Stanislaw Lem - The Cyberiad

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THE CYBERIAD

FABLES FOR THE

CYBERNETIC AGE

STANISLAW LEM

Translated from the Polish by MICHAEL KANDEL

Illustrated by DANIEL MROZ

A CONTINUUM BOOK

THE SEABURY PRESS

NEW YORK

United States of America.

Original edition: Cyberiada, Wydawnictwo Literackie, Cracow, 1967, 1972

brief reviews, without the written permission of the publisher.

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING IN PUBLICATION DATA

Lem, Stanislaw. The cyberiad.

(A continuum book)

I. Title.

Contents

How the World Was Saved

Trurl's Machine

How the World Was Saved

A Good Shellacking

THE SEVEN SALLIES OF TRURL AND KLAPAUCIUS

The First Sally, or The Trap of Gargantius

The First Sally (A), or Trurl's Electronic Bard

The Second Sally, or The Offer of King Krool

The Third Sally, or The Dragons of Probability

The Fourth Sally, or How Trurl Built a Femfatalatron to Save Prince

Pantagoon from the Pangs of Love, and How Later He Resorted to a

Cannonade of Babies

The Fifth Sally, or The Mischief of King Balerion

The Fifth Sally (A), or Trurl's Prescription

The Sixth Sally, or How Trurl and Klapaucius Created a Demon of

the Second Kind to Defeat the Pirate Pugg

The Seventh Sally, or How Trurl's Own Perfection Led to No Good

Tale of the Three Storytelling Machines of King Genius

Altruizine

FROM THE CYPHROEROTICON, OR TALES OF

DEVIATIONS, SUPERFIXATIONS AND ABERRATIONS OF THE

HEART

Prince Ferrix and the Princess Crystal

THE CYBERIAD

How the World Was Saved

One day Trurl the constructor put together a machine that could create anything

starting with n. When it was ready, he tried it out, ordering it to make needles, then

nankeens and negligees, which it did, then nail the lot to narghiles filled with nepenthe and

numerous other narcotics. The machine carried out his instructions to the letter. Still not

completely sure of its ability, he had it produce, one after the other, nimbuses, noodles,

nuclei, neutrons, naphtha, noses, nymphs, naiads, and natrium. This last it could not do,

and Trurl, considerably irritated, demanded an explanation.

"Never heard of it," said the machine.

"What? But it's only sodium. You know, the metal, the element…"

"Sodium starts with an s, and I work only in n."

"But in Latin it's natrium."

"Look, old boy," said the machine, "if I could do everything starting with n in every

possible language, I'd be a Machine That Could Do Everything in the Whole Alphabet,

since any item you care to mention undoubtedly starts with n in one foreign language or

another. It's not that easy. I can't go beyond what you programmed. So no sodium."

"Very well," said Trurl and ordered it to make Night, which it made at once—small

perhaps, but perfectly nocturnal. Only then did Trurl invite over his friend Klapaucius the

constructor, and introduced him to the machine, praising its extraordinary skill at such

length, that Klapaucius grew annoyed and inquired whether he too might not test the

machine.

"Be my guest," said Trurl. "But it has to start with n."

"N?" said Klapaucius. "All right, let it make Nature."

The machine whined, and in a trice Trurl's front yard was packed with naturalists.

They argued, each publishing heavy volumes, which the others tore to pieces; in the

distance one could see flaming pyres, on which martyrs to Nature were sizzling; there was

thunder, and strange mushroom-shaped columns of smoke rose up; everyone talked at

once, no one listened, and there were all sorts of memoranda, appeals, subpoenas and

other documents, while off to the side sat a few old men, feverishly scribbling on scraps of

paper.

"Not bad, eh?" said Trurl with pride. "Nature to a T, admit it!"

But Klapaucius wasn't satisfied.

"What, that mob? Surely you're not going to tell me that's Nature?"

"Then give the machine something else," snapped Trurl. "Whatever you like." For a

moment Klapaucius was at a loss for what to ask. But after a little thought he declared

that he would put two more tasks to the machine; if it could fulfill them, he would admit

that it was all Trurl said it was. Trurl agreed to this, whereupon Klapaucius requested

Negative.

"Negative?!" cried Trurl. "What on earth is Negative?"

"The opposite of positive, of course," Klapaucius coolly replied. "Negative attitudes,

the negative of a picture, for example. Now don't try to pretend you never heard of

Negative. All right, machine, get to work!"

The machine, however, had already begun. First it manufactured antiprotons, then

antielectrons, antineutrons, antineutrinos, and labored on, until from out of all this

antimatter an antiworld took shape, glowing like a ghostly cloud above their heads.

