PAWN TO INFINITY
         Edited by
  Fred & Joan Saberhagen
                    CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION, Fred Saberhagen
THE MARVELOUS BRASS CHESSPLAYING AUTOMATON,
Gene Wolfe
UNICORN VARIATION, Roger Zelazny
THE IMMORTAL GAME, Poul Anderson
MIDNIGHT BY THE MORPHY WATCH, Fritz Leiber
UNSOUND VARIATIONS, George R.R. Martin
A GAME OF VLET, Joanna Russ
WITHOUT A THOUGHT, Fred Saberhagen
A BOARD IN THE OTHER DIRECTION, Ruth Berman
VON GOOM'S GAMBIT, Victor Contoski
KOKOMU, Daniel Gilbert
MOXON'S MASTER, Ambrose Bierce
RENDEZVOUS 2062, Robert Frazier
REFLECTIONS ON THE LOOKING-GLASS, AN ESSAY, Alfred
Stewart
   "Chess and fantastic fiction began an enthusiastic encounter with
each other at least as far back as Lewis Carroll, and the mating is still
in progress. Both contain strong elements of conflict and both are set in
worlds where time and space are subject to transformation; the
ordinary rules of human existence do not apply. Therefore both tend to
appeal to the same kind of mind; an interest in the fantastic is very
often a sign of interest in chess, and vice versa…"


                                               Fred & Joan Saberhagen


        Science Fiction and the "Game of Kings":

                           PAWN
                        TO INFINITY
          Other science fiction and fantasy titles

        by Fred Saberhagen available from Ace…


  • BERSERKER
  • BERSERKER MAN
  • BERSERKER'S PLANET
  • BROTHER ASSASSIN
  • THE DRACULA TAPE
  • EMPIRE OF THE EAST
  • THE HOLMES DRACULA FILE
  • LOVE CONQUERS ALL
  • AN OLD FRIEND OF THE FAMILY
  • SPECIMENS
  • THORN
  • THE ULTIMATE ENEMY
  • THE VEILS OF AZLAROC
  • A SPADEFUL OF SPACETIME (Edited by Fred Saberhagen)
  • THE MAGIC MAY RETURN (Fred Saberhagen with Foul
Anderson & Mildred Downy Broxon, Dean Ing, Steven Barnes, and
Larry Niven. Edited by Larry Niven.)
              PAWN
           TO INFINITY

              EDITED BY


      FRED SABERHAGEN

                 WITH


      JOAN SABERHAGEN


                   SF
               ace books
A Division of Charter Communications Inc.
  A GROSSET & DUNLAP COMPANY
           51 Madison Avenue
       New York, New York 10010
PAWN TO INFINITY


Copyright © 1982 by Fred and Joan Saberhagen


All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.


An ACE Book


First Ace printing: June 1982


Published Simultaneously in Canada


Manufactured in the United States of America
             ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  "Introduction" © 1982 Fred Saberhagen.
  "The Marvelous Brass Chessplaying Automaton" by Gene Wolfe. ©
1977 Terry Carr; reprinted by permission of the author and his agent,
Virginia Kidd; first published in Universe 7, edited by Terry Carr.
  "Unicorn Variation" by Roger Zelazny. © 1982 The Amber
Corporation, first published in Isaac Asimov's Science Fiction
Magazine; March 13, 1982.
   "The Immortal Game" by Poul Anderson. © 1954 Mercury Press,
Inc., first published in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction,
Feb. 1954.
   "Midnight by the Morphy Watch" by Fritz Leiber. © 1974 UPD
Publishing Company for Worlds of If Science Fiction; first published
in If, July-August 1974.
  "Unsound Variations" by George R.R. Martin. © 1982 Ultimate
Publishing Company, Inc., first published in Amazing/Fantastic, Jan.
1982.
  "A Game of Vlet" by Joanna Russ. © 1974 Joanna Russ; first
published in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, Feb. 1974.
  "Without A Thought" by Fred Saberhagen. © 1962 Digest
Productions Corp.; first published in If, vol. 12 no. 6 Jan. 1963.
  "A Board in the Other Direction" by Ruth Berman. © 1972 Mercury
Press; first published in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction.
   "Von Goom's Gambit" by Victor Contoski; © 1966 Victor Contoski;
first published in Chess Review, April 1966.
   "Kokomu" by Daniel Gilbert. © 1982 Daniel Gilbert; first published
in Pawn to Infinity, edited by Fred & Joan Saberhagen.
  "Moxon's Master" by Ambrose Bierce. In the Public Domain.
  "Rendezvous 2062" by Robert Frazier, first published in Fantasy
Book. © 1982 by Robert Frazier; published by arrangement with the
author.
  "Reflections on the Looking-Glass, An Essay" by Alfred Stewart. ©
1982 Alfred Stewart: first published in Pawn to Infinity, edited by Fred
& Joan Saberhagen
                   INTRODUCTION
   Chess and fantastic fiction (I use the term here to include science
fiction) began an enthusiastic encounter with each other at least as far
back as Lewis Carroll, and the mating is still in progress. Both contain
strong elements of conflict—Emanuel Lasker, one of the great players
of all time, defined chess as a struggle—and both are set in worlds
where time and space are subject to transformation, the ordinary rules
of human existence do not apply. Therefore both tend to appeal to the
same kind of mind; an interest in the fantastic is very often a sign of
interest in chess, and vice versa.
   The games in the stories in this book are not always chess, if we
define chess by a certain precise set of rules, and configurations of
pieces which are to be moved on a flat board eight squares by eight.
But by Lasker's definition the fit is good, because each story in this
book recounts a struggle. The opponents are not always the humanity
we know, any more than the games are always literally the chess we
know, but a board game plays some essential part in each story, and in
each some conflict beyond gaming is to be resolved.
   Getting this book done has been something of a struggle, too, at
times, though mostly it has been a lot of fun. We would like to thank
all those who have cooperated and offered suggestions, in particular
George R.R. Martin, and Ruth Berman and her friends Dennis Lein
and Joyce Muskat.
  Start your clocks!


                                           —Fred and Joan Saberhagen
       THE MARVELOUS BRASS
     CHESSPLAYING AUTOMATON
                          Gene Wolfe

   Each day Lame Hans sits with his knees against the bars, playing
chess with the machine. Though I have seen the game often I have
never learned to play, but I watch them as I sweep. It is a beautiful
game, and Lame Hans has told me of its beginnings in the great ages
now past; for that reason I always feel a sympathy toward the little
pawns with their pencils and wrenches and plain clothing, each figure
representing many generations of those whose labor built the great
bishops that split the skys in the days of the old wars.
   I feel pity for Lame Hans also. He talks to me when I bring his food,
and sometimes when I am cleaning the jail. Let me tell you his story,
as I have learned it in the many days since the police drew poor
Gretchen out and laid her in the dust of the street. Lame Hans would
never tell you himself—for all that big, bulging head his tongue is slow
and halting when he speaks of his own affairs.
   It was last summer during the truce that the showman's cart was
driven into our village. For a month not a drop of rain had fallen; each
day at noon Father Karl rang the churchbells, and women went in to
pray for rain for their husbands' crops. After dark many of these same
women met to form lines and circles on the slopes of the Schlossberg,
the mountain that was once a great building. The lines and circles are
supposed to influence the Weatherwatchers, whose winking lights pass
so swiftly through the starry sky. For myself, I do not believe it. What
men ever made a machine that could see a few old women on the
mountainside at night?
  So it was when the cart of Herr Heitzmann the mountebank came.
The sun was down, but the street still so hot that the dogs would not
bark for fear of fainting, and the dust rolled away from the wheels in
waves, like grain when foxes run through the fields.
  This cart was shorter than a farm wagon, but very high, with such a
roof as a house has. The sides had been painted, and even I, who do
not play, but have so often watched Albricht the moneylender play
Father Karl, or Doctor Eckardt play Burgermeister Landsteiner,
recognized the mighty figures of the Queen-Computers who lead the
armies of the field of squares into battle; and the haughty King-
Generals who command, and if they fall bring down all.
   A small, bent man drove. He had a head large enough for a giant—
that was Lame Hans, but I paid little attention to him, not knowing that
he and I would be companions here in the jail where I work. Beside
him sat Heitzmann the mountebank, and it was he who took one's eyes,
which was as he intended. He was tall and thin, with a sharp chin and a
large nose and snapping black eyes. He had velvet trousers and a fine
hat which sweat had stained around the band, and long locks of dark
hair that hung from under it at odd angles so that one knew he used the
finger-comb when he woke, as drunkards do who find themselves
beneath a bench. When the small man brought the cart through the
innyard gate, I rose from my seat on the jail steps and went across to
the inn parlor. And it was a fortunate thing I did so, because it was in
this way that I chanced to see the famous game between the brass
machine and Professor Baumeister.
   Haven't I mentioned Professor Baumeister before? Have you not
noticed that in a village such as ours there are always a dozen
celebrities? Always a man who is strong (with us that is Willi Schacht,
the smith's apprentice), one who eats a great deal, a learned man like
Doctor Eckardt, a ladies man, and so on. But for all these people to be
properly admired, there must also be a distinguished visitor to whom to
point them out, and here in Oder Spree that is Professor Baumeister,
because our village lies midway between the University and
Furstenwald, and it is here that he spends the night whenever he
journies from one to the other, much to the enrichment of Scheer the
innkeeper. The fact of the matter is that Professor Baumeister has
become one of our celebrities himself, only by spending the night here
so often. With his broad brown beard and fine coat and tall hat and
leather riding breeches, he gives the parlor of our inn the air of a
gentlemen's club.
   I have heard that it is often the case that the beginning of the
greatest drama is as casual as any commonplace event. So it was that
night. The inn was full of off duty soldiers drinking beer, and because
of the heat all the windows were thrown open, though a dozen candles
were burning. Professor Baumeister was deep in conversation with
Doctor Eckardt; something about the war. Herr Heitzmann the
mountebank—though I did not know what to call him then—had
already gotten his half-liter when I came in, and was standing at the
bar.
   At last, when Professor Baumeister paused to emphasize some
point, Herr Heitzmann leaned over to them, and in the most offhand
way asked a question. It was peculiar, but the whole room seemed to
grow silent as he spoke, so that he could be heard everywhere though it
was no more than a whisper. He said: "I wonder if I might venture to
ask you gentlemen—you both appear to be learned men—if, to the best
of your knowledge, there still exists even one of those great
computational machines which were perhaps the most extraordinary—I
trust you will agree with me?—creations of the age now past."
  Professor Baumeister said at once, "No, sir. Not one remains."
  "You feel certain of this?"
   "My dear sir," said Professor Baumeister, "you must understand that
those devices were dependent upon a supply of replacement parts
consisting of the most delicate subminiature electronic components.
These have not been produced now for over a hundred years—indeed,
some of them have been unavailable longer."
  "Ah," Herr Heitzmann said (mostly to himself, it seemed, but you
could hear him in the kitchen). "Then I have the only one."
   Professor Baumeister attempted to ignore this amazing remark, as
not having been addressed to himself; but Doctor Eckardt, who is of an
inquisitive disposition, said boldly: "You have such a machine,
Herr…?"
  "Heitzmann. Originally of Berlin, now come from Zurich. And you,
my good sir?"
  Doctor Eckardt introduced himself, and Professor Baumeister too,
and Herr Heitzmann clasped them by the hand. Then the doctor said to
Professor Baumeister: "You are certain that no computers remain in
existence, my friend?"
  The professor said: "I am referring to working computers—
machines in operating condition. There are plenty of old hulks in
museums, of course."
   Herr Heitzmann sighed, and pulled out a chair and sat down at the
table with them, bringing his beer. "Would it not be sad," he said, "if
those world-ruling machines were lost to mankind forever?"
  Professor Baumeister said dryly: "They based their extrapolations
on numbers. That worked well enough as long as money, which is
easily measured numerically, was the principal motivating force in
human affairs. But as time progressed human actions became
responsive instead to a multitude of incommensurable vectors; the
computers' predictions failed, the civilization they had built collapsed,
and parts for the machines were no longer obtainable or desired."
  "How fascinating!" Herr Heitzmann exclaimed. "Do you know, I
have never heard it explained in quite that way. You have provided
me, for the first time, with an explanation for the survival of my own
machine."
  Doctor Eckardt said, "You have a working computer, then?"
   "I do. You see, mine is a specialized device. It was not designed,
like the computers the learned professor spoke of just now, to predict
human actions. It plays chess."
   Professor Baumeister asked, "And where do you keep this
wonderful machine?" By this time everyone else in the room had fallen
silent. Even Scheer took care not to allow the glasses he was drying to
clink; and Gretchen, the fat blond serving girl who usually cracked
jokes with the soldiers and banged down the plates, moved through the
pipesmoke among the tables as silently as a canalboat in fog.
  "Outside," Herr Heitzmann replied to the professor. "In my
conveyance. I am taking it to Dresden."
  "And it plays chess."
  "It has never been defeated."
   "Are you aware," Professor Baumeister inquired sardonically, "that
to program a computer to play chess—to play well—was considered
one of the most difficult problems? That many judged that it was never
actually solved, and that those machines which most closely
approached acceptable solutions were never so small as to be
portable?"
  "Nevertheless," Herr Heitzmann declared, "I have such a machine."
  "My friend, I do not believe you."
   "I take it you are a player yourself," Herr Heitzmann said. "Such a
learned man could hardly be otherwise.
   Very well. As I said a moment ago, my machine is outside." His
hand touched the table between Professor Baumeister's glass and his
own, and when it came away five gold kilomarks stood there in a neat
stack. "I will lay these on the outcome of the game, if you will play my
machine tonight."
  "Done," said Professor Baumeister.
  "I must see your money."
  "You will accept a draft on Streicher's, in Furstenwald?"


  And so it was settled. Doctor Eckardt held the stakes, and six men
volunteered to carry the machine into the inn parlor under Herr
Heitzmann's direction.
   Six were not too many, though the machine was not as large as
might have been expected—not more than a hundred and twenty
centimeters high, with a base, as it might be, a meter on a side. The
sides and top were all of brass, set with many dials and other devices
no one understood.
   When it was at last in place, Professor Baumeister viewed it from all
sides and smiled. "This is not a computer," he said.
  "My dear friend," said Herr Heitzmann, "you are mistaken."
   "It is several computers. There are two keyboards and a portion of a
third. There are even two nameplates, and one of these dials once
belonged to a radio."
  Herr Heitzmann nodded. "It was assembled at the very close of the
period, for one purpose only—to play chess."
  "You still contend that this machine can play?"
  "I contend more. That it will win."
  "Very well. Bring a board."
   "That is not necessary," Herr Heitzmann said. He pulled a knob at
the front of the machine, and a whole section swung forward, as the
door of a vegetable bin does in a scullery. But the top of this bin was
not open as though to receive the vegetables: it was instead a
chessboard, with the white squares of brass, and the black of dark
glass, and on the board, standing in formation and ready to play, were
two such armies of chessmen as no one in our village had ever seen,
tall metal figures so stately they might have been sculptured apostles in
a church, one army of brass and the other of some dark metal. "You
may play white," Herr Heitzmann said. "That is generally considered
an advantage."
  Professor Baumeister nodded, advanced the white king's pawn two
squares, and drew a chair up to the board. By the time he had seated
himself the machine had replied, moving so swiftly that no one saw by
what mechanism the piece had been shifted.
  The next time Professor Baumeister acted more slowly, and
everyone watched, eager to see the machine's countermove. It came the
moment the professor had set his piece in its new position—the black
queen slid forward silently, with nothing to propel it.
  After ten moves Professor Baumeister said, "There is a man inside."
  Herr Heitzmann smiled. "I see why you say that, my friend. Your
position on the board is precarious."
  "I insist that the machine be opened for my examination."
   "I suppose that you would say that if a man were concealed inside,
the bet would be cancelled." Herr Heitzmann had ordered a second
glass of beer, and was leaning against the bar watching the game.
  "Of course. My bet was that a machine could not defeat me. I am
well aware that certain human players can."
  "But conversely, if there is no man in the machine, the bet stands?"
  "Certainly."
   "Very well." Herr Heitzmann walked to the machine, twisted four
catches on one side, and with the help of some onlookers removed the
entire panel. It was of brass, like the rest of the machine; but because
the metal was thin, not so heavy as it appeared.
   There was more room inside than might have been thought, yet
withall a considerable amount of mechanism: things like shingles the
size of little table tops, all covered with patterns like writing (Lame
Hans has told me since that these are called circuit cards). And gears
and motors and the like.
  When Professor Baumeister had poked among all these mechanical
parts for half a minute, Herr Heitzmann asked: "Are you satisfied?"
  "Yes," answered Professor Baumeister, straightening up. "There is
no one in there."
    "But I am not," said Herr Heitzmann, and he walked with long
strides to the other side of the machine. Everyone crowded around him
as he released the catches on that side, lifted away the panel, and stood
it against the wall. "Now," he said, "you can see completely through
my machine—isn't that right? Look, do you see Doctor Eckardt? Do
you see me? Wave to us."
  "I am satisfied," Professor Baumeister said. "Let us go on with the
game."
  "The machine has already taken its move. You may think about your
next one while these gentlemen help me replace the panels."
   Professor Baumeister was beaten in twenty-two moves. Albricht the
moneylender then asked if he could play without betting, and when
this was refused by Herr Heitzmann, bet a kilomark and was beaten in
fourteen moves. Herr Heitzmann asked then if anyone else would play,
and when no one replied, requested that the same men who carried the
machine into the inn assist him in putting it away again.
  "Wait," said Professor Baumeister.
  Herr Heitzmann smiled. "You mean to play again?"
  "No. I want to buy your machine. On behalf of the University."
   Herr Heitzmann sat down and looked serious. "I doubt that I could
sell it to you. I had hoped to make a good sum in Dresden before
selling it there."
  "Five hundred kilomarks."
  Herr Heitzmann shook his head. "That is a fair proposition," he said,
"and I thank you for making it. But I cannot accept."
   "Seven hundred and fifty," Professor Baumeister said. "That is my
final offer."
  "In gold?"
  "In a draft on an account the University maintains in Furstenwald—
you can present it there for gold the first thing in the morning."
   "You must understand," said Herr Heitzmann, "that the machine
requires a certain amount of care, or it will not perform properly."
  "I am buying it as is," said Professor Baumeister. "As it stands here
before us."
  "Done, then," said Herr Heitzmann, and he put out his hand.
  The board was folded away, and six stout fellows carried the
machine into the professor's room for safekeeping, where he remained
with it for an hour or more. When he returned to the inn parlor at last,
Doctor Eckardt asked if he had been playing chess again.
  Professor Baumeister nodded. "Three games."
  "Did you win?"
  "No, I lost them all. Where is the showman?"
  "Gone," said Father Karl, who was sitting near them. "He left as
soon as you took the machine to your room."
  Doctor Eckardt said, "I thought he planned to stay the night here."
   "So did I," said Father Karl. "And I confess I believed the machine
would not function without him. I was surprised to hear that our friend
the professor had been playing in private."
   Just then a small, twisted man, with a large head crowned with wild
black hair, limped into the inn parlor. It was Lame Hans, but no one
knew that then. He asked Scheer the innkeeper for a room.
  Scheer smiled. "Sitting rooms on the first floor are a hundred
marks," he said. He could see by Lame Hans' worn clothes that he
could not afford a sitting room.
  "Something cheaper."
   "My regular rooms are thirty marks. Or I can let you have a garret
for ten."
   Hans rented a garret room, and ordered a meal of beer, tripe, and
kraut. That was the last time anyone except Gretchen noticed Lame
Hans that night.


   And now I must leave off recounting what I myself saw, and tell
many things that rest solely on the testimony of Lame Hans, given to
me while he ate his potato soup in his cell. But I believe Lame Hans to
be an honest fellow; and as he no longer, as he says, cares much to
live, he has no reason to lie.
   One thing is certain. Lame Hans and Gretchen the serving girl fell in
love that night. Just how it happened I cannot say—I doubt that Lame
Hans knows himself. She was sent to prepare the cot in his garret.
Doubtless she was tired after drawing beer in the parlor all day, and
was happy to sit for a few moments and talk with him. Perhaps she
smiled—she was always a girl who smiled a great deal—and laughed
at some bitter joke he made. And as for Lame Hans, how many blue
eyed girls could ever have smiled at him, with his big head and twisted
leg?
  In the morning the machine would not play chess.
   Professor Baumeister sat before it for a long time, arranging the
pieces and making first one opening and then another, and tinkering
with the mechanism; but nothing happened.
   And then, when the morning was half gone, Lame Hans came into
his room. "You paid a great deal of money for this machine," he said,
and sat down in the best chair.
  "Were you in the inn parlor last night?" asked Professor Baumeister.
"Yes, I paid a great deal: seven hundred and fifty kilomarks."
  "I was there," said Lame Hans. "You must be a very rich man to be
able to afford such a sum."
  "It was the University's money," explained Professor Baumeister.
  "Ah," said Lame Hans. "Then it will be embarrassing for you if the
machine does not play."
   "It does play," said the professor. "I played three games with it last
night after it was brought here."
   "You must learn to make better use of your knights," Lame Hans
told him, "and to attack on both sides of the board at once. In the
second game you played well until you lost the queen's rook; then you
went to pieces."
  The professor sat down, and for a moment said nothing. And then:
"You are the operator of the machine. I was correct in the beginning; I
should have known."
  Lame Hans looked out the window.
   "How did you move the pieces—by radio? I suppose there must still
be radio control equipment in existence somewhere."
  "I was inside," Lame Hans said. "I'll show you sometime; it's not
important. What will you tell the University?"
  "That I was swindled, I suppose. I have some money of my own,
and I will try to pay back as much as I can out of that—and I own two
houses in Furstenwald that can be sold."
  "Do you smoke?" asked Lame Hans, and he took out his short pipe,
and a bag of tobacco.
  "Only after dinner," said the professor, "and not often then."
   "I find it calms my nerves," said Lame Hans. "That is why I
suggested it to you. I do not have a second pipe, but I can offer you
some of my tobacco, which is very good. You might buy a clay from
the innkeeper here."
   "No thank you. I fear I must abandon such little pleasures for a long
time to come."
   "Not necessarily," said Lame Hans. "Go ahead, buy that pipe. This
is good Turkish tobacco—would you believe, to look at me, that I
know a great deal about tobacco? It has been my only luxury."
  "If you are the one who played chess with me last night," Professor
Baumeister said, "I would be willing to believe that you know a great
deal about anything. You play like the devil himself."
  "I know a great deal about more than tobacco. Would you like to get
your money back?"
  And so it was that that very afternoon (if it can be credited), the mail
coach carried away bills printed in large black letters. These said:


                  IN THE VILLAGE OF ODER SPREE
            BEFORE THE INN OF THE GOLDEN APPLES
                             ON SATURDAY
                            AT 9:00 O'CLOCK
             THE FANTASTIC BRASS CHESSPLAYING
                AUTOMATON WILL BE ON DISPLAY
                         FREE TO EVERYONE
                AND WILL PLAY ANY CHALLENGER
                             AT EVEN ODDS
                     TO A LIMIT OF DM 2,000,000


   Now you will think from what I have told you that Lame Hans was
a cocky fellow; but that is not the case, though like many of us who are
small of stature he pretended to be self-reliant when he was among
men taller than he. The truth is that though he did not show it he was
very frightened when he met Herr Heitzmann (as the two of them had
arranged earlier that he should) in a certain malodorous tavern near the
Schwarzthor in Furstenwald.
  "So there you are, my friend," said Herr Heitzmann. "How did it
go?"
   "Terribly," Lame Hans replied as though he felt nothing. "I was
locked up in that brass snuffbox for half the night, and had to play
twenty games with that fool of a scholar. And when at last I got out, I
couldn't get a ride here and had to walk most of the way on this bad leg
of mine. I trust it was comfortable on the cart-seat? The horse didn't
give you too much trouble?"
  "I'm sorry you've had a poor time of it, but now you can relax.
There's nothing more do to until he's convinced the machine is broken
and irreparable."
   Lame Hans looked at him as though in some surprise. "You didn't
see the signs? They are posted everywhere."
  "What signs?"
   "He's offering to bet two thousand kilomarks that no one can beat
the machine."
  Herr Heitzmann shrugged. "He will discover that it is inoperative
before the contest, and cancel it."
   "He could not cancel after the bet was made," said Lame Hans.
"Particularly if there were a proviso that if either were unable to play,
the bet was forfeited. Some upright citizen would be selected to hold
the stakes, naturally."
   "I don't suppose he could at that," said Herr Heitzmann, taking a
swallow of schnapps from the glass before him. "However, he wouldn't
bet me—he'd think I knew some way to influence the machine. Still,
he's never seen you."
   "Just what I've been thinking myself," said Lame Hans, "on my
hike."
  "It's a little out of your line."
   "If you'll put up the cash, I'd be willing to go a little out of my line
for my tenth of that kind of money. But what is there to do? I make the
bet, find someone to hold the stakes, and stand ready to play on
Saturday morning. I could even offer to play him—for a smaller bet—
to give him a chance to get some of his own back. That is, if he has
anything left after paying off. It would make it seem more sporting."
  "You're certain you could beat him?"
   "I can beat anybody—you know that. Besides, I beat him a score of
times yesterday; the game you saw was just the first."
   Herr Heitzmann ducked under the threatening edge of a tray carried
by an overenthusiastic waiter. "All the same," he said, "when he
discovers it won't work…"
    "I could even spend a bit of time in the machine. That's no problem.
It's in a first floor room, with a window that won't lock."
  And so Lame Hans left for our village again, this time considerably
better dressed and with two thousand kilo-marks in his pocket. Herr
Heitzmann, with his appearance considerably altered by a plastiskin
mask, left also, an hour later, to keep an eye on the two thousand.


   "But," the professor said when Lame Hans and he were comfortably
ensconced in his sitting room again, with pipes in their mouths and
glasses in their hands and a plate of sausage on the table, "But who is
going to operate the machine for us? Wouldn't it be easier if you
simply didn't appear? Then you would forfeit."
  "And Heitzmann would kill me," said Lame Hans.
  "He didn't strike me as the type."
   "He would hire it done," Hans said positively. "Whenever he got the
cash. There are deserters about who are happy enough to do that kind
of work for drinking money. For that matter, there are soldiers who
aren't deserters who'll do it—men on detached duty of one kind and
another. When you've spent all winter slaughtering Russians, one more
body doesn't make much difference." He blew a smoke ring, then ran
the long stem of his clay pipe through it as though he were driving
home a bayonet. "But if I play the machine and lose, he'll only think
you figured things out and got somebody to work it, and that I'm not as
good as he supposed. Then he won't want anything more to do with
me."
  "All right then."
   "A tobacconist should do well in this village, don't you think? I had
in mind that little shop two doors down from here. When the coaches
stop, the passengers will see my sign; there should be many who'll
want to fill their pouches."
    "Gretchen prefers to stay here, I suppose." Lame Hans nodded. "It
doesn't matter to me. I've been all over, and when you've been all over,
it's all the same."


   Like everyone else in the village, and for fifty kilometers around, I
had seen the professor's posters, and I went to bed Friday night full of
pleasant anticipation. Lame Hans has told me that he retired in the
same frame of mind, after a couple of glasses of good plum brandy in
the inn parlor with the professor. He and the professor had to appear
strangers and antagonists in public, as will be readily seen; but this did
not prevent them from eating and drinking together while they
discussed arrangements for the match, which was to be held—with the
permission of Burgermeister Landsteiner—in the village street, where
an area for the players had been cordoned off and high benches erected
for the spectators.
   Hans woke (so he has told me) when it was still dark, thinking that
he had heard thunder. Then the noise came again, and he knew it must
be the artillery, the big seige guns, firing at the Russians trapped in
Kostrzyn. The army had built wood-fired steam tractors to pull those
guns—he had seen them in Wriezen—and now the soldiers were
talking about putting armor on the tractors and mounting cannon, so
the knights of the chessboard would exist in reality once more.
   The firing continued, booming across the dry plain, and he went to
the window to see if he could make out the flashes, but could not. He
put on a thin shirt and a pair of cotton trousers (for though the sun was
not yet up it was as hot as if the whole of Brandenburg had been thrust
into a furnace) and went into the street to look at the empty shop in
which he planned to set up his tobacco business. A squadron of Ritters
galloped through the village, doubtless on their way to the seige. Lame
Hans shouted, "What do you mean to do? Ride your horses against the
walls?" but they ignored him. Now that the truce was broken, Von
Koblenz's army would soon be advancing up the Oder valley, Lame
Hans thought. The Russians were said to have been preparing powered
balloons to assist in the defense, and this hot summer weather, when
the air seemed never to stir, would favor their use. He decided that if
he were the Commissar, he would allow Von Koblenz to reach
Glogow, and then…
  But he was not the Commissar. He went back into the inn and
smoked his pipe until Frau Scheer came down to prepare his breakfast.
Then he went to the professor's room where the machine was kept.
Gretchen was already waiting there.
   "Now then," Professor Baumeister said, "I understand that the two
of you have it all worked out between you." And Gretchen nodded
solemnly, so that her plump chin looked like a soft little pillow pressed
against her throat.
   "It is quite simple," said Lame Hans. "Gretchen does not know how
to play, but I have worked out the moves for her and drawn them on a
sheet of paper, and we have practiced in my room with a board. We
will run through it once here when she is in the machine; then there
will be nothing more to do."
  "Is it a short game? It won't do for her to become confused."
   "She will win in fourteen moves," Lame Hans promised. "But still it
is unusual. I don't think anyone has done it before. You will see in a
moment."
  To Gretchen, Professor Baumeister said: "You're sure you won't be
mixed up? Everything depends on you."
    The girl shook her head, making her blond braids dance. "No, Herr
Professor." She drew a folded piece of paper from her bosom. "I have
it all here, and as my Hans told you, we have practiced in his room,
where no one could see us."
  "You aren't afraid?"
   "When I am going to marry Hans, and be mistress of a fine shop?
Oh, no, Herr Professor—for that I would do much worse things than to
hide in this thing that looks like a stove, and play a game."
   "We are ready, then," the professor said. "Hans, you still have not
explained how it is that a person can hide in there, when the sides can
be removed allowing people to look through the machinery. And I
confess I still don't understand how it can be done, or how the pieces
are moved."
   "Here," said Lame Hans, and he pulled out the board as Herr
Heitzmann had done in the inn parlor. "Now will you assist me in
removing the left side? You should learn the way it comes loose,
Professor—someday you may have to do it yourself." (The truth was
that he was not strong enough to handle the big brass sheet by himself,
and did not wish to be humiliated before Gretchen.)
  "I had forgotten how much empty space there is inside," Professor
Baumeister said when they had it off. "It looks more impossible than
ever."
   "It is simple, like all good tricks," Lame Hans told him. "And it is
the sign of a good trick that it is the thing that makes it appear difficult
that makes it easy. Here is where the chessboard is, you see, when it is
folded up. But when it is unfolded, the panel under it swings out on a
hinge to support it, and there are sides, so that a triangular space is
formed."
   The professor nodded and said, "I remember thinking when I played
you that it looked like a potato bin, with the chessboard laid over the
top."
   "Exactly," Lame Hans continued. "The space is not noticeable when
the machine is open, because this circuit card is just in front of it. But
see here." And he released a little catch at the top of the circuit card,
and pivoted it up to show the empty space behind it. "I am in the
machine when it is carried in, but when Heitzmann pulls out the board,
I lift this and fit myself under it; then when the machine is opened for
inspection I am out of view. I can look up through the dark glass of the
black squares, and because the pieces are so tall, I can make out their
positions. But because it is bright outside, but dim where I am, I cannot
be seen."
   "I understand," said the professor. "But will Gretchen have enough
light in there to read her piece of paper?"
  "That was why I wanted to hold the match in the street. With the
board in sunshine she will be able to see her paper clearly."
   Gretchen was on her knees, looking at the space behind the circuit
card. "It is very small in there," she said.
   "It is big enough," said Lame Hans. "Do you have the magnet?" And
then to the professor: "The pieces are moved by moving a magnet
under them. The white pieces are brass, but the black ones are of iron,
and the magnet gives them a sliding motion that is very impressive."
   "I know," said the professor, remembering that he had felt a twinge
of uneasiness whenever the machine had shifted a piece. "Gretchen,
see if you can get inside."
   The poor girl did the best she could, but encountered the greatest
difficulty in wedging herself into the small space under the board.
Work in the kitchen of the inn had provided her with many
opportunities to snatch a mouthful of pastry or a choice potato
dumpling or a half stein of dark beer, and she had availed herself of
most of them—with the result that she possessed a lush and blooming
figure of the sort that appeals to men like Lame Hans, who having been
withered before birth by the isotopes of the old wars are themselves
thin and small by nature. But though full breasts like ripe melons, and
a rounded comfortable stomach and generous hips, may be pleasant
things to look at when the moonlight is streaming through the bedroom
window, they are not really well suited to folding up in a little three-
cornered space under a chessboard; and in the end poor Gretchen was
forced to remove her gown, and her shift as well, before she could
cram herself, with much gasping and grunting, into it.
   An hour later Willi Schacht the smith's apprentice and five other
men carried the machine out into the street and set it in the space that
had been cordoned off for the players, and if they noticed the extra
weight, they did not complain of it. And there the good people who
had come to see the match looked at the machine, and fanned
themselves, and said that they were glad they weren't in the army on a
day like this—because what must it be to serve one of those big guns,
which get hot enough to poach an egg after half a dozen shots, even in
ordinary weather? And between moppings and fannings they talked
about the machine, and the mysterious Herr Zimmer (that was the
name Lame Hans had given) who was going to play it for two hundred
gold kilomarks.


  Nine chimes sounded from the old clock in the steeple of Father
Karl's church, and Herr Zimmer did not appear.
   Doctor Eckardt, who had been chosen again to hold the stakes, came
forward and whispered for some time with Professor Baumeister. The
professor (if the truth were known) was beginning to believe that
perhaps Lame Hans had decided that it was best to forfeit after all—
though in fact if anyone had looked they would have seen Lame Hans
sitting at the bar of the inn at that very moment, having a good nip of
plum brandy and then another, while he allowed the suspense to build
up as a good showman should.
   At last Doctor Eckardt climbed upon a chair and announced: "It is
now nearly ten. When the bet was made, it was agreed by both parties
that if either failed to appear—or appearing, failed to play—the other
should be declared the winner. If the worthy stranger, Herr Zimmer,
does not make an appearance before ten minutes past ten, I intend to
award the money entrusted to me to our respected acquaintance
Professor Baumeister."
   There was a murmur of excitement at this, but just when the clock
began to strike, Lame Hans called from the door of the inn, "WAIT!"
Then hats were thrown into the air, and women stood on toe-tips to
see; and fathers lifted their children up as the lame Herr Zimmer made
his way down the steps of the inn and took his place in the chair that
had been arranged in front of the board.
  "Are you ready to begin?" said Doctor Eckardt.
  "I am," said Lame Hans, and opened.
   The first five moves were made just as they had been rehearsed. But
in the sixth, in which Gretchen was to have slid her queen half across
the board, the piece stopped a square short.
   Any ordinary player would have been dismayed, but Lame Hans
was not. He only put his chin on his hand, and contrived (though
wishing he had not drunk the brandy) a series of moves within the
frame of the fourteen move game, by which he should lose despite the
queen's being out of position. He made the first of these moves; and
black moved the queen again, this time in a way that was completely
different from anything on the paper Hans had given Gretchen. She
was deceiving me when she said she did not know how to play, he
thought to himself. And now she finds she can't read the paper in
there, or perhaps she has decided to surprise me. Naturally she would
learn the fundamentals of the game, when it is played in the inn parlor
every night. (But he knew that she had not been deceiving him.) Then
he saw that this new move of the queen's was in fact a clever attack,
into which he could play and lose.
   And then the guns around Kostrzyn, which had been silent since the
early hours of the morning, began to boom again. Three times Lame
Hans' hand stretched out to touch his king and make the move that
would render it quite impossible for him to escape the queen, and three
times it drew back. "You have five minutes in which to move," Doctor
Eckardt said. "I will tell you when only thirty seconds remain, and
count the last five."
   The machine was built to play chess, thought Lame Hans. Long ago,
and they were warlocks in those days. Could it be that Gretchen, in
kicking about… ?
   Some motion in the sky made him raise his eyes, looking above the
board and over the top of the machine itself. An artillery observation
balloon (gray-black, a German balloon then) was outlined against the
blue sky. He thought of himself sitting in a dingy little shop full of
tobacco all day long, and no one to play chess with—no one he could
not checkmate easily.
  He moved a pawn, and the black bishop slipped out of the king's
row to tighten the net.
   If he won, they would have to pay him. Heitzmann would think
everything had gone according to plan, and Professor Baumeister,
surely, would hire no assassins. He launched his counterattack: the real
attack at the left side of the board, with a false one down the center.
Professor Baumeister came to stand beside him, and Doctor Eckardt
warned him not to distract the player. There had been seven more than
fourteen moves—and there was a trap behind the trap.
   He took the black queen's knight and lost a pawn. He was sweating
in the heat, wiping his brow with his sleeve between moves.
  A black rook, squat in its iron sandbags, advanced three squares,
and he heard the crowd cheer. "That is mate, Herr Zimmer," Doctor
Eckardt announced. He saw the look of relief on Professor
Baumeister's face, and knew that his own was blank. Then over the
cheering someone shouted: "Cheat! Cheat!" Gray-black pillbox police
caps were forcing their way through the hats and parasols of the
spectators.
   "There is a man in there! There is someone inside!" It was too clear
and too loud—a showman's voice. A tall stranger was standing on the
topmost bench waving Heitzmann's sweatstained velvet hat.
  A policeman asked: "The machine opens, does it not, Herr
Professor? Open it quickly before there is a riot."
  Professor Baumeister said, "I don't know how."
   "It looks simple enough," declared the other policeman, and he
began to unfasten the catches, wrapping his hand in his handkerchief to
protect it from the heat of the brass. "Wait!" ordered Professor
Baumeister, but neither one waited; the first policeman went to the aid
of the other, and together they lifted away one side of the machine and
let it fall against the railing. The movable circuit card had not been
allowed to swing back into place, and Gretchen's plump, naked legs
protruded from the cavity beneath the chessboard. The first policeman
seized them by the ankles and pulled her out until her half-open eyes
stared at the bright sky. Doctor Eckardt bent over her and flexed her
left arm at the elbow. "Rigor is beginning," he said. "She died of the
heat, undoubtedly."
  Lame Hans threw himself on her body weeping.


   Such is the story of Lame Hans. The captain of police in his
kindness has allowed me to push the machine to a position which
permits Hans to reach the board through the bars of his cell, and he
plays chess there all day long, moving first his own white pieces and
then the black ones of the machine, and always losing. Sometimes
when he is not quick enough to move the black queen I see her begin
to rock and to slide herself, and the dials and the console lights to glow
with impatience; and then Hans must reach out and take her to her new
position at once. Do you not think that this is sad for Lame Hans? I
have heard that many who have been twisted by the old wars have
these psychokinetic abilities without knowing it; and Professor
Baumeister, who is in the cell next to his, says that someday a
technology may be founded on them.
             UNICORN VARIATION
                        Roger Zelazny

   A bizarrerie of fires, cunabulum of light, it moved with a deft,
almost dainty deliberation, phasing into and out of existence like a
storm-shot piece of evening; or perhaps the darkness between the flares
was more akin to its truest nature—swirl of black ashes assembled in
prancing cadence to the lowing note of desert wind down the arroyo
behind buildings as empty yet filled as the pages of unread books or
stillnesses between the notes of a song.
  Gone again. Back again. Again.
  Power, you said? Yes. It takes considerable force of identity to
manifest before or after one's time. Or both.
   As it faded and gained it also advanced, moving through the warm
afternoon, its tracks erased by the wind. That is, on those occasions
when there were tracks.
  A reason. There should always be a reason. Or reasons.
  It knew why it was there—but not why it was there, in that
particular locale.
  It anticipated learning this shortly, as it approached the desolation-
bound line of the old street. However, it knew that the reason may also
come before, or after. Yet again, the pull was there and the force of its
being was such that it had to be close to something.
   The buildings were worn and decayed and some of them fallen and
all of them drafty and dusty and empty. Weeds grew among
floorboards. Birds nested upon rafters. The droppings of wild things
were everywhere, and it knew them all as they would have known it,
were they to meet face to face.
   It froze, for there had come the tiniest unanticipated sound from
somewhere ahead and to the left. At that moment, it was again phasing
into existence and it released its outline which faded as quickly as a
rainbow in hell, that but the naked presence remained beyond
subtraction.
  Invisible, yet existing, strong, it moved again. The clue. The cue.
Ahead. A gauche. Beyond the faded word SALOON on weathered
board above. Through the swinging doors. (One of them pinned alop.)
  Pause and assess.
   Bar to the right, dusty. Cracked mirror behind it. Empty bottles.
Broken bottles. Brass rail, black, encrusted. Tables to the left and rear.
In various states of repair.
  Man seated at the best of the lot. His back to the door. Levi's.
Hiking boots. Faded blue shirt. Green backpack leaning against the
wall to his left.
  Before him, on the tabletop, is the faint, painted outline of a
chessboard, stained, scratched, almost obliterated.
  The drawer in which he had found the chessmen is still partly open.
   He could no more have passed up a chess set without working out a
problem or replaying one of his better games than he could have gone
without breathing, circulating his blood or maintaining a relatively
stable body temperature.
  It moved nearer, and perhaps there were fresh prints in the dust
behind it, but none noted them.
  It, too, played chess.
   It watched as the man replayed what had perhaps been his finest
game, from the world preliminaries of seven years past. He had blown
up after that—surprised to have gotten even as far as he had—for he
never could perform well under pressure. But he had always been
proud of that one game, and he relived it as all sensitive beings do
certain turning points in their lives. For perhaps twenty minutes, no
one could have touched him. He had been shining and pure and hard
and clear. He had felt like the best.
   It took up a position across the board from him and stared. The man
completed the game, smiling. Then he set up the board again, rose and
fetched a can of beer from his pack. He popped the top.
  When he returned, he discovered that White's King's Pawn had been
advanced to K4. His brow furrowed. He turned his head, searching the
bar, meeting his own puzzled gaze in the grimy mirror. He looked
under the table. He took a drink of beer and seated himself.
  He reached out and moved his Pawn to K4. A moment later, he saw
White's King's Knight rise slowly into the air and drift forward to settle
upon KB3. He stared for a long while into the emptiness across the
table before he advanced his own Knight to his KB3.
   White's Knight moved to take his Pawn. He dismissed the novelty of
the situation and moved his Pawn to Q3. He all but forgot the absence
of a tangible opponent as the White Knight dropped back to its KB3.
He paused to take a sip of beer, but no sooner had he placed the can
upon the tabletop than it rose again, passed across the board and was
upended. A gurgling noise followed. Then the can fell to the floor,
bouncing, ringing with an empty sound.
   "I'm sorry," he said, rising and returning to his pack. "I'd have
offered you one if I'd thought you were something that might like it."
   He opened two more cans, returned with them, placed one near the
far edge of the table, one at his own right hand.
  "Thank you," came a soft, precise voice from a point beyond it.
  The can was raised, tilted slightly, returned to the tabletop.
  "My name is Martin," the man said.
   "Call me Tlingel," said the other. "I had thought that perhaps your
kind was extinct. I am pleased that you at least have survived to afford
me this game."
   "Huh?" Martin said. "We were all still around the last time that I
looked—a couple of days ago."
  "No matter. I can take care of that later," Tlingel replied. "I was
misled by the appearance of this place."
  "Oh. It's a ghost town. I backpack a lot."
  "Not important. I am near the proper point in your career as a
species. I can feel that much."
  "I am afraid that I do not follow you."
   "I am not at all certain that you would wish to. I assume that you
intend to capture that pawn?"
  "Perhaps. Yes, I do wish to. What are you talking about?"
  The beer can rose. The invisible entity took another drink.
  "Well," said Tlingel, "to put it simply, your—successors—grow
anxious. Your place in the scheme of things being such an important
one, I had sufficient power to come and check things out."
  " 'Successors'? I do not understand."
  "Have you seen any griffins recently?"
  Martin chuckled.
  "I've heard the stories," he said, "seen the photos of the one
supposedly shot in the Rockies. A hoax, of course."
  "Of course it must seem so. That is the way with mythical beasts."
  "You're trying to say that it was real?"
   "Certainly. Your world is in bad shape. When the last grizzly bear
died recently, the way was opened for the griffins—just as the death of
the last aepyornis brought in the yeti, the dodo the Loch Ness creature,
the passenger pigeon the sasquatch, the blue whale the kraken, the
American eagle the cockatrice—"
  "You can't prove it by me."
  "Have another drink."
  Martin began to reach for the can, halted his hand and stared.
   A creature approximately two inches in length, with a human face, a
lion-like body and feathered wings was crouched next to the beer can.
   "A mini-sphinx," the voice continued. "They came when you killed
off the last smallpox virus."
  "Are you trying to say that whenever a natural species dies out a
mythical one takes its place?" he asked.
   "In a word—yes. Now. It was not always so, but you have destroyed
the mechanisms of evolution. The balance is now redressed by those
others of us, from the morning land—we, who have never truly been
endangered. We return, in our time."
  "And you—whatever you are, Tlingel—you say that humanity is
now endangered?"
   "Very much so. But there is nothing that you can do about it, is
there? Let us get on with the game."
  The sphinx flew off. Martin took a sip of beer and captured the
Pawn.
  "Who," he asked then, "are to be our successors?"
   "Modesty almost forbids," Tlingel replied. "In the case of a species
as prominent as your own, it naturally has to be the loveliest, most
intelligent, most important of us all."
  "And what are you? Is there any way that I can have a look?"
  "Well—yes. If I exert myself a trifle."
   The beer can rose, was drained, fell to the floor. There followed a
series of rapid rattling sounds retreating from the table. The air began
to flicker over a large area opposite Martin, darkening within the
glowing flame work. The outline continued to brighten, its interior
growing jet black. The form moved, prancing about the saloon,
multitudes of tiny, cloven hoofprints scoring and cracking the
floorboards. With a final, near-blinding flash it came into full view and
Martin gasped to behold it.
   A black unicorn with mocking, yellow eyes sported before him,
rising for a moment onto its hind legs to strike a heraldic pose. The
fires flared about it a second longer, then vanished.
  Martin had drawn back, raising one hand defensively.
  "Regard me!" Tlingel announced. "Ancient symbol of wisdom,
valor and beauty, I stand before you!"
  "I thought your typical unicorn was white," Martin finally said.
  "I am archetypical," Tlingel responded, dropping to all fours, "and
possessed of virtues beyond the ordinary."
  "Such as?"
  "Let us continue our game."
  "What about the fate of the human race? You said—"
  "…And save the small talk for later."
  "I hardly consider the destruction of humanity to be small talk."
  "And if you've any more beer…"
  "All right," Martin said, retreating to his pack as the creature
advanced, its eyes like a pair of pale suns. "There's some lager."


