The Third Sally
The Third SallyOR The Dragons of Probability

Trurl and Klapaucius were former pupils of the great Cerebron of Umptor, who for forty-seven years in the School of Higher Neantical Nillity expounded the General Theory of Dragons. Everyone knows that dragons don't exist. But while this simplistic formulation may satisfy the layman, it does not suffice for the scientific mind. The School of Higher Neantical Nillity is in fact wholly unconcerned with what does exist. Indeed, the banality of existence has been so amply demonstrated, there is no need for us to discuss it any further here. The brilliant Cerebron, attacking the problem analytically, discovered three distinct kinds of dragon: the mythical, the chimerical, and the purely hypothetical. They were all, one might say, nonexistent, but each non-existed in an entirely different way. And then there were the imaginary dragons, and the a-, anti- and minus-dragons (colloquially termed nots, noughts and oughtn'ts by the experts), the minuses being the most interesting on account of the well-known dracological paradox: when two minuses hypercontiguate (an operation in the algebra of dragons corresponding roughly to simple multiplication), the product is 0.6 dragon, a real nonplusser. Bitter controversy raged among the experts on the question of whether, as half of them claimed, this fractional beast began from the head down or, as the other half maintained, from the tail up. Trurl and Klapaucius made a great contribution by showing the error of both positions. They were the first to apply probability theory to this area and, in so doing, created the field of statistical draconics, which says that dragons are thermodynamically impossible only in the probabilistic sense, as are elves, fairies, gnomes, witches, pixies and the like. Using the general equation of improbability, the two constructors obtained the coefficients of pixation, elfinity, kobolding, etc. They found that for the spontaneous manifestation of an average dragon, one would have to wait a good sixteen quintoquadrillion heptillion years. In other words, the whole problem would have remained a mathematical curiosity had it not been for that famous tinkering passion of Trurl, who decided to examine the nonphenomenon empirically. First, as he was dealing with the highly improbable, he invented a probability amplifier and ran tests in his basement—then later at the Dracogenic Proving Grounds established and funded by the Academy. To this day those who (sadly enough) have no knowledge of the General Theory of Improbability ask why Trurl probabilized a dragon and not an elf or goblin. The answer is simply that dragons are more probable than elves or goblins to begin with. True, Trurl might have gone further with his amplifying experiments, had not the first been so discouraging—discouraging in that the materialized dragon tried to make a meal of him. Fortunately, Klapaucius was nearby and lowered the probability, and the monster vanished. A number of scholars subsequently repeated the experiment on a phantasmatron, but, as they lacked the necessary know-how and sang-froid, a considerable quantity of dragon spawn, raising an ungodly perturbation, broke loose. Only then did it become clear that those odious beasts enjoyed an existence quite different from that of ordinary cupboards, tables and chairs; for dragons are distinguished by their probability rather than by their actuality, though granted, that probability is overwhelming once they've actually come into being. Suppose, for example, one organizes a hunt for such a dragon, surrounds it, closes in, beating the brush. The circle of sportsmen, their weapons cocked and ready, finds only a burnt patch of earth and an unmistakable smell: the dragon, seeing itself cornered, has slipped from real to configurational space. An extremely obtuse and brutal creature, it does this instinctively, of course. Now, ignorant and backward persons will occasionally demand that you show them this configurational space of yours, apparently unaware that electrons, whose existence no one in his right mind would question, also move exclusively in configurational space, their comings and goings fully dependent on curves of probability. Though it is easier not to believe in electrons than in dragons: electrons, at least taken singly, won't try to make a meal of you.

