For Wili was in trouble. This was his weakest opening of the tournament, and - psychological warfare aside - this was his strongest opponent. Richardson's play was both hard and soft: He didn't make mistakes and there was imagination in everything he did. Jeremy had said something about Richardson's being a strong opponent, one who had a fast machine, superb interactive programs, and the intelligence to use them. That had been several days ago, and Wili had forgotten. He was finding out first-hand now.
The attack matured over the next five moves, a tightening noose about Wili's playing space. The enemy - Wili no longer thought of him by name, or even as a person -could see many moves into the future, could pursue broad strategy even beyond that. Wili had almost met his match.
Each move took longer and longer as the players lapsed into catatonic evaluation of their fate. Finally, with the endgame in sight, Wili pulled the sharpest finesse of his short career. His enemy was left with two rooks - against Wili's knight, bishop, and three well-placed pawns. To win he needed some combinatoric jewel, something as clever as his invention of the previous winter. Only now he had twenty minutes, not twenty weeks.
With every move, the pressure in his head increased. He felt like a runner racing an automobile, or like the John Henry of Naismith's story disks. His naked intelligence was fighting an artificial monster, a machine that analyzed a million combinations in the time he could look at one.
The pain shifted from his temples to his nose and eyes. It was a stinging sensation that brought him out of the depths, into the real world.
Smoke! Richardson had lit an enormous cigar. The tarry smoke drifted across the table into Wili's face.
"Put that out." Wili's voice was flat, the rage barely controlled.
Richardson's eyes widened in innocent surprise. He stubbed out his expensive light. "I'm sorry. I knew Northerners might not be comfortable with this, but you blacks get enough smoke in your eyes." He smiled. Wili half rose, his hands making fists. Someone pushed him back into his chair. Richardson eyed him with tolerant contempt, as if to say "race will out."
Wili tried to ignore the look and the crowd around the table. He had to win now!
He stared and stared at the board. Done right, he was sure those pawns could march through the enemy's fire. But his time was running out and he couldn't recapture his previous mental state.
His enemy was making no mistakes; his play was as infernally deep as ever.
Three more moves. Wili's pawns were going to die. All of them. The spectators might not see it yet, but Wili did, and so did Richardson.
Wili swallowed, fighting nausea. He reached for his king, to turn it on its side and so resign. Unwillingly, his eyes slid across the board and met Richardson's. "You played a good game, son. The best I've ever seen from an unaided player."
There was no overt mockery in the other's voice, but by now Wili knew better. He lunged across the table, grabbing for Richardson's throat. The guards were fast. Wili found himself suspended above the table, held by a half-dozen not-too-gentle hands. He screamed at Richardson, the Spaolnegro curses expert and obscene.
The Jonque stepped back from the table and motioned his guards to lower Wili to the floor. He caught Rosas' eye and said mildly, "Why don't you take your little Alekhine outside to cool off?"
Rosas nodded. He and Jeremy frog-marched the still struggling loser toward the door. Behind them, Wili heard
Richardson trying to convince the tournament directors with all apparent sincerity - to let Wili continue in the tournament.
FIFTEEN
Moments later, they were outside and shed of gawkers. Wili's feet settled back on the turf and he walked more or less willingly between Rosas and Jeremy.
For the first time in years, for the first time since he lost Uncle Sly, Wili found himself crying. He covered his face with his hands, trying to separate himself from the outside world. There could be no keener humiliation than this.
"Let's take him down past the buses, Jeremy. A little walk will do him good."
"It really was a good game, Wili," said Jeremy. "I told you Richardson's rated Expert. You came close to beating him."
Wili barely heard. "I had that Jonque bastard. I had him! When he lit that cigar, I lost all my concentration. I tell you, if he did not cheat, I would have killed him."
They walked thirty meters, and Wili gradually quieted. Then he realized there had been no encouraging reply. He dropped his hands and glared at Jeremy. "Well, don't you think so?"
Jeremy was stricken, honesty fighting with friendship. "Richardson is a Mouth, you're right. He goes after everyone like that; he seems to think it's part of the game. You notice how it hardly affected his concentration? He just checkpoints his program when he gets talking, so he can dump back into his original mental set any time. He never loses a beat."
"And so I should have won." Wili was not going let the other wriggle out of the question.
"Well, uh, Wili, look. You're the best unaided player I've ever seen. You lasted more rounds than any other purely human. But be honest: Didn't you feel something different when you played him? I mean apart from his lip? Wasn't he a little more tricky than the earlier players... a little more deadly?"
Wili thought back to the image of John Henry and the steam drill. And he suddenly remembered that Expert was the low end of champion class. He began to see Jeremy's point. "So you really think the machines and the scalp connects make a difference?"
Jeremy nodded. It was no more than bookkeeping and memory enhancement, but if it could turn Roberto Richardson into a genius, what would it do for... ? Wili remembered Paul's faint smile at Wili's disdain of mechani-cal aids. He remembered the hours Paul himself spent in processor connect. "Can you show me how to use such things, Jeremy? Not just for chess?"
"Sure. It will take a while. We have to tailor the program to the user, and it takes time to learn to interpret a scalp connect. But come next year, you'll beat anything - animal, vegetable, or mineral." He laughed.
"Okay," Rosas said suddenly. "We can talk now."
Wili looked up. They had walked far past the parking lots. They were moving down a dusty road that went north around the bay, to the vineyards. The hotel was lost to sight. It was like waking from a dream suddenly to realize that the game and argument were mere camouflage.
"You did a real good job, Wili. That was exactly the incident we needed, and it happened at just the right time." The sun was about twenty minutes above the horizon, its light already misted. Orange twilight was growing. A puffy fog gathered along the beach like some silent army, preparing for its assault inland.
Wili wiped his face with the back of his arm. "No act."
"Nevertheless, it couldn't have worked out better. I don't think anybody will be surprised if you don't show till morning."
"Great."
The road descended. The only vegetation was aromatic brush bearing tiny purple flowers; it grew, scraggly, around the foundations and the ruined walls.
The fog moved over the coast, scruffy clots of haze, quite different from an inland fog; these were more like real clouds brought close to earth. The sun shone through the mists. The cliffsides were still visible, turning steadily more gold - a dry color that contrasted with the damp of the air.
As they reached beach level, the sun went behind the dense cloud deck at the horizon and spread into an orange band. The colors faded and the fog became more substantial. Only a single star, almost overhead, could penetrate the murk.