                               Stanislaw Lem
                          The Offer of King Krool

                        Translated by Michael Kandel
          ------------------------------------------------------


                        An Impressive Advertisement

     The tremendous success of their application of the Gargantius
     Effect gave both constructors such an appetite for adventure,
     that they resolved to sally forth once again to parts unknown.
     Unfortunately, they were quite unable to decide on a destination.
     Trurl, given to tropical climes, had his heart set on Scaldonia,
     the land of the Flaming Flamingos, while Klapaucius, of a
     somewhat cooler disposition, was equally determined to visit the
     Intergalactic Cold Pole, a bleak continent adrift among frozen
     stars. The friends were about to part company for good when Trurl
     suddenly had an idea. "Wait," he said, "we can advertise our
     services, then take the best offer!" "Ridiculous!" snorted
     Klapaucius. "How are you going to advertise? In a newspaper? Do
     you have any idea how long it takes a newspaper to reach the
     nearest planet? You'll be dead and buried before the first offer
     comes in!"

     But Trurl gave a knowing smile and revealed his plan, which
     Klapaucius--begrudgingly--had to admit was ingenious, and so they
     set to work. All the necessary equipment quickly thrown together,
     they gathered up the local stars and arranged them in a great
     sign, a sign that would be visible at truly incalculable
     distances. Only blue giants were used for the first word--to get
     the cosmic reader's attention--and lesser stellar material made
     up the others. The advertisement read: Two Distinguished
     Constructors Seek Employment Commensurate with Their Skill and
     Above All Lucrative, Hence Preferably at the Court of a
     Well-heeled King (Should Have His Own Kingdom), Terms to Be
     Arranged.


                                The Emissary

     It was not long before, one bright morning, a most marvelous
     craft alighted on their front lawn. It gleamed in the sun, all
     inlaid with mother-of-pearl, had three legs intricately carved
     and six additional supports of solid gold (quite useless, since
     they didn't even reach the ground--but then, the builders
     obviously had more wealth than they knew what to do with). Down a
     magnificent staircase with billowing fountains on either side
     there came a figure of stately bearing with a retinue of
     six-legged machines: some of these massaged him, some supported
     him and fanned him, and the smallest flew above his august brow
     and sprayed it with eau de cologne from an atomizer. This
     impressive emissary greeted the constructors on behalf of his
     lord and sovereign, King Krool, who wished to engage them.

     "What sort of work is it?" asked Trurl, interested.

     "The details, gentle sirs, you shall learn at the proper time,"
     was his reply. He was dressed in galligaskins of gold,
     mink-tufted buskins, sequined earmuffs, and a robe of most
     unusual cut--instead of pockets it had little shelves full of
     mints and marzipan. Tiny mechanical flies also buzzed about his
     person, and these he brushed away whenever they grew too bold.

     "For now," he went on, "I can only say that His Boundless Kroolty
     is a great enthusiast of the hunt, a fearless and peerless
     conqueror of every sort of galactic fauna, and verily, his
     prowess has reached such heights that now the fiercest predators
     known are no longer worthy game for him. And herein lies our
     misfortune, for he craves excitement, danger, thrills...which is
     why--"

     "Of course!" said Trurl. "He wants us to construct a new model of
     beast, something wild and rapacious enough to present a
     challenge."

     "You are, worthy constructor, indeed quick!" said the King's
     emissary. "Then it is agreed?"

     Klapaucius began to question the emissary more closely on certain
     practical matters. But after the King's generosity was glowingly
     described and sufficiently elaborated upon, they hurriedly packed
     their things and a few books, ran up the magnificent staircase,
     hopped on board and were immediately lifted, with a great roar
     and burst of flame that blackened the ship's gold legs, into the
     interstellar night.


                                 King Krool

     As they traveled, the emissary briefed the constructors on the
     laws and customs prevailing in the Kingdom of Krool, told them of
     the monarch's nature, as broad and open as a leveled city, and of
     his manly pursuits, and much more, so that by the time the ship
     landed, they could speak the language like natives.

     First they were taken to a splendid villa situated on a
     mountainside above the village--this was where they were to stay.
     Then, after a brief rest, the King sent a carriage for them, a
     carriage drawn by six fire-breathing monsters. These were muzzled
     with fire screens and smoke filters, had their wings clipped to
     keep them on the ground, and long spiked tails and six paws
     apiece with iron claws that cut deep pits in the road wherever
     they went. As soon as the monsters saw the constructors, the
     entire team set up a howl, belching fire and brimstone, and
     strained to get at them. The coach men in asbestos armor and the
     King's huntsmen with hoses and pumps had to fall upon the crazed
     creatures and beat them into submission with laser and maser
     clubs before Trurl and Klapaucius could safely step into the
     plush carriage, which they did without a word. The carriage tore
     off at breakneck speed or--to use an appropriate metaphor--like a
     bat out of hell.

     "You know," Trurl whispered in Klapaucius' ear as they rushed
     along, knocking down everything in their path and leaving a long
     trail of sulfurous smoke behind them, "I have a feeling that this
     king won't settle for just anything. I mean, if he has coursers
     like these..."

     But level-headed Klapaucius said nothing. Houses now flashed by,
     walls of diamonds and sapphires and silver, while the dragons
     thundered and hissed and the drivers cursed and shouted. At last
     a colossal portcullis loomed up ahead, opened, and their carriage
     whirled into the courtyard, careening so sharply that the flower
     beds all shriveled up, then ground to a stop before a castle
     black as blackest night. Welcomed by an unusually dismal fanfare
     and quite overwhelmed by the massive stairs, balustrades and
     especially the stone giants that guarded the main gate, Trurl and
     Klapaucius, ranked by a formidable escort, entered the mighty
     castle.