   Something had gone out of the game. As Martin sat before the ebon
horn on Tlingel's bowed head, like an insect about to be pinned, he
realized that his playing was off. He had felt the pressure the moment
he had seen the beast—and there was all that talk about an imminent
doomsday. Any run-of-the-mill pessimist could say it without
troubling him, but coming from a source as peculiar as this…
   His earlier elation had fled. He was no longer in top form. And
Tlingel was good. Very good. Martin found himself wondering
whether he could manage a stalemate.
  After a time, he saw that he could not and resigned.
  The unicorn looked at him and smiled.
  "You don't really play badly—for a human," it said.
  "I've done a lot better."
   "It is no shame to lose to me, mortal. Even among mythical
creatures there are very few who can give a unicorn a good game."
  "I am pleased that you were not wholly bored," Martin said. "Now
will you tell me what you were talking about concerning the
destruction of my species?"
   "Oh, that," Tlingel replied. "In the morning land where those such as
I dwell, I felt the possibility of your passing come like a gentle wind to
my nostrils, with the promise of clearing the way for us—"
  "How is it supposed to happen?"
  Tlingel shrugged, horn writing on the air with a toss of the head.
   "I really couldn't say. Premonitions are seldom specific. In fact, that
is what I came to discover. I should have been about it already, but you
diverted me with beer and good sport."
  "Could you be wrong about this?"
  "I doubt it. That is the other reason I am here."
  "Please explain."
  "Are there any beers left?"
  "Two, I think."
  "Please."
  Martin rose and fetched them.
  "Damn! The tab broke off this one," he said.
  "Place it upon the table and hold it firmly."
  "All right."
  Tlingel's horn dipped forward quickly, piercing the can's top."
  "…Useful for all sorts of things," Tlingel observed, withdrawing it.
  "The other reason you're here…" Martin prompted.
  "It is just that I am special. I can do things that the others cannot."
  "Such as?"
  "Find your weak spot and influence events to exploit it, to—hasten
matters. To turn the possibility into a probability, and then—"
  "You are going to destroy us? Personally?"
    "That is the wrong way to look at it. It is more like a game of chess.
It is as much a matter of exploiting your opponent's weaknesses as of
exercising your own strengths. If you had not already laid the
groundwork I would be powerless. I can only influence that which
already exists."
  "So what will it be? World War III? An ecological disaster? A
mutated disease?"
   "I do not really know yet, so I wish you wouldn't ask me in that
fashion. I repeat that at the moment I am only observing. I am only an
agent—"
  "It doesn't sound that way to me."
  Tlingel was silent. Martin began gathering up the chessmen.
  "Aren't you going to set up the board again?"
  "To amuse my destroyer a little more? No thanks."
  "That's hardly the way to look at it—"
  "Besides, those are the last beers."
   "Oh," Tlingel stared wistfully at the vanishing pieces, then
remarked, "I would be willing to play you again without additional
refreshment…"
  "No thanks."
  "You are angry."
  "Wouldn't you be, if our situations were reversed?"
  "You are anthropomorphizing."
  "Well?"
  "Oh, I suppose I would."
  "You could give us a break, you know—at least, let us make our
own mistakes."
   "You've hardly done that yourself, though, with all the creatures my
fellows have succeeded."
  Martin reddened.
  "Okay. You just scored one. But I don't have to like it."
  "You are a good player. I know that…"
  "Tlingel, if I were capable of playing at my best again, I think I
could beat you."
  The unicorn snorted two tiny wisps of smoke.
  "Not that good," Tlingel said.
  "I guess you'll never know."
  "Do I detect a proposal?"
  "Possibly. What's another game worth to you?"
  Tlingel made a chuckling noise.
  "Let me guess: You are going to say that if you beat me you want
my promise not to lay my will upon the weakest link in mankind's
existence and shatter it."
  "Of course."'
  "And what do I get for winning?"
  "The pleasure of the game. That's what you want, isn't it?"
  "The terms sound a little lopsided."
  "Not if you are going to win anyway. You keep insisting that you
will."
  "All right. Set up the board."
  "There is something else that you have to know about me first."
  "Yes?"
   "I don't play well under pressure, and this game is going to be a
terrific strain. You want my best game, don't you?"
   "Yes, but I'm afraid I've no way of adjusting your own reactions to
the play."
   "I believe I could do that myself if I had more than the usual amount
of time between moves."
  "Agreed."
  "I mean a lot of time."
  "Just what do you have in mind?"
  "I'll need time to get my mind off it, to relax, to come back to the
positions as if they were only problems…"
  "You mean to go away from here between moves?"
  "Yes."
  "All right. How long?"
  "I don't know. A few weeks, maybe."
  "Take a month. Consult your experts, put your computers onto it. It
may make for a slightly more interesting game."
  "I really didn't have that in mind."
  "Then it's time that you're trying to buy."
  "I can't deny that. On the other hand, I will need it."
  "In that case, I have some terms. I'd like this place cleaned up, fixed
up, more lively. It's a mess. I also want beer on tap."
  "Okay. I'll see to that."
  "Then I agree. Let's see who goes first."
   Martin switched a black and a white pawn from hand to hand
beneath the table. He raised his fists then and extended them. Tlingel
leaned forward and tapped. The black horn's tip touched Martin's left
hand.
  "Well, it matches my sleek and glossy hide," the unicorn announced.
   Martin smiled, setting up the white for himself, the black pieces for
his opponent. As soon as he had finished, he pushed his Pawn to K4.
  Tlingel's delicate, ebon hoof moved to advance the Black King's
Pawn to K4.
  "I take it that you want a month now, to consider your next move?"
  Martin did not reply but moved his Knight to KB3. Tlingel
immediately moved a Knight to QB3.
  Martin took a swallow of beer and then moved his Bishop to N5.
The unicorn moved the other Knight to B3. Martin immediately castled
and Tlingel moved the Knight to take his Pawn.
   "I think we'll make it," Martin said suddenly, "if you'll just let us
alone. We do learn from our mistakes, in time."
  "Mythical beings do not exactly exist in time. Your world is a
special case."
  "Don't you people ever make mistakes?"
  "Whenever we do they're sort of poetic."
  Martin snarled and advanced his Pawn to Q4. Tlingel immediately
countered by moving the Knight to Q3.
   "I've got to stop," Martin said, standing. "I'm getting mad, and it will
affect my game."
  "You will be going, then?"
  "Yes."
  He moved to fetch his pack.
  "I will see you here in one month's time?"
  "Yes."
  "Very well."
   The unicorn rose and stamped upon the floor and lights began to
play across its dark coat. Suddenly, they blazed and shot outward in all
directions like a silent explosion. A wave of blackness followed.
   Martin found himself leaning against the wall, shaking. When he
lowered his hand from his eyes, he saw that he was alone, save for the
knights, the bishops, the kings, the queens, their castles and both the
kings' men.
  He went away.


  Three days later Martin returned in a small truck, with a generator,
lumber, windows, power tools, paint, stain, cleaning compounds, wax.
He dusted and vacuumed and replaced rotten wood. He installed the
windows. He polished the old brass until it shone. He stained and
rubbed. He waxed the floors and buffed them. He plugged holes and
washed glasses. He hauled all the trash away.
   It took him the better part of a week to turn the old place from a
wreck back into a saloon in appearance. Then he drove off, returned all
of the equipment he had rented and bought a ticket for the Northwest.
   The big, damp forest was another of his favorite places for hiking,
for thinking. And he was seeking a complete change of scene, a total
revision of outlook. Not that his next move did not seem obvious,
standard even. Yet, something nagged…
   He knew that it was more than just the game. Before that he had
been ready to get away again, to walk drowsing among shadows,
breathing clean air.
   Resting, his back against the bulging root of a giant tree, he
withdrew a small chess set from his pack, set it up on a rock he'd
moved into position nearby. A fine, mist-like rain was settling, but the
tree sheltered him, so far. He reconstructed the opening through
Tlingel's withdrawal of the Knight to Q3. The simplest thing would be
to take the Knight with the Bishop. But he did not move to do it.
   He watched the board for a time, felt his eyelids drooping, closed
them and drowsed. It may only have been for a few minutes. He was
never certain afterwards.
   Something aroused him. He did not know what. He blinked several
times and closed his eyes again. Then he reopened them hurriedly.
   In his nodded position, eyes directed downward, his gaze was fixed
upon an enormous pair of hairy, unshod feet—the largest pair of feet
that he had ever beheld. They stood unmoving before him, pointed
toward his right.
  Slowly—very slowly—he raised his eyes. Not very far, as it turned
out. The creature was only about four and a half feet in height. As it
was looking at the chessboard rather than at him, he took the
opportunity to study it.
    It was unclothed but very hairy, with a dark brown pelt, obviously
masculine, possessed of low brow ridges, deep-set eyes that matched
its hair, heavy shoulders, five-fingered hands that sported opposing
thumbs.
   It turned suddenly and regarded him, flashing a large number of
shining teeth.
  "White's pawn should take the pawn," it said in a soft, nasal voice.
  "Huh? Come on," Martin said. "Bishop takes knight."
  "You want to give me black and play it that way? I'll walk all over
you."
  Martin glanced again at its feet.
  "…Or give me white and let me take that pawn. I'll still do it."
  "Take white," Martin said, straightening. "Let's see if you know
what you're talking about." He reached for his pack. "Have a beer?"
  "What's a beer?"
  "A recreational aid. Wait a minute."
   Before they had finished the six-pack, the sasquatch—whose name,
he had learned, was Grend—had finished Martin. Grend had quickly
entered a ferocious mid-game, backed him into a position of dwindling
security and pushed him to the point where he had seen the end and
resigned.
  "That was one hell of a game," Martin declared, leaning back and
considering the ape-like countenance before him.
   "Yes, we Bigfeet are pretty good, if I do say it. It's our one big
recreation, and we're so damned primitive we don't have much in the
way of boards and chessmen. Most of the time, we just play it in our
heads. There're not many can come close to us."
  "How about unicorns?" Martin asked.
  Grend nodded slowly.
  "They're about the only ones can really give us a good game. A little
dainty, but they're subtle. Awfully sure of themselves, though, I must
say. Even when they're wrong. Haven't seen any since we left the
morning land, of course. Too bad. Got any more of that beer left?"
  "I'm afraid not. But listen, I'll be back this way in a month. I'll bring
some more if you'll meet me here and play again."
  "Martin, you've got a deal. Sorry. Didn't mean to step on your toes."


   He cleaned the saloon again and brought in a keg of beer which he
installed under the bar and packed with ice. He moved in some bar
stools, chairs and tables which he had obtained at a Goodwill store. He
hung red curtains. By then it was evening. He set up the board, ate a
light meal, unrolled his sleeping bag behind the bar and camped there
that night.
  The following day passed quickly. Since Tlingel might show up at
any time, he did not leave the vicinity, but took his meals there and sat
about working chess problems. When it began to grow dark, he lit a
number of oil lamps and candles.
  He looked at his watch with increasing frequency. He began to pace.
He couldn't have made a mistake. This was the proper day. He—
  He heard a chuckle.
   Turning about, he saw a black unicorn head floating in the air above
the chessboard. As he watched, the rest of Tlingel's body materialized.
   "Good evening, Martin." Tlingel turned away from the board. "The
place looks a little better. Could use some music…"
   Martin stepped behind the bar and switched on the transistor radio
he had brought along. The sounds of a string quartet filled the air.
Tlingel winced.
  "Hardly in keeping with the atmosphere of the place."
  He changed stations, located a Country & Western show.
  "I think not," Tlingel said. "It loses something in transmission."
  He turned it off.
  "Have we a good supply of beverage?"
   Martin drew a gallon stein of beer—the largest mug that he could
locate, from a novelty store—and set it upon the bar. He filled a much
smaller one for himself. He was determined to get the beast drunk if it
were at all possible.
   "Ah! Much better than those little cans," said Tlingel, whose muzzle
dipped for but a moment. "Very good."
  The mug was empty. Martin refilled it.
  "Will you move it to the table for me?"
  "Certainly."
  "Have an interesting month?"
  "I suppose I did."
  "You've decided upon your next move?"
  "Yes."
  "Then let's get on with it."
  Martin seated himself and captured the Pawn.
  "Hm. Interesting."
  Tlingel stared at the board for a long while, then raised a cloven
hoof which parted in reaching for the piece.
   "I'll just take that bishop with this little knight. Now I suppose you'll
be wanting another month to make up your mind what to do next."
  Tlingel leaned to the side and drained the mug.
  "Let me consider it," Martin said, "while I get you a refill."
  Martin sat and stared at the board through three more refills.
Actually, he was not planning. He was waiting. His response to Grend
had been Knight takes Bishop, and he had Grend's next move ready.
  "Well?" Tlingel finally said. "What do you think?"
  Martin took a small sip of beer.
  "Almost ready," he said. "You hold your beer awfully well."
  Tlingel laughed.
  "A unicorn's horn is a detoxicant. It's possession is a universal
remedy. I wait until I reach the warm glow stage, then I use my horn to
burn off any excess and keep me right there."
  "Oh," said Martin. "Neat trick, that."
  "…If you've had too much, just touch my horn for a moment and I'll
put you back in business."
   "No, thanks. That's all right. I'll just push this little pawn in front of
the queen's rook two steps ahead."
   "Really…" said Tlingel. "That's interesting. You know, what this
place really needs is a piano—rinkytink, funky… Think you could
manage it?"
  "I don't play."
  "Too bad."
  "I suppose I could hire a piano player."
  "No. I do not care to be seen by other humans."
  "If he's really good, I suppose he could play blindfolded."
  "Nevermind."
  "I'm sorry."
  "You are also ingenious. I am certain that you will figure something
out by next time."
  Martin nodded.
   "Also, didn't these old places used to have sawdust all over the
floors?"
  "I believe so."
  "That would be nice."
  "Check."
  Tlingel searched the board frantically for a moment.
  "Yes. I meant 'yes'. I said 'check'. It means 'yes' sometimes, too."
  "Oh. Rather. Well, while we're here…"
  Tlingel advanced the Pawn to Q3.
   Martin stared. That was not what Grend had done. For a moment, he
considered continuing on his own from here. He had tried to think of
Grend as a coach up until this point. He had forced away the notion of
crudely and crassly pitting one of them against the other. Until P-Q3.
Then he recalled the game he had lost to the sasquatch.
  "I'll draw the line here," he said, "and take my month."
  "All right. Let's have another drink before we say good night.
Okay?"
  "Sure. Why not?"
   They sat for a time and Tlingel told him of the morning land, of
primeval forests and rolling plains, of high craggy mountains and
purple seas, of magic and mythic beasts.
  Martin shook his head.
  "I can't quite see why you're so anxious to come here," he said,
"with a place like that to call home."
  Tlingel sighed.
  "I suppose you'd call it keeping up with the griffins. It's the thing to
do these days. Well. Till next month…"
  Tlingel rose and turned away.
  "I've got complete control now. Watch!"
  The unicorn form faded, jerked out of shape, grew white, faded
again, was gone, like an afterimage.
  Martin moved to the bar and drew himself another mug. It was a
shame to waste what was left. In the morning, he wished the unicorn
were there again. Or at least the horn.


  It was a gray day in the forest and he held an umbrella over the
chessboard upon the rock. The droplets fell from the leaves and made
dull, plopping noises as they struck the fabric. The board was set up
again through Tlingel's P-Q3. Martin wondered whether Grend had
remembered, had kept proper track of the days…
   "Hello," came the nasal voice from somewhere behind him and to
the left.
  He turned to see Grend moving about the tree, stepping over the
massive roots with massive feet.
  "You remembered." Grend said. "How good! I trust you also
remembered the beer?"
  "I've lugged up a whole case. We can set up the bar right here."
  "What's a bar?"
  "Well, it's a place where people go to drink—in out of the rain—a
bit dark, for atmosphere—and they sit up on stools before a big
counter, or else at little tables—and they talk to each other—and
sometimes there's music—and they drink."
  "We're going to have all that here?"
  "No. Just the dark and the drinks. Unless you count the rain as
music. I was speaking figuratively."
  "Oh. It does sound like a very good place to visit, though."
  "Yes. If you will hold this umbrella over the board, I'll set up the
best equivalent we can have here."
   "All right. Say, this looks like a version of that game we played last
time."
   "It is. I got to wondering what would happen if it had gone this way
rather than the way that it went."
  "Hmm. Let me see…"
  Martin removed four six-packs from his pack and opened the first.
  "Here you go."
  "Thanks."
 Grend accepted the beer, squatted, passed the umbrella back to
Martin.
  "I'm still white?"
  "Yeah."
  "Pawn to King six."
  "Really?"
  "Yep."
   "About the best thing for me to do would be to take this pawn with
this one."
  "'I'd say. Then I'll just knock off your knight with this one."
  "I guess I'll just pull this knight back to K2."
  "…And I'll take this one over to B3. May I have another beer?"
   An hour and a quarter later, Martin resigned. The rain had let up and
he had folded the umbrella.
  "Another game?" Grend asked.
  "Yes."
  The afternoon wore on. The pressure was off. This one was just for
fun. Martin tried wild combinations, seeing ahead with great clarity, as
he had that one day…
   "Stalemate," Grend announced much later. "That was a good one,
though. You picked up considerably."
  "I was more relaxed. Want another?"
  "Maybe in a little while. Tell me more about bars now."
  So he did. Finally, "How is all that beer affecting you?" he asked.
  "I'm a bit dizzy. But that's all right. I'll still cream you the third
game."
  And he did.
  "Not bad for a human, though. Not bad at all. You coming back next
month?"
  "Yes."
  "Good. You'll bring more beer?"
  "So long as my money holds out."
   "Oh. Bring some plaster of paris then. I'll make you some nice
footprints and you can take casts of them. I understand they're going
for quite a bit."
  "I'll remember that."
  Martin lurched to his feet and collected the chess set.
  "Till then."
  "Ciao."


   Martin dusted and polished again, moved in the player piano and
scattered sawdust upon the floor. He installed a fresh keg. He hung
some reproductions of period posters and some atrocious old paintings
he had located in a junk shop. He placed cuspidors in strategic
locations. When he was finished, he seated himself at the bar and
opened a bottle of mineral water. He listened to the New Mexico wind
moaning as it passed, to grains of sand striking against the
windowpanes. He wondered whether the whole world would have that
dry, mournful sound to it if Tlingel found a means for doing away with
humanity, or—disturbing thought—whether the successors to his own
kind might turn things into something resembling the mythical
morning land.
  This troubled him for a time. Then he went and set up the board
through Black's P-Q3. When he turned back to clear the bar he saw a
line of cloven hoofprints advancing across the sawdust.
  "Good evening, Tlingel," he said. "What is your pleasure?"
   Suddenly, the unicorn was there, without preliminary pyrotechnics.
It moved to the bar and placed one hoof upon the brass rail.
  "The usual."
  As Martin drew the beer, Tlingel looked about.
  "The place has improved, a bit."
  "Glad you think so. Would you care for some music?"
  "Yes."
  Martin fumbled at the back of the piano, locating the switch for the
small, battery-operated computer which controlled the pumping
mechanism and substituted its own memory for rolls. The keyboard
immediately came to life.
  "Very good," Tlingel stated. "Have you found your move?"
  "I have."
  "Then let us be about it."
   He refilled the unicorn's mug and moved it to the table, along with
his own.
  "Pawn to King six," he said, executing it.
  "What?"
  "Just that."
  "Give me a minute. I want to study this."
  "Take your time."
  "I'll take the pawn," Tlingel said, after a long pause and another
mug.
  "Then I'll take this knight."
  Later, "Knight to K2," Tlingel said.
  "Knight to B3."
  An extremely long pause ensued before Tlingel moved the Knight to
N3.
   The hell with asking Grend, Martin suddenly decided. He'd been
through this part any number of times already. He moved his Knight to
N5.
  "Change the tune on that thing!" Tlingel snapped.
  Martin rose and obliged.
  "I don't like that one either. Find a better one or shut it off!"
  After three more tries, Martin shut it off.
  "And get me another beer!"
  He refilled their mugs.
  "All right."
  Tlingel moved the Bishop to K2.
   Keeping the unicorn from castling had to be the most important
thing at the moment. So Martin moved his Queen to R5. Tlingel made
a tiny, strangling noise, and when Martin looked up smoke was curling
from the unicorn's nostrils.
  "More beer?"
  "If you please."
   As he returned with it, he saw Tlingel move the Bishop to capture
the Knight. There seemed no choice for him at that moment, but he
studied the position for a long while anyhow.
  Finally, "Bishop takes bishop," he said.
  "Of course."
  "How's the warm glow?"
  Tlingel chuckled.
  "You'll see."
  The wind rose again, began to howl. The building creaked.
  "Okay," Tlingel finally said, and moved the Queen to Q2.
   Martin stared. What was he doing? So far, it had gone all right,
but—He listened again to the wind and thought of the risk he was
taking.
  "That's all, folks," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Continued
next month."
  Tlingel sighed.
   "Don't run off. Fetch me another. Let me tell you of my wanderings
in your world this past month."
  "Looking for weak links?"
  "You're lousy with them. How do you stand it?"
  "They're harder to strengthen than you might think. Any advice?"
  "Get the beer."
   They talked until the sky paled in the east, and Martin found himself
taking surreptitious notes. His admiration for the unicorn's analytical
abilities increased as the evening advanced.
  When they finally rose, Tlingel staggered.
  "You all right?"
  "Forgot to detox, that's all. Just a second. Then I'll be fading."
  "Wait!"
  "Whazzat?"
  "I could use one, too."
  "Oh. Grab hold, then."
   Tlingel's head descended and Martin took the tip of the horn
between his fingertips. Immediately, a delicious, warm sensation
flowed through him. He closed his eyes to enjoy it. His head cleared.
An ache which had been growing within his frontal sinus vanished.
The tiredness went out of his muscles. He opened his eyes again.
  "Thank—"
  Tlingel had vanished. He held out a handful of air.
  "—you."
  "Rael here is my friend," Grend stated. "He's a griffin."
  "I'd noticed."
  Martin nodded at the beaked, golden-winged creature.
  "Pleased to meet you, Rael."
   "The same," cried the other in a high-pitched voice. "Have you got
the beer?"
  "Why—uh—yes."
  "I've been telling him about beer," Grend explained, half-
apologetically. "He can have some of mine. He won't kibitz or
anything like that."
  "Sure. All right. Any friend of yours…"
  "The beer!" Rael cried. "Bars!"
   "He's not real bright," Grend whispered. "But he's good company.
I'd appreciate your humoring him."
   Martin opened the first six-pack and passed the griffin and the
sasquatch a beer apiece. Rael immediately punctured the can with his
beak, chugged it, belched and held out his claw.
  "Beer!" he shrieked. "More beer!"
  Martin handed him another.
   "Say, you're still into that first game, aren't you?" Grend observed,
studying the board. "Now, that is an interesting position."
  Grend drank and studied the board.
  "Good thing it's not raining," Martin commented.
  "Oh, it will. Just wait a while."
  "More beer!" Rael screamed.
  Martin passed him another without looking.
  "I'll move my pawn to N6," Grend said.
  "You're kidding."
  "Nope. Then you'll take that pawn with your bishop's pawn. Right?"
  "Yes…"
  Martin reached out and did it.
  "Okay. Now I'll just swing this knight to Q5."
  Martin took it with the Pawn.
  Grend moved his Rook to Kl.
  "Check," he announced.
  "Yes. That is the way to go," Martin observed.
  Grend chuckled.
  "I'm going to win this game another time," he said.
  "I wouldn't put it past you."
  "More beer?" Rael said softly.
  "Sure."
   As Martin passed him another, he noticed that the griffin was now
leaning against the treetrunk.
  After several minutes, Martin pushed his King to Bl.
  "Yeah, that's what I thought you'd do," Grend said.
  "You know something?"
  "What?"
  "You play a lot like a unicorn."
  "Hm."
  Grend moved his Rook to R3.
   Later, as the rain descended gently about them and Grend beat him
again, Martin realized that a prolonged period of silence had prevailed.
He glanced over at the griffin. Rael had tucked his head beneath his
left wing, balanced upon one leg, leaned heavily against the tree and
gone to sleep.
  "I told you he wouldn't be much trouble," Grend remarked.
  Two games later, the beer was gone, the shadows were lengthening
and Rael was stirring.
  "See you next month?"
  "Yeah."
  "You bring any plaster of pads?"
  "Yes, I did."
  "Come on, then. I know a good place pretty far from here. We don't
want people beating about these bushes. Let's go make you some
money."
  "To buy beer?" Rael said, looking out from under his wing.
  "Next month," Grend said.
  "You ride?"
   "I don't think you could carry both of us," said Grend, "and I'm not
sure I'd want to right now if you could."
   "Bye-bye then," Rael shrieked, and he leaped into the air, crashing
into branches and treetrunks, finally breaking through the overhead
cover and vanishing.
   "There goes a really decent guy," said Grend. "He sees everything
and he never forgets. Knows how everything works—in the woods, in
the air—even in the water. Generous, too, whenever he has anything."
  "Hm," Martin observed.
  "Let's make tracks," Grend said.
  "Pawn to N6? Really?" Tlingel said. "All right. The Bishop's pawn
will just knock off the pawn."
  Tlingel's eyes narrowed as Martin moved the Knight to Q5.
   "At least this is an interesting game," the unicorn remarked. "Pawn
takes Knight."
  Martin moved the Rook.
  "Check."
   "Yes, it is. This next one is going to be a three flagon move. Kindly
bring me the first."
   Martin thought back as he watched Tlingel drink and ponder. He
almost felt guilty for hitting it with a powerhouse like the sasquatch
behind its back. He was convinced now that the unicorn was going to
lose. In every variation of this game that he'd played with Black
against Grend, he'd been beaten. Tlingel was very good, but the
sasquatch was a wizard with not much else to do but mental chess. It
was unfair. But it was not a matter of personal honor, he kept telling
himself. He was playing to protect his species against a supernatural
force which might well be able to precipitate World War III by some
arcane mind-manipulation or magically induced computer foulup. He
didn't dare give the creature a break.
  "Flagon number two, please."
   He brought it another. He studied it as it studied the board. It was
beautiful, he realized for the first time. It was the loveliest living thing
he had ever seen. Now that the pressure was on the verge of
evaporating and he could regard it without the overlay of fear which
had always been there in the past, he could pause to admire it. If
something had to succeed the human race, he could think of worse
choices…
  "Number three now."
  "Coming up."
  Tlingel drained it and moved the King to Bl.
  Martin leaned forward immediately and pushed the Rook to R3.
  Tlingel looked up, stared at him.
  "Not bad."
   Martin wanted to squirm. He was struck by the nobility of the
creature. He wanted so badly to play and beat the unicorn on his own,
fairly. Not this way.
  Tlingel looked back at the board, then almost carelessly moved the
Knight to K4.
  "Go ahead. Or will it take you another month?"
  Martin growled softly, advanced the Rook and captured the Knight.
  "Of course."
   Tlingel captured the Rook with the Pawn. This was not the way that
the last variation with Grend had run. Still…
  He moved his Rook to KB3. As he did, the wind seemed to
commence a peculiar shrieking, above, amid, the ruined buildings.
  "Check," he announced.
  The hell with it! he decided. I'm good enough to manage my own
endgame. Let's play this out.
  He watched and waited and finally saw Tlingel move the King to
Nl.
   He moved his Bishop to R6. Tlingel moved the Queen to K2. The
shrieking came again, sounding nearer now. Martin took the Pawn
with the Bishop.
  The unicorn's head came up and it seemed to listen for a moment.
Then Tlingel lowered it and captured the Bishop with the King.
  Martin moved his Rook to KN3.
  "Check."
  Tlingel returned the King to Bl.
  Martin moved the Rook to KB3.
  "Check."
  Tlingel pushed the King to N2.
  Martin moved the Rook back to KN3.
  "Check."
  Tlingel returned the King to Bl, looked up and stared at him,
showing teeth.
  "Looks as if we've got a drawn game," the unicorn stated. "Care for
another one?"
  "Yes, but not for the fate of humanity."
  "Forget it. I'd given up on that a long time ago. I decided that I
wouldn't care to live here after all. I'm a little more discriminating than
that.
   "Except for this bar." Tlingel turned away as another shriek sounded
just beyond the door, followed by strange voices. "What is that?"
   "I don't know," Martin answered, rising.
   The doors opened and a golden griffin entered.
   "Martin!" it cried. "Beer! Beer!"
   "Uh—Tlingel, this is Rael, and, and—"
   Three more griffins followed him in. Then came Grend, and three
others of his own kind.
   "—and that one's Grend," Martin said lamely. "I don't know the
others."
   They all halted when they beheld the unicorn.
   "Tlingel," one of the sasquatches said. "I thought you were still in
the morning land."
  "I still am, in a way. Martin, how is it that you are acquainted with
my former countrymen?"
   "Well—uh—Grend here is my chess coach."
   "Aha! I begin to understand."
   "I am not sure that you really do. But let me get everyone a drink
first."
   Martin turned on the piano and set everyone up.
  "How did you find this place?" he asked Grend as he was doing it.
"And how did you get here?"
   "Well…" Grend looked embarrassed. "Rael followed you back."
   "Followed a jet?"
   "Griffins are supernaturally fast."
   "Oh."
   "Anyway, he told his relatives and some of my folks about it. When
we saw that the griffins were determined to visit you, we decided that
we had better come along to keep them out of trouble. They brought
us."
   "I—see. Interesting…"
  "No wonder you played like a unicorn, that one game with all the
variations."
  "Uh—yes."
  Martin turned away, moved to the end of the bar.
   "Welcome, all of you," he said. "I have a small announcement.
Tlingel, awhile back you had a number of observations concerning
possible ecological and urban disasters and lesser dangers. Also, some
ideas as to possible safeguards against some of them."
  "I recall," said the unicorn.
   "I passed them along to a friend of mine in Washington who used to
be a member of my old chess club. I told him that the work was not
entirely my own."
  "I should hope so."
   "He has since suggested that I turn whatever group was involved
into a think tank. He will then see about paying something for its
efforts."
  "I didn't come here to save the world," Tlingel said.
   "No, but you've been very helpful. And Grend tells me that the
griffins, even if their vocabulary is a bit limited, know almost all that
there is to know about ecology."
  "That is probably true."
   "Since they have inherited a part of the Earth, it would be to their
benefit as well to help preserve the place. Inasmuch as this many of us
are already here, I can save myself some travel and suggest right now
that we find a meeting place—say here, once a month—and that you
let me have your unique viewpoints. You must know more about how
species become extinct than anyone else in the business."
   "Of course," said Grend, waving his mug, "but we really should ask
the yeti, also. I'll do it, if you'd like. Is that stuff coming out of the big
box music?"
  "Yes."
   "I like it. If we do this think tank thing, you'll make enough to keep
this place going?"
  "I'll buy the whole town."
  Grend conversed in quick gutturals with the griffins, who shrieked
back at him.
  "You've got a think tank," he said, "and they want more beer."
  Martin turned toward Tlingel.
  "They were your observations. What do you think?"
  "It may be amusing," said the unicorn, "to stop by occasionally."
Then, "So much for saving the world. Did you say you wanted another
game?"
  "I've nothing to lose."
   Grend took over the tending of the bar while Tlingel and Martin
returned to the table.
  He beat the unicorn in thirty-one moves and touched the extended
horn.
  The piano keys went up and down. Tiny sphinxes buzzed about the
bar, drinking the spillage.
           THE IMMORTAL GAME
                       Poul Anderson

   The first trumpet sounded far and clear and brazen cold, and Rogard
the Bishop stirred to wakefulness with it. Lifting his eyes, he looked
through the suddenly rustling, murmuring line of soldiers, out across
the broad plain of Cinnabar and the frontier, and over to the realm of
LEUKAS.
   Away there, across the somehow unreal red-and-black distances of
the steppe, he saw sunlight flash on armor and caught the remote wild
flutter of lifted banners. So it is war, he thought. So we must fight
again.
  Again? He pulled his mind from the frightening dimness of that
word. Had they ever fought before?
   On his left, Sir Ocher laughed aloud and clanged down the vizard on
his gay young face. It gave him a strange, inhuman look, he was
suddenly a featureless thing of shining metal and nodding plumes, and
the steel echoed in his voice: "Ha, a fight! Praise God, Bishop, for I
had begun to fear I would rust here forever."
   Slowly, Rogard's mind brought forth wonder. "Were you sitting and
thinking—before now?" he asked.
  "Why—" Sudden puzzlement in the reckless tones: "I think I was…
Was I?" Fear turning into defiance: "Who cares? I've got some
LEUKANS to kill!" Ocher reared in his horse till the great metallic
wings thundered.
   On Rogard's right, Flambard the King stood, tall in crown and robes.
He lifted an arm to shade his eyes against the blazing sunlight. "They
are sending DIOMES, the royal guardsman, first," he murmured. "A
good man." The coolness of his tone was not matched by the other
hand, its nervous plucking at his beard.
   Rogard turned back, facing over the lines of Cinnabar to the
frontier, DIOMES, the LEUKAN King's own soldier, was running.
The long spear flashed in his hand, his shield and helmet threw back
the relentless light in a furious dazzle, and Rogard thought he could
hear the clashing of iron. Then that noise was drowned in the trumpets
and drums and yells from the ranks of Cinnabar, and he had only his
eyes.
  DIOMES leaped two squares before coming to a halt on the frontier.
He stopped then, stamping and thrusting against the Barrier which
suddenly held him, and cried challenge. A muttering rose among the
cuirassed soldiers of Cinnabar, and spears lifted before the flowing
banners.
   King Flambard's voice was shrill as he leaned forward and touched
his own guardsman with his scepter. "Go, Carlon! Go to stop him!"
  "Aye, sire," Carlon's stocky form bowed, and then he wheeled about
and ran, holding his spear aloft, until he reached the frontier. Now he
and DIOMES stood face to face, snarling at each other across the
Barrier, and for a sick moment Rogard wondered what those two had
done, once in an evil and forgotten year, that there should be such hate
between them.
   "Let me go, sire!" Ocher's voice rang eerily from the slit-eyed mask
of his helmet. The winged horse stamped on the hard red ground, and
the long lance swept a flashing arc. "Let me go next."
  "No, no, Sir Ocher." It was a woman's voice. "Not yet. There'll be
enough for you and me to do, later in this day."
   Looking beyond Flambard, the Bishop saw his Queen, Evyan the
Fair, and there was something within him which stumbled and broke
into fire. Very tall and lovely was the gray-eyed Queen of Cinnabar,
where she stood in armor and looked out at the growing battle. Her
sun-browned young face was coifed in steel, but one rebellious lock
blew forth in the wind, and she brushed at it with a gauntleted hand
while the other drew her sword snaking from its sheath. "Now may
God strengthen our arms," she said, and her voice was low and sweet.
Rogard drew his cope tighter about him and turned his mitered head
away with a sigh. But there was a bitter envy in him for Columbard,
the Queen's Bishop of Cinnabar.
   Drums thumped from the LEUKAN ranks, and another soldier ran
forth. Rogard sucked his breath hissingly in, for this man came till he
stood on DIOMES' right. And the newcomer's face was sharp and pale
with fear. There was no Barrier between him and Carlon.
   "To his death," muttered Flambard between his teeth. "They sent
that fellow to his death."
  Carlon snarled and advanced on the LEUKAN. He had little
choice—if he waited, he would be slain, and his King had not
commanded him to wait. He leaped, his spear gleamed, and the
LEUKAN soldier toppled and lay emptily sprawled in the black
square.
   "First blood!" cried Evyan, lifting her sword and hurling sunbeams
from it. "First blood for us!"
  Aye, so, thought Rogard bleakly, But King MIKILLATI had a
reason for sacrificing that man. Maybe we should have let Carlon die.
Carlon the bold, Carlon the strong, Carlon the lover of laughter.
Maybe we should have let him die.
   And now the Barrier was down for Bishop ASATOR of LEUKAS
and he came gliding down the red squares, high and cold in his
glistening white robes, until he stood on the frontier. Rogard thought
he could see ASATOR's eyes as they swept over Cinnabar. The
LEUKAN Bishop was poised to rush in with his great mace should
Flambard, for safety, seek to change with Earl Ferric as the Law
permitted.
  Law?
   There was no time to wonder what the Law was, or why it must be
obeyed, or what had gone before this moment of battle. Queen Evyan
had turned and shouted to the soldier Raddic, guardsman of her own
Knight Sir Cupran: "Go! Halt him!" And Raddic cast her his own look
of love, and ran, ponderous in his mail, up to the frontier. There he and
ASATOR stood, no Barrier between them if either used a flanking
move.
   Good! Oh, good, my Queen! thought Rogard wildly. For even if
ASATOR did not withdraw, but slew Raddic, he would be in Raddic's
square, and his threat would be against a wall of spears. He will
retreat, he will retreat—
   Iron roared as ASATORs mace crashed through helm and skull and
felled Raddic the guardsman.
  Evyan screamed, once only. "And I sent him! I sent him!" Then she
began to run.
   "Lady!" Rogard hurled himself against the Barrier. He could not
move, he was chained here in his square, locked and barred by a Law
he did not understand, while his lady ran toward death. "O Evyan,
Evyan!"
   Straight as a flying javelin ran the Queen of Cinnabar. Turning,
straining after her, Rogard saw her leap the frontier and come to a halt
by the Barrier which marked the left-hand bound of the kingdoms,
beyond which lay only dimness to the frightful edge of the world.
There she wheeled to face the dismayed ranks of LEUKAS, and her
cry drifted back like the shriek of a stooping hawk: "MIKILLATI!
Defend yourself!"
   The thunder-crack of cheering from Cinnabar drowned all answer,
but Rogard saw, at the very limits of his sight, how hastily King
MIKILLATI stepped from the line of her attack, into the stronghold of
Bishop ASATOR. Now, thought Rogard fiercely, now the white-robed
ruler could never seek shelter from one of his Earls. Evyan had stolen
his greatest shield.
   "Hola, my Queen!" With a sob of laughter, Ocher struck spurs into
his horse. Wings threshed, blowing Rogard's cope about him, as the
Knight hurtled over the head of his own guardsman and came to rest
two squares in front of the Bishop. Rogard fought down his own anger;
he had wanted to be the one to follow Evyan. But Ocher was a better
choice.
  Oh, much better! Rogard gasped as his flittering eyes took in the
broad battlefield. In the next leap, Ocher could cut down DIOMES,
and then between them he and Evyan could trap MIKILLATI!
   Briefly, that puzzlement nagged at the Bishop. Why should men die
to catch someone else's King? What was there in the Law that said
Kings should strive for mastery of the world and—
   "Guard yourself, Queen!" Sir MERKON, King's Knight of
LEUKAS, sprang in a move like Ocher's. Rogard's breath rattled in his
throat with bitterness, and he thought there must be tears in Evyan's
bright eyes. Slowly, then, the Queen withdrew two squares along the
edge, until she stood in front of Earl Feme's guardsman. It was still a
good place to attack from, but not what the other had been.
   BO AN, guardsman of the LEUKAN Queen DOLORA, moved one
square forward, so that he protected great DIOMES from Ocher. Ocher
snarled and sprang in front of Evyan, so that he stood between her and
the frontier: clearing the way for her, and throwing his own protection
over Carlon.
   MERKON jumped likewise, landing to face Ocher with the frontier
between them. Rogard clenched his mace and vision blurred for him;
the LEUKANs were closing in on Evyan.
  "Ulfar!" cried the King's Bishop. "Ulfar, can you help her?"
  The stout old yeoman who was guardsman of the Queen's Bishop
nodded wordlessly and ran one square forward. His spear menaced
Bishop ASATOR, who growled at him—no Barrier between those two
now!
   MERKON of LEUKAS made another soaring leap, landing three
squares in front of Rogard. "Guard yourself!" the voice belled from his
faceless helmet. "Guard yourself, O Queen!"
  No time now to let Ulfar slay ASATOR. Evyan's great eyes looked
wildly about her; then, with swift decision, she stepped between
MERKON and Ocher. Oh, a lovely move! Out of the fury in his breast,
Rogard laughed.
   The guardsman of the LEUKAN King's Knight clanked two squares
ahead, lifting his spear against Ocher. It must have taken boldness thus
to stand before Evyan herself; but the Queen of Cinnabar saw that if
she cut him down, the Queen of LEUKAS could slay her. "Get free,
Ocher!" she cried. "Get away!" Ocher cursed and leaped from danger,
landing in front of Rogard's guardsman.
   The King's Bishop bit his lip and tried to halt the trembling in his
limbs. How the sun blazed! Its light was a cataract of dry white fire
over the barren red and black squares. It hung immobile, enormous in
the vague sky, and men gasped in their armor. The noise of bugles and
iron, hoofs and wings and stamping feet, was loud under the small
wind that blew across the world. There had never been anything but
this meaningless war, there would never be aught else, and when
Rogard tried to think beyond the moment when the fight had begun, or
the moment when it would end, there was only an abyss of darkness.
  Earl RAFAEON of LEUKAS took one ponderous step toward his
King, a towering figure of iron readying for combat. Evyan whooped.
"Ulfar!" she yelled. "Ulfar, your chance!"
   Columbard's guardsman laughed aloud. Raising his spear, he
stepped over into the square held by ASATOR. The white-robed
Bishop lifted his mace, futile and feeble, and then he rolled in the dust
at Ulfar's feet. The men of Cinnabar howled and clanged sword on
shield.
  Rogard held aloof from triumph, ASATOR, he thought grimly, had
been expendable anyway. King MIKILLATI had something else in
mind.
   It was like a blow when he saw Earl RAFAEON's guardsman run
forward two squares and shout to Evyan to guard herself. Raging, the
Queen of Cinnabar withdrew a square to her rearward. Rogard saw
sickly how unprotected King Flambard was now, the soldiers scattered
over the field and the hosts of LEUKAS marshaling. But Queen
DOLORA, he thought with a wild clutching of hope, Queen
DOLORA, her tall cold beauty was just as open to a strong attack.
   The soldier who had driven Evyan back took a leap across the
frontier.'' Guard yourself, O Queen!" he cried again. He was a small,
hard-bitten, unkempt warrior in dusty helm and corselet. Evyan cursed,
a bouncing soldierly oath, and moved one square forward to put a
Barrier between her and him. He grinned impudently in his beard.
   It is ill for us, it is a bootless and evil day. Rogard tried once more
to get out of his square and go to Evyan's aid, but his will would not
carry him. The Barrier held, invisible and uncrossable, and the Law
held, the cruel and senseless Law which said a man must stand by and
watch his lady be slain, and he railed at the bitterness of it and lapsed
into a gray waiting.
   Trumpets lifted brazen throats, drums boomed, and Queen
DOLORA of LEUKAS stalked forth into battle. She came high and
white and icily fair, her face chiseled and immobile in its haughtiness
under the crowned helmet, and stood two squares in front of her
husband, looming over Carlon. Behind her, her own Bishop SORKAS
poised in his stronghold, hefting his mace in armored hands. Carlon of
Cinnabar spat at DOLORA's feet, and she looked at him from cool
blue eyes and then looked away. The hot dry wind did not ruffle her
long pale hair; she was like a statue, standing there and waiting.
  "Ocher," said Evyan softly, "out of my way."
  "I like not retreat, my lady," he answered in a thin tone.
   "Nor I," said Evyan. "But I must have an escape route open. We will
fight again."
  Slowly, Ocher withdrew, back to his own home. Evyan chuckled
once, and a wry grin twisted her young face.
   Rogard was looking at her so tautly that he did not see what was
happening until a great shout of iron slammed his head around. Then
he saw Bishop SORKAS, standing in Carlon's square with a bloodied
mace in his hands, and Carlon lay dead at his feet.
   Carlon, your hands are empty, life has slipped from them and there
is an unending darkness risen in you who loved the world. Goodnight,
my Carlon, goodnight.
   "Madame—" Bishop SORKAS spoke quietly, bowing a little, and
there was a smile on his crafty face. "I regret, madame, that—ah—"
   "Yes. I must leave you." Evyan shook her head, as if she had been
struck, and moved a square backwards and sideways. Then, turning,
she threw the glance of an eagle down the black squares to LEUKAS'
Earl ARACLES. He looked away nervously, as if he would crouch
behind the three soldiers who warded him. Evyan drew a deep breath
sobbing into her lungs.
   Sir THEUTAS, DOLORA's Knight, sprang from his stronghold, to
place himself between Evyan and the Earl. Rogard wondered dully if
he meant to kill Ulfar the soldier; he could do it now. Ulfar looked at
the Knight who sat crouched, and hefted his spear and waited for his
own weird.
  "Rogard!"
  The Bishop leaped, and for a moment there was fire-streaked
darkness before his eyes.
  "Rogard, to me! To me, and help sweep them from the world!"
  Evyan's voice.
   She stood in her scarred and dinted armor, holding her sword aloft,
and on that smitten field she was laughing with a new-born hope.
Rogard could not shout his reply. There were no words. But he raised
his mace and ran.
   The black squares slid beneath his feet, footfalls pounding, jarring
his teeth, muscles stretching with a resurgent glory and all the world
singing. At the frontier, he stopped, knowing it was Evyan's will
though he could not have said how he knew. Then he faced about, and
with clearing eyes looked back over that field of iron and ruin. Save
for one soldier, Cinnabar was now cleared of LEUKAN forces, Evyan
was safe, a counterblow was readying like the first whistle of
hurricane. Before him were the proud banners of LEUKAS—now to
throw them into the dust! Now to ride with Evyan into the home of
MIKILLATI!
   "Go to it, sir," rumbled Ulfar, standing on the Bishop's right and
looking boldly at the white Knight who could slay him. "Give 'em hell
from us."
   Wings beat in the sky, and THEUTAS soared down to land on
Rogards' left. In the hot light, the blued metal of his armor was like
running water. His horse snorted, curveting and flapping its wings; he
sat it easily, the lance swaying in his grasp, the blank helmet turned to
Flambard. One more such leap, reckoned Rogard wildly, and he would
be able to assail the King of Cinnabar. Or—no—a single spring from
here and he would spit Evyan on his lance.
  And there is a Barrier between us!
  "Watch yourself, Queen!" The arrogant LEUKAN voice boomed
hollow out of the steel mask.
   "Indeed I will, Sir Knight!" There was only laughter in Evyan's
tone. Lightly, then, she sped up the row of black squares. She brushed
by Rogard, smiling at him as she ran, and he tried to smile back but his
face was stiffened. Evyan, Evyan, she was plunging alone into her
enemy's homeland!
   Iron belled and clamored. The white guardsman in her path toppled
and sank at her feet. One fist lifted strengthlessly, and a dying
shrillness was in the dust: "Curse you, curse you, MIKILLATI, curse
you for a stupid fool, leaving me here to be slain—no, no, no—"
   Evyan bestrode the body and laughed again in the very face of Earl
ARACLES. He cowered back, licking his lips—he could not move
against her, but she could annihilate him in one more step. Beside
Rogard, Ulfar whooped, and the trumpets of Cinnabar howled in the
rear.
    Now the great attack was launched! Rogard cast a fleeting glance at
Bishop SORKAS. The lean white-coped form was gliding forth, mace
swinging loose in one hand, and there was a little sleepy smile on the
pale face. No dismay—? SORKAS halted, facing Rogard, and smiled a
little wider, skinning his teeth without humor. "You can kill me if you
wish," he said softly. "But do you?"
  For a moment Rogard wavered. To smash that head—!
  "Rogard! Rogard, to me!"
   Evyan's cry jerked the King's Bishop around. He saw now what her
plan was, and it dazzled him so that he forgot all else, LEUKAS is
ours!
  Swiftly he ran. DIOMES and boan howled at him as he went
between them, brushing impotent spears against the Barriers. He
passed Queen DOLORA, and her lovely face was as if cast in steel,
and her eyes followed him as he charged over the plain of LEUKAS.
Then there was no time for thinking, Earl RAFAEON loomed before
him, and he jumped the last boundary into the enemy's heartland.
   The Earl lifted a meaningless ax. The Law read death for him, and
Rogard brushed aside the feeble stroke. The blow of his mace shocked
in his own body, slamming his jaws together, RAFAEON crumpled,
falling slowly, his armor loud as he struck the ground. Briefly, his
fingers clawed at the iron-hard black earth, and then he lay still.
  They have slain Raddic and Carlon—we have three guardsmen, a
Bishop, and an Earl—Now we need only be butchers! Evyan, Evyan,
warrior Queen, this is your victory!
   DIOMES of LEUKAS roared and jumped across the frontier. Futile,
futile, he was doomed to darkness. Evyan's lithe form moved up
against ARACLES, her sword flamed and the Earl crashed at her feet.
Her voice was another leaping brand: "Defend yourself, King!"
   Turning, Rogard grew aware that MIKILLATI himself had been
right beside him. There was a Barrier between the two men—but
MIKILLATI had to retreat from Evyan, and he took one step foreward
and sideways. Peering into his face, Rogard felt a sudden coldness.
There was no defeat there, it was craft and knowledge and an
unbending steel will—what was LEUKAS planning?
   Evyan tossed her head, and the wind fluttered the lock of hair like a
rebel banner. "We have them, Rogard!" she cried.
   Far and faint, through the noise and confusion of battle, Cinnabar's
bugles sounded the command of her King. Peering into the haze,
Rogard saw that Flambard was taking precautions. SirTHEUTAS was
still a menace, where he stood beside SORKAS. Sir Cupran of
Cinnabar flew heavily over to land in front of the Queen's Earl's
guardsman, covering the route THEUTAS must follow to endanger
Flambard.
  Wise, but—Rogard looked again at MIKILLATI's chill white face,
and it was as if a breath of cold blew through him. Suddenly he
wondered why they fought. For victory, yes, for mastery over the
world—but when the battle had been won, what then?
   He couldn't think past that moment. His mind recoiled in horror he
could not name. In that instant he knew icily that this was not the first
war in the world, there had been others before, and there would be
others again. Victory is death.
   But Evyan, glorious Evyan, she could not die. She would reign over
all the world and—
   Steel blazed in Cinnabar, MERKON of LEUKAS came surging
forth, one tigerish leap which brought him down on Ocher's
guardsman. The soldier screamed, once, as he fell under the trampling,
tearing hoofs, but it was lost in the shout of the LEUKAN Knight:
"Defend yourself, Flambard! Defend yourself!"
   Rogard gasped. It was like a blow in the belly. He had stood
triumphant over the world, and now all in one swoop it was brought
toppling about him. THEUTAS shook his lance, SORKAS his mace,
DIOMES raised a bull's bellow—somehow, incredibly somehow, the
warriors of LEUKAS had entered Cinnabar and were thundering at the
King's own citadel.
  "No, no—" Looking down the long empty row of squares, Rogard
saw that Evyan was weeping. He wanted to run to her, hold her close
and shield her against the falling world, but the Barriers were around
him. He could not stir from his square, he could only watch.
  Flambard cursed lividly and retreated into his Queen's home. His
men gave a shout and clashed their arms—there was still a chance!
  No, not while the Law bound men, thought Rogard, not while the
Barriers held. Victory was ashen, and victory and defeat alike were
darkness.
   Beyond her thinly smiling husband, Queen DOLORA swept
forward. Evyan cried out as the tall white woman halted before
Rogard's terrified guardsman, turned to face Flambard where he
crouched, and called to him: "Defend yourself, King!"
    "No—no—you fool!" Rogard reached out, trying to break the
Barrier, clawing at MIKILLATI. "Can't you see, none of us can win,
it's death for us all if the war ends. Call her back!" MIKILLATI
ignored him. He seemed to be waiting.
   And Ocher of Cinnabar raised a huge shout of laughter. It belled
over the plain, dancing joyous mirth, and men lifted weary heads and
turned to the young Knight where he sat in his own stronghold, for
there was youth and triumph and glory in his laughing. Swiftly, then, a
blur of steel, he sprang, and his winged horse rushed out of the sky on
DOLORA herself. She turned to meet him, lifting her sword, and he
knocked it from her hand and stabbed with his own lance. Slowly, too
haughty to scream, the white Queen sank under his horse's hoofs. And
MIKILLATI smiled.
    "I see," nodded the visitor. "Individual computers, each controlling
its own robot piece by a tight beam, and all the computers on a given
side linked to form a sort of group-mind constrained to obey the rules
of chess and make the best possible moves. Very nice. And it's a pretty
cute notion of yours, making the robots look like medieval armies." His
glance studied the tiny figures where they moved on the oversized
board under one glaring floodlight.
   "Oh, that's pure frippery," said the scientist. "This is really a serious
research project in multiple computer-linkages. By letting them play
game after game, I'm getting some valuable data."
   "It's a lovely set-up," said the visitor admiringly. "Do you realize
that in this particular contest the two sides are reproducing one of the
great classic games?"
  "Why, no. Is that a fact?"
   "Yes. It was a match between Anderssen and Kieseritsky, back in—I
forget the year, but it was quite some time ago. Chess books often refer
to it as the Immortal Game… So your computers must share many of
the properties of a human brain."
   "Well, they're complex things, all right," admitted the scientist. "Not
all their characteristics are known yet. Sometimes my chessmen
surprise even me."
   "Hm." The visitor stooped over the board. "Notice how they're
jumping around inside their squares, waving their arms, batting at
each other with their weapons?" He paused, then murmured slowly: "I
wonder—I wonder if your computers may not have consciousness. If
they might not have—minds."
  "Don't get fantastic," snorted the scientist.
   "But how do you know?" persisted the visitor. "Look, your feedback
arrangement is closely analogous to a human nervous system. How do
you know that your individual computers, even if they are constrained
by the group linkage, don't have individual personalities? How do you
know that their electronic senses don't interpret the game as, oh, as an
interplay of free will and necessity; how do you know they don't
receive the data of the moves as their own equivalent of blood, sweat,
and tears?" He shuddered a little.
  "Nonsense," grunted the scientist. "They're only robots. Now—Hey!
Look there! Look at that move!"


