“Thanks.”
Lying full length on the bench he read right through it swiftly but comprehensively. Some pages he skipped after brief perusal because they described games too short, simple and childish to be worth considering. He was not surprised to find several games that were alien variations of ones well known upon Terra. The Gombarians had playing cards, for instance, eighty to a pack with ten suits.
Alizik proved to be a bigger and more complicated version of chess with four hundred squares and forty pieces per side. This was the one that somebody had dragged out for sixteen days and it was the only one in the book that seemed capable of such extension. For a while he pondered alizik, wondering whether the authorities—and the video audience—would tolerate play at the rate of one move in ten hours. He doubted it. Anyway, he could not prevent his skilled opponent from making each answering move in five seconds.
Yes, that was what he really wanted: a game that slowed down the other fellow despite his efforts to speed up. A game that was obviously a game and not a gag because any fool could see with half an eye that it was possible to finish it once and for all. Yet a game that the other fellow could not finish, win or lose, no matter how hard he tried.
There wasn’t any such game on the three worlds of Gombar or the hundred worlds of Terra or the multimillion worlds yet unfound. There couldn’t be because, if there were, nobody would play it. People like results. Nobody is sufficiently cracked to waste time, thought, and patience riding a hobbyhorse that got nowhere, indulging a rigmarole that cannot be terminated to the satisfaction of all concerned including kibitzers.
But nobody!
No?
“When the last move is made God’s Plan will be fulfilled; on that day and at that hour and at that moment the universe will vanish in a mighty thunderclap.”
He got off the bench, his cold eyes expressionless, and began to pace his cell like a restless tiger.
The official had an enormous pot belly, small, piggy eyes and an unctuous smile that remained permanently fixed. His manner was that of a circus ringmaster about to introduce his best act.
“Ah,” he said, noting the book, “so you have been studying our games, eh?”
“Yes.”
“I hope you’ve found none of them suitable.”
“Do you?” Taylor surveyed him quizzically. “Why?”
“It would be a welcome change to witness a contest based on something right out of this world. A genuinely new game would give a lot of satisfaction to everybody. Providing, of course,” he added hurriedly, “that it was easy to understand and that you didn’t win it too quickly.”
“Well,” said Taylor, “I must admit I’d rather handle something I know than something I don’t.”
“Good, good!” enthused the other. “You prefer to play a Terran game?”
“That’s right.”
“There are limitations on your choice.”
“What are they?” asked Taylor.
“Once we had a condemned murderer who wanted to oppose his games-partner in seeing who could be the first to catch a sunbeam and put it in a bottle. It was nonsensical. You must choose something that obviously and beyond argument can be accomplished.”
“I see.”
“Secondly, you may not select something involving the use of intricate and expensive apparatus that will take us a long time to manufacture. If apparatus is needed, it must be cheap and easy to construct.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes—except that the complete rules of the game must be inscribed by you unambiguously and in clear writing. Once play begins those rules will be strictly followed and no variation of them will be permitted.”
“And who approves my choice after I’ve described it?”
“I do.”
“All right. Here’s what I’d like to play.” Taylor explained it in detail, borrowed pen and paper and made a rough sketch. When he had finished the other folded the drawing and put it in a pocket.
“A strange game,” admitted the official, “but it seems to me disappointingly uncomplicated. Do you really think you can make the contest last a full day?”
“I hope so.”
“Even two days perhaps?”
“With luck.”
“You’ll need it!” He was silent with thought a while, then shook his head doubtfully. “It’s a pity you didn’t think up something like a better and trickier version of alizik. The audience would have enjoyed it and you might have gained yourself a longer lease on life. Everyone would get a great kick out of it if you beat the record for delay before your execution.”
“Would they really?”
“They sort of expect something extra-special from an alien life form.”
“They’re getting it, aren’t they?”
“Yes, I suppose so.” He still seemed vaguely dissatisfied. “Oh, well, it’s your life and your struggle to keep it a bit longer.”
“I’ll have only myself to blame when the end comes.”
“True. Play will commence promptly at midday tomorrow. After that it’s up to you.”
He lumbered away, his heavy footsteps dying along the corridor. A few minutes later the warder appeared.
“What did you pick?”
“ Arky-malarkey. ”
“Huh? What’s that?”
“A Terran game.”
“That’s fine, real fine.” He rubbed appreciative hands together. “He approved it, I suppose?”
“Yes, he did.”
“So you’re all set to justify your continued existence. You’ll have to take care to avoid the trap.”
“What trap?” Taylor asked.
“Your partner will play to win as quickly and conclusively as possible. That is expected of him. But once he gets it into his head that he can’t win he’ll start playing to lose. You’ve no way of telling exactly when he’ll change his tactics. Many a one has been caught out by the sudden switch and found the game finished before he had time to realize it.”
“But he must keep to the rules, mustn’t he?”
“Certainly. Neither you nor he will be allowed to ignore them. Otherwise the game would become a farce.”
“That suits me.”
