“My dear Multitudians,” he said. “Permit me to leave your planet, for I do not share your faith in the glory of great numbers when there is nothing more to them than what may be counted.”
But instead, exchanging a look and nodding, they snapped their fingers, which set up a shock wave of such prodigious force, that Trurl was hurled into the air and flew, turning head over heels, for quite some time before landing on his feet in a garden of the royal palace. Mandrillion the Greatest, ruler of the Multitudians, approached; he had been watching the constructor’s flight and descent, and now said:
“They tell me, O alien, that you have not paid proper tribute to the numerosity of my people. I ascribe this to your general infirmity of mind. Yet, though you show no understanding of higher matters, you apparently possess some skill in the lower, which is fortunate, as I require a Perfect Adviser and you shall build me one!”
“What exactly is this Adviser supposed to do, and what will I receive for building it?” inquired Trurl, brushing himself off.
“It should answer every question, solve every problem, give absolutely the best advice and, in a word, put the greatest wisdom entirely at my disposal. For this, you shall receive two or three hundred thousand of my subjects, or more if you like—we won’t quibble over a few thousand.”
Trurl thought:
“It would seem that an overabundance of thinking beings is a dangerous thing, if it reduces them to the status of sand. This king would sooner part with a legion of his subjects than I with a pair of old slippers!”
But he said aloud:
“Sire, my house is small and would not hold so many slaves.”
“Fear not, O backward alien, I have experts who will explain to you the endless benefits one may derive from owning a horde of slaves. You can, for example, dress them in robes of different colors and have them stand in a great square to form a living mosaic, or signs providing sentiments for every occasion. You can tie them in bundles and roll them down hills, you can make a huge hammer—five thousand for the head, three thousand for the handle—to break up boulders or clear forests. You can braid them into rope and make decorative hangings, where those at the very bottom, by the droll gyrations of their bodies, the kicking and the squeaking as they dangle over the abyss, create a sight that gladdens the heart and rejoices the eye. Or take ten thousand young female slaves, stand them all on one leg and have them make figure eights with their right hands and circles with their left—a spectacle, believe me, which you won’t wish to part with, and I speak from experience!”
“Sire!” answered Trurl. “Forests and boulders I can manage with machines, and as for signs and mosaics, it is not my custom to fashion them out of beings that might prefer to be otherwise employed.”
“What then, O insolent alien,” said the King, “do you want in return for the Perfect Adviser?”
“A hundred bags of gold!”
Mandrillion was loath to part with the gold, but an idea came to him, a most ingenious plan, which however he kept to himself, and he said:
“So be it!”
“Your Royal Highness shall have his Perfect Adviser,” promised Trurl, and proceeded to the castle tower which Mandrillion had set aside for him as a workshop. It wasn’t long before they could hear the blowing of bellows there, the ringing of hammers, the rasping of saws. The King sent spies to have a look; these returned much amazed, for Trurl had not constructed an Adviser at all, but a variety of forging, welding, cutting and wiring machines, after which he sat down and with a nail made little holes in a long strip of paper, programming out the Adviser in every particular, then went for a walk while the machines toiled in the tower all night, and by early morning the work was done. Around noon, Trurl entered the main hall with an enormous doll that had two legs and one small hand; he brought it before the King, declaring that this was the Perfect Adviser.
“Indeed,” muttered Mandrillion and ordered the marble floor sprinkled with saffron and cinnamon, so strong was the smell of hot iron given off by the Adviser—the thing, just out of the oven, even glowed in places. “You may go,” the King said to Trurl. “Return this evening, and then we shall see who owes how much and to whom.”
Trurl took his leave, feeling that these parting words of Mandrillion did not promise any great generosity and perhaps even concealed some evil intention. Which made him glad he had qualified the Adviser’s universality with one small yet far from trivial condition, that is, he had included in its program an instruction to the effect that whatever it did, it was never to permit the destruction of its creator.