     King Krool awaited them in an enormous hall the shape of a skull,
     a vast and vaulted cave of beaten silver. There was a gaping pit
     in the floor, the skul1's foramen magnum, and beyond it stood the
     throne, over which two streams of light crossed like swords--they
     came from high windows fixed in the skull's eye sockets and with
     panes specially tinted to give everything a harsh and infernal
     aspect. The constructors now saw Krool himself: too impatient to
     sit still on his throne, this monarch paced from wall to wall
     across the silver floor, his steps booming in that cadaverous
     cavern, and as he spoke he emphasized his words with such sudden
     stabs of the hand, that the air whistled.


                            The Hunting Trophies

     "Welcome, constructors!" he said, skewering them both with his
     eyes. "As you've no doubt learned from Lord Protozor, Master of
     the Royal Hunt, I want you to build me new and better kinds of
     game. Now I'm not interested, you understand, in any mountain of
     steel on a hundred-odd treads--that's a job for heavy artillery,
     not for me. My quarry must be strong and ferocious, but swift and
     nimble too, and above all cunning and full of wiles, so that I
     will have to call upon all my hunter's art to drive it to the
     ground. It must be a highly intelligent beast, and know all there
     is to know of covering tracks, doubling back, hiding in shadows
     and lying in wait, for such is my will!"

     "Forgive me, Your Highness," said Klapaucius with a careful bow,
     "but if we do Your Highness' bidding too well, might not this put
     the royal life and limb in some peril?"

     The King roared with such laughter that a couple of crystal
     pendants fell off a chandelier and shattered at the feet of the
     trembling constructors.

     "Have no fear of that, noble constructors!" he said with a grim
     smile. "You are not the first, and you will not be the last, I
     expect. Know that I am a just but most exacting ruler. Too often
     have assorted knaves, flatterers and fakes attempted to deceive
     me, too often, I say, have they posed as distinguished hunting
     engineers, solely to empty my coffers and fill their sacks with
     gems and precious stones, leaving me, in return, with a few
     paltry scarecrows that fall apart at the first touch. Too often
     has this happened for me not to take appropriate measures. For
     twelve years now any constructor who fails to meet my demands,
     who promises more than he is able to deliver, indeed receives his
     reward, but is hurled, reward and all, into yon deep well--unless
     he be game enough (excuse the pun) to serve as the quarry
     himself. In which case, gentlemen, I use no weapon but these two
     bare hands..."

     "And...and have there been, ah, many such impostors?" asked Trurl
     in a weak voice.

     "Many? That's difficult to say. I only know that no one yet has
     satisfied me, and the scream of terror they invariably give as
     they plummet to the bottom doesn't last quite so long as it used
     to--the remains, no doubt, have begun to mount. But rest assured,
     gentlemen, there is room enough still for you!"

     A deathly silence followed these dire words, and the two friends
     couldn't help but look in the direction of that dark and ominous
     hole. The King resumed his relentless pacing, his boots striking
     the floor like sledge hammers in an echo chamber.

     "But, with Your Highness' permission...that is, we--we haven't
     yet drawn up the contract," stammered Trurl. "Couldn't we have an
     hour or two to think it over, weigh carefully what Your Highness
     has been so gracious as to tell us, and then of course we can
     decide whether to accept your generous offer or, on the other
     hand--"

     "Ha!!" laughed the King like a thunderclap. "Or, on the other
     hand, to go home? I'm afraid not, gentlemen! The moment you set
     foot on board the Infernanda, you accepted my offer! If every
     constructor who came here could leave whenever he pleased, why,
     I'd have to wait forever for my fondest hopes to be realized! No,
     you must stay and build me a beast to hunt. I give you twelve
     days, and now you may go. Whatever pleasure you desire, in the
     meantime, is yours. You have but to ask the servants I have given
     you; nothing will be denied you. In twelve days, then!"

     "With Your Highness' permission, you can keep the pleasures,
     but--well, would it be at all possible for us to have a look at
     the, uh, hunting trophies Your Highness must have collected as a
     result, so to speak, of the efforts of our predecessors?"

     "But of course!" said the King indulgently and clapped his hands
     with such force that sparks flew and danced across the silver
     walls. The gust of air from those powerful palms cooled even more
     our constructors' ardor for adventure. Six guards in white and
     gold appeared and conducted them down a corridor that twisted and
     wound like the gullet of a giant serpent. Finally, to their great
     relief, it led out into a large, open garden. There, on
     remarkably well-trimmed lawns, stood the hunting trophies of King
     Krool.

     Nearest at hand was a saber-toothed colossus, practically cut in
     two in spite of the heavy mail and plate armor that was to have
     protected its trunk; the hind legs, disproportionately large
     (evidently designed for great leaps), lay upon the grass
     alongside the tail, which ended in a firearm with its magazine
     half-empty--a clear sign that the creature had not fallen to the
     King without a fight. A yellow strip of cloth hanging from its
     open jaws also testified to this, for Trurl recognized in it the
     breeches worn by the King's huntsmen.

