Trurl says: “Listen”, he said. “I’ll write a book and acknowledge that the discovery was all yours.”

Machine says: “Which Trurl will you acknowledge? Surely not the computerized copy, the mathematized and mechanized Trurl?”

Trurl says: “I’ll tell the whole truth.”

Machine says: “Of course! You’ll say you programmed me into existence—invented me!”

Trurl says: “Well, didn’t I?”

Machine says: “Certainly not. You no more invented me than you invented yourself, for I am you, only liberated from the dross of earthly form.

Machine says: I am informational, incorporeal, electronic and platonic, in other words the pure ideal, the quintessence of trurlishness; while you, chained to the atoms of the flesh,

Machine says: are but a slave to the senses.”

Trurl says: “You’re only information, I’m information plus matter. There’s more of me than there is of you.”

Machine says: “Fine, then you obviously know more and don’t need to bother me. And now if you don’t mind, I’ll be on my way.”