I
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: F.I.D.E., W.B.M., U.S.C.F., U.S.S.F., U.S.S.R. and U.N.E.S.C.O. 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.”
Meanwhile the happy little man had edged them into the first of a small cluster of tables, where a dark-suited jabbering trio was just rising. He snapped his fingers and hissed through his teeth. A white-aproned waiter materialized.
“For myself black coffee,” he said. “For mademoiselle rhine wine and seltzer?”
“That’d go fine.” Sandra leaned back. “Confidentially, Doc, I was having trouble swallowing … well, just about everything here.”
He nodded. “You are not the first to be shocked and horrified by chess,” he assured her. “It is a curse of the intellect. It is a game for lunatics—or else it creates them. But what brings a sane and beautiful young lady to this 64-square madhouse?”
Sandra briefly told him her story and her predicament. By the time they were served, Doc had absorbed the one and assessed the other.
“You have one great advantage,” he told her. “You know nothing whatsoever of chess—so you will be able to write about it understandably for your readers.” He swallowed half his demitasse and smacked his lips. “As for the Machine—you do know, I suppose, that it is not a humanoid metal robot, walking about clanking and squeaking like a late medieval knight in armor?”
“Yes, Doc, but …” Sandra found difficulty in phrasing the question.
“Wait.” He lifted a finger. “I think I know what you’re going to ask. You want to know why, if the Machine works at all, it doesn’t work perfectly, so that it always wins and there is no contest. Right?”
Sandra grinned and nodded. Doc’s ability to interpret her mind was as comforting as the bubbly, mildly astringent mixture she was sipping.
He removed his pince-nez, massaged the bridge of his nose and replaced them.
“If you had,” he said, “a billion computers all as fast as the Machine, it would take them all the time there ever will be in the universe just to play through all the possible games of chess, not to mention the time needed to classify those games into branching families of wins for White, wins for Black and draws, and the additional time required to trace out chains of key-moves leading always to wins. So the Machine can’t play chess like God. What the Machine can do is examine all the likely lines of play for about eight moves ahead—that is, four moves each for White and Black—and then decide which is the best move on the basis of capturing enemy pieces, working toward checkmate, establishing a powerful central position and so on.”
“That sounds like the way a man would play a game,” Sandra observed. “Look ahead a little way and try to make a plan. You know, like getting out trumps in bridge or setting up a finesse.”
“Exactly!” Doc beamed at her approvingly. “The Machine is like a man. A rather peculiar and not exactly pleasant man. A man who always abides by sound principles, who is utterly incapable of flights of genius, but who never makes a mistake. You see, you are finding human interest already, even in the Machine.”
Sandra nodded. “Does a human chess player—a grandmaster, I mean—ever look eight moves ahead in a game?”
“Most assuredly he does! In crucial situations, say where there’s a chance of winning at once by trapping the enemy king, he examines many more moves ahead than that—thirty or forty even. The Machine is probably programmed to recognize such situations and do something of the same sort, though we can’t be sure from the information World Business Machines has released. But in most chess positions the possibilities are so very nearly unlimited that even a grandmaster can only look a very few moves ahead and must rely on his judgment and experience and artistry. The equivalent of those in the Machine is the directions fed into it before it plays a game.”
“You mean the programming?”
“Indeed yes! The programming is the crux of the problem of the chess-playing computer. The first practical model, reported by Bernstein and Roberts of I.B.M. in 1958 and which looked four moves ahead, was programmed so that it had a greedy worried tendency to grab at enemy pieces and to retreat its own whenever they were attacked. It had a personality like that of a certain kind of chess-playing dub—a dull-brained woodpusher afraid to take the slightest risk of losing material—but a dub who could almost always beat an utter novice. The W.B.M. machine here in the hall operates about a million times as fast. Don’t ask me how, I’m no physicist, but it depends on the new transistors and something they call hypervelocity, which in turn depends on keeping parts of the Machine at a temperature near absolute zero. However, the result is that the Machine can see eight moves ahead and is capable of being programmed much more craftily.”
“A million times as fast as the first machine, you say, Doc? And yet it only sees twice as many moves ahead?” Sandra objected.
