Tactics of Conquest

by Barry N. Malzberg

  The Overlords murmur their agreement, apparently enjoying my forthrightness, still working over me, the cloths gathering in the center of my face to form a cool, open tent in which damp I would gladly disappear. But, of course, the towels are taken away.

  “All right,” I say then, the glaring light even more offensive after this momentary retreat to darkness, “all right, I’ll go on and do the best I can, but I want you to know that I won’t be responsible. I won’t be responsible for anything that happens from here on in. After all, it’s your responsibility to keep the stage clear, and I can hardly play my best or come to a sufficient level of concentration if I’m going to be subjected to stuff like this.” Once again they indicate agreement. It is obvious that they are trying to placate me for their own reasons.

  Well, certainly they want the match to go on but somehow the thought that I am being humored strikes a cold and deadly rage into my heart and I turn upon them once more, conscious that more booms have been lowered, that the lights are even brighter and that I now address the largest, most involved audience in the history of sentience. “I warn you,” I say, “I want to warn you that this kind of thing makes the match itself suspect; it is possible that the winner can be disqualified, that the match can be wiped out because of the kind of incident we’ve seen. I’m not at all sure that the results of this match would stand up in any kind of examination procedure.”

  And having said this I turn my fullest attention to the board once more, already tossing the Overlords from consciousness. Let them stew about that for a while! Let them think of what this might do to their own timetable, to their eagerness to get the match rolling, let them deal with their own headquarters and superiors as they will. It is not my problem: It is definitely theirs, and they will have much to ponder for a while. Only the board matters.

  Momentarily purged I manage to swaddle my-self in concentration again although I cannot quite forget the image of the FIDE official rushing the stage. His face was congested with blotches of the sheerest fury. It must be difficult. It must be very difficult for him. It is a strange match and one being run without the consultation of the Federation. As I have already pointed out, this petty bureaucracy severely dislikes having its prerogatives disturbed. Of course it is quite likely that aspects of behavior like this will put them out of business. I would not mind that. I would not mind that very much at all; I have never had much use for FIDE or for any of those governing bodies, for that matter, which I consider to be little more than elaborate collection agencies contriving to harass the pure and dedicated practitioners of this Royal Game.

  The first internationally recognized chess champion, Paul Morphy of New Orleans, never played after his twenty-fifth birthday. The refusal of the British master, Staunton (after whom the contemporary competitive design was named), to play Morphy while the younger man was on a European tour is supposed to have driven Paul insane: He spent the last thirty years of his life as a non-practicing lawyer, scion of a wealthy family, walking the streets of the city and mumbling to himself about humiliations. Later in his life Steinmetz, the first official (as opposed to merely “recognized”) world champion, begged to meet Morphy who finally agreed only on condition that the meeting was for ten minutes and chess was not discussed. Morphy eventually died of tuberculosis. Annals do not reveal if he and Steinmetz ever met.

  The world champion of the nineteen-thirties and forties, Alexander Alekhine, stands as a collaborator with the Nazis (author of a scurrilous monograph on “Jewish chess” represented by Reshesvsky and others, a cowardly, conservative game) and also urinated on flowers, floors, tables and opponents during matches. It was not the urination so much as disrobing during the act that distressed the keepers of the clubs. Alekhine also drank heavily and would occasionally vomit during tense moments in key matches, occasionally on the board.

  Adolf Andersson, author of the Immortal Game, challenged God publicly, in his last years, to a game of chess. “I’ll give him Pawn and move,” said Andersson.

  Robert James Fischer, the reigning world champion at the time the Overlords came, was famed for his many eccentricities, including reactionary politics, an expressed desire to “really smash people and make them suffer,” a compulsive tardiness, a refusal to deal with women because they were “weakies” (that is, lousy chess players), and a difficult relationship with his mother. Shortly after winning the world championship to whose possession he had dedicated his life Fischer went into seclusion amidst rumors that his mental balance had disintegrated.

  Boris Spassky, the man Fischer defeated for the world championship, daydreamed a lot. Pictures of the match catch him in a series of odd postures, eyes soft within the head, reeling within, a strange tentative clutching in his hands simulating embrace.

  Chess, it would seem, is afflicted with a madness which has skewered masters of all generations. Whether it is a madness of the genes which drives one to chess or whether it is merely the effect of undue concentration forced on an initially normal psyche is not now known. In any case, chess masters are commonly considered to be among the least stable of individuals. Perhaps as a group only science-fiction writers have a similar collective insanity, and it is thus doubly surprising that in this welter of madness I have been able to cultivate my own stability, a fresh flower amidst the mud, a pure, bright rose in the stink. I am known as “the gentle grandmaster” and in no way at all have I ever betrayed this superb image.

  But if there were ever a time to come apart, to be sure, that time would be now, what with the pressures and tensions. But despite my unfortunate outburst toward the FIDE official I have rarely felt more in command than I do at this moment. In fact, the outburst over, various pockets of instability emptied, I am even calmer than previously and once again my attention tests itself against the board.