Remaining alone with the Adviser, the King said:
“What are you and what can you do?”
“I am the King’s Perfect Adviser,” replied the machine in a hollow voice, as if it spoke from an empty barrel, “and I can provide him with the best advice possible.”
“Good,” said the King. “And to whom do you owe allegiance and perfect obedience, me or the one who constructed you?”
“Allegiance and obedience I owe only to His Royal Highness,” boomed the Adviser.
“Good, good…” said the King. “Now to begin with, I… that is, well… I mean, I shouldn’t like my first request to give the impression that I was, shall we say, stingy… however, ah, to some extent, you understand, if only to uphold certain principles—don’t you think?”
“His Royal Highness has not yet deigned to say what it is that he wishes,” said the Adviser, propping itself on a third leg it put out from its side, for it suffered a momentary loss of balance.
“A Perfect Adviser ought to be able to read its master’s thoughts!” snapped Mandrillion.
“Of course, but only on request, to avoid embarrassments,” said the Adviser and, opening a little door in its belly, turned a knob that read “Telepathitron.” Then it nodded and said:
“His Royal Highness doesn’t wish to give Trurl a plug nickel? I understand!”
“Speak one word of this to anyone and I’ll have you thrown in the great mill, whose stones can grind up thirty thousand of my subjects at a time!” threatened the King.
“I won’t tell a soul!” the Adviser assured him. “His Royal Highness doesn’t wish to pay for me—that’s easily done. When Trurl comes back, simply tell him there won’t be any gold and he should kindly go away.”
“You’re an idiot, not an adviser!” snorted the King. “I don’t want to pay, but I want it to look like it’s all Trurl’s fault! Like I don’t owe him a thing, understand?”
The Adviser turned on the device to read the royal thoughts, reeled a little, then said in a hollow voice:
“His Royal Highness wishes in addition that it should appear that he is acting justly and in accordance with the law and his own sacred word, while Trurl turns out to be nothing but a despicable charlatan and scoundrel… Very well. With His Royal Highness’ permission, I will now seize His Royal Highness by the throat and choke him, and if he would be so good as to struggle and scream for help…”
“Have you gone mad?” said Mandrillion. “Why should you choke me and why should I scream?”
“That you may accuse Trurl of attempting to commit, with my aid, the crime of regicide,” explained the Adviser brightly. “Thus, when His Royal Highness has him whipped and thrown into the moat, everyone will say that this was an act of the greatest mercy, since for such an offense one is usually drawn and quartered, if not tortured first. To me His Royal Highness will grant a full pardon, as I was but an unwitting tool in the hands of Trurl, and everyone will praise the King’s magnanimity and compassion, and everything will be exactly as His Royal Highness wishes it.”
“All right, choke me—but carefully, you dog!” said the King.
Everything happened just as the Perfect Adviser said it would. True, the King wanted to have Trurl’s legs pulled off before they threw him into the moat, but somehow this wasn’t done—no doubt a mix-up in the orders, the King thought later, but actually it was owing to the machine’s discreet intervention with one of the executioner’s helpers. Afterward, the King pardoned his Adviser and reinstated it at court; Trurl meanwhile, battered and bruised, painfully hobbled home. Immediately after his return, he went to see Klapaucius and told him the whole story. Then he said:
“That Mandrillion was more of a villain than I thought. Not only did he shamefully deceive me, but he even used the very Adviser I gave him, used it to further his scurvy scheme against me! Ah, but he is sadly mistaken if he thinks that Trurl accepts defeat! May rust eat through me if ever I forget the vengeance that I owe the tyrant!”
“What do you intend to do?” inquired Klapaucius.
“I’ll take him to court, I’ll sue him for the amount of my fee, and that’s only the beginning: there are damages he’ll have to pay—for insults and injuries.”
“This is a difficult legal question,” said Klapaucius. “I suggest you hire yourself a good lawyer before you try