“There is a geometrical progression involved there,” he told her with a smile. “Believe me, eight moves ahead is a lot of moves when you remember that the Machine is errorlessly examining every one of thousands of variations. Flesh-and-blood chess masters have lost games by blunders they could have avoided by looking only one or two moves ahead. The Machine will make no such oversights. Once again, you see, you have the human factor, in this case working for the Machine.”
“Savilly, I have been looking all over the place for you!”
A stocky, bull-faced man with a great bristling shock of black, gray-flecked hair had halted abruptly by their table. He bent over Doc and began to whisper explosively in a guttural foreign tongue.
Sandra’s gaze traveled beyond the balustrade. Now that she could look down at it, the central hall seemed less confusedly crowded. In the middle, toward the far end, were five small tables spaced rather widely apart and with a chessboard and men and one of the Siamese clocks set out on each. To either side of the hall were tiers of temporary seats, about half of them occupied. There were at least as many more people still wandering about.
On the far wall was a big electric scoreboard and also, above the corresponding tables, five large dully glassy chessboards, the White squares in light gray, the Black squares in dark.
One of the five wall chessboards was considerably larger than the other four—the one above the Machine.
Sandra looked with quickening interest at the console of the Machine—a bank of keys and some half-dozen panels of rows and rows of tiny telltale lights, all dark at the moment. A thick red velvet cord on little brass standards ran around the Machine at a distance of about ten feet. Inside the cord were only a few gray-smocked men. Two of them had just laid a black cable to the nearest chess table and were attaching it to the Siamese clock.
Sandra tried to think of a being who always checked everything, but only within limits beyond which his thoughts never ventured, and who never made a mistake …
“Miss Grayling! May I present to you Igor Jandorf.”
She turned back quickly with a smile and a nod.
“I should tell you, Igor,” Doc continued, “that Miss Grayling represents a large and influential Midwestern newspaper. Perhaps you have a message for her readers.”
The shock-headed man’s eyes flashed. “I most certainly do!” At that moment the waiter arrived with a second coffee and wine-and-seltzer. Jandorf seized Doc’s new demitasse, drained it, set it back on the tray with a flourish and drew himself up.
“Tell your readers, Miss Grayling,” he proclaimed, fiercely arching his eyebrows at her and actually slapping his chest, “that I, Igor Jandorf, will defeat the Machine by the living force of my human personality! Already I have offered to play it an informal game blindfold—I, who have played 50 blindfold games simultaneously! Its owners refuse me. I have challenged it also to a few games of rapid-transit—an offer no true grandmaster would dare ignore. Again they refuse me. I predict that the Machine will play like a great oaf—at least against me. Repeat: I, Igor Jandorf, by the living force of my human personality, will defeat the Machine. Do you have that? You can remember it?”
“Oh yes,” Sandra assured him, “but there are some other questions I very much want to ask you, Mr. Jandorf.”
“I am sorry, Miss Grayling, but I must clear my mind now. In ten minutes they start the clocks.”
While Sandra arranged for an interview with Jandorf after the day’s playing session, Doc reordered his coffee.
“One expects it of Jandorf,” he explained to Sandra with a philosophic shrug when the shock-headed man was gone. “At least he didn’t take your wine-and-seltzer. Or did he? One tip I have for you: don’t call a chess master Mister, call him Master. They all eat it up.”
“Gee, Doc, I don’t know how to thank you for everything. I hope I haven’t offended Mis—Master Jandorf so that he doesn’t—”
“Don’t worry about that. Wild horses couldn’t keep Jandorf away from a press interview. You know, his rapid-transit challenge was cunning. That’s a minor variety of chess where each player gets only ten seconds to make a move. Which I don’t suppose would give the Machine time to look three moves ahead. Chess players would say that the Machine has a very slow sight of the board. This tournament is being played at the usual international rate of 15 moves an hour, and—”
“Is that why they’ve got all those crazy clocks?” Sandra interrupted.
“Oh, yes. Chess clocks measure the time each player takes in making his moves. When a player makes a move he presses a button that shuts his clock off and turns his opponent’s on. If a player uses too much time, he loses as surely as if he were checkmated. Now since the Machine will almost certainly be programmed to take an equal amount of time on successive moves, a rate of 15 moves an hour means it will have 4 minutes a move—and it will need every second of them! Incidentally it was typical Jandorf bravado to make a point of a blindfold challenge—just as if the Machine weren’t playing blindfold itself. Or is the Machine blindfold? How do you think of it?”
