“What’s this you say, Subtillion?! Dreaming cabinets? Whatever for? What use are they to me? And anyway, how can you tell they’re really dreaming?”
Then Subtillion, with a humble bow, showed him the rows of little holes running down the cabinet frames; next to each hole was a little inscription on a little pearl plaque, and the astonished King read:
“War Dream with Citadels and Damsels'—'Dream about the Wockle Weed'—'Dream about Alacritus the Knight and Fair Ramolda, Daughter of Heteronius'— “Dream about Nixies, Pixies and Witchblende'—'The Marvelous Mattress of Princess Bounce'—'The Old Soldier, or The Cannon That Couldn’t'—'Salto Erotale, or Amorous Gymnastics'—'Bliss in the Eightfold Embrace of Octopauline'—'Perpetuum Amorobile'—'Eating Lead Dumplings under the New Moon'—'Breakfast with Maidens and Music'—'Tucking in the Sun to Keep It Warm” —'The Wedding Night of Princess Ineffabelle'—'Dream about Cats'—'About Silks and Satins'—'About You-Know-What'—'Figs without Their Leaves, and Other Forbidden Fruit'—'Also Prurient Prunes'—'How the Lecher Got His Tots'—'Devilry and Divers Revelry before Reveille, with Croutons'—'Mona Lisa, or The Labyrinth of Sweet Infinity.”
The King went on to the second cabinet and read: “Dreams and Diversions.” And under this heading: “Cybersynergy'—'Corpses and Corsets'—'Tops and Toggles” —'Klopstock and the Critics'—'Buffer the Leader'— “Fratcher My Pliss'—'Counterpane and Ventilator'—'Cybercroquet'—'Robot Crambo'—'Flowcharts and Go- carts'—'Bippety-flippety'—'Spin the Shepherdess'—'Pin the Murder on the Girder'—'Executioner, or Screaming Cutouts'—'Spin the Shepherdess One More Time'—'Cy-clodore and Shuttlebox'—'Cecily and the Cyanide Cyborg” —'Cybernation'—'Harem Racing'—and finally—'Kludge Poker.” Subtillion, the mental engineer, quickly explained that each dream dreamed itself, entirely on its own, until someone plugged into it, for as soon as his plug—hanging on this watch chain—was inserted in the given pair of holes, he would be instantly connected with the cabinet dream, and connected so completely, that the dream for him would be like real, so real you couldn’t tell the difference. Zipperupus, intrigued, took the chain and impulsively plugged himself into the White Box, right where the sign said, “Breakfast with Maidens and Music'—and felt spiny ridges growing down his back, and enormous wings unfolding, and his hands and feet distending into paws with wicked claws, and from his jaws, which had six rows of fangs, there belched forth fire and brimstone. Greatly taken aback, the King gasped, but instead of a gasp, a roar like thunder issued from his throat and shook the earth. This amazed him even more, his eyes grew wide, and in the darkness illumined by his fiery breath he saw that they were bringing him, high on their shoulders, virgins in serving bowls, four to each, garnished with greens and smelling so good, he started to drool. The table soon set—salt here, pepper over there—he licked his chops, made himself comfortable and, one by one, popped them into his mouth like peanuts, crunching and grunting with pleasure; the last virgin was so luscious, so succulent, that he smacked his lips, rubbed his tummy, and was about to ask for seconds, when everything flickered and he woke. He looked—he was standing, as before, in the vestibule outside his private quarters. At his side was Subtillion, Lord High Thaumaturge and Apothecary to the Throne, and before him, the dream cabinets, glittering with precious gems.
“How were the maidens?” inquired Subtillion.
“Not bad. But where was the music?”
“The chimes got stuck,” the Cybernerian explained. “Would Your Royal Highness care to try another dream?”
Of course he would, but this time from another cabinet. The King went up to the black one and plugged into the dream entitled “Alacritus the Knight and Fair Ramolda, Daughter of Heteronius.”
He blinked—and saw that this was indeed the age of electrical errantry. He was standing, all clad in steel, in a wooded glen, a freshly vanquished dragon at his feet; the leaves rustled, a gentle zephyr blew, a brook gurgled nearby. He looked into the water and saw, from the reflection, that he was none other than Alacritus, a knight of the highest voltage and hero without peer. The whole history of his glorious career was recorded, in battle scars, upon his person, and he recalled it all, as if the memory were his own. Those dents in the visor of the helmet— made by the mailed fists of Morbidor, in his death throes, having been dispatched with customary alacrity; the broken hinges on the right greave—that was the work of the late Sir Basher de Bloo; and the rivets across his left pauldron—gnawed by Skivvian the Scurvy before giving up the ghost; and the tembrace grille had been crushed by Gourghbrast Buggeruckus ere he was felled. Similarly, the cuissfenders, crosshasps, beaver baffles, hauberk latches, front and rear jambguards and grommets—all bore the marks of battle. His shield was scored and notched by countless blows, but the backplate, that was as shiny and rust-free as a newborn’s, for never had he turned to flee an adversary! Though his glory, truth to tell, was a matter of complete indifference to him. But then he remembered the fair Ramolda, leaped upon his supercharger and began to search the length and breadth of the dream for her. In time he arrived at the castle of her father, the Autoduke Hetero-nius; the drawbridge planks thundered beneath horse and rider, and the Autoduke himself came out to greet him with open arms.
