* * * * *
Doc gave a short scornful laugh. "Krakatower! Don't pay any attention
to _him_. A senile has-been, it's a scandal he's been allowed to play
in this tournament! He must have pulled all sorts of strings. Told them
that his lifelong services to chess had won him the honor and that they
had to have a member of the so-called Old Guard. Maybe he even got down
on his knees and cried--and all the time his eyes on that expense money
and the last-place consolation prize! Yet dreaming schizophrenically
of beating them all! Please, don't get me started on Dirty Old
Krakatower."
"Take it easy, Doc. He sounds like he would make an interesting
article? Can you point him out to me?"
"You can tell him by his long white beard with coffee stains. I don't
see it anywhere, though. Perhaps he's shaved it off for the occasion.
It would be like that antique womanizer to develop senile delusions of
youthfulness."
"And Grabo?" Sandra pressed, suppressing a smile at the intensity of
Doc's animosity.
Doc's eyes grew thoughtful. "About Bela Grabo (why are three out of
four Hungarians named Bela?) I will tell you only this: That he is a
very brilliant player and that the Machine is very lucky to have drawn
him as its first opponent."
He would not amplify his statement. Sandra studied the Scoreboard again.
"This Simon Great who's down as programming the Machine. He's a famous
physicist, I suppose?"
"By no means. That was the trouble with some of the early chess-playing
machines--they were programmed by scientists. No, Simon Great is a
psychologist who at one time was a leading contender for the world's
chess championship. I think WBM was surprisingly shrewd to pick him
for the programming job. Let me tell you--No, better yet--"
Doc shot to his feet, stretched an arm on high and called out sharply,
"Simon!"
A man some four tables away waved back and a moment later came over.
"What is it, Savilly?" he asked. "There's hardly any time, you know."
* * * * *
The newcomer was of middle height, compact of figure and feature, with
graying hair cut short and combed sharply back.
Doc spoke his piece for Sandra.
Simon Great smiled thinly. "Sorry," he said, "But I am making no
predictions and we are giving out no advance information on the
programming of the Machine. As you know, I have had to fight the
Players' Committee tooth and nail on all sorts of points about that
and they have won most of them. I am not permitted to re-program the
Machine at adjournments--only between games (I did insist on that and
get it!) And if the Machine breaks down during a game, its clock keeps
running on it. My men are permitted to make repairs--if they can work
fast enough."
"That makes it very tough on you," Sandra put in. "The Machine isn't
allowed any weaknesses."
Great nodded soberly. "And now I must go. They've almost finished the
count-down, as one of my technicians keeps on calling it. Very pleased
to have met you, Miss Grayling--I'll check with our PR man on that
interview. Be seeing you, Savvy."
The tiers of seats were filled now and the central space almost clear.
Officials were shooing off a few knots of lingerers. Several of the
grandmasters, including all four Russians, were seated at their tables.
Press and company cameras were flashing. The four smaller wallboards
lit up with the pieces in the opening position--white for White and red
for Black. Simon Great stepped over the red velvet cord and more flash
bulbs went off.
"You know, Doc," Sandra said, "I'm a dog to suggest this, but what
if this whole thing were a big fake? What if Simon Great were really
playing the Machine's moves? There would surely be some way for his
electricians to rig--"
Doc laughed happily--and so loudly that some people at the adjoining
tables frowned.
"Miss Grayling, that is a wonderful idea! I will probably steal it for
a short story. I still manage to write and place a few in England.
No, I do not think that is at all likely. WBM would never risk such
a fraud. Great is completely out of practice for actual tournament
play, though not for chess-thinking. The difference in style between
a computer and a man would be evident to any expert. Great's own style
is remembered and would be recognized--though, come to think of it, his
style was often described as being machinelike...." For a moment Doc's
eyes became thoughtful. Then he smiled again. "But no, the idea is
impossible. Vanderhoef as Tournament Director has played two or three
games with the Machine to assure himself that it operates legitimately
and has grandmaster skill."
"Did the Machine beat him?" Sandra asked.