     Next was another prone monstrosity, a dragon with a multitude of
     tiny wings all singed and blackened by enemy fire; its circuits
     had spilled out molten and had then congealed in a
     copper-porcelain puddle. Farther on stood another creature, the
     pillarlike legs spread wide. A gentle breeze soughed softly
     through its fangs. And there were wrecks on wheels and wrecks on
     treads, some with claws and some with cannon, all sundered to the
     magnetic core, and tank-turtles with squashed turrets, and
     mutilated military millipedes, and other oddities, broken and
     battle-scarred, some equipped with auxiliary brains (burnt out),
     some perched on telescoping stilts (dislocated), and there were
     little vicious biting things strewn about. These had been made to
     attack in great swarms, then regroup in a sphere bristling with
     gun muzzles and bayonets--a clever idea, but it saved neither
     them nor their creators.

     Down this aisle of devastation walked Trurl and Klapaucius, pale,
     silent, looking as if they were on their way to a funeral instead
     of to another brilliant session of vigorous invention. They came
     at last to the end of that dreadful gallery of Krool's triumphs
     and stepped into the carriage that was waiting for them at the
     gate. That dragon team which sped them back to their lodgings
     seemed less terrible now. Just as soon as they were alone in
     their sumptuously appointed green and crimson drawing room,
     before a table heaped high with effervescent drinks and rare
     delicacies, Trurl broke into a volley of imprecations; he reviled
     Klapaucius for heedlessly accepting the offer made by the Master
     of the Royal Hunt, thereby bringing down misfortune on their
     heads, when they easily could have stayed at home and rested on
     their laurels. Klapaucius said nothing, waiting patiently for
     Trurl's desperate rage to expend itself, and when it finally did
     and Trurl had collapsed into a lavish mother-of-pearl chaise
     lounge and buried his face in his hands, he said:

     "Well, we'd better get to work."

     These words did much to revive Trurl, and the two constructors
     immediately began to consider the various possibilities, drawing
     on their knowledge of the deepest and darkest secrets of the
     arcane art of cybernetic generation.


                           Brainstorming a Beast

     First of all, they agreed that victory lay neither in the armor
     nor in the strength of the monster to be built, but entirely in
     its program; in other words, in an algorithm of demoniacal
     derivation. "It must be a truly diabolical creature, a thing of
     absolute evil," they said, and though they had as yet no clear
     idea of what or how, this observation lifted their spirits
     considerably. Such was their enthusiasm by the time they sat down
     to draft the beast, that they worked all night, all day, and
     through a second night and day before taking a break for dinner.
     And as the Leyden jars were passed about, so sure were they of
     success, that they winked and smirked --but only when the
     servants weren't looking, since they suspected them (and rightly,
     too) of being the King's spies. So the constructors said nothing
     of their work, but praised the mulled electrolyte which the
     waiters brought in, tail coats flapping, in beakers of the finest
     cut crystal. Only after the repast, when they had wandered out on
     the veranda overlooking the village with its white steeples and
     domes catching the last golden rays of the setting sun, only then
     did Trurl turn to Klapaucius and say:

     "We're not out of the woods yet, you know."

     "How do you mean?" asked Klapaucius in a cautious whisper.

     "There's one difficulty. You see, if the King defeats our
     mechanical beast, he'll undoubtedly have us thrown into that pit,
     for we won't have done his bidding. If, on the other hand, the
     beast...You see what I mean?"

     "If the beast isn't defeated?"

     "No, if the beast defeats him, dear colleague. If that happens,
     the King's successor may not let us off so easily."

     "You don't think we'd have to answer for that, do you? As a rule,
     heirs to the throne are only too happy to see it vacated."

     "True, but this will be his son, and whether the son punishes us
     out of filial devotion or because he thinks the royal court
     expects it of him, it'll make little difference as far as we're
     concerned."

     "That never occurred to me," muttered Klapaucius. "You're quite
     right, the prospects aren't encouraging . Have you thought of a
     way out of this dilemma?"

     "Well, we might make the beast multimortal. Picture this: the
     King slays it, it falls, then it gets up again, resurrected, and
     the King chases it again, slays it again, and so on, until he
     gets sick and tired of the whole thing."

     "That he won't like," said Klapaucius after some thought. "And
     anyway, how would you design such a beast?"

     "Oh, I don't know...We could make it without any vital organs.
     The King chops the beast into little pieces, but the pieces grow
     back together."

     "How?"

     "Use a field."

     "Magnetic?"

     "If you like."

     "How do we operate it?"

     "Remote control, perhaps?" asked Trurl.

     "Too risky," said Klapaucius. "How do you know the King won't
     have us locked up in some dungeon while the hunt's in progress?
     Our poor predecessors were no fools, and look how they ended up.
     More than one of them, I'm sure, thought of remote control--yet
     it failed. No, we can't expect to maintain communication with the
     beast during the battle."

     "Then why not use a satellite?" suggested Trurl. "We could
     install automatic controls--"

     "Satellite indeed!" snorted Klapaucius. "And how are you going to
     build it, let alone put it in orbit? There are no miracles in our
     profession, Trurl! We'll have to hide the controls some other
     way."

     "But where can we hide the controls when they watch our every
     step? You've seen how the servants skulk about, sticking their
     noses into everything We'd never be able to leave the premises
     ourselves, and certainly not smuggle out such a large piece of
     equipment. It's impossible!"

     "Calm down," said prudent Klapaucius, looking over his shoulder.
     "Perhaps we don't need such equipment in the first place."

     "Something has to operate the beast, and if that something is an
     electronic brain anywhere inside, the King will smash it to a
     pulp before you can say goodbye."


