Gurgeh thought about this. “Can I lie?”
“I shall take it you mean, would you be advised to register false premises, rather than, are you capable of telling untruths.” (Gurgeh shook his head.) “This would probably be the wisest course. Though you may find it difficult to come up with something acceptable to them which you didn’t find morally repugnant yourself.”
Gurgeh looked back to the holo display. “Oh, you’d be surprised,” he muttered. “Anyway, if I’m lying about it, how can I find it repugnant?”
“An interesting point; if one assumes that one is not morally opposed to lying in the first place, especially when it is largely or significantly what we term self-interested rather than disinterested or compassionate lying, then—”
Gurgeh stopped listening and studied the holo. He really must look up some of his opponent’s previous games, once he knew who it would be.
He heard the ship stop talking. “Tell you what, ship,” he said. “Why don’t you think about it? You seem more engrossed in the whole idea than I do, and I’m busy enough anyway, so why don’t you work out a compromise between truth and expediency we’ll all be happy with, hmm? I’ll agree to whatever you suggest, probably.”
“Very well, Jernau Gurgeh. I’ll be happy to do that.”
Gurgeh bade the ship good night. He completed his study of the single-game problem, then switched the screen off. He stood and stretched, yawning. He strolled out of the module, into the orange-brown darkness of the hotel roof-garden. He almost bumped into a large, uniformed male.
The guard saluted—a gesture Gurgeh never did know how to reply to—and handed him a piece of paper. Gurgeh took it and thanked him; the guard went back to his station at the top of the roof-stairs.
Gurgeh walked back into the module, trying to read the note.
“Flere-Imsaho?” he called, uncertain whether the little machine was still around or not. It came floating through from another part of the module in its undisguised, quiet form, carrying a large, richly illustrated book on the avian fauna of Eä.
“Yes?”
“What does this say?” Gurgeh flourished the note.
The drone floated up to the piece of paper. “Minus the imperial embroidery, it says they’d like you to go to the palace tomorrow so they can add their congratulations. What it means is, they want to take a look at you.”
“I suppose I have to go?”
“I would say so.”
“Does it mention you?”
“No, but I’ll come along anyway; they can only throw me out. What were you talking to the ship about?”
“It’s going to register my Premises for me. It was also giving me a lecture on sociological conditioning.”
“It means well,” said the drone. “It just doesn’t want to leave such a delicate task to someone like you.”
“Just going out, were you, drone?” Gurgeh said, switching on the screen again and sitting down to watch it. He brought up the game-player’s channel on the imperial waveband and flicked through to the draw for the single matchs in the second round. Still no decision; the draw was still being decided; expected any minute.
“Well,” Flere-Imsaho said, “There is a very interesting species of nocturnal fish-hunter that inhabits an estuary just a hundred kilometers from here, and I was thinking—”
“Don’t let me keep you,” Gurgeh said, just as the draw started to come through on the imperial game-channel; the screen started to fill with numbers and names.
“Right. I’ll say good night, then.” The drone floated away.
Gurgeh waved without looking round. “Good night,” he said. He didn’t hear whether the drone replied or not.
He found his place in the draw; his name appeared on the screen beside that of Lo Wescekibold Ram, governing director of the Imperial Monopolies Board. He was ranked as Level Five Main, which meant he was one of the sixty best game-players in the Empire.
* * *
The following day was Pequil’s day off. An imperial aircraft was sent for Gurgeh and landed beside the module. Gurgeh and Flere-Imsaho—which had been rather late returning from its estuarial expedition—were taken out over the city to the palace. They landed on the roof of an impressive set of office buildings overlooking one of the small parks set within the palace grounds, and were led down wide, richly carpeted stairs to a high-ceilinged office where a male servant asked Gurgeh if he wanted anything to eat or drink. Gurgeh said no, and he and the drone were left alone.
