Short Fiction by Fritz Leiber (top romance novels .TXT) 📕

a Pole and now he has Argentinian citizenship. You have a program, don’t you?”

Sandra started to hunt through her pocketbook, but just then two lists of names lit up on the big electric scoreboard.

The Players

William Angler, U.S.A.
Bela Grabo, Hungary
Ivan Jal, U.S.S.R.
Igor Jandorf, Argentina
Dr. S. Krakatower, France
Vassily Lysmov, U.S.S.R.
The Machine, U.S.A. (programmed by Simon Great)
Maxim Serek, U.S.S.R.
Moses Sherevsky, U.S.A.
Mikhail Votbinnik, U.S.S.R.
Tournament Director: Dr. Jan Vanderhoef

First Round Pairings

Sherevsky vs. Serek
Jal vs. Angler
Jandorf vs. Votbinnik
Lysmov vs. Krakatower
Grabo vs. Machine

“Cripes, Doc, they all sound like they were Russians,” Sandra said after a bit. “Except this Willie Angler. Oh, he’s the boy wonder, isn’t he?”

Doc nodded. “Not such a boy any longer, though. He’s⁠ ⁠… Well, speak of the Devil’s children.⁠ ⁠… Miss Grayling, I have the honor of presenting to you the only grandmaster ever to have been ex-chess-champion of the United States while still technically a minor⁠—Master William Augustus Angler.”

A tall, sharply-dressed young man with a hatchet face pressed the old man back into his chair.

“How are you, Savvy, old boy old boy?” he demanded. “Still chasing the girls, I see.”

“Please, Willie, get off me.”

“Can’t take it, huh?” Angler straightened up somewhat. “Hey waiter! Where’s that chocolate malt? I don’t want it next year. About that ex-, though. I was swindled, Savvy. I was robbed.”

“Willie!” Doc said with some asperity. “Miss Grayling is a journalist. She would like to have a statement from you as to how you will play against the Machine.”

Angler grinned and shook his head sadly. “Poor old Machine,” he said. “I don’t know why they take so much trouble polishing up that pile of tin just so that I can give it a hit in the head. I got a hatful of moves it’ll burn out all its tubes trying to answer. And if it gets too fresh, how about you and me giving its low-temperature section the hotfoot, Savvy? The money W.B.M.’s putting up is okay, though. That first prize will just fit the big hole in my bank account.”

“I know you haven’t the time now, Master Angler,” Sandra said rapidly, “but if after the playing session you could grant me⁠—”

“Sorry, babe,” Angler broke in with a wave of dismissal. “I’m dated up for two months in advance. Waiter! I’m here, not there!” And he went charging off.

Doc and Sandra looked at each other and smiled.

“Chess masters aren’t exactly humble people, are they?” she said.

Doc’s smile became tinged with sad understanding. “You must excuse them, though,” he said. “They really get so little recognition or recompense. This tournament is an exception. And it takes a great deal of ego to play greatly.”

“I suppose so. So World Business Machines is responsible for this tournament?”

“Correct. Their advertising department is interested in the prestige. They want to score a point over their great rival.”

“But if the Machine plays badly it will be a black eye for them,” Sandra pointed out.

“True,” Doc agreed thoughtfully. “W.B.M. must feel very sure⁠ ⁠… It’s the prize money they’ve put up, of course, that’s brought the world’s greatest players here. Otherwise half of them would be holding off in the best temperamental-artist style. For chess players the prize money is fabulous⁠—$35,000, with $15,000 for first place, and all expenses paid for all players. There’s never been anything like it. Soviet Russia is the only country that has ever supported and rewarded her best chess players at all adequately. I think the Russian players are here because U.N.E.S.C.O. and F.I.D.E. (that’s Federation Internationale des Echecs⁠—the international chess organization) are also backing the tournament. And perhaps because the Kremlin is hungry for a little prestige now that its space program is sagging.”

“But if a Russian doesn’t take first place it will be a black eye for them.”

Doc frowned. “True, in a sense. They must feel very sure⁠ ⁠… Here they are now.”

Four men were crossing the center of the hall, which was clearing, toward the tables at the other end. Doubtless they just happened to be going two by two in close formation, but it gave Sandra the feeling of a phalanx.

“The first two are Lysmov and Votbinnik,” Doc told her. “It isn’t often that you see the current champion of the world⁠—Votbinnik⁠—and an ex-champion arm in arm. There are two other persons in the tournament who have held that honor⁠—Jal and Vanderhoef the director, way back.”

“Will whoever wins this tournament become champion?”

“Oh no. That’s decided by two-player matches⁠—a very long business⁠—after elimination tournaments between leading contenders. This tournament is a round robin: each player plays one game with every other player. That means nine rounds.”

“Anyway there are an awful lot of Russians in the tournament,” Sandra said, consulting her program. “Four out of ten have U.S.S.R. after them. And Bela Grabo, Hungary⁠—that’s a satellite. And Sherevsky and Krakatower are Russian-sounding names.”

“The proportion of Soviet to American entries in the tournament represents pretty fairly the general difference in playing strength between the two countries,” Doc said judiciously. “Chess mastery moves from land to land with the years. Way back it was the Muslims and the Hindus and Persians. Then Italy and Spain. A little over a hundred years ago it was France and England. Then Germany, Austria and the New World. Now it’s Russia⁠—including of course the Russians who have run away from Russia. But don’t think there aren’t a lot of good Anglo-Saxon types who are masters of the first water. In fact, there are a lot of them here around us, though perhaps you don’t think so. It’s just that if you play a lot of chess you get to looking Russian. Once it probably made you look Italian. Do you see that short bald-headed man?”

“You mean the one facing the Machine and talking to Jandorf?”

“Yes. Now that’s one with a lot of human interest. Moses Sherevsky. Been champion of the United States many times. A very strict Orthodox Jew. Can’t play chess on Fridays or on Saturdays before sundown.” He chuckled. “Why, there’s even a story going