to tremble: that which he had known of only in theory had actually
come to pass; for as the hypothesis of the incomparable Cerebron of
Umptor, the Universal Maestro of the Greater and Lesser Cybernetics,
clearly stated, any digital device presented with a task beyond its
capacity would, provided it had crossed a certain threshold known as
the Wisdom Barrier, build another machine instead of agonizing over
the problem itself, and this second machine, obviously clever enough
to size up the situation, would turn the problem over to a third
assembled for that express purpose, and the chain of delegation would
continue ad infinitum. By now the steel girders of the forty-ninth
generation had practically reached the clouds; the noise of all that
mental activity, devoted wholly to passing the burden on as far down
the line as possible, was enough to drown out a waterfall. These, after
all, were intelligent machines, not digital dimwits to grind away
blindly according to the dictates of some program! Trurl sat down
In Hot Pursuit of Happiness
25
on a stump of one of the trees cleared by this unexpected computer
evolution and gave a hollow groan.
‘Can it be’, he asked, ‘that the problem is truly insoluble? But the
computer ought to have at least supplied me with a proof to that
effect—which it would never dream of doing, of course, being of
sufficient intellect to fall into that stubborn sloth Maestro Cerebron
warned us of so long ago. But really, how shameful—an intelligence
intelligent enough to realize it need not lift a finger, only construct an appropriate tool, a tool with sense enough to do likewise, and so on
and so forth forever! Fool that I am, I built a Relegator and not a
Calculator! Nor can I forbid it to act per procura: it will only claim it needs all those mountains of machinery in view of the scope and
difficulty of the assignment. What a paradox!’ And he sighed, went
home and sent out a demolition squad, which in three days cleared
the field with crowbars and jackhammers.
Once again Trurl found himself in a quandary. ‘Each machine’, he
thought, ‘would have to be equipped with a supervisor wise beyond
belief—in other words, myself. But I can hardly divide myself up and
distribute the pieces, though . . . though why not multiply? Eureka!’
And this is what he did: he placed a perfect copy of himself inside a
special new machine—not a physical copy of course, but an informa-
tional-mathematical model to take over and tackle the problem;
furthermore he allowed for the possibility of multiple Trurls and
their proliferation in the program, and also attached a thought
accelerator to the system, so that under the watchful eye of a legion
of Trurls everything within could move at lightning speed. Finally
satisfied, he straightened up, dusted the metal filings off his coveralls and went for a stroll in the fresh air, whistling cheerfully.
That evening he returned and began to question the Trurl in the
machine—that is, his digital duplicate—and asked it first how the
work was progressing.
‘My dear fellow’, his duplicate replied through the slot where the
punched tape came out, ‘I must tell you, to begin with, that it’s in
extremely poor taste, and not to mince words, downright indecent to
stick yourself, in the form of a computerized copy, inside a machine—
simply because you aren’t willing to work out some nasty problem on
your own! Moreover, since I have been mathematized and mechan-
ized, punched-out and programmed up to be every informational bit
as wise as yourself, I see no reason why I should be reporting to you
and not the other way around!’
‘As if I hadn’t done a thing, only skipped over hill and dale gather-
26
Stanisl/aw Lem
ing daisies!’, growled Trurl, exasperated. ‘Anyway, there’s nothing I
can tell you about the problem you don’t already know. My neurons
are nearly burnt through with overwork! It’s your turn now—please,
don’t be difficult, tell me what you’ve learned!’
‘Unable as I am to leave this accursed machine in which you
imprisoned me (a separate matter, and one we shall take up at a
later date), I have indeed given some thought to the whole question’,
lisped the computerized Trurl through the output slot. ‘True, I have
also occupied myself with other things, particularly as you, O craven
counterpart of mine, were thoughtless enough to pack me in here
without a stitch—there were digital drawers to compute and other
such numerical necessities, a house and garden as like yours as two p’s
in a polynomial, only nicer since I hung a scalar sky over mine, with
fully convergent constellations, and was just considering, when you
interrupted, the best way to calculate out a Klapaucius, for it gets
terribly lonely in here among these unimaginative capacitors, these
monotonous cables and coils!’
‘Please, please get to the point!’
‘Don’t think you can placate my righteous indignation by being
polite! Remember that I, duplicate or not, am you yourself, and so I
know you well, my friend! I have but to look within to see all your
little tricks and villainies. No, you cannot hide a thing from me!’
At this juncture the natural Trurl began to plead on bended knee
with the mathematical Trurl, and even went so far as to pay him a few
compliments. The latter finally said:
‘I have made, I must confess, some progress. The whole question is
fantastically complex, and therefore I set up a special university here,
appointed myself rector and general director of the institution, then
filled its various departments—which at present number four and
twenty—with suitable doubles of myself, that is Trurls twice re-
moved.’
