Day Dark, Night Bright

by Fritz Leiber

  YOU PLAYED BRILLIANTLY. CONGRATULATIONS!

  Afterwards Doc said sourly to Sandra, “And that was one big lie—a child could have beat the Machine with that time advantage. Oh, what an ironic glory the gods reserved for Krakatower’s dotage—to vanquish a broken-down computer! Only one good thing about it—that it didn’t happen while it was playing one of the Russians, or someone would surely have whispered sabotage. And that is something of which they do not accuse Dirty Old Krakatower, because they are sure he has not got the brains even to think to sprinkle a little magnetic oxide powder in the Machine’s memory box. Bah!”

  Just the same he seemed considerably more cheerful.

  Sandra said guilelessly, “Winning a game means nothing to you chess players, does it, unless you really do it by your own brilliancy?”

  Doc looked solemn for a moment, then he started to chuckle. “You are getting altogether too smart, Miss Sandra Lea Grayling,” he said. “Yes, yes—a chess player is happy to win in any barely legitimate way he can, by an earthquake if necessary, or his opponent sickening before he does from the bubonic plague. So—I confess it to you—I was very happy to chalk up my utterly undeserved win over the luckless Machine.”

  “Which incidentally makes it anybody’s tournament again, doesn’t it, Doc?”

  “Not exactly.” Doc gave a wry little headshake. “We can’t expect another fluke. After all, the Machine has functioned perfectly seven games out of eight, and you can bet the WBM men will be checking it all night, especially since it has no adjourned games to work on. Tomorrow it plays Willie Angler, but judging from the way it beat Votbinnik and Jal, it should have a definite edge on Willie. If it beats him, then only Votbinnik has a chance for a tie and to do that he must defeat Lysmov. Which will be most difficult.”

  “Well,” Sandra said, “don’t you think that Lysmov might just kind of let himself be beaten, to make sure a Russian gets first place or at least ties for it?”

  Doc shook his head emphatically. “There are many things a man, even a chess master, will do to serve his state, but party loyalty doesn’t go that deep. Look here is the standing of the players after eight rounds.” He handed Sandra a penciled list.

  ONE ROUND TO GO

  Player

  Wins

  Losses

  Machine

  5 _

  2 _

  Votbinnik

  5 _

  2 _

  Angler

  5

  3

  Jal

  4 _

  3 _

  Lysmov

  4 _

  3 _

  Serek

  4 _

  3 _

  Sherevsky

  4

  4

  Jandorf

  2 _

  5 _

  Grabo

  2

  6

  Krakatower

  2

  6

  LAST ROUND PAIRINGS

  Machine vs. Angler

  Votbinnik vs. Lysmov

  Jal vs. Serek

  Sherevsky vs. Krakatower

  Jandorf vs. Grabo

  After studying the list for a while, Sandra said, “Hey, even Angler could come out first, couldn’t he, if he beat the Machine and Votbinnik lost to Lysmov?”

  “Could, could—yes. But I’m afraid that’s hoping for too much, barring another breakdown. To tell the truth, dear, the Machine is simply too good for all of us. If it were only a little faster (and these technological improvements always come) it would out-class us completely. We are at that fleeting moment of balance when genius is almost good enough to equal mechanism. It makes me feel sad, but proud too in a morbid fashion, to think that I am in at the death of grandmaster chess. Oh, I suppose the game will always be played, but it won’t ever be quite the same.” He blew out a breath and shrugged his shoulders.

  “As for Willie, he’s a good one and he’ll give the Machine a long hard fight, you can depend on it. He might conceivably even draw.”

  He touched Sandra’s arm. “Cheer up, my dear,” he said. “You should remind yourself that a victory for the Machine is still a victory for the USA.”

  Doc’s prediction about a long hard fight was decidedly not fulfilled.

  Having White, the Machine opened Pawn to King Four and Angler went into the Sicilian Defense. For the first twelve moves on each side both adversaries pushed their pieces and tapped their clocks at such lightning speed (Vanderhoef feeding in Angler’s moves swiftly) that up in the stands Bill and Judy were still flipping pages madly in their hunt for the right column in MCO.

  The Machine made its thirteenth move, still at blitz tempo.

  “Bishop takes Pawn, check, and mate in three!” Willie announced very loudly, made the move, banged his clock and sat back.

