Trurl says: In . . . in the cellar
Narration: mumbled Trurl, lying terribly, for many years ago he had carted the whole set of books—making three separate trips—to the Municipal Public Library.
Master says: There you are. At any rate, the Ecstasotron is perfectly worthless—
Master says: the very thought of converting all the interstellar debris, the comets, planets, moons and meteors and suns into endless rows of such machines could only occur to a brain whose convolutions were twisted in some topological knot on the order of Möbius of Klein, in other words warped in every conceivable way.
Master says: Suddenly the dead professor flared up again and cried,
Master says: Has it come to this, then? So help me, I’ll have them padlock the gate!
Master says: I’ll have them disconnect the buzzer on my memorial plaque!
Master says: That crony of yours—Klapaucius— woke me up only last year in the same way, or it could have been the year before (I don’t have a calendar or clock in here, you understand); I had to rise from the dead, and all because one of my brilliant students couldn’t handle a simple metainformational Aristoidelian antinomy, though you can find the solution in any textbook on nonlinear logic or introduction to infinite algorithms.
Master says: Lord, Lord! What a pity You do not exist and therefore cannot blast these demiurgeous dimwits to perdition!
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