A few minutes passed. A stir commenced. Chairs shifted. Ivo’s back prickled. The sacrificial blade—
Someone approached his table.
— lifted high by the muscular priest—
And touched his shoulder.
Ivo stood up, and the man took his place.
The others had resettled themselves. One seat was now empty. Ivo marched over and took it.
Opposite him was the older of the two women, and between them were red and blue crayons. That was all.
Down the length of the table the four other pairs sat, each with similar apparatus. In uncanny silence, hands selected crayons, made obscure markings on the glossy surface of the table.
The woman facing him picked up the blue crayon and carefully printed eight dots on the counter in a rough heart-outline:
Ivo glanced at this in perplexity, not knowing what was expected of him. He looked sidelong at the couple’s paper to the left — and caught on.
They were playing sprouts!
He had, with typical perspicacity, missed the obvious. Groton had even mentioned the game as he dragged him to the common room.
He reached for the other crayon, but the woman set her hand on his, preventing him from lifting it. Apparently she had selected the color as well as the number of dots. He let go, and she handed him the blue.
It was his opening move, then. He had to play the eight-spot game of sprouts with this woman — was she South American? He’d know if she spoke — and defeat her. Groton said so.
He concentrated, trying to figure the forced win, but could not be certain. There were too many complex interrelationships, and too much depended upon the confluence of opposing lines of strategy.
He decided to keep it simple until the outcome was fathomable. The probability was that he would see the correct strategy before she could. He connected the southward-pointing dots, bisecting the heart, and placed the new spot in the center.
She recovered the crayon and made a butterfly-shape looping from the top, encircling the two highest dots. She placed the new one in the crevice.
Idle play, or artistry? Did it matter? Ivo decided that it did not, and proceeded with an asymmetric offshoot.
The woman continued without objection, and he knew that it was all right. These games were not being judged on esthetics. Soon he was able to determine the win, and played through to it without difficulty.
The others finished about the time he did, and again there was the shuffle as all stood up, wiped away the evidence, and moved one step around the table. The travel was clockwise; the woman he had defeated went out to the supernumerary chair and sat there, while the spare man came to occupy Ivo’s last seat. Now this was clear, too: with five facing five and one to carry, each rotation brought about new combinations that would not repeat until each person had played every other.
It was indeed a tourney.
His next opponent was a venerable gentleman bearing the emblem of Nove-Congo. Ivo judged him to be of Bantu stock with a strong Alpine admixture; the skin was an intermediate brown, the body stocky but lacking the Caucasoid hairiness. The turbulent history of his country was reflected in his genetic heritage, and Ivo felt sympathy. Ivo was himself a controlled conglomeration of Mongoloid, Negroid and Caucasoid, as had been every member of the project, and he felt that the purebreds were lacking in something. But he had obtained his chromosomes the easy way, and had lived protected and pampered. This man could have been conceived only in misfortune, amidst violent antipathies against miscegenation; perhaps he was the child of rape. Yet he had won his way to the foremost circle of modern technology, and that too spoke eloquently about him.
The NoCon picked up the blue crayon and planted nine dots upon the board — and to Ivo it seemed as though they formed a crude map of his nation. Conscious, unconscious, or strictly in the eye of the beholder?
Irrelevant. Ivo played, this time observing that the players on the opposite side of the table invariably selected color and dot-pattern. Those on his side had choice of moves — and sometimes declined to make the opening one. As in football: one side chose the field, the other had the initiative. He would get to set up the spots once he progressed to the proper side.
He noted also that no game began with less than six spots; these people were aware of the extent of the advantage accruing to the person with the choice of moves, in the lower ranges. In the higher numbers, skill really did become the dominant factor, since nobody could anticipate or execute the forced win.
He won again without undue difficulty. These people, skilled as they might be in other types of endeavor, and practiced as they might be at sprouts, nevertheless lacked his own intuitive analytic faculty. Probably any of them could outperform him in almost any field — except this one. A billiards tournament, or table-tennis… but this happened to be sprouts, a game of semimathematical analysis. He was able to determine the winning strategy several moves before they could, and to have the victory in hand before they were aware. The real test of his skill was in determining the win, rather than in the play.
Groton had known of his power in this respect; that he had, in effect, an unfair advantage. Why had Groton chosen to send him into this contest? What was there to be won, that had to be won this way?
Should he arrange to lose?
No. It was not in him to throw a contest, any contest, for any reason. He could decline the prize, but he had to do his best in the competition.
The third encounter was with the Russian. The man picked up the red crayon and made seven dots.
Ivo strained, but could not quite pin down the automatic win. Seven was just beyond his intuitive competence. The opening move seemed wrong, however, so he declined it, brushing away the proffered crayon as though it were a tip refused.
The Russian nodded and accepted the onus. They played, and very shortly Ivo lined it up and established his winning mode.
The Russian paused instead of playing, after the key move, hairy brow wrinkled. “Misère?” he inquired. It was the first word spoken since the games had begun.
Ivo shrugged, wondering why the man did not make his play. Was he conceding already?