Flere-Imsaho drifted over to the tall windows. Gurgeh looked at some portrait paintings hanging on the walls. After a short while, a youngish apex entered the room. He was tall, dressed in a relatively unfussy and businesslike version of the uniform of the Imperial Bureaucracy.
“Mr. Gurgeh; good day. I’m Lo Shav Olos.”
“Hello,” Gurgeh said. They exchanged polite nods, then the apex walked quickly to a large desk in front of the windows and set a bulky sheaf of papers down on it before sitting down.
Lo Shav Olos looked round at Flere-Imsaho, buzzing and hissing away nearby. “And this must be your little machine.”
“Its name is Flere-Imsaho. It helps me with your language.”
“Of course.” The apex gestured to an ornate seat on the other side of his desk. “Please; sit down.”
Gurgeh sat, and Flere-Imsaho came to float near him. The male servant returned with a crystal goblet and placed it on the desk near Olos, who drank before saying, “Not that you must need much help, Mr. Gurgeh.” The young apex smiled. “Your Eächic is very good.”
“Thank you.”
“Let me add my personal congratulations to those of the Imperial Office, Mr. Gurgeh. You have done far better than many of us expected you to do. I understand you were learning the game only for about a third of one of our Great Years.”
“Yes, but I found Azad so interesting I did little else during that time. And it does share concepts with other games I’ve studied in the past.”
“Nevertheless, you’ve beaten people who’ve been learning the game all their lives. The priest Lin Goforiev Tounse was expected to do well in these games.”
“So I saw,” Gurgeh smiled. “Perhaps I was lucky.”
The apex gave a little laugh, and sat back in his chair. “Perhaps you were, Mr. Gurgeh. I’m sorry to see your luck didn’t extend to cover the draw for the next round. Lo Wescekibold Ram is a formidable player, and many expect him to better his previous performance.”
“I hope I can give him a good game.”
“So do we all.” The apex drank from his goblet again, then got up and went to the windows behind him, looking out over the park. He scratched at the thick glass, as though there was a speck on it. “While not, strictly speaking, my province, I confess I’d be interested if you could tell me a little about your plans for the registration of Premises.” He turned and looked at Gurgeh.
“I haven’t decided quite how to express them yet,” Gurgeh said. “I’ll register them tomorrow, probably.”
The apex nodded thoughtfully. He pulled at one sleeve of the imperial uniform. “I wonder if I might advise you to be… somewhat circumspect, Mr. Gurgeh?” (Gurgeh asked the drone to translate “circumspect.” Olos waited, then continued.) “Of course you must register with the Bureau, but as you know, your participation in these games is in a purely honorary capacity, and so exactly what you say in your Premises has only… statistical value, shall we say?”
Gurgeh asked the drone to translate “capacity.”
“Garbleness, game-playeroid,” Flere-Imsaho muttered darkly in Marain. “Twiddly-dee; you that word capacity beforely used-ish Eächic in. Placey-wacey’s buggy-wuggied. Stoppy-toppy deez guys spladdiblledey-dey-da more cluettes on da lingo offering, righty?”
Gurgeh suppressed a smile. Olos went on. “As a rule, contestants must be prepared to defend their views with arguments, should the Bureau find it necessary to challenge any of them, but I hope you will understand that this will hardly be likely to
happen to you. The Imperial Bureau is not blind to the fact that the… values of your society may be quite different from our own. We have no wish to embarrass you by forcing you to reveal things the press and the majority of our citizens might find… offensive.” He smiled. “Personally, off the record, I would imagine that you could be quite… oh, one might almost say ‘vague’… and nobody would be especially bothered.”
“ ‘Especially’?” Gurgeh said innocently to the humming, crackling drone at his side.
“More gibberish biltrivnik ner plin ferds, you’re quontstipilish trying nomonomo wertsishi my zozlik zibbidik dik fucking patience, Gurgeh.”
Gurgeh coughed loudly. “Excuse me,” he said to Olos. “Yes. I see. I’ll bear that in mind when I draw up my Premises.”
