Tales From the Spaceport Bar

by George H. Scithers

  "All right.”

  Tlingel’s horn dipped forward quickly, piercing the can’s top.

  "...Useful for all sorts of things,” Tlingel observed, withdrawing it.

  "The other reason you’re here...” Martin prompted.

  "It is just that I am special. I can do things that the others cannot.”

  "Such as?”

  "Find your weak spot and influence events to exploit it, to—hasten matters. To turn the possibility into a probability, and then—”

  "You are going to destroy us? Personally?”

  "That is the wrong way to look at it. It is more like a game of chess. It is as much a matter of exploiting your opponent’s weaknesses as of exercising your own strengths. If you had not already laid the groundwork I would be powerless. I can only influence that which already exists.”

  "So what will it be? World War III? An ecological disaster? A mutated disease?”

  "I do not really know yet, so I wish you wouldn’t ask me in that fashion. I repeat that at the moment I am only observing. I am only an agent—”

  "It doesn’t sound that way to me.”

  Tlingel was silent. Martin began gathering up the chessmen.

  "Aren’t you going to set up the board again?”

  "To amuse my destroyer a little more? No, thanks.”

  "That’s hardly the way to look at it—”

  "Besides, those are the last Beers.”

  "Oh.” Tlingel stared wistfully at the vanishing pieces, then remarked, "I would be willing to play you again without additional refreshment..

  "No, thanks.”

  "You are angry.”

  "Wouldn’t you be, if our situations were reversed?”

  "You are anthropomorphizing.”

  "Well?”

  "Oh, I suppose I would.”

  "You could give us a break, you know—at least, let us make our own mistakes.”

  "You’ve hardly done that yourself, though, with all the creatures my fellows have succeeded.” Martin reddened.

  "Okay. You just scored one. But I don’t have to like it.”

  "You are a good player. I know that...”

  "Tlingel, if I were capable of playing at my best again, I think I could beat you.”

  The unicorn snorted two tiny wisps of smoke. "Not that good,” Tlingel said.

  "I guess you’ll never know.”

  "Do I detect a proposal?”

  "Possibly. What’s another game worth to you?” Tlingel made a chuckling noise.

  "Let me guess: You are going to say that if you beat me you want my promise not to lay my will upon the weakest link in mankind’s existence and shatter it.”

  "Of course.”

  "And what do I get for winning?”

  "The pleasure of the game. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  "The terms sound a little lopsided.”

  "Not if you are going to win anyway. You keep insisting that you will.”

  "All right. Set up the board.”

  "There is something else that you have to know about me first.”

  "Yes?”

  "I don’t play well under pressure, and this game

  is going to be a terrific strain. You want my best game, don’t you?”

  "Yes, but I’m afraid I’ve no way of acftusting your own reactions to the play.”

  "I believe I could do that myself if I had more than the usual amount of time between moves.” "Agreed.”

  "I mean a lot of time.”

  "Just what do you have in mind?”

  "I’ll need time to get my mind off it, to relax, to come back to the positions as if they were only problems...”

  "You mean to go away from here between moves?”

  "Yes.”

  "All right. How long?”

  "I don’t know. A few weeks, maybe.”

  "Take a month. Consult your experts, put your computers onto it. It may make for a slightly more interesting game.”

  "I really didn’t have that in mind.”

  "Then it’s time that you’re trying to buy.”

  "I can’t deny that. On the other hand, I will need it.”

  'In that case, I have some terms. I’d like this place cleaned up, fixed up, more lively. It’s a mess. I also want Beer on tap.”

  "Okay. I’ll see to that.”

  "Then I agree. Let’s see who goes first.”

  Martin switched a black and a white pawn from hand to hand beneath the table. He raised his fists then and extended them. Tlingel leaned forward and tapped. The black horn’s tip touched Martin’s left hand.

  "Well, it matches my sleek and glossy hide,” the unicorn announced.