                             Fierce Simulations

     They were silent. Night had fallen and the village lights below
     were flickering on, one by one. Suddenly Trurl said:

     "Listen, here's an idea. We only pretend to build a beast but in
     reality build a ship to escape on. We give it ears, a tail, paws,
     so no one will suspect, and they can be easily jettisoned on
     takeoff. What do you think of that? We get off scot-free and
     thumb our noses at the King!"

     "And if the King has planted a real constructor among our
     servants, which is not unlikely, then it's all over and into the
     pit with us. Besides, running away--no, it just doesn't suit me.
     It's him or us, Trurl, you can't get around it."

     "Yes, I suppose a spy could be a constructor too," said Trurl
     with a sigh. "What then can we do, in the name of the Great
     Comet?! How about--a photoelectric phantom?"

     "You mean, a mirage? Have the King hunt a mirage? No thanks!
     After an hour or two of that, he'd come straight here and make
     phantoms of us!"

     Again they were silent. Finally Trurl said:

     "The only way out of our difficulty, as far as I can see, is to
     have the beast abduct the King, and then--"

     "You don't have to say another word. Yes, that's not at all a bad
     idea...Then for the ransom we--and haven't you noticed, old boy,
     that the orioles here are a deeper orange than on Maryland IV?"
     concluded Klapaucius, for just then some servants were bringing
     silver lamps out on the veranda. "There's still a problem
     though," he continued when they were alone again. "Assuming the
     beast can do what you say, how will we be able to negotiate with
     the prisoner if we're sitting in a dungeon ourselves?"

     "You have a point there," said Trurl. "We'll have to figure some
     way around that...The main thing, however, is the algorithm!"

     "Any child knows that! What's a beast without an algorithm?"

     So they rolled up their sleeves and sat down to experiment--by
     simulation, that is mathematically and all on paper. And the
     mathematical models of King Krool and the beast did such fierce
     battle across the equation-covered table, that the constructors'
     pencils kept snapping. Furious, the beast writhed and wriggled
     its iterated integrals beneath the King's polynomial blows,
     collapsed into an infinite series of indeterminate terms, then
     got back up by raising itself to the nth power, but the King so
     belabored it with differentials and partial derivatives that its
     Fourier coefficients all canceled out (see Riemann's Lemma), and
     in the ensuing confusion the constructors completely lost sight
     of both King and beast.

     So they took a break, stretched their legs, had a swig from the
     Leyden jug to bolster their strength, then went back to work and
     tried it again from the beginning, this time unleashing their
     entire arsenal of tensor matrices and grand canonical ensembles,
     attacking the problem with such fervor that the very paper began
     to smoke. The King rushed forward with all his cruel coordinates
     and mean values, stumbled into a dark forest of roots and
     logarithms, had to backtrack, then encountered the beast on a
     field of irrational numbers (F1) and smote it so grievously that
     it fell two decimal places and lost an epsilon, but the beast
     slid around an asymptote and hid in an n-dimensional orthogonal
     phase space, underwent expansion and came out, fuming
     factorially, and fell upon the King and hurt him passing sore.
     But the King, nothing daunted, put on his Markov chain mail and
     all his impervious parameters, took his increment to infinity and
     dealt the beast a truly Boolean blow, sent it reeling through an
     x-axis and several brackets--but the beast, prepared for this,
     lowered its horns and wham!!--the pencils flew like mad through
     transcendental functions and double eigen transformations, and
     when at last the beast closed in and the King was down and out
     for the count, the constructors jumped up, danced a jig, laughed
     and sang as they tore all their papers to shreds, much to the
     amazement of the spies perched in the chandelier--perched in
     vain, for they were uninitiated into the niceties of higher
     mathematics and consequently had no idea why Trurl and Klapaucius
     were now shouting over and over, "Hurrah! Victory!!"


                             The Secret Police

     Well after midnight, the Leyden jug from which the constructors
     had on occasion refreshed themselves in the course of their
     labors was quietly taken to the headquarters of the King's secret
     police, where its false bottom was opened and a tiny tape
     recorder removed. This the experts switched on and listened to
     eagerly, but the rising sun found them totally unenlightened and
     looking haggard. One voice, for example, would say:

     "Well? Is the King ready?"

     "Right!"

     "Where'd you put him? Over there? Good! Now--hold on, you have to
     keep the feet together. Not yours, idiot, the King's! All right
     now, ready? One, two, find the derivative! Quick! What do you
     get?"

     "Pi."

     "And the beast?"

     "Under the radical sign. But look, the King's still standing!"

     "Still standing, eh? Factor both sides, divide by two, throw in a
     few imaginary numbers--good! Now change variables and
     subtract--Trurl, what on earth are you doing?! The beast, not the
     King, the beast! That's right! Good! Perfect!! Now transform,
     approximate and solve for x. Do you have it?"

     "I have it! Klapaucius! Look at the King now!!"

     There was a pause, then a burst of wild laughter.

     That same morning, as all the experts and high officials of the
     secret police shook their heads, bleary-eyed after a sleepless
     night, the constructors asked for quartz, vanadium, steel,
     copper, platinum, rhinestones, dysprosium, yttrium and thulium,
     also cerium and germanium, and most of the other elements that
     make up the Universe, plus a variety of machines and qualified
     technicians, not to mention a wide as sortment of spies--for so
     insolent had the constructors become, that on the triplicate
     requisition form they boldly wrote: "Also, kindly send agents of
     various cuts and stripes at the discretion and with the approval
     of the Proper Authorities." The next day they asked for sawdust
     and a large red velvet curtain on a stand, a cluster of little
     glass bells in the center and a large tassel at each of its four
     corners; everything, even down to the littlest glass bell, was
     specified with the utmost precision. The King scowled when he
     heard these requests, but ordered them to be carried out to the
     letter, for he had given his royal word. The constructors were
     thus granted all that they wished.