“I’m glad, Mr. Gurgeh,” Olos said, coming back to his chair and sitting again. “What I’ve said is my personal view, of course, and I have no links with the Imperial Bureau; this office is quite independent of that body. Nevertheless, one of the great strengths of the Empire is its cohesion, its… unity, and I doubt that I could be very wide of the mark in judging what the attitude of another imperial department might be.” Lo Shav Olos smiled indulgently. “We really do all pull together.”
“I understand,” Gurgeh said.
“I’m sure you do. Tell me; are you looking forward to your trip to Echronedal?”
“Very much so, especially as the honor is extended so rarely to guest players.”
“Indeed.” Olos looked amused. “Few guests are ever allowed onto the Fire Planet. It is a holy place, as well as being itself a symbol of the everlasting nature of the Empire and the Game.”
“My gratitude extends beyond the limits of my capacity to express it,” Gurgeh purred, with the hint of a bow. Flere-Imsaho made a spluttering noise.
Olos smiled broadly. “I feel quite certain that having established yourself as being so proficient—indeed gifted—at our game, you will prove yourself to be more than worthy of your place in the game-castle on Echronedal. Now,” the apex said, glancing at his desk-screen, “I see it is time for me to attend yet another doubtless insufferably tedious meeting of the Trade Council. I’d far prefer to continue our own exchange, Mr. Gurgeh, but unhappily it must be curtailed in the interests of the efficiently regulated exchange of goods between our many worlds.”
“I fully understand,” Gurgeh said, standing at the same time as the apex.
“I’m pleased to have met you, Mr. Gurgeh,” Olos smiled.
“And I you.”
“Let me wish you luck in your game against Lo Wescekibold Ram,” the apex said as he walked to the door with Gurgeh. “I’m afraid you will need it. I’m sure it will be an interesting game.”
“I hope so,” Gurgeh said. They left the room. Olos offered his hand; Gurgeh clasped it, allowing himself to look a little surprised.
“Good day, Mr. Gurgeh.”
“Goodbye.”
Then Gurgeh and Flere-Imsaho were escorted back to the aircraft on the roof while Lo Shav Olos strode off down another corridor to his meeting.
“You asshole, Gurgeh!” the drone said in Marain as soon as they were back in the module. “First you ask me two words you already know, and then you use both of them and the—”
Gurgeh was shaking his head by this time, and interrupted. “You really don’t understand very much about game-playing, do you, drone?”
“I know when people are playing the fool.”
“Better than playing a household pet, machine.”
The machine made a noise like an indrawn breath, then seemed to hesitate and said, “Well, anyway… at least you don’t have to worry about your Premises now.” It gave a rather forced-sounding chuckle. “They’re as frightened of you telling the truth as you are!”
Gurgeh’s game against Lo Wescekibold Ram attracted great attention. The press, fascinated by this odd alien who refused to speak to them, sent their most acerbic reporters, and the camera operators best able to catch any fleeting facial expression which would make the subject look ugly, stupid or cruel (and preferably all three at once). Gurgeh’s off-world physiognomy was regarded as a challenge by some camera people, and as a large fish in a small barrel by others.
Numerous paying game-fans had traded tickets for other games so they could watch this one, and the guests’ gallery could have been filled many times over, even though the venue had been changed from the original hall Gurgeh had played in before to a large marquee erected in a park only a couple of kilometers from both the Grand Hotel and the Imperial Palace. The marquee held three times as many people as the old hall, and was still crowded.
Pequil had arrived as usual in the Alien Affairs Bureau car in the morning, and taken Gurgeh to the park. The apex no longer tried to put himself in front of the cameras, but busily hurried them out of the way to clear a path for Gurgeh.
Gurgeh was introduced to Lo Wescekibold Ram. He was a short, bulky apex with a more rugged face than Gurgeh had expected and a military bearing.
