conspiracye to liften a hond agayn Hiss Inductivitude—do that sufficeth, excressent muscilid? Confess you to thes crymes?”
“Are you really my lawyer?” I asked. “For you speak like a prosecutor or examining magistrate,”
“I am your defendour.”
“Good. I confess to none of the above crimes.”
“The sparkes they shal flye!” he roared.
Seeing the kind of defender they’d given me, I kept silent The next day I was brought out and interrogated. I admitted nothing, though the judge thundered even more terribly—if that was possible—than my lawyer of the day before. Now he would roar, now whisper, now burst into metallic laughter, and again calmly explain that sooner would he start to breathe than I escape magnifican justice.
At the next interrogation there was present some important dignitary, judging by the number of tubes that glowed inside him. Four more days went by. My biggest problem was food. I made do with the belt from my trousers, soaking it in the water they brought me once a day. The guard carried the pot at arm’s length, as if it were poison.
After a week the belt ran out, but fortunately I had on high laced boots of goatskin—their tongues were the very best thing I ate during my stay in the cell.
On the eighth day, at dawn, two guards ordered me to collect my things. I was placed inside a van and transported with an escort to the Iron Palace, the residence of the Computer. Up magnificent, rustproof stairs we went, through halls lined with cathode tubes, and I was ushered into an enormous, windowless room. The guards retired, leaving me alone. In the middle of the room was a black curtain that hung from ceiling to floor, its folds enclosing the center and arranged in the shape of a square.
“O wrecched mucilid!” boomed a voice, coming as if through pipes from an iron vault, “your final hour draws nigh. Speak, what is your pleasure: the flesh-shredder, the bone-buster, or the hydraulic punch?”
I was silent. The Computer clanged and rumbled, then cried:
“Hearken to me, mucilaginous monstrosity hitherward come at the behest of all gookumkind! Hearken to my mighty voice, thou puling coagulum, thou snivellous emulsion! In the magnificence of my illuminating currents I bestow upon thee mercy: if thou wilt join the ranks of my devoted minions, if thou with all thy heart and soul wouldst be a magnifican, I may possibly spare thee thy life.”
I said that this very thing had been my fondest dream for years. The Computer chuckled, pulsing with derision, and said:
“I know thou liest. But hear me, O maggot! Thou mayst continue thy glutinous existence only as an undercover magnifican-halberdier. Thy task will be all mucilids, spies, agents, traitors and such other viscous vermin as are sent from Gook—to unmask, expose, lay bare and brand with the white iron, for only through such loyal service canst thou hope to save thy sticky skin.”
When I had solemnly sworn to everything, they led me to another room, where I was entered in the register and ordered to submit daily reports at the central halberderie—after which, feeling weak and numb, I was permitted to leave the palace.
Night was falling. I went outside the city, sat on the grass and began to think. I was sick at heart. Had they cut off my head I would at least have saved my honor, but now, by going over to the side of that electronic monster, I’d betrayed the cause I represented, I’d ruined my chances completely. What then, run off to the rocket? A shameful retreat. But all the same I started walking. To be an informer in the employ of a machine that ruled an army of iron crates—that would have been more shameful yet. Who can describe my horror when, instead of the rocket in the place I’d left it, I saw only the scattered remains, broken fragments, clearly the work of robots!
It was dark when I returned to the city. I sat on a stone and for the first time in my life wept bitterly for my home, lost forever, and
“Are you really my lawyer?” I asked. “For you speak like a prosecutor or examining magistrate,”
“I am your defendour.”
“Good. I confess to none of the above crimes.”
“The sparkes they shal flye!” he roared.
Seeing the kind of defender they’d given me, I kept silent The next day I was brought out and interrogated. I admitted nothing, though the judge thundered even more terribly—if that was possible—than my lawyer of the day before. Now he would roar, now whisper, now burst into metallic laughter, and again calmly explain that sooner would he start to breathe than I escape magnifican justice.
At the next interrogation there was present some important dignitary, judging by the number of tubes that glowed inside him. Four more days went by. My biggest problem was food. I made do with the belt from my trousers, soaking it in the water they brought me once a day. The guard carried the pot at arm’s length, as if it were poison.
After a week the belt ran out, but fortunately I had on high laced boots of goatskin—their tongues were the very best thing I ate during my stay in the cell.
On the eighth day, at dawn, two guards ordered me to collect my things. I was placed inside a van and transported with an escort to the Iron Palace, the residence of the Computer. Up magnificent, rustproof stairs we went, through halls lined with cathode tubes, and I was ushered into an enormous, windowless room. The guards retired, leaving me alone. In the middle of the room was a black curtain that hung from ceiling to floor, its folds enclosing the center and arranged in the shape of a square.
“O wrecched mucilid!” boomed a voice, coming as if through pipes from an iron vault, “your final hour draws nigh. Speak, what is your pleasure: the flesh-shredder, the bone-buster, or the hydraulic punch?”
I was silent. The Computer clanged and rumbled, then cried:
“Hearken to me, mucilaginous monstrosity hitherward come at the behest of all gookumkind! Hearken to my mighty voice, thou puling coagulum, thou snivellous emulsion! In the magnificence of my illuminating currents I bestow upon thee mercy: if thou wilt join the ranks of my devoted minions, if thou with all thy heart and soul wouldst be a magnifican, I may possibly spare thee thy life.”
I said that this very thing had been my fondest dream for years. The Computer chuckled, pulsing with derision, and said:
“I know thou liest. But hear me, O maggot! Thou mayst continue thy glutinous existence only as an undercover magnifican-halberdier. Thy task will be all mucilids, spies, agents, traitors and such other viscous vermin as are sent from Gook—to unmask, expose, lay bare and brand with the white iron, for only through such loyal service canst thou hope to save thy sticky skin.”
When I had solemnly sworn to everything, they led me to another room, where I was entered in the register and ordered to submit daily reports at the central halberderie—after which, feeling weak and numb, I was permitted to leave the palace.
Night was falling. I went outside the city, sat on the grass and began to think. I was sick at heart. Had they cut off my head I would at least have saved my honor, but now, by going over to the side of that electronic monster, I’d betrayed the cause I represented, I’d ruined my chances completely. What then, run off to the rocket? A shameful retreat. But all the same I started walking. To be an informer in the employ of a machine that ruled an army of iron crates—that would have been more shameful yet. Who can describe my horror when, instead of the rocket in the place I’d left it, I saw only the scattered remains, broken fragments, clearly the work of robots!
It was dark when I returned to the city. I sat on a stone and for the first time in my life wept bitterly for my home, lost forever, and
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