The Russian touched the shoulder of the woman next to him. She was, Ivo perceived, a younger person, perhaps no more than thirty-five, and the pride of her femininity was still about her. She was classic Mongoloid: stocky, flattish face, almond eyes, coarse straight hair and very small hands. She probably had come from Fringe-China, and was in her way as definitive a specimen as Afra was in hers. He was as closely related to this woman as to Afra: about one-third overlap of race.
The Russian asked Ivo something, when the woman’s attention had been gained. Then, again: “Misère.”
“He inquires whether you understand that it is misère,” she said softly to Ivo. “The red — to avoid the last move.”
To play to lose! That was the significance of the color. Red, naturally, for the deficit game. He had missed — yet again! — the obvious, while concentrating upon the subtle. And he had already forced the win — for the Russian, unless the man should make a mistake. That, in view of this interchange, seemed unlikely.
He had made an error — in not acquainting himself with the complete rules of play. He should have questioned the purpose of the second color. It was as valid a mistake as a misplay on the board.
“I understand,” he said.
That was it. They finished the play, and he lost.
Fred Blank was next, also picking up the red crayon. Ivo defeated him.
No one kept official score. Apparently it was up to the individual. By the time Ivo completed the circuit, he had nine victories, one defeat.
The group dispersed, the entertainment over. There was no celebration, no awarding of any prize. He could not believe that what he observed was all of it, but hoped to learn the truth from Groton very shortly.
Ivo headed for the door, wondering whether Afra could still be sleeping — there. This entire “night” had a surrea
listic flavor; nothing was quite as he expected, though he had thought he had no expectations.
Once more there was a hand at his shoulder. He paused to look down at the woman who had translated for him. “You — you are one loss only,” she said.
He nodded.
“And so with Dr. Kovonov.” She gestured, and he observed the Russian still seated at the table. Everyone else was gone.
“A playoff? What’s the prize?”
She left without answering, and there was nothing to do but rejoin Dr. Kovonov. Now, at last, it came to him: this was the man behind the scene, mentioned so often. The important Russian who compelled even Brad’s intellectual respect.
Did this weird tourney connect with Brad’s rush meeting with this man, yesterday? Had they agreed then that Brad should watch the destroyer with Senator Borland? Did Kovonov know Ivo’s own secret, the power he had over Schön? He doubted that last; he just couldn’t imagine that Brad would have told anyone that. Unless Afra — no! Still, this man appeared to be the most tangible source of information about Brad’s action. And he spoke no English!
Kovonov picked up the red crayon and made seven dots, just as he had before. Ivo smiled; the good doctor really wanted to win this one!
This time, familiar with the rules, Ivo played flawlessly and had the victory, misère.
The Russian did not move or change expression. Ivo erased the design and picked up the blue marker, looking askance. A nod. He set down fifteen spots.
Kovonov smiled and took the crayon. The play was on.
The strategy was fiendishly complex, and his opponent dwelt a long time on each move. Ivo felt the strain as his peculiar talent wrestled with the problem and was baffled. He realized that Kovonov’s greater experience was telling. Having plunged in well over the level of the sure guide of his instinct, Ivo knew that he was not a good player at all. If Kovonov fathomed the game before he did, his talent in the later stage would not avail him; it would only inform him when to concede. The situation was so complex that he might find himself in the losing position even if he did fathom it first; the proper strategy could guide the Russian to victory without complete analysis.
Twenty minutes passed. Kovonov’s broad forehead was damp and his dark hair seemed to erect itself stiffly. Ivo was nervous, too, having no idea where he stood in the game, or whether he really wanted to win. Something very serious was at stake; something Kovonov might well be more competent to possess. The prize might not be a physical one at all.
Why should he let victory or loss concern him? Groton wanted him to win — but Groton hardly knew the truth. There were so many far more important matters to worry about, yet he was taking this foolish tournament as seriously as he ever had taken anything. What did the sprouts championship of this station matter, when his closest friend was a vegetable? So victory would place his name at the top of the sprout-ladder; would that make everything worthwhile?
Then the state of the game clarified: he saw that he could win. Three moves later the Russian reluctantly conceded, and it was over.
Kovonov stood up and walked regretfully over to the statuette ensconced in the middle of the room. Two out of three was it, Ivo decided. Carefully the man lifted the gilded steam-shovel from its pedestal — Ivo could see that it was very heavy, for its size — and brought it to the table.
This was the prize? “What does it mean?” he asked, pointing to the letters on the pedestal, S D P S. He could think of no other comment to make.
He had not expected an answer, in the circumstances, but he received one. “Sooper Dooper Pooper Scooper,” Kovonov said with Russian accent, and smiled evilly. Then he, too, left, and Ivo remained to stare at this final evidence of Brad’s subterranean humor.
A platinum-plated steam-shovel, including the crescent moon symbol, with a world in its mouth. Exactly the type of image Brad would fashion. A friendly insult to the station with the day’s most powerful nose.
So they had had a tourney in Brad’s memory, and the winner inherited the icon. Its value was undoubtedly very high, monetarily and symbolically — but did he really want it?