  Martin smiled, setting up the white for himself, the black pieces for his opponent. As soon as he had finished, he pushed his pawn to K4.

  Tlingel’s delicate, ebon hoof moved to advance the black king’s pawn to K4.

  "I take it that you want a month now, to consider your next move?”

  Martin did not reply but moved his knight to KB3. Tlingel immediately moved a knight to QB3.

  Martin took a swallow of Beer and then moved his bishop to N5. The unicorn moved the other knight to B3. Martin immediately castled and Tlingel moved the knight to take his pawn.

  "I think we’ll make it,” Martin said suddenly, ”if you’ll just let us alone. We do learn from our mistakes, in time.”

  "Mythical beings do not exactly exist in time. Your world is a special case.”

  "Don’t you people ever make mistakes?” "Whenever we do they’re sort of poetic.”

  Martin snarled and advanced his pawn to Q4. Tlingel immediately countered by moving the knight to Q3.

  "Iv'e got to stop,” Martin said, standing. "I’m getting mad, and it will affect my game.”

  "You will be going, then?”

  "Yes.”

  He moved to fetch his pack.

  "I will see you here in one month’s time?”

  "Yes.”

  "Very well.”

  The unicorn rose and stamped upon the floor and lights began to play across its dark coat. Suddenly, they blazed and shot outward in all directions like a silent explosion. A wave of blackness followed.

  Martin found himself leaning against the wall, shaking. When he lowered his hand from his eyes, he saw that he was alone, save for the knights, the bishops, the king3, the queens, their castles. and both the kings’ men.

  He went away.

  Three days later Martin returned in a small truck, with a generator, lumber, windows, power tools, paint, stain, cleaning compounds, wax. He dusted and vacuumed and replaced rotted wood. He installed the windows. He polished the old bras3 until it shone. He stained and rubbed. He waxed the floors and buffed them. He plugged holes and washed glass. He hauled all the trash away.

  It took him the better part of a week to turn the old place from a wreck back into a saloon in appearance. Then he drove off, returned all of the equipment he had rented, and bought a ticket for the Northwest.

  The big, damp forest was another of his favorite places for hiking, for thinking. And he was seeking a complete change of scene, a total revision of outlook. Not that his next move did not seem obvious, standard even. Yet something nagged.

  He knew that it was more than just the game. Before that he had been ready to get away again, to walk drowsing among shadows, breathing clean air.

  Resting, his back against the bulging root of a giant tree, he withdrew a small chess set from his pack, set it up on a rock he’d moved into position nearby. A, fine, mistlike rain was settling, but the tree sheltered him, so far. He reconstructed the opening through Tlingel’s withdrawal of the knight to Q3. The simplest thing would be to take the knight with the bishop. But he did not move to do it.

  He watched the board for a time, felt his eyelids drooping, closed them, and drowsed. It may only have been for a few minutes. He was never certain afterwards.

  Something aroused him. He did not know what. He blinked several times and clos
ed his eyes again. Then he reopened them hurriedly.

  In his nodded position, eyes directed downward, his gaze was fixed upon an enormous pair of hairy, unshod feet—the largest pair of feet that he had ever beheld. They stood unmoving before him, pointed toward his right.

  Slowly—very slowly—he raised his eyes. Not very far, as it turned out. The creature was only about four and a half feet in height. As it was looking at the chessboard rather than at him, he took the opportunity to study it.

  It was unclothed but very hairy, with a dark brown pelt, obviously masculine, possessed of low brow ridges, deep-set eyes that matched its hair, heavy shoulders, five-fingered hands that sported opposing thumbs.

  It turned suddenly and regarded him, flashing a large number of shining teeth.

  "White’s pawn should take the pawn,” it said in a soft, nasal voice.

  "Huh? Come on,” Martin said. "Bishop takes knight.”

  "You want to give me black and play it that way? I’ll walk all over you.”

  Martin glanced again at its feet.

  ",.. Or give me white and let me take that pawn. I’ll still do it.”