* * * * *
Doc shrugged. "The scores weren't released. It was very hush-hush.
But about your idea, Miss Grayling--did you ever read about Maelzel's
famous chess-playing automaton of the 19th Century? That one too was
supposed to work by machinery (cogs and gears, not electricity) but
actually it had a man hidden inside it--your Edgar Poe exposed the
fraud in a famous article. In _my_ story I think the chess robot will
break down while it is being demonstrated to a millionaire purchaser
and the young inventor will have to win its game for it to cover up
and swing the deal. Only the millionaire's daughter, who is really a
better player than either of them ... yes, yes! Your Ambrose Bierce
too wrote a story about a chess-playing robot of the clickety-clank-grr
kind who murdered his creator, crushing him like an iron grizzly bear
when the man won a game from him. Tell me, Miss Grayling, do you find
yourself imagining this Machine putting out angry tendrils to strangle
its opponents, or beaming rays of death and hypnotism at them? I can
imagine...."
While Doc chattered happily on about chess-playing robots and chess
stories, Sandra found herself thinking about him. A writer of some sort
evidently and a terrific chess buff. Perhaps he was an actual medical
doctor. She'd read something about two or three coming over with the
Russian squad. But Doc certainly didn't sound like a Soviet citizen.
He was older than she'd first assumed. She could see that now that
she was listening to him less and looking at him more. Tired, too.
Only his dark-circled eyes shone with unquenchable youth. A useful old
guy, whoever he was. An hour ago she'd been sure she was going to muff
this assignment completely and now she had it laid out cold. For the
umpteenth time in her career Sandra shied away from the guilty thought
that she wasn't a writer at all or even a reporter, she just used
dime-a-dozen female attractiveness to rope a susceptible man (young,
old, American, Russian) and pick his brain....
She realized suddenly that the whole hall had become very quiet.
Doc was the only person still talking and people were again looking at
them disapprovingly. All five wallboards were lit up and the changed
position of a few pieces showed that opening moves had been made on
four of them, including the Machine's. The central space between
the tiers of seats was completely clear now, except for one man
hurrying across it in their direction with the rapid yet quiet, almost
tip-toe walk that seemed to mark all the officials. _Like morticians'
assistants_, she thought. He rapidly mounted the stairs and halted at
the top to look around searchingly. His gaze lighted on their table,
his eyebrows went up, and he made a beeline for Doc. Sandra wondered if
she should warn him that he was about to be shushed.
The official laid a hand on Doc's shoulder. "Sir!" he said agitatedly.
"Do you realize that they've started your clock, Dr. Krakatower?"
* * * * *
Sandra became aware that Doc was grinning at her. "Yes, it's true
enough, Miss Grayling," he said. "I trust you will pardon the
deception, though it was hardly one, even technically. Every word I
told you about Dirty Old Krakatower is literally true. Except the long
white beard--he never wore a beard after he was 35--that part was an
out-and-out lie! Yes, yes! I will be along in a moment! Do not worry,
the spectators will get their money's worth out of me! And WBM did not
with its expense account buy my soul--that belongs to the young lady
here."
Doc rose, lifted her hand and kissed it. "Thank you, mademoiselle,
for a charming interlude. I hope it will be repeated. Incidentally,
I should say that besides.... (Stop pulling at me, man!--there can't
be five minutes on my clock yet!) ... that besides being Dirty Old
Krakatower, grandmaster emeritus, I am also the special correspondent
of the _London Times_. It is always pleasant to chat with a colleague.
Please do not hesitate to use in your articles any of the ideas I
tossed out, if you find them worthy--I sent in my own first dispatch
two hours ago. Yes, yes, I come! Au revoir, mademoiselle!"
He was at the bottom of the stairs when Sandra jumped up and hurried to
the balustrade.
"Hey, Doc!" she called.
He turned.
"Good luck!" she shouted and waved.
He kissed his hand to her and went on.
People glared at her then and a horrified official came hurrying.
Sandra made big frightened eyes at him, but she couldn't quite hide
her grin.