Charles DeVett & Katherine MacLean

by Cosmic Checkmate

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Robert Lang

  He came from Earth with an eidetic memory to avert a war of worlds, Kalin Trobt

  He was a formidable adversary across a game board or a galaxy.

  Yondtl

  This immobile monster was something less than human with a mind that was something more.

  Yasi

  A person with an ambiguous body and an unpredictable mind.

  Caertin Vlosmin Master of the game, he faded before the champion from Earth.

  Lyagin

  Watching the Earthman die would make a fine spectacle for his entertainment.

  COSMIC CHECKMATE

  by

  CHARLES V. De VET

  and

  KATHERINE MacLEAN

  ACE BOOKS, INC.

  23 West 47th Street, New York 36, N.Y

  COSMIC CHECKMATE

  Copyright ©, 1962, by Ace Books, Inc.

  All Rights Reserved Based on a magazine story, copyright, 1958, by Street & Smith Publications, Inc.

  KING OF THE FOURTH PLANET

  Copyright ©, 1962, by Ace Books, Inc.

  Printed in U.S.A.

  I

  THE SIGN was big, with black letters that read: I’LL BEAT YOU THE SECOND GAME.

  I eased myself into a seat behind the play board, straightened the pitchman’s cloak about my shoulders, took a final deep breath, let it out—and waited.

  A nearby Fair visitor glanced at the sign as he hurried by. His eyes widened with anticipated pleasure and he shifted his gaze to me, weighing me with the glance.

  I knew I had him.

  The man changed direction and came over to where I sat. “Are you giving any odds?” he asked.

  “Ten to one,” I answered.

  “A dronker.” He wrote on a blue slip with a white stylus, dropped it at my elbow, and sat down.

  “We play the first game for feel,” I said. “Second game pays.”

  Gradually I let my body relax. Its weight pulled at the muscles of my back and shoulders, and I slouched into a half¬slump. I could feel my eyelids droop as I released them, and the comers of my mouth pulled down. I probably appeared tired and melancholy. Or like a man operating in a gravity heavier than normal for him.

  Which I was.

  I had come to this world called Velda two weeks earlier. My job was to find why its humanoid inhabitants refused all contacts with the Federation.

  Earth’s colonies had expanded during the last several centuries until they now comprised a loose alliance known as The Ten Thousand Worlds. They were normally peaceful—and wanted peace with Velda. But you cannot talk peace with a people who won’t talk back. Worse, they had obliterated the fleet bringing our initial peace overtures. As a final gesture I had been smuggled in—in an attempt to breach that stand-off stubbornness. This booth at their Fair was my best chance—as I saw it—to secure audience with the men in authority. And with luck it would serve a double purpose.

  Several Veldians gathered around the booth and watched with interest as my opponent and I chose colors. He took the red; I the black, We arranged our fifty-two pieces on their squares and I nodded to him to make the first move.

  He was an anemic oldster with an air of nervous energy, and he played the same way, with intense concentration. By the fourth move I knew he would not win. On each play he had to consult the value board suspended between us before deciding what his next move would be. On a play board with one hundred and sixty nine squares, each with a different value—in fact one set of values for offense, and another for defense—only a brilliant player could keep them all in mind. But no man without that ability was going to beat me.

  I let him win the first game. Deliberately. The “second game counts” gimmick was not only to attract attention, but to give me a chance to test a player’s strength—and find his weakness.

  At the start of the second game the oldster moved his front row center pukt three squares forward and one left oblique. I checked it with an end pukt, and waited.

  The contest was not going to be exacting enough to hold my complete attention. Already an eidetic portion of my mind—which I always thought of as a small machine, ticking away in one comer of my skull, independent of any control or direction from me—was moving its interest out to the spectators around my booth.

  Every object about me, every passing face, would make its picture in the memory banks of that machine and wait there to be recalled. Further, it catalogued each fact learned

  or observed in its proper relation with others already there. Sometimes the addition of one new fact caused it to give an almost audible click, and a conclusion, or answer, seemingly unrelated to the original fact, lay clear before me. The best simile I knew was that of a penny scale, spitting out a card of fortune as a penny was dropped inside. It constantly amazed me.

  Most men, I presume, would regard an eidetic-recall memory as a very desirable faculty. Some, a bit more introspective, might wonder if it might not be a curse. The latter would be more nearly correct. To me it was like another mouth—a hungry mouth, that had to be constantly fed. At times I felt like a man with a load on his shoulders, being piled higher and higher, until some day I would slowly fold beneath the weight of it.

  The other part of my mind idly carried on the action of the game and in three short moves I maneuvered a pukt four rows forward. From the particular square on which it now rested it could be moved a maximum of three paces forward, two left oblique, or three right oblique—with unlimited side and backward movement.

  The old one moved to intercept my pukt, and I split his force apart with two men I had set in strategic positions on either side.