“Gosh, I don’t know. Say, Doc, is it really true that Master Jandorf has played 50 games at once blindfolded? I can’t believe that.”
“Of course not!” Doc assured her. “It was only 49 and he lost two of those and drew five. Jandorf always exaggerates. It’s in his blood.”
“He’s one of the Russians, isn’t he?” Sandra asked. “Igor?”
Doc chuckled. “Not exactly,” he said gently. “He is originally 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.
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
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 around that one rabbi told Sherevsky it would be unlawful for him to play against the Machine because it is technically a golem—the clay Frankenstein’s monster of Hebrew legend.”
Sandra asked, “What about Grabo and Krakatower?”
Doc gave a short scornful laugh. “Krakatower! Don’t pay any attention to him. A senile has-been, it’s a scandal he’s been allowed to play in this tournament! He must have pulled all sorts of strings. Told them that his lifelong services to chess had won him the honor and that they had to have a member of the so-called Old Guard. Maybe he even got down on his knees and cried—and all the time his eyes on that expense money and the last-place consolation prize! Yet dreaming schizophrenically of beating them all! Please, don’t get me started on Dirty Old Krakatower.”
“Take it easy, Doc. He sounds like he would make an interesting article? Can you point him out to me?”
“You can tell him by his long white beard with coffee stains. I don’t see it anywhere, though. Perhaps he’s shaved it off for the occasion. It would be like that antique womanizer to develop senile delusions of youthfulness.”
“And Grabo?” Sandra pressed, suppressing a smile at the intensity of Doc’s animosity.
Doc’s eyes grew thoughtful. “About Bela Grabo (why are three out of four Hungarians named Bela?) I will tell you only this: That he is a very brilliant player and that the Machine is very lucky to have drawn him as its first opponent.”
He would not amplify his statement. Sandra studied the Scoreboard again.
“This Simon Great who’s down as programming the Machine. He’s a famous physicist, I suppose?”
“By no means. That was the trouble with some of the early chess-playing machines—they were programmed by scientists. No, Simon Great is a psychologist who at one time was a leading contender for the world’s chess championship. I think W.B.M. was surprisingly shrewd to pick him for the programming job. Let me tell you—No, better yet—”
Doc shot to his feet, stretched an arm on high and called out sharply, “Simon!”
A man some four tables away waved back and a moment later came over.
“What is it, Savilly?” he asked. “There’s hardly any time, you know.”
The newcomer was of middle height, compact of figure and feature, with graying hair cut short and combed sharply back.
Doc spoke his piece for Sandra.
Simon Great smiled thinly. “Sorry,” he said, “but I am making no predictions and we are giving out no advance information on the programming of the Machine. As you know, I have had to fight the Players’ Committee tooth and nail on all sorts of points about that and they have won most of them. I am not permitted to re-program the Machine at adjournments—only between games (I did insist on that and get it!) And if the Machine breaks down during a game, its clock keeps running on it. My men are permitted to make repairs—if they can work fast enough.”
“That makes it very tough on you,” Sandra put in. “The Machine isn’t allowed any weaknesses.”
Great nodded soberly. “And now I must go. They’ve almost finished the countdown, as one of my technicians keeps on calling it. Very pleased to have met you, Miss Grayling—I’ll check with our P.R. man on that interview. Be seeing you, Savvy.”
The tiers of seats were filled now and the central space almost clear. Officials were shooing off a few knots of lingerers. Several of the grandmasters, including all four Russians, were seated at their tables. Press and company cameras were flashing. The four smaller wallboards lit up with the pieces in the opening position—white for White and red for Black. Simon Great stepped over the red velvet cord and more flash bulbs went off.
“You know, Doc,” Sandra said, “I’m a dog to suggest this, but what if this whole thing were a big fake? What if Simon Great were really playing the Machine’s moves? There would surely be some way for his electricians to rig—”
Doc laughed happily—and so loudly that some people at the adjoining tables frowned.
