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

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 ¹question 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 ¹one 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