   Bishop SORKAS took one step ahead, into the black square
adjoining Flambard's. He bowed and smiled. "The war is ended," he
said.
   Slowly, very slowly, Flambard looked about him. SORKAS,
MERKON, THEUTAS, they were crouched to leap on him wherever
he turned; his own men raged helpless against the Barriers; there was
no place for him to go.
  He bowed his head. "I surrender." he whispered.
  Rogard looked across the red and black to Evyan. Their eyes met,
and they stretched out their arms to each other.
  "Checkmate," said the scientist. "That game's over."
  He crossed the room to the switchboard and turned off the
computers.
      MIDNIGHT BY THE MORPHY
              WATCH
                          Fritz Leiber

   Being World's Chess Champion (crowned or uncrowned), puts a
more deadly and maddening strain on a man even than being President
of the United States. We have a prime example enthroned right now.
For more than ten years the present champion was clearly the greatest
chess player in the world, but during that time he exhibited such willful
and seemingly self-destructive behavior—refusing to enter crucial
tournaments, quitting them for crankish reasons while holding a
commanding lead, entertaining what many called a paranoid delusion
that the whole world was plotting to keep him from reaching the top—
that many informed experts wrote him off as a contender for the
highest honors. Even his staunchest supporters experienced agonizing
doubts—until he finally silenced his foes and supremely satisfied his
friends by decisively winning the crucial and ultimate match on a
fantastic polar island.
   Even minor players bitten by the world's-championship bug—or the
fantasy of it—experience a bit of that terrible strain, occasionally in
very strange and even eerie fashion…


   Stirf Ritter-Rebil was indulging in one of his numerous creative
avocations—wandering at random through his beloved downtown San
Francisco with its sometimes dizzily slanting sidewalks, its elusive
narrow courts and alleys, and its kaleidescope of ever-changing store
and restaurant-fronts amongst the ones that persist as landmarks. To
divert his gaze there were interesting almond and black faces among
the paler ones. There was the dangerous surge of traffic threatening to
invade the humpy sidewalks.
   The sky was a careless silvery gray, like an expensive whore's mink
coat covering bizarre garb or nakedness. There were even wisps of fog,
that Bay Area benizon. There were bankers and hippies, con men and
corporation men, queers of all varieties, beggars and sports, murderers
and saints (at least in Ritter's freewheeling imagination). And there
were certainly alluring girls aplenty in an astounding variety of
packages—and pretty girls are the essential spice in any really tasty
ragout of people. In fact there may well have been Martians and time
travelers.
  Ritter's ramble had taken on an even more dreamlike, whimsical and
unpredictable quality than usual—with an unflagging anticipation of
mystery, surprise, and erotic or diamond-studded adventure around the
very next corner.
   He frequently thought of himself by his middle name, Ritter,
because he was a sporadically ardent chess player now in the midst of
a sporad. In German "Ritter" means "knight," yet Germans do not call
a knight a Ritter, but a springer, or jumper (for its crookedly hopping
move), a matter for inexhaustible philological, historical, and
socioracial speculation. Ritter was also a deeply devoted student of the
history of chess, both in its serious and anecdotal aspects.
   He was a tall, white-haired man, rather thin, saved from the look of
mere age by ravaged handsomeness, an altogether youthful though
worldly and sympathetically cynical curiosity in his gaze (when he
wasn't daydreaming), and a definitely though unobtrusively theatrical
carriage.
   He was more daydreamingly lost than usual on this particular
ramble, though vividly aware of all sorts of floating, freakish, beautiful
and grotesque novelties about him. Later he recollected that he must
have been fairly near Portsmouth Square and not terribly far from the
intersection of California and Montgomery. At all events, he was
fascinated looking into the display window of a secondhand store he'd
never recalled seeing before. It must be a new place, for he knew all
the stores in the area, yet it had the dust and dinginess of an old
place—its owner must have moved in without refurbishing the
premises or even cleaning them up. And it had a delightful range of
items for sale, from genuine antiques to mod facsimiles of same. He
noted in his first scanning glance, and with growing delight, a Civil
War saber, a standard promotional replica of the starship Enterprise, a
brand-new deck of tarots, an authentic shrunken head like a black
globule of detritus from a giant's nostril, Some fancy roach-clips, a
silver lusterware creamer, a Sony tape recorder, a last year's whiskey
jug in the form of a cable car, a scatter of Gene McCarthy and Nixon
buttons, a single brass Lucas "King of the Road" headlamp from a
Silver Ghost Rolls Royce, an electric toothbrush, a 1920's radio, a last
month's copy of the Phoenix, and three dime-a-dozen plastic chess sets.


   And then, suddenly, all these were wiped from his mind. Unnoticed
were the distant foghorns, the complaining prowl of slowed traffic, the
shards of human speech behind him mosaicked with the singsong
chatter of Chinatown, the reflection in the plate glass of a girl in a
grandmother dress selling flowers, and of opening umbrellas as drops
of rain began to sprinkle from the mist. For every atom of Stirf Ritter-
Rebil's awareness was burningly concentrated on a small figure
seeking anonymity among the randomly set-out chessmen of one of the
plastic sets. It was a squat, tarnished silver chess pawn in the form of a
barbarian warrior. Ritter knew it was a chess pawn—and what's more,
he knew to what fabulous historic set it belonged, because he had seen
one of its mates in a rare police photograph given him by a Portuguese
chess-playing acquaintance. He knew that he had quite without
warning arrived at a once-in-a-lifetime experience.
   Heart pounding but face a suave mask, he drifted into the store's
interior. In situations like this it was all-essential not to let the seller
know what you were interested in or even that you were interested at
all.
   The shadowy interior of the place lived up to its display window.
There was the same piquant clutter of dusty memorables and among
them several glass cases housing presumably choicer items, behind one
of which stood a gaunt yet stocky elderly man whom Ritter sensed was
the proprietor, but pretended not even to notice.
    But his mind was so concentrated on the tarnished silver pawn he
must possess that it was a stupefying surprise when his automatically
flitting gaze stopped at a second even greater once-in-a-lifetime item in
the glass case behind which the proprietor stood. It was a dingy, old-
fashioned gold pocket watch with the hours not in Roman numerals as
they should have been in so venerable a timepiece, but in the form of
dull gold and silver chess pieces as depicted in game-diagrams.
Attached to the watch by a bit of thread was a slim, hexagonal gold
key.
   Ritter's mind almost froze with excitement. Here was the big brother
of the skulking barbarian pawn. Here, its true value almost certainly
unknown to its owner, was one of the supreme rarities of the world of
chess-memorabilia. Here was no less than the gold watch Paul
Morphy, meteorically short-reigned King of American chess, had been
given by an adoring public in New York City on May 25, 1859, after
the triumphal tour of London and Paris which had proven him to be
perhaps the greatest chess genius of all time.
   Ritter veered as if by lazy chance toward the case, his eyes
resolutely fixed on a dull silver ankh at the opposite end from the chess
watch.
   He paused like a sleepwalker across from the proprietor after what
seemed like a suitable interval and—hoping the pounding of his heart
wasn't audible—made a desultory inquiry about the ankh. The
proprietor replied in as casual a fashion, though getting the item out for
his inspection.
   Ritter brooded over the silver love-cross for a bit, then shook his
head and idly asked about another item and still another, working his
insidious way toward the Morphy watch.
   The proprietor responded to his queries in a low, bored voice,
though in each case dutifully getting the item out to show Ritter. He
was a very old and completely bald man with a craggy Baltic cast to
his features. He vaguely reminded Ritter of someone.
   Finally Ritter was asking about an old silver railroad watch next to
the one he still refused to look at directly.
   Then he shifted to another old watch with a complicated face with
tiny windows showing the month and the phases of the moon, on the
other side of the one that was keeping his heart a-pound.
  His gambit worked. The proprietor at last dragged out the Morphy
watch, saying softly, "Here is an odd old piece that might interest you.
The case is solid gold. It threatens to catch your interest, does it not?"
   Ritter at last permitted himself a second devouring glance. It
confirmed the first. Beyond shadow of a doubt this was the genuine
relic that had haunted his thoughts for two thirds of a lifetime.
   WRat he said was "It's odd, all right. What are those funny little
figures it has in place of hours?"
  "Chessmen," the other explained. "See, that's a King at six o'clock, a
pawn at five, a Bishop at four, a Knight at three, a Rook at two, a
Queen at one, another King at midnight, and then repeat, eleven to
seven, around the dial."
  "Why midnight rather than noon?" Ritter asked stupidly. He knew
why.
  The proprietor's wrinkled fingernail indicated a small window just
above the center of the face. In it showed the letters P.M. "That's
another rare feature," he explained. "I've handled very few watches
that knew the difference between night and day."
  "Oh, and I suppose those squares on which the chessmen are placed
and which go around the dial in two and a half circles make a sort of
checkerboard?"
  "Chessboard," the other corrected. "Incidentally, there are exactly
64 squares, the right number."
  Ritter nodded. "I suppose you're asking a fortune for it," he
remarked, as if making conversation.
  The other shrugged. "Only a thousand dollars."
  Ritter's heart skipped a beat. He had more than ten times that in his
bank account. A trifle, considering the stake.
   But he bargained for the sake of appearances. At one point he
argued, "But the watch doesn't run, I suppose."
   "But it still has its hands," the old Bait with the hauntingly familiar
face countered. "And it still has its works, as you can tell by the
weight. They could be repaired, I imagine. A French movement. See,
there's the hexagonal winding-key still with it."
   A price of seven hundred dollars was finally agreed on. He paid out
the fifty dollars he always carried with him and wrote a check for the
remainder. After a call to his bank, it was accepted.
  The watch was packed in a small box in a nest of fluffy cotton.
Ritter put it in a pocket of his jacket and buttoned the flap.
   He felt dazed. The Morphy watch, the watch Paul Morphy had kept
his whole short life, despite his growing hatred of chess, the watch he
had willed to his French admirer and favorite opponent Jules Arnous
de Riviere, the watch that had then mysteriously disappeared, the
watch of watches—was his!
  He felt both weightless and dizzy as he moved toward the street,
which blurred a little.
   As he was leaving he noticed in the window something he'd
forgotten—he wrote a check for fifty dollars for the silver barbarian
pawn without bargaining.
   He was in the street, feeling glorious and very tired. Faces and
umbrellas were alike blurs. Rain pattered on his face unnoticed, but
there came a stab of anxiety.
  He held still and very carefully used his left hand to transfer the
heavy little box—and the pawn in a twist of paper—to his trouser
pocket, where he kept his left hand closed around them. Then he felt
secure.
  He flagged down a cab and gave his home address.
   The passing scene began to come unblurred. He recognized Rimini's
Italian Restaurant where his own chess game was now having a little
renaissance after five years of foregoing tournament chess because he
knew he was too old for it. A chess-smitten young cook there, indulged
by the owner, had organized a tourney. The entrants were mostly
young people. A tall, moody girl he thought of as the Czarina, who
played a remarkable game, and a likeable, loudmouthed young Jewish
lawyer he thought of as Rasputin, who played almost as good a game
and talked a better one, both stood out. On impulse Ritter had entered
the tournament because it was such a trifling one that it didn't really
break his rule against playing serious chess. And, his old skills
reviving nicely, he had done well enough to have a firm grip on third
place, right behind Rasputin and the Czarina.
  But now that he had the Morphy watch…
   Why the devil should he think that having the Morphy watch should
improve his chess game? he asked himself sharply. It was as silly as
faith in the power of the relics of saints.
    In his hand inside his left pocket the watch box vibrated eagerly, as
if it contained a big live insect, a golden bee or beetle. But that, of
course, was his imagination.
   Stirf Ritter-Rebil (a proper name, he always felt, for a chess player,
since they specialize in weird ones, from Euwe to Znosko-Borovsky,
from Noteboom to Dus-Chotimirski) lived in a one-room and bath, five
blocks west of Union Square and packed with files, books and also
paintings wherever the wall space allowed, of his dead wife and
parents, and of his son. Now that he was older, he liked living with
clues to all of his life in view. There was a fine view of the Pacific and
the Golden Gate and their fogs to the west, over a sea of roofs. On the
orderly cluttered tables were two fine chess sets with positions set up.
   Ritter cleared a space beside one of them and set in its center the
box and packet. After a brief pause—as if for propitiatory prayer, he
told himself sardonically—he gingerly took out the Morphy watch and
centered it for inspection with the unwrapped silver pawn behind it.
  Then, wiping and adjusting his glasses and from time to time
employing a large magnifying glass, he examined both treasures
exhaustively.
   The outer edge of the dial was circled with a ring or wheel of 24
squares, 12 pale and 12 dark alternating. On the pale squares were the
figures of chessmen indicating the hours, placed in the order the old
Bait had described. The Black pieces went from midnight to five and
were of silver set with tiny emeralds or bright jade, as his magnifying
glass confirmed. The White pieces went from six to eleven and were of
gold set with minute rubies or amethysts. He recalled that descriptions
of the watch always mentioned the figures as being colored.
  Inside that came a second circle of 24 pale and dark squares.
  Finally, inside that, there was a two-thirds circle of 16 squares
below the center of the dial.
  In the corresponding space above the center was the little window
showing PM.
  The hands on the dial were stopped at 11:57—three minutes to
midnight.
  With a paperknife he carefully pried open the hinged back of the
watch, on which were floridly engraved the initials PM—which he
suddenly realized also stood for Paul Morphy.
   On the inner golden back covering the works was engraved "France
H&H"—the old Bait was right again—while scratched in very tiny—
he used his magnifier once more—were a half dozen sets of numbers,
most of the sevens having the French slash. Pawnbrokers' marks. Had
Arnous de Riviere pawned the treasure? Or later European owners? Oh
well, chess players were an impecunious lot. There was also a hole by
which the watch could be wound with its hexagonal key. He carefully
wound it but of course nothing happened.
   He closed the back and brooded on the dial. The 64 squares—24
plus 24 plus 16—made a fantastic circular board. One of the many
variants of chess he had played once or twice was cylindrical.
   "Les echecs fantasques," he quoted. "It's a cynical madman's
allegory with its doddering monarch, vampire queen, gangster knights,
double-faced bishops, ramming rooks and inane pawns, whose
supreme ambition is to change their sex and share the dodderer's bed."
   With a sigh of regret he tore his gaze away from the watch and took
up the pawn behind it. Here was a grim little fighter, he thought,
bringing the tarnished silver figure close to his glasses. Naked long-
sword clasped against his chest, point down, iron skullcap low on
forehead, face merciless as Death's. What did the golden legionaires
look like?
   Then Ritter's expression grew grim too, as he decided to do
something he'd had in mind ever since glimpsing the barbarian pawn in
the window. Making a long arm, he slid out a file drawer and after
flipping a few tabs drew out a folder marked "Death of Alekhine." The
light was getting bad. He switched on a big desk lamp against the
night.
  Soon he was studying a singularly empty photograph. It was of an
unoccupied old armchair with a peg-in chess set open on one of the flat
wooden arms. Behind the chess set stood a tiny figure: Bringing the
magnifying glass once more into play, he confirmed what he had
expected: that it was a precise mate to the barbarian pawn he had
bought today.
  He glanced through another item from the folder—an old letter on
onionskin paper in a foreign script with cedillas under half the "C's"
and tildas over half the "A's."
   It was from his Portuguese friend, explaining that the photo was a
reproduction of one in the Lisbon police files.
  The photo was of the chair in which Alexander Alekhine had been
found dead of a heart attack on the top floor of a cheap Lisbon
rooming house in 1946.
   Alekhine had won the World's Chess Championship from
Capablanca in 1927. He had held the world's record for the greatest
number of games played simultaneously and blindfolded—32. In 1946
he was preparing for an official match with the Russian champion
Botvinnik, although he had played chess for the Axis in World War II.
Though at times close to psychosis, he was considered the profoundest
and most brilliant attacking player who had ever lived.
 Had he also, Ritter asked himself, been one of the players to own the
Morphy silver-and-gold chess set and the Morphy watch?
   He reached for another file folder labeled "Death of Steinitz." This
time he found a brownish daguerreotype showing an empty, narrow,
old-fashioned hospital bed with a chessboard and set on a small table
beside it. Among the chess pieces, Ritter's magnifier located another
one of the unmistakable barbarian pawns.
   Wilhelm Steinitz, called the Father of Modern Chess, who had held
the world's championship for 28 years, until his defeat by Emmanuel
Lasker in 1894. Steinitz, who had had two psychotic episodes and been
hospitalized for them in the last years of his life, during the second of
which he had believed he could move the chess pieces by electricity
and challenged God to a match, offering God the odds of Pawn and
Move. It was after the second episode that the daguerreotype had been
taken which Ritter had acquired many years ago from the aged
Emmanuel Lasker.
  Ritter leaned back wearily from the table, took off his glasses and
knuckled his tired eyes. It was later than he'd imagined.
   He thought about Paul Morphy retiring from chess at the age of 21
after beating every important player in the world and issuing a
challenge, never accepted, to take on any master at the odds of Pawn
and Move. After that contemptuous gesture in 1859 he had brooded for
25 years, mostly a recluse in his family home in New Orleans,
emerging only fastidiously dressed and be-caped for an afternoon
promenade and regular attendance at the opera. He suffered paranoid
episodes during which he believed his relatives were trying to steal his
fortune and, of all things, his clothes. And he never spoke of chess or
played it, except for an occasional game with his friend Maurian at the
odds of Knight and Move.
   Twenty-five years of brooding in solitude without the solace of
playing chess, but with the Morphy chess set and the Morphy watch in
the same room, testimonials to his world mastery.
   Ritter wondered if those circumstances—with Morphy constantly
thinking of chess, he felt sure—were not ideal for the transmission of
the vibrations of thought and feeling into inanimate objects, in this case
the golden Morphy set and watch.
   Material objects intangibly vibrating with 25 years of the greatest
chess thought and then by strange chance (chance alone?) falling into
the hands of two other periodically psychotic chess champions, as the
photographs of the pawns hinted.
  An absurd fancy, Ritter told himself. And yet one to the pursuit of
which he had devoted no small part of his life.
   And now the richly vibrant objects were in his hands. What would
be the effect of that on his game?
  But to speculate in that direction was doubly absurd.
  A wave of tiredness went through him. It was close to midnight.
  He heated a small supper for himself, consumed it, drew the heavy
window drapes tight, and undressed.
  He turned back the cover of the big couch next to the table, switched
off the light, and inserted himself into bed.
   It was Ritter's trick to put himself to sleep by playing through a
chess opening in his thoughts. Like any talented player, he could
readily contest one blindfold game, though he could not quite visualize
the entire board and often had to count moves square by square,
especially with the Bishops. He selected Breyer's Gambit, an old
favorite of his.
   He made a half dozen moves. Then suddenly the board was brightly
illuminated in his mind, as if a light had been turned on there. He had
to stare around to assure himself that the room was still dark as pitch.
There was only the bright board inside his head.
   His sense of awe was lost in luxuriant delight. He moved the mental
pieces rapidly, yet saw deep into the possibilities of each position.
   Far in the background he heard a church clock on Franklin boom out
the dozen strokes of midnight. After a short while he announced mate
in five by White. Black studied the position for perhaps a minute, then
resigned.
  Lying flat on his back he took several deep breaths. Never before
had he played such a brilliant blindfold game—or game with sight
even. That it was a game with himself didn't seem to matter—his
personality had split neatly into two players.
   He studied the final position for a last time, returned the pieces to
their starting positions in his head, and rested a bit before beginning
another game.
   It was then he heard the ticking, a nervous sound five times as fast
as the distant clock had knelled. He lifted his wristwatch to his ear.
Yes, it was ticking rapidly too, but this was another ticking, louder.
   He sat up silently in bed, leaned over the table, switched on the
light.


   The Morphy watch. That was where the louder ticks were coming
from. The hands stood at twelve ten and the small window showed
AM.
   For a long while he held that position—mute, motionless, aghast,
wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared
to dream before.
  Let's see, Edgar Allan Poe had died when Morphy was 12 years old
and beating his uncle, Ernest Morphy, then chess king of New Orleans.
  It seemed impossible that a stopped watch with works well over one
hundred years old should begin to run. Doubly impossible that it
should begin to run at approximately the right time—his wrist watch
and the Morphy watch were no more than a minute apart.
  Yet the works might be in better shape than either he or the old Bait
had guessed; watches did capriciously start and stop running.
Coincidences were only coincidences.
   Yet he felt profoundly uneasy. He pinched himself and went
through the other childish tests.
  He said aloud, "I am Stirf Ritter-Rebil, an old man who lives in San
Francisco and plays chess, and who yesterday discovered an unusual
curio. But really, everything is perfectly normal…"
   Nevertheless, he suddenly got the feeling of "A man-eating lion is
aprowl." It was the childish form terror still took for him on rare
occasions. For a minute or so everything seemed too still, despite the
ticking. The stirring of the heavy drapes at the window gave him a
shiver, and the walls seemed thin, their protective power nil.
   Gradually the sense of a killer lion moving outside them faded and
his nerves calmed.
   He switched off the light, the bright mental board returned, and the
ticking became reassuring rather than otherwise. He began another
game with himself, playing for Black the Classical Defense to the Ruy
Lopez, another of his favorites.
   This game proceeded as brilliantly and vividly as the first. There
was the sense of a slim, man-shaped glow standing beside the bright
board in the mental dark. After a while the shape grew amorphous and
less bright, then split into three. However, it bothered him little, and
when he at last announced mate in three for Black, he felt great
satisfaction and profound fatigue.
   Next day he was in exceptionally good spirits. Sunlight banished all
night's terrors as he went about his ordinary business and writing
chores. From time to time he reassured himself that he could still
visualize a mental chessboard very clearly, and he thought now and
again about the historical chess mystery he was in the midst of solving.
The ticking of the Morphy watch carried an exciting, eager note.
Toward the end of the afternoon he realized he was keenly anticipating
visiting Rimini's to show off his new-found skill.
 He got out an old gold watch chain and fob, snapped it to the
Morphy watch, which he carefully wound again, pocketed them
securely in his vest, and set out for Rimini's. It was a grand day—cool,
brightly sunlit and a little windy. His steps were brisk. He wasn't
thinking of all the strange happenings but of chess. It's been said that a
man can lose his wife one day and forget her that night, playing chess.
   Rimini's was a good, dark, garlic-smelling restaurant with an annex
devoted to drinks, substantial free pasta appetizers and, for the nonce,
chess. As he drifted into the long L-shaped room, Ritter became
pleasantly aware of the row of boards, chessmen, and the intent, mostly
young, faces bent above them.
   Then Rasputin was grinning at him calculatedly and yapping at him
cheerfully. They were due to play their tournament game. They
checked out a set and were soon at it. Beside them the Czarina also
contested a crucial game, her moody face askew almost as if her neck
were broken, her bent wrists near her chin, her long fingers pointing
rapidly at her pieces as she calculated combinations, like a sorceress
putting a spell on them.
  Ritter was aware of her, but only peripherally. For last night's bright
mental board had returned, only now it was superimposed on the actual
board before him. Complex combinations sprang to mind effortlessly.
He beat Rasputin like a child. The Czarina caught the win from the
corner of her eye and growled faintly in approval. She was winning her
own game; Ritter beating Rasputin bumped her into first place.
Rasputin was silent for once.
   A youngish man with a black mustache was sharply inspecting
Ritter's win. He was the California state champion, Martinez, who had
recently played a simultaneous at Rimini's, winning fifteen games,
losing none, drawing only with the Czarina. He now suggested a casual
game to Ritter, who nodded somewhat abstractedly.
   They contested two very hairy games—a Sicilian Defense by
Martinez in which Ritter advanced all his pawns in front of his castled
King in a wild-looking attack, and a Ruy Lopez by Martinez that Ritter
answered with the Classical Defense, going to great lengths to preserve
his powerful King's Bishop. The mental board stayed superimposed,
and it almost seemed to Ritter that there was a small faint halo over the
piece he must next move or capture. To his mild astonishment he won
both games.
   A small group of chess-playing onlookers had gathered around their
board. Martinez was looking at him speculatively, as if to ask, "Now
just where did you spring from, old man, with your power game? I
don't recall ever hearing of you."
   Ritter's contentment would have been complete, except that among
the kibitzers, toward the back, there was a slim young man whose face
was always shadowed when Ritter glimpsed it. Ritter saw him in three
different places, though never in movement and never for more than an
instant. Somehow he seemed one onlooker too many. This disturbed
Ritter obscurely, and his face had a thoughtful, abstracted expression
when he finally quit Rimini's for the faintly drizzling evening streets.
After a block he looked around, but so far as he could tell, he wasn't
being followed. This time he walked the whole way to his apartment,
passing several landmarks of Dashiell Hammett, Sam Spade, and The
Maltese Falcon.
   Gradually, under the benizon of the foggy droplets, his mood
changed to one of exaltation. He had just now played some beautiful
chess, he was in the midst of an amazing historic chess mystery he'd
always yearned to penetrate, and somehow the Morphy watch was
working for him—he could actually hear its muffled ticking in the
street, coming up from his waist to his ear.
   Tonight his room was a most welcome retreat, his place, like an
extension of his mind. He fed himself. Then he reviewed, with a
Sherlock Holmes smile, what he found himself calling "The Curious
Case of the, Morphy Timepiece." He wished he had a Dr. Watson to
hear him expound. First, the appearance of the watch after Morphy
returned to New York on the Persia in 1859. Over paranoid years
Morphy had imbued it with psychic energy and vast chessic wisdom.
Or else—mark this, Doctor—he had set up the conditions whereby
subsequent owners of the watch would think he had done such, for the
supernatural is not our bailiwick, Watson. Next (after de Riviere) great
Steinitz had come into possession of it and challenged God and died
mad.
   Then, after a gap, paranoid Alekhine had owned it and devised
diabolically brilliant, hyper-Morphian strategies of attack, and died all
alone after a thousand treacheries in a miserable Lisbon flat with a peg-
in chess set and the telltale barbarian pawn next to his corpse. Finally
after a haitus of almost thirty years (where had the watch and set been
then? Who'd had their custody? Who was the old Bait?) the timepiece
and a pawn had come into his own possession. A unique case, Doctor.
There isn't even a parallel in Prague in 1863.
   The nighted fog pressed against the windowpane and now and again
a little rain pattered. San Francisco was a London City and had its own
resident great detective. One of Dashiell Hammett's hobbies had been
chess, even though there was no record of Spade having played the
game.
   From time to time Ritter studied the Morphy watch as it glowed and
ticked on the table space he'd cleared. PM once more, he noted. The
time: White Queen, ruby glittering, past Black King, microscopically
emerald studded—I mean five minutes past midnight, Doctor. The
witching hour, as the superstitiously-minded would have it.
  But to bed, to bed, Watson. We have much to do tomorrow—and,
paradoxically, tonight.
   Seriously, Ritter was glad when the golden glow winked out on the
watch face, though the strident ticking kept on, and he wriggled
himself into his couch-bed and arranged himself for thought. The
mental board flashed on once more and he began to play. First he
reviewed all the best games he'd ever played in his life—there weren't
very many—discovering variations he'd never dreamed of before. Then
he played through all his favorite games in the history of chess, from
MacDonnell-La Bourdonnais to Fischer-Spasski, not forgetting
Steinitz-Zukertort and Alekhine-Bogolyubov. They were richer
masterpieces than ever before—the mental board saw very deep.
Finally he split his mind again and challenged himself to an eight-game
blindfold match, Black against White. Against all expectation, Black
won with three wins, two losses, and three draws.
   But the night was not all imaginative and ratiocinative delight.
Twice there came periods of eerie silence, which the ticking of the
watch in the dark made only more complete, and two spells of the
man-eating lion a-prowl that raised his hair at the roots. Once again
there loomed the slim, faint, man-shaped glow beside the mental board
and he wouldn't go away. Worse, he was joined by two other man-
shaped glows, one short and stocky, with a limp, the other fairly tall,
stocky too, and restless. These inner intruders bothered Ritter
increasingly—who were they? And wasn't there beginning to be a faint
fourth? He recalled the slim young elusive watcher with shadowed face
of his games with Martinez and wondered if there was a connection.
   Disturbing stuff—and most disturbing of all, the apprehension that
his mind might be racked apart and fragmented abroad with all its
machine-gun thinking, that it already extended by chessic veins from
one chess-playing planet to another, to the ends of the universe.
   He was profoundly glad when toward the end of his self-match, his
brain began to dull and slow. His last memory was of an attempt to
invent a game to be played on the circular board on the watch dial. He
thought he was succeeding as his mind at last went spiraling off into
unconsciousness.
   Next day he awoke restless, scratchy, and eager—and with the
feeling that the three or four dim figures had stood around his couch all
night vibrating like strobe lights to the rhythm of the Morphy watch.
  Coffee heightened his alert nervousness. He rapidly dressed,
snapped the Morphy watch to its chain and fob, pocketed the silver
pawn, and went out to hunt down the store where he'd purchased the
two items.
   In a sense he never found it, though he tramped and minutely
scanned Montgomery, Kearny, Grant, Stockton, Clay, Sacramento,
California, Pine, Bush, and all the rest.
  What he did find at long last was a store window with a grotesque
pattern of dust on it that he was certain was identical with that on the
window through which he had first glimpsed the barbarian Pawn day
before yesterday.
  Only now the display space behind the window was empty and the
whole store too, except for a tall, lanky Black with a fabulous Afro
hair-do, sweeping up.
   Ritter struck up a conversation with the man as he worked, and
slowly winning his confidence, discovered that he was one of three
partners opening a store there that would be stocked solely with
African imports.
   Finally, after the Black had fetched a great steaming pail of soapy
water and a long-handled roller mop and begun to efface forever the
map of dust by which Ritter had identified the place, the man at last
grew confidential.
   "Yeah," he said, "there was a queer old character had a second-hand
store here until yesterday that had every crazy thing you could dig for
sale, some junk, some real fancy. Then he cleared everything out into
two big trucks in a great rush, with me breathing down his neck every
minute because he'd been supposed to do it the day before.
   "Oh, but he was a fabulous cat, though," the Black went on with a
reminiscent grin as he sloshed away the last peninsulas and
archipelagos of the dust map. "One time he said to me. 'Excuse me
while I rest,' and—you're not going to believe this—he went into a
corner and stood on his head. I'm telling you he did, man. I'd like to
bust a gut. I thought he'd have a stroke—and he did get a bit lavender
in the face—but after three minutes exact—I timed him—he flipped
back onto his feet neat as you could ask and went on with his work
twice as fast as before, supervising his carriers out of their skulls.
Wow, that was an event."
  Ritter departed without comment. He had got the final clue he'd
been seeking to the identity of the old Bait and likewise the fourth and
most shadowy form that had begun to haunt his mental chessboard.
   Casually standing on his head, saying "It threatens to catch your
interest"—why, it had to be Aaron Nimzovich, most hyper-eccentric
player of them all and Father of Hypermodern Chess, who had been
Alekhine's most dangerous but ever-evaded challenger. Why, the old
Bait had even looked exactly like an aged Nimzovich—hence Ritter's
constant sense of a facial familiarity. Of course, Nimzovich had
supposedly died in the 1930's in his home city of Riga in the U.S.S.R.,
but what were life and breath to the forces with which Ritter was now
embroiled?
   It seemed to him that there were four dim figures stalking him
relentlessly as lions right now in the Chinatown crowds, while despite
the noise he could hear and feel the ticking of the Morphy watch at his
waist.
   He fled to the Danish Kitchen at the St. Francis Hotel and consumed
cup on cup of good coffee and two orders of Eggs Benedict, and had
his mental chessboard flashing on and off in his mind like a strobe
light, and wondered if he shouldn't hurl the Morphy watch into the Bay
to be rid of the influence racking his mind apart and destroying his
sense of reality.
   But then with the approach of evening, the urge toward chess
gripped him more and more imperiously and he headed once again for
Rimini's.
   Rasputin and the Czarina were there and also Martinez again, and
with the last a distinguished silver-haired man whom Martinez
introduced as the South American international master, Pontebello,
suggesting that he and Ritter have a quick game.
  The board glowed again with the superimposed mental one, the
halos were there once more, and Ritter won as if against a tyro.
   At that, chess fever seized him entirely and he suggested he
immediately play four simultaneous blindfold games with the two
masters and the Czarina and Rasputin, Pontebello acting also as
referee.
  There were incredulous looks aplenty at that, but he had won those
two games from Martinez and now the one from Pontebello, so
arrangements were quickly made. Ritter insisting on an actual
blindfold. All the other players crowded around to observe.
    The simul began. There were now four mental boards glowing in
Ritter's mind. It did not matter—now—that there were four dim forms
with them, one by each. Ritter played with a practiced brilliance,
combinations bubbled, he called out his moves crisply and unerringly.
And so he beat the Czarina and Rasputin quickly. Pontebello took a
little longer, and he drew with Martinez by perpetual check.
   There was silence as he took off the blindfold to scan a circle of
astonished faces and four shadowed ones behind them. He felt the joy
of absolute chess mastery. The only sound he heard was the ticking,
thunderous to him, of the Morphy watch.
   Pontebello was first to speak. To Ritter, "Do you realize, master,
what you've just done?" To Martinez, "Have you the scores of all four
games?" To Ritter again, "Excuse me, but you look pale, as if you've
just seen a ghost."
  "Four," Ritter corrected quietly. "Those of Morphy, Steinitz,
Alekhine, and Nimzovich."
   "Under the circumstances, most appropriate," commented
Pontebello, while Ritter sought out again the four shadowed faces in
the background. They were still there, though they had shifted their
positions and withdrawn a little into the varied darknesses of Rimini's.
   Amid talk of scheduling another blindfold exhibition and writing a
multiple-signed letter describing tonight's simul to the U.S. Chess
Federation—not to mention Pontebello's searching queries as to
Ritter's chess career—he tore himself away and made for home
through the dark streets, certain that four shadowy figures stalked
behind him. The call of the mental chess in his own room was not to be
denied.
   Ritter forgot no moment of that night, for he did not sleep at all. The
glowing board in his mind was an unquenchable beacon, and all-
demanding mandala. He replayed all the important games of history,
finding new moves. He contested two matches with himself, then one
each with Morphy, Steinitz, Alekhine and Nimzovich, winning the first
two, drawing the third, and losing the last by a half point. Nimzovich
was the only one to speak, saying, "I am both dead and alive, as I'm
sure you know. Please don't smoke, or threaten to."
  He stacked eight mental boards and played two games of three-
dimensional chess. Black winning both. He traveled to the ends of the
universe, finding chess everywhere he went, and contesting a long
game, more complex than 3-D chess, on which the fate of the universe
depended. He drew it.
   And all through the long night the four were with him in the room
and the man-eating lion stared in through the window with black-and-
white checkered mask and silver mane. While the Morphy watch
ticked like a death-march drum. All figures vanished when the dawn
came creeping, though the mental board stayed bright and busy into
full daylight and shqwed no signs of vanishing ever. Ritter felt
overpoweringly tired, his mind racked to atoms, on the verge of death.
    But he knew what he had to do. He got a small box and packed into
it, in cotton wool, the silver barbarian Pawn, the old photograph and
daguerrotype, and a piece of paper on which he scribbled only:
  Morphy, 1859-1884
  de Riviere, 1884-?
  Steinitz, 7-1900
  Alekhine, 7-1946
  Nimzovich, 1946-now
  Ritter-Rebil, 3 days
  Then he packed the watch in the box too, it stopped ticking, its
hands were still at last, and in Ritter's mind the mental board winked
out.
  He took one last devouring gaze at the grotesque, glittering dial.
Then he shut the box, wrapped and sealed and corded it, boldly wrote
on it in black ink "Chess Champion of the World" and added the
proper address.
   He took it to the post office on Van Ness and sent it off by
registered mail. Then he went home and slept like the dead.