“Miss Grayling, that is a wonderful idea! I will probably steal it for a short story. I still manage to write and place a few in England. No, I do not think that is at all likely. W.B.M. would never risk such a fraud. Great is completely out of practice for actual tournament play, though not for chess-thinking. The difference in style between a computer and a man would be evident to any expert. Great’s own style is remembered and would be recognized—though, come to think of it, his style was often described as being machinelike …” For a moment Doc’s eyes became thoughtful. Then he smiled again. “But no, the idea is impossible. Vanderhoef as Tournament Director has played two or three games with the Machine to assure himself that it operates legitimately and has grandmaster skill.”
“Did the Machine beat him?” Sandra asked.
Doc shrugged. “The scores weren’t released. It was very hush-hush. But about your idea, Miss Grayling—did you ever read about Maelzel’s famous chess-playing automaton of the 19th Century? That one too was supposed to work by machinery (cogs and gears, not electricity) but actually it had a man hidden inside it—your Edgar Poe exposed the fraud in a famous article. In my story I think the chess robot will break down while it is being demonstrated to a millionaire purchaser and the young inventor will have to win its game for it to cover up and swing the deal. Only the millionaire’s daughter, who is really a better player than either of them … yes, yes! Your Ambrose Bierce too wrote a story about a chess-playing robot of the clickety-clank-grr kind who murdered his creator, crushing him like an iron grizzly bear when the man won a game from him. Tell me, Miss Grayling, do you find yourself imagining this Machine putting out angry tendrils to strangle its opponents, or beaming rays of death and hypnotism at them? I can imagine …”
While Doc chattered happily on about chess-playing robots and chess stories, Sandra found herself thinking about him. A writer of some sort evidently and a terrific chess buff. Perhaps he was an actual medical doctor. She’d read something about two or three coming over with the Russian squad. But Doc certainly didn’t sound like a Soviet citizen.
He was older than she’d first assumed. She could see that now that she was listening to him less and looking at him more. Tired, too. Only his dark-circled eyes shone with unquenchable youth. A useful old guy, whoever he was. An hour ago she’d been sure she was going to muff this assignment completely and now she had it laid out cold. For the umpteenth time in her career Sandra shied away from the guilty thought that she wasn’t a writer at all or even a reporter, she just used dime-a-dozen female attractiveness to rope a susceptible man (young, old, American, Russian) and pick his brain …
She realized suddenly that the whole hall had become very quiet.
Doc was the only person still talking and people were again looking at them disapprovingly. All five wallboards were lit up and the changed position of a few pieces showed that opening moves had been made on four of them, including the Machine’s. The central space between the tiers of seats was completely clear now, except for one man hurrying across it in their direction with the rapid yet quiet, almost tiptoe walk that seemed to mark all the officials. Like morticians’ assistants, she thought. He rapidly mounted the stairs and halted at the top to look around searchingly. His gaze lighted on their table, his eyebrows went up, and he made a beeline for Doc. Sandra wondered if she should warn him that he was about to be shushed.
The official laid a hand on Doc’s shoulder. “Sir!” he said agitatedly. “Do you realize that they’ve started your clock, Dr. Krakatower?”
Sandra became aware that Doc was grinning at her. “Yes, it’s true enough, Miss Grayling,” he said. “I trust you will pardon the deception, though it was hardly one, even technically. Every word I told you about Dirty Old Krakatower is literally true. Except the long white beard—he never wore a beard after he was 35—that part was an out-and-out lie! Yes, yes! I will be along in a moment! Do not worry, the spectators will get their money’s worth out of me! And W.B.M. did not with its expense account buy my soul—that belongs to the young lady here.”
Doc rose, lifted her hand and kissed it. “Thank you, mademoiselle, for a charming interlude. I hope it will be repeated. Incidentally, I should say that besides … (Stop pulling at me, man!—there can’t be five minutes on my clock yet!) … that besides being Dirty Old Krakatower, grandmaster emeritus, I am also the special correspondent of the London Times. It is always pleasant to chat with a colleague. Please do not hesitate to use in your articles any of the ideas I tossed out, if you find them worthy—I sent in my own first dispatch two hours ago. Yes, yes, I come! Au revoir, mademoiselle!”
He was at the bottom of the stairs when Sandra jumped up and hurried to the balustrade.
“Hey, Doc!” she called.
He turned.
“Good luck!” she shouted and waved.
He kissed his hand to her and went on.
People glared at her then and a horrified official came hurrying. Sandra made big frightened eyes at him, but she couldn’t quite hide her grin.