  The roving portion of my mind caught a half-completed gesture of admiration at the sudden completion of the trap from a youth directly ahead of me. And with the motion, and the glimpse of the youth’s face, something slipped into place in my memory. Some subconscious counting finished itself, and I knew that there had been too many of these youths, with faces like this one, finely boned and smooth, with slender delicate necks and slim hands and movements that were cool and detached. Far too many to be a normal number in a population of adults and children.

  As if drawn, my glance went past the forms of the watchers around the booth and plumbed the passing crowd to the figure of a man, a magnificent masculine type of the Veldian race, thick-shouldered and strong, thoughtful in motion, yet, with something of the swagger of a gladiator, who, as he walked, spoke to the woman who held his arm, leaning toward her cherishingly as if he protected a great prize.

  She was wearing a concealing cloak, but her face was beautiful, her hair semi-long, and in spite of the cloak, I could see that her body was full-fleshed and almost voluptuously feminine. I had seen few such women on Velda.

  Two of the slim, delicately built youths went by arm in arm, walking with a slight defiant sway of bodies, and looked at the couple as they passed, with pleasure in the way the man’s fascinated attention clove to the woman, and looked at the beauty of the woman possessively without lust, and passed by, their heads held higher in pride as if they shared a secret triumph with her. Yet they were strangers.

  I had an answer to my counting. The “youths” with the large eyes and smooth delicate heads, with the slim straight asexual bodies, thought of themselves as women. I had not seen them treated with the subdued attraction and conscious avoidance one sex gives another, but by numbers … My memory added the number of these “youths” to the number of figures and faces that had been obviously female. It totaled to almost half the population I had seen. No matter what the biological explanation, it seemed reasonable that half …

  I bent
my head, to not see the enigma of the boy-woman face watching me, and braced my elbow to steady my hand as I moved. For two weeks I had been on Velda and during the second week I had come out of hiding and passed as a Veldian. It was incredible that I had been operating under a misunderstanding as to which were women, and which men, and not blundered openly. The luck that saved me had been undeserved.

  Opposite me, across the board, the bleach-skinned hand of the oldster was beginning to waver with indecision as each pukt was placed. He was seeing defeat, and not wishing to see it.

  In eight more minutes I completed the route of his forces and closed out the game. In winning I had lost only two pukts. The other’s defeat was crushing, but my ruthlessness had been deliberate. I wanted my reputation to spread.

  My sign, and the game in progress, by now had attracted a line of challengers, but as the oldster left the line broke and most of the others shook their heads and moved back, then, crowded around the booth and good-naturedly elbowed their way to positions of better vantage.

  I knew then that I had set my lure with an irresistible bait. On a world where the Game was played from earliest childhood—was in fact a vital aspect of their culture—my challenge could not be ignored. I pocketed the loser’s blue slip and nodded to the first in line of the four men who still waited to try me.

  This second man played a better game than the old one. He had a fine tight-knit offensive, with a good grasp of values, but his weakness showed early in the game when I saw him hesitate and waver before making a simple move in a defensive play. He was not skilled in the strategy of retreat and defense, or not suited to it by temperament. He would be unable to cope with a swift forward press, I decided.

  I was right.

  Some challengers bet more, some less; all lost on the second game. I purchased a nut and fruit confection from a passing food vender and ate it for a sparse lunch while I played through the late afternoon hours.

  By the time Velda’s distant sun had begun to print long shadows across the Fairgrounds, I was certain that word of my booth had spread well.

  The crowd about the railing of my stand was larger—but the players were fewer. Sometimes I had a break of several minutes before one made a decision to try his skill. And there were no more challenges from ordinary players. Still the results were the same. None had sufficient adroitness to give me more than a passing contest. Until Caertin Vlosmin made his appearance.

  At the beginning of the game with Vlosmin I had no way of knowing that his game would be different. I noted only casually that he introduced himself rather formally before sitting, but I marked it as merely the exact manners of a conservative man, or a desire for ostentation. I was little interested in which.

  I did realize from the first that he was a shrewd man, probably with a system. He lost the first game—without struggle. That, of course, was to keep me from learning anything about what he could do. I heeded the warning only enough to keep my attention more closely to the board as the second game began.

  Vlosmin kept his pukts well back and closely grouped, making only a perfunctory display of aggressiveness. After a few minutes of innocuous interplay I tried him out by exposing a pukt at the edge of the board to my right. When he ignored it my estimation of his ability took one step upward. He had easily recognized that a pukt, protected on one side by the playing edge, was not as vulnerable as it might seem to be.

  I made several other feints—which he ignored. He would not come out to meet a pass, yet he tried no offensive forays of his own.

  I presented three more tentative exposures, all ignored, before I deliberately sent a pukt a bit too deep. I had made a pretense of setting up a defense for it in advance, but had left a small avenue of vulnerability. A man with an exceptionally good grasp of the positions of the board would have spotted it. Vlosmin studied the pieces for a long time, glancing twice at the value board, before he passed the pukt by.

  I had found his weaknesses—both of them.