   Ritter never received a response. But he never got the box back
either. Sometimes he wonders if the subsequent strange events in the
Champion's life might have had anything to do with the gift.
   And on even rarer occasions he wonders what would have happened
if he had faced the challenge of death and let his mind be racked to
bits, if that was what was to happen.
   But on the whole he is content. Questions from Martinez and the
others he has put off with purposefully vague remarks.
   He still plays chess at Rimini's. Once he won another game from
Martinez, when the latter was contesting a simul against twenty-three
players.
            UNSOUND VARIATIONS
                    George R.R. Martin
   After they swung off the Interstate, the road became a narrow two-
lane that wound a tortuous path through the mountains in a series of
switchbacks, each steeper than the last. Peaks rose all around them,
pine-covered and crowned by snow and ice, while swift cold waterfalls
flashed by, barely seen, on either side. The sky was a bright and
brilliant blue. It was exhilarating scenery, but it did nothing to lighten
Peter's mood. He concentrated blindly on the road, losing himself in
the mindless reflexes of driving.
   As the mountains grew higher, the radio reception grew poorer,
stations fading in and out with every twist in the road, until at last they
could get nothing at all. Kathy went from one end of the band to the
other, searching, and then back again. Finally she snapped off the radio
in disgust. "I guess you'll just have to talk to me," she said.
   Peter didn't need to look at her to hear the sharpness in her tone, the
bitter edge of sarcasm that had long ago replaced fondness in her
voice. She was looking for an argument, he knew. She was angry about
the radio, and she resented him dragging her on this trip, and most of
all she resented being married to him. At times, when he was feeling
very sorry for himself, he did not even blame her. He had not turned
out to be much of a bargain as a husband; a failed writer, failed
journalist, failing businessman, depressed and depressing. He was still
a lively sparring partner, however. Perhaps that was why she tried to
provoke fights so often. After all the blood had been let, one or both of
them would start crying, and then they would usually make love, and
life would be pleasant for an hour or two. It was about all they had left.
   Not today, though. Peter lacked the energy, and his mind was on
other things. "What do you want to talk about?" he asked her. He kept
his tone amicable and his eyes on the road.
  "Tell me about these clowns we're going to visit," she said.
  "I did. They were my teammates on the chess team, back when I
was at Northwestern."
  "Since when is chess a team sport anyway?" Kathy said. "What'd
you do, vote on each move?"
  "No. In chess, a team match is really a bunch of individual matches.
Usually four or five boards, at least in college play. There's no
consultation or anything. The team that wins the most individual games
wins the match point. The way it works—"
   "I get it," she said sharply. "I may not be a chessplayer, but I'm not
stupid. So you and these other three were the Northwestern team?"
   "Yes and no," Peter said. The Toyota was straining: it wasn't used to
grades this steep, and it hadn't been adjusted for altitude before they
took off from Chicago. He drove carefully. They were up high enough
now to come across icy patches, and snow drifting across the road.
  "Yes and no," Kathy said sarcastically. "What does that mean?"
   "Northwestern had a big chess club back then. We played in a lot of
tournaments—local, state, national. Sometimes we fielded more than
one team, so the line-up was a bit different every tournament. It
depended on who could play and who couldn't, who had a midterm,
who'd played in the last match—lots of things. We four were
Northwestern's B team in the North American Intercollegiate Team
Championships, ten years ago this week. Northwestern hosted that
tournament, and I ran it, as well as playing."
  "What do you mean B team?"
   Peter cleared his throat and eased the Toyota around a sharp curve,
gravel rattling against the underside of the car as one wheel brushed
the shoulder. "A school wasn't limited to just one team," he said. "If
you had the money and a lot of people who wanted to play, you could
enter several. Your best four players would make up your A team, the
real contender. The second four would be the B team, and so on." He
paused briefly, and continued with a faint note of pride in his voice.
"The nationals at Northwestern were the biggest ever held, up to that
time, although of course that record has since been broken. We set a
second record, though, that still stands. Since the tournament was on
our home grounds, we had lots of players on hand. We entered six
teams. No other school has ever had more than four in the nationals,
before or after." The record still brought a smile to his face. Maybe it
wasn't much of a record, but it was the only one he had, and it was his.
Some people lived and died without ever setting a record of any kind,
he reflected silently. Maybe he ought to tell Kathy to put his on his
tombstone: HERE LIES PETER K. NORTEN. HE FIELDED SIX
TEAMS. He chuckled.
  "What's so funny?"
  "Nothing."
  She didn't pursue it. "So you ran this tournament, you say?"
   "I was the club president and the chairman of the local committee. I
didn't direct, but I put together the bid that brought the nationals to
Evanston, made all the preliminary arrangements. And I organized all
six of our teams, decided who would play on each one, appointed the
team captains. But during the tournament itself I was only the captain
of the B team."
   She laughed. "So you were a big deal on the second-string. It
figures. The story of our life."
   Peter bit back a sharp reply, and said nothing. The Toyota swerved
around another hairpin, and a vast Colorado mountain panorama
opened up in front of them. It left him strangely unmoved.
  After a while Kathy said, "When did you stop playing chess?"
   "I sort of gave it up after college. Not a conscious decision, really. I
just kind of drifted out of it. I haven't played a game of tournament
chess in almost nine years. I'm probably pretty rusty by now. But back
then I was fairly good."
  "How good is fairly good?"
  "I was rated as a Class A player, like everyone else on our B team."
  "What does that mean?"
   "It means my USCF rating was substantially higher than that of the
vast majority of tournament chess players in the country," he said.
"And the tournament players are generally much better than the
unrated woodpushers you encounter in bars and coffee houses. The
ratings went all the way down to Class E. Above Class A you had
Experts, and Masters, and Senior Masters at the top, but there weren't
many of them."
  "Three classes above you?"
  "Yes."
   "So you might say, at your very best, you were a fourth-class chess
player."
   At that Peter did look over at her. She was leaning back in her seat,
a faint smirk on her face. "Bitch," he said. He was suddenly angry.
  "Keep your eyes on the road!" Kathy snapped.
   He wrenched the car around the next turn hard as he could, and
pressed down on the gas. She hated it when he drove fast. "I don't
know why the hell I try to talk to you," he said.
   "My husband, the big deal," she said. She laughed. ''A fourth-class
chess player playing on the junior varsity team. And a fifth-rate driver,
too."
   "Shut up," Peter said furiously. "You don't know what the hell
you're talking about. Maybe we were only the B team, but we were
good. We finished better than anyone had any right to expect, only a
half-point behind Northwestern A. And we almost scored one of the
biggest upsets in history."
  "Do tell."
  Peter hesitated, already regretting his words. The memory was
important to him, almost as important as his silly little record. He knew
what it meant, how close they had come. But she'd never understand, it
would only be another failure for her to laugh at. He should never have
mentioned it.
  "Well?" she prodded. "What about this great upset, dear? Tell me."
  It was too late, Peter realized. She'd never let him drop it now. She'd
needle him and needle him until he told her. He sighed and said, "It
was ten years ago this week. The nationals were always held between
Christmas and New Year's, when everyone was on break. An eight-
round team tournament, two rounds a day. All of our teams did
moderately well. Our A team finished seventh overall."
  "You were on the B team, sweetie."
   Peter grimaced. "Yes. And we were doing best of all, up to a point.
Scored a couple nice upsets late in the tournament. It put us in a
strange position. Going into the last round, the University of Chicago
was in first place, alone, with a 6-1 match record. They'd beaten our
team, among their other victims, and they were defending national
champions. Behind them were three other schools at 5 1/2-1 1/2.
Berkeley, the University of Massachusetts, and—I don't know,
someone else, it doesn't matter. What mattered was that all three of
those teams had already played U of C. Then you had a whole bunch
of teams at 5-2, including both Northwestern A and B. One of the 5-2
teams had to be paired up against Chicago in the final round. By some
freak, it turned out to be us. Everyone thought that cinched the
tournament for them.
  "It was really a mismatch. They were the defending champions, and
they had an awesome team. Three Masters and an Expert, if I recall.
They outrated us by hundreds of points on every board. It should have
been easy. It wasn't.
   "'It was never easy between U. of C. and Northwestern. All through
my college years, we were the two big midwestern chess powers, and
we were arch-rivals. The Chicago captain, Hal Winslow, became a
good friend of mine, but I gave him a lot of headaches. Chicago always
had a stronger team than we did, but we gave them fits nonetheless.
We met in the Chicago Intercollegiate League, in state tournaments, in
regional tournaments, and several times in the nationals. Chicago won
most of those, but not all. We took the city championship away from
them once, and racked up a couple other big upsets too. And that year,
in the nationals, we came this close"—he held up two fingers, barely
apart—"to the biggest upset of all." He put his hand back on the wheel,
and scowled.
  "Go on," she said. "I'm breathless to know what comes next."
   Peter ignored the sarcasm. "An hour into the match, we had half the
tournament gathered around our tables, watching. Everyone could see
that Chicago was in trouble. We clearly had superior positions on two
boards, and we were even on the other two.
  "It got better. I was playing Hal Winslow on third board. We had a
dull, even position, and we agreed to a draw. And on fourth board,
E.C. gradually got outplayed and finally resigned in a dead lost
position."
  "E.C.?"
  "Edward Colin Stuart. We all called him E.C. Quite a character.
You'll meet him up at Bunnish's place."
  "He lost?"
  "Yes."
  "This doesn't sound like such a thrilling upset to me," she said dryly.
"Though maybe by your standards, it's a triumph."
  "E.C. lost," Peter said, "but by that time, Delmario had clearly
busted his man on board two. The guy dragged it out, but finally we
got the point, which tied the score at 1 1/2-1 1/2, with one game in
progress. And we were winning that one. It was incredible. Bruce
Bunnish was our first board. A real turkey, but a half-decent player. He
was another A player, but he had a trick memory. Photographic. Knew
every opening backwards and forwards. He was playing Chicago's big
man." Peter smiled wryly. "In more ways than one. A Master name of
Robinson Vesselere. Damn strong chessplayer, but he must have
weighed four hundred pounds. He'd sit there absolutely immobile as
you played him, his hands folded on top of his stomach, little eyes
squinting at the board. And he'd crush you. He should have crushed
Bunnish easily. Hell, he was rated four hundred points higher. But that
wasn't what had gone down. With that trick memory of his, Bunnish
had somehow outplayed Vesselere in an obscure variation of the
Sicilian. He was swarming all over him. An incredible attack. The
position was as complicated as anything I'd ever seen, very sharp and
tactical. Vesselere was counterattacking on the queenside, and he had
some pressure, but nothing like the threats Bunnish had on the
kingside. It was a won game. We were all sure of that."
  "So you almost won the championship?"
  "No," Peter said. "No, it wasn't that. If we'd won the match, we
would have tied Chicago and a few others teams at 6-2, but the
championship would have gone to someone else, some team with 6 1/2
match points.
   Berkeley maybe, or Mass. It was just the upset itself we wanted. It
would have been incredible. They were the best college chess team in
the country. We weren't even the best at our school. If we had beaten
them, it would have caused a sensation. And we came so close."
  "What happened?"
   "Bunnish blew it," Peter said sourly. "There was a critical position.
Bunnish had a sac. A sacrifice, you know? A double piece sac. Very
sharp, but it would have busted up Vesselere's kingside and driven his
king out into the open. But Bunnish was too timid for that. Instead he
kept looking at Vesselere's queenside attack, and finally he made some
feebly defensive move. Vesselere shifted another piece to the
queenside, and Bunnish defended again. Instead of following up his
advantage, he made a whole series of cautious little adjustments to the
position, and before long his attack had dissipated. Afterthat, of course,
Vesselere overwhelmed him." Even now, after ten years, Peter felt the
disappointment building inside him as he spoke. "We lost the match 2
1/2-l 1/2, and Chicago won another national championship.
Afterwards, even Vesselere admitted that he was busted if Brucie had
played knight takes pawn at the critical point. Damn."
  "You lost. That's what this amounts to. You lost."
  "We came close."
  "Close only counts in horseshoes and grenades," Kathy said. "You
lost. Even then you were a loser, dear. I wish I'd known."
   "Bunnish lost, damn it," Peter said. "It was just like him. He had a
Class A rating, and that trick memory, but as a team player he was
worthless. You don't know how many matches he blew for us. When
the pressure was on, we could always count on Bunnish to fold. But
that time was the worst, that game against Vesselere. I could have
killed him. He was an arrogant asshole, too."
  Kathy laughed. "Isn't this arrogant asshole the one we are now
speeding to visit?"
   "It's been ten years. Maybe he's changed. Even if he hasn't, well,
he's a multimillionaire asshole now. Electronics. Besides, I want to see
E.C. and Steve again, and Bunnish said they'd be there."
   "Delightful," said Kathy. "Well, rush on, then. I wouldn't want to
miss this. It might be my only opportunity to spend four days with an
asshole millionaire and three losers."
   Peter said nothing, but he pressed down on the accelerator, and the
Toyota plunged down the mountain road, faster and faster, rattling as it
picked up speed. Down and down, he thought, down and down. Just
like my goddamned life.


   Four miles up Bunnish's private road, they finally came within sight
of the house. Peter, who still dreamed of buying his own house after a
decade of living in cheap apartments, took one look and knew he was
gazing at a three million dollar piece of property. There were three
levels, all blending into the mountainside so well you hardly noticed
them, built of natural wood and native stone and tinted glass. A huge
solar greenhouse was the most conspicuous feature. Beneath the house,
a four-car garage was sunk right into the mountain itself.
   Peter pulled into the last empty spot, between a brand new silver
Cadillac Seville that was obviously Bunnish's, and an ancient rusted
VW Beetle that was obviously not. As he pulled the key from the
ignition, the garage doors shut automatically behind them, blocking out
daylight and the gorgeous mountain vistas. The door closed with a
resounding metallic clang.
  "Someone knows we're here," Kathy observed.
  "Get the suitcases," Peter snapped.
   To the rear of the garage they found the elevator, and Peter jabbed
the topmost of the two buttons. When the elevator doors opened again,
it was on a huge living room. Peter stepped out and stared at a
wilderness of potted plants beneath a vaulting skylight, at thick brown
carpets, fine wood panelling, bookcases packed with leather-bound
volumes, a large fireplace, and Edward Colin Stuart, who rose from a
leather-clad armchair across the room when the elevator arrived.
  "E.C.," Peter said, setting down his suitcase. He smiled.
  "Hello, Peter," E.C. said, coming toward them quickly. They shook
hands.
   "You haven't changed a goddamned bit in ten years," Peter said. It
was true. E.C. was still slender and compact, with a bushy head of
sandy blond hair and a magnificent handlebar mustache. He was
wearing jeans and a tapered purple shirt, with a black vest, and he
seemed just as he had a decade ago: brisk, trim, efficient. "Not a damn
bit," Peter repeated.
   "More's the pity," E.C. said. "One is supposed to change, I believe."
His blue eyes were as unreadable as ever. He turned to Kathy, and
said, "I'm E.C. Stuart."
  "Oh, pardon," Peter said. "This is my wife, Kathy."
  "Delighted," she said, taking his hand and smiling at him.
  "Where's Steve?" Peter asked. "I saw his VW down in the garage.
Gave me a start. How long has he been driving that thing now? Fifteen
years?"
   "Not quite," E.C. said. "He's around somewhere, probably having a
drink." His mouth shifted subtly when he said it, telling Peter a good
deal more than his words did.
  "And Bunnish?"
  "Brucie has not yet made his appearance. I think he was waiting for
you to arrive. You probably want to settle in to your rooms."
  "How do we find them, if our host is missing?" Kathy asked dryly.
  "Ah," said E.C, "you haven't been acquainted with the wonders of
Bunnishland yet. Look." He pointed to the fireplace.
   Peter would have sworn that there had been a painting above the
mantle when they had entered, some sort of surreal landscape. Now
there was a large rectangular screen, with words on it, vivid red against
black. WELCOME, PETER. WELCOME, KATHY, YOUR SUITE IS
ON THE SECOND LEVEL, FIRSTDOOR. PLEASE MAKE
YOURSELF COMFORTABLE.
  Peter turned. "How…?"
   "No doubt triggered by the elevator," E.C. said. "I was greeted the
same way. Brucie is an electronics genius, remember. The house is full
of gadgets and toys. I've explored a bit." He shrugged. "Why don't you
two unpack and then wander back? I won't go anywhere."
   They found their rooms easily enough. The huge, tiled bath featured
an outside patio with a hot tub, and the suite had its own sitting room
and fireplace. Above it was an abstract painting, but when Kathy
closed the room door it faded away and was replaced by another
message: I HOPE YOU FIND THIS SATISFACTORY.
  "Cute guy, this host of ours," Kathy said, sitting on the edge of the
bed. "Those TV screens or whatever they are better not be two-way. I
don't intend to put on any show for any electronic voyeur."
  Peter frowned. "Wouldn't surprise me if the house was bugged.
Bunnish was always a strange sort."
  "How strange?"
   "He was hard to like," Peter said. "Boastful, always bragging about
how good he was as a chessplayer, how smart he was, that sort of
thing. No one really believed him. His grades were good, I guess, but
the rest of the time he seemed close to dense. E.C. has a wicked way
with hoaxes and practical jokes, and Bunnish was his favorite victim. I
don't know how many laughs we had at his expense. Bunnish was kind
of a goon in person, too. Pudgy, round-faced with big cheeks like some
kind of chipmunk, wore his hair in a crew cut. He was in ROTC. I've
never seen anyone who looked more ridiculous in a uniform. He never
dated."
  "Gay?"
   "No, not hardly. Asexual is closer to it." Peter looked around the
room and shook his head. "I can't imagine how Bunnish made it this
big. Him of all people." He sighed, opened his suitcase, and started to
unpack. "I might have believed it of Delmario," he continued. "Steve
and Bunnish were both in Tech, but Steve always seemed much
brighter. We all thought he was a real whiz-kid. Bunnish just seemed
like an arrogant mediocrity."
   "Fooled you," Kathy said. She smiled sweetly. "Of course, he's not
the only one to fool you, is he? Though perhaps he was the first."
  "Enough," Peter said, hanging the last of his shirts in the closet.
"Come on, let's get back downstairs. I want to talk to E.C."
   They had no sooner stepped out of their suite when a voice hailed
them. "Pete?"
  Peter turned, and the big man standing in the doorway down the hall
smiled a blurry smile at him. "Don't you recognize me, Pete?"
  "Steve?" Peter said wonderingly.
  "Sure, hey, who'd you think?" He stepped out of his own room, a bit
unsteadily, and closed the door behind him. "This must be the wife,
eh? Am I right?"
    "Yes," Peter said. "Kathy, this is Steve Delmario. Steve, Kathy."
Delmario came over and pumped her hand enthusiastically, after
clapping Peter roundly on the back. Peter found himself staring. If E.C.
had scarcely changed at all in the past ten years, Steve had made up for
it. Peter would never have recognized his old teammate on the street.
   The old Steve Delmario had lived for chess and electronics. He was
a fierce competitor, and he loved to tinker things together, but he was
frustratingly uninterested in anything outside his narrow passions. He
had been a tall, gaunt youth with incredibly intense eyes held captive
behind coke-bottle lenses in heavy black frames. His black hair had
always been either ruffled and unkempt or—when he treated himself to
one of his do-it-yourself haircuts—grotesquely butchered. He was
equally careless about his clothing, most of which was Salvation Army
chic minus the chic: baggy brown pants with cuffs, ten-year-old shirts
with frayed collars, a zippered and shapeless grey sweater he wore
everywhere. Once E.C. had observed that Steve Delmario looked like
the last man left alive on earth after a nuclear holocaust, and for almost
a semester thereafter the whole club had called Delmario, "the last man
on earth." He took it with good humor. For all his quirks, Delmario had
been well-liked.
   The years had been cruel to him, however. The coke-bottle glasses
in the black frames were the same, and the clothes were equally
haphazard—shabby brown cords, a short-sleeved white shirt with three
felt-tip pens in the pocket, a faded sweater-vest with every button
buttoned, scuffed hush puppies—but the rest had all changed. Steve
had gained about fifty pounds, and he had a bloated, puffy look about
him. He was almost entirely bald, nothing left of the wild black hair
but a few sickly strands around his ears. And his eyes had lost their
feverish intensity, and were filled instead with a fuzziness that Peter
found terribly disturbing. Most shocking of all was the smell of alcohol
on his breath. E.C. had hinted at it, but Peter still found it difficult to
accept. In college, Steve Delmario had never touched anything but an
infrequent beer.
  "It is good to see you again," Peter said, though he was no longer
quite sure that was true. "Shall we go downstairs? E.C. is waiting."
   Delmario nodded. "Sure, sure, let's do it." He clapped Peter on the
back again. "Have you seen Bunnish yet? Damn, this is some place
he's got, isn't it? You seen those message screens? Clever, real clever.
Never would have figured Bunnish to go as far as this, not our old
Funny Bunny, eh?" He chuckled. "I've looked at some of his patents
over the years, you know. Real ingenious. Real fine work. And from
Bunnish. I guess you just never know, do you?"
   The living room was awash with classical music when they
descended the spiral stair. Peter didn't recognize the composition; his
own tastes had always run to rock. But classical music had been one of
E.C.'s passions, and he was sitting in an armchair now, eyes closed,
listening.
   "Drinks," Delmario was saying. "I'll fix us all some drinks. You
folks must be thirsty. Bunny's got a wet bar right behind the stair here.
What do you want?"
  "What are the choices?" Kathy asked.
  "Well, he's got anything you could think of," said Delmario.
  "A Beefeater martini, then," she said. "Very dry."
  Delmario nodded. "Pete?"
  "Oh," said Peter. He shrugged. "A beer, I guess."
   Delmario went behind the stair to fix up their drinks, and Kathy
arched her eyebrows at him. "Such refined tastes," she said. "A beer!"
  Peter ignored her and went over to sit beside E.C. Stuart. "How the
hell did you find the stereo?" he asked. "I don't see it anywhere." The
music seemed to be coming right out of the walls.
   E.C. opened his eyes, gave a quirkish little smile, and brushed one
end of his mustache with a finger. "The message screen blabbed the
secret to me," he said. "The controls are built into the wall back over
there," nodding, "and the whole system is concealed. It's voice
activated, too. Computerized. I told it what album I wanted to hear."
  "Impressive," Peter admitted. He scratched his head. "Didn't Steve
put together a voice-activated stereo back in college?"
   "Your beer," Delmario said. He was standing over them, holding out
a cold bottle of Heineken. Peter took it, and Delmario—with a drink in
hand—seated himself on the ornate tiled coffee table. "I had a
system," he said. "Real crude, though. Remember, you guys used to
kid me about it."
  "You bought a good cartridge, as I recall," E.C. said, "but you had it
held by a tone-arm you made out of a bent coathanger."
  "It worked," Delmario protested. "It was voice-activated too, like
you said, but real primitive. Just on and off, that's all, and you had to
speak real loud. I figured I could improve on it after I got out of
school, but I never did." He shrugged. "Nothing like this. This is real
sophisticated."
   "I've noticed," E.C. said. He craned up his head slightly and said, in
a very loud clear voice, "I've had enough music now, thank you." The
silence that followed was briefly startling. Peter couldn't think of a
thing to say.
  Finally E.C. turned to him and said, all seriously, "How did Bunnish
get you here, Peter?"
  Peter was puzzled. "Get me here? He just invited us. What do you
mean?"
   "He paid Steve's way, you know," E.C. said. "As for me, I turned
down this invitation. Brucie was never one of my favorite people, you
know that. He pulled strings to change my mind. I'm with an ad agency
in New York. He dangled a big account in front of them, and I was told
to come here or lose my job. Interesting, eh?"
  Kathy had been sitting on the sofa, sipping her martini and looking
bored. "It sounds as though this reunion is important to him," she
observed.
   E.C. stood up. "Come here," he said. "I want to show you
something." The rest of them rose obediently, and followed him across
the room. In a shadowy corner surrounded by bookcases, a chessboard
had been set up, with a game in progress. The board was made of
squares of light and dark wood, painstakingly inlaid into a gorgeous
Victorian table. The pieces were ivory and onyx. "Take a look at that,"
E.C. said.
    "That's a beautiful set," Peter said admiringly. He reached down to
lift the Black queen for a closer inspection, and grunted in surprise.
The piece wouldn't move.
   "Tug away," E.C. said. "It won't do you any good. I've tried. The
pieces are glued into position. Every one of them."
   Steve Delmario moved around the board, his eyes blinking behind
his thick glasses. He set his drink on the table and sank into the chair
behind the White pieces. "The position," he said, his voice a bit blurry
with drink. "I know it."
  E.C. Stuart smiled thinly and brushed his mustache. "Peter," he said,
nodding toward the chessboard. "Take a good look."
   Peter stared, and all of a sudden it came clear to him, the position on
the board became as familiar as his own features in a mirror. "The
game," he said. "From the nationals. This is the critical position from
Bunnish's game with Vesselere."
  E.C. nodded. "I thought so. I wasn't sure."
   "Oh, I'm sure," Delmario said loudly. "How the hell could I not be
sure? This is right where Bunny blew it, remember? He played king to
knight one, instead of the sac. Cost us the match. Me, I was sitting
right next to him, playing the best damned game of chess I ever played.
Beat a Master, and what good did it do? Not a damn bit of good,
thanks to Bunnish." He looked at the board and glowered. "Knight
takes pawn, that's all he's got to play, busts Vesselere wide open.
Check, check, check, check, got to be a mate there somewhere."
   "You were never able to find it, though, Delmario," Bruce Bunnish
said from behind them.
   None of them had heard him enter. Peter started like a burglar
surprised while copping the family silver.
  Their host stood in the doorway a few yards distant. Bunnish had
changed, too. He had lost weight since college, and his body looked
hard and fit now, though he still had the big round cheeks that Peter
remembered.
   His crew cut had grown out into a healthy head of brown hair,
carefully styled and blow-dried. He wore large, tinted glasses and
expensive clothes. But he was still Bunnish. His voice was loud and
grating, just as Peter remembered it.
  Bunnish strolled over to the chessboard almost casually. "You
analyzed that position for weeks afterward, Delmario," he said. "You
never found the mate."
  Delmario stood up. "I found a dozen mates," he said.
   "Yes," Bunnish said, "but none of them were forced. Vesselere was
a Master. He wouldn't have played into any of your so-called mating
lines."
   Delmario frowned and took a drink. He was going to say something
else—Peter could see him fumbling for the words—but E.C. stood up
and took away his chance. "Bruce," he said, holding out his hand.
"Good to see you again. How long has it been?"
   Bunnish turned and smiled superciliously. "Is that another of your
jokes, E.G.? You know how long it has been, and I know how long it
has been, so why do you ask? Norten knows, and Delmario knows.
Maybe you're asking for Mrs. Norten." He looked at Kathy. "Do you
know how long it has been?"
  She laughed. "I've heard."
   "Ah," said Bunnish. He swung back to face E.C. "Then we all know,
so it must be another of your jokes, and I'm not going to answer. Do
you remember how you used to phone me at three in the morning, and
ask me what time it was? Then I'd tell you, and you'd ask me what I
was doing calling you at that hour?"
  E.C. frowned and lowered his hand.
    "Well," said Bunnish, into the awkward silence that followed, "no
sense standing here around this stupid chessboard. Why don't we all go
sit down by the fireplace, and talk." He gestured. "Please."
  But when they were seated, the silence fell again. Peter took a
swallow of beer and realized that he was more than just ill-at-ease. A
palpable tension hung in the air.
  "Nice place you've got here, Bruce," he said, hoping to lighten the
atmosphere.
  Bunnish looked around smugly. "I know," he said. "I've done
awfully well, you know. Awfully well. You wouldn't believe how
much money I have. I hardly know what to do with it all." He smiled
broadly and fatuously. "And how about you, my friend? Here I am
boasting once again, when I ought to be listening to all of you recount
your own triumphs." Bunnish looked at Peter. "You first, Norten.
You're the captain, after all. How have you done?"
  "All right," Peter said, uncomfortably. "I've done fine. I own a
bookstore."
   "A bookstore! How wonderful! I recall that you always wanted to be
in publishing, though I rather thought you'd be writing books instead of
selling them. Whatever happened to those novels you were going to
write, Peter? Your literary career?"
  Peter's mouth was very dry. "I… things change, Bruce. I haven't had
much time for writing." It sounded so feeble, Peter thought. All at
once, he was desperately wishing he was elsewhere.
  "No time for writing," echoed Bunnish. "A pity, Norten. You had
such promise."
  "He's still promising," Kathy put in sharply. "You ought to hear him
promise. He's been promising as long as I've known him. He never
writes, but he does promise."
   Bunnish laughed. "Your wife is very witty," he said to Peter. "She's
almost as funny as E.C. was, back in college. You must enjoy being
married to her a great deal. I recall how fond you were of E.C.'s little
jokes." He looked at E.C. "Are you still a funny man, Stuart?"
  E.C. looked annoyed, "I'm hysterical," he said, in a flat voice.
  "Good," said Bunnish. He turned to Kathy and said, "I don't know if
Peter has told you all the stories about old E.C, but he really played
some amazing pranks.
   Hilarious man, that's our E.C. Stuart. Once, when our class team had
won the city championship, he had a girlfriend of his call up Peter and
pretend to be an AP reporter. She interviewed him for an hour before
he caught on."
  Kathy laughed. "Peter is sometimes a bit slow," she said.
   "Oh, that was nothing. Normally I was the one E.C. liked to play
tricks on. I didn't go out much, you know. Deathly afraid of girls. But
E.C. had a hundred girlfriends, all of them gorgeous. One time he took
pity on me and offered to fix me up on a blind date. I accepted eagerly,
and when the girl arrived on the corner where we were supposed to
meet, she was wearing dark glasses and carrying a cane. Tapping. You
know."
  Steve Delmario guffawed, tried to stifle his laughter, and nearly
choked on his drink. "Sorry," he wheezed, "sorry."
   Bunnish waved casually. "Oh, go ahead, laugh. It was funny. The
girl wasn't really blind, you know, she was a drama student who was
rehearsing a part in a play. But it took me all night to find that out. I
was such a fool. And that was only one joke. There were hundreds of
others."
   E.C. looked somber. "That was a long time ago. We were kids. It's
all behind us now, Bruce."
   "Bruce?" Bunnish sounded surprised. "Why, Stuart, that's the first
time you've ever called me Bruce. You have changed. You were the
one who started calling me Brucie. God, how I hated that name!
Brucie, Brucie, Brucie, I loathed it. How many times did I ask you to
call me Bruce? How many times? Why, I don't recall. I do recall,
though, that after three years you finally came up to me at one meeting
and said that you'd thought it over, and now you agreed that I was
right, that Brucie was not an appropriate name for a Class A
chessplayer, a twenty-year old, an officer in ROTC. Your exact words.
I remember the whole speech, E.C. It took me so by surprise that I
didn't know what to say, so I said, 'Good, it's about time!' And then
you grinned, and said that Brucie was out, that you'd never call me
Brucie again. From now on, you said, you'd call me Bunny."
   Kathy laughed, and Delmario choked down an explosive outburst,
but Peter only felt cold all over. Bunnish's smile was genial enough,
but his tone was pure iced venom as he recounted the incident. E.C.
did not look amused either. Peter took a swallow of his beer, casting
about for some ploy to get the conversation onto a different track. "Do
any of you still play?" he heard himself blurt out.
   They all looked at him. Delmario seemed almost befuddled. "Play?"
he said. He blinked down at his empty glass.
   "Help yourself to a refill," Bunnish told him. "You know where it
is." He smiled at Peter as Delmario moved off to the bar. "You mean
chess, of course."
   "Chess," Peter said. "You remember chess. Odd little pastime played
with black and white pieces and lots of two-faced clocks." He looked
around. "Don't tell me we've all given it up?"
  E.C. shrugged. "I'm too busy. I haven't played a rated game since
college."
   Delmario had returned, ice cubes clinking softly in a tumbler full of
bourbon. "I played a little after college," he said, "but not for the last
five years." He sat down heavily, and stared into the cold fireplace.
"Those were my bad years. Wife left me, I lost a couple jobs. Bunny
here was way ahead of me. Every goddamn idea I came up with, he
had a patent on it already. Got so I was useless. That was when I
started to drink." He smiled, and took a sip. "Yeah," he said. "Just then.
And I stopped playing chess. It all comes out, you know, it all comes
out over the board. I was losing, losing lots. To all these fish, god, I tell
you, I couldn't take it. Rating went down to Class B." Delmario took
another drink, and looked at Peter. "You need something to play good
chess, you know what Im saying? A kind of… hell, I don't know… a
kind of arrogance. Self-confidence. It's all wrapped up with ego, that
kind of stuff, and I didn't have it any more, whatever it was. I used to
have it, but I lost it all. I had bad luck, and I looked around one day
and it was gone, and my chess was gone with it. So I quit." He lifted
the tumbler to his lips, hesitated, and drained it all. Then he smiled for
them. "Quit," he repeated. "Gave it up. Chucked it away. Bailed out."
He chuckled, and stood up, and went off to the bar again.
  "I play," Bunnish said forcefully. "I'm a Master now."
   Delmario stopped in midstride, and fixed Bunnish with such a look
of total loathing that it could have killed. Peter saw that Steve's hand
was shaking.
   "I'm very happy for you, Bruce," E.C. Stuart said. "Please do enjoy
your Mastership, and your money, and Bunnishland." He stood and
straightened his vest, frowning. "Meanwhile, I'm going to be going."
  ''Going?'' said Bunnish.'' Really, E.C., so soon? Must you?"
   "Bunnish," E.C. said, "you can spend the next four days playing
your little ego games with Steve and Peter, if you like, but I'm afraid I
am not amused. You always were a pimple-brain, and I have better
things to do with my life than to sit here and watch you squeeze out
ten-year-old pus. Am I making myself clear?"
  "Oh, perfectly," Bunnish said.
   "Good," said E.C. He looked at the others. "Kathy, it was nice
meeting you. I'm sorry it wasn't under better circumstances. Peter,
Steve, if either of you comes to New York in the near future, I hope
you'll look me up. I'm in the book.
   "E.C, don't you…"Peter began, but he knew it was useless. Even in
the old days, E.C. Stuart was headstrong. You could never talk him
into or out of anything.
   "Goodbye," he said, interrupting Peter. He went briskly to the
elevator, and they watched the wood-panelled doors close on him.
  "He'll be back," Bunnish said after the elevator had gone.
  "I don't think so," Peter replied.
   Bunnish got up, smiling broadly. Deep dimples appeared in his
large, round cheeks. "Oh, but he will, Norten. You see, it's my turn to
play the little jokes now, and E.C. will soon find that out."
  "What?" Delmario said.
   "Don't you fret about it, you'll understand soon enough," Bunnish
said. "Meanwhile, please do excuse me. I have to see about dinner.
You all must be ravenous. I'm making dinner myself, you know. I sent
my servants away, so we could have a nice private reunion." He looked
at his watch, a heavy gold Swiss. "Let's all meet in the dining room in,
say, an hour. Everything should be ready by then. We can talk some
more. About life. About chess." He smiled, and left.
   Kathy was smiling too. "Well," she said to Peter after Bunnish had
left the room, "this is all vastly more entertaining than I would have
imagined. I feel as if I just walked into a Harold Pinter play."
  "Who's that?" Delmario asked, resuming his seat.
   Peter ignored him. "I don't like any of this," he said. "What the hell
did Bunnish mean about playing a joke on us?"
  He didn't have to wait long for an answer. While Kathy went to fix
herself another martini, they heard the elevator again, and turned
expectantly toward the doors. E.C. stepped out frowning. "Where is
he?" he said in a hard voice.
  "He went to cook dinner," Peter said. "What is it? He said
something about a joke…"
  "Those garage doors won't open," E.C. said. "I can't get my car out.
There's no place to go without it. We must be fifty miles from the
nearest civilization."
  "I'll go down and ram out with my VW," Delmario said helpfully.
"Like in the movies."
   "Don't be absurd," E.C. said. "That door is stainless steel. There's no
way you're going to batter it down." He scowled and brushed back one
end of his mustache. "Battering down Brucie, however, is a much more
viable proposition. Where the hell is the kitchen?"
   Peter sighed. "I wouldn't if I were you, E.C.," he said. "From the
way he's been acting, he'd just love a chance to clap you in jail. If you
touch him, it's assault, you know that."
  "Phone the police," Kathy suggested.
   Peter looked around. "Now that you mention it, I don't see a phone
anywhere in this room. Do you?" Silence. "There was no phone in our
suite, either, that I recall."
  "Hey!" Delmario said. "That's right, Pete, you're right."
  E.C. sat down. "He appears to have us checkmated," he said.
  "The exact word," said Peter. "Bunnish is playing some kind of
game with us. He said so himself. A joke."
  "Ha ha," said E.C. "What do you suggest we do, then? Laugh?"
   Peter shrugged. "Eat dinner, talk, have our reunion, find out what
the hell Bunnish wants with us."
  "Win the game, guys, that's what we do," Delmario said.
  E.C. stared at him. "What the hell does that mean?"
   Delmario sipped his bourbon and grinned. "Peter said Bunny was
playing some kind of game with us, right? OK, fine. Let's play. Let's
beat him at this goddamned game, whatever the hell it is." He
chuckled. "Hell, guys, this is the Funny Bunny we're playing. Maybe
he is a Master, I don't give a good goddamn, he'll still find a way to
blow it in the end. You know how it was. Bunnish always lost the big
games. He'll lose this one, too."
  "I wonder," said Peter. "I wonder."


  Peter brought another bottle of Heineken back to the suite with him,
and sat in a deck chair on the patio drinking it while Kathy tried out the
hot tub.
 "This is nice," she said from the tub. "Relaxing. Sensuous, even.
Why don't you come on in?"
  "No, thanks," Peter said.
  "We ought to get one of these."
  "Right. We could put it in our living room. The people in the
apartment downstairs would love it." He took a swallow of beer and
shook his head.
  "What are you thinking about?" Kathy asked.
  Peter smiled grimly. "Chess, believe it or not."
  "Oh? Do tell."
  "Life is a lot like chess," he said.
  She laughed. "Really? I'd never noticed, somehow."
  Peter refused to let her needling get to him. "All a matter of choices.
Every move you face choices, and every choice leads to different
variations. It branches and then branches again, and sometimes the
variation you pick isn't as good as it looked, isn't sound at all. But you
don't know that until your game is over."
  "I hope you'll repeat this when I'm out of the tub," Kathy said. "I
want to write it all down for posterity."
   "I remember, back in college, how many possibilities life seemed to
hold. Variations. I knew, of course, that I'd only live one of my fantasy
lives, but for a few years there, I had them all, all the branches, all the
variations. One day I could dream of being a novelist, one day I would
be a journalist covering Washington, the next—oh, I don't know, a
politician, a teacher, whatever. My dream lives. Full of dream wealth
and dream women. All the things I was going to do, all the places I
was going to live. They were mutually exclusive, of course, but since I
didn't have any of them, in a sense I had them all. Like when you sit
down at a chessboard to begin a game, and you don't know what the
opening will be. Maybe it will be a Sicilian, or a French, or a Ruy
Lopez.
  They all co-exist, all the variations, until you start making the
moves. You always dream of winning, no matter what line you choose,
but the variations are still… different." He drank some more beer.
"Once the game begins, the possibilities narrow and narrow and
narrow, the other variations fade, and you're left with what you've
got—a position half of your own making, and half chance, as
embodied by that stranger across the board. Maybe you've got a good
game, or maybe you're in trouble, but in any case there's just that one
position to work from. The might-have-beens are gone."
   Kathy climbed out of the hot tub and began towelling herself off.
Steam rose from the water, and moved gently around her. Peter found
himself looking at her almost with tenderness, something he had not
felt in a long time. Then she spoke, and ruined it. "You missed your
calling," she said, rubbing briskly with the towel. "You should have
taken up poster-writing. You have a knack for poster profundity. You
know, like, "I am not in this world to live up to your expect—"
   "Enough," Peter said. "How much blood do you have to draw, damn
it?"
  Kathy stopped and looked at him. She frowned. "You're really
down, aren't you?" she said.
  Peter stared off at the mountains, and did not bother to reply.
  The concern left her voice as quickly as it had come. "Another
depression, huh? Drink another beer, why don't you? Feel sorry for
yourself some more. By midnight you'll have worked yourself up to a
good crying jag. Go on."
  "I keep thinking of that match," Peter said.
  "Match?"
   "In the nationals," he said. "Against Chicago. It's weird, but I keep
having this funny feeling, like… like it was right there that it all started
to go bad. We had a chance to do something big, something special.
But it slipped away from us, and nothing has been right since.
  A losing variation, Kathy. We picked a losing variation, and we've
been losing ever since. All of us."
  Kathy sat down on the edge of the tub. "All of you?"
   Peter nodded. "Look at us. I failed as a novelist, failed as a
journalist, and now I've got a failing bookstore. Not to mention a bitch
wife. Steve is a drunk who couldn't even get together enough money to
pay his way out here. E.C. is an aging account executive with an
indifferent track record, going nowhere. Losers. You said it, in the
car."
  She smiled. "Ah, but what about our host? Bunnish lost bigger than
any of you, and he seems to have won everything since."
  "Hmmmm," said Peter. He sipped thoughtfully at his beer. "I
wonder. Oh, he's rich enough, I'll give you that. But he's got a
chessboard in his living room with the pieces glued into position, so he
can stare every day at the place he went wrong in a game played ten
years ago. That doesn't sound like a winner to me."
    She stood up, and shook loose her hair. It was long and auburn and
it fell around her shoulders gorgeously, and Peter remembered the
sweet lady he had married eight years ago, when he was a bright young
writer working hard on his first novel. He smiled. "You look nice," he
said.
  Kathy seemed startled. "You are feeling morose," she said. "Are
you sure you don't have a fever?"
  "No fever. Just a memory, and a lot of regrets."
   "Ah," she said. She walked back toward their bedroom, and snapped
the towel at him in passing. "C'mon, captain. Your team is going to be
waiting, and all this heavy philosophy has given me quite an appetite."


