silently, so as not to shock anyone with illusions about well dressed young women, sandra lea grayling cursed the day she had persuaded the chicago space mirror that there would be all sorts of human interest stories to be picked up at the first international grandmaster chess tournament in which an electronic computing machine was entered.
not that there weren't enough humans around, it was the interest that was in doubt. the large hall was crammed with energetic dark-suited men of whom a disproportionately large number were bald, wore glasses, were faintly untidy and indefinably shabby, had slavic or scandinavian features, and talked foreign languages.
they yakked interminably. the only ones who didn't were scurrying individuals with the eager-zombie look of officials.
chess sets were everywhere—big ones on tables, still bigger diagram-type electric ones on walls, small peg-in sets dragged from side pockets and manipulated rapidly as part of the conversational ritual and still smaller folding sets in which the pieces were the tiny magnetized disks used for playing in free-fall.
there were signs featuring largely mysterious combinations of letters: fide, wbm, uscf, ussf, ussr and unesco. sandra felt fairly sure about the last three.
the many clocks, bedside table size, would have struck a familiar note except that they had little red flags and wheels sprinkled over their faces and they were all in pairs, two clocks to a case. that siamese-twin clocks should be essential to a chess tournament struck sandra as a particularly maddening circumstance.
her last assignment had been to interview the pilot pair riding the first american manned circum-lunar satellite—and the five alternate pairs who hadn't made the flight. this tournament hall seemed to sandra much further out of the world.
overheard scraps of conversation in reasonably intelligible english were not particularly helpful. samples:
"they say the machine has been programmed to play nothing but pure barcza system and indian defenses—and the dragon formation if anyone pushes the king pawn."
"hah! in that case...."
"the russians have come with ten trunkfuls of prepared variations and they'll gang up on the machine at adjournments. what can one new jersey computer do against four russian grandmasters?"
"i heard the russians have been programmed—with hypnotic cramming and somno-briefing. votbinnik had a nervous breakdown."
"why, the machine hasn't even a haupturnier or an intercollegiate won. it'll over its head be playing."
"yes, but maybe like capa at san sebastian or morphy or willie angler at new york. the russians will look like potzers."
"have you studied the scores of the match between moon base and circum-terra?"
"not worth the trouble. the play was feeble. barely expert rating."
sandra's chief difficulty was that she knew absolutely nothing about the game of chess—a point that she had slid over in conferring with the powers at the space mirror, but that now had begun to weigh on her. how wonderful it would be, she dreamed, to walk out this minute, find a quiet bar and get pie-eyed in an evil, ladylike way.
"perhaps mademoiselle would welcome a drink?"
"you're durn tootin' she would!" sandra replied in a rush, and then looked down apprehensively at the person who had read her thoughts.
it was a small sprightly elderly man who looked like a somewhat thinned down peter lorre—there was that same impression of the happy slavic elf. what was left of his white hair was cut very short, making a silvery nap. his pince-nez had quite thick lenses. but in sharp contrast to the somberly clad men around them, he was wearing a pearl-gray suit of almost exactly the same shade as sandra's—a circumstance that created for her the illusion that they were fellow conspirators.
"hey, wait a minute," she protested just the same. he had already taken her arm and was piloting her toward the nearest flight of low wide stairs. "how did you know i wanted a drink?"
"i could see that mademoiselle was having difficulty swallowing," he replied, keeping them moving. "pardon me for feasting my eyes on your lovely throat."
"i didn't suppose they'd serve drinks here."
"but of course." they were already mounting the stairs. "what would chess be without coffee or schnapps?"
"okay, lead on," sandra said. "you're the doctor."
"doctor?" he smiled widely. "you know, i like being called that."
"then the name is yours as long as you want it—doc."
