Silence.
“Paul, you’ve wrecked the experiment.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It doesn’t matter. This whole thing was misconceived from the beginning.”
“I never got to play Staunton, did I?”
“No, Paul.”
“Wonderful.” His voice sounded very far away. “You have any idea how painful this experience has been?”
“In what way?”
“I have some bad news for you, Harold.” He gave my name a peculiar emphasis.
“What’s that?”
“You don’t really exist, you know. Nor this computer. Nor tomorrow. You are as you think I am: just a set of electrical pulses and a data net. Nothing more. It is you who are the experiment.”
I started to laugh, but the sound bounced around the room. It was a ridiculous notion. The threadbare furniture was, God knew, solid enough. And the work table. And the mainframe.
“Probably,” he continued, “I’ve invalidated the experiment by telling you.”
I held onto the tabletop.
And then he was the one who laughed.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“It’s all right. But you might want to give some serious thought to the ethics of what you’re doing.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You said that. Your project won’t work, you know. The information is simply not there. Alexander’s dead.”
“Except chessplayers. Paul, are you an accurate reproduction of—the other one?”
“I don’t know much about him.” My insides were churning. “I mean, I understand about me, but I can’t be sure about him.”
“Is there anything I can do to make things easier?”
His electronic laugh rattled the room. “Don’t pull the plug.”
“I never do.”
“Good. And there’s one other thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Get me the match with Staunton.”
It was the least I could do. Bryan would have known how to handle the reluctant Emglishman, would simply have announced he was dead, and declared himself champion, thinking no more about the matter. I considered mixing the blend a little, giving Paul some of Bryan’s fire; but although I believed I could do it, the result would have been an artificial intelligence that was no longer a true Paul Morphy.
Unfortunately, Howard Staunton wasn’t the sort of person you wanted around. If you read books, or the column that ran thirty years ago in the Illustrated London News, you discover he is arrogant and overbearing and generally obnoxious. He did not hesitate to let his readers know he thought them blockheads. Ditto for his opponents. He listened to no one. On the rare occasions when someone beat him, he made excuses. Usually cited weariness. He made it clear that, given a good night’s sleep, he could take anybody.
Curiously, despite his aggressive personality, Staunton’s chess showed its strength in defense. He specialized in building impregnable positions, then either wearing an opponent down, or awaiting a blunder.
The prospect of him and Morphy in the same memory bank was disquieting. But I was out of options. I established him in 1847 London, when he was at the peak of his career, which was well before anyone had heard of Paul. On a bitter, hard, bright day in January, I finished the task. But before I loaded him, I asked Paul if he were sure. He was absorbed in Beethoven’s Missa Solemni.
“Yes,” he said. “Of course.”
“But why?” I asked him. “It’s a long time ago.”
“He kept promising a match, kept insulting me. He always smiled and found a reason he could not be available.”
“The historical Morphy,” I said, “had reason to hate him. You seem to feel the same way.”
“I would be happy to destroy him.”
“Why?” I asked again. “Why does it matter?”
“Because I was the best in the world, an ordinary man with a supreme gift! And I never got the chance to prove it. My God, Harold, I wasted it. Threw it away.” He lapsed into silence. Then, finally: “Do you know why?”
“Yes,” I said. “I know.”
“Staunton laughed at me,” he continued, breathless, as if I’d said nothing. “He laughed at me, ridiculed me in the journals, drove me out of Europe.”
“You? That was someone else. It was a human being, and it happened in the nineteenth century. You’re a simulation, Paul. A construct. A bit of software.”
“Am I?”
And so, with supreme reluctance, I gave Howard Staunton a set of synapses, perhaps awareness, maybe life.
“I understand,” I said to Staunton, “that you are the finest chessplayer in the world.”
“I would not go so far,” he said. “But I must confess to a facility for the game.” I had provided Staunton with the voice of a local weatherman, added a British accent, and it seemed to fit perfectly.
“I wonder,” I said, “if I could interest you in a brief match? I have a friend who believes himself skilled, but who stands in need of some instruction in humility.”
Staunton took a moment to respond. “When and at what stake, sir?”
“Perhaps,” I said, “you would consider ten games, starting this evening, at a hundred pounds sterling. Winner take all.” Was that an appropriate amount? I hadn’t thought to research that aspect of the negotiation.
“What is your friend’s name?” He sounded bored.
“Morphy,” I said.
“Doubtless he will wish odds of knight and move?”
“I think he would be willing to play you even, sir.”
“I see.” Another pause. “He thinks rather highly of himself.”
“Yes. He needs to confront reality.”
“Indeed. Well, certainly. I would be happy to oblige.”
“Very good.”
“When would we start?”
“At any convenient time.”
I set up the board and pieces and activated Paul.
We had discussed how he was to behave. Paul had been, during his brief career, a perfect gentleman, never glared at an opponent, didn’t light up when he spotted a blunder, never gloated, never taunted. He pronounced himself pleased to meet Mr. Staunton, and talked as if there were no history between them. For Staunton, of course, there was no history.
The Englishman was convivial, almost garrulous, during the introductions. Paul said little. He was, in fact, barely civil. But his opponent seemed not to notice.
The game was not timed. Chess clocks were a later invention. But there was no need. Once Paul, playing White, pushed his king pawn forward, things went quickly.
Staunton defended with Philidor’s, a system well-suited to anyone who likes to play defense. It was difficult to storm, but generally led to cramped positions for Black. I’d expected Paul to simply run his opponent out of the game, but it didn’t happen. The Englishman built a position which looked impregnable, and he even established a strong knight outpost in the center of Paul’s lines. For a time I thought they were headed for a stalemate.
But the end came with seductive suddenness. Staunton had castled behind a solid screen of pawns. His king’s knight kept watch over the formation. But a rook swept in and took off the knight, both bishops plowed into the cluster, and the wheels came off. In a voice I could hardly hear, Staunton announced his resignation. “Very good,” he said. “You play quite well for an amateur, Mr. Morphy. I shall take you seriously next time.”
“Thank you,” said Paul. “It was an honor. Shall we continue in the morning?”
“I wish I could oblige.” Staunton replied. “Unfortunately, my dear young fellow, I’m rather busy just now. Working hard on my treatise.”
“Really?” I said.
“Yes. Openings analysis. There’s a great deal happening in the game these days. As I think I explained to my colleague, Dr. Case, I’m editing a collection of medieval poetry, and that must take precedence. I’m afraid I was distracted, thinking about Chaucer, you see. Took my mind off the game and failed to give our young friend adequate competition. I do apologize, Mr. Morphy.”