     All that they wished grew more and more outlandish. For instance,
     in the files of the secret police under code number 48ggg/llK/T
     was a copy of a requisition for three tailor's mannequins as well
     as six full police uniforms, complete with sash, side arm, shako,
     plume and handcuffs, also all available back issues of the
     magazine The Patriotic Policeman, yearbooks and supplements
     included--under "Comments" the constructors had guaranteed the
     return of all items listed above within twenty-four hours of
     delivery and in perfect condition. In another, classified section
     of the police archives was a copy of a letter from Klapaucius in
     which he demanded the immediate shipment of ( 1 ) a life size
     doll representing the Postmaster General in full regalia, and (2)
     a light gig painted green with a kerosene lamp on the left and a
     sky-blue sign on the back that said THINK. The doll and gig
     proved too much for the Chief of Police: he had to be taken away
     for a much-needed rest. During the next three days the
     constructors asked only for barrels of red castor oil, and after
     that--nothing.

     From then on, they worked in the basement of the palace,
     hammering away and singing space chanteys, and at night blue
     lights came flashing from the basement windows and gave weird
     shapes to the trees in the garden outside. Trurl and Klapaucius
     with their many helpers bustled about amid arcs and sparks, now
     and then looking up to see faces pressed against the glass: the
     servants, as if out of idle curiosity, were photographing their
     every move. One evening, when the weary constructors had finally
     dragged themselves off to bed, the components of the apparatus
     they had been working on were quickly transported by unmarked
     balloon to police headquarters and assembled by eighteen of the
     finest cyberneticians in the land, who had been deputized and
     duly sworn in for that very purpose, whereupon a gray tin mouse
     ran out from under their hands, blowing soap bubbles and dropping
     a thin trail of chalk dust from under its tail, which spelled, as
     it danced this way and that across the table, WHAT, DON'T YOU
     LOVE US ANYMORE? Never before in the kingdom's history did Chiefs
     of Police have to be re placed with such speed and regularity.

     The uniforms, the doll, the green gig, even the sawdust,
     everything which the constructors returned exactly as promised,
     was thoroughly examined under electron microscope. But except for
     a minuscule card in the sawdust which read JUST SAWDUST, there
     was nothing out of the ordinary. Then individual atoms of the
     uniforms and gig were thoroughly searched--with equal lack of
     success.


                               The Great Hunt

     At last the day came when the work was completed. A huge vehicle
     on three hundred wheels, looking something like a refrigerator,
     was drawn up to the main entrance and opened in the presence of
     witnesses and officials; Trurl and Klapaucius brought out a
     curtain, the one with the tassels and bells, and placed it
     carefully inside, in the middle of the floor. Then they got in
     themselves, closed the door, did something, then went and got
     various containers from the basement, cans of chemicals, all
     sorts of finely ground powders--gray, silver, white, yellow,
     green--and sprinkled them under and around the curtain, then
     stepped out, had the vehicle closed and locked, consulted their
     watches and together counted out fourteen and a half seconds--at
     which time, much to everyone's surprise, since the vehicle was
     stationary and there could be no question of a breeze inside (for
     the seal was hermetic), the glass bells tinkled. The constructors
     exchanged a wink and said:

     "You can take it now!"

     The rest of the day they spent blowing soap bubbles from the
     veranda. That evening Lord Protozor, Master of the Royal Hunt,
     came with an escort and politely but firmly informed them that
     they were to go with him at once to an assigned place. They were
     required to leave all their possessions behind, even their
     clothes; in exchange they were given rags, then put in irons. The
     guards and police dignitaries present were astounded by their
     perfect sang-froid: instead of demanding justice or trembling
     with fear, Trurl giggled as the shackles were being hammered on,
     saying he was ticklish. And when the constructors were thrown
     into a dark and dismal dungeon, they promptly struck up a rousing
     chorus of "Sing Sweet Software."

     Meanwhile mighty Krool rode forth from the village on his mighty
     hunting chariot, surrounded by all his retinue and followed by a
     long and winding train of riders and machines, machines that
     included not only the traditional catapult and cannon, but
     enormous laser guns and beta ray bazookas, and a tar-thrower
     guaranteed to immobilize anything that walked, swam, flew or
     rolled along.

     And so this grand procession wended its way to the royal game
     preserve, and many jokes were made, and boasts, and haughty
     toasts, and no one gave a thought to the two constructors, except
     perhaps to remark that those fools were in a pretty pickle now.

     But when the silver trumpets announced His Majesty's approach,
     one could see a huge vehicle-refrigerator coming up in the
     opposite direction. Its door flung open, and for one brief moment
     there gaped the black maw of what appeared to be some sort of
     field gun. Next there was a boom, a puff of yellow smoke, and
     something came rocketing out, a form as blurry as a tornado and
     with the general consistency of a sandstorm; it arced through the
     air so fast that no one really got a good look at it anyway.
     Whatever it was flew a hundred paces or more and landed without a
     sound; the curtain that had been wrapped around it floated to the
     earth, glass bells tinkling oddly in that perfect silence, and
     lay there like a crushed strawberry.

     Now everyone could see the beast clearly--though it wasn't clear
     at all, but looked a little like a hill, rather large, fairly
     long, its color much like its surroundings, a clump of dried-up
     weeds. The King's huntsmen unleashed the whole pack of automated
     hounds (mainly Saint Cybernards and Cyberman pinschers, with an
     occasional high-frequency terrier); these hurled themselves,
     howling and slavering, at the crouching beast. The beast didn't
     rear back, didn't roar, didn't even breathe fire, but only opened
     its two eyes wide and reduced half the pack to ashes in a trice.