  The question is how I will take best advantage of the premature Queen exposition. One way is to immediately bring out a Knight for a slashing check and subsequent Queen-trap. (This was the technique which Spassky the dreamer used against Fischer the eccentric in that immortal eleventh game of their series.) I find the concept of peremptory check somewhat dull. It would work, of course; it is book chess, precisely what the standard texts and practitioners would recommend ...

  But I have dedicated my life to playing with originality, to finding the unconventional solution to the conventional mysteries. I would not wish to do anything so unimaginative as to merely Queen-check. Better to begin an attack of my own, a slow, proficient gathering of the forces, terminating some eight or nine moves hence in a slashing, definitive attack deep into the corridors left unguarded by the Queen.

  There is plenty of time. My clock moves on but the longer that I may extend Louis’ agony the better I will like it. There must be some sadism in my personality which I will not attempt to deny. I like to smash them. I like to torment them. I like to see them suffer.

  Louis returns to the board, unaccompanied by his seconds. His gait is weaving and ponderous, his feet seem to meet the highly polished surfaces of the floor unevenly and there is a rather paretic gallop to this walk, an unsightly and unholy gleam to the eyes which I have not previously noted. Undoubtedly he has been drinking back there, although how he has managed to get hold of alcohol during a match is beyond me. There are resources to Louis, however, which I would not deny. The man is a bit of an alcoholic. He has a reputation on the circuit for secret drinking in quantity behind locked doors late at night. For years he has managed to control this habit, to be so secretive about it that it is known only to a few sophisticates like myself who have been with him for many years. But perhaps at this stage of our encounter he does not care any more.

  As he settles himself into his seat once again he does so with a little bit of a hop, an unsightly scuffle that masks the trembling of his knees as he eases himself into the huge, stuffed chair. He squints at the board checking to see whether I have made my own move and then, amazingly, leans forward, places a shaking forefinger on my knee and sa
ys hoarsely, “David, we’ve got to talk.”

  I yank my knee away, huddle over the board, shake my head desperately.

  “I mean it, David,” he says. “I really mean it. We have things to discuss.”

  Still I say nothing. I maintain my rigid posture, cross my arms in front of my face. I find it hardly credible that this is going on.

  “I’m quite serious, David,” he says in an even more determined tone. “We have a number of things to discuss. It can’t be put off any longer.”

  Finally I say something. “You fool,” I say, “we can’t talk. We’re playing chess.”

  “I know we’re playing chess. That’s what I want to talk about.”

  “There’s nothing to say.”

  “We have a great deal to say, David. We’ve got to go backstage and discuss things.”

  “You idiot,” I say, “don’t you know that there’s coverage of this match unprecedented in all history? There are cameras and microphones all over the stage. They’re listening to every word you’re saying.”

  “No, they’re not, David. Remember, it was you who insisted that there be no microphones. They can’t pick up a word.”

  “So they’re lip-reading.”

  “There are no lip-readers here, David,” Louis says with an uncomfortable laugh. “There may be lip-readers on television but what difference does that make? They can’t do anything to either of us for talking, chatting it up, and that’s what I’m doing. Besides, I said we should go backstage, didn’t I? We can have privacy there.”

  “You’re got to be crazy,” I say. “We have absolutely nothing to discuss.”

  “Oh, yes, we do,” he says with a nervous little giggle. “You’d be amazed at what we have to discuss. Important new information has reached me which is of the highest importance.”

  “I don’t care about your information. I don’t care about the highest importance. Stop talking and let me concentrate or I’ll call the referee and have you disqualified for harassment.”

  His forefinger taps my knee again, then, shockingly, his entire palm lies across it, stroking, molding, much as one might touch a woman’s breast. “Don’t be a fool, David,” he says, “this is terribly important. Would I want to talk with you if it weren’t terribly important? Believe me, I hate you just as much as you hate me. But this goes far beyond individual disagreements.” He loops the other hand in his copious beard, begins to tug and whisk away at little edges. “Far beyond, far beyond,” he says in a singing monotone, “and it will be very much to your disadvantage not to listen to me.”

  “All right,” I say, “all right, I’ll talk to you. But it can’t be here, in front of all these cameras.”

  “Well, of course not,” Louis says, his dishonest face beaming. “What do you think I am, mad or something? I’m going to leave the stage now. At the completion of your next move you can join me backstage and we’ll be able to talk then out of sight.”

  “Won’t they think that peculiar? The two of us talking back there, you not coming out here to make your next move? You’ll be losing time on your clock, too.”

  “Oh, that’s perfectly all right,” Louis says in a suddenly distracted fashion. “I don’t care about the clock-time lost; I’m just going to beat the hell out of you anyway, David, you know that. Besides,” he says, “besides, it won’t take very long.”

  He stands, turns, leaves the stage immediately in his strangely rigid posture, his body held tightly as if against unfavorable breezes or tacking winds, making his way to the backstage area. Alone on the stage again I feel suddenly shriveled, exposed; I glance to right and left in a somewhat furtive, paranoid manner, wondering if I am being observed closely or whether our brief, intense conversation has been picked up on hidden devices or listened to by the Overlords.