  There was a collective gasp-and-gabble from the stands.

  Dave squeezed Sandra’s arm hard. Then for once forgetting that he was Dr. Caution, he demanded loudly of Bill and Judy, “Have you two idiots found that column yet? The Machine’s thirteenth move is a boner!”

  Pinning down the reference with a fingernail, Judy cried, “Yes! Here it is on page 161 in footnote (e) (2) (B). Dave, that same thirteenth move for White is in the book! But Black replies Knight to Queen Two, not Bishop takes Pawn, check. And three moves later the book gives White a plus value.”

  “What the heck, it can’t be,” Bill asserted.

  “But it is. Check for yourself. That boner is in the book.”

  “Shut up, everybody!” Dave ordered, clapping his hands to his face. When he dropped them a moment later his eyes gleamed. “I got it now! Angler figured they were using the latest edition of MCO to program the Machine on openings, he found an editorial error and then he deliberately played the Machine into that variation!”

  Dave practically shouted his last words, but that attracted no attention as at that moment the whole hall was the noisiest it had been throughout the tournament. It simmered down somewhat as the Machine flashed a move.

  Angler replied instantly.

  The Machine replied almost as soon as Angler’s move was fed into it.

  Angler moved again, his move was fed into the Machine and the Machine flashed:

  I AM CHECKMATED. CONGRATULATIONS!

  VIII

  Next morning Sandra heard Dave’s guess confirmed by both Angler and Great. Doc had spotted them having coffee and a malt together and he and Sandra joined them.

  Doc was acting jubilant, having just drawn his adjourned game with Sherevsky, which meant, since Jandorf had beaten Grabo, that he was in undisputed possession of Ninth Place. They were all waiting for the finish of the Votbinnik-Lysmov game, which would decide the final standing of the leaders. Willie Angler was complacent and Simon Great was serene and at last a little more talkative.

  “You know, Willie,” the psychologist said, “I was afraid that one of you boys would figure out something like that. That was the chief reason I didn’t have the Machine use the programmed openings until Lysmov’s win forced me to. I couldn’t check every opening line in MCO and the Archives and Shakhmaty. There wasn’t time. As it was, we had a dozen typists and proofreaders busy for weeks preparing that part of the programming and making sure it was accurate as far as following the books went. Tell the truth now, Willie, how many friends did you have hunting for flaws in the latest edition of MCO?”

  Willie grinned. “Your unlucky 13th. Well, that’s my secret. Though I’ve always said that anyone joining the Willie Angler Fan Club ought to expect to have to pay some day for the privilege.

  They’re sharp, those little guys, and I work their tails off.”

  Simon Great laughed and said to Sandra, “Your young friend Dave was pretty sharp himself to deduce what had happened so quickly. Willie, you ought to have him in the Bleeker Street Irregulars.”

  Sandra said, “I get the impression he’s planning to start a club of his own.”

  Angler snorted. “That’s the one troubl
e with my little guys. They’re all waiting to topple me.”

  Simon Great said, “Well, so long as Willie is passing up Dave, I want to talk to him. It takes real courage in a youngster to question authority.”

  “How should he get in touch with you?” Sandra asked.

  While Great told her, Willie studied them frowningly.

  “Si, are you planning to stick in this chess-programming racket?” he demanded.

  Simon Great did not answer the question. “Have you been approached the last couple of days by IBM?”

  “You mean asking me to take over your job?”

  “I said IBM, Willie.”

  “Oh.” Willie’s grin became a tight one. “I’m not talking.”

  There was a flurry of sound and movement around the playing tables. Willie sprang up.

  “Lysmov’s agreed to a draw!” he informed them a moment later. “The gangster!”

  “Gangster because he puts you in equal first place with Votbinnik, both of you ahead of the Machine?” Great inquired gently.

  “Ahh, he could have beat Binny, giving me sole first. A Russian gangster!”

  Doc shook a finger. “Lysmov could also have lost to Votbinnik, Willie, putting you in second place.”

  “Don’t think evil thought. So long, pals.”

  As Angler clattered down the stairs, Simon Great signed the waiter for more coffee, lit a fresh cigarette, took a deep drag and leaned back.