"H'm," muttered Klapaucius, displeased. "That's supposed to be Negative? Well… let's

say it is, for the sake of peace. … But now here's the third command: Machine, do

Nothing!"

The machine sat still. Klapaucius rubbed his hands in triumph, but Trurl said:

"Well, what did you expect? You asked it to do nothing, and it's doing nothing."

"Correction: I asked it to do Nothing, but it's doing nothing."

"Nothing is nothing!"

"Come, come. It was supposed to do Nothing, but it hasn't done anything, and

therefore I've won. For Nothing, my dear and clever colleague, is not your run-of-the-mill

nothing, the result of idleness and inactivity, but dynamic, aggressive Nothingness, that is

to say, perfect, unique, ubiquitous, in other words Nonexistence, ultimate and supreme, in

its very own nonperson!"

"You're confusing the machine!" cried Trurl. But suddenly its metallic voice rang out:

"Really, how can you two bicker at a time like this? Oh yes, I know what Nothing is,

and Nothingness, Nonexistence, Nonentity, Negation, Nullity and Nihility, since all these

come under the heading of n, n as in Nil. Look then upon your world for the last time,

gentlemen! Soon it shall no longer be…"

The constructors froze, forgetting their quarrel, for the machine was in actual fact

doing Nothing, and it did it in this fashion: one by one, various things were removed from

the world, and the things, thus removed, ceased to exist, as if they had never been. The

machine had already disposed of nolars, nightzebs, nocs, necs, nallyrakers, neotremes and

nonmalrigers. At moments, though, it seemed that instead of reducing, diminishing and

subtracting, the machine was increasing, enhancing and adding, since it liquidated, in

turn: nonconformists, nonentities, nonsense, nonsupport, nearsightedness,

narrowmindedness, naughtiness, neglect, nausea, necrophilia and nepotism. But after a

while the world very definitely began to thin out around Trurl and Klapaucius.

"Omigosh!" said Trurl. "If only nothing bad comes out of all this…"

"Don't worry," said Klapaucius. "You can see it's not producing Universal Nothingness,

but only causing the absence of whatever starts with n. Which is really nothing in the way

of nothing, and nothing is what your machine, dear Trurl, is worth!"

"Do not be deceived," replied the machine. "I've begun, it's true, with everything in n,

but only out of familiarity. To create however is one thing, to destroy, another thing

entirely. I can blot out the world for the simple reason that I'm able to do anything and

everything—and everything means everything—in n, and consequently Nothingness is

child's play for me. In less than a minute now you will cease to have existence, along with

everything else, so tell me now, Klapaucius, and quickly, that I am really and truly

everything I was programmed to be, before it is too late."

"But—" Klapaucius was about to protest, but noticed, just then, that a number of

things were indeed disappearing, and not merely those that started with n. The

constructors were no longer surrounded by the gruncheons, the targalisks, the shupops,

the calinatifacts, the thists, worches and pritons.

"Stop! I take it all back! Desist! Whoa! Don't do Nothing!!" screamed Klapaucius. But

before the machine could come to a full stop, all the brashations, plusters, laries and zits

had vanished away. Now the machine stood motionless. The world was a dreadful sight.

The sky had particularly suffered: there were only a few, isolated points of light in the

heavens—no trace of the glorious worches and zits that had, till now, graced the horizon!

"Great Gauss!" cried Klapaucius. "And where are the gruncheons? Where my dear,

favorite pritons? Where now the gentle zits?!"

"They no longer are, nor ever will exist again," the machine said calmly. "I executed,

or rather only began to execute, your order…"

"I tell you to do Nothing, and you… you…"

"Klapaucius, don't pretend to be a greater idiot than you are," said the machine. "Had

I made Nothing outright, in one fell swoop, everything would have ceased to exist, and

that includes Trurl, the sky, the Universe, and you—and even myself. In which case who

could say and to whom could it be said that the order was carried out and I am an efficient

and capable machine? And if no one could say it to no one, in what way then could I, who

also would not be, be vindicated?"

"Yes, fine, let's drop the subject," said Klapaucius. "I have nothing more to ask of you,

only please, dear machine, please return the zits, for without them life loses all its charm

…"

"But I can't, they're in z," said the machine. "Of course, I can restore nonsense,

narrowmindedness, nausea, necrophilia, neuralgia, nefariousness and noxiousness. As for

the other letters, however, I can't help you."

"I want my zits!" bellowed Klapaucius.