  The food was fine, but the dinner was awful.
   They ate thick slabs of rare prime rib, with big baked potatoes and
lots of fresh vegetables. The wine looked expensive and tasted
wonderful. Afterwards, they had their choice of three desserts, plus
fresh-ground coffee and several delicious liqueurs. Yet the meal was
strained and unpleasant, Peter thought. Steve Delmario was in pretty
bad shape even before he came to the table, and while he was there he
drank wine as if it were water, getting louder and fuzzier in the
process. E.C. Stuart was coldly quiet, his fury barely held in check
behind an icy, aloof demeanor. And Bunnish thwarted every one of
Peter's attempts to move conversation to safe neutral ground. His
genial expansiveness was a poor mask for gloating, and he insisted on
opening old wounds from their college years. Every time Peter
recounted an anecdote that was amusing or harmless, Bunnish smiled
and countered with one that stank of hurt and rejection.
   Finally, over coffee, E.C. could stand no more of it. "Pus," he said
loudly, interrupting Bunnish. It was about the third word he'd
permitted himself the entire meal. "Pus and more pus. Bunnish, what's
the point? You've brought us here. You've got us trapped here, with
you. Why? So you can prove that we treated you shabbily back in
college? Is that the idea? If so, fine. You've made your point. You were
treated shabbily. I am ashamed, I am guilty. Mea culpa, mea culpa,
mea maxima culpa. Now let's end it. It's over."
   "Over?" said Bunnish, smiling. "Perhaps it is. But you've changed,
E.C. Back when I was the butt of your jokes, you'd recount them for
weeks. Over wasn't so final then, was it? And what about my game
with Vesselere in the nationals? When that was over, did we forget it?
Oh, no, we did not. That game was played in December, you'll recall. I
heard about it until I graduated in May. At every meeting. That game
was never over for me. Delmario liked to show me a different
checkmate every time I saw him. Our dear captain refrained from
playing me in any league matches for the rest of the year. And you,
E.C., you liked to greet me with, 'Say, Bunny, lost any big ones
lately?' You even reprinted that game in the club newsletter, and
mailed it in to Chess Life. No doubt all this seems like ancient history
to you. I have this trick memory, though. I can't forget things quite so
easily. I remember it all. I remember the way Vesselere sat there, with
his hands folded on his stomach, never moving, staring at me out of
those itty bitty eyes of his. I remember the way he moved his pieces,
very carefully, very daintily, lifting each one between thumb and
forefinger. I remember wandering into the halls between moves, to get
a drink of water, and seeing Norten over by the wall charts, talking to
Mavora from the A team. You know what he was saying? He was
gesturing with his hands, all worked up, and he was telling him, He's
going to blow it, damn it, he's going to blow it! Isn't that right, Peter?
And Les looked over at me as I passed, and said, Lose this one and
your ass is grass, Bunny! He was another endearing soul. I remember
all the people who kept coming to look at my game. I remember
Norten standing in the corner with Hal Winslow, the two mighty
captains, talking heatedly. Winslow was all rumpled and needed a
shave and he had his clipboard, and he was trying to figure out who'd
finish where if we won, or tied, or lost. I remember how it felt when I
tipped over my king, too. I remember the way Delmario started kicking
the wall, the way E.C. shrugged and glanced up at the ceiling, and the
way Peter came over and just said Bunnish! and shook his head. You
see? My trick memory is as tricky as ever, and I haven't forgotten a
thing. And especially I haven't forgotten that game. I can recite all the
moves to you right now, if you'd like."
   "Shit," said Steve Delmario. "Only one important move to recite,
Bunny. Knight takes pawn, that's the move you ought to recite. The
sac, the winning sac, the one you didn't play. I forget what kind of
feeble thing you did instead."
   Bunnish smiled. "My move was king to knight one," he said. "To
protect my rook pawn. I'd castled long, and Vesselere was threatening
to snatch it."
   "Pawn, shmawn," said Delmario. "You had him busted. The sac
would have gutted that whale like nobody's goddamned business. What
a laugh that would have been. The bunny rabbit beating the whale. Old
Hal Winslow would have been so shocked he would have dropped his
clipboard. But you blew it, guarding some diddlysquat little pawn. You
blew it."
  "So you told me," said Bunnish. "And told me, and told me."
   "Look," Peter said, "I don't see the sense in rehashing all of this.
Steve is drunk, Bruce. You can see that. He doesn't know what he's
saying."
   "He knows exactly what he's saying, Norten," Bunnish replied. He
smiled thinly and removed his glasses. Peter was startled by his eyes.
The hatred there was almost tangible, and there was something else as
well, something old and bitter and somehow trapped. The eyes passed
lightly over Kathy, who was sitting quietly amidst all the old hostility,
and touched Steve Delmario, Peter Norten, and E.C. Stuart each in
turn, with vast loathing and vast amusement.
  "Enough," Peter said, almost pleadingly.
  "NO!" said Delmario. The drink had made him belligerent. "It's not
enough, it'll never be enough, goddamn it. Get out a set, Bunny! I dare
you! We'll analyze it right now, go over the whole thing again, I'll
show you how you pissed it all away." He pulled himself to his feet.
  "I have a better idea," said Bunnish. "Sit down, Delmario."
  Delmario blinked uncertainly, and then fell back into his chair.
    "Good," said Bunnish. "We'll get to my idea in a moment, but first
I'm going to tell you all a story. As Archie Bunker once said, revenge
is the best way to get even. But it isn't revenge unless the victim
knows. So I'm going to tell you. I'm going to tell you exactly how I've
ruined your lives."
  "Oh, come off it!" E.C. said.
   "You never did like stories, E.C," Bunnish said. "Know why?
Because when someone tells a story, they become the center of
attention. And you always needed to be the center of attention,
wherever you were. Now you're not the center of anything, though.
How does it feel to be insignificant?"
  E.C. gave a disgusted shake of his head and poured himself more
coffee. "Go on, Bunnish," he said. "Tell your story. You have a captive
audience."
  "I do, don't I?" Bunnish smiled. "All right. It all begins with that
game. Me and Vesselere. I did not blow that game. It was never won."
  Delmario made a rude noise.
   "I know," Bunnish continued, unperturbed, "now, but I did not
know then. I thought that you were right. I'd thrown it all away, I
thought. It ate at me. For years and years, more years than you would
believe. Every night I went to sleep replaying that game in my head.
That game blighted my entire life. It became an obsession. I wanted
only one thing—another chance. I wanted to go back, somehow, to
choose another line, to make different moves, to come out a winner. I'd
picked the wrong variation, that was all. I knew that if I had another
chance, I'd do better. For more than fifty years, I worked toward that
end, and that end alone."
   Peter swallowed a mouthful of cold coffee hastily and said, "What?
Fifty years? You mean five, don't you?"
  "Fifty," Bunnish repeated.
  "You are insane," said E.C.
   "No," said Bunnish. "I am a genius. Have you ever heard of time
travel, any of you?"
  "It doesn't exist," said Peter. "The paradoxes…"
    Bunnish waved him quiet. "You're right and you're wrong, Norten.
It exists, but only in a sort of limited fashion. Yet that is enough. I
won't bore you with mathematics none of you can understand. Analogy
is easier. Time is said to be the fourth dimension, but it differs from the
other three in one conspicuous way—our consciousness moves along
it. From past to present only, alas. Time itself does not flow, no more
than, say, width can flow. Our minds flicker from one instant of time to
the next. This analogy was my starting point. I reasoned that if
consciousness can move in one direction, it can move in the other
direction as well. It took me fifty years to work out the details,
however, and make what I call a flashback possible.
   "That was in my first life, gentlemen, a life of failure and ridicule
and poverty. I tended my obsession and did what I had to so as to keep
myself fed. And I hated you, each of you, for every moment of those
fifty years. My bitterness was inflamed as I watched each of you
succeed, while I struggled and failed. I met Norten once, twenty years
after college, at an autographing party. You were so patronizing. It was
then that I determined to ruin you, all of you.
   "And I did. What is there to say? I perfected my device at the age of
seventy-one. There is no way to move matter through time, but mind,
mind is a different issue. My device would send my mind back to any
point in my own lifetime that I chose, superimpose my consciousness
with all of its memories on the consciousness of my earlier self. I could
take nothing with me, of course." Bunnish smiled and tapped his
temple significantly. "But I still had my photographic memory. It was
more than enough. I memorized things I would need to know in my
new life, and I flashed back to my youth. I was given another chance, a
chance to make some different moves in the game of life. I did."
  Steve Delmario blinked. "Your body," he said blurrily. "What
happened to your body, huh?"
   "An interesting question. The kick of the flashback kills the would-
be time-traveller. The body, that is. The timeline itself goes on,
however. At least my equations indicate that it should. I've never been
around to witness it. Meanwhile, changes in the past create a new,
variant timeline."
  "Oh, alternate tracks," Delmario said. He nodded.
  "Yeah."
  Kathy laughed. "I can't believe I'm sitting here listening to all this,"
she said. "And that he"—she pointed to Delmario—"is taking it
seriously."
   E.C. Stuart had been looking idly at the ceiling, with a disdainful,
faintly tolerant smile on his face. Now he straightened. "I agree," he
said to Kathy. "I am not so gullible as you were, Bruce," he told
Bunnish, "and if you are trying to get some laughs by having us
swallow this crock of shit, it isn't going to work."
  Bunnish turned to Peter. "Captain, what's your vote?"
   "Well," said Peter carefully, "all this is a little hard to credit, Bruce.
You spoke of the game becoming an obsession with you, and I think
that's true. I think you ought to be talking to a professional about this,
not to us."
  "A professional what?" Bunnish said.
  Peter fidgeted uncomfortably. "You know, a shrink or a counselor."
   Bunnish chuckled. "Failure hasn't made you any less patronizing,"
he said. "You were just as bad in the bookstore, in that line where you
turned out to be a successful novelist."
   Peter sighed. "Bruce, can't you see how pathetic these delusions of
yours are? I mean, you've obviously been quite a success, and none of
us have done as well, but even that wasn't enough for you, so you've
constructed all these elaborate fantasies about how you have been the
one behind our various failures. Vicarious, imaginary revenge."
   "Neither vicarious nor imaginary, Norten," Bunnish snapped. "I can
tell you exactly how I did it."
  "Let him tell his stories, Peter," E.C. said. "Then maybe he'll let us
out of this funny farm."
    "Why thank you, E.C," Bunnish said. He looked around the table
with smug satisfaction, like a man about to live out a dream he has
cherished for a long, long time. Finally he fastened on Steve Delmario.
"I'll start with you," he said, "because in fact, I did start with you. You
were easy to destroy, Delmario, because you were always so limited.
In the original timeline, you were as wealthy as I am in this one. While
I spent my life perfecting my flashback device, you made fast fortunes
in the wide world out there. Electronic games at first, later more basic
stuff, home computers, that sort of thing. You were born for that, and
you were the best in the business, inspired and ingenious.
  "When I flashed back, I simply took your place. Before using my
device, I studied all your early little games, your cleverest ideas, the
basic patents that came later and made you so rich. And I memorized
all of them, along with the dates on which you'd come up with each
and every one. Back in the past, armed with all this foreknowledge, it
was child's play to beat you to the punch. Again and again. In those
early years, Delmario, didn't it ever strike you as strange the way I
anticipated every one of your small brainstorms? I'm living your life,
Delmario."
   Delmario's hand had begun to tremble as he listened. His face
looked dead. "God damn you," he said. "God damn you."
  "Don't let him get to you, Steve," E.C. put in. "He's just making this
up to see us squirm. It's all too absurd for words."
   "But it's true," Delmario wailed, looking from E.C. to Bunnish and
then, helplessly, at Peter. Behind the thick lenses his eyes seemed wild.
"Peter, what he said—all my ideas—he was always ahead of me, he,
he, I told you, he—"
   "Yes," Peter said firmly, "and you told Bruce too, when we were
talking earlier. Now he's just using your fears against you."
  Delmario opened his mouth, but no words came out.
  "Have another drink," Bunnish suggested.
   Delmario stared at Bunnish as if he were about to leap up and
strangle him. Peter tensed himself to intervene. But then, instead,
Delmario reached out for a half-empty wine bottle, and filled his glass
sloppily.
  "This is contemptible, Bruce," E.C. said.
   Bunnish turned to face him. "Delmario's ruin was easy and
dramatic," he said. "You were more difficult, Stuart. He had nothing to
live for but his work, you see, and when I took that away from him, he
just collapsed. I only had to anticipate him a half-dozen times before
all of his belief in himself was gone, and he did the rest himself. But
you, E.G., you had more resources."
  "Go on with the fairy tale, Bunnish," E.C. said in a put-upon tone.
   "Delmario's ideas had made me rich," Bunnish said. "I used the
money against you. Your fall was less satisfying and less resounding
than Delmario's. He went from the heights to the pits. You were only a
moderate success to begin with, and I had to settle for turning you into
a moderate failure. But I managed. I pulled strings behind the scenes to
lose you a number of large accounts. When you were with Foote, Cone
I made sure another agency hired away a copywriter named Allerd, just
before he came up with a campaign that would have rebounded to your
credit. And remember when you left that position to take a better-
paying slot at a brand new agency? Remember how quickly that
agency folded, leaving you without an income? That was me. I've
given your career twenty or thirty little shoves like that. Haven't you
ever wondered at how infallibly wrong most of your professional
moves have been, Stuart? At your bad luck?"
  "No," said E.C. "I'm doing well enough, thank you."
   Bunnish smiled. "I played one other little joke on you, too. You can
thank me for that case of herpes you picked up last year. The lady who
gave it to you was well paid. I had to search for her for a good number
of years until I found the right combination—an out-of-work actress
who was young and gorgeous and precisely your type, yet sufficiently
desperate to do just about anything, and gifted with an incurable
venereal disease as well. How did you like her, Stuart? It's your fault,
you know. I just put her in your path, you did the rest yourself. And I
thought it was so fitting, after my blind date and all."
    E.C.'s expression did not change. "If you think this is going to break
me down or make me believe you, you're way off base. All this proves
is that you've had me investigated, and managed to dig up some dirt on
my life."
   "Oh," said Bunnish. "Always so skeptical, Stuart. Scared that if you
believe, you'll wind up looking foolish. Tsk." He turned toward Peter.
"And you, Norten. You. Our fearless leader. You were the most
difficult of all."
  Peter met Bunnish's eyes and said nothing.
  "I read your novel, you know," Bunnish said casually.
  "I've never published a novel."
   "Oh, but you have! In the original timeline, that is. Quite a success
too. The critics loved it, and it even appeared briefly on the bottom of
the Times bestseller list."
  Peter was not amused. "This is so obvious and pathetic," he said.
  "It was called Beasts in a Cage, I believe," Bunnish said.
  Peter had been sitting and listening with contempt, humoring a sick,
sad man. Now, suddenly, he sat upright as if slapped.
  He heard Kathy suck in her breath. "My god," she said.
  E.C. seemed puzzled. "Peter? What is it? You look…"
   "No one knows about that book," Peter said. "How the hell did you
find out? My old agent, you must have gotten the title from him. Yes.
That's it, isn't it?"
  "No," said Bunnish, smiling complacently.
  "You're lying!"
  "Peter, what is it?" said E.C. "Why are you so upset?"
  Peter looked at him. "My book," he said. "I… Beasts in a Cage
was…"
  "There was such a book?"
    "Yes," Peter said. He swallowed nervously, feeling confused and
angry. "Yes, there was. I… after college. My first novel." He gave a
nervous laugh. "I thought it would be the first. I had… had a lot of
hopes. It was ambitious. A serious book, but I thought it had
commercial possibilities as well. The circus. It was about the circus,
you know how I was always fascinated by the circus. A metaphor for
life, I thought, a kind of life, but very colorful too, and dying, a dying
institution. I thought I could write the great circus novel. After college,
I travelled with Ringling Brothers' Blue Show for a year, doing
research. I was a butcher, I… that's what they call the vendors in the
stands, you see. A year of research, and I took two years to write the
novel. The central character was a boy who worked with the big cats. I
finally finished it and sent it off to my agent, and less than three weeks
after I'd gotten it into the mail, I, I…"He couldn't finish.
   But E.C. understood. He frowned. "That circus bestseller? What was
the title?"
   "Blue Show," Peter said, the words bitter in his mouth. "By Donald
Hastings Sullivan, some old hack who'd written fifty gothics and a
dozen formula westerns, all under pen names. Such a book, from such
a writer. No one could believe it. E.C., I couldn't believe it. It was my
book, under a different title. Oh, it wasn't word-for-word. Beasts in a
Cage was a lot better written. But the story, the background, the
incidents, even a few of the character names… it was frightening. My
agent never marketed my book. He said it was too much like Blue
Show to be publishable, that no one would touch it. And even if I did
get it published, he warned me, I would be labelled derivative at best,
and a plagiarist at worst. It looked like a ripoff, he said. Three years of
my life, and he called it a ripoff. We had words. He fired me, and I
couldn't get another agent to take me on. I never wrote another book.
The first one had taken too much out of me." Peter turned to Bunnish.
"I destroyed my manuscript, burned every copy. No one knew, about
that book except my agent, me, and Kathy. How did you find out?"
  "I told you," said Bunnish. "I read it."
   "You damned liar!" Peter said. He scooped up a glass in a white
rage, and flung it down the table at Bunnish's smiling face, wanting to
obliterate that complacent grin, to see it dissolve into blood and ruin.
But Bunnish ducked and the glass shattered against a wall.
   "Easy, Peter," E.C. said. Delmario was blinking in owlish stupidity,
lost in an alcoholic haze. Kathy was gripping the edge of the table. Her
knuckles had gone white.
   "Methinks our captain doth protest too much," Bunnish said, his
dimples showing. "You know I'm telling the truth, Norten. I read your
novel. I can recite the whole plot to prove it." He shrugged. "In fact, I
did recite the whole plot. To Donald Hastings Sullivan, who wrote
Blue Show while in my employ. I would have done it myself, but I had
no aptitude for writing. Sully was glad for the chance. He got a
handsome flat fee and we split the royalties, which were considerable.
   "You son of a bitch," Peter said, but he said it without force. He felt
his rage ebbing away, leaving behind it only a terrible sickly feeling,
the certainty of defeat. He felt cheated and helpless and, all of a
sudden, he realized that he believed Bunnish, believed every word of
his preposterous story. "It's true, isn't it?" he said. "It is really true. You
did it to me. You. You stole my words, my dreams, all of it."
  Bunnish said nothing.
   "And the rest of it," Peter said, "the other failures, those were all you
too, weren't they? After Blue Show, when I went into journalism… that
big story that evaporated on me, all my sources suddenly denying
everything or vanishing, so it looked like I'd made it all up. The
assignments that evaporated, all those lawsuits, plagiarism, invasion of
privacy, libel, every time I turned around I was being sued. Two years,
and they just about ran me out of the profession. But it wasn't bad luck,
was it? It was you. You stole my life."
  "You ought to be complimented, Norten. I had to break you twice.
The first time I managed to kill your literary career with Blue Show,
but then while my back was turned you managed to become a terribly
popular journalist. Prize-winning, well known, all of it, and by then it
was too late to do anything. I had to flash back once more to get you,
do everything all over."
  "I ought to kill you, Bunnish," Peter heard himself say.
  E.C. shook his head. "Peter," he said, in the tone of a man
explaining something to a high-grade moron, "this is all an elaborate
hoax. Don't take Bunny seriously."
  Peter stared at his old teammate. "No, E.C. It's true. It's all true. Stop
worrying about being the butt of a joke, and think about it. It makes
sense. It explains everything that has happened to us."
   E.C. Stuart made a disgusted noise, frowned, and fingered the end
of his mustache.
  "Listen to your captain, Stuart," Bunnish said.
   Peter turned back to him. "Why? That's what I want to know. Why?
Because we played jokes on you? Kidded you? Maybe we were rotten,
I don't know, it didn't seem to be so terrible at the time. You brought a
lot of it on yourself. But whatever we might have done to you, we
never deserved this. We were your teammates, your friends."
  Bunnish's smile curdled, and the dimples disappeared. "You were
never my friends."
    Steve Delmario nodded vigorously at that. "You're no friend of
mine, Funny Bunny, I tell you that. Know what you are? A wimp. You
were always a goddamn wimp, that's why nobody ever liked you, you
were just a damn wimp loser with a crewcut. Hell, you think you were
the only one ever got kidded? What about me, the ol' last man on earth,
huh, what about that? What about the jokes E.C. played on Pete, on
Les, on all the others?" He took a drink. "Bringing us here like this,
that's another damn wimp thing to do. You're the same Bunny you
always were. Wasn't enough to do something, you had to brag about it,
let everybody know. And if somethin' went wrong, was never your
fault, was it? You only lost 'cause the room was too noisy, or the
lighting was bad, whatever." Delmario stood up. "You make me sick.
Well, you screwed up all our lives maybe, and now you told us about
it. Good for you. You had your damn wimp fun. Now let us out of
here."
  "I second that motion," said E.C.
  "Why, I wouldn't think of it," Bunnish replied. "Not just yet. We
haven't played any chess yet. A few games for old times' sake."
   Delmario blinked, and moved slightly as he stood holding the back
of his chair. "The game," he said, suddenly reminded of his challenge
to Bunnish of a few minutes ago. "We were goin' to play over the
game."
  Bunnish folded his hands neatly in front of him on the table. "We
can do better than that," he said. "I am a very fair man, you see. None
of you ever gave me a chance, but I'll give one to you, to each of you.
I've stolen your lives. Wasn't that what you said, Norten? Well, friends,
I'll give you a shot at winning those lives back. We'll play a little chess.
We'll replay the game, from the critical position. I'll take Vesselere's
side and you can have mine. The three of you can consult, if you like,
or I'll play you one by one. I don't care. All you have to do is beat me.
Win the game you say I should have won, and I'll let you go, and give
you anything you like. Money, property, a job, whatever."
  "Go t' hell, wimp," Delmario said. "I'm not interested in your damn
money."
  Bunnish picked up his glasses from the table and donned them,
smiling widely. "Or," he said, "if you prefer, you can win a chance to
use my flashback device. You can go back then, anticipate me, do it all
over, live the lives you were destined to live before I dealt myself in.
Just think of it. It's the best opportunity you'll ever have, any of you,
and I'm making it so easy. All you have to do is win a won game."
   "Winning a won game is one of the hardest things in chess," Peter
said sullenly. But even as he said it, his mind was racing, excitement
stirring deep in his gut. It was a chance, he thought, a chance to
reshape the ruins of his life, to make it come out right. To obliterate the
wrong turnings, to taste the wine of success instead of the wormwood
of failure, to avoid the mockery that his marriage to Kathy had
become. Dead hopes rose like ghosts to dance again in the graveyard
of his dreams. He had to take the shot, he knew. He had to.
  Steve Delmario was there before him. "I can win that goddamned
game," he boomed drunkenly. "I could win it with my eyes shut.
You're on, Bunny. Get out a set, damn you!"
   Bunnish laughed and stood up, putting his big hands flat on the
tabletop and using them to push himself to his feet. "Oh no, Delmario.
You're not going to have the excuse of being drunk when you lose. I'm
going to crush you when you are cold stone sober. Tomorrow. I'll play
you tomorrow."
  Delmario blinked furiously. "Tomorrow," he echoed.


  Later, when they were alone in their room, Kathy turned on him.
"Peter," she said, "let's get out of here. Tonight. Now."
   Peter was sitting before the fire. He had found a small chess set in
the top drawer of his bedside table, and had set up the critical position
from Vesselere-Bunnish to study it. He scowled at the distraction and
said, "Get out? How the hell do you propose we do that, with our car
locked up in that garage?"
    "There's got to be a phone here somewhere. We could search, find
it, call for help. Or just walk."
   "It's December, and we're in the mountains miles from anywhere.
We try to walk out of here and we could freeze to death. No." He
turned his attention back to the chessboard and tried to concentrate.
  "Peter," she said angrily.
  He looked up again. "What?" he snapped. "Can't you see I'm busy?"
  "We have to do something. This whole scene is insane. Bunnish
needs to be locked up."
  "He was telling the truth," Peter said.
   Kathy's expression softened, and for an instant there was something
like sorrow on her face. "I know," she said softly.
   "You know," Peter mimicked savagely. "You know, do you? Well,
do you know how it feels? That bastard is going to pay. He's
responsible for every rotten thing that has happened to me. For all I
know, he's probably responsible for you."
    Kathy's lips moved only slightly, and her eyes moved not at all, but
suddenly the sorrow and sympathy were gone from her face, and
instead Peter saw familiar pity, well-honed contempt. "He's just going
to crush you again," she said coldly. "He wants you to lust after this
chance, because he intends to deny it to you. He's going to beat you,
Peter. How are you going to like that? How are you going to live with
it, afterwards?"
   Peter looked down at the chesspieces. "That's what he intends, yeah.
But he's a moron. This is a won position. It's only a matter of finding
the winning line, the right variation. And we've got three shots at it.
Steve goes first. If he loses, E.C. and I will be able to learn from his
mistakes. I won't lose. I've lost everything else, maybe, but not this.
This time I'm going to be a winner. You'll see."
  "I'll see, all right," Kathy said. "You pitiful bastard."
  Peter ignored her, and moved a piece. Knight takes pawn.


  Kathy remained in the suite the next morning. "Go play your damn
games if you like," she told Peter. "I'm going to soak in the hot tub,
and read. I want no part of this."
   "Suit yourself," Peter said. He slammed the door behind him, and
thought once again what a bitch he'd married.
   Downstairs, in the huge living room, Bunnish was setting up the
board. The set he'd chosen was not ornate and expensive like the one in
the corner, with its pieces glued into place. Sets like that looked good
for decorative purposes, but were useless in serious play. Instead
Bunnish had shifted a plain wooden table to the center of the room,
and fetched out a standard tournament set: a vinyl board in green and
white that he unrolled carefully, a well-worn set of Drueke pieces of
standard Staunton design, cast in black and white plastic with lead
weights in the bases, beneath the felt, to give them a nice heft. He
placed each piece into position from memory, without once looking at
the game frozen on the expensive inlaid board across the room. Then
he began to set a double-faced chess clock. "Can't play without the
clock, you know," he said, smiling. "I'll set it exactly the same as it
stood that day in Evanston."
   When everything was finished, Bunnish surveyed the board with
satisfaction and seated himself behind Vesselere's Black pieces.
"Ready?" he asked.
  Steve Delmario sat down opposite him, looking pale and terribly
hung-over. He was holding a big tumbler full of orange juice, and
behind his thick glasses his eyes moved nervously. "Yeah," he said.
"Go on."
  Bunnish pushed the button that started Delmario's clock.
   Very quickly, Delmario reached out, played knight takes pawn—the
pieces clicked together softly as he made the capture—and used the
pawn he'd taken to punch the clock, stopping his own timer and
starting Bunnish's.
  "The sac," said Bunnish. "What a surprise." He took the knight.
   Delmario played bishop takes pawn, saccing another piece. Bunnish
was forced to capture with his king. He seemed unperturbed. He was
smiling faintly, his dimples faint creases in his big cheeks, his eyes
clear and sharp and cheerful behind his tinted eyeglasses.
   Steve Delmario was leaning forward over the board, his dark eyes
sweeping back and forth over the position, back and forth, over and
over again as if doublechecking that everything was really where he
thought it was. He crossed and uncrossed his legs. Peter, standing just
behind him, could almost feel the tension beating off Delmario in
waves, twisting him. Even E.C. Stuart, seated a few feet distant in a
big comfortable armchair, was staring at the game intently. The clock
ticked softly. Delmario lifted his hand to move his queen, but hesitated
with his fingers poised above it. His hand trembled.
   "What's the matter, Steve?" Bunnish asked. He steepled his hands
just beneath' his chin, and smiled when Delmario looked up at him.
"You hesitate. Don't you know? He who hesitates is lost. Uncertain, all
of a sudden? Surely that can't be. You were always so certain before.
How many mates did you show me? How many?"
   Delmario blinked, frowned. "I'm going to show you one more,
Bunny," he said furiously. His fingers closed on his queen, shifted it
across the board. "Check."
   "Ah," said Bunnish. Peter studied the position. The double sac had
cleared away the pawns in front of the Black king, and the queen check
permitted no retreat. Bunnish marched his king up a square, toward the
center of the board, toward the waiting White army. Surely he was lost
now. His own defenders were all over on the queenside, and the enemy
was all around him. But Bunnish did not seem worried.
   Delmario's clock was ticking as he examined the position. He sipped
his juice, shifted restlessly in his seat. Bunnish yawned, and grinned
tauntingly. "You were the winner that day, Delmario. Beat a Master.
The only winner. Can't you find the win now? Where are all those
mates, eh?"
   "There's so many I don't know which one to go with, Bunny," Steve
said. "Now shut up, damn you. I'm trying to think."
  "Oh," said Bunnish. "Pardon."
  Delmario consumed ten minutes on his clock before he reached out
and moved his remaining knight. "Check."
  Bunnish advanced his king again.
  Delmario licked his lips, slid his queen forward a square. "Check."
  Bunnish's king went sideways, toward the safety of the queenside.
  Delmario flicked a pawn forward. "Check."
  Bunnish had to take. He removed the offending pawn with his king,
smiling complacently.
   With the file open, Delmario could bring his rooks into play. He
shifted one over. "Check."
  Bunnish's harried king moved again.
  Now Delmario moved the rook forward, sliding it right up the file to
confront the enemy king face to face. "Check!" he said loudly.
   Peter sucked in his breath sharply, without meaning to. The rook
was hanging! Bunnish could just snatch it off. He stared at the position
over Delmario's shoulder. Bunnish could take the rook with his king,
all right, but then the other rook came over, the king had to go back,
then if the queen shifted just one square… yes… too many mate threats
in that variation. Black had lots of resources, but they all ended in
disaster. But if Bunnish took with his knight instead of his king, he left
that square unguarded…hmmm…queen check, king up, bishop comes
in… no, mate was even quicker that way.
  Delmario drained his orange juice and set the empty tumbler down
with self-satisfied firmness.
   Bunnish moved his king diagonally forward. The only possible
move, Peter thought. Delmario leaned forward. Behind him, Peter
leaned forward too. The White pieces were swarming around Black's
isolated king now, but how to tighten the mating net? Steve had three
different checks, Peter thought. No, four, he could do that too. He
watched and analyzed in silence. The rook check was no good, the
king just retreated, and further checks simply drove him to safety. The
bishop? No, Bunnish could trade off, take with his rook—he was two
pieces up, after all. Several subvariations branched off from the two
queen checks. Peter was still trying to figure out where they led, when
Delmario reached out suddenly, grabbed a pawn from in front of his
king, and moved it up two squares. He slammed it down solidly, and
slapped the clock. Then he sat back and crossed his arms. "Your move,
Bunny," he said.
   Peter studied the board. Delmario's last move didn't give check, but
the pawn advance cut off an important escape square. Now that
threatened rook check was no longer innocuous. Instead of being
chased back to safety, the Black king got mated in three. Of course,
Bunnish had a tempo now, it was his move, he could bring up a
defender. His queen now, could…no, then queen check, king back,
rook check, and the Black queen fell… bishop maybe… no, check
there and mate in one, unstoppable. The longer Peter looked at the
position, the fewer defensive resources he saw for Black. Bunnish
could delay the loss, but he couldn't stop it. He was smashed!
  Bunnish did not look smashed. Very calmly he picked up a knight
and moved it to queen's knight six. "Check," he said quietly.
  Delmario stared. Peter stared. E.C. Stuart got up out of his chair and
drifted closer, his finger brushing back his mustache as he considered
the game. The check was only a time-waster, Peter thought. Delmario
could capture the knight with either of two pawns, or he could simply
move his king. Except… Peter scowled… if White took with the
bishop pawn, queen came up with check, king moved to the second,
queen takes rook pawn with check, king…no, that was no good. White
got mated by force. The other way seemed to bring on the mate even
faster, after the queen checked from the eighth rank.
  Delmario moved his king up.
  Bunnish slid a bishop out along a diagonal. "Check."
  There was only one move. Steve moved his king forward again. He
was being harassed, but his mating net was still intact, once the checks
had run their course.
  Bunnish flicked his knight backward, with another check.
  Delmario was blinking and twisting his legs beneath the table. Peter
saw that if he brought his king back, Bunnish had a forced series of
checks leading to mate… but the Black knight hung now, to both rook
and queen, and… Delmario captured it with the rook.
   Bunnish grabbed White's advanced pawn with his queen, removing
the cornerstone of the mating net. Now Delmario could play queen
takes queen, but then he lost his queen to a fork, and after the trade-
offs that followed he'd be hopelessly busted. Instead he retreated his
king.
   Bunnish made a tsking noise and captured the White knight with his
queen, again daring Delmario to take it. With knight and pawn both
gone, Delmario's mating threats had all dissipated, and if White
snatched that Black queen, there was a check, a pin, take, take, take,
and… Peter gritted his teeth together… and White would suddenly be
in the end-game down a piece, hopelessly lost. No. There had to be
something better. The position still had a lot of play in it. Peter stared,
and analyzed.
   Steve Delmario stared too, while his clock ticked. The clock was
one of those fancy jobs, with a move counter. It showed that he had to
make seven more moves to reach time control. He had just under
fifteen minutes remaining. Some time pressure, but nothing serious.
   Except that Delmario sat and sat, eyes flicking back and forth across
the board, blinking. He took off his thick glasses and cleaned them
methodically on his shirt-tail. When he slid them back on, the position
had not changed. He stared at the Black king fixedly, as if he were
willing it to fall. Finally he started to get up. "I need a drink," he said.
   "I'll get it," Peter snapped. "Sit down. You've only got eight minutes
left."
   "Yeah," Delmario said. He sat down again. Peter went to the bar and
made him a screwdriver. Steve drained half of it in a gulp, never taking
his eyes from the chessboard.
  Peter happened to glance at E.C. Stuart. E.C. shook his head and
cast his eyes up toward the ceiling. Not a word was spoken, but Peter
heard the message: forget it.
   Steve Delmario sat there, growing more and more agitated. With
three minutes remaining on his clock, he reached out his hand, thought
better of it, and pulled back. He shifted in his seat, gathered his legs up
under him, leaned closer to the board, his nose a bare couple inches
above the chessmen. His clock ticked.
  He was still staring at the board when Bunnish smiled and said,
"Your flag is down, Delmario."
   Delmario looked up, blinking. His mouth hung open. "Time," he
said urgently. "I just need time to find the win, got to be here
someplace, got to, all those checks…"
  Bunnishrose. "You're out of time, Delmario. Doesn't matter anyway.
You're dead lost."
  "NO! No I'm not, damn you, there's a win…"
   Peter put a hand on Steve's shoulder. "Steve, take it easy," he said.
"I'm sorry. Bruce is right. You're busted here."
  "No," Delmario insisted. "I know there's a winning combo, I just got
to… got to… only…" His right hand, out over the board, began to
shake, and he knocked over his own king.
   Bunnish showed his dimples. "Listen to your captain, winner-boy,"
he said. Then he looked away from Delmario, to where E.C. stood
scowling. "You're next, Stuart. Tomorrow. Same time, same place."
  "And if I don't care to play?" E.C. said disdainfully.
  Bunnish shrugged. "Suit yourself," he said. "I'll be here, and the
game will be here. I'll start your clock on time. You can lose over the
board or lose by forfeit. You lose either way."
  "And me?" Peter said.
  "Why, captain," said Bunnish. "I'm saving you for last."
   Steve Delmario was a wreck. He refused to leave the chessboard
except to mix himself fresh drinks. For the rest of the morning and
most of the afternoon he remained glued to his seat, drinking like a fish
and flicking the chess pieces around like a man possessed, playing and
replaying the game. Delmario wolfed down a couple sandwiches that
Peter made up for him around lunch-time, but there was no talking to
him, no calming him. Peter tried. In an hour or so, Delmario would be
passed out from the booze he was downing in such alarming quantities.
   Finally he and E.C. left Delmario alone, and went upstairs to his
suite. Peter knocked on the door. "You decent, Kathy? E.C. is with
me."
  She opened the door. She had on jeans and a t-shirt. "Decent as I
ever get," she said. "Come on in. How did the great game come out?"
  "Delmario lost," Peter said. "It was a close thing, though. I thought
we had him for a moment."
  Kathy snorted.
  "So what now?" E.C. said.
  "You going to play tomorrow?"
  E.C. shrugged. "Might as well. I've got nothing to lose."
  "Good," Peter said. "You can beat him. Steve almost won, and we
both know the shape he's in. We've got to analyze, figure out where he
went wrong."
  E.C. fingered his mustache. He looked cool and thoughtful. "That
pawn move," he suggested. "The one that didn't give check. It left
White open for that counterattack."
   "It also set up the mating net," Peter said. He looked over his
shoulder, saw Kathy standing with her arms crossed. "Could you get
the chessboard from the bedroom?" he asked her. When she left, Peter
turned back to E.C. "I think Steve was already lost by the time he made
that pawn move. That was his only good shot—lots of threats there.
Everything else just petered out after a few checks. He went wrong
before that, I think."
  "All those checks," E.C. said. "One too many, maybe?"
   "Exactly," said Peter. "Instead of driving him into a checkmate,
Steve drove him into safety. You've got to vary somewhere in there."
  "Agreed."
   Kathy arrived with the chess set and placed it on the low table
between them. As Peter swiftly set up the critical position, she folded
her legs beneath her and sat on the floor. But she grew bored very
quickly when they began to analyze, and it wasn't long before she got
to her feet again with a disgusted noise. "Both of you are crazy," she
said. "I'm going to get something to eat."
  "Bring us back something, will you?" Peter asked. "And a couple of
beers?" But he hardly noticed it when she placed the tray beside them.
   They stayed at it well into the night. Kathy was the only one who
went down to dine with Bunnish. When she returned, she said, "That
man is disgusting," so emphatically that it actually distracted Peter
from the game. But only for an instant.
  "Here, try this," E.C. said, moving a knight, and Peter looked back
quickly.


  "I see you decided to play, Stuart," Bunnish said the next morning.
  E.C, looking trim and fresh, his sandy hair carefully combed and
brushed, a steaming mug of black coffee in hand, nodded briskly.
"You're as sharp as ever, Brucie."
  Bunnish chuckled.
   "One point, however," E.C. said, holding up a finger. "I still don't
believe your cock-and-bull story about time-travel. We'll play this out,
alright, but we'll play for money, not for one of your flashbacks.
Understood?"
  "You jokers are such suspicious types," Bunnish said. He sighed.
"Anything you say, of course. You want money. Fine."
  "One million dollars."
  Bunnish smiled broadly. "Small change," he said. "But I agree. Beat
me, and you'll leave here with one million. You'll take a check, I
hope?"
   "A certified check. "E.C. turned to Peter. "You're my witness," he
said, and Peter nodded. The three of them were alone this morning.
Kathy was firm in her disinterest, and Delmario was in his room
sleeping off his binge.
  "Ready?" Bunnish asked.
  "Go on."
  Bunnish started the clock. E.C. reached out and played the sacrifice.
Knight takes pawn. His motions were crisp and economical. Bunnish
captured, and E.C. played the bishop sac without a second's hesitation.
Bunnish captured again, pushed the clock.
  E.C. Stuart brushed back his mustache, reached down, and moved a
pawn. No check.
   "Ah," Bunnish said. "An improvement. You have something up
your sleeve, don't you? Of course you do. E.C. Stuart always has
something up his sleeve. The hilarious, unpredictable E.C. Stuart. Such
a joker. So imaginative."
  "Play chess, Brucie," snapped E.C.
   "Of course." Peter drifted closer to the board while Bunnish studied
the position. They had gone over and over the game last night, and had
finally decided that the queen check that Delmario had played
following the double sac was unsound. There were several other
checks in the position, all tempting, but after hours of analysis he and
E.C. had discarded those as well. Each of them offered plenty of traps
and checkmates should Black err, but each of them seemed to fail
against correct play, and they had to assume Bunnish would play
correctly.
   E.C.'s pawn move was a more promising line. Subtler. Sounder. It
opened lines for White's pieces, and interposed another barrier between
Black's king and the safety of the queenside. Suddenly White had
threats everywhere. Bunnish had serious troubles to chew on now.
   He did not chew on them nearly as long as Peter would have
expected. After studying the position for a bare couple minutes, he
picked up his queen and snatched off White's queen rook pawn, which
was undefended. Bunnish cupped the pawn in his hand, yawned, and
slouched back in his chair, looking lazy and unperturbed.
   E.C. Stuart permitted himself a brief scowl as he looked over the
position. Peter felt uneasy as well. That move ought to have disturbed
Bunnish more than it had, he thought. White had so many threats…
last night they had analyzed the possibilities exhaustively, playing and
replaying every variation and subvariation until they were sure that
they had found the win. Peter had gone to sleep feeling almost jubilant.
Bunnish had a dozen feasible defenses to their pawn thrust. They'd had
no way of knowing which one he would choose, so they had satisfied
themselves that each and every one ultimately ended in failure.
   Only now Bunnish had fooled them. He hadn't played any of the
likely defenses. He had just ignored E.C.'s mating threats, and gone
pawn-snatching as blithely as the rankest patzer. Had they missed
something? While E.C. considered the best reply, Peter drew up a chair
to the side of the board so he could analyze in comfort.
   There was nothing, he thought, nothing. Bunnish had a check next
move, if he wanted it, by pushing his queen to the eighth rank. But it
was meaningless. E.C. hadn't weakened his queenside the way Steve
had yesterday, in his haste to find a mate. If Bunnish checked, all
Stuart had to do was move his king up to queen two. Then the Black
queen would be under attack by a rook, and forced to retreat or grab
another worthless pawn. Meanwhile Bunnish would be getting
checkmated in the middle of the board. The more Peter went over the
variations, the more convinced he became that there was no way
Bunnish could possibly work up the kind of counterattack he had used
to smash Steve Delmario.
   E.C., after a long and cautious appraisal of the board, seemed to
reach the same conclusion. He reached out coolly and moved his
knight, hemming in Bunnish's lonely king once and for all. Now he
threatened a queen check that would lead to mate in one. Bunnish
could capture the dominating knight, but then E.C. just recaptured with
a rook, and checkmate followed soon thereafter, no matter how
Bunnish might wriggle on the hook.
   Bunnish smiled across the board at his opponent, and lazily shoved
his queen forward a square to the last rank. "Check," he said.
  E.C. brushed back his moustache, shrugged, and played his king up.
He punched the clock with a flourish. "You're lost," he said flatly.
   Peter was inclined to agree. That last check had accomplished
nothing; in fact, it seemed to have worsened Black's plight. The mate
threats were still there, as unstoppable as ever, and now Black's queen
was under attack as well. He could pull it back, of course, but not in
time to help with the defense. Bunnish ought to be frantic and
miserable.
   Instead his smile was so broad that his fat cheeks were threatening
to crack in two. "Lost?" he said. "Ah, Stuart, this time the joke is on
you!" He giggled like a teenage girl, and brought his queen down the
rank to grab off White's rook. "Check!"
   Peter Norten had not played a game of tournament chess in a long,
long time, but he still remembered the way it had felt when an
opponent suddenly made an unexpected move that changed the whole
complexion of a game: the brief initial confusion, the what is that?
feeling, followed by panic when you realized the strength of the
unanticipated move, and then the awful swelling gloom that built and
built as you followed through one losing variation after another in your
head. There was no worse moment in the game of chess.
  That was how Peter felt now.
   They had missed it totally. Bunnish was giving up his queen for a
rook, normally an unthinkable sacrifice, but not in this position. E.C.
had to take the offered queen. But if he captured with his king, Peter
saw with sudden awful clarity, Black had a combination that won the
farm, which meant he had to use the other rook, pulling it off its
crucial defense of the central knight… and then… oh, shit!
   E.C. tried to find another alternative for more than fifteen minutes,
but there was no alternative to be found. He played rook takes queen.
Bunnish quickly seized his own rook and captured the knight that had
moved so menacingly into position only two moves before. With
ruthless precision, Bunnish then forced the trade-off of one piece after
another, simplifying every danger off the board. All of a sudden they
were in the endgame. E.C. had a queen and five pawns; Bunnish had a
rook, two bishops, a knight, and four pawns, and—ironically—his
once-imperiled king now occupied a powerful position in the center of
the board.
   Play went on for hours, as E.C. gamely gave check after check with
his rogue queen, fighting to pick up a loose piece or perhaps draw by
repetition. But Bunnish was too skilled for such desperation tactics. It
was only a matter of technique.
  Finally E.C. tipped over his king.
  "I thought we looked at every possible defense," Peter said numbly.
   "Why, captain," said Bunnish cheerfully. "Every attempt to defend
loses. The defending pieces block off escape routes or get in the way.
Why should I help mate myself? I'd rather let you try to do that."
  "I will do that," Peter promised angrily. "Tomorrow."
  Bunnish rubbed his hands together. "I can scarcely wait!"


  That night the post-mortem was held in E.C.'s suite; Kathy—who
had greeted their glum news with an "I told you so" and a
contemptuous smile—had insisted that she didn't want them staying up
half the night over a chessboard in her presence. She told Peter he was
behaving like a child, and they had angry words before he stormed out.
  Steve Delmario was going over the morning's loss with E.C. when
Peter joined them. Delmario's eyes looked awfully bloodshot, but
otherwise he appeared sober, if haggard. He was drinking coffee.
"How does it look?" Peter asked when he pulled up a seat.
  "Bad," E.C. said.
   Delmario nodded. "Hell, worse'n bad, it's starting to look like that
damn sac is unsound after all. I can't believe it, I just can't, it all looks
so promising, got to be something there. Got to. But I'm damned if I
can find it."
   E.C. added, "The surprise he pulled today is a threat in a number of
variations. Don't forget, we gave up two pieces to get to this position.
Unfortunately, that means that Brucie can easily afford to give some of
that material back to get out of the fix. He still comes out ahead, and
wins the endgame. We've found a few improvements on my play this
morning—"
  "That knight doesn't have to drop," interjected Delmario.
  "…but nothing convincing," E.C. concluded.
   "You ever think," Delmario said, "that maybe the Funny Bunny was
right? That maybe the sac don't work, maybe the game was never won
at all?" His voice had a note of glum disbelief in it.
  "There's one thing wrong with that," Peter said.
  "Oh?"
  "Ten years ago, after Bunnish had blown the game and the match,
Robinson Vesselere admitted that he had been lost."
  E.C. looked thoughtful. "That's true. I'd forgotten that."
  "Vesselere was almost a Senior Master. He had to know what he
was talking about. The win is there. I mean to find it."
  Delmario clapped his hands together and whooped gleefully. "Well
yes, Pete, you're right! Let's go!"
  "At last the prodigal spouse returns," Kathy said pointedly when
Peter came in. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"
   She was seated in a chair by the fireplace, though the fire had
burned down to ashes and embers. She wore a dark robe, and the end
of the cigarette she was smoking was a bright point in the darkness.
Peter had come in smiling, but now he frowned. Kathy had once been a
heavy smoker, but she'd given it up years ago. Now she only lit a
cigarette when she was very upset. When she lit up, it usually meant
they were headed for a vicious row.
    "It's late," Peter said. "I don't know how late. What does it matter?"
He'd spent most of the night with E.C. and Steve, but it had been worth
it. They'd found what they had been looking for. Peter had returned
tired but elated, expecting to find his wife asleep. He was in no mood
for grief. "Never mind about the time," he said to her, trying to placate.
"We've got it, Kath."
  She crushed out her cigarette methodically. "Got what? Some new
move you think is going to defeat our psychopathic host? Don't you
understand that I don't give a damn about this stupid game of yours?
Don't you listen to a thing I say? I've been waiting up half the night,
Peter. It's almost three in the morning. I want to talk."
   "Yeah?" Peter snapped. Her tone had gotten his back up. "Did you
ever think that maybe I didn't want to listen? Well, think it. I have a big
game tomorrow. I need my sleep. I can't afford to stay up till dawn
screaming at you. Understand? Why the hell are you so hot to talk
anyway? What could you possibly have to say that I haven't heard
before, huh?"
   Kathy laughed nastily. "I could tell you a few things about your old
friend Bunnish that you haven't heard before."
  "I doubt it."
  "Do you? Well, did you know that he's been trying to get me into
bed for the past two days?"
   She said it tauntingly, throwing it at him. Peter felt as if he had been
struck. "What?"
  "Sit down," she snapped, "and listen."
   Numbly, he did as she bid him. "Did you?" he asked, staring at her
silhouette in the darkness, the vaguely ominous shape that was his
wife.
   "Did I? Sleep with him, you mean? Jesus, Peter, how can you ask
that? Do you loathe me that much? I'd sooner sleep with a roach. That's
what he reminds me of anyway." She gave a rueful chuckle. "He isn't
exactly a sophisticated seducer, either. He actually offered me money."
  "Why are you telling me this?"
   "To knock some goddamned sense into you! Can't you see that
Bunnish is trying to destroy you, all of you, any way he can? He didn't
want me. He just wanted to get at you. And you, you and your moron
teammates, are playing right into his hands. You're becoming as
obsessed with that idiot chess game as he is." She leaned forward.
Dimly, Peter could make out the lines of her face. "Peter," she said
almost imploringly, "don't play him. He's going to beat you, love, just
like he beat the others."
    "I don't think so, love," Peter said from between clenched teeth. The
endearment became an epithet as he hurled it back to her. "Why the
hell are you always so ready to predict defeat for me, huh? Can't you
ever be supportive, not even for a goddamned minute? If you won't
help, why don't you just bug off? I've had all I can stand of you, damn
it. Always belittling me, mocking. You've never believed in me. I don't
know why the hell you married me, if all you wanted to do was make
my life a hell. Just leave me alone!"
   For a long moment after Peter's outburst there was silence. Sitting
there in the darkned room, he could almost feel her rage building—any
instant now he expected to hear her start screaming. Then he would
scream back, and she would get up and break something, and he would
grab her, and then the knives would come out in earnest. He closed his
eyes, trembling, feeling close to tears. He didn't want this, he thought.
He really didn't.
  But Kathy fooled him. When she spoke, her voice was surprisingly
gentle. "Oh, Peter," she said. "I never meant to hurt you. Please. I love
you."
  He was stunned. "Love me?" he said wonderingly.
   "Please listen. If there is anything at all left between us, please just
listen to me for a few minutes. Please."
  "All right," he said.
  "Peter, I did believe in you once. Surely you must remember how
good things were in the beginning? I was supportive then, wasn't I?
The first few years, when you were writing your novel? I worked, I
kept food on the table, I gave you the time to write."
   "Oh, yes," he said, anger creeping back into his tone. Kathy had
thrown that at him before, had reminded him forcefully of how she'd
supported them for two years while he wrote a book that turned out to
be so much waste paper. "Spare me your reproaches, huh? It wasn't my
fault I couldn't sell the book. You heard what Bunnish said."
  "I wasn't reproaching you, damn it!" she snapped. "Why are you
always so ready to read criticism into every word I say?" She shook
her head, and got her voice back under control. "Please, Peter, don't
make this harder than it is. We have so many years of pain to
overcome, so many wounds to bind up. Just hear me out.
   "I was trying to say that I did believe in you. Even after the book,
after you burned it… even then. You made it hard, though. I didn't
think you were a failure, but you did, and it changed you, Peter. You
let it get to you. You gave up writing, instead of just gritting your teeth
and doing another book."
  "I wasn't tough enough, I know," he said. "The loser. The
weakling."
   "Shut up!" she said in exasperation. "I didn't say that, you did. Then
you went into journalism. I still believed. But everything kept going
wrong. You got fired, you got sued, you became a disgrace. Our
friends started drifting away. And all the time you insisted that none of
it was your fault. You lost all the rest of your self-confidence. You
didn't dream any more. You whined, bitterly and incessantly, about
your bad luck."
  "You never helped."
   "Maybe not," Kathy admitted. "I tried to, at the start, but it just got
worse and worse and I couldn't deal with it. You weren't the dreamer
I'd married. It was hard to remember how I'd admired you, how I'd
respected you. Peter, you loathed yourself so much that there was no
way to keep the loathing from rubbing off on me."
  "So?" Peter said. "What's the point, Kathy?"
   "I never left you, Peter," she said. "I could have, you know. I
wanted to. I stayed, through all of it, all the failures and all the self-
pity. Doesn't that say anything to you?"
  "It says you're a masochist," he snapped. "Or maybe a sadist."
   That was too much for her. She started to reply, and her voice broke,
and she began to weep. Peter sat where he was and listened to her cry.
Finally the tears ran out, and she said, quietly, "Damn you. Damn you.
I hate you."
  "I thought you loved me. Make up your mind."
  "You ass. You insensitive creep. Don't you understand, Peter?"
   "Understand what?" he said impatiently. "You said listen, so I've
been listening, and all you've been doing is rehashing all the same old
stuff, recounting all my inadequacies. I heard it all before."
    "Peter, can't you see that this week has changed everything? If you'd
only stop hating, stop loathing me and yourself, maybe you could see
it. We have a chance again, Peter. If we try. Please."
   "I don't see that anything has changed. I'm going to play a big chess
game tomorrow, and you know how much it means to me and my self
respect, and you don't care. You don't care if I win or lose. You keep
telling me I'm going to lose. You're helping me to lose by making me
argue when I should be sleeping. What the hell has changed? You're
the same damn bitch you've been for years."
  "I will tell you what has changed," she said. "Peter, up until a few
days ago, both of us thought you were a failure. But you aren't! It
hasn't been your fault. None of it. Not bad luck, like you kept saying,
and not personal inadequacy either, like you really thought. Bunnish
has done it all. Can't you see what a difference that makes? You've
never had a chance, Peter, but you have one now. There's no reason
you shouldn't believe in yourself. We know you can do great things!
Bunnish admitted it. We can leave here, you and I, and start all over
again. You could write another book, write plays, do anything you
want. You have the talent. You've never lacked it. We can dream
again, believe again, love each other again. Don't you see? Bunnish
had to gloat to complete his revenge, but by gloating he's freed you!"
   Peter sat very still in the dark room, his hand clenching and
unclenching on the arm of the chair as Kathy's words sunk in. He had
been so wrapped up in the chess game, so obsessed with Bunnish's
obsession, that he had never seen it, never considered it. It wasn't me,
he thought wonderingly. All those years, it was never me. "It's true," he
said in a small voice.
  "Peter?" she said, concerned.
   He heard the concern, heard more than that, heard love in her voice.
So many people, he thought, make such grand promises, promise better
or worse, promise rich or poorer, and bail out as soon as things turn the
least bit sour in a relationship. But she had stayed, through all of it, the
failures, the disgrace, the cruel words and the poisonous thoughts, the
weekly fights, the poverty. She had stayed.
  "Kathy," he said. The next words were very hard. "I love you, too."
He started to get up and move toward her, and began to cry.