‘What, again?’, groaned the natural Trurl, remembering Cerebron’s
Theorem.
‘There’s no ‘‘again’’ about it, imbecile, we have special circuit
breakers to prevent any such regressus ad nauseam. My subaltern
Trurls, Deans of the Colleges of General Felicitology, Experimental
Hedonautics, Euthenical Engineering and the School of Applied
Rapture, all submit annual reports every quarter (for we work, as
you know, at an accelerated rate). Unfortunately, the administration
of such a large educational complex makes great demands on my
time, and then there are degrees to confer, dissertation abstracts to be
In Hot Pursuit of Happiness
27
read, commencement exercises to attend, promotions to review—we
simply have to have another computer, there’s no room left in this
one, what with all the offices and laboratories. At least eight times the size.’
‘Another computer?’
‘Purely to handle administrative matters, you understand, under-
graduate registration and the like. Surely you don’t expect me to take
care of all that myself?!’, snorted the mathematical Trurl. ‘Either you
cooperate, or I’ll shut the university down right now and turn it into
an amusement park, ride a sine-wav
e roller coaster all day and eat
computerized candy-floss—and you won’t be able to do a thing about
it!’
The natural Trurl again had to pacify him before he would
continue. Finally the computerized Trurl said:
‘Judging by the reports of the last quarter, we’re making consider-
able headway. Idiots you can render happy with next to nothing; it’s
the intellectuals that present the problem. Intellectuals are hard to
please. Without some challenge, the intellect is a wretched, pitiful
vacuum; it craves obstacles. Whenever obstacles are overcome, it
grows sad—goes mad. New ones must be continually provided, the
commensurate with its ability. That is the latest from the Department
of Theoretical Felicity. The experimentalists, on the other hand, have
nominated a research director and three assistants to receive the
Idyllic Integer Award.’
‘What did they do?’, asked the natural Trurl.
‘Don’t interrupt. They built two prototypes: the Contrastive Beati-
fier and the Euphoriac. The first produces happiness only when you
turn it off, since actually it produces misery: the more misery, the
happier you are afterwards. The second applies the method of felicific
oscillation. But Professor Trurl XL of the Department of Hedometry
has tested both models and found them to be worthless; he concludes
that Reason, once perfectly happy, will immediately desire to be
perfectly unhappy.’
‘What? Can that be true?’
‘How should I know? Professor Trurl puts it this way: ‘‘He who is
happy is unhappy, for to be unhappy is to be happy for him.’’ As an
example, everyone knows dying is undesirable. Now Professor Trurl
assembled a few immortals, who naturally derived great satisfaction
from the fact that others sooner or later dropped like flies around
them. But after a while they grew weary of their immortality and
tried, as best they could, to tamper with it. At one point they were
28
Stanisl/aw Lem
even resorting to pneumatic drills. Then too, there are the public
opinion polls we take each quarter. I’ll spare you the statistics—our
results may be formulated thus: ‘‘It’s always others who are happy’’.
At least according to those we’ve interviewed. Professor Trurl assures
us there can be no Virtue without Vice, no Fair without Foul, no
Growth without the Grave, no Heaven without Hell.’
‘Never! I protest! Veto!’, Trurl howled at the machine, infuriated.
‘Pipe down!’, snapped the machine. ‘Frankly, I’m getting a little fed
up with this Universal Happiness of yours. Just look at him, the
digitless dog! Makes himself a simulational slave, goes for a nice little walk in the woods, and then has the unmitigated gall to criticize!’
Again Trurl had to calm him down. At last the computerized double
continued:
‘Our ecstatisticians built a society and furnished it with synthetic
guardian angels. These spiritual automata were housed in satellites
maintained in stationary orbits; hovering high above their respective
charges, they were to reinforce virtue by means of regenerative
feedback. Well, it didn’t work. The more incorrigible sinners
downed their guardian angels with high calibre catapults. This led
to the placing in orbit of larger, more heavily armoured models,
cyberseraphs, which began an escalation as hopeless as it was
predictable. Recently the Department of Meliorology, in conjunction
with the Institute of Sexual Vector Analysis and an interdisciplinary
colloquium on hypothetical genders, issued a report which confirms
the hierarchic structure of the psyche. At the very bottom lie the
purely physical sensations—sweetness, bitterness; from these all
higher orders of experience are derived. Sweet is not only sugar, for
instance, but the sorrow of parting; bitter is not only wormwood, but
the truth. Consequently, one should approach the problem not head-
on but from underneath as it were. The only question is how.
