Lem, Stanislaw (15 page)

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 of all the

Monodamites, Biproxicans and Tripartisans, the Grand Duke of

Anamandorinth, Glorgonzigor and Esquacciaccaturbia, Count of the

Euscalipü, the Algorissimo and the Flora del Fortran, Paladin

Escutcheoned, Begudgeoned and of the Highest Dudgeon, Baron of Bhm,

Wrph and Clarafoncasterbrackeningen, as well as anointed exarch

extraordinary of Ida, Pida and Adinfinida, to invite in His

munificent name Your Resplendent Grace to our kingdom as the

long-awaited savior of the crown, as the only one who can deliver us

from the general mortifaction occasioned by the thrice-unhappy

infatuation of His Royal Highness, the heir to the throne,

Pantagoon."

"But really, I'm not—"

Trurl tried to interpose, but the dignitary waved his hand,

signifying that he had not as yet finished, and went on in that same

resonating voice:

"In return for the gracious loan

of your most sympathetic ear, and for your succor in the overcoming

of our national calamity, His Royal Highness Protuberon hereby

promises, pledges and solemnly swears that he shall shower Your

Constructorship with such riches and honors, that Your Esteemed

Effulgence will never exhaust them, even until the end of his days.

And now, by way of an advance or, as they say, a retainer, I

forthwith dub thee"—and here the magnate rose, drew

his sword, and spoke, vigorously punctuating each word with the flat

of the blade on both Trurl's shoulders—"Earl of Otes,

Grotes and Finocclea, Margrave Emeritus of Trundle and Sklar,

Eight-barreled Bearer of the Great Guamellonian Hok, not to mention

Thane of Bondacalonda and Cgth, Governor General of Muxis and Ptuxis,

as well as Titular Viscount of the Order of Unwinched Waifs, Almoner

in perpetuum
of the realms of Eenica, Meenica and Mynamoaca,

with all the attendant rights and privileges accruing thereto,

including a twenty-one gun salute upon rising in the morning and

retiring at night, an after-dinner fanfare, and the Extinguished

Exponential Cross, duly certified and carved in ebony, slate and

marzipan. And as proof of his royal favor, my Lord and Liege sends

you these few trifles, which I have taken the liberty to place about

your dwelling."

And indeed, the sacks already blocked

out the sky, and the room grew dim. The magnate finished speaking,

though his hand, raised in eloquence, remained in midair. Trurl took

this opportunity to say:

"I am much obliged to His Royal

Highness Protuberon, but affairs of the heart, you understand, are

not exactly my specialty. Though…" he added,

uncomfortable under the magnate's dazzling gaze, "perhaps you

would explain the problem to me …"

The magnate gave a nod.

"That is simply done, Sir

Constructor! The heir to the throne has fallen in love with

Amarandina Cybernella, the only daughter of the ruler of the

neighboring state of Ib. But an ancient enmity divides our kingdoms,

and doubtless, if our Beloved Sovereign, yielding to the unwearying

pleas of the prince, were to ask that emperor for the hand of

Amarandina, the answer would be a categorical never. And so a year

has passed, and six days, and the crown prince wastes away before our

eyes. All attempts to restore him to reason have failed, and now our

only hope lies in Your Most Iridescent Eminence!"

Here the magnate made a deep bow.

Trurl, observing rows of warriors right outside his window, coughed

and said in a feeble voice:

"Well, I really don't see how I

could be of … though, of course, if the King wishes it…

in that case…"

"Wonderful!" cried the

magnate and clapped his hands with a mighty clang. Immediately twelve

cuirassiers, black as night, rushed in with clattering armor and bore

Trurl off to the ship, which fired its engines twenty-one times,

pulled anchor and, banners waving, lifted up into the open sky.

During the flight the magnate, who was

Grand Seneschal and Artifactotum to the King, filled Trurl in on the

details of the prince's ill-starred enamorization. Directly upon

their arrival, after the welcoming ceremonies and ticker-tape parade

through the streets of the capital, the constructor got down to work.

He set up his equipment in the magnificent royal gardens and in three

weeks had converted the Temple of Contemplation there into a

strange edifice full of metal, cables and glowing screens. This was,

he told the King, a femfatalatron, an erotifying device stochastic,

elastic and orgiastic, and with plenty of feedback; whoever was

placed inside the apparatus instantaneously experienced all the

charms, lures, wiles, winks and witchery of all the fairer sex in the

Universe at once. The femfatalatron operated on a power of forty

megamors, with a maximum attainable efficiency—given a

constant concupiscence coefficient—of ninety-six percent, while

the system's libidinous lubricity, measured of course in kilocupids,

produced up to six units for every remote-control caress. This

marvelous mechanism, moreover, was equipped with reversible ardor

dampers, omnidirectional consummation amplifiers, absorption

philters, paphian peripherals, and "first-sight" flip-flop

circuits, since Trurl held here to the position of Dr. Yentzicus,

creator of the famous oculo-oscular feel theory.