  They arrived late the next morning. They showered together, and
Peter dressed with unusual care. For some reason, he felt it was
important to look his best. It was a new beginning, after all. Kathy
came with him. They entered the living room holding hands. Bunnish
was already behind the board, and Peter's clock was ticking. The others
were there too. E.C. was seated patiently in a chair. Delmario was
pacing. "Hurry up," he said when Peter came down the stairs. "You've
lost five minutes already."
  Peter smiled. "Easy, Steve," he said. He went over and took his seat
behind the White pieces. Kathy stood behind him. She looked
gorgeous this morning, Peter thought.
  "It's your move, captain," Bunnish said, with an unpleasant smile.
   "I know," Peter said. He made no effort to move, scarcely even
looked at the board. "Bruce, why do you hate me? I've been thinking
about that, and I'd like to know the answer. I can understand about
Steve and E.C. Steve had the presumption to win when you lost, and
he rubbed your nose in that defeat afterwards. E.C. made you the butt
of his jokes. But why me? What did I ever do to you?"
  Bunnish looked briefly confused. Then his face grew hard. "You.
You were the worst of them all."
  Peter was startled. "I never…"
   "The big captain," Bunnish said sarcastically. "That day ten years
ago, you never even tried. You took a quick grandmaster draw with
your old friend Hal Winslow. You could have tried for a win, played
on, but you didn't. Oh, no. You never cared how much more pressure
you put on the rest of us. And when we lost, you didn't take any of the
blame, not a bit of it, even though you gave up half a point. It was all
my fault. And that wasn't all of it, either. Why was I on first board,
Norten? All of us on the B team had approximately the same rating.
How did I get the honor of being board one?"
   Peter thought for a minute, trying to recall the strategies that had
motivated him ten years before. Finally he nodded. "You always lost
the big games, Bruce. It made sense to put you up on board one, where
you'd face the other teams' big guns, the ones who'd probably beat
whoever we played there. That way the lower boards would be manned
by more reliable players, the ones we could count on in the clutch."
   "In other words," Bunnish said, "I was a write-off. You expected me
to lose, while you won matches on the lower boards."
  "Yes," Peter admitted. "I'm sorry."
   "Sorry," mocked Bunnish. "You made me lose, expected me to lose,
and then tormented me for losing, and now you're sorry. You didn't
play chess that day. You never played chess. You were playing a
bigger game, a game that lasted for years, between you and Winslow
of U.C. And the team members were your pieces and your pawns. Me,
I was a sac. A gambit. That was all. And it didn't work anyway.
Winslow beat you. You lost."
 "You're right," Peter admitted. "I lost. I think I understand now.
Why you did all the things you've done."
   "You're going to lose again now," Bunnish said. "Move, before your
clock runs out." He nodded down at the checkered wasteland that lay
between them, at the complex jumble of Black and White pieces.
   Peter glanced at the board with disinterest. "We analyzed until three
in the morning last night, the three of us. I had a new variation all set.
A single sacrifice, instead of the double sac. I play knight takes pawn,
but I hold back from the bishop sac, swing my queen over instead.
That was the idea. It looked pretty good. But it's unsound, isn't it?"
  Bunnish stared at him. "Play it, and we'll find out!"
  "No," said Peter. "I don't want to play."
  "Pete!" Steve Delmario said in consternation. "You got to, what are
you saying, beat this damn bastard."
  Peter looked at him. "It's no good, Steve."
  There was a silence. Finally Bunnish said, "You're a coward,
Norten. A coward and a failure and a weakling. Play the game out."
  "I'm not interested in the game, Bruce. Just tell me. The variation is
unsound."
  Bunnish made a disgusted noise. "Yes, yes," he snapped. "It's
unsound. There's a countersac, I give up a rook to break up your
mating threats, but I win a piece back a few moves later."
  "All the variations are unsound, aren't they?" Peter said.
  Bunnish smiled thinly.
  "White doesn't have a won game at all," Peter said. "We were
wrong, all those years. You never blew the win. You never had a win.
Just a position that looked good superficially, but led nowhere."
    "Wisdom, at last," Bunnish said. "I've had computers print out every
possible variant. They take forever, but I've had lifetimes. When I
flashed back—you have no idea how many times I have flashed back,
trying one new idea after another—that is always my target point, that
day in Evanston, the game with Vesselere. I've tried every move there
is to be tried in that position, every wild idea. It makes no difference.
Vesselere always beats me. All the variations are unsound."
  "But," Delmario protested, looking bewildered. "Vesselere said he
was lost. He said so!"
   Bunnish looked at him with contempt. "I had made him sweat a lot
in a game he should have won easily. He was just getting back. He was
a vindictive man, and he knew that by saying that he'd make the loss
that much more painful." He smirked. "I've taken care of him too, you
know."
   E.C. Stuart rose-up from his chair and straightened his vest. "If
we're done now, Brucie, maybe you would be so kind as to let us out
of Bunnishland?"
  "You can go," Bunnish said. "And that drunk, too. But not Peter.'' He
showed his dimples. ''Why, Peter has almost won, in a sense. So I'm
going to be generous. You know what I'm going to do for you,
captain? I'm going to let you use my flashback device."
  "No thank you," Peter said.
   Bunnish stared, befuddled. "What do you mean, no? Don't you
understand what I'm giving you? You can wipe out all your failures,
try again, make some different moves. Be a success in another
timeline."
   "I know. Of course, that would leave Kathy with a dead body in this
timeline, wouldn't it? And you with the satisfaction of driving me to
something that uncannily resembles suicide. No. I'll take my chances
with the future instead of the past. With Kathy."
   Bunnish let his mouth droop open. "What do you care about her?
She hates you anyway. She'll be better off with you dead. She'll get the
insurance money and you'll get somebody better, somebody who cares
about you."
  "But I do care about him," Kathy said. She put a hand on Peter's
shoulder. He reached up and touched it, and smiled.
   "Then you're a fool, too," Bunnish cried. "He's nothing, he'll never
be anything. I'll see to that."
   Peter stood up. "I don't think so, somehow. I don't think you can
hurt us anymore. Any of us." He looked at the others. "What do you
think, guys?"
  E.C. cocked his head thoughtfully, and ran a finger along the
underside of his mustache. "You know," he said, "I think you're right."
   Delmario just seemed baffled, until all of a sudden the light broke
across his face, and he grinned. "You can't steal ideas I haven't come
up with yet, can you?" he said to Bunnish. "Not in this timeline,
anyhow." He made a loud whooping sound and stepped up to the
chessboard. Reaching down, he stopped the clock. "Checkmate," he
said. "Checkmate, checkmate, checkmate!"


   Less than two weeks later, Kathy knocked softly on the door of his
study. "Wait a sec!" Peter shouted. He typed out another sentence, then
flicked off the typewriter and swiveled in his chair. "C'mon in."
  She opened the door and smiled at him. "I made some tuna salad, if
you want to take a break for lunch. How's the book coming?"
  "Good," Peter said. "I should finish the second chapter today, if I
keep at it." She was holding a newspaper, he noticed. "What's that?"
  "I thought you ought to see this," she replied, handing it over.
   She'd folded it open to the obits. Peter took it and read. Millionaire
electronics genius Bruce Bunnish had been found dead in his Colorado
home, hooked up to a strange device that had seemingly electrocuted
him. Peter sighed.
  "He's going to try again, isn't he?" Kathy said.
  Peter put down the newspaper. "The poor bastard. He can't see it."
  "See what?"
  Peter took her hand and squeezed it. "All the variations are
unsound," he said. It made him sad. But after lunch, he soon forgot
about it, and went back to work.
                 A GAME OF VLET
                         Joanna Russ

   In Ourdh, near the sea, on a summer's night so hot and still that the
marble blocks of the Governor's mansion sweated as if the earth itself
were respiring through the stone—which is exactly what certain wise
men maintain to be the case—the Governor's palace guard caught an
assassin trying to enter the Governor's palace through a secret passage
too many unfortunates have thought they alone knew. This one, his
arm caught and twisted by the Captain, beads of sweat starting out on
his pale, black-bearded face, was a thin young man in aristocratic
robes, followed by the oddest company one could possibly meet—even
in Ourdh—a cook, a servant-girl, a couple of waterfront beggars, a
battered hulk of a man who looked like a professional bodyguard fallen
on evil days, and five peasants. These persons remained timidly silent
while the Captain tightened his grip on the young man's arm; the young
man made an inarticulate sound between his teeth but did not cry out;
the Captain shook him, causing him to fall to his knees; then the
Captain said, "Who are you, scum!" and the young man answered, '"I
am Rav." His followers all nodded in concert, like mechanical mice.
   "He is," said one of the guard; "he's a magician. I seen him at the
banquet a year ago," and the Captain let go, allowing the young man to
get to his feet. Perhaps they were a little afraid of magicians, or
perhaps they felt a rudimentary shame at harming someone known to
the Governor—though the magician had been out of favor for the last
eleven zodiacal signs of the year—but this seems unlikely. Humanity,
of course, they did not have. The Captain motioned his men back and
stepped back himself, silent in the main hall of the Governor's villa,
waiting to hear what the young nobleman had to say. What he said was
most surprising. He said (with difficulty):
  "I am a champion player of Vlet."
   It was then that the Lady appeared. She appeared quite silently,
unseen by anybody, between two of the Governor's imported marble
pillars which were tapered toward the base and set in wreaths of carved
and tinted anemones and lilies. She stood a little behind one of the
nearby torches which had been set into a bracket decorated with a
group of stylized young women known to aristocratic Ourdh as The
Female Virtues: Modesty, Chastity, Fecundity and Tolerance, a
common motif in art, and from this vantage point she watched the
scene before her. She heard Rav declare his intention of having come
only to play a game of Vlet with the Governor, which was not
believed, to say the least; she saw the servant-girl blurt out a flurry of
signs made by the deaf-and-dumb; she both saw and heard the guards
laugh until they cried, hush each other for fear of waking the
Governor, laugh themselves sick again, and finally decide to begin by
flaying the peasants in order to relieve the tedium of the night watch.
  It was then that she stepped forward.
  "You woke up Sweetie," she said.
   That she was not a Lady in truth and in verity might have been seen
from certain small signs and in a better light—the heaviness of her
sandals, for instance, or the less-than-perfect fit of her elaborate,
jewelled coiffure, or the streaking and blurring of the gold paint on her
face (as if she had applied cosmetics in haste or desperation)—but she
wore the semi-transparent, elaborately gold-embroidered black robe
Ourdh calls "the gown of the night" (which is to be sharply
distinguished from "the gown of the evening") and as she came
forward this fell open, revealing that she wore nothing at all
underneath. Her sandals were not noticed. She closed the robe again.
The Captain, who had hesitated between anticipations of a bribe and a
dressing-down from the Governor, hesitated no longer. He put out his
hand for money. Several guards might have wondered why the
Governor had chosen such an ordinary-looking young woman, but just
at that moment—as she came into the light, which was (after all) pretty
bad—the Lady yawned daintily like a cat, stretched from top to
bottom, smiled a little to herself and gave each of the five guards in
turn a glance of such deep understanding, such utter promise, and such
extraordinary good humor, that one actually blushed. Skill pays for all.
  "Poor Sweetie," she said.
  "Madam—" began the Captain, a little unnerved.
   "I said to Sweetie," went on the Lady, unperturbed, "that his little
villa was just the quietest place in the city and so cutey darling that I
could stay here forever. And then you came in."
  "Madam—" said the Captain.
  "Sweetie doesn't like noise," said the Lady, and she sat down on the
Governor's gilded audience bench, crossing her knees so that her robe
fell away, leaving one leg bare to the thigh. She began to swing this
bare leg in and out of the shadows so confusingly that none could have
sworn later whether it were beautiful or merely passable; moreover,
something sparkled regularly at her knee with such hypnotic precision
that a junior guard's head began to bob a little, like a pendulum, and he
had to be elbowed in the ribs by a comrade. She gave the man a sharp,
somehow disappointed look. Then she appeared to notice Rav.
  "Who's that?" she said carelessly.
  "An assassin," said the Captain.
  "No, no," said the Lady, drawling impatiently, "the cute one, the one
with the little beard. Who's he?"
  "I said—" began the Captain with asperity.
   "Rav, Madam," interrupted the young man, holding his sore arm
carefully and wincing a little (for he had bowed to her automatically),
"an unhappy wretch formerly patronized by the Governor, his
'magician' as he was pleased to call me, but no Mage, Madam, no
Grandmaster, only a player with trifles, a composer of little tricks;
however, I have found out something, if only that, and I came here
tonight to offer it to His Excellentness. I am, my Lady, as you may be
yourself, an addict of that wonderful game called Vlet and I came here
tonight to offer to the Governor the most extraordinary board and
pieces for the game that have ever been made. That is all; but these
gentlemen misinterpreted me and declare that I have come to
assassinate His Excellentness, the which" (he took a shuddering
breath) "is the farthest from my thoughts. I abhor the shedding of
blood, as any of my intimates can tell you. I came only to play a game
of Vlet."
  "Oooooh!" said the Lady, "Vlet! I adore Vlet!"
   "I have been away," continued Rav, "for nearly a year, making this
most uncommon board and pieces, as I know the Governor's passion
for the game. This is no ordinary set, Madam, but a virgin board and
virgin pieces which no human hand have every touched. You may have
heard—as all of us have, my Lady—of the virgin speculum or mirror
made by certain powerful Mages, and which can be used once—but
only once—to look anywhere in the world. Such a mirror must be
made of previously unworked ore, fitted in the dark so that no ray of
light ever falls upon it, polished in the dark by blind polishers so that
no human sight ever contaminates it, and under these conditions and
these conditions only can the first person who looks into the mirror
look anywhere and see anything he wishes. A Vlet board and pieces,
similarly made from unworked stone and without the touch of human
hands, is similarly magical and the first game played on such a board,
with such pieces, can control anything in the world, just as the user of
the virgin speculum can look anywhere in the word. This gentleman
with me" (he indicated the ex-bodyguard) "is a virtuoso contortionist,
taught the art under the urgings of the lash. He has performed all the
carving of the pieces with his feet so that we may truly say no human
hands have touched them. That gentleman over there" (he motioned
toward the cook) "lost a hand in an accident in the Governor's kitchens
and these" (he waved at the peasants) "have had their right hands
removed for evading the taxes. The beggars have been similarly
deformed by their parents for the practice of their abominable and
degrading trade and the young lady is totally deaf from repeated
boxings on the ears given her by her mistress. It is she who crushed the
ore for us, so that no human ears might hear the sounds of the working.
This Vlet board has never been touched by human hands and neither
have the pieces. They are entirely virgin. You may notice, as I take
them from my sleeve, that they are wrapped in oiled silk, to prevent my
touch from contaminating them. I wished only to present this board
and pieces to the Governor, in the hope that the gift might restore me
to his favor. I have been out of it, as you know. I am an indifferent
player of Vlet but a powerful and sound student and I have worked out
a classical game in the last year in which the Governor could—without
the least risk to himself—defeat all his enemies and become emperor
of the world. He will play (as one player must) in his own person; I
declare that I am his enemies in toto and then we play the game, in
which, of course, he defeats me. It is that simple."
  "Assassin!" growled the Captain of the Guard; "Liar!" but the Lady,
who had been gliding slowly towards the magician as he talked, with a
perfectly practical and unnoticeable magic of her own, here slipped the
board and pieces right out of his hands and said, with a toss of her
head:
  "You will play against me."
  The young man turned pale.
   "Oh I know you, I know you," said the Lady, slowly unwrapping the
oiled silk from the set of Vlet. "You're the one who kept pestering poor
Sweetie about justice and taxes and cutting off people's heads and all
sorts of things that were none of your business. Don't interrupt. You're
a liar and you undoubtedly came here to kill Sweetie, but you're
terribly inept and very cute and so" (here she caught her breath and
smiled at him) "sit down and play with me." And she touched the first
piece.
   Now it is often said that in Vlet experienced players lose sight of
everything but the game itself, and so passionate is their absorption in
this intellectual haze that they forget to eat or drink, and sometimes
even to breathe in the intensity of their concentration (this is why
Grandmasters are always provided with chamber pots during an
especially arduous game) but never before had such a thing actually
happened to the Lady. As she touched the first piece—it was a black
one—all the sounds in the hall died away, and everyone there, the
guards, the pitiful band this misguided magician had brought with him
and the great hall itself, the pillars, the fitted blocks of the floor, the
frescoes, the torches, everything faded and dissolved into mist. Only
she herself existed, she and the board of Vlet, the pieces of Vlet, which
stood before her in unnatural distinctness, as if she were looking down
from a mountain at the camps of two opposing armies. One army was
red and one was black and on the other side of the great, smoky plain
sat the magician, himself the size of a mountain or a god, his lean, pale
face working and his black beard standing out like ink. He held in one
hand a piece of Red. He looked over the board as if he looked into an
abyss and he smiled pitifully at her, not with fear but with some
intense, fearful hope that was very close to it.
   "You are playing for your life," she said, "for I declare myself to be
the Government of Ourdh."
  "I play," said he, "for the Revolution. As I planned."
  And he moved his first piece.
  Outside, in the night, five hundred farmers moved against the city
gates.
  She moved all her Common Persons at once, which was a popular
way to open the game. They move one square at a time.
  So did he.
   In back of her Common Persons she put her Strongbox, which is a
very strong offensive piece but weak on the defense; she moved her
Archpriest—the sliding piece—in front of her Governor, who is the
ultimate object of the game, and brought her Elephant to the side,
keeping it in reserve. She went to move a set of Common Persons and
discovered with a shock that she seemed to have no Common Persons
at all and her opponent nothing else; then she saw that all her black
Common Persons had fled to the other side of the board and that they
had all turned red. In those days it was possible—depending on the
direction from which your piece came—either to take an enemy's piece
out of the game—"kill it," they said—or convert it to your own use.
One signalled this by standing the piece on its head. The Lady had
occasionally lost a game to her own converted Vlet pieces but never in
her life before had she seen ones that literally changed color, or ones
that slipped away by themselves when you were not looking, or pieces
that made noise, for something across the board was making the oddest
noise she had ever heard, a shrill, keening sound, a sort of tinny
whistling like insects buzzing or all the little Common Persons singing
together. Then the Lady gasped and gripped the edge of the Vlet board
until her knuckles turned white, for that was exactly what was
happening; across the board her enemy's little red pieces of Vlet,
Common Persons all, were moving their miniature knees up and down
and singing heartily, and what they were singing was:
  "The pee-pul!"
  "The pee-pul!"
   "'An ancient verse," said Rav, mountainous across the board. "Make
your move," and she saw her own hand, huge as a giant's, move down
into that valley, where transparent buildings and streets seemed to
spring up all over the board. She moved her Strongbox closer to the
Governor, playing for time.
  Lights on late in the Councillors' House; much talk; someone has
gone for the Assassins…
  He moved another set of Common Persons.
  A baker looked out at his house door in Bread Street. In the Street of
Conspicuous Display torches flicker and are gone around the
buildings. "Is it tonight?" "Tonight!" Someone is scared; someone
wants to go home; "Look here, my wife—"
  Her Tax-Collector was caught and
  stabbed in the back in an alley while the rising simmer of the city,
crowds spilling, not quite so aimlessly, into the main boulevards
  Rav horrified
  "We've got to play a clean game! Out in the open! No—"
  While she moved the Archpriest
  Governor's barricades going up around the Treasury, men called
out, they say the priests are behind
  And in horror watched him shake his fist at her and stand sullenly
grimacing in the square where she had put him; then, before she could
stop him, he had hopped two more squares, knocked flat a couple of
commoners whose blood and intestines flowed thinly out on to the
board, jeered at her, hopped two more and killed a third man before
she could get her fingers on him.
  "He killed a man! With his own hands!"
  "Who?"
  "The Archpriest!"
  "Get him!"
   So she picked up the squirming, congested Arch-priest, younger son
of a younger son, stupid, spiteful, ambitious (she knew him personally)
and thrust him across the board, deep into enemy territory
  Trying to flee the city by water, looks up from under a bale of hides,
miserably stinking—
  Where the Commons could pothook him to their hearts' content
  Sees those faces, bearded and unwashed, a flash of pride among the
awful fears, cowers—
   "We don't do things that way," said Rav, his voice rolling godlike
across the valley, across the towers and terraces, across the parties held
on whitewashed roofs where ladies ate cherries and pelted gentlemen
with flowers, where aristocratic persons played at darts, embroidered,
smoked hemp and behaved as nobles should. One couple was even
playing—so tiny as to be almost invisible—a miniature game of Vlet.
  "We play a clean game," said Rav.
  Which is so difficult (she thought) that only a Grandmaster of
Grandmasters attempts it more than once a year. Pieces must be
converted but not killed.
  The crowd on Market Street is turned back by the troops.
  Her Elephant, which she immobilized
   Men killed, children crushed, a dreadful silence, in which someone
screams, while the troops, not knowing why
   and set her Nobles to killing one another, which an inept player can
actually do in Vlet
  stand immobilized, the Captains gone; some secret fear or failure of
will breathes through the city, and again the crowds surge forward,
but cannot bring themselves to
  She threw away piece after piece
   not even to touch, perhaps thinking: these are our natural masters?
or: where are we going? What are we doing?
  Gave him the opportunity for a Fool's Kill, which he did not take
  The Viceroy to the Governor walks untouched through superstitious
awe, through the silent crowds; he mounts the steps of the Temple—
  Exposed every piece
  begins to address the crowd
   While Rav smiled pitifully, and far away, out in the city suburbs, in
the hovels of peasant freeholds that surrounded the real city, out in the
real night she could hear a rumble, a rising voice, thunder; she finds
herself surrounding.
  Arrest that man
  the Red Governor who wasn't a Governor but a Leader, a little piece
with Rav's features and with the same pitiful, nervous, gallant smile.
   "Check" said the Lady, "and Mate." She did not want to do it. A
guard in the room laughed. Out in the city all was quiet. Then, quite
beside herself, the strange Lady in the black gown of the night, seeing a
Red Assassin with her own features scream furiously from the other
side of the board and dart violently across it, took the board in both
hands and threw the game high into the air. Around her everything
whirled: board, pieces, the magician who was one moment huge, the
next moment tiny, the onlookers, the guards, the very stone blocks of
the hall seemed to spin. The torches blazed hugely. The pieces,
released from the board, were fighting in mid-air. Then the Lady fell to
her knees, rearranging the game, surrounding the last remnant of
Black, snatching the Red Leader out of his trap, muttering desperately
to herself as Rav cried, "What are you doing? What are you doing?"
and around them the palace shook, the walls fell, the very earth
shuddered on its foundations.
   "Check," said the Lady, "and Mate." A rock came sailing lazily past
them, shattering the glass of the Governor's foreign window, brought at
enormous expense over sea and marsh in a chest full of sawdust, the
only piece of transparent glass in the city. "Trust a mob to find a
window!" said the Lady, laughing. Outside could be heard a huge
tramping of feet, the concerted breathing of hundreds, thousands, a
mob, a storm, a heaving sea of Common Persons, and all were singing:
  "Come on, children of the national unity!
  The glorious diurnal period has arrived.
  Let us move immediately against tyranny;
  The bloody flag is hauled up!"
   "My God!" cried Rav, "you don't understand!" as the Lady—with
unLadylike precision—whipped off her coiffure and slammed it across
the face of the nearest guard. Her real hair was a good deal shorter.
"Wonderful things—fifteen pounds' weight—" she shouted, and
ripping off the robe of night, tripped the next guard, grabbed his
sword, and put herself back to back with the ex-bodyguard who had
another guard's neck between his hands and was slowly and
methodically throttling the man to death. The servant girl was beating
someone's head against the wall. The Lady wrapped a soldier's cloak
around herself and belted it; then she threw the jewelled wig at one of
the peasants, who caught it, knocked over the two remaining guards,
who were still struggling feebly, not against anyone in the room but
against something in the air, like flies in treacle. None had offered the
slightest resistance. She took the magician by the arm, laughing hugely
with relief.
  "Let me introduce myself," she said. "My name is Alyx. I—"
  "Look out!" said Rav.
   "Come on!" she shouted, and as the mob poured through the
Governor's famous decorated archway, made entirely—piece by
piece—of precious stones collected at exorbitant cost from tax
defaulters and convicted blackmailers, she cut off the head of an
already dead guard and held it high, shouting, "The Pee-pul! The Pee-
pul!" and shoved Rav into position beside her. He looked sick but he
smiled. The People roared past them. He had, in his hands, the pieces
and board of their game of Vlet, and to judge from his expression, they
were causing him considerable discomfort. He winced as tiny lances,
knives, pothooks, plough blades, and swords bristled through his
fingers like porcupine quills. They seemed to be jabbing at each other
and getting his palms instead.
   "Can't you stop them!" she whispered. The last of the mob was
disappearing through the inverted pillars.
   "No!" he said. "The game's not over. You cheated—" and with a
yell he dropped the whole thing convulsively, board and all. The pieces
hit the floor and rolled in all directions, punching, jabbing, chasing
each other, screaming in tiny voices, crawling under the board, buzzing
and dying like a horde of wasps. The Lady and the magician dropped
to their knees—they were alone in the room by now—and tried to
sweep the pieces together, but they continued to fight and some ran
under the dead guards or under the curtains.
  "We must—we must play the game through," said Rav in a hoarse
voice. "Otherwise anyone—anyone who gets hold of them can—"
  He did not finish the sentence.
  "Then we'll play it through, O Rav," she said. "But this time,
dammit, you make the moves I tell you to make!"
   "I told you," he began fiercely, "that I abhor bloodshed. That is true.
I will not be a party to it, not even for—"
   "Listen," she said, holding up her hand, and there on the floor they
crouched while the sounds of riot and looting echoed distantly from all
parts of the city. The south windows of the hall began to glow. The
poor quarter was on fire. Someone nearby shouted; something struck
the ground; and closer and closer came the heavy sound of surf, a
hoarse, confused babble.
  He began to gather up the pieces.
   A little while later the board was only a board and the pieces had
degenerated into the sixty-four pieces of the popular game of Vlet.
They were not, she noticed, particularly artistically carved. She walked
out with Rav into the Governor's garden, among the roses, and there—
with the sound of the horrors in the city growing ever fainter as the
dawn increased—they sat down, she with her head on her knees, he
leaning his back against a peach tree.
  "I'd better go," she said finally.
   "Not back to the Governor," said Rav, shuddering. "Not now!" She
giggled.
  "Hardly," she said, "after tying him and his mistress up with the
sheets and stealing her clothes. I fancy he's rather upset. You surprised
me at my work, magician."
  "One of us!" said the magician, amazed. "You're a—"
   "One of them," said she, "because I live off them. I'm a parasite.
Don't be too upset, my dear, but I didn't quite end that last game with a
win, as I said I did. It didn't seem fair somehow. Your future state
would have no place for me, and I do have myself to look after, after
all. Besides, none of your damned peasants can play Vlet and I enjoy
the game." She yawned involuntarily.
  "I ended that last game," she said thoughtfully, "with a stalemate."
   "Ah, don't worry, my dear," she added, patting the stricken man's
cheek and turning up to him her soot-stained, blood-stained, paint-
stained little face. "You can always make another virgin Vlet board
and I'll play you another game. I'll even trick the Governor if you can
find a place for me on the board. Some day. A clean game. Perhaps.
Perhaps it's possible, eh?"
  But that's another story.
WITHOUT A THOUGHT (FORTRESS
            SHIP)
                      Fred Saberhagen

   The machine was a vast fortress, containing no life, set by its long-
dead masters to destroy anything that lived. It and a hundred like it
were the inheritance of Earth from some war fought between unknown
interstellar empires, in some time that could hardly be connected with
any Earthly calendar.
   One such machine could hang over a planet colonized by men and
in two days pound the surface into a lifeless cloud of dust and steam, a
hundred miles deep. This particular machine had already done just that.
   It used no predictable tactics in its dedicated, unconscious war
against life. The ancient, unknown gamesmen had built it as a random
factor, to be loosed in the enemy's territory to do what damage it
might. Men thought its plan of battle was chosen by the random
disintegrations of atoms in a block of some long-lived isotope buried
deep inside it, and so was not even in theory predictable by opposing
brains, human or electronic.
  Men called it a berserker.


   Del Murray, sometime computer specialist, had called it other names
than that; but right now he was too busy to waste breath, as he moved
in staggering lunges around the little cabin of his one-man fighter,
plugging in replacement units for equipment damaged by the last near-
miss of a small berserker missile. An animal resembling a large dog
with an ape's forelegs moved about the cabin too, carrying in its nearly
human hands a supply of emergency sealing patches. The cabin air was
full of haze. Wherever movement of the haze showed a leak to an
unpressurized part of the hull, the dog-ape moved to skillfully apply a
patch.
  "Hello, Foxglove!" the man shouted, hoping his radio was again in
working order.
  "Hello, Murray, this is Foxglove," said a sudden loud voice in the
cabin. "How far did you get?"
   Del was too weary to show much relief that his communications
were open again. "I'll let you know in a minute. At least it's stopped
shooting at me for a while. Move, Newton." The alien animal, pet and
ally, called an aiyan, moved away from the man's feet and kept single-
mindedly looking for leaks.
   After another minute's work Del could strap his body into the deep-
cushioned command chair again, with something like an operational
panel before him. That last near-miss had sprayed the whole cabin with
fine, penetrating splinters. It was remarkable that man and aiyan had
come through unwounded.
   His radar working again, Del could say: "I'm about ninety miles out
from it, Foxglove. On the opposite side from you." His present position
was what he had been trying to achieve since the battle had begun.
   The two Earth ships and the berserker were half a light year from
the nearest sun. The berserker could not leap out of normal space,
toward the defenseless colonies on the planets of that sun, while the
two ships stayed close to it. There were only two men aboard
Foxglove. Though they had more machinery working for them than did
Del, both manned ships were mites compared to their opponent.
   If a berserker machine like this one, not much smaller in cross-
section than New Jersey, had drifted in a century earlier and found men
crowded on one planet, there could have been no real struggle and no
human survivors. Now, though the impersonal enemy swarmed
through the galaxy, men could rise up in a cloud to meet them.
   Del's radar showed him an ancient ruin of metal, spread out for a
hundred miles before him. Men had blown holes in it the size of
Manhattan Island, and melted puddles of slag as big as lakes upon its
surface.
  But the berserker's power was still enormous. So far no man had
fought it and survived. Now, it could squash Del's little ship like a
mosquito; it was wasting its unpredictable subtlety on him. Yet there
was a special taste of terror in the very indifference of it. Men could
never frighten this enemy, as it frightened them.
  Earthmen's tactics, worked out from bitter experience against other
berserkers, called for a simultaneous attack by three ships. Foxglove
and Murray made two. A third was supposedly on the way, but still
about eight hours distant, moving at c-plus velocity, outside of normal
space and so out of communication with the others. Until it arrived,
Foxglove and Murray must hold the berserker at bay, while it brooded
unguessable schemes.
   It might attack either ship at any moment, or it might seek to
disengage. It might wait hours for them to make the first move—
though it would certainly fight if the men attacked it. It had learned the
language of Earth—it might try to talk with them. But always,
ultimately, it would seek to destroy them and every other living thing it
met. That was the basic command given it by the ancient warlords.
   A thousand years ago, it would have easily swept ships of the type
that now opposed it from its path, whether they carried fusion missiles
or not. Now, it was no doubt in some electrical way conscious of its
own weakening by accumulated damage. And perhaps in long
centuries of fighting its way across the galaxy it had learned to be
wary.


   Now, quite suddenly, Del's detectors showed force-fields forming in
behind his ship. Like the encircling arms of a great bear they blocked
his path away from the enemy. He waited for some deadly blow, with
his hand trembling over the red button that would salvo his atomic
missiles at the berserker—but if he attacked alone, or even with
Foxglove, the infernal machine would parry their missiles, crush their
ships, and go on to destroy another helpless planet. Three ships were
needed to attack. The red firing button was now only a last desperate
resort.
   Del was reporting the forcefields to Foxglove when he felt the first
hint in his mind of another attack.
  "Newton!" he called sharply, leaving the mike to Foxglove open.
They would hear and understand what was going to happen.
   The aiyan bounded instantly from its combat couch to stand before
Del as if hypnotized, all attention riveted on the man. Del sometimes
bragged: "Show Newton a drawing of different colored lights,
convince him it represents a particular control panel, and he'll push
buttons or whatever you tell him, until the real panel matches the
drawing."
  But no aiyan had the human ability to learn and to create on an
abstract level; which was why Del was now going to put Newton in
command of his ship.
  He switched off the ship's computers—they were going to be as
useless as his own brain, under the attack he felt gathering—and said
to Newton: "Situation Zombie."
  The animal responded instantly as it had been trained, seizing Del's
hands with firm insistence, and dragging them one at a time down
beside the command chair to where the fetters had been installed.
   Hard experience had taught men something about the berserkers'
mind weapon, although its principles of operation were still unknown.
It was slow in its onslaught, and its effects could not be steadily
maintained for more than about two hours, after which a berserker was
evidently forced to turn it off for an equal time. But while in effect, it
robbed any human or electronic brain of the ability to plan or to
predict—and left it unconscious of its own incapacity.
   It seemed to Del that all this had happened before, maybe more than
once. Newton, that funny fellow, had gone too far with his pranks; he
had abandoned the little boxes of colored beads that were his favorite
toys, and was moving the controls around at the lighted panel.
Unwilling to share the fun with Del, he had tied the man to his chair
somehow. Such behavior was really intolerable, especially when there
was supposed to be a battle in progress. Del tried to pull his hands free,
and called to Newton.
  Newton whined earnestly and stayed at the panel.
   "Newt, you dog. Come, lemme loose. I know what I have to say:
Four score and seven… hey, Newt, where're your toys? Lemme see
your pretty beads." There were hundreds of tiny boxes of the
varicolored beads, leftover trade goods that Newton loved to sort out
and handle. Del peered around the cabin, chuckling a little at his own
cleverness. He would get Newton distracted by the beads, and then…
the vague idea faded into other crackbrained grotesqueries.
   Newton whined now and then but stayed at the panel moving
controls in the long sequence he had been taught, taking the ship
through the feinting, evasive maneuvers that might fool a berserker
into thinking that it was still competently manned. Newton never put a
hand near the big red button. Only if he felt deadly pain himself, or
found a dead man in Del's chair, would he reach for that.
   "Ah, roger, Murray," said the radio from time to time, as if
acknowledging a message. Sometimes Foxglove added a few words or
numbers that might have meant something. Del wondered what the
talking was about.
  At last he understood that Foxglove was trying to help maintain the
illusion that there was still a competent brain in charge of Del's ship.
The fear-reaction came when he began to realize that he had once
again lived through the effect of the mind-weapon. The brooding
berserker, half genius, half idiot, had forborne to press the attack when
success would have been certain. Perhaps deceived, perhaps following
the strategy that avoided predictability at almost any cost.
   "Newton." The animal turned, hearing a change in his voice. Now
Del could say the words that would tell Newton it was safe to set his
master free, a sequence too long for anyone under the mindweapon to
recite.
   "—shall not perish from the Earth," he finished. With a yelp of joy
Newton pulled the fetters from Del's hands. Del turned instantly to the
radio.


   "Effect has evidently been turned off, Foxglove," said Del's voice
through the speaker in the cabin of the larger ship.
  The Commander let out a sigh. "He's back in control!"
   The Second Officer—there was no Third—said: "That means we've
got some kind of fighting chance, for the next two hours. I say let's
attack now!"
  The Commander shook his head, slowly but without hesitation.
"With two ships, we don't have any real chance. Less than four hours
until Gizmo gets here. We have to stall until then, if we want to win."
   "It'll attack the next time it gets Del's mind scrambled! I don't think
we fooled it for a minute… we're out of range of the mindbeam here,
but Del can't withdraw now. And we can't expect that aiyan to fight his
ship for him. We'll really have no chance, with Del gone."
  The Commander's eyes moved ceaselessly over his panel. "We'll
wait. We can't be sure it'll attack within—"
   The berserker spoke suddenly, its radioed voice plain in the cabins
of both ships: "I have a proposition for you, little ship." Its voice had a
cracking, adolescent quality, because it strung together words and
syllables recorded from the voices of human prisoners of both sexes
and different ages, from whom it had learned the language. There was
no reason to think they had been kept alive after that.
  "Well?" Del's voice sounded tough and capable by comparison.
  "I have invented a game which we will play," it said. "If you play
well enough, I will not kill you right away."
  "Now I've heard everything," murmured the Second Officer.
   After three thoughtful seconds the Commander slammed a fist on
the arm of his chair. "It means to test his learning ability, to run a
continuous check on his brain while it turns up the power of the
mindbeam and tries different modulations. If it can make sure the
mind-beam is working, it'll attack instantly. I'll bet my life on it. That's
the game it's playing this time."
  "I will think over your proposition," said Del's voice coolly.
  "Very well," answered the berserker.
   The Commander said: "It's in no hurry to start. It won't be able to
turn on the mindbeam again for almost two hours."
  "But we need another two hours beyond that."
  Del's voice said: "Describe the game you want to play."
  "It is a simplified version of the human game called checkers."
   The Commander and the Second looked at each other, neither able
to imagine Newton able to play checkers. Nor could they doubt that
Newton's failure would kill them within a few hours, and leave another
planet open to destruction.
  After a minute's silence, Del's voice asked: "What'll we use for a
board?"
   "We will radio our moves to one another," said the berserker
equably. It went on to describe a checkers-like game, played on a
smaller board with less than the normal number of pieces. There was
nothing very profound about it; but of course playing would seem to
require a functional brain, human or electronic, able to plan and to
predict.
  "If I agree to play," said Del slowly, "how'll we decide who gets to
move first?"
   "He's trying to stall," said the Commander, gnawing a thumbnail.
"We won't be able to offer any advice with that thing listening. Oh,
stay sharp, Del boy!"
  "To simplify matters," said the berserker, "I will move first in every
game."


  Del could look forward to another hour free of the mindweapon
when he finished rigging the checker board. When the pegged pieces
were moved, appropriate signals would be radioed to the berserker;
lighted squares on the board would show him where its pieces were
moved. If it spoke to him while the mind-weapon was on, Del's voice
would answer from a tape, which he had stocked with vaguely
aggressive phrases, such as: "Get on with the game," or "Do you want
to give up now?"
   He hadn't told the enemy how far along he was with his preparations
because he was still busy with something the enemy must not know—
the system that was going to enable Newton to play a game of
simplified checkers.
   Del gave a soundless little laugh as he worked, and glanced over to
where Newton was lounging on his couch, clutching toys in his hands
as if he drew some comfort from them. This scheme was going to push
the aiyan near the limit of his ability, but Del saw no reason why it
should fail.
   Del had completely analyzed the miniature checker game, and
diagrammed every position that Newton could possibly face—playing
only even-numbered moves, thank the random berserker for that
specification!—on small cards. Del had discarded some lines of play
that would lead from poor early moves by Newton, further simplifying
his job. Now, on a card snowing each possible remaining position, Del
indicated the best possible move with a drawn-in arrow. Now he could
quickly teach Newton to play the game by looking at the appropriate
card and making the move shown by the arrow. The system was not
perfect, but—
  "Oh, oh," said Del, as his hands stopped working and he stared into
space. Newton whined at the tone in his voice.
   Once Del had sat at one board in a simultaneous chess exhibition,
one of sixty players opposing the world champion, Blankenship. Del
had held his own into the middle game. Then, when the great man
paused again opposite his board, Del had shoved a pawn forward,
thinking he had reached an unassailable position and could begin a
counterattack. Blankenship had moved a rook to an innocent-looking
square and strolled on to the next board—and then Del had seen the
checkmate coming at him, four moves away but one move too late for
him to do anything about it.


   The Commander suddenly said a foul phrase in a loud distinct voice.
Such conduct was extremely rare, and the Second Officer looked
around in surprise. "What?"
   "I think we've had it." The Commander paused. "I hoped that
Murray could set up some kind of system over there, so that Newton
could play the game—or appear to be playing it. But it won't work.
Whatever system Newton plays by rote will always have him thinking
the same move in the same position. It may be a perfect system—but a
man doesn't play any game that way, damn it. He makes mistakes, he
changes strategy. Even in a game this simple there'll be room for that.
Most of all, a man learns a game as he plays it. He gets better as he
goes along. That's what'll give Newton away, and that's what our
bandit wants. It's probably heard about aiyans. Now as soon as it can
be sure it's facing a dumb animal over there, and not a man or
computer, it'll attack."
   After a little while the Second Officer said: "I'm getting signals of
their moves. They've begun play. Maybe we should've rigged up a
board so we could follow along with the game."
   "We better just be ready to go at it when the time comes." The
Commander looked hopelessly at his salvo button, and then at the
clock that showed two hours must pass before Gizmo could reasonably
be hoped for.
  Soon the Second Officer said: "That seems to be the end of the first
game; Del lost it, if I'm reading their Scoreboard signal right." He
paused. "Sir, here's that signal we picked up the last time it turned the
mindbeam on. Del must be starting to get it again."
   There was nothing for the Commander to say. The two men waited
silently for the enemy's attack, hoping only that they could damage it
in the seconds before it would overwhelm them and kill them.
  "He's playing the second game," said the Second Officer, puzzled.
"And I just heard him say 'Let's get on with it.' "
   "His voice could be recorded. He must have made some plan of play
for Newton to follow; but it won't fool the berserker for long. It can't."
  Time crept unmeasurably past them.
   The Second said: "He's lost the first four games. But he's not making
the same moves every time. I wish we'd made a board…"
  "Shut up about the board! We'd be watching it instead of the panel.
Now stay alert, Mister."
  After what seemed a long time, the Second said: "Well, I'll be!"
  "What?"
  "Our side got a draw in that game."
  "Then the beam can't be on him. Are you sure…"
  "It is! Look, here, the same indication we got last time. It's been on
him the better part of an hour now, and getting stronger."
  The Commander stared in disbelief; but he knew and trusted his
Second's ability. And the panel indications were convincing. He said:
"Then someone—or something—with no functioning mind is learning
how to play a game, over there. Ha, ha," he added, as if trying to
remember how to laugh.
   The berserker won another game. Another draw. Another win for
the enemy. Then three drawn games in a row.
   Once the Second Officer heard Del's voice ask coolly: "Do you want
to give up now?" On the next move he lost another game. But the
following game ended in another draw. Del was plainly taking more
time than his opponent to move, but not enough to make the enemy
impatient.
  "It's trying different modulations on the mind-weapon," said the
Second. "And it's got the power turned way up."
   "Yeah," said the Commander. Several times he had almost tried to
radio Del, to say something that might keep the man's spirits up—and
also to relieve his own feverish inactivity, and try to find out what
could possibly be happening now. But he could not take the chance.
Any interference might upset the miracle.
   He could not believe the inexplicable success could last, even when
the checker match turned gradually into an endless succession of
drawn games between two perfect players. Hours ago the Commander
had said good-bye to life and hope, and he still waited for the fatal
moment. And waited.


  "—not perish from the Earth!" said Del Murray, and Newton's eager
hands flew to loose his right arm from its shackle.
    A game, unfinished on the little board before him. had been
abandoned seconds earlier. The mindweapon had been turned off at the
same time, when Gizmo had burst into normal space right in position
and only five minutes late; and the berserker had been forced to turn all
its energies to meet the immediate all-out attack of Gizmo and
Foxglove.
   Del saw his computers, recovering from the effect of the beam, lock
his aiming screen onto the berserker's scarred and bulging midsection,
as he shot his right arm forward, scattering pieces from the game
board.
   "Checkmate!" he roared out hoarsely, and brought his fist down on
the big red button.