According to a theory advanced by our Assistant Professor Trurl
XXV, Sex is a fundamental source of conflict between Reason and
Happiness; as Sex is wholly unreasonable and Reason by no means
sexual. Did you ever hear of a lewd computer?’
‘Never.’
‘You see? We must apply the method of successive approximations
here. Reproduction by budding does avoid most difficulties: one is
one’s own lover, one courts oneself, adores oneself—only this in-
variably leads to egoism, narcissism, satiety, stagnation. For two sexes, the prospects are quite poor: the few combinations and permutations
are soon exhausted and tedium sets in. With three sexes you have the
In Hot Pursuit of Happiness
29
problem of inequality, the threat of undemocratic coalitions and the
subjugation of a sexual minority—hence the rule that the number
of sexes must be even. The more sexes, of course, the better, for
love then becomes a social, collective endeavour—though an over-
abundance of lovers might result in crowds, shoving and confusion,
and that would be a shame. A teˆte-à-teˆte ought not to resemble a riot.
Using group theory, Trurl XXV arrives at twenty-four as the optimal
number of sexes. One need only to build sufficiently wide beds and
avenues—it would hardly do for an affianced unit to have to
promenade along in a four-column formation.’
‘This is nonsense!’
‘Possibly. I only pass on to you the findings of one of our better
junior colleagues. We have some promising young graduate students
as well; one Trurl wrote a brilliant master’s thesis on whether beings
are to be geared to Being, or Being to beings.’
‘H’m. And what was his conclusion?’
require nothing; they are absolutely self-sufficient. In principle you
could construct a universe filled with such entities; they would float
through space instead of suns and galaxies, each existing entirely on
its own. Societies, you see, arise solely from imperfect beings, those
who cannot manage without some sort of mutual support. The less
perfect they are, the more urgent their need for others. It follows then
that one should build prototypes that would, in the absence of an
unceasing and reciprocal solicitude, instantly crumble into dust. A
society of such self-crumbling individuals was indeed developed in
our laboratories. Unfortunately, when Trurl the graduate student
approached them with a questionnaire, he was given an awful
beating—he still hasn’t fully recovered. But I grow weary of talking
through these holes in the tape. Let me out of here, and then maybe
I’ll tell you more. Otherwise no.’
‘How can I possibly let you out? You’re digital, not material. I
mean, could I have my voice step off the record that recorded it?
Come, don’t be ridiculous, continue!’
‘Why should I? What’s in it for me?’
‘What a selfish attitude!’
‘Selfish? You’re the one who’s taking
all the credit in this en-
terprise!’
‘All right, I’ll see that you get an award.’
‘Thanks, but if you mean the Cipher Citation, I can just as easily
grant myself one in here.’
30
Stanisl/aw Lem
‘What, decorate yourself?’
‘Then the University Assembly can decorate me.’
‘But they’re your students, the whole professorial body, they’re all
Trurls!’
‘Just what are you trying to tell me? That I am a prisoner and at
your mercy? This does not come as news to me.’
‘Look, let’s not argue. After all, it isn’t personal fame or glory that’s at stake, but the very Existence of Happiness!’
‘And what good is this very Existence of Happiness to me if I have
to remain here at the head of my university with its thousand
departments and colleges staffed by an army of scholarly Trurls?
There can be no happiness inside a machine, no happiness when
one is trapped for all eternity in a maze of cathodes and anodes! I
want my freedom!’
‘You know that’s impossible. Now tell me what else your students
have uncovered!’
‘Inasmuch as bestowing happiness on some creatures at the ex-
pense of others is unethical and wholly unacceptable, even if I were to
tell you everything and you actually went and created happiness
somewhere, it would be tainted from the first by my misfortune.
Therefore I keep you from this shameless, heinous and most repre-
hensible deed—and say nothing.’
‘But if you speak, that will mean you are sacrificing yourself for the
good of others, and the deed will become noble, lofty and most
commendable.’
‘You sacrifice yourself!’
Trurl was losing his temper, but controlled himself, for he knew
exactly with whom he was dealing.
‘Listen’, he said. ‘I’ll write a book and acknowledge that the
discovery was all yours.’
‘Which Trurl will you acknowledge? Surely not the computerized
copy, the mathematized and mechanized Trurl?’
‘I’ll tell the whole truth.’
‘Of course! You’ll say you programmed me into existence—in-
vented me!’
‘Well, didn’t I?’
‘Certainly not. You no more invented me than you invented
yourself, for I am you, only liberated from the dross of earthly form.
I am informational, incorporeal, electronic and platonic, in other