Somewhere outside sounded a high screech like that of a bobcat backing into a cactus. It was followed by a scuffle of feet, a dull thud, and dragging noises. A distant door creaked open and banged shut.
“What goes?” said Taylor.
“Lagartine’s game must have ended.”
“Who’s Lagartine?”
“A political assassin.” The warder glanced at his watch. “He chose ramsid, a card game. It has lasted a mere four hours. Serves him right. Good riddance to bad rubbish. ’ ’ “And now they’re giving him the big squeeze?”
“Of course.” Eying him, the warder said, “Nervous?”
“Ha-ha,” said Taylor without mirth.
The performance did not commence in his cell as he had expected. A contest involving an alien life form playing an alien game was too big an event for that. They took him through the prison corridors to a large room in which stood a table with three chairs. Six more chairs formed a line against the wall, each occupied by a uniformed plug-ugly complete with hand gun. This was the knock-down-and-drag-out squad ready for action the moment the game terminated.
At one end stood a big, black cabinet with two rectangular portholes through which gleaned a pair of lenses. From it came faint ticking sounds and muffled voices. This presumably contained the video camera.
Taking a chair at the table, Taylor sat down and gave the armed audience a frozen stare. A thin-faced individual with the beady eyes of a rat took the chair opposite. The potbellied official dumped himself in the remaining seat. Taylor and Rat-eyes weighed each other up, the former with cold assurance, the latter with sadistic speculation.
Upon the table stood a board from which arose three long wooden pegs. The left- hand peg held a column of sixty-four disks evenly graduated in diameter, the larg
est at the bottom; smallest at the top. The effect was that of a tapering tower built from a nursery do-it-yourself kit.
Wasting no time, Potbelly said, “This is the Terran game of Arky-malarkey. The column of disks must be transferred from the peg on which it sits to either of the other two pegs. They must remain graduated in the same order, smallest at the top, biggest at the bottom. The player whose move completes the stack is the winner. Do you both understand?”
“Yes,” said Taylor.
Rat-eyes assented with a grunt.
“There are three rules,” continued Potbelly, “which will be strictly observed. You will make your moves alternately, turn and turn about. You may move only one disk at a time. You may not place a disk upon any other smaller than itself. Do you both understand?”
“Yes,” said Taylor.
Rat-eyes gave another grunt.
From his pocket Potbelly took a tiny white ball and carelessly tossed it onto the table. It bounced a couple of times, rolled across and fell off on Rat-eyes’ side.
“You start,” he said.
Without hesitation Rat-eyes took the smallest disk from the top of the first peg and placed it on the third.
“Bad move,” thought Taylor, blank of face. He shifted the second smallest disk from the first peg to the second.
Smirking for no obvious reason, Rat-eyes now removed the smallest disk from the third peg, placed it on top of Taylor’s disk on the second. Taylor promptly switched another disk from the pile on the first peg to the empty third peg.
After an hour of this it had become plain to Rat-eyes that the first peg was not there merely to hold the stock. It had to be used. The smirk faded from his face, was replaced by mounting annoyance as hours crawled by and the situation became progressively more complicated.
By bedtime they were still at it, swapping disks around like crazy, and neither had got very far. Rat-eyes now hated the sight of the first peg, especially when he was forced to put a disk back on it instead of taking one off it. Potbelly, still wearing his fixed, meaningless smile, announced that play would cease until sunrise tomorrow.
The next day provided a long, arduous session lasting from dawn to dusk and broken only by two meals. Both players worked fast and hard, setting the pace for each other and seeming to vie with one another in effort to reach a swift conclusion. No onlooker could find cause to complain about the slowness of the game. Four times Rat-eyes mistakenly tried to place a disk on top of a smaller one and was promptly called to order by the referee in the obese shape of Potbelly.
A third, fourth, fifth and sixth day went by. Rat-eyes now played with a mixture of dark suspicion and desperation while the column on the first peg appeared to go up as often as it went down. Though afflicted by his emotions he was no fool. He knew quite well that they were making progress in the task of transferring the column. But it was progress at an appalling rate. What’s more, it became worse as time went on. Finally, he could see no way of losing the game, much less winning it.
By the fourteenth day Rat-eyes had reduced himself to an automaton wearily moving disks to and fro in the soulless, disinterested manner of one compelled to perform a horrid chore. Taylor remained as impassive as a bronze Buddha and that fact didn’t please Rat-eyes either.
Danger neared on the sixteenth day though Taylor did not know it. The moment he entered the room he sensed an atmosphere of heightened interest and excitement. Rat-eyes looked extra glum. Potbelly had taken on added importance. Even the stolid, dull-witted guards displayed faint signs of mental animation. Four off-duty warders joined the audience. There was more activity than usual within the video cabinet. Ignoring all this, Taylor took his seat and play continued. This endless moving of disks from peg to peg was a lousy way to waste one’s life but the strangling- post was lousier. He had every inducement to carry on. Naturally he did so, shifting a disk when his turn came and watching his opponent with his pale gray eyes.