  "I'm glad it didn't want to play chess," Del said later, talking to the
Commander in Foxglove's cabin. "I could never have rigged that up."
  The ports were cleared now, and the men could look out at the
expanding cloud of gas, still faintly luminous, that had been a
berserker; metal fire-purged of the legacy of ancient evil.
   But the Commander was watching Del. "You got Newt to play by
following diagrams, I see that. But how could he learn the game?"
   Del grinned. "He couldn't. But his toys could. Now wait before you
slug me." He called the aiyan to him and took a small box from the
animal's hand. The box rattled faintly as he held it up. On the cover
was pasted a diagram of one possible position in the simplified checker
game, with a different-colored arrow indicating each possible move of
Del's pieces.
   "It took a couple hundred of these boxes," said Del. "This one was
in the group that Newt examined for the fourth move. When he found a
box with a diagram matching the position on the board, he picked the
box up, pulled out one of these beads from inside, without looking—
that was the hardest part to teach him in a hurry, by the way," said Del,
demonstrating. "Ah, this one's blue. That means, make the move
indicated on the corner by a blue arrow. Now the orange arrow leads to
a poor position. See?" Del shook all the beads out of the box into his
hand. "No orange beads left; there were six of each color when we
started. But every time Newton drew a bead, he had orders to leave it
out of the box until the game was over. Then, if the Scoreboard
indicated a loss for our side, he went back and threw away all the
beads he had used. All the bad moves were gradually eliminated. In a
few hours, Newt and his boxes learned to play the game perfectly."
   "Well," said the Commander. He thought for a moment, then
reached down to scratch Newton behind the ears. "I never would have
come up with that idea."
  "I should have thought of it sooner. The basic idea's a couple of
centuries old. And computers are supposed to be my business."
  "This could be a big thing," said the Commander. "I mean your
basic idea might be useful to any task force that has to face a
berserker's mindbeam."
  "Yeah." Del grew reflective. "Also…"
  "What?"
    "I was thinking of a guy I met once. Named Blankenship. I wonder
if I could rig something up…"
          A BOARD IN THE OTHER
               DIRECTION
                         Ruth Berman

  Iskander was senile.
   Having no children, he was therefore, of course, entered in a state
home. It would not necessarily have made any difference if he'd had
any; the homes were lavishly funded, thanks to the votes of the young
and guilty. But he might then have had visits and outings to look
forward to. As it was, he had nothing to do except look at pieces he no
longer knew how to move. On bad days there was nothing but the
varying smells of food, deodorant, urine, and feces to occupy his
failing senses. On warm days he could go into the garden.
   A bright torus, checkered with blue-steel and white-steel magnetic
squares, spun on the clear plastic axis attaching it to the clear plastic
frame. The plastic was as near invisible as makes no difference, to
kibitzers, but to the players it was half-glimpsed curves of light broken
into rainbows and reflecting stray bits of color on the board and the
blue and white pieces jutting out all over it.
   There were some who had said they had seen that Iskander was
failing even before Mbara of Uganda beat him, 13 variations out of 20.
But others, who knew Mbara's play better, said that they were both in
top form and Mbara had genuinely become the better player. They said
it was the shock of losing to a youngster which had ended him.
  In fact, Mbara was quite old enough to be tagged as a spinster,
married like Iskander to the game alone. It caused quite a stir when she
married the following month—and to a nonplayer, at that.
  The sunlight was clear and harsh on the dusty park ground. An
ordinary chessboard was marked out, but the pieces on it were living
men, armed with wooden swords and shields, and sweating heavily
under their padding.
   Iskander was delighted when he found himself faced with two
visitors, at last, on a warm day. Dimly, he heard the words, "Copter
ride."
   "Yes, yes," he said eagerly. "Copter ride. Most kind of you, Mr…
Most… Yes." He plucked at the diapers he wore, trying to express his
pleasure by freeing himself from the constriction, but they were
fastened too securely. He was too excited at the prospect of a ride to
mind, however.
  But once they were in the copter, one of the men poked him with a
needle. He sobbed at this unkindness until he felt himself growing
drowsy, and then he went to sleep.
   He woke to find himself on a couch in a sunny room. A woman of
65 or so sat rocking opposite him. She looked familiar, but it was not
until he tried subtracting years from her face that he recognized her. He
sat up slowly, pulling himself on the rim of the couch. "Hello, Miriam.
Been a long time. Still in politics?"
  "Yes. How do you feel?"
   "Fine. And you?" But he had no sooner finished the formality of the
exchange than he realized that he did not feel fine. He felt weak and—
oddly—happy. The first was not unusual of late. The second seemed
strange. It was not as if he had played an interesting game that day.
   In fact, he had not played since he could not think when. At that
thought, the pawns in his head leaped forward on a dozen different
kinds of chessboards, and he knew that he could continue all those
games to their ends. Which was as it should be, but not as it had been
recently.
   The bullet shot over the board… A green knight hop-frogged over a
white to take a red pawn… The Fool circled idly around the other
pieces and cut down the Moon....
  "Well as can be expected," Miriam was saying, and her words took
up no more time than Iskander needed to orient himself.
  "Testing some kind of intelligence drug on me?" he said as soon as
she stopped.
   One side of her mouth quirked up, and she leaned forward, saying,
"Not exactly. It's an experimental drug which allows the body to tap
reserves of energy to overcome the effects of old age."
  "Indeed. What happens when the reserves run out?"
   She hesitated, and stopped rocking for a moment. "Death? It's not
like you to be sentimental, my dear."
  "No, I suppose not." She started the rocker going again. "It's a
dangerous drug, certainly. It'll be quite a few hours before you need to
worry about unpleasant side effects, though. If you want out of the
project, before then, we can reverse it."
  "Who do you want me to play?" he said eagerly.
  "I didn't say it was chess."
  "What else could I possibly mean?"
  "That's not a fair way to put it, Zander."
   He smiled at her and shrugged. "No. But who do you want me to
play? And why?"
  She stopped rocking and stretched herself up out of the chair. "You
get dressed and come out. I'll show you." She pointed at a suit draped
over the end of the couch, and left the room.
   Iskander looked down at himself, dressed in diapers, plastic pants,
and sandals. He felt a quick flash of nudity-taboo embarrassment,
followed by disgust at the appearance of his body. He tried to suppress
that reaction as equally irrational, but failing, ignored his feelings as
well as he could and simply began dressing. The suit provided was one
of his own from a few years back. It had become a little too large for
him, but the looseness of the fabric was pleasant.
   "Ready," said Iskander. He stepped through the door into a long,
windowless corridor. He blinked for a moment as his eyes adjusted to
the change in light.
  "Good," said Miriam.
  An intense gentleman standing beside her immediately broke into
protest. "Madam Chairman," he said, "Have you warned—"
  "Yes, of course. Iskander, this is Dr. Hudek. He will be very
annoyed with me if anything happens to you."
  "Oh, do you play chess, Doctor?" said Iskander, bowing.
  "No," said Hudek, obviously puzzled by the question.
   "No, he's just a physician," Miriam explained. "This way." She set
off down the corridor, and the two men followed.
   A Bishop's Pawn opening was unusual, but the QBP was a better
fighter than a Live Pawn should be, and worth using as a major piece.
  Miriam took them into a small room with a one-way glass wall
opposite the door. It looked into a council chamber and was fitted up
with outlets for tri-d cameras and tapers, along with pencil sharpeners
and the other esoteric paraphernalia of the press.
   "Do you plan to broadcast the game?" Iskander asked. He felt out of
place, almost a little dizzy at being in a pressroom. He had watched
broadcasts of other people's matches often enough, and so he knew
what such rooms looked like—or at least what the front sections of
them looked like—and he knew that he had been watched many times
from such rooms, but he had never been in one before.
  "No, we'll only record it," Miriam said. "But there's your opponent."
  He glanced quickly at the figure seated at a table going over some
papers, and looked back to Miriam, astonished. "It's not Mbara."
  "Zander! You're impossible. Why should we risk your life to play
her?"
   "For the sake of the game?" Iskander made it sound joking, although
it wasn't really. "If it's anyone else, why didn't you get Mbara?"
  "We would have," Miriam said. "But she died in childbirth a few
months ago."
  "So I wasn't your first choice," Iskander said regretfully.
  "That's irrelevant, Zander. By the way, you still haven't looked at
your opponent properly."
   Iskander looked. His opponent was… a dryad? It had delicate facial
bones, like a woman, but a straight-lined body, like a man. It had
brown skin, perhaps a little darker than his own, and long green hair,
braced up over golden combs on the head, giving a crownlike effect,
then falling like a cloak down the back. But even more than the hair,
the set of the face and the lines of the body were wrong: the eyes too
large and set too wide, the shoulders sloping down too much from the
neck, the legs and arms too long. And the most startling wrongness of
all was that each of the individual oddities looked right on it. It was not
deformed, it was simply not human. And it was beautiful. He found
himself tracing designs in the air with one finger. He wanted to get
some clay—no, wood was better—and carve a copy of it to be the
Magician in a set of Tarotchess pieces or should it be the Fool? But if
he carved it dancing like the Fool, how would those long limbs shape
themselves to show arrested motion? And what kind of dog would fit
with a Fool carved in that likeness?
  "Zander?"
  "Won't you sit down, sir?" Hudek set a chair behind Iskander,
nudging it close enough to touch his legs.
  Iskander sat down automatically, then came out of it enough to
smile at Hudek. "I'm all right, Doctor. Don't worry."
  Miriam sat down in a chair level with his. "Well, Zander."
  "From outer space?"
  "Right." She nodded, as if granting him a point. "You hadn't heard
about the Visitors before, I think?"
  "No."
  "They represent a confederation of intelligent beings within our
Galaxy. They maintain a fleet of scout ships to go around checking
promising planets every so often to find peoples ready for membership.
The basic criteria are space travel and world government."
  "Defined how?" said Iskander.
   "Cautious, aren't you? Yes, that's the stinger. Defined as interstellar
travel—which, we gather, is most economically managed by treating
space-time as four spatial dimensions and traveling cross-time to go
places—and a government with some reasonable power to enforce its
legislation."
  "We don't qualify, then. A pity."
  "No, we don't. But we're so close to it, I hate to let the opportunity
go. And besides… I don't trust people."
   Iskander simply nodded, but Hudek's eyes went wide, and for the
first time he forgot to address the nominal world leader with respect.
"That's a hell of a thing for you to admit!"
   "Wait till you're my age, Doctor, and maybe you'll feel the same."
She turned back to Iskander. "They made a mistake about us. We were
coming along nicely the last time they surveyed us, and they really
expected to find us ready for membership this time. Which we almost
are, close enough to cause confusion. So they entered openly—in fact,
they walked in on a General Assembly debate." For a moment her eyes
gleamed with uncharitable mirth. "I'm afraid that if they find out the
truth and reject us, we'll do something silly. Heaven knows, we have
enough tense situations threatening to become wars at any moment. If
we can fool them and send them away arranging proceedings to invite
us into their confederation, I think… I hope… it'll give us that little
extra incentive we need to make peace with each other… at last. We've
been so close to peace so long, and so close to Armageddon."
  Iskander was silent for a moment. "And the space travel?"
  "Less important in their reckoning. And easier. We'll get it soon."
   "Mmm. Maybe so." Iskander looked into the council chambers at
the being, still intent on its papers.
   "Or maybe not," Hudek put in. "Maybe the rejection would give us
that little extra incentive, as far as that goes."
   "Yes. Maybe," said Miriam. "And if this gambit doesn't work, let's
hope that one does." She looked at him briefly and then turned back to
Iskander. "We have all the forms of a world government now—
encouraging that mistake is easy. But to keep them thinking we have
four-dimensional travel—I'd like you to go out there and play a game
of four-dimension chess."
  "So. I thought you were leading to that. You really do need
Mbara—that variant was her invention. And did anyone ever play it
except for her and me?"
  "Not a complete game."
  "She was a fine player, you know. Playing against her was a kind of
heaven, except for losing." He shrugged and half smiled at his own
egotism. "But if you don't have her, I'd think a chess-playing
mathematician with a specialty in n-dimensional geometry would be
your best bet."
   "No. You've told me often enough that you can tell a master player
from a good one. Our visitor claims to be a master at their equivalent
of chess—I gather that it's a good way of spending the time between
planetfalls. Both of you will be handicapped, of course, playing an
unfamiliar variant, but your familiarity with playing all sorts of
variants, I hope, will see you through. You don't have to win, you
understand. All you have to do is play well enough to make him think
you know what you're doing."
  "All right."
   The medieval bishop two-stepped its way across the board, to join
the slow-moving queen in attack.
   They went round by the corridor and entered the council chamber.
The alien's big eyes opened even wider. It tossed its head eagerly and
cleared away its papers into a sort of briefcase. It said something and a
microphone at its throat said, "You are chess master Madam Chairman
promised to invite?"
  "Yes, how do you do." Iskander bowed.
  The alien mimicked the gesture. "White or black?" it said through its
mike.
  "White," Iskander said without hesitation. He sat down at the table,
opposite the alien, and said, "King's pawn-one to king three, level one,
cube one."
  A board at the side of the roam lit up: KP-1, K3-1-1.
  "KP-1, K2-2-1," was the answering move.
    Iskander nodded. The alien was not going to make orthodox
answers, but evidently it wanted to send its pieces out through all
dimensions of the "board." But Iskander had chosen white, and he was
going to attack so vigorously that the alien would not be able to pursue
its own schemes.
   Methodically taking his pieces cube by cube across the fourth
dimension of the game, he hunted the alien's lesser pieces, first, and
then its king. The alien was given to skillful use of the knights, cutting
across several dimensions of the board at once, and making it hard for
Iskander to keep in his mind the complicated structure of the game's
hypothetical playing field. Vaguely, he remembered that he and Mbara
had once built a representation of a hyper-cube out of two cubes linked
by diagonals which should (if they could have gone in another
direction through a fourth dimension) have been perpendiculars. Then
they had marked their hyper-cube off into tinier hyper-cubes, making a
board to play on, instead of playing the game entirely in their heads.
But the board was clumsy, and getting at the pieces was a bore; so in
the end they found it simpler to do without it.
   Iskander concentrated on getting rid of the dangerous knights. Two
he got rid of in equal trades, and one in a trade of bishop for knight. He
sacrificed a rook for the fourth, after much hesitation. The rooks, too,
made confusing cross-dimension moves, but they only cut across one
dimension at a time. He made the sacrifice and looked up to find his
opponent's wide grey eyes fixed on him. He met the gaze steadily,
wondering if it was respect or curiosity. The alien's eyes fell as it
turned to consideration of its next move. Iskander found himself trying
to imagine what material could reproduce the shifting colors that made
up that grey. It wasn't usual to put eyes into chess figures—they
weren't meant to be that realistic—but he decided that a chess piece
made to that model ought to include eyes, anyway.
   The alien took a strand of its hair in its fingers and fidgeted with it
as it thought. The line of green flickered brightly against its skin.
   That gesture could not be anything but nervousness, Iskander
thought, and he played with renewed confidence.
   After four hours or so, it occurred to him that his bladder hurt
intolerably. He was surprised. Tournament players were used to sitting
without relief longer than that. Then he remembered how long it had
been since his last tournament and realized that he felt weak, besides.
His head hurt, his chest hurt, his hands and feet were cold. "Excuse
me," he said, "I need to stop for a few minutes."
   The alien blinked several times, then stood up and stretched,
shivering all its muscles in turn. "Acceptable," it said. It bowed and left
through the door opposite the one Iskander had used.
   Iskander bowed in turn, cautiously, and looked around him. He
raised his eyebrows at seeing Miriam still there in the room. "How are
you enjoying the game?" he said facetiously.
  "Very much."
   On second thought, Iskander corrected himself, she probably did
understand much of what was going on, following the game through
their reactions to the moves.
  Dr. Hudek looked frankly bored and unhappy.
  Iskander smiled at him and started out. He stumbled at the doorway,
and Hudek promptly came alive, catching him so swiftly that it looked
easy.
  "Are you all right, sir?" said Hudek.
  "I'm tired, I think."
    The doctor looked at him skeptically, but simply said, "Yes. Rest a
little before you start again. That may help."
   When they resumed play, a half hour later, Iskander felt better,
although he could tell that he was weaker than before, because he
could feel the weight of his head. He propped it in his hands, and it
stopped bothering him.
  After two hours more, Iskander announced, "Three moves to mate."
He sat back and let his head droop against his chest.
   The alien looked thoughtfully at the panel recording their moves and
said, "I concede. Thank you. A brilliant game."
   "Thanks," Iskander muttered. He thought perhaps he should think of
a lengthier and more gracious response, but before he could find one,
the alien spoke to Miriam.
  "Madam Chairman, I have misapprehended. You travel to near stars,
but you have not fourth-dimensional drive to go to far ones. So?"
  Her smile shriveled into a blank poker face. She hesitated for a
moment, then said, "Yes, that's essentially so. How do you know it?"
   The alien curved its arm and hand around to point out Iskander.
"Chess master's style. He plays as one not used to thinking in all
directions at once—takes only three dimensions at a time."
  "I see."
   The alien curved its hand down to point out its briefcase. "When
you have time, Madam Chairman, we will speak more. There is a
concept among your peoples I find most difficult to translate: 'national
sovereignty'." It used the native term, but its pronunciation was so
awkward that they did not recognize the words until after the mike had
given them the entire speech.
  "It is difficult to understand," Miriam said equably. The diplomatic
smoothness of years was back on her face. "We can discuss it later.
Doctor…" She and Hudek helped Iskander from the room.
   Hudek had a wheelchair waiting outside that time. Silently, he
trundled Iskander back to the room where he had wakened and laid
him down on the couch.
   "Thank you," said Iskander, squirming deeper into the soft fabric.
"Very kind of… Very…"He began rubbing at his left arm. "It hurts,"
he said crossly. He was quiet for a minute, then smiled. "Thanks,
Miriam. Lovely game. And now I don't have to go back to the home."
   A rook slid over the inside curve of the torus and back up to knock
off a knight before the pieces slowed and were still.
   Miriam sat down by Iskander and took his right hand. Beside her,
Hudek was listening to Iskander's chest. He scowled and took out a
needle to inject a painkiller. Then he bent over Iskander's face,
breathing air into the lungs. He kept that up for a long time, but
nothing happened. At last he gave it up.
  "Do you realize you've just killed a man?" he asked, as quietly as he
could. "For nothing?"
   "For nothing?" Miriam said. She remained as she was for a few
moments more. Then she set the hand down and kissed Iskander's
cheek. She pulled herself out of the chair and held out her arm to be
given Hudek's support as she made her way back to work.
             VON GOOM'S GAMBIT
                        Victor Contoski

    You won't find Von Goom's Gambit in any of the books on chess
openings. Ludvik Pachman's Moderne Schachtheorie simply ignores it.
Paul Keres' authoritative work Teoria Debiutow Szachowych mentions
it only in passing in a footnote on page 239, advising the reader never
to try it under any circumstances and makes sure the advice is followed
by giving no further information. Dr. Max Euwe's Archives lists the
gambit in the index under the initial V. G. (Gambit), but fortunately
gives no page number. The twenty-volume Chess Encyclopedia (fourth
edition) states that Von Goom is a myth and classifies him with
werewolves and vampires. His Gambit is not mentioned. Vassily
Nikolayevitch Kryilov heartily recommends Von Goom's Gambit in
the English edition of his book, Russian Theory of the Opening; the
Russian edition makes no mention of it. Fortunately Kryilov himself
did not—and does not yet—know the moves, so he did not recommend
them to his American readers. If he had, the cold war would be
finished, and possibly the world.
   Von Goom was an inconspicuous man, as most discoverers usually
are; and he probably made his discovery by accident, as most
discoverers usually do. He was the illegitimate son of a well known
actress and a prominent political figure. The scandal of his birth
haunted his early years, and as soon as he could legally do so he
changed his name to Von Goom. He refused to take a Christian name
because he claimed he was no Christian, a fact which seemed trivial at
the time but was to explain much about this strange man. He grew fast
early in life and attained a height of five feet four inches by the time he
was ten years old. He seemed to think this height was sufficient, for he
stopped growing. When his corpse was measured after his sudden
demise, it proved to be exactly five feet four inches. Soon after he
stopped growing, he also stopped talking. He never stopped working
because he never started. The fortunes of his parents proved sufficient
for all his needs. At the first opportunity, he quit school and spent the
next twenty years of his life reading science fiction and growing a
mustache on one side of his face. Apparently, sometime during this
period, he learned to play chess.
    On April 5, 1997, he entered his first chess tournament, the
Minnesota State Championship. At first, the players thought he was a
deaf mute because he refused to speak. Then the tournament director,
announcing the pairings for the round, made a mistake and announced,
"Curt Brasket—White; Van Goon—Black." A small, cutting voice
filled with infinite sarcasm said, "Von Goom." It was the first time
Von Goom had spoken in twenty years. He was to speak once more
before his death.
   Von Goom did not win the Minnesota State Championship. He lost
to Brasket in twenty-nine moves. Then he lost to George Barnes in
twenty-three moves, to K. N. Pedersen in nineteen, Frederick G.
Galvin in seven, James Seifert in thirty-nine, Dr. Milton Jackson (who
was five years old at the time) in one hundred and two. Thereupon, he
retired from tournament chess for two years.
  His next appearance was December 12, 1999, in the Greater
Birmingham Open, where he also lost all his games. During the
remainder of the year, he played in the Fresno Chess Festival, the
Eastern States Chess Congress, the Peach State Invitational and the
Alaska Championship. His score for the year was: opponents forty-
one; Von Goom zero.
   Von Goom, however, was determined. For a period of two and one-
half years thereafter he entered every tournament he could. Money was
no obstacle and distance was no barrier. He bought his own private
plane and learned to fly so that he could travel across the continent
playing chess at every possible occasion. At the end of the two and
one-half year period, he was still looking for his first win.
   Then he discovered his Gambit. The discovery must surely have
been by accident, but the credit—or rather the infamy—of working out
the variations must be attributed to Von Goom. His unholy studies
convinced him that the Gambit could be played with either the White
or the Black pieces. There was no defense against it. He must have
spent many a terrible night over the chessboard analyzing things man
was not meant to analyze. The discovery of the Gambit and its
implications turned his hair snow white, although his half mustache
remained a dirty brown to his dying day, which was not far off.
   His first opportunity to play the Gambit came in the Greater New
York Open. The pre-tournament favorite was the wily defending
Champion, grandmaster Miroslav Terminsky, although sentiment
favored John George Bateman, the Intercollegiate Champion, who was
also all-American quarterback for Notre Dame, Phi Beta Kappa and
the youngest member of the Atomic Energy Commission. By this time,
Von Goom had become a familiar, almost comic, figure in the chess
world. People came to accept his silence, his withdrawal, even his half
mustache. As Von Goom signed his entry card, a few players remarked
that his hair had turned white; but most people ignored him. Fifteen
minutes after the first round began, Von Goom won his first game of
chess. His opponent had died of a heart attack.
   He won his second game too when his opponent became violently
sick to his stomach after the first six moves. His third opponent got up
from the table and left the tournament hall in disgust, never to play
again. His fourth broke down in tears, begging Von Goom to desist
from playing the Gambit. The tournament director had to lead the poor
man from the hall. The next opponent simply sat and stared at Von
Goom's opening position until he lost the game by forfeit.
   His string of victories had placed Von Goom among the leaders of
the tournament, and his next opponent was the Intercollegiate
Champion John George Bateman, a hot-tempered, attacking player.
Von Goom played his Gambit, or if you prefer to be technical, his
Counter Gambit, since he played the Black pieces. John George's
attempted refutation was as unconventional as it was ineffective. He
jumped to his feet, reached across the table, grabbed Von Goom by the
collar of his shirt and hit him in the mouth. But it did no good. Even as
Von Goom fell, he made his next move. John George Bateman, who
had never been sick a day in his life, collapsed in an epileptic fit.
   Thus, Von Goom, who had never won a game of chess in his life
before, was to play the wily grandmaster, Miroslav Terminsky, for the
championship. Unfortunately, the game was shown to a crowd of
spectators on a huge demonstration board mounted at one end of the
hall. The tension mounted as the two contestants sat down to play. The
crowd gasped in shock and horror when they saw the opening moves
of Von Goom's Gambit. Then silence descended, a long, unbroken
silence. A reporter who dropped by at the end of the day to interview
the winner found to his amazement that the crowd and players alike
had turned to stone. Only Terminsky had escaped the holocaust. The
lucky man had gone insane.
   A few more like results in tournaments and Von Goom became, by
default, the chess champion of America. As such he received an
invitation to play in the Challengers Tournament, the winner of which
would play a match for the world championship with the current
champion, Dr. Vladislaw Feorintoshkin, author, humanitarian and
winner of the Nobel Peace Prize. Some officials of the International
Chess Federation talked of banning the Gambit from play, but Von
Goom took midnight journeys to their houses and showed them the
Gambit. They disappeared from the face of the earth. Thus it appeared
that the way to the world championship stood open for him.
   Unknown to Von Goom, however, the night before he arrived in
Portoroz, Yugoslavia, the site of the tournament, the International
Chess Federation held a secret meeting. The finest brains in the world
gathered together seeking a refutation to Von Goom's Gambit—and
they found it. The following night, the most intelligent men of their
generation, the leading grandmasters of the world, took Von Goom out
in the woods and shot him. The great humanitarian Dr. Feorintoshkin
looked down at the body and said, "A merciful end for Van Goon." A
small, cutting voice filled with infinite sarcasm said, "Von Goom."
Then the leading grandmasters shot him again and cleverly concealed
his body in a shallow grave, which has not been found to this day.
After all, they have the finest brains in the world.
   And what of Von Goom's Gambit? Chess is a game of logic. Thirty-
two pieces move on a board of sixty-four squares, colored alternately
dark and light. As they move they form patterns. Some of these
patterns are pleasing to the logical mind of man, and some are not.
They show what man is capable of and what is beyond his reach. Take
any position of the pieces on the chessboard. Usually it tells of the
logical or semi-logical plans of the players, their strategy in playing for
a win or a draw, and their personalities. If you see a pattern from the
King's Gambit Accepted, you know that both players are tacticians,
that the fight will be brief but fierce. A pattern from the Queen's
Gambit Declined, however, tells that the players are strategists playing
for minute advantages, the weakening of one square or the placing of a
Rook on a half-opened file. From such patterns, pleasing or
displeasing, you can tell much not only about the game and the players
but also about man in general, and perhaps even about the order of the
universe.
   Now suppose someone discovers by accident or design a pattern on
the chessboard that is more than displeasing, an alien pattern that tells
unspeakable things about the mind of a player, man in general and the
order of the universe. Suppose no normal man can look at such a
pattern and remain normal. Surely such a pattern must have been
formed by Von Goom's Gambit.
   I wish the story could end here, but I fear it will not end for a long
time. History has shown that discoveries cannot be unmade. Two
months ago in Camden, New Jersey, a forty-three year old man was
found turned to stone staring at a position on a chessboard. In Salt
Lake City, the Utah State champion suddenly went screaming mad.
And, last week in Minneapolis, a woman studying chess suddenly gave
birth to twins—although she was not pregnant at the time.
  Myself, I'm giving up the game.
                           KOKOMU
                        Daniel Gilbert

   Doorbell: wind-chimes of bamboo and glass gracing a Shinto shrine.
But it was not a doorbell, and Samuel Kagami adjusted his thinking.
The jamasura, a large procaryotic cell with electronic call-extensors,
responded as was its function, chiming when a hand touched the door.
  Neither was it a door.
   The T6-screen, a series of unicellular giants linked in symbiotic
unity, whose cytoplasm had been design-engineered for tensile
strength, weatherproofing, and opacity, formed the splendid arched
doorway to Samuel Kagami's home. The arch signified a marvel of
neo-biotic construction available only to the elite of the Western
Nipponese Consolidat. The Tō-screen parted as Kagami approached,
and he greeted his visitor.
  "Chokki san. May you give me five."
   "Kagami san, this is also right on." The plump Neobiotix field
representative, clad in conservative grey knickers and shoulder coat, an
aluminum brechet at his knee, bowed, signaling an end to the exchange
of formal pleasantries. Kagami bowed also and indicated the
livingroom with a sweep of his hand.
  He hoped the sweep had been well-timed and correct.
   Chokki removed his platform-zoris and set them on the tatami,
suddenly reduced a full fifteen centimeters in height. "I received your
call only this morning. Forgive my tardiness."
   "No apology necessary. But accepted," said Kagami. "I am most
grateful that you have traveled so far to see me. It was not an
inconvenience I hope?"
  "None. My pleasure."
   Kagami smiled uneasily and led his guest into the livingroom. The
cochin lanterns and moribana floral arrangements lent the room a
traditional appearance, yet Kagami felt, as always, that something still
was lacking. "Excuse my forwardness then. May I come to the point
and dispense with politic?"
   Chokki quickly averted his eyes, allowing no movement or gesture
to betray his discomfort. "Certainly," said the small Line Nippon,
stiffly. "As you wish."
   Though Kagami's grandfather had been a Once American in the
days of the Union, no one would dare call Kagami an American now—
not, at least, without the offering of swords. Yet the fact that Kagami
was only a Nipponese by circumstance—a sansei, third generation
citizen of the Consolidat—was evident in his desire to rush through
formal ceremony. The Line Nippon—of a respected Nipponese
ancestry—held the sansei in low esteem for this reason.
  Ki niyotte uo o ntotomu: you ask an elm tree for pears.
  This was Kagami's heritage; perhaps, in time, he would outgrow this
natural impatience.
  "It is my southern wall," said Kagami.
  "A difficulty?"
  "No. Without doubt there is no problem with the manufacture.
Neobiotix has done a splendid job with my home. I am most pleased."
  "Honored," said Chokki. Kagami poured three deciliters of Mogen
David Imperial Sake into an earthenware cup and offered it to Chokki.
"Domo arigato."
  "Most welcome. Perhaps what I need is a strategy."
  "Your wall is weak then?" Chokki sipped gingerly from the cup.
  "Near to crumble."
   Chokki hesitated for a moment. "And of strategy. Your neighbor has
also a consultant?"
   "Orgosynthetix Corporation. We have, of course, agreed to
unilateral aid." Kagami turned to fill his own cup with sake, hoping to
disguise his irritation. Were Kagami not a sansei, he knew, Chokki
would never have offered such an impertinent inquiry. Had he implied
that Kagami might cheat?—that he might seek tactical advice illicitly?
Both Kagami and his neighbor, Tonari Ze, had agreed upon allowing
professional consultation; Kagami's word need not have been
questioned.
  Kagami felt the strain of two echelons meeting, the friction of
separate and distinct social strata grating as they touched. He
smothered the sparks in politic.
   "Very fine. Show me then your southern wall." Shyly, Kagami led
the Neobiotix field representative through the livingroom and into the
tea-room. The Tō-screen parted and Kagami felt embarrassment at the
disarray. "Oya!"
  "Indeed. As you see, the southern wall is nearly surrounded."
   Kagami felt shame at the loss of face. Very few sansei could afford
a neobiotic home, and fewer actually entered in competition. It was
said that the ability to play Go—the ancient game of territorial strategy
upon which neobiotic play was based—had its roots in ancestry, and
though no prohibitions stood between a sansei and the game, it was
generally agreed that the Line Nippon made the best player. Pitting
one's home against another's, using true territory and not a symbolic
representation was thought to be a delicate art, and not one to be toyed
with lightly.
   Chokki inspected the tea room carefully. The tea room wall—built
of a flux-organism called käbe, a chromoplastic which hardened at
some points and undulated at others—was badly buckled. The ceiling
sagged under the considerable strain of the damaged wall, and the käbe
had lost a great deal of its translucency. Without light, the synthetic
organism would grow increasingly weaker, unable to repair itself
photosynthetically, and the architectural stress would also increase
until the tea room fell, or Kagami surrendered.
  This, of course, was Ze's strategy; once Ze's northern diningroom
wall had surrounded the tea-room and blocked the ultraviolet, he
would need only to wait patiently for Kagami's defenses to fall.
  Patience was one thing Tonari Ze had plenty of.
  "An inventive offensive. Orgosynthetix is a respectable firm," said
Chokki, examining the käbe-wall with an expert touch. "Or perhaps Ze
san is an inventive fellow himself."
   Few words. Much said. Samuel Kagami knew that he had attacked
foolishly. A quick offensive with which he hoped to gain an advantage
in the opening play, had failed, and he found that he had concentrated
too much of the house's energy on a single point. He had ignored Ze's
threats on many borders, and now those threats had matured and
Kagami found himself trapped.
  The tea room groaned.
   "An honored opponent. What kind of defensive strategy do you
recommend to maintain the tea room?"
  Chokki laughed mildly. "No, I'm afraid not, Kagami san. One may
only extend folly in this way. Incorporate the loss."
  "Withdraw?"
   "Brute force cannot rise. A fat defense is no answer. Notice how
lean is his attacking line." Kagami examined the wall which protruded
through the tea room käbe in four spots. Indeed, saber thin. "There is
no shame in withdrawal." Chokki once again looked away.
   Kagami studied the well-mannered Line Nippon. What did this one
know of shame? Kagami's grandfather, Charles Carmody, had been a
wealthy man and had left Kagami a modest legacy. Thus, Kagami
moved in circles usually closed to a sansei, played with the luxurious
toys of a Line Nippon, and lived as well as many corporate
functionaries.
  Yet, there were restrictions. Unwritten, politely applied.
   Carmody had been killed during the Incorporation. He had called it
the Invasion, but politic declared that Kagami refrain from using such
terms. As economic crises peaked the Union had been forced to begin
auctioning their last resource: Land. Allies were invited to extend their
holdings, and the Nipponese, for whom landscape was the only
limiting factor to further prosperity, heartily accepted.
   Purchasing land in strategic areas they established base colonies on
the continent, immigrating in droves. And though they held less than
fifteen percent of the actual land area in Once America, their ability to
use less—more resourcefully—had quickly insured that their
population would exceed that of the Union. Relocation of Union
citizens out of Nipponese-occupied territory had been subsidized and
expensive, and fiscal ruin had been nothing but forestalled.
  It was war that killed Charles Carmody.
   There had been no terror jets, no thermonuclear war cries, no
multimegaton verbosities. No shouting. The gentleman hordes of
Nipponese had attacked politely, armed to the teeth with yen. They
incorporated the Union and turned it into a thriving, well-conducted
economic sector, which now comprised nearly seventy percent of their
vast holdings in the Western Nipponese Consolidat.
   Though Carmody had remained a staunch Unionist, resentful and
distrustful of the Incorporation from the first (he had insisted that
Kagami's given name have at least one L in it), his pride had been
equal in tenacity to that of the highest ranking Line Nippon.
  What they now called politic was not a new custom for Kagami; it
had, like so many things, simply changed names. Carmody had been
one of those millions whose real estate had been badly bartered, and
he'd been forced to sell a manufacturing empire for a fraction of its
worth, simply because it lay in Nipponese states. He had retired, rather
than attempting to revitalize the business, and had died alone, broken,
bitter, soon thereafter.
  Kagami studied the half-empty glass of sake, moodily.
   "In triumph do not gloat. In defeat do not brood," said Chokki. He
pushed a sprig of tomb-black hair from his finely curved face. Why did
victors always throw platitudes and maxims in the face of the
vanquished? "Reinforce your back line here, in the hallway. Do not
extend folly with malicious play. Begin now a forthright attack."
Chokki glanced about the room. "Where is your Center?"
   Kagami stepped out of the tea room and led Chokki to the gōban—
the game board. The gōban was the hand-crafted component of the
large home-computer which controlled the neobiotic play, and
resembled a greatly expanded Go board. Kagami's stones were blue
diodes on the face of the computerized gōban, Ze's red. The square
plane was divided into equal sized area; the northern and southern
borders were marked with letters, the eastern and western with
numbers, and the lines intersected to form a grid. Kagami pointed to
the D-8 sector, his tea room. Ze's red glowing stones formed a Tiger's
Mouth about the sector and threatened to devour the unit.
  "How to play?"
   Chokki suppressed a sigh. "One stone, Kagami san, holds infinite
power. One stone may alter the outcome of a game. Though
surrounded by enemy stones, no soldier is too small or insignificant to
affect a victory for his legion. I suggest an outpost here." With a tawny
finger, the Line Nippon indicated the N-13 region.
   "But I cannot afford any more stones for outposting. I am kokomu,
surrounded, on many fronts. To withdraw a single stone for outposting
will mean the collapse of a unit elsewhere."
  "Mr. Kagami," said Chokki, "I am a Neobiotix field representative. I
can sell you an outpost."
   Chokki fiddled with his knee brechet and Kagami closed his eyes.
Forcing Chokki to make such a tactless remark, to breach etiquette so
boldly, made Kagami wonder if Chokki's scorn for the sansei was not
entirely unfounded. He did not apologize, however, knowing that even
such a gesture would only prolong—what must be for Chokki—a very
difficult situation.
  Neither could he tell Chokki of his financial straits; that his legacy
was tied up in the house and that he had been living on equity and
small investments for nearly three months, less than the length of one
game. One did not discuss such things with intimates, much less
business associates. Kagami felt as if he were suffocating.
  "I…I have… I am unable to make such a purchase at this time."
   Chokki nodded and both men studied the gōban with newfound
intensity, each carefully avoiding the other's eyes. Kagami drained his
sake. The moment stretched into humiliation.
   Finally, Chokki spoke. "I am sorry. Professionally, then, I must
judge your situation as hopeless. I suggest you turn game control over
to your home-computer and allow it to finish the game mathematically.
Perhaps your losses can be minimized."
  "Thank you," said Kagami. This was his advice. "More sake?"
   Chokki bowed. "Your hospitality is overwhelming. However, I am
afraid I must leave. Pressing business of urgency. Take it then in
lightness, Kagami san."
   "And you also be quite cool." He escorted Chokki to the front Tō-
screen, reciting further pleasantries, and bid him good day and fortune.
The Tō-screen parted,
   In the livingroom, Samuel Kagami studied the gōban, poured
himself another two deciliters of sake, and considered. He had spent
nearly three quarters of his grandfather's bequest (a mere fraction of
what it would have been, had it not been converted from dorrars to
yen) on the neobiotic home. It was a symbol of that which most sansei
never hoped to own, and it had indeed elevated his social position. But,
like a fool, he had entered into play with a superior opponent, a Line
Nippon, Tonari Ze, and was now in danger of losing both home and
face. He understood why Chokki had seen him as a stumbling buffoon,
an inept inferior, and he detested Chokki for making the distinction so
painfully evident.
  ...must judge your situation as hopeless…
  He also realized that it was his third bottle of sake today.
  Kagami slid an antique rice-paper partition from the far wall.
Seventeen shelves. The true bequest. This was what remained of
Charles Carmody.
   Memorabilia. Once Americana. Relics. Time-crippled dinosaurs
from a day now broken and best set aside. Yet, these items sparked
Kagami's imagination, excited him from within, and a day did not pass
when he failed to slip aside the rice-paper and fondle one or two of
them, evoking memories of days he could not possibly own.
  Zane Grey. Ah, the name itself surged with a raw and vital power.
Like true anger from the blood-drenched fist of an electric god—what
power in the name alone, and in the words between the crumbling
paper binders.
   Dashiell Hammett. Intrigue and adventure! Trench-coated legends
who roared and hungered and drank whiskies and did not hesitate to
plug one full of lead should circumstances require such. Men who said
as they pleased and disregarded politic, laughed in the faces of the
world's well-mannered Chokkis.
  Louis L'amour. Now here was time as real men had lived it; not
packaged time, caged and tamed in a watch or crystal, but time which
gouged and vomited and splayed itself upon a man's life like the
colored legs of a venomous insect.
  Roger Keegan. Andrew North. Hal Kantos.
   Kagami traced the rim of the cowboy's hat upon the book jacket. It
was Bart Gibson's hat. Bart, a stern and commanding wrangler, lean
and supple in denim and steel, and his two brothers, Luke and Roy,
stood poised for action as the badmen surrounded the Bar-S Ranch.
  Kokomu, three Gibsons? thought Kagami.
   He turned to the gōban. Another red stone twinkled to life near the
tea room at D-8. Ze had moved, after a three day wait, and the third
panel of the referee lighted GO: : :
  Kagami's turn. He seated himself before the board.
   "I've got you covered, Luke. This town ain't big enough for both of
us. Reach for the sky, horsethief!"
   Even as Kagami turned to capture the voice, his hand moved
autonomously and lifted the stone from the D-7 sector, the last strong
stone in the tea room unit.
  "Sheriff, the Wilker boys are down at the Bar-S. There's gonna be a
whole bunch of shooting!"
  His fingers caressed the stone, placing it carefully between index
and forefinger, and set it down with a smart click.
  "The three Gibson's at the Bar-S, Doc."
  "Three Gibsons. Bar-S."
  "Bar-S. Three."
   The stone clicked at S-3. The GO: : : light winked out and the
referee indicated Ze's turn. Samuel Kagami felt dizzy.
   He retreated to his lioo-chair and listened to his heart pump
furiously, contemplating what had happened and realizing that—
whatever had come over him a moment ago—he had made the worst of
all possible moves. His delicate garden would now strike at the heart of
Tonari Ze's heavily reinforced den. The garden would be surrounded
so quickly. The house would fall.
   The sake made Kagami feel ill, and with no hesitation, he switched
the game to computer control, as Chokki had suggested, closing his
eyes tightly to take one last nap in his neobiotic home before
conceding defeat.
  By the time Samuel Kagami awoke, he owned all of Ze's territory.


   The GO: : : light had winked on four hours earlier, the ever patient
electronic referee indicated that it was Kagami's turn. He studied his
image in the polished surface of the gōban, and listened to the creaking
of his den. He stroked his new moustache slowly, thinking that it made
his face look more angular, harder, sharper.
   Bisho Rinjin was an excellent player, and even with the full force of
Kagami's combined territories, he had not answered Kagami's threats
to the greenhouse hastily. Instead, he had played around Kagami and
attacked the den, a subtle yet stinging offensive which Kagami could
not ignore.
   Kagami contemplated the gōban, recognized gestalts and micro
gestalts, conceived patterned formations of stones, computed the
intricate futures of both defense and offense. His hands eagerly
kneaded the collar of his silk robe, his slippered feet tapped nervously.
He poured his fifth cup of Johnny Walker New Tokyo Whiskey and
gulped it hurriedly, waiting. He held the book in his lap, his fingers
moving anxiously up and down the spine.
   Finally: the peculiar spinning sensation. The gōban swirled in a
splatter of color. He found himself holding a cup, and sighed.
  "Please, some water," said the man.
   The frail fellow, slumped in a straight-backed chair, groaned. His
pock-marked face was a crucifixion of sweat and fatigue, the cracks in
his snake-skin lips were made ghostly white by the blinding bulb
which hung in the interrogation room.
  Kagami reached up, touched the bulb, and it swung ominously
above the man's head. This was not Oklahoma, circa 1883. What then?
When? Kagami looked down at his hands. The book was gone. He
noticed his own stocky build, certainly not the slender sansei he had
been a moment before, the nearly perfect shine on his black leather
shoes, the shoulder-holster buckled expertly about his trunk.
   "Are you okay, Lieutenant?" said a burly fellow, also wearing a
pistol, but leaning against the far wall, smoking in the shadows.
  Lieutenant? Kagami glanced at the man slumped in the chair in the
center of the room. His wrists had deep red marks in them, and
Kagami's hands went to his belt.
  Handcuffs.
   Kagami left the spotlighted circle and joined the two men at the
other side of the room.
  "You look tired," said the big fellow.
   "Still worried about your brother?" The second man was thin and his
voice had a high-pitched nasal quality. He wore a striped shirt with
rolled sleeves, and a vest.
  "I suppose so," said Kagami.
  "Don't worry about Scotty," said the thin man, "he'll kill a couple of
Krauts, knock in a few Nip heads, and be Stateside before you know it.
He'll be alright."
  "Yeah," said Kagami. "You're right."
   Nips. That would make it somewhere around 1940, and, judging
from the thin fellow's vocal tones, somewhere in the midwest. Perhaps
Chicago or St. Louis.
   "I don't think Joey's going to tell us anything," said the burly
detective, whose badge indicated that his name was Meyers. Yes,
there, on the badge: CPD. Chicago then.
  "He knows where Calhoun is hiding."
  "He ain't telling." Meyers shrugged.
   Kagami listened carefully. Yes, this Joey was a prisoner and Murray
Calhoun a stick-up man. All the information seemed to be seeking and
finding its proper place, as if Kagami had forgotten for only a moment,
as if this man named Samuel Kagami—the sansei—had been but a
tremor of stage-fright in a police Lieutenant's mind.
   "I told you, I don't know no Murray Calhoun. I don't know where he
is." Joey rotated his head, clamped his eyes shut in the bright light.
Kagami felt a wave of anger come washing the shores of thought; the
man was lying.
  Joey's head bobbed, his neck seemed strangely contorted, his face a
peculiar contrast of harsh light and shadows. The face seemed so
familiar, so real, so close, so…
   Kagami pulled back his right hand and smashed the backside across
Joey's face. The sound echoed off the bare walls of the interrogation
room with a reverberating crack. Joey's head swung sideways with the
force of the blow, then sagged desperately to his chest. A slick stream
of crimson wound its way from his nostril to his upper lip. The two
men in the corner shifted uneasily, and Meyers lit another cigarette.
  Kagami wiggled his fingers and blinked.
   The contact… the flesh against flesh…the surge of his muscles…
the yielding of bone… it had felt… felt good.
   "Joey. Where is Murray Calhoun?" said Kagami, and even his voice
was textured and full, precisely the words he wished to speak, exactly
as he wished to speak them.
  "I… I don't…" Kagami brought his fist back again. "Wait!"
   His clenched hand hung in mid-air, a stop-action eagle waiting to
descend. Joey's eye opened and closed spasmodically. "I think you
screwed up my eye." He dabbed at the swollen purple cheek with his
finger.
  "Joey?"
  "The Edgewater. He's at the Edgewater. But he'll see you coming.
He ain't dumb, he'll see you and high-tail it out of there."
  "Where at the Edgewater?"
  "Room L-3. He's in L-3."
   Samuel Kagami smiled. In some strange way, he wished that this
Joey had held out just a little longer. The power of the blow, the
explosion of contact, the invigorating stinging sensation of his palm—
he had never before hit a man. Yes, it was interesting.
  "Okay, Meyers, get him out of here," said Kagami.
  L-3. He had what he'd come for.
   "C'mon, Chokey," said the thin man, lifting the shaking prisoner
from his seat. Kagami spun about.
  "What did you call him?"
  The thin man looked at Kagami peculiarly. "Chokey, Lieutenant.
Name's Joey Chokey. You know that."
  Kagami stared at the man he had struck. Joey Chokey smiled.


   By playing the unexpected L-3 position, Kagami had begun an
intensive pressing formation on the entire L-group, had turned a corner
at H-6, and had quickly devastated Bisho Rinjin. The game of thirty
days had not lasted another hour.
  The jamasura hummed happily as Kagami greeted Chokki.
   "In the midst of another game, I see," said Chokki, entering the
livingroom. The northern wall was now greatly expanded,
incorporating both dining room and garden in an elegant whole.
Chokki nodded in admiration.
   "It will be finished in two moves." Kagami wondered what Chokki
had come for—he had not called for him—but thought it inhospitable
to inquire. He offered sake.
   "Many thanks, but no. I cannot stay long." Chokki spoke calmly, but
his eyes kept darting about the room, always returning to rest for a
moment on the gōban. "I have come in my very humble capacity to
present a most unusual gift."
  "Honored," said Kagami.
   "Neobiotix has petitioned the Games Council on your behalf, and
we have received permission to raise your status." Chokki paused
dramatically. "To Shihan Player."
  "A Master?" said Kagami. "I am overwhelmed."
   "You have respectfully earned the title. I am humbled before your
abilities. On my last visit I offered the opinion that your strategic
situation was hopeless. Since that time, I have noted two change-of-
property titles come through my office. Of course, I immediately
offered my resignation to my employer, who graciously declined.
Nevertheless, my error was unforgivable." The plump Line Nippon
lowered his chin, a sign of submission and shame, but his eyes
reflected stubborness and animosity. Was there a small scab on his left
cheek? Imagination.
   "I differ, Chokki san. You made a most honest analysis. The acts of
fate are not yours to predict."
   "Not to be argumentative, but this was no hand of God. Superior
thinking. However, I am pleased that you do not think ill of me. We
wish then to present these tokens of our admiration." Chokki withdrew
a slip of paper and a golden ring from his breast pocket and handed
them to Kagami.
  The ring was cool and smooth in Kagami's hand. He scrutinized it
and noticed that it was inscribed with the word Shinjitsu—truth,
encircled by a single banded line indicating Master status. The check
was written for six million yen.
  Why?
   Kagami knew he was no Master. What had motivated Neobiotix and
Chokki to recommend such honor? Indeed, his holdings were
significant, particularly when one considered the amount of time in
which he had accumulated them, but they certainly did not warrant the
ultimate title of Shihan. He turned the golden band slowly in his hand.
  Did Chokki know?
   Impossible. It was his personal madness, his private dream
sequence; a fantasy link to his unconscious, or a collective
unconscious, or some universal intelligence which favored him. He
had not decided which. But it was not shared—it would be impossible
for Chokki to be aware of it.
   Perhaps, thought Kagami, I do deserve the title. After all, was it not
superior strategy which had wrested the L-3 move from the police
lieutenant's prisoner? Yes, thought Kagami, indeed. A strategy which
the gentlemen sirs have all but forgotten.
  "You understand," said Chokki, apparently noting Kagami's
hesitation, "that these trinkets are but expressions of our respect?"
   Kagami met Chokki's eyes. Respect? Respect for a sansei? Kagami
noticed, in Chokki's expression, the fine and uncooked seeds of
condescension, as if he were laughing inwardly at the ignorant sansei,
at this respect built of wire-mesh, an ornament, paying him off with a
fistful of paper money and baubles. Quite suddenly, Kagami
understood why.
  "I am most flattered," said Kagami, fighting to conceal his anger,
"but I cannot accept."'
  Chokki blinked like a Hiroshiman in the brightness.
   "If I am of Shihan ability," said Kagami, "I may no longer engage in
play. Is this correct?"
  "Why… of course! Opponents must be of near-equal ability, of
matched strength. No one may play a Shihan. Advantage does not
come in domination of the novjce, but in superior thinking with one's
equals."
   "Or one's betters?" Kagami handed the items back to Chokki, who
accepted them unbelievingly. "I am afraid your offer is much too
gracious. I shall continue as a player."
   A cheap ruse! A child's trick! Did this Line Nippon truly believe
that Kagami would be so easily fooled? The transparency of the ploy
was grave insult piggybacked upon intended injury. Kagami dug his
fingernails into his palms and contained himself.
   Chokki began to speak, stopped, began again. "As you wish, though
I do not know what we shall tell the Council. No precedent."
   "Extend my deepest apologies," said Kagami. "May I catch you
later, Chokki san."
  Chokki bowed courteously and left the house. Kagami stood by the
open T6-screen and watched Chokki walk briskly down the manicured
path, past spacious rock gardens and neatly calendared emperor tulips
and Agean windflowers, to his dart. Chokki clambered in to the small
vehicle and escalated quietly into the overcast afternoon sky.
  "Goodbye," called Kagami, waving with his right hand. His left
hand closed and opened behind his back. Then he adde.d in a whisper,
"You little Nip."
  The words tasted extraordinary.


