a poslední dnes, a nejhustější:
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The Imperial Chill
“The Imperial Chill had been an imperial preoccupation for so long that no one was counting centuries anymore. That it was genetic was obvious, of course, but this knowledge helped no one—certainly not the shivering Emperor. Every academic and scientific discipline in the realm had a chilly aspect. Every scholar and scientist was to some degree or in some sense working on the problem, which was generally agreed to be metabolic and probably dietary. There was of course nothing wrong with the emperor’s diet, but it was assumed that some adjustment (possibly quite infinitesimal) would turn the trick and give His Highness relief. There were acorn diets and apple diets—and watercress diets and zucchini diets at the other end of the alphabet. Every university depended on its subsidy for research on the temper-1 ing effects of diet and food—research that everyone knew could be effortlessly spun out till the end of time.
“One day, however, the Prime Minister called a press conference and announced that a breakthrough had been made. Of course, breakthroughs had been announced before and had always come to nothing, so no one was really worried—till they saw the look on the Prime Minister’s face. This time (that look told them) something uncomfortably new was in the offing.”
Shirin paused and asked B whether she should finish it then or wait till later.
“Oh, finish it now,” B said grumpily. “Then he can be thinking about it.”
Shirin continued.
“The Prime Minister’s announcement (that the cause of the Imperial Chill had been found) was shockingly brief—and was followed by a shocked silence, which soon became a murmur of horror, disbelief, and denial. The truth of the minister’s words was not what outraged his listeners. What outraged them was the idea that, after defeating the best minds of a dozen generations, the Emperor’s chilliness could be explained so simply. The feeling seemed to be that critical problems (like the Emperor’s chill) must absolutely have complex and impenetrable causes, and they must absolutely be difficult (and perhaps even impossible) to solve. As he wandered aimlessly through the crowd, one dazed scholar was heard to mutter over and over, ‘There are no easy answers, there are no easy answers, there are no easy answers’—not with any real conviction now but rather as if repetition might restore vitality to these familiar, comforting words.
“What was distressing them was not the fact that the cause of the chill was now known but rather the fact that it had always been known—but never as a cause. It had stared them in the face, and looking beyond it to remote and unintelligible causes, they had missed its significance.
Throughout the empire, there was literally no one who was ignorant of the fact that their shivering monarch had . . . no . . . clothes.”
“When the scholars in the capital of the Chilly Emperor had had a few days to think things over, they began to recover their wits and to see that all was not lost to them after all. They called a press conference that was twice as solemn as the Prime Minister’s and three times as well attended. After the various media representatives had been wined and dined regally, the head of the Royal Commission for Chilly Research called the meeting to order and made the following announcement. ‘It’s perfectly true that the Emperor is naked,’ he said. ‘We have always known this and have always chosen to ignore it, because it’s a red herring. The causes of the Emperor’s condition are many, complex, and difficult for laymen to understand—and they cannot be reduced to this single, childish notion: that he is cold because he’s wearing nothing but his birthday suit. The suggestion that warm clothing might alleviate the Emperor’s discomfort is charming and well meant but will not be recommended for implementation or further study.’ Following this announcement, the Prime Minister was dismissed for incompetence, the scholars’ grants were all renewed, and the Emperor went on shivering into a snowy old age.”