Lem, Stanislaw (30 page)

distending into paws with wicked claws, and from his jaws, which had

six rows of fangs, there belched forth fire and brimstone. Greatly

taken aback, the King gasped, but instead of a gasp, a roar like

thunder issued from his throat and shook the earth. This amazed him

even more, his eyes grew wide, and in the darkness illumined by his

fiery breath he saw that they were bringing him, high on their

shoulders, virgins in serving bowls, four to each, garnished

with greens and smelling so good, he started to drool. The table soon

set—salt here, pepper over there—he licked his chops,

made himself comfortable and, one by one, popped them into his mouth

like peanuts, crunching and grunting with pleasure; the last virgin

was so luscious, so succulent, that he smacked his lips, rubbed

his tummy, and was about to ask for seconds, when everything

flickered and he woke. He looked—he was standing, as before, in

the vestibule outside his private quarters. At his side was

Subtillion, Lord High Thaumaturge and Apothecary to the Throne, and

before him, the dream cabinets, glittering with precious gems.

"How were the maidens?"

inquired Subtillion.

"Not bad. But where was the

music?"

"The chimes got stuck," the

Cybernerian explained. "Would Your Royal Highness care to try

another dream?"

Of course he would, but this time from

another cabinet. The King went up to the black one and plugged into

the dream entitled "Alacritus the Knight and Fair Ramolda,

Daughter of Heteronius."

He blinked—and saw that this was

indeed the age of electrical errantry. He was standing, all clad in

steel, in a wooded glen, a freshly vanquished dragon at his feet; the

leaves rustled, a gentle zephyr blew, a brook gurgled nearby. He

looked into the water and saw, from the reflection, that he was none

other than Alacritus, a knight of the highest voltage and hero

without peer. The whole history of his glorious career was recorded,

in battle scars, upon his person, and he recalled it all, as if the

memory were his own. Those dents in the visor of the helmet—made

by the mailed fists of Morbidor, in his death throes, having been

dispatched with customary alacrity; the broken hinges on the

right greave—that was the work of the late Sir Basher de Bloo;

and the rivets across his left pauldron—gnawed by Skivvian the

Scurvy before giving up the ghost; and the tembrace grille had been

crushed by Gourghbrast Buggeruckus ere he was felled. Similarly,

the cuissfenders, crosshasps, beaver baffles, hauberk latches, front

and rear jambguards and grommets—all bore the marks of battle.

His shield was scored and notched by countless blows, but the

backplate, that was as shiny and rust-free as a newborn's, for never

had he turned to flee an adversary! Though his glory, truth to tell,

was a matter of complete indifference to him. But then he remembered

the fair Ramolda, leaped upon his supercharger and began to search

the length and breadth of the dream for her. In time he arrived at

the castle of her father, the Autoduke Heteronius; the drawbridge

planks thundered beneath horse and rider, and the Autoduke himself

came out to greet him with open arms.

The knight would fain see his Ramolda,

but etiquette requires he curb his impatience; meanwhile the old

Autoduke tells him that another knight is staying at the castle, one

Mygrayn of the house of Polymera, master swordsman and redoubtable

elastician, who dreams of nothing else but to enter the lists with

Alacritus himself. And now here is Mygrayn, spry and supple, stepping

forward with these words:

"Know, O Knight, that I desire

Ramolda the streamlined, Ramolda of the hydraulic thighs, whose bust

no diamond drill can touch, whose limpid eyes are magnetized! She is

thy betrothed, true, but lo, I herewith challenge thee to mortal

combat, sith only one of us may win her hand in marriage!"

And he throws his gage, white and

polymerous.

"We'll hold the wedding right

after the joust," adds the Autoduke-father.

"Very well!' says Alacritus, but

inside, Zipperupus thinks: "It doesn't matter, I can have her

after the wedding and then wake up. But who asked for this Mygrayn

character?"