  Samuel Kagami remained on his horse, an impossibly black stallion,
and leaned in the saddle to touch the stagecoach driver.
  Dead.
   The driver's throat was opened in a ragged five centimeter circle.
Blood drained slowly, coagulating about his neck and chest, thin
strands of fibrin spiderwebbed from his chin. His rifle lay unused in his
lap.
  "Gawddamn!" said one of Kagami's men—the one he called
Moyers, an obese fellow who wore a rancid yellow bandana about his
head. Moyers poked an inquisitive finger into the stagecoach driver's
neck. "Got him real good, Sammy."
  "Open the coach," said Kagami.
   A strong wind blew through the pass; sun carved rock and sand
about Kagami as it hung like a washed-out lightbulb in the pale
morning sky. Samuel Kagami felt strong also; virile, alive. A thin kid
in a vest and rolled sleeves dismounted and flung open the door of the
coach.
  Kagami gestured at the passengers. "Out."
   An older fellow, dressed in frock coat and traveling hat, emerged
from the coach. He turned and took the hand of a young woman, a girl
actually, not more than sixteen, helping her step down. Kagami eyed
the girl; her tight bodice accentuated pleasing curves, smooth lines, and
Kagami found himself wondering what would please him most.
  "Empty your pockets," ordered Kagami.
   "Please," said the well-dressed man, his voice trembling with
apparent anxiety. "I am escorting my niece to Sioux Falls, for a recital.
I am a music teacher. I have nothing you want."
   Kagami said nothing, knowing that his reputation here, in whatever
time or place this was, read like a headstone. He could tell, simply by
the feel of the Kagami he now was.
   The man waited a moment, then fished a leather billfold from his
frock coat.
  "Toss it."
   Kagami caught the wallet and opened it, methodically rifling its
contents and tossing them one by one to the ground. The wind caught
the paper money which Kagami discarded, and whirlpooled it about
the feet of his horse.
  "Hey!" cried Moyers, as he raced about gathering the money in his
hands. Kagami kept pulling items from the billfold.
  "If you'll only tell me what you're looking for, perhaps—"
   "Shut up!" barked Kagami. Yes, the feel of this one was superb!
This Kagami did not take orders, did not heed warnings. This Kagami
strode where he pleased, said what he wished, took as he saw fit. He
spat tobacco juice in the music professor's face.
   The professor wiped at it with a coat sleeve and clamped his jaws
together. Kagami continued sorting through the wallet.
  There!
  This was what he had come for. He withdrew two theatre tickets and
waved them at the professor. "Aha! Ya, boys! Here we go. Ya!"
  "But those are simply—"
   "I know what they are!" shouted Kagami. He walked his horse
closer to the music teacher and drew back his leg, driving his spurs
into the man's ribcage. The professor reeled backward and tumbled to
the sand. Kagami thought of dismounting and having the girl, there, on
the ground, with Moyers and the thin kid laughing and the professor
shaking violently. He felt no need in his groin, but reminded himself
that if he wished to, he could, and the thought of the professor looking
on in silent agony pleased him more than he knew the girl would have
anyway.
  He studied the tickets.
  C-16 and C-17. Seat numbers. Excellent seat numbers.
   The girl knelt by her uncle and wiped his forehead with the hem of
her skirt; Kagami was momentarily intrigued by the pale skin exposed
on her calf, the compact breasts bound so tightly within the lace
blouse, but… no time. No need and no time. He had what he'd come
for.
  "Do you need to further humiliate us, or may we proceed on our
way? It seems, quite inexplicably, that you have what you wanted."
The professor's breathing was impaired, his voice undercut by the
sound of wind cutting cellophane. Perhaps a rib had been broken.
   Kagami spat in the man's face a second time. This time, however,
the professor did not wipe away the brownish sputum, but stared into
Kagami's eyes through the mucusoid film.
  "Get on with you," said Kagami.
   The girl helped her uncle to his feet and they both walked, he with a
slight limp, to the front of the coach. The mutilated driver was slumped
in the seat; the girl, having not yet seen him, raised her hands to her
lips and stifled a scream.
  "Oh, dear Jesus!" she said. "Is he dead, Uncle Choggy?"
   The professor turned and looked at Kagami again. He blinked spittle
from his eyes and smiled.
  "I'm afraid so, Kate," he said. "This time."


  "Is there nothing we can offer you then?" said Chokki. The
Neobiotix field representative played with the hem of his shoulder
coat, avoiding Kagami's eyes.
  "No. I shall continue as a player."
   Chokki shook his head, sadly. Kagami offered no brandy, but
poured himself a large cup—another large cup—and laughed quietly,
thinking that certainly a VSOP cognac from the Israeli National States
was far too rare for a Line Nippon.
   "You are driving us from business, Kagami san. Do you even realize
this?"
  "I play for victory. I mean no ill to your company's prosperity."
   "Yet we find it difficult to sell neobiotic housing any longer. Your
reputation has grown too large, customers will not invest knowing that
should you challenge, they must accept, and that you shall ultimately
conquer their territories. I myself will be dismissed from my employ
unless I bring a satisfactory reply, thus, I have nothing to lose and may
speak frankly. Neobiotix shall be pleased to furnish you with a check
for any amount you estimate you may win."
  Kagami drained his glass.
   He had waited impatiently all day yesterday, all morning today, for
the referee to declare his turn. There was but one crucial move to be
made, and though Kagami did not know yet what it was, he did know
how to find out. Chokki was nothing more than an annoying insect
buzzing about his ears.
  "You," said Kagami, "do not have what I may win."
   "You have crafted an empire, vaster by far than any in the history of
the game. Thus, it cannot be material reward you seek. What then?"
Chokki seemed to be shivering; the muscles in his face tightened, no
longer the pleasant oval shape it had been. Kagami had never seen the
stoic Line Nippon in such an agitated state, and it greatly pleased him.
"Do you believe that further victory and ruthless triumph will make
you a… a…"
  "Line Nippon?" said Kagami, quickly. "Like you, fat little Chokki?"
   Chokki's eyes grew wide with astonishment, his mouth hung open
like a sprung trap door. "I… I did not mean to say—"
    "Damn what you say! You never say what you mean anyway!"
Kagami rose from the lioo-chair and stood above the smaller man, at a
distance he knew Chokki would find uncomfortably close. The liquor
caused him to sway slightly, like a pear tree in the breeze. "How does
it feel then, Chokki? Mr. Chokki? How does it make you feel?
Kokomu? Surrounded? Yes? Now it is your turn, my little friend. You
are the single stone and I the invader."
  "Have you lost your wits?"
   "Good! No, excellent! My lost wits against yours. Oh yes, you
know, don't you, Chokki? You know, and you are there each time. I
see you, I know it is you. But this time—oh, this time little Chokki, I
engulf you. Or 'incorporate.' Is that a better word?"
   "You are mad," said Chokki, softly. He rose and strode toward the
front T6-screen. Kagami followed at his back, his hands waving
drunkenly in the air.
   "The attacking line, Mr. Chokki! Look out! Here it is—no, there!
Now in back of you! Behind you! All about you, ripping into your
flesh with pointed politic and gesture, attacking you for what you are,
for what you are not, for what you can never be! Do you see it? All
around you? Look, my one little stone!"
  Chokki touched the T6-screen and it parted, then he turned slowly to
Kagami, standing at the threshold. His composure had not been
broken, his face was manicured beautifully, like the Agean
windflowers in the garden, yet expressionless. His poise caused
Kagami to suddenly step back.
   Softly, he said, "One stone holds infinite power, Kagami san. One
stone may change the outcome of a game. Malicious play extends
folly. Good day."
  The small Nipponese stepped through the T6-screen and was gone.
Kagami stood in the immense entryway, holding a snifter filled with
expensive liquor in a trembling hand.


  The train lumbered through the darkness like a huge slug, crawling
past mountains and rivers and plateaus. The box-car vibrated and
Samuel Kagami rocked in the corner.
  "Damn. Aren't you finished yet?"
   "Sorry," said the thin man who knelt by the safe, working the dials
in the flashing half-light from the car door. "I can't get that last
number, it won't open."
   "Get the conductor then. Get somebody!" At Kagami's command,
the thin man and the heavy-set fellow named Mayor disappeared into
the adjoining car. Kagami found a cigarette in the pocket of his black
satin vest and lit it, breathing the smoke through his nostrils and
releasing it in a dragon flare. He listened to the even, measured sounds
of the locomotive pounding track across the Great Divide. The car
smelled musty and a chill wind lashed through the cracks in the
floorboards, swinging the oil lantern that hung by the door and
sparking Kagami's cigarette.
  Samuel Kagami was not interested in the contents of the safe. He
was interested in the last number.
   The two men reappeared holding a frail old gentleman by the arms.
The latter did not appear nervous, a grey shoot of hair slicked across
his balding scalp, a natty suit and bow tie. "The ticket-taker,"
announced Mayor.
  "Open it," said Kagami in a rush of smoke.
  The ticket-taker shook his head.
   Kagami smiled, curling and uncurling his fist. Doesn't he think he's
just something? thought Kagami. He slammed the old ticket-taker
against the wall of the boxcar, and the small fellow smacked against
the wood then slid down the wall and sat on the floor. He adjusted his
wire-rimmed spectacles which sat crookedly on the bridge of his nose.
  "I said open it."
  The ticket-taker slowly moved his head from left to right.
  Stalling. Blind moves. A field mouse roaring at a cobra. Kagami
enjoyed the ticket-taker's resistance; it added an extra dimension to the
conquest. He brought his foot up neatly in a large arc, directing his
boot into the old man's face.
   The spectacles shattered in the ticket-taker's eyes, filling them with
blood. The dull thud of cartilage breaking and the sharp crack of the
glass lenses filled the car.
   Samuel Kagami thought of his empire, his kingdom. He envisioned
a pebble lodged in its bright machinery, then, with a whirr and a click,
the machinery grinding to a halt.
  "Tell me," he said.
  The ticket-taker sat very still.
   Kagami forced his boot into the man's groin. Now, in the flickering
of lantern light, he noticed just how old the man looked; his outfit a
remnant of older, perhaps better days, his thinning hair attempting to
deny the inevitable baldness of his liver-spotted pate. Were these
meager wrappings meant to evoke sympathy? Compassion?
  Of course.
   Kagami shifted his weight to his left leg and ground the old man's
testes between his heel and the floorboards. He felt a popping as he
pushed.
  "You want to die?"
   The ticket-taker spoke in spasmed breaths; his words, though, were
calm and precise, as if unscathed by physical pain. His mouth, a
crescent filled with frothy scarlet, opened slightly. "Nothing to lose,"
whispered the ticket-taker.
  He who has nothing to lose cannot be beaten.
   Another hollow platitude from the mouths of the victors. Yet, for the
first time, Kagami felt the awesome might of complete surrender, the
carefully maintained power of the ticket-taker's position. Kagami could
kill him, or the old man would accept any amount of his beating, but
because he held to nothing, the ticket-taker could not be threatened,
pressed, taken.
  Kagami felt fear, as all about him the machine slowed.
  One stone, Kagami san, may change the outcome of a game.
   Impossible. Kagami had brought to bear a network of holdings so
grand that nothing might stop their momentous hurtling toward destiny
once they were set into play. Why then did he feel such fright? Why, if
the force of this monolith could not be restrained, did he find himself
shivering now, staring deep into the eyes of a straw-boned old man?
  Blood streaked down the ticket-taker's face like tears. He mumbled.
  "What?" said Kagami.
   The ticket-taker said nothing. Your move. He had heard it clearly
enough. It did not bear repeating. Kagami lowered himself to the floor
of the box-car and brought his face close to the old man's. His eyes,
filmed by a red sauce, held Kagami's unblinkingly.
  "It's right to 23, isn't it, Chokki?"
  The ticket-taker's lips parted slowly, so slowly that Kagami ached to
speed their parting, to reach his hand into the old man's gullet and
extract the answer which was rightfully his.
  "Please."
  The ticket-taker opened his mouth, coughed, and spat two teeth into
Kagami's face.
   Kagami jumped backward. "Damn you!" He pulled his pistol from
his gunbelt and held it level to the ticket-taker's skull. "Now tell me!"
Kagami steadied himself on his knees, holding the gun outstretched
with both hands. "Now!" The veins and arteries in his neck swelled and
throbbed, his skin painted with violet.
  "Sammy, don't kill him, boy. He's the only one's got the
combination."
   Bad lines from a bad script. Kagami ignored the clamor of the men
and instead focused all his energies into the barrel of his gun. He held
the ticket-taker's gaze and knew that soon, very soon, the bad actors
would disappear, begone, there would remain that which always
remained: the immovable object and the irresistible force.
  But this time the object would yield! It had to!
  Kagami cocked, the pistol and heard his own breathing, out of
control, his heart pounding in his ears. Or was it the train?
  "Chokki, I don't want to. Please. What is it?"
   His extended arms began to shake, he could not hold the pistol
straight anymore and the box-car began to swirl.
  "Please!"
   The deafening noise of the train and his heart did not hide this fact:
the ticket-taker was laughing.
  "Chokki!" Malicous play.
  "Chokki!" Extends.
  "Chokki!" Folly.
   Kagami pulled the trigger. His arms recoiled in futile protest. He
watched the bullet crawl, painstakingly slowly, across the vast space
between himself and the ticket-taker, a space which spanned one meter
and three thousand years. The ticker-taker's skull separated as if in
slow motion, a dream-jar unwinding at the top, the lid splattered
against the box-car walls, small parts of bone and flesh suspended in
perpetual ballet, swirling, turning, airborne spinners.
  Suddenly, the car was quiet.
  "Chokki?" Kagami whispered.
   He stared at the ticket-taker's body for a very long time, then slowly,
he began to weep. He crawled forward, pulling a leg behind a leg, knee
to floor, crawling across that great abyss which lay between himself
and the corpse, until he reached the body and hugged himself to the
bloodied coat and held and stroked the lifeless hand which he did not
need to see to know it wore a single-banded, golden ring.
    He pressed himself tightly against the used body, squeezing against
its chest, mingling his sorrow with blood and bone, pushing and
pushing so that laughter might buoy his heart and one day he might
still float free.
   And in the night, beyond the slow rumble of the train, empires were
falling, vaster than one might imagine.
                  MOXON'S MASTER
                   Ambrose Bierce

  "Are you serious?—do you really believe that a machine thinks?"
  I got no immediate reply; Moxon was apparently intent upon the
coals in the grate, touching them deftly here and there with the fire-
poker till they signified a sense of his attention by a brighter glow. For
several weeks I had been observing in him a growing habit of delay in
answering even the most trivial of commonplace questions. His air,
however, was that of preoccupation rather than deliberation: one might
have said that he had "something on his mind."
  Presently he said:
  "What is a 'machine'? The word has been variously defined. Here is
one definition from a popular dictionary; 'Any instrument or
organization by which power is applied and made effective, or a
desired effect produced.' Well, then, is not a man a machine? And you
will admit that he thinks—or thinks he thinks."
   "If you do not wish to answer my question," I said, rather testily,
"why not say so?—all that you say is mere evasion. You know well
enough that when I say 'machine' I do not mean a man, but something
that man has made and controls."
   "When it does not control him," he said, rising abruptly and looking
out of a window, whence nothing was visible in the blackness of a
stormy night. A moment later he turned about and with a smile said:
   "I beg your pardon; I had no thought of evasion. I considered the
dictionary man's unconscious testimony suggestive and worth
something in the discussion. I can give your question a direct answer
easily enough; I do believe that a machine thinks about the work that it
is doing."
    That was direct enough, certainly. It was not altogether pleasing, for
it tended to confirm a sad suspicion that Moxon's devotion to study and
work in his machine-shop had not been good for him. I knew, for one
thing, that he suffered from insomnia, and that is no light affliction.
Had it affected his mind? His reply to my question seemed to me then
evidence that it had; perhaps I should think differently about it now. I
was younger then, and among the blessings that are not denied to youth
is ignorance. Incited by that great stimulant to controversy, I said:
  "And what, pray, does it think with—in the absence of a brain?"
   The reply, coming with less than his customary delay, took his
favorite form of counter-interrogation:
  "With what does a plant think—in the absence of a brain?"
   "Ah, plants also belong to the philosopher class! I should be pleased
to know some of their conclusions; you may omit the premises."
   "Perhaps," he replied, apparently unaffected by my foolish irony,
"you may be able to infer their convictions from their acts. I will spare
you the familiar examples of the sensitive mimosa, the several
insectivorous flowers and those whose stamens bend down and shake
their pollen upon the entering bee in order that he may fertilize their
distant mates. But observe this. In an open spot in my garden I planted
a climbing vine. When it was barely above the surface I set a stake into
the soil a yard away. The vine at once made for it, but as it was about
to reach it after several days I removed it a few feet. The vine at once
altered its course, making an acute angle, and again made for the stake.
This maneuver was repeated several times, but finally, as if
discouraged, the vine abandoned the pursuit and ignoring further
attempts to divert it traveled to a small tree, further away, which it
climbed.
   "Roots of the eucalyptus will prolong themselves incredibly in
search of moisture. A well-known horticulturist relates that one entered
an old drain pipe and followed it until it came to a break, where a
section of the pipe had been removed to make way for a stone wall that
had been built across its course. The root left the drain and followed
the wall until it found an opening where a stone had fallen out. It crept
through and following the other side of the wall back to the drain,
entered the unexplored part and resumed its journey."
  "And all this?"
   "Can you miss the significance of it? It shows the consciousness of
plants. It proves that they think."
   "Even if it did—what then? We were speaking, not of plants, but of
machines. They may be composed partly of wood—wood that has no
longer vitality—or wholly of metal. Is thought an attribute also of the
mineral kingdom?"
   "How else do you explain the phenomena, for example, of
crystallization?"
  "I do not explain them."
   "Because you cannot without affirming what you wish to deny,
namely, intelligent cooperation among the constituent elements of the
crystals. When soldiers form lines, or hollow squares, you call it
reason. When wild geese in flight take the form of a letter V you say
instinct. When the homogeneous atoms of a mineral, moving freely in
solution, arrange themselves into shapes mathematically perfect, or
particles of frozen moisture into the symmetrical and beautiful forms
of snowflakes, you have nothing to say. You have not even invented a
name to convey your heroic unreason."
   Moxon was speaking with unusual animation and earnestness. As he
paused I heard in an adjoining room known to me as his "machine-
shop," which no one but himself was permitted to enter, a singular
thumping sound, as of some one pounding upon a table with an open
hand. Moxon heard it at the same moment and, visibly agitated, rose
and hurriedly passed into the room whence it came. I thought it odd
that any one else should be in there, and my interest in my friend—
with doubtless a touch of unwarrantable curiosity—led me to listen
intently, though, I am happy to say, not at the keyhole. There were
confused sounds, as of a struggle or scuffle; the floor shook. I
distinctly heard hard breathing and a hoarse whisper which said "Damn
you!" Then all was silent, and presently Moxon reappeared and said,
with a rather sorry smile:
   "Pardon me for leaving you so abruptly. I have a machine in there
that lost its temper and cut up rough."
  Fixing my eyes steadily upon his left cheek, which was traversed by
four parallel excoriations showing blood, I said:
  "How would it do to trim its nails?"
   I could have spared myself the jest; he gave it no attention, but
seated himself in the chair that he had left and resumed the interrupted
monologue as if nothing had occurred:
   "Doubtless you do not hold with those (I need not name them to a
man of your reading) who have taught that all matter is sentient, that
every atom is a living, feeling, conscious being. I do. There is no such
thing as dead, inert matter; it is all alive; all instinct with force, actual
and potential; all sensitive to the same forces in its environment and
susceptible to the contagion of higher and subtler ones residing in such
superior organisms as it may be brought into relation with, as those of
man when he is fashioning it into an instrument of his will. It absorbs
something of his intelligence and purpose—more of them in proportion
to the complexity of the resulting machine and that of its work.
   "Do you happen to recall Herbert Spencer's definition of 'Life'? I
read it thirty years ago. He may have altered it afterward, for anything
I know, but in all that time I have been unable to think of a single word
that could profitably be changed or added or removed. It seems to me
not only the best definition, but the only possible one.
  " 'Life,' he says, 'is a definite combination of heterogeneous changes,
both simultaneous and successive, in correspondence with external
coexistences and sequencies.' "
  "That defines the phenomenon," I said, "but gives no hint of its
cause."
   "That," he replied, "is all that any definition can do. As Mill points
out, we know nothing of cause except as an antecedent—nothing of
effect except as a consequent. Of certain phenomena, one never occurs
without another, which is dissimilar: the first in point of time we call
cause, the second, effect. One who had many times seen a rabbit
pursued by a dog, and had never seen rabbits and dogs otherwise,
would think the rabbit the cause of the dog.
   "But I fear," he added, laughing naturally enough, "that my rabbit is
leading me a long way from the track of my legitimate quarry: I'm
indulging in the pleasure of the chase for its own sake. What I want
you to observe is that in Herbert Spencer's definition of 'life' the
activity of a machine is included—there is nothing in the definition
that is not applicable to it. According to this sharpest of observers and
deepest of thinkers, if a man during his period of activity is alive, so is
a machine when in operation. As an inventor and constructor of
machines I know that to be true."
  Moxon was silent for a long time, gazing absently into the fire. It
was growing late and I thought it time to be going, but somehow I did
not like the notion of leaving him in that isolated house, all alone
except for the presence of some person of whose nature my conjectures
could go no further than that it was unfriendly, perhaps malign.
Leaning toward him and looking earnestly into his eyes while making
a motion with my hand through the door of his workshop, I said:
  "Moxon, whom have you in there?"
  Somewhat to my surprise he laughed lightly and answered without
hesitation:
   "Nobody; the incident that you have in mind was caused by my folly
in leaving a machine in action with nothing to act upon, while I
undertook the interminable task of enlightening your understanding.
Do you happen to know that Consciousness is the creature of
Rhythm?"
   "O bother them both!" I replied, rising and laying hold of my
overcoat. "I'm going to wish you good night; and I'll add the hope that
the machine which you inadvertently left in action will have her gloves
on the next time you think it needful to stop her."
  Without waiting to observe, the effect of my shot I left the house.
   Rain was falling, and the darkness was intense. In the sky beyond
the crest of a hill toward which I groped my way along precarious
plank sidewalks and across miry, unpaved streets I could see the faint
glow of the city's lights, but behind me nothing was visible but a single
window of Moxon's house. It glowed with what seemed to me a
mysterious and fateful meaning. I knew it was an uncurtained aperture
in my friend's "machine-shop," and I had little doubt that Tie had
resumed the studies interrupted by his duties as my instructor in
mechanical consciousness and the fatherhood of Rhythm. Odd, and in
some degree humorous, as his convictions seemed to me at that time, I
could not wholly divest myself of the feeling that they had some tragic
relation to his life and character—perhaps to his destiny—although I
no longer entertained the notion that they were the vagaries of a
disordered mind. Whatever might be thought of his views, his
exposition of them was too logical for that. Over and over, his last
words came back to me: "Consciousness is the creature of Rhythm."
Bald and terse as the statement was, I now found it infintely alluring.
At each recurrence it broadened in meaning and deepened in
suggestion. Why, here (I thought) is something upon which to found a
philosophy. If consciousness is the product of rhythm all things are
conscious, for all have motion, and all motion is rhythmic. I wondered
if Moxon knew the significance and breadth of his thought—the scope
of this momentous generalization; or had he arrived at his philosophic
faith by the tortuous and uncertain road of observation?
   That faith was then new to me, and all Moxon's expounding had
failed to make me a convert; but now it seemed as if a great light shone
about me, like that which fell upon Saul of Tarsus; and out there in the
storm and darkness and solitude I experienced what Lewes calls "The
endless variety and excitement of philosophic thought." I exulted in a
new sense of knowledge, a new pride of reason. My feet seemed
hardly to touch the earth; it was as if I were uplifted and borne through
the air by invisible wings.
  Yielding to an impulse to seek further light from him whom I now
recognized as my master and guide, I had unconsciously turned about,
and almost before I was aware of having done so found myself again at
Moxon's door. I was drenched with rain, but felt no discomfort. Unable
in my excitement to find the doorbell I instinctively tried the knob. It
turned and, entering, I mounted the stairs to the room that I had so
recently left. All was dark and silent; Moxon, as I had supposed, was
in the adjoining room—the "machine-shop." Groping along the wall
until I found the communicating door I knocked loudly several times,
but got no response, which I attributed to the uproar outside, for the
wind was blowing a gale and dashing the rain against the thin walls in
sheets. The drumming upon the shingle roof spanning the unceiled
room was loud and incessant.
   I had never been invited into the machine-shop—had, indeed, been
denied admittance, as had all others, with one exception, a skilled
metal worker, of whom no one knew anything except that his name
was Haley and his habit of silence. But in my spiritual exaltation,
discretion and civility were alike forgotten and I opened the door.
What I saw took all philosophical speculation out of me in short order.
   Moxon sat facing me at the farther side of a small table upon which
a single candle made all the light that was in the room. Opposite him,
his back toward me, sat another person. On the table between the two
was a chessboard; the men were playing. I knew little of chess, but as
only a few pieces were on the board it was obvious that the game was
near its close. Moxon was intensely interested—not so much, it seemed
to me, in the game as in his antagonist, upon whom he had fixed so
intent a look that, standing though I did directly in the line of his
vision, I was altogether unobserved. His face was ghastly white, and
his eyes glittered like diamonds. Of his antagonist I had only a back
view, but that was sufficient; I should not have cared to see his face.
   He was apparently not more than five feet in height, with
proportions suggesting those of a gorilla—a tremendous breadth of
shoulders, thick, short neck and broad, squat head, which had a tangled
growth of black hair and was topped with a crimson fez. A tunic of the
same color, belted tightly to the waist, reached the seat—apparently a
box—upon which he sat; his legs and feet were not seen. His left
forearm appeared to rest in his lap; he moved his pieces with his right
hand, which seemed disproportionately long.
  I had shrunk back and now stood a little to one side of the doorway
and in shadow. If Moxon had looked farther than the face of his
opponent he could have observed nothing now, except that the door
was open. Something forbade me either to enter or to retire, a feeling—
I know not how it came that I was in the presence of an imminent
tragedy and might serve my friend by remaining. With a scarcely
conscious rebellion against the indelicacy of the act I remained.
   The play was rapid. Moxon hardly glanced at the board before
making his moves, and to my unskilled eye seemed to move the piece
most convenient to his hand, his motions in doing so being quick,
nervous and lacking in precision. The response of his antagonist, while
equally prompt in the inception, was made with a slow, uniform,
mechanical and, I thought, somewhat theatrical movement of the arm,
that was a sore trial to my patience. There was something unearthly
about it all, and I caught myself shuddering. But I was wet and cold.
   Two or three times after moving a piece the stranger slightly
inclined his head, and each time I observed that Moxon shifted his
king. All at once the thought came to me that the man was dumb. And
then that he was a machine—an automaton chessplayer! Then I
remembered that Moxon had once spoken to me of having invented
such a piece of mechanism, though I did not understand that it had
actually been constructed. Was all his talk about the consciousness and
intelligence of machines merely a prelude to eventual exhibition of this
device—only a trick to intensify the effect of its mechanical action
upon me in my ignorance of its secret?
   A fine end, this, of all my intellectual transports—my "endless
variety and excitement of philosophic thought!" I was about to retire in
disgust when something occurred to hold my curiosity. I observed a
shrug of the thing's great shoulders, as if it were irritated: and so
natural was this—so entirely human—that in my new view of the
matter it startled me. Nor was that all, for a moment later it struck the
table sharply with its clenched hand. At that gesture Moxon seemed
even more startled than I: he pushed his chair a little backward, as in
alarm.
   Presently Moxon, whose play it was, raised his hand high above the
board, pounced upon one of his pieces like a sparrowhawk and with
the exclamation "checkmate!" rose quickly to his feet and stepped
behind his chair. The automation sat motionless.
   The wind had now gone down, but I heard, at lessening intervals
and progressively louder, the rumble and roll of thunder. In the pauses
between I now became conscious of a low humming or buzzing which,
like the thunder, grew momentarily louder and more distinct. It seemed
to come from the body of the automaton, and was unmistakably a
whirring of wheels. It gave me the impression of a disordered
mechanism which had escaped the repressive and regulating action of
some controlling part—an effect such as might be expected if a pawl
should be jostled from the teeth of a ratchet-wheel. But before I had
time for much conjecture as to its nature my attention was taken by the
strange motions of the automaton itself. A slight but continuous
convulsion appeared to have possession of it. In body and head it
shook like a man with palsy or an ague chill, and the motion
augmented every moment until the entire figure was in violent
agitation. Suddenly it sprang to its feet and with a movement almost
too quick for the eye to follow shot forward across table and chair with
both arms thrust forth to their full length—the posture and lunge of a
diver. Moxon tried to throw himself backward out of reach, but he was
too late: I saw the horrible thing's hands close upon his throat, his own
clutch its wrists. Then the table was overturned, the candle thrown to
the floor and extinguished, and all was black dark. But the noise of the
struggle was dreadfully distinct, and most terrible of all were the
raucous, squawking sounds made by the strangled man's efforts to
breathe. Guided by the infernal hubbub, I sprang to the rescue of my
friend, but had hardly taken a stride in the darkness when the whole
room blazed with a blinding white light that burned into my brain and
heart and memory a vivid picture of the combatants on the floor,
Moxon underneath, his throat still in the clutch of those iron hands, his
head forced backward, his eyes protruding, his mouth wide open and
his tongue thrust out; and—horrible contrast!—upon the painted face
of his assassin an expression of tranquil and profound thought, as in
the solution of a problem in chess! This I observed, then all was
blackness and silence.
   Three days later I recovered consciousness in a hospital. As the
memory of that tragic night slowly evolved in my ailing brain I
recognized in my attendant Moxon's confidential workman, Haley.
Responding to a look he approached, smiling.
  "Tell me about it," I managed to say, faintly—"all about it."
   "Certainly," he said; "you were carried unconscious from a burning
house—Moxon's. Nobody knows how you came to be there. You may
have to do a little explaining. The origin of the fire is a bit mysterious,
too. My own notion is that the house was struck by lightning."
  "And Moxon?"
  "Buried yesterday—what was left of him."
  Apparently this reticent person could unfold himself on occasion.
When imparting shocking intelligence to the sick he was affable
enough. After some moments of the keenest mental suffering I
ventured to ask another question:
  "Who rescued me?"
  "Well, if that interests you—I did."
   "Thank you, Mr. Haley, and may God bless you for it. Did you
rescue, also, that charming product of your skill, the automaton chess-
player that murdered its inventor?"
   The man was silent a long time, looking away from me. Presently he
turned and gravely said:
  "Do you know that?"
  "I do," I replied: "I saw it done."
  That was many years ago. If asked today I should answer less
confidently.
               RENDEZVOUS 2062
                      Robert Frazier

In the season of chrysanthemum,
Players align like tiles along a great ivory wall,
Matching velocities with Halley's,
Which ascends as an immense flaming dot
With tail as of a fighting kite
On winds from the North reaches of our solar system.
On an East wind rides a satellite shaped
Like a Chinese character.
From the West wind a souped-up shuttle
Resembling a bamboo bird.
From the South wind a U.N. solar sail,
Shining white dragon with mylar scales.
Drawing and discarding data,
The players shift hands
Until the United Nations melds.
They board the comet under the Starfaring Provisions,
And as it swings around Sol, the heart of Ma Jong
And all games of man,
They chip away the icy packing
From an ancient alien artifact…
They have played out a rare honors hand:
"A moon from the bottom of the sea".
 REFLECTIONS ON THE LOOKING-
       GLASS: AN ESSAY
                         Fred Stewart

   Almost everybody has heard of Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland
and knows most of its characters are a deck of cards. Far fewer have
read Carroll's Through the Looking-Glass, which is organized around a
chess puzzle. Alice's adventures as she proceeds to the Queening
square are not as memorable or exciting as those in Wonderland even
though the poem "Jabberwocky" is the most famous passage of
Carroll's work. Meeting Tweedledum and Tweedledee, Humpty
Dumpty, the Lion and the Unicorn, and various animals, insects and
chess pieces do not seem to charm us as the earlier book did. Yet when
Alice steps through the mirror in her Victorian drawing-room into the
world beyond, finds the world outside the Looking-Glass house is a
huge chess board, and takes her place in the game as a White Pawn, we
can see that Carroll is using the chess game as a symbolic commentary
on the whole of human existence.
   But what an unchessic game it is! Among its many odd
characteristics, the only one critically unexplained (as far as I know) is
the fact that White makes 13 moves to Red's three! I believe even this
can be explained by a close look at Carroll's puzzle and translating its
chess aspects into the commentary on human life that it really is. The
clearest metaphor is that Alice's side wins; she becomes Queen, makes
an important capture, and delivers mate to the Red King. Carroll shows
through Alice that human beings do have a major role in shaping their
(chess) game of life.


                                   I.

  I do not believe Charles T. Dodgson (Lewis Carroll) meant his Alice
books to be mere codes to be broken or logical games as so many of
his non-fictional works were. However, I do believe he put his fiction
together with much more left-brain activity than most literary artists;
that is, the meanings in his works are far more accessible to abstract
thought since they are so purposefully symbolic. The Alice books are
not themselves dreams, though they are set in dream context. Carroll
never lets us forget that he is controlling the march of symbolic
characters and actions across the page.1 So I believe Carroll would
approve of my puzzling over the chess motif that structure Through the
Looking-Glass. To consider this chess situation as chess is to find he
has framed his view of the deepest puzzle of all—the nature of human
existence.
   When Alice climbs through the mirror, she finds herself operating
within a chessboard world. At first the chess pieces she encounters, in
her normal size, apprehend her existence only as "a volcano" which
can pick them up and toss them about.2 Soon after, she enters the
garden of the Looking-Glass house and saw "in all directions" a
countryside broken into squares, hedges lining each file and brooks
each rank; " 'just like a large chessboard,' " she declares (207). When
she assumes her place on the board as a White Pawn, her perspective is
from then on limited to the squares immediately to her left and right;
"she sweeps a narrow track," as A. L. Taylor puts it.3
   Carroll sets his chessboard situation before us as a frontispiece,
together with the moves of the pieces:
                         Diagram #1 RED
                    WHITE

White Pawn (Alice) to play, and win in eleven moves,
  In his "Preface" Carroll addresses the problems that would
immediately occur to anyone even vaguely familiar with the game of
chess:
   As the chess-problem, given on the next page, has puzzled some of
my readers, it may be well to explain that it is correctly worked out, so
far as the moves are concerned. The alternation of Red and White is
perhaps not so strictly observed as it might be, and the "castling" of the
three Queens is merely a way of saying that they entered the palace:
but the "check" of the White King at move 6, the capture of the Red
Knight at move 7, and the final "checkmate" of the Red King, will be
found, by any one who will take the trouble to set the pieces and play
the moves as directed, to be strictly in accordance with the laws of the
game. (p. 171)
   Some of Carroll's "moves" are not chess moves at all—"Queens
Castle" (9th move for Red) requires two pieces to move on the same
turn and merely indicates that both Queens enter their castle though
staying within the same square each had been on the move before. On
her 10th move Alice also enters the castle. Her 9th move ("Alice
becomes Queen") takes place a move after she reaches the eighth
rank—clearly some' 'moves'' are essential to the narrative plot rather
than to chess rules and strategy. Carroll clearly shows that there is
more to his chess situation than chess, but setting the real chess moves
will help separate plot from chess:
   Three things will be noticed immediately by the chess aficionado—
there are more real chess moves than the eleven indicated by Carroll;
White moves 13 times to Red's 3 (including one string of 8 straight!);
and the original White Queen makes real move 13 even though her
White King is in check from the Red Queen:
                            Diagram #2




   The first problem has an easy solution. As Carroll's notes to his
"moves" show, the eleven "moves" refer to portions of the narrative
plot of the book—21 separate occurrences that happen to Alice as she
moves across the board. There are only 16 separate real chess moves
(13 by White, 3 by Red) by the pieces themselves.
  The second problem proved to have an historical solution. Ivor
Davies found that, at his death, Carroll owned a copy of George
Walker's book The Art of Chess-Playing: A New Treatise on the Game
(1846). Law XX in Walker states, "When you give check, you must
apprize your adversary, by saying aloud 'Check'; or he need not notice
it, but may move as though check were not given." Davies notes that
chess rules, as Walker sets them forth, "are the Rules of St. George's
Chess Club, London, drawn up in 1841 and still in force in England
when Through the Looking-Glass was written in 1871." Davies notes
that the Red Queen does not say "Check":


   Her silence was entirely logical because, at the moment of her
arrival at King one, she said to Alice, who had been crowned Queen
eight, "Speak when you are spoken to!" Since no one had spoken to
her she would have been breaking her own rule had she said,
"Check."4


   There is no doubt that the Looking-Glass characters are consistent,
and those in Alice in Wonderland are not; and I accept Davies' analysis
why the Red Queen did not announce check. Still, there remains a light
problem—one of point-of-view: chess pieces give check, but they do
not announce check, in the real game. The Red Knight does gallop up
to Alice and yell "check!" on Red's second move (Carroll's 6th plot-
move, chess move 9). But, as Marlin Gardner, editor of The Annotated
Alice, points out, when the White Knight captures the Red Knight, he
"absentmindedly shouts, 'Check!'; actually he checks only his own
King" (294). The strange puzzle as to why and how the chess pieces
are responsible for their own moves and strategy can be resolved in
considering the third problem—White's having ten more moves than
Red.
  Davies takes four stabs at solving this most vexing peculiarity:


   Four possible explanations suggest themselves. Firstly, Red might
move the White pieces by mistake. Under Law IX White could insist
that the moves stand. Secondly, according to Law XIV, if White were
moving out of turn Red could insist that the moves stand. Neither of
these contingencies is very likely in view of the number of consecutive
moves made by White. Thirdly, the game might be played at odds.
Both Walker and Staunton devote much space to various methods of
giving odds to a weaker player. But the order of the moves—one Red,
eight White, one Red, three White, one Red, two White—would imply
an impossibly difficult mathematical basis for the giving of odds.
   There remains a fourth possibility. Book V of Staunton's
Companion is entitled "On Odds." Staunton begins with a discussion
of the origins of chess and remarks that at first the giving and receiving
of odds was unnecessary because the game was not one of pure skill.
At the remote period of its birth in India it belonged to the widespread
family of human games based on chance and "the moves were
governed by the casts of dice". These significant words occur in the
very first sentence of the treatise Staunton wrote and Lewis Carroll
bought. They provide a key that turns easily in the lock of the door to
Alice's secret garden. White has more moves than Red because White
wins on the throw of the dice more often than Red!
   "They don't keep this room so tidy as the other," thought Alice to
herself when she arrived behind the looking-glass and discovered a
world beyond the care of providence or the decrees of fate. How
disturbing if Carroll is suggesting that this 'other world' is, after all, the
real one and that it is ruled by the principle of uncertainty! A pawn's
progress towards the eighth rank is hazardous in the hands of a skilled
chess player. In looking-glass chess its survival depends on the casting
of unseen dice by an invisible master. No wonder Alice cried as she
threw herself down on the last square, "Oh, how glad I am to get here!"


   None of these four suggestions resolves anything about the moves
because none explains either the character or implications of the game
itself. Only the fourth suggests a real solution—the game is controlled
by "an invisible master" and "is ruled by the principle of uncertainty!"
Gardner more narrowly implies the same: "Carroll may be
suggesting… that the knights, like Punch and Judy, are merely puppets
moved by the hands of the invisible players of the game" (295).
Richard Kelly can assess the same evidence and come to the
complementary conclusion that "in the Looking-Glass world life is
completely determined and without choice."5
   These men come to different conclusions about the character of the
game either because they are either examining different objects, or the
same object from differing points of view. Actually, they are doing
both. Davies and Gardner view Carroll's chess puzzle as a game, using
a player's point-of-view totally beyond the game and finding the game
symbolizes the uncertainty of human existence. Kelly sees the puzzle
as a chess problem and takes the point-of-view of the pieces. Kelly
finds this world narrow, limited, and totally determined.
   What is our puzzle—problem or game? Alice calls it a "huge game
of chess that's being played—all over the world—if this is the world,
you know" (207-8). However, Carroll has already called it a "chess-
problem" in his "Preface" (172).
  If we look at our puzzle carefully, we will find that it is both game
and problem, and that this paradox is the solution to the highly
symbolic narrative plot.


                                   II.
   In his fine book The Enjoyment of Chess Problems, Kenneth S.
Howard makes an essential distinction between the chess problem and
the chess ending:
   There is an essential distinction between a chess problem and a
composed endgame. In an endgame the solver has to demonstrate a
win or draw for white against a superior, or at least an equal, force, and
is allowed an indefinite number of moves in which to do so. The point
of the endgame is based on the difference in the apparent relative
material strength of white and black. In a problem it is not a question
of relative strength but of the possibility of showing a mate against any
defense in a limited number of moves. In an endgame the solver is
fighting against material odds; in a problem he is fighting against time.
  The modern chess problem is an illustration of some particular
powers of the chess men in their interaction with one another. The
chess problem is not primarily merely a puzzle.6


   However, in neither the problem nor the ending is the solver
actually playing against another mind. He is acting within the rules of
the problem situation, and for the most efficient win or mate in the
game-like ending. If a problem mate can be escaped or solved in fewer
moves than required, the problem is said to be "cooked." In the ending,
the situation must be a win or draw for the appointed side or it too is
ruined. For both problem and ending, one's opponents are the pieces,
rules, and the situation set forth on the board. The game of chess pits
two minds against each other, the board situation remaining at their
mercy.
   Carroll's Looking-Glass problem is "cooked": it has overlooked
early mates (3, Q-K3 mate), captures avoided by Red, and no plot
reference to the White Rook at KB1. As Edmund Miller notes, "This
chess problem is completely arbitrary and so does a wonderful job of
organizing everything else in the nonsense book."7 If the puzzle-plot is
considered as problem, the reader is confined to the limited perspective
of the chess pieces which only know what they must do and little or
nothing of the complete plot/solution. Alice (as Pawn) and the other
chessmen see only some of the play; the Queens know the rules, but
the other pieces do not speak of them. As Taylor points out, Alice
never grasps the purpose of the game; at the eighth square she asks if
the game is over.8 It is not over, of course, until later when she herself
captures the Red Queen.
   Martin Gardner is correct: "the mad quality of the chess game
conforms to the mad logic of the looking-glass world" (172). The
moves of the game (Gardner will call it a "chess problem" on p. 336)
are correct and meaningful if seen within Alices' limits on the board—
the logic is that of the moves laid out in Carroll's diagram; that is, the
narrative plot and the chess problem are identical. As problem, only
the placement of pieces and their "character" (narrative and chessic)
determine its moves and thus limit our view to their own; the moves
therefore do not matter as chess. The logic of the puzzle and of each
piece makes the actual chess moves unobservable from within the
problem, and the plot-moves seem both logical and real.
   If we view our puzzle as absolute outsiders, as a chess game, the
absurdity of the moves are apparent. Who is really playing the game is
unknown, even to Alice; the Red King "was part of my dream, of
course—but then I was part of his dream, too!" (344). Whoever the
unseen player may be—Carroll, God, Alice, the Red King—from his
view mistakes, errors, blunders, lost chances, and illegal moves are
obvious. In a chess game, rules are never to be violated willfully,
foolishly, or made part of the puzzle.9
   We have resolved the chess paradox: one puzzle is both game and
problem, for we see it from both points-of-view at once—as
player/reader, and as Alice/chessman. The puzzle has also resolved
itself as a symbol of human existence. If Carroll had totally ignored the
rules of chess, his allegory would then suggest human existence is
blind, directionless, and meaningless, like a child moving chessman
without purpose. But purpose is accomplished—the Red King is
mated, though Alice is unaware until she is awake and outside the
game (until, in human terms, she is wise and mature enough to see) and
changes her point-of-view.
  On the other hand, if Carroll had presented perfectly straightforward
chess (game or problem), he would imply human existence lacks
freedom, spontaneity, and charm. As a Church of England clergyman
and as teacher of math and logic at Christ Church, Oxford, the
Reverend Dodgson could not believe in blind chance or transcendental
puppetry as descriptive of the nature of human life. He believed in
God, logic, and science; and these beliefs he translated into a charming
literary puzzle.
   Carroll's story provides the same problems and resolution for the
nature of human existence as Emmanuel Kant had done in his Critique
of Practical Reason: man lives in two realms at once—the realm of
Nature in which all facets of his existence are completely determined
and explained by mechanical causation (the chess problem); and the
transcendental realm of freedom in which he is a free, unconditioned
cause acting on the world, bringing novelty and uncertainty into being
(the chess game). For Lewis Carroll, the game of human existence
presents a deep problem which he resolved in a happy ending in
Through the Looking-Glass.


                                *****

                           FOOTNOTES

  1Carroll himself admits changing the Black pieces to Red for the
purpose of religious symbolism, though the change violates the color
scheme of the pair of kittens (one white, one black) which were
responsible for part of the character of Alice's "dream."
  2Lewis Carroll, The Annotated Alice, ed. Martin Gardner (NY:
Clarkson N. Potter, 1960), p. 188. Further reference to Through the
Looking-Glass will be from this edition.
  3A. L. Taylor, "Chess and Theology in the Alice Books," in Alice in
Wonderland, ed. Donald J. Gray (NY: W. W. Norton, 1971), pp. 365-
377; quote is on pp. 367-8.
  4Ivor
      Davies, "Looking-Glass Chess," The Anglo-Welsh Review, 15
(Autumn 1970), pp. 189-91.
  5Richard   Kelly, Lewis Carroll (Boston: Twayne, 1977), pp. 97-99.
  6Kenneth   S. Howard, The Enjoyment of Chess Problems
(Philadelphia: McKay, 1943), p. 3. Howard's definition confirms the
idea that viewing our puzzle as a problem would confine our point-of-
view to the board of character of the pieces.
  7Edmund   Miller, "The Sylvie and Bruno Books as Victorian
Novel," in Lewis Carroll Observed, ed. Edward Guiliano (NY:
Clarkson N. Potter, 1976), p. 140.
  8Taylor,   p. 368.
  9Davies  finds that some aspects of our puzzle here are derived from
an old form of chess using a "Marked Pawn," as described in a book
owned by Carroll at his death; see "Queen Alice," Jabberwocky, 2
(Autumn 1973),pp. 10-11.1 also reject A. S. M. Dickins' "Alice in
Fairyland," Jabberwocky 5 (Winter 1976), pp. 3-24. Dickins, an
international judge on Fairy Chess, uses these wilder rules of this chess
offshoot to show our puzzle to be a "parody of chess morality."