  'Take white,” Martin said, straightening. "Let’s see if you know what you’re talking about.” He reached for his pack. "Have a Beer?”

  "What’s a Beer?”

  "A recreational aid. Wait a minute.”

  Before they had finished the six-pack, the sasquatch—whose name, he had learned, was Grend —had finished Martin. Grend had quickly entered a ferocious midgame, backed him into a position of dwindling security, and pushed him to the point where he had seen the end and resigned.

  "That was one hell of a game,” Martin declared, leaning back and considering the apelike countenance before him.

  "Yes, we Bigfeet are pretty good, if I do say it. It’s our one big recreation, and we’re so damned primitive we don’t have much in the way of boards and chessmen. Most of the time, we just play it in our heads. There’re not many can come close to us.”

  "How about unicorns?” Martin asked.

  Grend nodded slowly.

  "They’re about the only ones can really give us a good game. A little dainty, but they’re subtle. Awfully sure of themselves, though, I must say. .Even when they’re wrong. Haven’t seen any since we left the morning land, of course. Too bad. Got any more of that Beer left?”

  "I’m afraid not. But listen, I’ll be back this way in a month. I’ll bring some more if you’ll meet me here and play again.”

  "Martin, you’ve got a deal. Sorry. Didn’t mean to step on your toes.”

  He cleaned the saloon again and brought in a keg of Beer which he installed under the bar and packed with ice. He moved in some bar stools, chairs, and tables which he had obtained at a Goodwill store. He hung red curtains. By then it was evening. He set up the board, ate a light meal, unrolled his sleeping bag behind the bar, and camped there that night.

  The following day passed quickly. Since Tlingel might show up at any time, he did not leave the vicinity, but took his meals there and sat about working chess problems. When it began to grow dark, he lit a number of oil lamps and candles.

  He looked at his watch with increasing frequency. He began to pace. He couldn’t have made a mistake. This was the proper day. He—

  He heard a chuckle.

  Turning about, he saw a black unicorn head floating in the air above the chessboard. As he watched, the rest of Tiingel’s body materialized.

  "Good evening, Martin.” Tlingel turned away from the board. "The place looks a little better. Could use some music...”

  Martin stepped behind the bar and switched on the transistor radio he had brought along. The sounds of a string quartet filled the air. Tlingel winced.

  "Hardly in keeping with the atmosphere of the place.”

  He changed stations, located a Country-and-Western show.

  "I think not,” Tlingel said. "It loses something in transmission.”

  He turned it off.

  "Have we a good supply of beverage?”

  Martin drew a gallon stein of Beer—the largest mug that he could locate, from a novelty store— and set it upon the bar. He filled a much smaller one for himself. He was determined to get the beast drunk if it were at all possible.

  "Ah! Much better than those little cans,” said Tlingel, whose muzzle dipped for but a moment. "Very good.”

  The mug was empty. Martin refilled it.

  "Will you move it to the table for me?” "Certainly.”

  "Have an interesting month?”

  "I suppose I did.”

  "You’ve decided upon your next move?”

  "Yes.”

  "Then let’s get on with it.”

  Martin seated himself and captured the pawn. "Hm. Interesting.”

  Tlingel stared at the board for a long while, then raised a cloven hoof which parted in reaching for the piece.

  "I’ll just take that bishop with this little knight. Now I suppose you’ll be wanting another month to make up your mind what to do next.”

  Tlingel leaned to the side and drained the mug. "Let me consider it,” Martin said, "while I get you a refill.”

  Martin sat and stared at the board through three more refills. Actually, he was not planning. He was waiting. His response to Grend had been knight takes bishop, and he had Grend’s next move ready.

  "Well?” Tlingel finally said. "What do you think?”

  Martin took a small sip of Beer.

  "Almost ready,” he said. "You hold your Beer awfully well.”

  Tlingel laughed.

  "A unicorn’s horn is a detoxicant. Its possession is a universal remedy. I wait until I reach the warm-glow stage, then I use my horn to burn off any excess and keep me right there.”