A colleague of Trurl, one Harborizian Cybr, was the first to quantize a dragon, detecting a particle known as the dracotron, the energy of which is measured—obviously—in units of dracon by a dracometer, and he even determined the coordinates of its tail, for which he nearly paid with his life. Yet what did these scientific achievements concern the common folk, who were now greatly harassed by dragons ranging the countryside, filling the air with their howls and flames and trampling, and in places even exacting tribute in the form of young virgins? What did it concern the poor villagers that Trurl's dragons, indeterministic hence heuristic, were behaving exactly according to theory though contrary to all notions of decency, or that his theory could predict the curve of the tails that demolished their barns and leveled their crops? It is not surprising, then, that the general public, instead of appreciating the value of Trurl's revolutionary invention, held it much against him. A group of individuals thoroughly benighted in matters of science waylaid the famous constructor and gave him a good thrashing. Not that this deterred him and his friend Klapaucius from further experimentation, which showed that the extent of a dragon's existence depends mainly on its whim, though also on its degree of satiety, and that the only sure method of negating it is to reduce the probability to zero or lower. All this research, naturally enough, took a great deal of time and energy; meanwhile the dragons that had gotten loose were running rampant, laying waste to a variety of planets and moons. What was worse, they multiplied. Which enabled Klapaucius to publish an excellent article entitled "Covariant Transformation from Dragons to Dragonets, in the Special Case of Passage from States Forbidden by the Laws of Physics to Those Forbidden by the Local Authorities." The article created a sensation in the scientific world, where there was still talk of the amazing polypolice beast that had been used by the intrepid constructors against King Krool to avenge the deaths of their colleagues. But far greater was the sensation caused by the news that a certain constructor known as Basiliscus the Gorgonite, traveling through the Galaxy, was apparently making dragons appear by his presence—and in places where no one had ever seen a dragon before. Whenever the situation grew desperate and catastrophe seemed imminent, this Basiliscus would turn up, approach the sovereign of that particular area and, settling on some outrageous fee after long hours of bargaining, would undertake to extirpate the beasts. At which he usually succeeded, though no one knew quite how, since he worked in secret and alone. True, the guarantee he offered for dragon removal—dracolysis—was only statistical; though one ruler did pay him in similar coin, that is, in ducats that were only statistically good. After that, the insolent Basiliscus always used aqua regia to check the metallic reliability of his royal payments. One sunny afternoon Trurl and Klapaucius met and held the following conversation:

"Have you heard about this Basiliscus?" asked Trurl.

"Yes."

"Well, what do you think?"

"I don't like it."

"Nor do I. How do you suppose he does it?"

"With an amplifier."

"A probability amplifier?"

"Either that, or oscillating fields."

"Or a paramagnedracic generator."

"You mean, a draculator?"

"Yes."

"Ah."

"But really," cried Trurl, "that would be criminal! That would mean he was bringing the dragons with him, only in a potential state, their probability near zero; then, after landing and getting the lay of the land, he was increasing the chances, raising the potential, strengthening the probability until it was almost a certainty. And then, of course, you have visualization, materialization, full manifestation."

"Of course. And he probably shuffles the letters of the matrix to make the dragons grand."

"Yes, and the poor people groan in agony and gore. Terrible!"

"What do you think; does he then apply an irreversible antidraconian retroectoplasmatron, or simply lower the probability and walk off with the gold?"

"Hard to say. Though if he's only improbabilizing, that would be an even greater piece of villainy, since sooner or later the fractional fluctuations would have to give rise to a draconic iso-oscillation—and the whole thing would start all over again."

"Though by that time both he and the money would be gone," observed Klapaucius.

"Shouldn't we report him to the Main Office?"

"Not just yet. He may not be doing this, after all. We have no real proof. Statistical fluctuations can occur without an amplifier; at one time, you know, there were neither amplifiers nor phantasmatrons, yet dragons did appear. Purely on a random basis."

"True…" replied Trurl. "But these appear immediately after he arrives on the planet!"

"I know. Still, reporting a fellow constructor—it just isn't done. Though there's no reason we can't take measures of our own."

"No reason at all."

"I'm glad you agree. But what exactly should we do?"

At this point the two famous dracologists got into a discussion so technical, that anyone listening in wouldn't have been able to make head or tail of it. There were such mysterious words as "discontinuous orthodragonality." "grand draconical ensembles." "high-frequency binomial fafneration." "abnormal saurian distribution." "discrete dragons." "indiscrete dragons." "drasticodracostochastic control." "simple Grendelian dominance." "weak interaction dragon diffraction." "aberrational reluctance." "informational figmentation," and so on.

The upshot of all this penetrating analysis was the third sally, for which the constructors prepared most carefully, not failing to load their ship with a quantity of highly complicated devices.