     "Oho! Laser-eyed, is it?" cried the King. "Hand me my trusty
     duralumin doublet, my bulletproof buckler, my halberd and
     arquebus!" Thus accoutered and gleaming like a supernova, he rode
     out upon his fearless high-fidelity cyber steed, came nigh the
     beast and smote it such a mighty blow that the air crackled and
     its head tumbled neatly to the ground. Though the retinue
     dutifully hallooed his triumph, the King took no delight in it;
     greatly angered, he swore in his heart to devise some special
     torment for those wretches who dared to call themselves
     constructors. The beast, however, shook another head out of its
     severed neck, opened its new eyes wide and played a withering
     beam across the King's armor (which, however, was proof against
     all manner of electromagnetic radiation). "Well, those two
     weren't a total loss," said the King to himself, "though this
     still won't help them." And he recharged his charger and spurred
     it into the fray.

     This time he swung full and cleaved the beast in twain. The beast
     didn't seem to mind--in fact, it positioned itself helpfully
     beneath the whistling blade and gave a grateful twitch as it
     fell. And small wonder! The King took another look: the thing was
     twinned instead of twained! There were two spitting images, each
     a little smaller than the original, plus a third, a baby beast
     gamboling between them--that was the head he had cut off earlier:
     it now had a tail and feet and was doing cartwheels through the
     weeds.

     "What next?" thought the King. "Chop it into mice or little
     worms? A fine way to hunt!" And with great ire did he have at it,
     hewing with might and main until there were no end of little
     beasts underfoot, but suddenly they all backed off, went into a
     huddle, and there stood the beast again, good as new and stifling
     a yawn.

     "H'm," thought the King. "Apparently it has the same kind of
     stabilization mechanism that--what was his name
     again?--Pumpington--that Pumpington tried to use. Yes, I dealt
     with him myself for that idiotic trick...Well, we'll just wheel
     out the antimatter artillery..."

     He picked one with a six-foot bore, lined it up and loaded it
     himself, took aim, pulled the string and sent a perfectly silent
     and weirdly shimmering shell straight at the beast, to blow it to
     smithereens once and for all. But nothing happened--that is,
     nothing much. The beast only crouched a little lower, put out its
     left hand, long and hairy, and gave the King the finger.

     "Bring out our biggest!" roared the King, pretending not to
     notice. And several hundred peasants pulled up a veritable giant
     of a cannon, all of eighty-gauge, which the King aimed and was
     just about to fire--when all at once the beast leaped. The King
     lifted his sword to defend himself, but then there was no more
     beast. Those who saw what happened next said later that they were
     sure they had taken leave of their senses, for as the beast flew
     through the air, it underwent a lightning transformation, the
     grayish hulk divided up into three men in uniform, three
     policemen, who, still aloft, were already preparing to do their
     duty.

     The first policeman, a sergeant, got out the handcuffs,
     maneuvering his legs to keep upright; the second held on to his
     plumed shako with one hand, so it wouldn't blow off, and with the
     other pulled out a warrant from his breast pocket; the third,
     apparently a rookie, assumed a horizontal position beneath the
     feet of the first two, to cushion their fall--after which,
     however, he jumped up and carefully dusted off his uniform.
     Meanwhile the first policeman had handcuffed the dumbfounded King
     and the second slapped the sword from his hand. Feebly
     protesting, the suspect was then summarily trotted off the field.

     The entire hunting procession stood rooted to the spot for a
     minute or two, then gave a yell and followed in hot pursuit The
     snorting cybersteeds had practically caught up with the
     abductors, and swords and sabers were unsheathed and raised to
     strike, but the third policeman bent over, depressed his
     bellybutton and immediately the arms grew into two shafts, the
     legs coiled up, sprouting spokes, and began to turn, while the
     back formed the seat of a green racing gig to accommodate the
     other two policemen, who were vigorously plying the now harnessed
     King with a whip, to make him run faster. The King obliged and
     broke into a mad gallop, waving his arms frantically to ward off
     the blows that descended upon his royal head; but now the
     huntsmen were gaining again, so the policemen jumped on the
     King's back and one slipped down between the shafts, huffed and
     puffed and turned into a spinning top, a dancing whirlwind, which
     gave wings to the little gig and whisked it away over hill and
     dale till it disappeared altogether in a cloud of dust.

     The King's retinue split up and began a desperate search with
     Geiger counters and bloodhounds, and a special detachment came
     running up with shovels and flame-throwers and left no bone
     unburned in all the neighboring cemeteries--an obvious error,
     occasioned most likely by the trembling hand that hastily
     telegraphed the order from the observation balloon that had
     monitored the hunt. Several police divisions rushed here and
     there, searched the grounds, every bush, every weed, and both
     x-rays and laboratory samples were diligently taken of everything
     imaginable. The King's charger was ordered to appear before a
     special board of inquiry appointed by the Prosecutor General. A
     unit of paratroopers with vacuum cleaners and sieves was dropped
     on the royal game preserve to sift through every last particle of
     dust. Finally, the order was issued that anyone resembling a
     policeman was to be detained and held without bail, which
     naturally created difficulties--one half of the police force, as
     it turned out, had arrested the other, and vice versa. At dusk
     the huntsmen and soldiers returned to the village dazed and
     bedraggled with the woeful tidings that neither hide nor hair of
     the King's person was anywhere to be found.