  "Oh,” said Martin. "Neat trick, that.”

  "... If you’ve had too much, just touch my horn for a moment and I’ll put you back in business.”

  "No, thanks. That’s all right. I’ll just push this little pawn in front of the queen’s rook two steps ahead.”

  "Really...” said Tlingel. "That’s interesting. You know, what this place really heeds is a piano— rinky-tink, funky... Think you could manage it?”

  "I don’t play.”

  "Too bad.”

  "I suppose I could hire a piano player.”

  "No. I do not care to be seen by other humans.” "If he’s really good, I suppose he could play blindfolded.”

  "Never mind.”

  "I’m sorry.”

  "You are also ingenious. I am certain that you will figure something out by next time.”

  Martin nodded.

  "Also, didn’t these old places used to have sawdust all over the floors?”

  "I believe so.”

  "That would be nice.”

  "Check.”

  Tlingel searched the board frantically for a mo-? ment.

  "Yes. I meant 'yes.’ I said 'check.’ It means 'yes’ sometimes, too.”

  "Oh. Rather. Well, while we’re here...”

  Tlingel advanced the pawn to Q3.

  Martin stared. That was not what Grend had done. For a moment, he considered continuing on his own from here. He had tried to think of Grend as a coach up until this point. He had forced away the notion of crudely and crassly pitting one of them against the other. Until P-Q3. Then he recalled the game he had lost to the sasquatch.

  "I’ll draw the line here,” he said, "and take my month.”

  "All right. Let’s have another drink before we say good night. Okay?”

  "Sure. Why not?”

  They sat for a time and Tlingel told him of the morning land, of primeval forests and rolling plains, of high craggy mountains and purple seas, of magic and mythic beasts.

  Martin shook his head.

  "I can’t quite see why you’re so anxious to come here,” he said, "with a place like that to call home.”

  Tlingel sighed-

  "I suppose you’d call it keeping up with the griffins. It’s the thing to do
these days. Well. Till next month...”

  Tlingel rose and turned away.

  "I’ve got complete control now. Watch!”

  The unicorn form faded, jerked out of shape, grew white, faded again, was gone, like an afterimage.

  Martin moved to the bar and drew himself another mug. It was a shame to waste what was left. In the morning, he wished the unicorn were there again. Or at least the horn.

  It was. a gray day in the forest and he held an umbrella over the chessboard upon the rock. The droplets fell from the leaves and made dull, plopping noises as they struck the fabric. The board was set up again through Tlingel’s P-Q3. Martin wondered whether Grend had remembered, had kept proper track of the days...

  "Hello,” came the nasal voice from somewhere behind him and to the left.

  He turned to see Grend moving about the tree, stepping over the massive roots with massive feet.

  "You remembered,” Grend said. "How good! I trust you also remembered the Beer?”

  "I’ve lugged up a whole case. We can set up the bar right here.”

  "What’s a bar?”

  "Well, it’s a place where people go to drink—in out of the rain—a bit dark, for atmosphere—and they sit up on stools before a big counter, or else at little tables—and they talk to each other—and sometimes there’s music—and they drink.”

  "We’re going to have all that here?”

  "No. Just the dark and the drinks. Unless you count the rain as music. I was speaking figuratively.”

  "Oh. It does sound like a very good place to visit, though.”

  "Yes. If you will hold this umbrella over the board, I’ll set up the best equivalent we can have here.”

  "All right. Say, this looks like a version of that game we played last time.”

  "It is. I got to wondering what would happen if it had gone this way rather than the way that it went.”

  "Hmm. Let me see...”

  Martin removed four six-packs from his pack and opened the first.

  "Here you go.”

  "Thanks.”

  Grend accepted the Beer, squatted, passed the umbrella back to Martin.

  "I’m still white?”

  "Yeah.”

  "Pawn to king six.”

  "Really?”

  "Yep.”

  "About the best thing for me to do would be to take this pawn with this one.”