  Everything seems quite normal, however (which is to say that everything is stunningly abnormal, but no different from the way it was a few moments ago). The audience is still murmuring in the background (probably still talking about the FIDE official), the lights are hot and bright, the Overlords are scurrying through the cables in their self-important and purplish way. The team of referees, one from each sector, who have had very little to do with the progress of the match, are in one of their eternal consultations below the lip of the stage, probably fighting, as is their wont, about who will have ultimate authority. It is very difficult to establish any kind of relationship to these referees; as a matter of fact it has been difficult to establish a relationship with anyone during this strange and perilous time. When one comes to think of it, the only friend I may have through all of this is Louis, who at least is in a similar position. Nevertheless, I am bound to destroy him. This compounds the irony of the situation to no small degree.

  I have used up enough time. Further brooding over the current state of affairs would get me into clock trouble. Also, I am curious to hear what Louis has in his mind. Unhesitatingly, therefore, I make my second move, the move that has been in the back of my mind through all this, a lovely, shining, jewelled beast, awaiting entrance on its canopy of rose.

  INTERREGNUM: The King

  In Buenos Aires I had the champion pinned on the seventh rank but lost him when he was able to find and leap upon an undefended Pawn. In Rio de Janeiro I had him for certain when he left a Rook en prise, but snatching it with the wrong piece (I should have taken it with the Queen’s Pawn, and took it instead with the King’s Knight), I opened up a deadly file to my Queen and once again he slipped away, enveloping me in a mating net. In Moscow, at the Seniors, I knew I had him for sure, down two Pawns to three in a simple end game. But I allowed him to take timing on me and was forced to blunder my way into a clumsy draw. Frustrating, ah, frustrating! It is expected that the champion will win most of his games against other grandmasters, this being after all the definition of a champion. But he cannot by any means win all of them; even the greatest have percentages of somewhat lower than eighty percent, meaning that better than one time out of five they can be beaten. But even though the statistical probabilities were in my favor and even though I know myself truly to be the best chess player in the world (the only games I have lost have either been thrown, as in this series, or lost on stupid blunders under time pressure), the fact is that I had never beaten the champion, never once forced him to resign (much less undergo checkmate).

  The draw in Moscow was the closest that I had come in our seventeen encounters conducted over a period of five years, and after that draw I went into a raging state of depression which took me from near the top of the standings to the very bottom within a matter of weeks. I could have won that tournament, too. Everyone said it.

  But in New York City, in my birthplace, for the Golden Cups & Knights Championship of the Eastern Seaboard, I knew at last that I had him. We drew against one another in the first round and then in the twelfth; in the first I was able to take him thirty-seven moves until my Fried-Liver Attack succumbed to the wedge of his Knights and my Queen fell. Even then, looking into his eyes somewhere around the twenty-fifth or twenty-sixth move, I knew that we had entered into a different relationship. For the first time I had the power over him. He was truly beatable. I knew it, and he knew it too; his eyes refracted that knowledge and it was in a strange, doomed trance that he went through the ensuing twelve moves that gave him the game. His mind was already filled with dread; he knew that we would meet eleven games hence and I could see him calculating already whether he would be able to avoid me; perhaps some sniffle or pimple could erupt in time to afford him a medical excuse. But even then, the match would merely be postponed until he was well again; a game can be canceled only by mutual consent and I would not let him go. He knew that. I could sense that knowledge as a high, dense odor which came through his pores and into my nose.

  Much has been written of the champion, of his behavior in head-to-head matches, of his strange and peculiar ability to mesmerize and destroy his opponents, of his ability to infiltrate them with what the specialists call “Mon
archial Misery,” in which the opponents seem to lose control of themselves, lose the thrust of their game, and begin to commit infantile blunders of the sort which they have not done for more than twenty years. “Monarchial Misery,” the specialists say, may come from some strange, psychic force which the champion emanates, a force which causes otherwise mature opponents to go off their game and begin to gibber like children. Two weeks after the matches they are perfectly normal again, calm, confident that they can beat the champion upon a return match. But there are rarely return matches and in tournaments they never do.

  The champion has one of the most amazing winning records in the history of chess, over ninety-five percent, I believe, with the utmost majority of his few defeats having occurred when he was playing grandmaster chess before his fifth birthday and thus hardly counting. Since the age of twelve his record approaches perfection: He has lost two games and drawn thirty-four, the two losses meaningless defeats occurring at the end of tournaments already won, forfeiture by nonappearance, When I speak of the eighty-percent win factor, as you see, I am not speaking of the champion who goes beyond the superhuman attainments of even a Fischer or an Alekhine. He is the champion in all but fact since, of course, he refuses to play under FIDE rules. Refused to play, I should have said, of course. I am talking of an earlier, simpler time before the Overlords decreed the end of the universe.

  The champion in all but title taunted me, then, in Buenos Aires; laughed at me in Rio; left me torn to shreds in Moscow. But New York was a different level altogether; in New York I knew that I could get him. When he appeared for the slated twelfth game of the tournament, the tournament of his assured defeat, it was with a certain mask of trepidation visible even to the most uninvolved spectators (miserable creatures in the back row who had come into the club only to get out of the snowstorm and who after paying five dollars for their standing room almost instantly put themselves against the wall in various decrepit postures and went into a semi-doze).