“We have nine more to play,” said Paul.
“Of course. We will, never worry about that. And I’ll try to demonstrate more effectively than I did this evening why an attack like the one you showed me just now is really rather premature. I’ll get back to you as quickly as I can.”
He shut himself down.
Paul’s operational lamps went scarlet. “He’s doing it to me again,” he said.
“No, Paul. It’s over. You’ve beaten him.”
“It isn’t over, Harold. Listen, it happened this way in London, too. We played a couple of consultation games. But everyone knew it was him against me. I won those games. But it meant nothing. I need to beat him beyond any question of doubt, to hear him admit the difference between us.”
I stared at the lamps. “Okay,” I said reluctantly. “I’ll talk to him.”
William Jennings Bryan was a better man than either of these idiot chessplayers. Little men like Staunton never bothered him. And he would never have run from someone like Morphy. He could not have won. He never won. But that’s why he was magnificent. He never won, and he never compromised.
It was several days before Staunton would even respond. And when he finally did, it was only to protest. “I’d really like to be of assistance. But surely you, Dr. Case, recognize the priorities of these things. How can I, in good conscience, put my work aside to play a game?”
“Surely the match would not take that much of your time, sir.”
“Of course not. But I would be unable to give it my concentration. That would be unfair to all involved. Please try to explain to Mr. Morphy.”
“Mr. Staunton, you agreed to a match.”
“And I shall play it. Somehow. In the meantime, you may inform your associate that I will endeavor to compensate his patience by providing some personal instruction on those aspects of his game which clearly need attention. He’s quite talented, you know. With proper guidance, he should be able to compete reasonably well in the front rank of European players.
“Mr. Staunton—.”
His amber lamp went out, and I was alone.
After that, Paul would not talk to me. And night after night I drifted to sleep among the bleakest, darkest landscapes of Bach, DeBussy, and Schoenberg.
I’d made a mistake reconstructing Staunton. I should have gone for Freud. Why wasn’t either of them more like Bryan? And while Paul’s gloomy symphonies echoed through the house, the name that was on my lips was Bryan.
Bryan, Bryan, Bryan.
I couldn’t infuse Paul’s character with a generous helping of the old crusader without losing the Morphy persona. But there was another possibility.
Historians of the latter half of the nineteenth century are in and out all the time now to talk to Paul. Usually, they want to check some detail of daily life in the South, or perhaps gain an insight into the perspective of a man who lived through it all.
Other projects, based on my results, are underway. One researcher in Los Angeles claims to have used Napoleon’s tactics to reconstruct his psyche. And a team in Seattle is working on Caesar.
In the meantime, Paul seems quite happy. There is a problem, though. Morphy would like to give up chess, just as he did once before. But challenges come from around the world, and Staunton continues to press him for “one more game,” explaining how much he would enjoy showing Paul how his game could be improved. But unfortunately something always gets in the way.
IT’S A LONG WAY TO ALPHA CENTAURI
“Charlie, if I never hear another stock ticker, I’ll be happy. I’ve quit.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I never kid.” Jake raised his beer. “I am out of here. I am going to leave. Vamoose. Bail out. In fact, I told them today.” Jake always looked as if life was going well. He had a big smile and bright brown eyes and an attitude that always seemed bulletproof against life’s challenges.
“Not a good idea, Jake.”
“I told McIntyre where to head in at. Burned my bridges, I did.”
“Well, congratulations. I guess.”
“There’s more.”
Charlie was looking around for their waitress. “Yeah?”
“I’m going to the South Seas.” Charlie blinked. He was an easy guy to startle. “I’m going to set up on an island. Find a place with beautiful women and night music and just lie on the beach and throw coconut shells into the ocean.”
“I believe,” said Charlie, “I’ve heard this before.”
“This time I mean it.”
Charlie’s gaze dropped to the table. Jake became aware of pieces of conversation around him: an older couple haggling over money, three young executive-types laughing at the antics of an absent colleague, a middle-aged woman complaining about incompatible computer systems.
“You should always leave an escape hatch,” Charlie said. “If you change your mind, Baxter will cut you off at the pass. You’ll have trouble getting work anywhere.”
“The problem with escape hatches is that you always wind up using them. No: I’ve begun to think about what really counts in this world. And hanging around Philly in a job that just goes on and on: that isn’t it.”
“You sound like a beer commercial.”
Jake grinned. “Yeah. I know.”
“Jake.” Charlie’s eyes fastened on him. “You’ll go nuts out there. There’s nothing to do.”
“Sure there is. They have great luaus.”
“I’m talking about a job, Jake. And then, you know, a reason to exist.”
“Don’t need it, Charlie. Loaf of bread. Jug of wine. Couple of women. That’ll be enough.”
Charlie looked unhappy. “Who are you going to play poker with?”
“I’ll find someone.” Jake’s expression softened. “I was wondering if you’d like to come?”
“Me?”
“Why not? Hell, it’d be a great way to get away from the rat race. What do you say?”
Charlie’s brow furrowed. “I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“This is my home, Jake. Always has been.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to stay here. What’s holding you? Your kids are grown. You don’t like your job—”
“—But I’m only ten years from retirement.”
“Ten years. Charlie, that’s a lifetime. That job will kill you. You really going to stay that long with something you don’t like just because you have an investment in the pension fund? Come on—”
They paid up and walked out of the bar. The mall was jammed with Christmas shoppers. They stopped at Rollie’s newsstand to pick up a copy of Sports Illustrated. Jake remembered the times when he and Charlie and the rest of the Tasker Tornadoes, dragging bats and gloves and catcher’s equipment, had stopped here coming back from games in West Philly and Frankfurt. That was before they owned cars and had to ride the subways and elevated to get around. A lot of years ago.
Just ahead, Jake spotted a travel office tucked away in an alcove. “That’s new,” he said.
Posters of Asian and European city scenes covered the glass and the interior walls. Jake saw desert sunsets and jungle ruins and moonlit oceans. And a framed photograph of part of an orange disk was mounted in the center of the window. Bright silver fountains obscured the edges of the disk, and a black sky filled with stars was set behind it. “It’s the sun,” said Jake.