There were also all sorts of auxiliary

components, like a high-frequency titillizer, an alternating

tantalator, plus an entire set of lecherons and debaucheraries; on

the outside, in a special glass case, were enormous dials, on which

one could carefully follow the course of the whole decaptivation

process. Statistical analysis revealed that the femfatalatron gave

positive, permanent results in ninety-eight cases of unrequited

amatorial superfixation out of a hundred. The chances of saving the

crown prince therefore were excellent.

It took forty venerable peers of the

kingdom four hours and more to push and pull their prince through the

gardens to the Temple of Contemplation, for though fully determined,

they had to show proper respect for his royal person, and the prince,

having no desire whatever of becoming decaptivated, kicked and

butted his faithful courtiers with great vigor. When finally His

Majesty was shoved, with the application of numerous feather pillows,

into the machine and the trapdoor shut after him, Trurl, full of

misgivings, threw the switch, and the computer began its countdown in

a dreary monotone: "Five, four, three, two, one, zero …

start!" The synchroerotorotors, bumping and grinding, set up

powerful counterseduction currents to displace the prince's so

tragically misplaced affections. After an hour of this, Trurl looked

at the dials: their needles trembled under the terrible load of

lascivicity but, alas, failed to show any significant improvement. He

began to have serious doubts about the success of the treatment, but

it was too late to do anything now—other than fold his hands

and wait patiently. He only checked to make sure that the

autolips were landing in the right place and at the proper angle,

that the aphrodisial philanderoids and satyriacal panderynes weren't

going too far, for he didn't want the patient to undergo a total

dotal transferral and end up idolizing the machine instead of

Amarandina, but only to fall thoroughly out of love. At last the

trapdoor was opened in solemn silence. Out of the dim interior,

wreathed with a cloud of the sweetest perfume, stumbled the pale

prince through crushed rose petals—and fell in a swoon, stunned

by that awesome access of passion. His faithful servants rushed up

and, as they lifted his limp limbs, heard him utter in a hoarse

whisper one solitary word: Amarandina. Trurl cursed under his breath,

for all of it had been in vain, and the prince's mad love had proven

stronger than all the megamors and kilocuddles the femfatalatron

could bring to bear. The rapturometer, when pressed against the brow

of the stupefied prince, registered one hundred and seven, then the

glass shattered and the mercury poured out, still quivering, as if it

too had come under the influence of those raging emotions. The first

attempt, then, was a complete failure.

Trurl returned to his quarters in the

foulest mood, and anyone eavesdropping would have heard how he paced

from wall to wall, seeking a solution. Meanwhile there was an awful

racket back in the gardens: some stonemasons, ordered to fix the

wall of a small arborium, had out of curiosity crawled into the

femfatalatron and accidentally turned it on. It became necessary to

summon the fire department, for they jumped out so inflamed, that

they started to smoke.

Next Trurl tried a retropruriginous

eroginator with heavy-duty volupticles, but that too—to make a

long story short— was a flop. The prince was not a whit less

smitten with Amarandina's charms; in fact, he was more smitten than

ever. Once again Trurl paced the floor of his room, back and forth

for many miles, and sat up half the night reading professional

manuals, till he hurled them against the wall. That morning he went

to the Grand Seneschal and requested an audience with the King.

Admitted to the presence of His Majesty, Trurl spoke in this fashion:

"Your Royal Highness and Gracious

Sovereign! The dis-enamorment methods which I employed upon Your son

are the most powerful possible. He simply will not be dis-enamored,

not alive—Your Majesty must know the truth."

The King was silent, crushed by this

news, but Trurl went on:

"Of course, I could deceive him,

synthesizing an Amarandina according to the parameters I have at

hand, but sooner or later the prince would find out, when news of the

true Amarandina reached his ears. No, I see no other way: the prince

must marry the Emperor's daughter!"

"Bah, but that is the whole

problem, O foreigner! The Emperor will never agree to such a

marriage!"

"And if he were conquered? If he

had to sue for peace, beg for mercy?"

"Why then, certainly—but

would you have me plunge two large kingdoms into a bloody war, which

is a risky proposition at best, solely in order to win the hand of

the Emperor's daughter for my son? No, that is quite out of the

question!"

"Precisely the answer I expected

of Your Royal Highness!" said Trurl calmly. "However,

there are wars and there are wars; the kind I have in mind would be

absolutely bloodless. For we would not attack the Emperor's realm

with arms; in fact, we would not take the life of a single citizen,

but
just the opposite!
"

"What are you saying? What do you

mean?" exclaimed the King.

And as Trurl whispered his secret plan

into the royal ear, the monarch's careworn face gradually brightened,

and he cried:

"Go then, and do this thing, good

foreigner, and may the gods be with thee!"

The very next day the royal forges and

workshops undertook the construction, according to Trurl's

specifications, of a great number of tremendous cannons, though for

what purpose intended it was not clear. These were placed around the

planet and disguised as defense installations, so that no one would

guess a thing. Meanwhile Trurl sat day and night in the royal

cybergenetic laboratory, watching over secret cauldrons in which

mysterious concoctions gurgled and percolated. A spy on the

premises would have discovered nothing, except that now and then

behind the double-locked doors there was an odd mewling, puling