Sherevsky vs. Serek
Jal vs. Angler
Jandorf vs. Votbinnik
Lysmov vs. Krakatower
Grabo vs. Machine
"Cripes, Doc, they all sound like they were Russians," Sandra said
after a bit. "Except this Willie Angler. Oh, he's the boy wonder,
isn't he?"
Doc nodded. "Not such a boy any longer, though. He's.... Well, speak of
the Devil's children.... Miss Grayling, I have the honor of presenting
to you the only grandmaster ever to have been ex-chess-champion of the
United States while still technically a minor--Master William Augustus
Angler."
A tall, sharply-dressed young man with a hatchet face pressed the old
man back into his chair.
"How are you, Savvy, old boy old boy?" he demanded. "Still chasing the
girls, I see."
"Please, Willie, get off me."
"Can't take it, huh?" Angler straightened up somewhat. "Hey waiter!
Where's that chocolate malt? I don't want it _next_ year. About that
_ex-_, though. I was swindled, Savvy. I was robbed."
"Willie!" Doc said with some asperity. "Miss Grayling is a journalist.
She would like to have a statement from you as to how you will play
against the Machine."
* * * * *
Angler grinned and shook his head sadly. "Poor old Machine," he said.
"I don't know why they take so much trouble polishing up that pile of
tin just so that I can give it a hit in the head. I got a hatful of
moves it'll burn out all its tubes trying to answer. And if it gets too
fresh, how about you and me giving its low-temperature section the
hotfoot, Savvy? The money WBM's putting up is okay, though. That first
prize will just fit the big hole in my bank account."
"I know you haven't the time now, Master Angler," Sandra said rapidly,
"but if after the playing session you could grant me--"
"Sorry, babe," Angler broke in with a wave of dismissal. "I'm dated up
for two months in advance. Waiter! I'm here, not there!" And he went
charging off.
Doc and Sandra looked at each other and smiled.
"Chess masters aren't exactly humble people, are they?" she said.
Doc's smile became tinged with sad understanding. "You must excuse
them, though," he said. "They really get so little recognition or
recompense. This tournament is an exception. And it takes a great deal
of ego to play greatly."
"I suppose so. So World Business Machines is responsible for this
tournament?"
"Correct. Their advertising department is interested in the prestige.
They want to score a point over their great rival."
"But if the Machine plays badly it will be a black eye for them,"
Sandra pointed out.
"True," Doc agreed thoughtfully. "WBM must feel very sure.... It's
the prize money they've put up, of course, that's brought the world's
greatest players here. Otherwise half of them would be holding off
in the best temperamental-artist style. For chess players the prize
money is fabulous--$35,000, with $15,000 for first place, and all
expenses paid for all players. There's never been anything like it.
Soviet Russia is the only country that has ever supported and rewarded
her best chess players at all adequately. I think the Russian players
are here because UNESCO and FIDE (that's _Federation Internationale
des Echecs_--the international chess organization) are also backing
the tournament. And perhaps because the Kremlin is hungry for a little
prestige now that its space program is sagging."
"But if a Russian doesn't take first place it will be a black eye for
them."
Doc frowned. "True, in a sense. _They_ must feel very sure.... Here
they are now."
* * * * *
Four men were crossing the center of the hall, which was clearing,
toward the tables at the other end. Doubtless they just happened to be
going two by two in close formation, but it gave Sandra the feeling of
a phalanx.
"The first two are Lysmov and Votbinnik," Doc told her. "It isn't often
that you see the current champion of the world--Votbinnik--and an
ex-champion arm in arm. There are two other persons in the tournament
who have held that honor--Jal and Vanderhoef the director, way back."
"Will whoever wins this tournament become champion?"
"Oh no. That's decided by two-player matches--a very long
business--after elimination tournaments between leading contenders.
This tournament is a round robin: each player plays one game with every
other player. That means nine rounds."
"Anyway there _are_ an awful lot of Russians in the tournament,"
Sandra said, consulting her program. "Four out of ten have USSR after
them. And Bela Grabo, Hungary--that's a satellite. And Sherevsky and
Krakatower are Russian-sounding names."
"The proportion of Soviet to American entries in the tournament
represents pretty fairly the general difference in playing strength
between the two countries," Doc said judiciously. "Chess mastery
moves from land to land with the years. Way back it was the Moslems
and the Hindus and Persians. Then Italy and Spain. A little over a
hundred years ago it was France and England. Then Germany, Austria
and the New World. Now it's Russia--including of course the Russians
who have run away from Russia. But don't think there aren't a lot of
good Anglo-Saxon types who are masters of the first water. In fact,
there are a lot of them here around us, though perhaps you don't
think so. It's just that if you play a lot of chess you get to looking
Russian. Once it probably made you look Italian. Do you see that short
bald-headed man?"
"You mean the one facing the Machine and talking to Jandorf?"
"Yes. Now that's one with a lot of human interest. Moses Sherevsky.
Been champion of the United States many times. A very strict Orthodox
Jew. Can't play chess on Fridays or on Saturdays before sundown." He
chuckled. "Why, there's even a story going around that one rabbi told
Sherevsky it would be unlawful for him to play against the Machine
because it is technically a _golem_--the clay Frankenstein's monster of
Hebrew legend."