Ram played quick, incisive lesser games, and they finished two on the first day, ending about even. Gurgeh only realized how hard he’d been concentrating that evening when he fell asleep watching the screen. He slept for almost six hours.
The next day they played another two of the lesser games, but the play extended, by agreement, into the evening session; Gurgeh felt the apex was testing him, trying to wear him out, or at least see what the limits of his endurance were; they would be playing all six of the lesser games before the three main boards, and Gurgeh already knew he was under much more strain playing Ram alone than he’d been competing against nine others.
After a great struggle, almost to midnight, Gurgeh finished fractionally ahead. He slept seven hours and woke up just in time to get ready for the next day’s play. He forced himself awake, glanding the Culture’s favorite breakfast drug, Snap, and was a little disappointed to see Ram looked just as fresh and energetic as he felt.
That game became another war of attrition, dragging through the afternoon, and Ram didn’t suggest playing into the evening. Gurgeh spent a couple of hours discussing the game with the ship during the evening, then, to wash it from his mind, watched the Empire’s broadcast channels for a while.
There were adventure programs and quizzes and comedies, news-stations and documentaries. He looked for reports on his own game. He was mentioned, but the day’s rather dull play didn’t merit much space. He could see that the agencies were becoming less and less well-disposed to him, and he wondered if they now regretted standing up for him when he’d been ganged up on during the first match.
Over the next five days the news-stations became even less happy with “Alien Gurgey” (Eächic was phonetically less subtle than Marain, so his name was always going to be spelled incorrectly). He finished the lesser games about level with Ram, then beat him on the Board of Origin after being well down at one stage, and lost on the Board of Form only by the most slender of margins.
The news-agencies at once decided that Gurgeh was a menace to the Empire and the common good, and began a campaign to have him thrown off Eä. They claimed he was in telepathic touch with the Limiting Factor, or with the robot called Flere-Imsaho, that he used all manner of disgusting drugs which were kept in the vice den and drug emporium he lived in on the roof of the Grand Hotel, then—as though just discovering the fact—that he could make the drugs inside his own body (which was true) using glands ripped out of little children in appalling and fatal operations (which was not). The effect of these drugs seemed to be to turn him into either a super-computer or an alien sex-maniac (even both, in some reports).
One agency discovered Gurgeh’s Premises, which the ship had drawn up and registered with the Games Bureau. These were held to be typically shifty and mealy-mouthed Culture double-talk; a recipe for anarchy and revolution. The agencies adopted hushed and reverent tones as they appealed loyally to the Emperor to “do something” about the Culture, and blamed the Admiralty for havi
ng known about this gang of slimy perverts for decades without, apparently, showing them who was boss, or just crushing them completely (one daring agency even went so far as to claim the Admiralty wasn’t totally certain where the Culture’s home planet was). They offered up prayers that Lo Wescekibold Ram would wipe the Alien Gurgey off the Board of Becoming as decisively as the Navy would one day dispose of the corrupt and socialistic Culture. They urged Ram to use the physical option if he had to; that would show what the namby-pamby Alien was made of (perhaps literally!).
“Is all this serious?” Gurgeh said, turning, amused, from the screen to the drone.
“Deadly serious,” Flere-Imsaho told him.
Gurgeh laughed and shook his head. He thought the common people must be remarkably stupid if they believed all this nonsense.
After four days of the game on the Board of Becoming, Gurgeh was poised to win. He saw Ram talking worriedly with some of his advisors afterward, and half expected the apex to offer his resignation then, after the afternoon session. But Ram decided to fight on; they agreed to forgo the evening session and resume the next morning.
The big tent ruffled slightly in a warm breeze as Flere-Imsaho joined Gurgeh at the exit. Pequil supervised the way being cleared through the crowds outside to where the car was waiting. The crowd was composed mostly of people who just wanted to see the alien, though there were a few demonstrating noisily against Gurgeh, and an even smaller number who were cheering him. Ram and his advisors left the tent first.
The Player of Games Page 21