"This very day, brave Knight,"

says Heteronius, "thou wilt encounter Mygrayn of Polymera on

beaten ground and contend with him by torchlight. But for now, retire

thee to thy room and rest!"

Inside Alacritus, Zipperupus is a

little uneasy, but what can he do? So he goes to his room, and after

a while hears a furtive knock-knock at the door, and an old

cybercrone tiptoes in, gives a wrinkled wink and says:

"Fear naught, O Knight, thou

shalt have the fair Ramolda and forsooth, this very day she'll clasp

thee to her alabaster bosom! Of thee alone doth she dream, both day

and night! Remember only to attack with might and main, for Mygrayn

cannot harm thee and the victory is thine!"

"That's easy enough to say, my

cybercrone," replies the knight. "But anything can happen.

What if I trip, for example, or fail to parry in time? No, it's

a risky business! But perhaps you have some charm that will be

certain."

"Hee-hee!" cackles the

cybercrone. "The things thou sayest, steel sir! There are no

charms, surely, nor hast thou need of any, for I know what will be

and guarantee thou winnest hands down!"

"Still, a charm would be more

sure," says the knight, "particularly in a dream…

but wait, did by any chance Subtillion send you, to give me

confidence?"

"I know of no Subtillion,"

answers she, "nor of what dream ye speak. Nay, this is reality,

my steely liege, as thou wilt learn ere long, when fair Ramolda gives

thee her electric lips to kiss!"

"Odd," mutters Zipperupus,

not noticing that the cybercrone has left the room as quietly as she

came. "Is this a dream or not? I had the impression that it was.

But she says this is reality. H'm. Well, in any event I'd best be

doubly on my guard!" And now the trumpets sound, and one can

hear the rattle of armor; the galleries are packed and everyone

awaits the principals. Here comes Alacritus, a little weak in the

knees; he enters the lists and sees Ramolda, daughter of Heteronius.

She looks upon him sweetly—ah, but there's no time for that

now! Mygrayn is stepping into the ring, the torches blaze all around,

and their swords cross with a mighty clang. Now Zipperupus is

frightened in earnest and tries as hard as he can to wake up, he

tries and tries, but it won't work—the armor's too heavy, the

dream isn't letting go, and the enemy's attacking! Faster and faster

rain the blows, and Zipperupus, weakening, can hardly lift his arm,

when suddenly the foe cries out and shows a broken blade; Alacritus

the knight is ready to leap upon him, but Mygrayn dashes from the

ring and his squires hand him another sword. Just then Alacritus sees

the cybercrone among the spectators; she approaches and whispers in

his ear:

"Sire of steel! When anon thou

art near the open gate that leadeth to the bridge, Mygrayn will lower

his guard. Strike bravely then, for 'tis a sign, certain and true, of

thy victory!"

Wherewith she vanishes, and his rival,

rearmed, comes charging. They fight, Mygrayn hacking away like a

threshing machine out of control, but by degrees he slackens,

parries sluggishly, backs away, and now the time is ripe, the

moment arrives, but the opponent's blade gleams formidably

still, so Zipperupus pulls himself together and thinks, "To hell

with the fair Ramolda!"—turns tail and runs like mad,

pounding back over the drawbridge and into the forest and the

darkness of the night. Behind him he hears shouts of "Disgraceful!"

and "For shame!", crashes headfirst into a tree, sees

stars, blinks, and there he is, standing in the palace vestibule in

front of the Black Cabinet of dreams that dream, and by his side,

Subtillion the mental engineer, smiling a crooked smile. Crooked, as

Subtillion was hiding his disappointment: the Alacritus-Ramolda dream

had in reality been a trap set for the King, for had Zipperupus

heeded the old cybercrone's advice, Mygrayn, who was only pretending

to weaken, would have run him through at the open gate. This the King

avoided, thanks only to his extraordinary cowardice.

"Did Milord enjoy the fair

Ramolda?" inquired the sly Cybernerian.

