"King Krool" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lem Stanislaw)

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