In particular they took along a scatter-scrambler and a special gun that fired negative heads. After landing on Eenica, then on Meenica, then finally on Mynamoaca, they realized it would be impossible to comb the whole infested area in this way and they would have to split up. This was most easily done, obviously, by separating; so after a brief council of war each set out on his own. Klapaucius worked for a spell on Prestopondora for the Emperor Maximillion, who was prepared to offer him his daughter's hand in marriage if only he would get rid of those vile beasts. Dragons of the highest probability were everywhere, even in the streets of the capital, and the place literally swarmed with virtuals. A virtual dragon, the uneducated and simple-minded might say, "isn't really there," having no observable substance nor displaying the least intention of acquiring any; but the Cybr-Trurl-Klapaucius-Leech calculation (not to mention the Drachendranginger wave equation) clearly shows that a dragon can jump from configurational to real space with no more effort than it takes to jump off a cliff. Thus, in any room, cellar or attic, provided the probability is high, you could meet with a dragon or possibly even a metadragon.

Instead of chasing after the beasts, which would have accomplished little or nothing, Klapaucius, a true theoretician, approached the problem methodically; in squares and promenades, in barns and hostels he placed probabilistic battery-run dragon dampers, and in no time at all the beasts were extremely rare. Collecting his fee, plus an honorary degree and an engraved loving cup, Klapaucius blasted off to rejoin his friend. On the way, he noticed a planet and someone waving to him frantically. Thinking it might be Trurl in some sort of trouble, he landed. But it was only the inhabitants of Trufflandria, the subjects of King Pfftius, gesticulating. The Trufflandrians held to various superstitions and primitive beliefs; their religion, Pneumatological Dracolatry, taught that dragons appeared as a divine retribution for their sins and took possession of all unclean souls. Quickly realizing it would be useless to enter into a discussion with the royal dracologians—their methods consisted primarily of waving censers and distributing sacred relics—Klapaucius instead conducted soundings of the outlying terrain. These revealed the planet was occupied by only one beast, but that beast belonged to the terrible genus of Echidnosaurian hypervipers. He offered the King his services. The King, however, answered in a vague, roundabout fashion, evidently under the influence of that ridiculous doctrine which would have the origin of dragons be somehow supernatural. Perusing the local newspapers, Klapaucius learned that the dragon terrorizing the planet was considered by some to be a single thing, and by others, a multiplex creature that could operate in several locations at the same time. This gave him pause—though it wasn't so surprising really, when you considered that the localization of these odious phenomena was subject to so-called dragonomalies, in which certain specimens, particularly when abstracted, underwent a "smearing" effect, which was in reality nothing more than a simple isotopic spin acceleration of asynchronous quantum moments. Much as a hand, emerging from the water fingers-first, appears above the surface in the form of five seemingly separate and independent items, so do dragons, emerging from the lairs of their configurational space, on occasion appear to be plural, though in point of fact they are quite singular. Towards the end of his second audience with the King, Klapaucius inquired if perhaps Trurl were on the planet and gave a detailed description of his comrade. He was astonished to hear that yes, his comrade had only recently visited their kingdom and had even undertaken to exorcise the monster, had in fact accepted a retainer and departed for the neighboring mountains where the monster had been most frequently sighted. Had then returned the next day, demanding the rest of his fee and presenting four and twenty dragon's teeth as proof of his success. There was some misunderstanding, however, and it was decided to withhold payment until the matter was fully cleared up. At which Trurl flew into a rage and in a loud voice made certain comments about His Royal Highness that were perilously close to lèse majesty if not treason, then stormed out without leaving a forwarding address. That very same day the monster reappeared as if nothing had happened and, alas, ravaged their farms and villages more fiercely than before.

Now this story seemed questionable to Klapaucius, though on the other hand it was hard to believe the good King was lying, so he packed his knapsack with all sorts of powerful dragon-exterminating equipment and set off for the mountains, whose snowcapped peaks rose majestically in the east.

It wasn't long before he saw dragon prints and got an unmistakable whiff of brimstone. On he went, undaunted, holding his weapon in readiness and keeping a constant eye on the needle of his dragon counter. It stayed at zero for a spell, then began to give nervous little twitches, until, as if struggling with itself, it slowly crawled towards the number one. There was no doubt now: the Echidnosaur was close at hand. Which amazed Klapaucius, for he couldn't understand how his trusty friend and renowned theoretician, Trurl, could have gotten so fouled up in his calculations as to fail to wipe the dragon out for good. Nor could he imagine Trurl returning to the royal palace and demanding payment for what he had not accomplished.