"Sorry, no zits," said the machine. "Take a good look at this world, how riddled it is

with huge, gaping holes, how full of Nothingness, the Nothingness that fills the bottomless

void between the stars, how everything about us has become lined with it, how it darkly

lurks behind each shred of matter. This is your work, envious one! And I hardly think the

future generations will bless you for it…"

"Perhaps… they won't find out, perhaps they won't notice," groaned the pale

Klapaucius, gazing up incredulously at the black emptiness of space and not daring to look

his colleague, Trurl, in the eye. Leaving him beside the machine that could do everything

in n, Klapaucius skulked home—and to this day the world has remained honeycombed

with nothingness, exactly as it was when halted in the course of its liquidation. And as all

subsequent attempts to build a machine on any other letter met with failure, it is to be

feared that never again will we have such marvelous phenomena as the worches and the

zits—no, never again.

Trurl's Machine

Once upon a time Trurl the constructor built an eight-story thinking machine. When

it was finished, he gave it a coat of white paint, trimmed the edges in lavender, stepped

back, squinted, then added a little curlicue on the front and, where one might imagine the

forehead to be, a few pale orange polkadots. Extremely pleased with himself, he whistled

an air and, as is always done on such occasions, asked it the ritual question of how much is

two plus two.

The machine stirred. Its tubes began to glow, its coils warmed up, current coursed

through all its circuits like a waterfall, transformers hummed and throbbed, there was a

clanging, and a chugging, and such an ungodly racket that Trurl began to think of adding a

special mentation muffler. Meanwhile the machine labored on, as if it had been given the

most difficult problem in the Universe to solve; the ground shook, the sand slid underfoot

from the vibration, valves popped like champagne corks, the relays nearly gave way

under the strain. At last, when Trurl had grown extremely impatient, the machine ground

to a halt and said in a voice like thunder: SEVEN!

"Nonsense, my dear," said Trurl. "The answer's four. Now be a good machine and

adjust yourself! What's two and two?"

"SEVEN!" snapped the machine. Trurl sighed and put his coveralls back on, rolled up

his sleeves, opened the bottom trapdoor and crawled in. For the longest time he

hammered away inside, tightened, soldered, ran clattering up and down the metal stairs,

now on the sixth floor, now on the eighth, then pounded back down to the bottom and

threw a switch, but something sizzled in the middle, and the spark plugs grew blue

whiskers. After two hours of this he came out, covered with soot but satisfied, put all his

tools away, took off his coveralls, wiped his face and hands. As he was leaving, he turned

and asked, just so there would be no doubt about it:

"And now what's two and two?"

"SEVEN!" replied the machine.

Trurl uttered a terrible oath, but there was no help for it—again he had to poke

around inside the machine, disconnecting, correcting, checking, resetting, and when he

learned for the third time that two and two was seven, he collapsed in despair at the foot

of the machine, and sat there until Klapaucius found him. Klapaucius inquired what was

wrong, for Trurl looked as if he had just returned from a funeral. Trurl explained the

problem. Klapaucius crawled into the machine himself a couple of times, tried to fix this

and that, then asked it for the sum of one plus two, which turned out to be six. One plus

one, according to the machine, equaled zero. Klapaucius scratched his head, cleared his

throat and said:

"My friend, you'll just have to face it. That isn't the machine you wished to make.

However, there's a good side to everything, including this."

"What good side?" muttered Trurl, and kicked the base on which he was sitting.

"Stop that," said the machine.

"H'm, it's sensitive too. But where was I? Oh yes … there's no question but that we

have here a stupid machine, and not merely stupid in the usual, normal way, oh no! This

is, as far as I can determine—and you know I am something of an expert—this is the

stupidest thinking machine in the entire world, and that's nothing to sneeze at! To

construct deliberately such a machine would be far from easy; in fact, I would say that no

one could manage it. For the thing is not only stupid, but stubborn as a mule, that is, it has

a personality common to idiots, for idiots are uncommonly stubborn."

"What earthly use do I have for such a machine?!" said Trurl, and kicked it again.

"I'm warning you, you better stop!" said the machine.

"A warning, if you please," observed Klapaucius dryly. "Not only is it sensitive, dense

and stubborn, but quick to take offense, and believe me, with such an abundance of

qualities there are all sorts of things you might do!"

"What, for example?" asked Trurl.

"Well, it's hard to say offhand. You might put it on exhibit and charge admission;

people would flock to see the stupidest thinking machine that ever was—what does it

have, eight stories? Really, could anyone imagine a bigger dunce? And the exhibition

would not only cover your costs, but—"

"Enough, I'm not holding any exhibition!" Trurl said, stood up and, unable to restrain

himself, kicked the machine once more.