"She wasn't fair enough,"

said Zipperupus, "so I didn't see fit to pursue the matter. And

besides, there was some trouble, and fighting too. I like my dreams

without fighting, do you understand?"

"As Your Royal Highness wishes,"

replied Subtillion. "Choose freely, for in all these cabinet

dreams there is only delight in store, no fighting…"

"We'll see," said the King

and plugged into the dream entitled "The Marvelous Mattress of

Princess Bounce." He was in a room of unsurpassed loveliness,

all in gold brocade. Through crystal windowpanes light streamed like

water from the purest spring, and there by her pearly vanity the

Princess stood, yawning, preparing herself for bed. Zipperupus

was greatly amazed at this unexpected sight and tried to clear his

throat to inform her of his presence, but not a sound came out—had

he been gagged?—so he tried to touch his mouth, but couldn't,

tried to move his legs—no, he couldn't—then desperately

looked around for a place to sit down, feeling faint, but that too

was impossible. Meanwhile the Princess stretched and gave a yawn, and

another, and a third, and then, overcome with drowsiness, she fell

upon the mattress so hard, that King Zipperupus was jolted from head

to toe, for he himself was the mattress of Princess Bounce! Evidently

the young damsel was having an unpleasant dream, seeing how she

turned and tossed about, jabbing the King with her little elbows,

digging him with her little heels, until his royal person

(transformed into a mattress by this dream) was seized with a mighty

rage. The King struggled with his dream, strained and strained, and

finally the seams burst, the springs sprang, the slats gave way and

the Princess came crashing down with a shriek, which woke him up and

he found himself once again in the palace vestibule, and by his side,

Subtillion the Cybernerian, bowing an obsequious bow.

"You chuckleheaded bungler!"

cried the indignant King. "How dare you?! What, villain, am I to

be a mattress, and someone else's mattress at that? You forget

yourself, sirrah!"

Subtillion, alarmed by the King's

fury, apologized profusely and begged him to try another dream,

persuading and pleading until Zipperupus, finally appeased, took the

plug and hooked himself into the dream, "Bliss in the Eightfold

Embrace of Octopauline." He was standing in a crowd of onlookers

in a great square, and a procession was passing by with waving silks,

muslins, mechanical elephants, litters in carved ebony; the one in

the middle was like a golden shrine, and in it, behind eight veils,

sat a feminine figure of miraculous beauty, an angel with a

dazzling face and galactic gaze, high-frequency earrings too, and the

King, all a-tremble, was about to ask who this heavenly vision was,

when he heard a murmur of awe and adoration surge through the

multitude: "Octopauline! It's Octopauline!"

For they were celebrating, with the

utmost pomp and pageantry, the royal daughter's betrothal to a

foreign knight of the name Oneiromant.

The King was a bit surprised that he

wasn't this knight, and when the procession had passed and

disappeared behind the palace gates, he went with the others in the

crowd to a nearby inn; there he saw Oneiromant, who, clad in nothing

but galligaskins of damask studded with gold nails and holding a

half-empty stein of fortified phosgene in his hand, came over to him,

put an arm around him, gave him a hug and whispered in his ear with

searing breath:

"Look, I have a rendezvous with

Princess Octopauline tonight at midnight, behind the palace, in the

grove of barbwire bushes next to the mercury fountain—but I

don't dare show up, not in this condition, I've had too much to

drink, you see—but you, good stranger, why you're the spit and

image of me, so please, please go in my place, kiss the Princess'

hands for me and say that you're Oneiromant, and gosh, I'll be

beholden to you forever and a day!"

"Why not?" said the King

after a little thought. "Yes, I think I can manage it. But

when?"

"Right now, there's not a moment

to lose, it's almost midnight, just remember—the King knows

nothing of this, no one does, only the Princess and the old

gatekeeper, and when he bars your way, here, put this heavy bag of

ducats in his hand, and he'll let you pass!"

The King nodded, took the bag of

ducats and ran straight for the castle, since the clocks, like