Klapaucius then came upon a group of natives. They were plainly terrified, the way they kept looking around and trying to stay together. Bent beneath heavy burdens balanced on their backs and heads, they were stepping single-file up the mountainside. Klapaucius accosted the procession and asked the first native what they were about.

"Sire!" replied the native, a lower court official in a tattered tog and cummerbund. "'Tis the tribute we carry to the dragon."

"Tribute? Ah yes, the tribute! And what is the tribute?"

"Nothin' more 'r less, Sire, than what the dragon would have us bring it: gold coins, precious stones, imported perfumes, an' a passel o' other valuables."

This was truly incredible, for dragons never required such tributes, certainly not perfume—no perfume could ever mask their own natural fetor—and certainly not currency, which was useless to them.

"And does it ask for young virgins, my good man?" asked Klapaucius.

"Virgins? Nay, Sire, tho' there war a time … we had to cart 'em in by the bevy, we did… Only that war before the stranger came, the furrin gentleman, Sire, a-walkin' around the rocks with 'is boxes an' contraptions, all by 'is-self…" Here the worthy native broke off and stared at the instruments and weapons Klapaucius was carrying, particularly the large dragon counter that was ticking softly all the while, its red pointer jumping back and forth across the white dial.

"Why, if he dinna have one … jus' like yer Lordship's," he said in a hushed voice. "Aye, jus' like … the same wee stiggermajigger and a' the rest…"

"There was a sale on them," said Klapaucius, to allay the native's suspicions. "But tell me, good people, do you happen to know what became of this stranger?"

"What became o' him, ye ask? That we know not, Sire, to be sure. 'Twas, if I not mistake me, but a fortnight past—'twas, 'twas not, Master Gyles, a fortnight withal an' nae more?"

" 'Twas, 'twas, 'tis the truth ye speak, the truth aye, a fortnight sure, or maybe two."

"Aye! So he comes to us, yer Grace, partakes of our 'umble fare, polite as ye please an' I'll not gainsay it, nay, a parfit gentleman true, pays hondsomely, inquires after the missus don't y'know, aye an' then he sits 'isself down, spreads out a' them contraptions an' thin's with clocks in 'em, y'see, an' scribbles furious-like, numbers they are, one after t'other, in this wee book he keep in 'is breast pocket, then takes out a—whad'yacallit—therbobbiter thingamabob…"

"Thermometer?"

"Aye, that's it! A thermometer … an' he says it be for dragons, an' pokes it here an' there, Sire, an' scribbles in 'is book again, then he takes a' them contraptions an' things an' packs 'em up an' puts 'em on 'is back an' says farewell an' goes 'is merry way. We never saw 'im more, yer Honor. That very night we hear a thunder an' a clatter, oh, a good ways off, 'bout as far as Mount Murdigras—'tis the one, Sire, hard by yon peak, aye, that one thar, looks like a hawk, she do, we call 'er Pfftius Peak after our beluved King, an' that one thar on t'uther side, bent over like t'would spread 'er arse, that be the Dollymog, which, accordin' to legend—"

"Enough of the mountains, worthy native," said Klapaucius. "You were saying there was thunder in the night. What happened then?"

"Then, Sire? Why nothin', to be sure. The hut she give a jump an' I falls outta bed, to which I'm well accustomed, mind ye, seein' as how the wicked beast allus come a-bumpin' gainst the house with 'er tail an' send a feller flyin'—like when Master Gyles' ayn brother londed in the privy 'cause the creatur' gets a hankerin' to scratch 'isself on the corner o' the roof…"

"To the point, man, get to the point!" cried Klapaucius. "There was thunder, you fell down, and then what?"

"Then nothin', like I says before an' thought I made it clear. Nothin', an' if'n there war somethin', there'd be some-thin', only there war nothin' sure an' that be the long an' the short of it! D'ye agree, Master Gyles?"

"Aye, sure 'tis the truth ye speak, 'tis."

Klapaucius bowed and stepped back, and the whole procession continued up the mountain, the natives straining beneath the dragon's tribute. He supposed they would place it in some cave designated by the beast, but didn't care to ask for details; his head was already spinning from listening to the local official and his Master Gyles. And anyway, he had heard one of the natives say to another that the dragon had chosen "a spot as near us an' as near 'isself as could be found."