In the midaftemoon Rat-eyes suddenly left the table, went to the wall, kicked it good and hard and shouted a remark about the amazing similarity between Terrans and farmyard manure. Then he returned and made his next move. There was some stirring within the video cabinet. Potbelly mildly reproved him for taking time off to advertise his patriotism. Rat-eyes went on playing with the surly air of a delinquent whose mother has forgotten to kiss him.
Late in the evening, Potbelly stopped the game, faced the video lenses and said in portentious manner, “Play will resume tomorrow—the seventeenth day!”
He voiced it as though it meant something or other.
When the warder shoved his breakfast through the grille in the morning, Taylor said, “Late, aren’t you? I should be at play by now.”
“They say you won’t be wanted before this afternoon.”
“That so? What’s all the fuss about?”
“You broke the record yesterday,” informed the other with reluctant admiration. “Nobody has ever lasted to the seventeenth day.”
“So they’re giving me a morning off to celebrate, eh? Charitable of them.”
“I’ve no idea why there’s a delay,” said the warder. “I’ve never known them to interrupt a game before.”
“You think they’ll stop it altogether?” Taylor asked, feeling a constriction around his neck. “You think they’ll officially declare it finished?”
“Oh, no, they couldn’t do that.” He looked horrified at the thought of it. “We mustn’t bring the curse of the dead upon us. It’s absolutely essential that condemned people should be made to choose their own time of execution.”
“Why is it?”
“Because it always has been since the start of time.”
He wandered off to deliver other breakfasts, leaving Taylor to stew over the explanation. “Because it always has been.” It wasn’t a bad reason. Indeed, some would consider it a good one. He could think of several pointless, illogical things done on Terra solely because they always had been done. In this matter of unchallenged habit the Gombarians were no better or worse than his own kind.
Though a little soothed by the warder’s remarks he couldn’t help feeling more and more uneasy as the morning wore on without anything happening. After sixteen days of moving disks from peg to peg it had got so that he was doing it in his sleep. Didn’t seem right that he should be enjoying a spell of aimless loafing around his cell. There was something ominous about it.
Again and again he found himself nursing the strong suspicion that officialdom was seeking an effective way of ending the play without appearing to flout convention. When they found it—if they found it—they’d pull a fast one on him, declare the game finished, take him away and fix him up with a very tight necktie.
He was still wallowing in pessimism when the call came in the afternoon. They hustled him along to the same room as before. Play was resumed as if it had never been interrupted. It lasted a mere thirty minutes. Somebody tapped twice on the inside of the video cabinet and Potbelly responded by calling a halt. Taylor went back to his cell and sat there baffled.
Late in the evening he was summoned again. He went with bad grace because these short and sudden performances were more wearing on the nerves than continual daylong ones. Previously he had known for certain that he was being taken to play Arky-malarkey with Rat-eyes. Now he could never be sure that he was not about to become the lead character in a literally breathless scene.
On entering the room he realized at once that things were going to be different this time. The board with its pegs and disks still stood in the center of the table. But Rat- eyes was absent and so was the armed squad. Three people awaited him: Potbelly, Palamin, and a squat, heavily built character who had the peculiar air of being of this world but not with it.
Potbelly was wearing the offended frown of someone burdened with a load of stock in a nonexistent oil well. Palamin looked singularly unpleased and expressed it by snorting like an impatient horse. The third appeared to be contemplating a phenomenon on the other side of the g
alaxy.
“Sit,” ordered Palamin, spitting it out.
Taylor sat.
“Now, Mamikot, you tell him.”
The squat one showed belated awareness of being on Gombar, said pedantically to Taylor, “I rarely look at the video. It is suitable only for the masses with nothing better to do.”
“Get to the point,” urged Palamin.
“But having heard that you were about to break an ages-old record,” continued Mamikot, undisturbed, “I watched the video last night.” He made a brief gesture to show that he could identify a foul smell at first sniff. “It was immediately obvious to me that to finish your game would require a minimum number of moves of the order of two to the sixty-fourth power minus one.” He took flight into momentary dreamland, came back and added mildly, “That is a large number.”
“Large!” said Palamin. He let go a snort that rocked the pegs.
“Let us suppose,” Mamikot went on, “that you were to transfer these disks one at a time as fast as you could go, morning, noon and night without pause for meals or sleep, do you know how long it would take to complete the game?”
“Nearly six billion Terran centuries,” said Taylor as if talking about next Thursday week.
“I have no knowledge of Terran time-terms. But I can tell you that neither you nor a thousand generations of your successors could live long enough to see the end of it. Correct?”
“Correct,” Taylor admitted.
“Yet you say that this is a Terran game?”
“I do.”
Mamikot spread hands helplessly to show that as far as he was concerned there was nothing more to be said.
Wearing a forbidding scowl, Palamin now took over. “A game cannot be defined as a genuine one unless it is actually played. Do you claim that this so-called game really is played on Terra?”
“Yes.”
“By whom?”
“By priests in the Temple of Benares.”
“And how long have they been playing it?” he asked.
“About two thousand years.”
Aliens from Analog Page 19