The knight would fain see his Ramolda, but etiquette requires he curb his impatience; meanwhile the old Autoduke tells him that another knight is staying at the castle, one Mygrayn of the house of Polymera, master swordsman and redoubtable elastician, who dreams of nothing else but to enter the lists with Alacritus himself. And now here is Mygrayn, spry and supple, stepping forward with these words:
“Know, O Knight, that I desire Ramolda the streamlined, Ramolda of the hydraulic thighs, whose bust no diamond drill can touch, whose limpid eyes are magnetized! She is thy betrothed, true, but lo, I herewith challenge thee to mortal combat, sith only one of us may win her hand in marriage!”
And he throws his gage, white and polymerous.
“We’ll hold the wedding right after the joust,” adds the Autoduke-father.
“Very well!’ says Alacritus, but inside, Zipperupus thinks: “It doesn’t matter, I can have her after the wedding and then wake up. But who asked for this Mygrayn character?”
“This very day, brave Knight,” says Heteronius, “thou wilt encounter Mygrayn of Polymera on beaten ground and contend with him by torchlight. But for now, retire thee to thy room and rest!”
Inside Alacritus, Zipperupus is a little uneasy, but what can he do? So he goes to his room, and after a while hears a furtive knock-knock at the door, and an old cybercrone tiptoes in, gives a wrinkled wink and says:
“Fear naught, O Knight, thou shalt have the fair Ramolda and forsooth, this very day she’ll clasp thee to her alabaster bosom! Of thee alone doth she dream, both day and night! Remember only to attack with might and main, for Mygrayn cannot harm thee and the victory is thine!”
“That’s easy enough to say, my cybercrone,” replies the knight. “But anything can happen. What if I trip, for example, or fail to parry in time? No, it’s a risky business! But perhaps you have some charm that will be certain.”
“Hee-hee!” cackles the cybercrone. “The things thou sayest, steel sir! There are no charms, surely, nor hast thou need of any, for I know what will be and guarantee thou winnest hands down!”
“Still, a charm would be more sure,” says the knight, “particularly in a dream… but wait, did by any chance Subtillion send you, to give me confidence?”
“I know of no Subtillion,” answers she, “nor of what dream ye speak. Nay, this is reality, my steely liege, as thou wilt learn ere long, when fair Ramolda gives thee her electric lips to kiss!”
“Odd,” mutters Zipperupus, not noticing that the cybercrone has left the room as quietly as she came. “Is this a dream or not? I had the impression that it was. But she says this is reality. H’m. Well, in any event I’d best be doubly on my guard!” And now the trumpets sound, and one can hear the rattle of armor; the galleries are packed and everyone awaits the principals. Here comes Alacritus, a little weak in the knees; he enters the lists and sees Ramolda, daughter of Heteronius. She looks upon him sweetly—ah, but there’s no time for that now! Mygrayn is stepping into the ring, the torches blaze all around, and their swords cross with a mighty clang. Now Zipperupus is frightened in earnest and tries as hard as he can to wake up, he tries and tries, but it won’t work—the armor’s too heavy, the dream isn’t letting go, and the enemy’s attacking! Faster and faster rain the blows, and Zipperupus, weakening, can hardly lift his arm, when suddenly the foe cries out and shows a broken blade; Alacritus the knight is ready to leap upon him, but Mygrayn dashes from the ring and his squires hand him another sword. Just then Alacritus sees the cybercrone among the spectators; she approaches and whispers in his ear:
“Sire of steel! When anon thou art near the open gate that leadeth to the bridge, Mygrayn will lower his guard. Strike bravely then, for ’tis a sign, certain and true, of thy victory!”
Wherewith she vanishes, and his rival, rearmed, comes charging. They fight, Mygrayn hacking away like a threshing machine out of control, but by degrees he slackens, parries sluggishly, backs away, and now the time is ripe, the moment arrives, but the opponent’s blade gleams formidably still, so Zipperupus pulls himself together and thinks, “To hell with the fair Ramolda!'—turns tail and runs like mad, pounding back over the drawbridge and into