  The man played a game intended to be impregnably defensive, to remain untouchable until an opponent made a misplay or an over-zealous drive, of which he would then take advantage. But his mental prowess was not quite great enough to be certain of a sufficiently concealed or complex weakness in the approach of an adversary, and he would not hazard an attack on an uncertainty. Excess caution was his first weakness.

  His second was exposed by his glances at the value board. They were not long enough for actual study. I’m certain that he did not even see what he glanced at: He had all the values well in mind. But they were the expression of a small lack of confidence.

  I would be able to exploit both.

  Play by careful play I moved the entire body of my pukts forward, presenting him with the necessity of planning a completely new defense. The potency of the pukts being determined, not by an intrinsic value of their own, but by the position of the squares on which they rested, made the forward shift of the mass of my pukts a vast problem of realignment—for him. Each new pukt now had a new value, and Vlosmin had to adjust to that complete new set of factors.

  During the play I sensed that the crowd about us was very intent and still. On the outskirts, newcomers inquiring cheerfully were silenced by whispered exclamations.

  Vlosmin’s limited ability showed at my first pass in the new alignment. He became confused, hesitated too long before the pukt I exposed, and made a misplay in passing it up. I took the man he had used in passing. A minute later he lost another. He saw that he was losing, and tried a total reversal of tactics, the desperate gamble of a V penetration at center.

  Though it required all my concentration the game was soon over. I looked as Vlosmin rose to his feet, and noted with surprise that a fine spotting of moisture brightened his upper lip. Only then did I recognize the strain and effort he had invested into the attempt to defeat me.

  “You are an exceptional craftsman,” he said. There was a grave emphasis he put on the “exceptional” which I could not miss, and I saw that his face was whiter.

  His formal introduction of himself earlier as “Caertin Vlosmin” had meant more than I realized at the time.

  I had just played against, and defeated, one of the Great Players!

  The sun set a short time later and floating particles of light-reflecting air-foam drifted out over the Fair grounds. Someway they were held suspended above the grounds while air currents tossed them about and intermingled them in the radiance of vari-hued spotlights. The grounds were still light as day, but filled with light, shifting shadows that seemed to heighten the byplay of sound and excitement from the Fair visitors.

  Around my booth all was quiet; the spectators subdued— as though waiting for the next act in a tense drama. I was very tired now, but I knew by the tenseness I observed around me that I did not have much longer to wait.

  By the bubbles’ light I watched as new spectators took their positions about my booth. And as time went by I saw that some did not move on, as my earlier visitors had done.

  The weight that rode my stomach muscles grew abruptly heavier. I had set my net with all the audacity of a spider waiting for a fly, yet I knew that when my anticipated victim arrived he would more likely resemble a spider hawk. Still the weight was not caused by fear: It was excitement— the excitement of the larger game about to begin.

  II

  I was playing an opponent of recognizably less ability than Vlosmin when I heard a stirring and murmuring in the crowd around my stand. It was punctuated by my opponent rising to his feet.

  I glanced up.

  The big man who had walked into my booth was neither arrogant nor condescending, yet the confidence in his manner was like an aura of strength. He had a deep reserve of vitality, I noted as I studied him carefully, but it was a leashed, controlled vitality. Like most of the men of the Veldian race he wore a uniform, cut severely plain, and undecorated. No flowing robes or tunics for these men. They were a warrior race, unconcerned with the esthetic touches of personal dress, an
d left that strictly to their women.

  The newcomer turned to my late opponent. His voice was impressive, controlled. “Please finish your game,” he said courteously.

  The other shook his head. “The game is already as good as over. My sword is broken. You are welcome to my place.”

  The tall man turned to me. “If you don’t mind?”

  “My pleasure,” I answered. “Please be seated.”

  This was it.

  My visitor shrugged his close-wrapped cloak back from his shoulders and took the chair opposite me. “I am Kalin Trobt,” he said. As if he knew I had been expecting him,

  In reply I came near telling him my correct name. But Robert O. Lang was a name that would have been alien to Velda. Using it would have been as good as a confession. “Claustil Anteer,” I said, giving a name I had invented earlier.

  We played the first game as children play it, taking each other’s pukts as the opportunity presented, making no attempt at finesse. Trobt won, two up. Neither of us had made mention of a wager, There would be more than money involved in this Game.

  I noticed, when I glanced up before the second game, that the spectators had been cleared from around the booth. Only the inner, unmoving ring I had observed earlier remained now. They watched calmly—professionally.

  Fortunately I had no intention of trying to escape.

  During the early part of the second game Trobt and I tested each other carefully, as skilled swordsmen, probing, feinting, and shamming attack, but never actually exposing ourselves. I detected what could have been a slight tendency to gamble in Trobt’s game, but there was no concrete situation to confirm it.

  After a short period of watchful stalking Trobt made a move that I was totally unprepared for—a four-across-the-board exposed pukt. I could have taken it, of course, but to do so would have meant that I had to break formation and plan a new gambit. It took me several minutes before I decided against the reply. The exposure was just too obvious. After I countered cautiously he moved a second pukt,