"This is your third warning," said the machine.

"What?" cried Trurl, infuriated by its imperious manner. "You… you…" And he kicked

it several times, shouting: "You're only good for kicking, you know that?"

"You have insulted me for the fourth, fifth, sixth and eighth times," said the machine.

"Therefore I refuse to answer all further questions of a mathematical nature."

"It refuses! Do you hear that?" fumed Trurl, thoroughly exasperated. "After six

comes eight—did you notice, Klapaucius?—not seven, but eight! And that's the kind of

mathematics Her Highness refuses to perform! Take that! And that! And that! Or

perhaps you'd like some more?"

The machine shuddered, shook, and without another word started to lift itself from its

foundations. They were very deep, and the girders began to bend, but at last it scrambled

out, leaving behind broken concrete blocks with steel spokes protruding—and it bore

down on Trurl and Klapaucius like a moving fortress. Trurl was so dumb-founded that he

didn't even try to hide from the machine, which to all appearances intended to crush him

to a pulp. But Klapaucius grabbed his arm and yanked him away, and the two of them

took to their heels. When finally they looked back, they saw the machine swaying like a

high tower, advancing slowly, at every step sinking to its second floor, but stubbornly,

doggedly pulling itself out of the sand and heading straight for them.

"Whoever heard of such a thing?" Trurl gasped in amazement. "Why, this is mutiny!

What do we do now?"

"Wait and watch," replied the prudent Klapaucius. "We may learn something."

But there was nothing to be learned just then. The machine had reached firmer

ground and was picking up speed. Inside, it whistled, hissed and sputtered.

"Any minute now the signal box will knock loose," said Trurl under his breath. "That'll

jam the program and stop it…"

"No," said Klapaucius, "this is a special case. The thing is so stupid, that even if the

whole transmission goes, it won't matter. But—look out!!"

The machine was gathering momentum, clearly bent on running them down, so they

fled just as fast as they could, the fearful rhythm of crunching steps in their ears. They

ran and ran—what else could they do? They tried to make it back to their native district,

but the machine outflanked them, cut them off, forced them deeper and deeper into a

wild, uninhabited region. Mountains, dismal and craggy, slowly rose out of the mist. Trurl,

panting heavily, shouted to Klapaucius:

"Listen! Let's turn into some narrow canyon… where it won't be able to follow us …

the cursed thing… what do you say?"

"No… better go straight," wheezed Klapaucius. "There's a town up ahead… can't

remember the name… anyway, we can find—oof!—find shelter there…"

So they ran straight and soon saw houses before them. The streets were practically

deserted at this time of day, and the constructors had gone a good distance without

meeting a living soul, when suddenly an awful crash, like an avalanche at the edge of the

town, indicated that the machine was coming after them.

Trurl looked back and groaned.

"Good heavens! It's tearing down the houses, Klapaucius!!" For the machine, in

stubborn pursuit, was plowing through the walls of the buildings like a mountain of steel,

and in its wake lay piles of rubble and white clouds of plaster dust. There were dreadful

screams, confusion in the streets, and Trurl and Klapaucius, their hearts in their mouths,

ran on till they came to a large town hall, darted inside and raced down endless stairs to a

deep cellar.

"It won't get us in here, even if it brings the whole building down on our heads!"

panted Klapaucius. "But really, the devil himself had me pay you a visit today. … I was

curious to see how your work was going—well, I certainly found out…"

"Quiet," interrupted Trurl. "Someone's coming…"

And indeed, the cellar door opened up and the mayor entered, accompanied by

several aldermen. Trurl was too embarrassed to explain how this strange and calamitous

situation had come about; Klapaucius had to do it. The mayor listened in silence. Suddenly

the walls trembled, the ground heaved, and the sound of cracking stone reached them in

the cellar.

"It's here?!" cried Trurl.

"Yes," said the mayor. "And it demands that we give you up, otherwise it says it will

level the entire town…"

Just then they heard, far overhead, words that honked as if from a muffled horn:

"Trul's here … I smell Trurl…"

"But surely you won't give us up?" asked in a quavering voice the object of the

machine's obstinate fury.

"The one of you who calls himself Trurl must leave. The other may remain, since

surrendering him does not constitute part of the conditions…"

"Have mercy!"

"We are helpless," said the mayor. "And were you to stay here, Trurl, you would have

to answer for all the damage done to this town and its inhabitants, since it was because of

you that the machine destroyed sixteen homes and buried beneath their ruins many of

our finest citizens. Only the fact that you yourself stand in imminent peril permits me to

let you leave unpunished. Go then, and nevermore return."