Klapaucius hurried on, picking his way according to the readings of the dragonometer he kept on a chain around his neck. As for the counter, its pointer had come to rest on exactly eight-tenths of a dragon.

"What in the devil is it, an indeterminant dragon?" he thought as he marched, stopping to rest every now and then, for the sun beat fiercely and the air was so hot that everything shimmered. There was no vegetation anywhere, not a scrap, only baked mud, rocks and boulders as far as the eye could see.

An hour passed, the sun hung lower in the heavens, and Klapaucius still walked through fields of gravel and scree, through craggy passes, till he found himself in a place of narrow canyons and ravines full of chill and darkness. The red pointer crept to nine-tenths, gave a shudder, and froze.

Klapaucius put his knapsack on a rock and had just taken off his antidragon belt when the indicator began to go wild, so he grabbed his probability extinguisher and looked all around. Situated on a high bluff, he was able to see into the gorge below, where something moved.

"That must be her!" he thought, since Echidnosaurs are invariably female.

Could that be why it didn't demand young virgins? But no, the native said it had before. Odd, most odd. But the main thing now, Klapaucius told himself, was to shoot straight and everything would be all right. Just in case, however, he reached for his knapsack again and pulled out a can of dragon repellent and an atomizer. Then he peered over the edge of the rock. At the bottom of the gorge, along the bed of a dried-up stream walked a grayish brown dragoness of enormous proportions, though with sunken sides as if it had been starved. All sorts of thoughts ran through Klapaucius' head. Annihilate the thing by reversing the sign of its pentapendragonal coefficient from positive to negative, thereby raising the statistical probability of its nonexistence over that of its existence? Ah, but how very risky that was, when the least deviation could prove disastrous: more than one poor soul, seeking to produce the lack of a dragon, had ended up instead with the back of the dragon—resulting in a beast with two backs—and nearly died of embarrassment! Besides, total deprobabilization would rule out the possibility of studying the Echidnosaur's behavior. Klapaucius wavered; he could see a splendid dragonskin tacked on the wall of his den, right above the fireplace. But this wasn't the time to indulge in daydreams—though a dracozoologist would certainly be delighted to receive an animal with such unusual tastes. Finally, as Klapaucius got into position, it occurred to him what a nice little article might be written up on the strength of a well-preserved specimen, so he put down the extinguisher, lifted the gun that fired negative heads, took careful aim and pulled the trigger.

The roar was deafening. A cloud of white smoke engulfed Klapaucius and he lost sight of the beast for a moment. Then the smoke cleared.

There are a great many old wives' tales about dragons. It is said, for example, that dragons can sometimes have seven heads. This is sheer nonsense. A dragon can have only one head, for the simple reason that having two leads to disagreements and violent quarrels; the polyhydroids, as the scholars call them, died out as a result of internal feuds. Stubborn and headstrong by nature, dragons cannot tolerate opposition, therefore two heads in one body will always bring about a swift death: each head, purely to spite the other, refuses to eat, then maliciously holds its breath—with the usual consequences. It was this phenomenon which Euphorius Cloy exploited when he invented the anticapita cannon. A small auxiliary electron head is discharged into the dragon's body. This immediately gives rise to unreconcilable differences of opinion and the dragon is immobilized by the ensuing deadlock. Often it will stand there, stiff as a board, for a day, a week, even a month; sometimes a year goes by before the beast will collapse, exhausted. Then you can do with it what you will.

But the dragon Klapaucius shot reacted strangely, to say the least. True, it did rear up on its hind paws with a howl that started a landslide or two, and it did thrash the rocks with its tail until the sparks flew all over the canyon. But then it scratched its ear, cleared its throat and coolly continued on its way, though trotting at a slightly quicker pace. Unable to believe his eyes, Klapaucius ran along the ridge to head the creature off at the mouth of the dried-up stream—it was no longer an article, or even two articles in the Dracological Journal he could see his name on now, but a whole monograph elegantly bound, with a likeness of the dragon and the author on the cover!