Ivo tucked it under his arm somewhat awkwardly — it was heavy — and marched back to his room. He was afraid the gesture might be misunderstood, if he returned it to its pedestal.
Afra woke as he entered, instantly alert. “What are you doing with that?” she demanded. She was, of course, still in night clothing, and she had forgotten to replace her slippers. It was quite a contrast to her usual precision of dress, but her beauty powered through all obstacles.
“I guess I won it.”
“You guess you won it!” There was pink polish on her toenails.
“I entered this contest, and it was the prize. Should I put it back?”
“Shut up and let me think.” She recovered her slippers, dusted off her feet, jammed on the footwear. She paced around the room as a man would pace, taking wide strides and swinging into the turns abruptly. The motions, however, did unmanly things to her body.
Ivo watched, still supporting the S D P S. He discovered that he liked Afra angry, too. She had torn off the kerchief, and her bright hair swirled as she spun. Absolutely refined Caucasian, Northwest European, no admixtures… her torso a marvelous sight as thighs braked, arms accelerated, midriff flexed to avoid some structure. Definitely not for the polyglot creature that was what she would perceive him to be. Georgia born…
She halted, hair, breasts and slippers stabilizing in unison. “All right. It’s not all right, but all right! We’ll have to make the best of it. Go fetch Harold — he put you up to this, I’m sure of it — and bring him to my room pronto. No, leave that thing here. Go — on.”
Ivo set down the statuette and retreated before her urgency. He had intended to consult with Groton first; what had brought him back here with the S D P S?
Whom was he fooling? He knew what had brought him back.
“You did it!” Groton exclaimed when Ivo told him. “You took the Scooper!”
“I did it, yes. Now Afra’s furious. She wants to see you in her room. Pronto, she says.”
“Right. Smart girl, that. We’re going to be busy as hell.” Ivo had not heard Groton speak that colloquially before, and he took it as another indication of strain. The afflatus of war, he thought ironically, was breathed upon them all. History repeated itself, as ever. The Senator, in death, had destroyed the macroscope, and all that it might accomplish for the benefit of mankind.
Groton raised his voice. “Beatryx!”
“Yes, dear,” came the quick answer.
“Get into your suit and stand by the tube; we’ll be ferrying some stuff out in a hurry.” Without waiting for her acknowledgment, he drew Ivo back into the hall. “God, I’m glad you did it,” he said. “They have the screws into us, and this is the only way.”
“You’ve left me behind. What are you talking about?”
“No time,” Groton said.
Ivo shrugged once more and followed.
Afra was already in her own suit, the transparent helmet flopping at her back. “Change, Ivo,” she snapped. “Better stick with him, Harold; he’s slow on the uptake.”
“I ask again: what is this all about?” Ivo said as Groton hurried him into his space suit. “Why did you have me enter that tourney, and why is Afra so upset about it? Has the whole station lost its mind?” The afflatus of—
“It’s that dead senator,” Groton said, as though that clarified everything. “Borland is very important in politics, and we’re taking the rap for assassinating him. That flunky of his got on the teletype before we knew it and screamed murder — exactly that. That wipes us out.”
“Well, of course there would be an investigation. But he demanded to see the destroyer, and he had been warned. The evidence should be clear enough.”
Groton stopped for a moment. “You are out of touch! Don’t you know the situation here?”
“Just that the macroscope is under nominal UN auspices, as are all the proj
ects beyond Earth-orbit. Brad told me about the formula for time and financing—” Actually, he could understand why a thing like the destroyer could result in the dismantling of the macroscope, particularly when scandal of this nature developed. But he wanted to hear Groton’s explanation, because that might finally clarify this other business with the tourney and the S D P S.
Groton finished dressing Ivo, then turned to his own suit. In succinct bursts between motions he delivered the political reality, as seen by one who had not talked with the Senator directly. Ivo found this parallel viewpoint intriguing.
Senator Borland (Groton said) was no ordinary man. His connections were potent, not so much in America as in the UN. There were many influential personages behind him, and not a small amount of cash. His boast that he knew the governments of the station’s member-countries (that remark had orbited the personnel rapidly!) better than did their own nationals had not been empty; he was a sophisticated parlayer of influence on an international scale. He would do such-and-such, if in such-and-such a position, and the figures behind the thrones and presidencies knew what and how. It was to China’s interest that he achieve greater influence in the American farming scheme, for the potential of trading in grain remained; it was to Russia’s interest that he make the automotive-exports standards committee, for it regulated other machinery than cars, ranging from precision ball-bearings to theodolites; to South Africa’s interest that he establish private liaison with BlaPow, Inc.
Borland was all things to all peoples — but he was good at it. A promoter could accomplish a great deal, if sophisticated enough. He had already shown that he could and would deliver the goods while making political hay doing it. He had the connections, he had the charisma; somehow private meetings with him made public converts.
Ivo, remembering the Borland-Carpenter dialogue, understood that. Ivo himself was such a convert.
The death of such a man (Groton continued) was bound to mean real trouble, whatever the circumstances. Too many projects were balancing in the air, and the demise of the juggler meant that many would crash. Pledges could no longer be honored, repercussions no longer stymied.
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