Short Fiction Fritz Leiber (free e books to read .txt) 📖

around that one rabbi told Sherevsky it would be unlawful for him to play against the Machine because it is technically a golem⁠—the clay Frankenstein’s monster of Hebrew legend.”

Sandra asked, “What about Grabo and Krakatower?”

Doc gave a short scornful laugh. “Krakatower! Don’t pay any attention to him. A senile has-been, it’s a scandal he’s been allowed to play in this tournament! He must have pulled all sorts of strings. Told them that his lifelong services to chess had won him the honor and that they had to have a member of the so-called Old Guard. Maybe he even got down on his knees and cried⁠—and all the time his eyes on that expense money and the last-place consolation prize! Yet dreaming schizophrenically of beating them all! Please, don’t get me started on Dirty Old Krakatower.”

“Take it easy, Doc. He sounds like he would make an interesting article? Can you point him out to me?”

“You can tell him by his long white beard with coffee stains. I don’t see it anywhere, though. Perhaps he’s shaved it off for the occasion. It would be like that antique womanizer to develop senile delusions of youthfulness.”

“And Grabo?” Sandra pressed, suppressing a smile at the intensity of Doc’s animosity.

Doc’s eyes grew thoughtful. “About Bela Grabo (why are three out of four Hungarians named Bela?) I will tell you only this: That he is a very brilliant player and that the Machine is very lucky to have drawn him as its first opponent.”

He would not amplify his statement. Sandra studied the Scoreboard again.

“This Simon Great who’s down as programming the Machine. He’s a famous physicist, I suppose?”

“By no means. That was the trouble with some of the early chess-playing machines⁠—they were programmed by scientists. No, Simon Great is a psychologist who at one time was a leading contender for the world’s chess championship. I think W.B.M. was surprisingly shrewd to pick him for the programming job. Let me tell you⁠—No, better yet⁠—”

Doc shot to his feet, stretched an arm on high and called out sharply, “Simon!”

A man some four tables away waved back and a moment later came over.

“What is it, Savilly?” he asked. “There’s hardly any time, you know.”

The newcomer was of middle height, compact of figure and feature, with graying hair cut short and combed sharply back.

Doc spoke his piece for Sandra.

Simon Great smiled thinly. “Sorry,” he said, “But I am making no predictions and we are giving out no advance information on the programming of the Machine. As you know, I have had to fight the Players’ Committee tooth and nail on all sorts of points about that and they have won most of them. I am not permitted to re-program the Machine at adjournments⁠—only between games (I did insist on that and get it!) And if the Machine breaks down during a game, its clock keeps running on it. My men are permitted to make repairs⁠—if they can work fast enough.”

“That makes it very tough on you,” Sandra put in. “The Machine isn’t allowed any weaknesses.”

Great nodded soberly. “And now I must go. They’ve almost finished the countdown, as one of my technicians keeps on calling it. Very pleased to have met you, Miss Grayling⁠—I’ll check with our P.R. man on that interview. Be seeing you, Savvy.”

The tiers of seats were filled now and the central space almost clear. Officials were shooing off a few knots of lingerers. Several of the grandmasters, including all four Russians, were seated at their tables. Press and company cameras were flashing. The four smaller wallboards lit up with the pieces in the opening position⁠—white for White and red for Black. Simon Great stepped over the red velvet cord and more flash bulbs went off.

“You know, Doc,” Sandra said, “I’m a dog to suggest this, but what if this whole thing were a big fake? What if Simon Great were really playing the Machine’s moves? There would surely be some way for his electricians to rig⁠—”

Doc laughed happily⁠—and so loudly that some people at the adjoining tables frowned.

“Miss Grayling, that is a wonderful idea! I will probably steal it for a short story. I still manage to write and place a few in England. No, I do not think that is at all likely. W.B.M. would never risk such a fraud. Great is completely out of practice for actual tournament play, though not for chess-thinking. The difference in style between a computer and a man would be evident to any expert. Great’s own style is remembered and would be recognized⁠—though, come to think of it, his style was often described as being machinelike⁠ ⁠…” For a moment Doc’s eyes became thoughtful. Then he smiled again. “But no, the idea is impossible. Vanderhoef as Tournament Director has played two or three games with the Machine to assure himself that it operates legitimately and has grandmaster skill.”

“Did the Machine beat him?” Sandra asked.

Doc shrugged. “The scores weren’t released. It was very hush-hush. But about your idea, Miss Grayling⁠—did you ever read about Maelzel’s famous chess-playing automaton of the 19th Century? That one too was supposed to work by machinery (cogs and gears, not electricity) but actually it had a man hidden inside it⁠—your Edgar Poe exposed the fraud in a famous article. In my story I think the chess robot will break down while it is being demonstrated to a millionaire purchaser and the young inventor will have to win its game for it to cover up and swing the deal. Only the millionaire’s daughter, who is really a better player than either of them⁠ ⁠… yes, yes! Your Ambrose Bierce too wrote a story about a chess-playing robot of the clickety-clank-grr kind who murdered his creator, crushing him like an iron grizzly bear when the man won a game from him. Tell me, Miss Grayling, do you find yourself imagining this Machine putting out angry tendrils to strangle its opponents, or beaming rays of death and hypnotism at them? I can imagine⁠ ⁠…”

While Doc chattered happily on about