                         The Constructors' Demands

     By torchlight and in the dead of night, the chained constructors
     were taken before the Great Chancellor and Keeper of the Royal
     Seal, who addressed them in the following way:

     "Whereas ye have falsely conspired and perversely plotted against
     the Crown and Life of Our Beloved Sovereign and Most Noble Ruler
     Krool and therewith dared to raise a treacherous hand and vilely
     devise his demise, not to mention impersonating an officer, a
     great aggravation of your crimes, so shall ye be quartered
     without quarter, impaled and pilloried, disemboweled, buried
     alive, crucified and burnt at the stake, after which your ashes
     shall be sent into orbit as a warning and perpetual reminder to
     all would-be regicides, amen."

     "Can't you wait a bit?" asked Trurl. "You see, we were expecting
     a letter..."

     "A letter, thou-most scurrilous and scurvy knave?!"

     Just then the guards made way for the Postmaster General
     himself--indeed, how could they bar that dignitary's entrance
     with their poleaxes? The Postmaster approached in full regalia,
     his medals jingling impressively, pulled a letter from a sapphire
     satchel and handed it to the Chancellor, saying, "Mannequin
     though I be, I come from His Majesty," whereupon he disintegrated
     into a fine powder. The Chancellor could scarcely believe his
     eyes, but quickly recognized the King's signet impressed there on
     the purple sealing wax; he opened the letter and read that His
     Majesty was forced to negotiate with the enemy, for the
     constructors had employed means algorithmic and algebraic to make
     him captive, and now they would list their demands, all of which
     the Great Chancellor had better meet, if he wished ever to get
     his Mighty Sovereign back in one piece. Signed: "Krool herewith
     affixes his hand and seal, held prisoner in a cave of unknown
     location by one pseudoconstabulary beast in three uniforms
     personified."

     There then arose a great clamor, everyone shouting and asking
     what it all meant and what were the demands, to which Trurl said
     only, "Our chains, if you please."

     A blacksmith was summoned to unfetter them, after which Trurl
     said:

     "We are hungry and dirty, we need a bath, a shave, massage,
     refreshment, nothing but the best, plenty of pomp and a water
     ballet with fireworks for dessert!"

     The court, of course, was hopping mad, but had to comply in every
     particular. Only at dawn did the constructors return from their
     villa, each elegantly pomaded, arrayed and reclining in a sedan
     chair borne by footmen (their former informers); they then,
     deigning to grant an audience, sat down and presented their
     demands--not off the top of their heads, mind you, but from a
     little notebook they had prepared for the occasion and hidden
     behind a curtain in their room. The following articles were read:

     First, A ship of the finest make and model available shall be
     furnished to carry the constructors home.

     2nd, The said ship shall be laden with various cargo as here
     specified: diamonds--four bushels, gold coin--forty bushels,
     platinum, palladium and whatever other ready valuables they
     happen to think of, eight bushels of each, also whatever mementos
     and tokens from the Royal Apartments the signatories of this
     instrument may deem appropriate.

     3rd, Until such time as the said ship shall be in readiness for
     takeoff, every nut and bolt in place, fully loaded and delivered
     up to the constructors complete with red carpet, an eighty-piece
     send-off band and children's chorus, an abundance of honors,
     decorations and awards, and a wildly cheering crowd--until then,
     no King.

     4th, That a formal expression of undying gratitude shall be
     stamped upon a gold medallion and addressed to Their Most Sublime
     and Radiant Constructors Trurl and Klapaucius, Delight and Terror
     of the Universe, and moreover it shall contain a full account of
     their victory and be duly signed and notarized by every high and
     low official in the land, then set in the richly embellished
     barrel of the King's favorite cannon, which Lord Protozor, Master
     of the Royal Hunt, shall himself and wholly unaided carry on
     board--no other Protozor but the one who lured Their Most Sublime
     and Radiant Constructors to this planet, thinking to work their
     painful and ignominious death thereby.

     5th, That the aforesaid Protozor shall accompany them on their
     return journey as insurance against any sort of double dealing,
     pursuit, and the like. On board he shall occupy a cage three by
     three by four feet and shall receive a daily allowance of humble
     pie with a filling made of that very same sawdust which Their
     Most Sublime and Radiant Constructors saw fit to order in the
     process of indulging the King's foolishness and which was
     subsequently taken to police headquarters by unmarked balloon.

     6th and lastly, The King need not crave forgiveness of Their Most
     Sublime and Radiant Constructors on bended knee, since he is much
     too beneath them to deserve notice.

     In Witness Whereof, the parties have hereunto set their hands and
     seals this day and year, etc. and so on. By: Trurl and
     Klapaucius, Constructors, and the Great Chancellor, the Great
     Chamberlain, the Great Chief of Secret Police, the Seneschal,
     Squadron Leader and Royal Balloonmaster.


                            The Release of Krool

     All the ministers and dignitaries turned blue, but what could
     they do? They had no choice, so a ship was immediately ordered.
     But then the constructors unexpectedly showed up after a
     leisurely breakfast, to surprise the work, and nothing suited
     them: this material, for instance, was no good, and that engineer
     was an absolute idiot, and they had to have a revolving magic
     lantern in the main hall, one with four pneumatic widgets and a
     calibrated cuckoo clock on top--and if the natives here didn't
     know what a widget was, so much the worse for them, considering
     that the King was no doubt most impatient for his release and
     would (when he could) deal harshly with anyone who dared to delay
     it. This remark occasioned a general numbness, a great weakness
     about the knees, and much trembling, but the work continued
     apace.