Trurl looked at the aldermen and, seeing his sentence written on their stern faces,

slowly turned and made for the door.

"Wait! I'll go with you!" cried Klapaucius impulsively.

"You?" said Trurl, a faint hope in his voice. "But no…" he added after a moment.

"Why should you have to perish too?…"

"Nonsense!" rejoined Klapaucius with great energy. "What, us perish at the hands of

that iron imbecile? Never! It takes more than that, my friend, to wipe two of the most

famous constructors off the face of the globe! Come, Trurl! Chin up!"

Encouraged by these words, Trurl ran up the stairs after Klapaucius. There was not a

soul outside in the square. Amid clouds of dust and the gaunt skeletons of demolished

homes, stood the machine, higher than the town hall tower itself, puffing steam, covered

with the blood of powdered brick and smeared with chalk.

"Careful!" whispered Klapaucius. "It doesn't see us. Let's take that first street on the

left, then turn right, then straight for those mountains. There we can take refuge and

think of how to make the thing give up once and for all its insane… Now!" he yelled, for

the machine had just spotted them and was charging, making the pavement buckle.

Breathless, they ran from the town and galloped along for a mile or so, hearing behind

them the thunderous stride of the colossus that followed relentlessly.

"I know that ravine!" Klapaucius suddenly cried. "That's the bed of a dried-out

stream and it leads to cliffs and caves —faster, faster, the thing'll have to stop soon!…"

So they raced uphill, stumbling and waving their arms to keep their balance, but the

machine still gained on them. Scrambling up over the gravel of the dried-out riverbed,

they reached a crevice in the perpendicular rock and, seeing high above them the murky

mouth of a cave, began to climb frantically toward it, no longer caring about the loose

stones that flew from under their feet. The opening in the rock breathed chill and

darkness. As quickly as they could, they leaped inside, ran a few extra steps, then

stopped.

"Well, here at least we're safe," said Trurl, calm once again. "I'll just take a look, to see

where it got stuck…"

"Be careful," cautioned Klapaucius. Trurl inched his way to the edge of the cave,

leaned out, and immediately jumped back in fright.

"It's coming up the mountain!!" he cried.

"Don't worry, it'll never be able to get in here," said Klapaucius, not altogether

convinced. "But what's that? Is it getting dark? Oh no!"

At that moment a great shadow blotted out the bit of sky visible through the mouth of

the cave, and in its place appeared a smooth steel wall with rows of rivets. It was the

machine slowly closing with the rock, thereby sealing up the cave as if with a mighty

metal lid.

"We're trapped…" whispered Trurl, his voice breaking off when the darkness became

absolute.

"That was idiotic on our part!" Klapaucius exclaimed, furious. "To jump into a cave

that it could barricade! How could we have done such a thing?"

"What do you think it's waiting for now?" asked Trurl after a long pause.

"For us to give up—that doesn't take any great brains."

Again there was silence. Trurl tiptoed in the darkness, hands outstretched, in the

direction of the opening, run-ning his fingers along the stone until he touched the smooth

steel, which was warm, as if heated from within…

"I feel Trurl …" boomed the iron voice. Trurl hastily retreated, took a seat alongside

his friend, and for some time they sat there, motionless. At last Klapaucius whispered:

"There's no sense our just sitting here. I'll try to reason with it…"

"That's hopeless," said Trurl. "But go ahead. Perhaps it will at least let you go free…"

"Now, now, none of that!" said Klapaucius, patting him on the back. And he groped his

way toward the mouth of the cave and called: "Hello out there, can you hear us?"

"Yes," said the machine.

"Listen, we'd like to apologize. You see… well, there was a little misunderstanding,

true, but it was nothing, really. Trurl had no intention of…"

"I'll pulverize Trurl!" said the machine. "But first, he'll tell me how much two and two

makes."

"Of course he will, of course he will, and you'll be happy with his answer, and make it

up with him for sure, isn't that right, Trurl?" said the mediator soothingly.

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摘要：

THECYBERIADFABLESFORTHECYBERNETICAGESTANISLAWLEMTranslatedfromthePolishbyMICHAELKANDELIllustratedbyDANIELMROZACONTINUUMBOOKTHESEABURYPRESSNEWYORKEnglishtranslationcopyright©1974byTheSeaburyPress,Inc.PrintedintheUnitedStatesofAmerica.Originaledition:Cyberiada,WydawnictwoLiterackie,Cracow,1967,1972All...

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