucius—'stop jabbing me with that elbow! This is the way you have to talk to such types!”
“I have no use,” suddenly said the face, turning its thousand glittering eyes on Trurl, “for gold or silver, and the way you have to talk to me is delicately and with respect, as I am a pirate with a Ph.D., well-educated and by nature extremely high-strung. Other guests have been here and needed sweetening up—and when I’ve given you a proper pounding too, why, you’ll be positively dripping with good manners. My name is Pugg, I’m thirty arshins in every direction and it’s true I rob, but in a manner that is modern and scientific, for I collect precious facts, genuine truths, priceless knowledge, and in general all information of value. And now, let’s hand it over, otherwise I whistle! Very well then, I’ll count to five—one, two, three…”
And at five, when they had handed him nothing, he let loose such a whistle, that their ears nearly flew off, and Klapaucius realized that the “PHT” of which the natives spoke with terror was indeed “Ph.D.,” for the pirate had obviously studied at some higher institution, like the Criminal Academy. Trurl held his head and groaned—Pugg’s whistle was fully commensurate with his size.
“We’ll give you nothing!” he cried, while Klapaucius ran off to find some cotton. “And get your face out of here!”
“You don’t like my face, maybe you’ll like my hand,” replied the pirate. “It’s one huge humdinger of a hand and heavy as the devil! And here it comes!”
And indeed: the cotton Klapaucius brought was no longer needed, for the face had disappeared, and in its place was a paw, a paw to end all paws, with knots and knobs and shovel claws, and it rummaged and clutched, breaking tables and hutches and cupboards, till all the pots and pans came crashing down, and the paw chased Trurl and Klapaucius into the engine room, where they climbed up on top of the atomic pile and rapped its knuckles—pow! pow!—with a poker. This made the diplomaed pirate mad, and he put his face back in the hatch and said:
“Look, I strongly advise you to come to terms with me at once, otherwise I’ll put you aside for later, at the very bottom of my storage bin, and cover you with garbage, and wedge you in with rocks, so you can’t move, and you’ll just sit there and slowly rust. So then, which is it to be?”
Trurl wouldn’t hear of negotiating, but Klapaucius politely asked what exactly it was that His Doctoral Diploma-hood wanted?
“Now you’re talking,” he said. “I gather rich mines of information, for such is my lifelong love and avocation, the result of a higher education and, I might add, a practical grasp of the situation, when you consider that, with the usual treasures untutored pirates like to hoard, there is not a blessed thing here one can buy. Information, on the other hand, satisfies one’s thirst for knowledge, and it is well known besides, that everything that is, is information; and thus for centuries now I gather it, and will continue to do so, though it’s true I’m not against a little gold or diamonds now and then, for they’re pretty and decorative—but that’s strictly on the side, as occasion warrants. Observe, however, that for false information, no less than for false coin, I give a good shellacking, since I