     Finally the ship was ready and the royal stevedores began to stow
     the cargo in the hold, diamonds, sacks of pearls, so much gold it
     kept spilling out the hatch. Meanwhile the police were secretly
     running all about the countryside, turning everything upside
     down, much to the amusement of Trurl and Klapaucius, who didn't
     mind explaining to a fearful but fascinated audience how it all
     happened, how they had discarded one idea after another until
     they hit upon an altogether different kind of beast. Not knowing
     where or how to place the controls--that is, the brain --so that
     they would be safe, the constructors had simply made everything
     brain, enabling the beast to think with its leg, or tail, or jaws
     (equipped with wisdom teeth only). But that was just the
     beginning.

     The real problem had two aspects, algorithmic and psychoanalytic.
     First they had to determine what would check the King, catch him
     flatfooted, so to speak. To this end, they created by nonlinear
     transmutation a police subset within the beast, since everyone
     knows that resisting or interfering with an officer who is making
     an arrest lege artis is a cosmic offense and utterly unthinkable.
     So much for the psychology of it--except that the Postmaster
     General was utilized here on similar grounds: an official of
     lower rank might not have made it past the guards, the letter
     then would not have been delivered, and the constructors would
     have very literally lost their heads. Moreover, the Postmaster
     mannequin had been given means to bribe the guards, should that
     have proved necessary. Every eventuality had been anticipated and
     provided for.

     Now as far as the algorithms went: they had only to find the
     proper domain of beasts, closed, bounded and bonded, with plenty
     of laws both associative and distributive in operation, throw in
     a constable constant or two, some graphs of graft, squadratic
     equations and crime waves and the thing took over from there,
     once activated by the expedient of writing a document-program
     (behind the curtain with the bells) in castor oil ink, rendering
     it thereby sufficiently hard to swallow to serve as a red-tape
     generator. We might add here that later on the constructors had
     an article published in a prominent scientific journal under the
     title of "Recursive B--Metafunctions in the Special Case of a
     Bogus Polypolice Transmogrification Conversion on an Oscillating
     Harmonic Field of Glass Bells and Green Gig, Kerosene Lamp on the
     Left to Divert Attention, Solved by Beastly
     Incarceration-Concatenation," which was subsequently exploited by
     the tabloids as "The Police State Rears Its Ugly Head." Obviously
     none of the ministers, dignitaries or huntsmen understood a
     single word of what was said, but that hardly mattered. The
     loving subjects of King Krool knew not whether they should
     despise these constructors or stand and gape in awe and
     admiration.

     Now all was in readiness for takeoff. Trurl, as stipulated in the
     agreement, went through the King's private chambers with a large
     sack and calmly appropriated whatever object he took a fancy to.
     Finally, the carriage arrived and took the victors to the
     spaceport, where a crowd cheered wildly and a children's chorus
     sang, then a charming little girl in local costume curtsied and
     presented them with a ribboned nose gay, and high-ranking
     officials took turns to express their undying gratitude, bidding
     them both a fond farewell, and the band played, several ladies
     fainted, and then a hush fell over the multitude. Klapaucius had
     pulled a tooth from his mouth, not an ordinary tooth but a
     transmitter-receiver, a two-way bicuspid. He threw a tiny switch
     and a sandstorm appeared on the horizon, growing and growing,
     whirling faster and faster, until it dropped into an empty space
     between the ship and the crowd and came to a sudden stop,
     scattering dust and debris in all directions. Everyone gasped and
     stepped back--there stood the beast, looking unusually bestial as
     it flashed its laser eyes and flailed its dragon tail!

     "The King, if you please," said Klapaucius. But the beast
     answered, speaking in a perfectly normal voice:

     "Not on your life. It's my turn now to make demands..."

     "What? Have you gone mad? You have to obey, it's in the matrix!"
     shouted Klapaucius. Everyone stared, thunder struck.

     "Matrix-schmatrix. Look pal, I'm not just any beast, I'm
     algorithmic, heuristic and sadistic, fully automatic and
     autocratic, that means undemocratic, and I've got loads of loops
     and plenty of feedback so none of that back talk or I'll clap you
     in irons, that means in the clink with the King, in the brig with
     the green gig, get me?"

     "I'll give you feedback!" roared Klapaucius, furious. But Trurl
     asked the beast:

     "What exactly do you want?"

     And he sneaked around behind Klapaucius and pulled out a special
     tooth of his own, so the beast wouldn't see.

     "Well, first of all I want to marry--"

     But they never learned whom in particular the beast had in mind,
     for Trurl threw a tiny switch and quickly chanted:

     "Eeny, meeny, miney, mo, input, output, out--you--go!"

     The fantastically complex electromagnetic wave system that held
     the beast's atoms in place now came apart under the influence of
     those words, and the beast blinked, wiggled its ears, swallowed,
     tried to pull itself together, but before it could even grit its
     teeth there was a hot gust of wind, a strong smell of ozone, then
     nothing left to pull together, just a little mound of ashes and
     the King standing in the middle, safe and sound, but in great
     need of a bath and mortified to tears that it had come to this.

     "That'll cut you down to size," said Trurl, and no one knew
     whether he meant the beast or the King. In either case, the
     algorithm had done its job well.

     "And now, gentlemen," Trurl concluded, "if you'll kindly help the
     Master of the Royal Hunt into his cage, we can be on our way..."

          -------------------------------------------------------
                                  The End