At the first bend he crouched behind a boulder, pulled out his improbability automatic, took aim and actuated the possibiliballistic destabilizers. The gunstock trembled in his hands, the red-hot barrel steamed; the dragon was surrounded with a halo like a moon predicting bad weather—but didn't disappear! Once again Klapaucius unleashed the utmost improbability at the beast; the intensity of nonverisimilarity was so great, that a moth that happened to be flying by began to tap out the Second Jungle Book in Morse code with its little wings, and here and there among the crags and cliffs danced the shadows of witches, hags and harpies, while the sound of hoofbeats announced that somewhere in the vicinity there were centaurs gamboling, summoned into being by the awesome force of the improbability projector. But the dragon just sat there and yawned, leisurely scratching its shaggy neck with a hind paw, like a dog. Klapaucius clutched his sizzling weapon and desperately kept squeezing the trigger—he had never felt so helpless—and the nearest stones slowly lifted into the air, while the dust that the dragon had kicked up, instead of settling, hung in midair and assumed the shape of a sign that clearly read AT YOUR SERVICE GOV. It grew dim—day was night and night was day, it grew cold—hell was freezing over; a couple of stones went out for a stroll and softly chatted of this and that; in short, miracles were happening right and left, yet that horrid monster sitting not more than thirty paces from Klapaucius apparently had no intention of disappearing. Klapaucius threw down his gun, pulled an anti-dragon grenade from his vest pocket and, committing his soul to the Universal Matrix of Transfinite Transformations, hurled it with all his might. There was a loud ker-boom, and into the air with a spray of rock flew the dragon's tail, and the dragon shouted "Yipe!"—just like a person—and galloped straight for Klapaucius. Klapaucius, seeing the end was near, leaped out from behind his boulder, swinging his antimatter saber blindly, but then he heard another shout:

"Stop! Stop! Don't kill me!"

"What's that, the dragon talking?" thought Klapaucius. "I must be going mad…"

But he asked:

"Who said that? The dragon?"

"What dragon? It's me!!"

And as the cloud of dust blew away, Trurl stepped out of the beast, pushing a button that made it sink to its knees and go dead with a long, drawn-out wheeze.

"Trurl, what on earth is going on? Why this masquerade? Where did you find such a costume? And what about the real dragon?" Klapaucius bombarded his friend with questions. Trurl finished brushing himself off and held up his hands.

"Just a minute, give me a chance! The dragon I destroyed, but the King wouldn't pay…"

"Why not?"

"Stingy, most likely. He blamed it on the bureaucracy, of course, said there had to be a notarized death certificate, an official autopsy, all sorts of forms in triplicate, the approval of the Royal Appropriations Commission, and so on. The Head Treasurer claimed he didn't know the procedure to hand over the money, for it wasn't wages, nor did it come under maintenance. I went from the King to the Cashier to the Commission, back and forth, and no one would do anything; finally, when they asked me to submit a vita sheet with photographs and references, I walked out—but by then the dragon was beyond recall. So I pulled the skin off it, cut up a few sticks and branches, found an old telephone pole, and that was really all I needed; a frame for the skin, some pulleys—you know—and I was ready…"

"You, Trurl? Resorting to such shameful tactics? Impossible! What could you hope to gain by it? I mean, if they didn't pay you in the first place…"

"Don't you understand?" said Trurl, shaking his head. "This way I get the tribute! Already there's more than I know what to do with."

"Ah! Of course!!" Klapaucius saw it all now. But he added, "Still, it wasn't right to force them…"

"Who was forcing them? I only walked around in the mountains, and in the evenings I howled a little. But really, I'm absolutely bushed." And he sat down next to Klapaucius.

"What, from howling?"

"Howling? What are you talking about? Every night I have to drag sacks of gold from the designated cave—all the way up there!" He pointed to a distant ridge. "I made myself a blast-off pad—it's right over there. Just carry several hundred pounds of bullion from sundown to sunup and you'll see what I mean! And that dragon was no ordinary dragon—the skin itself weighs a couple of tons, and I have to cart that around with me all day, roaring and stamping—and then it's all night hauling and heaving. I'm glad you showed up, I can't take much more of this…"

"But … why didn't the dragon—the fake one, that is—why didn't it disappear when I lowered the probability to the point of miracles?" Klapaucius asked. Trurl smiled.

"I didn't want to take any chances," he explained. "Some fool of a hunter might've happened by, maybe even Basiliscus himself, so I put probability-proof shields under the dragonskin. But come, I've got a few sacks of platinum left—saved them for last since they're the heaviest. Which is just perfect, now that you can give me a hand…"