  “You know,” he said, “it’s a great relief not to have to impersonate the hyperconfident programmer for awhile. Being a psychologist has spoiled me for that sort of thing. I’m not as good as I once was at beating people over the head with my ego.”

  “You didn’t do too badly,” Doc said.

  “Thanks. Actually, WBM is very much pleased with the Machine’s performance. The Machine’s flaws made it seem more real and more newsworthy, especially how it functioned when the going got tough—those repairs the boys made under time pressure in your game, Savilly, will help sell WBM computers or I miss my guess. In fact nobody could have watched the tournament for long without realizing there were nine smart rugged men out there, ready to kill that computer if they could. The Machine passed a real test. And then the whole deal dramatizes what computers are and what they can and can’t do. And not just at the popular level. The WBM research boys are learning a lot about computer and programming theory by studying how the Machine and its programmer behave under tournament stress. It’s a kind of test unlike that provided by any other computer work. Just this morning, for instance, one of our big mathematicians told me that he is beginning to think that the Theory of Games does apply to chess, because you can bluff and counterbluff with your programming. And I’m learning about human psychology.”

  Doc chuckled. “Such as that even human thinking is just a matter of how you program your own mind?—that we’re all like the Machine to that extent?”

  “That’s one of the big points, Savilly. Yes.”

  Doc smiled at Sandra. “You wrote a nice little news-story dear, about how Man conquered the Machine by a palpitating nose and won a victory for international amity.

  “Now the story starts to go deeper.”

  “A lot of things go deeper,” Sandra replied, looking at him evenly. “Much deeper than you ever expect at the start.”

  The big electric scoreboard lit up.

  FINAL STANDING

  PLAYER

  WINS

  LOSSES

  ANGLER

  6

  3

  VOTBINNIK

  6

  3

  JAL

  5 _

  3 _

  MACHINE

  5 _

  3 _

  LYSNOV

  5

  4

  SEREK

  4 _

  4 _

  SHEREVSKY

  4 _

  4 _

  JANDORF

  3 _

  5 _

  KRAKATOWER

  2 _

  6 _

  GRABO

  2

  7

  “It was a good tournament,” Doc said. “And the Machine has proven itself a grandmaster. It must make you feel good, Simon, after being out of tournament chess for twenty years.”

  The psychologist nodded.

  “Will you go back to psychology now?” Sandra asked him.

  Simon Great smiled. “I can answer that question honestly, Miss Grayling, because the news is due for release. No. WBM is pressing for entry of the Machine in the Interzonal Candidates’ Tournament. They want a crack at the World’s Championship.”

  Doc raised his eyebrows. “That’s news indeed. But look, Simon, with the knowledge you’ve gained in this tournament won’t you be able to make the Machine almost a sure winner in every game?”

  “I don’t know. Players like Angler and Lysmov may find some more flaws in its functioning and dream up some new stratagems. Besides, there’s another solution to the problems raised by having a single computer entered in a grandmaster tournament.”

  Doc sat up straight. “You mean having more programmer-computer teams than just one?”

  “Exactly. The Russians are bound to give their best players computers, considering the prestige the game had in Russia. And I wasn’t asking Willie that question about IBM just on a hunch. Chess tournaments are a wonderful way to test rival computers and show them off to the public, just like cross-country races were for the early automobiles. The future grandmaster will inevitably be a programmer-computer team, a man-machine symbiotic partnership, probably with more freedom each way than I was allowed in this tournament—I mean the man taking over the play in some positions, the machine in others.”

  “You’re making my head swim,” Sandra said.

  “Mine is in the same storm-tossed ocean,” Doc assured her. “Simon, that will be very fine for the masters who can get themselves computers—either from their governments or from hiring out to big firms. Or in other ways. Jandorf, I’m sure, will be able to interest some Argentinean millionaire in a computer for him. While I… oh, I’m too old… still, when I start to think about it… But what about the Bela Grabos? Incidentally, did you know that Grabo is contesting Jandorf’s win? Claims Jandorf discussed the position with Serek. I think they exchanged about two words.”

  Simon shrugged, “The Bela Grabos will have to continued to fight their own battles, if necessary satisfying themselves with the lesser tournaments. Believe me, Savilly, from now on grandmaster chess without one or more computers entered will lack sauce.”

  Dr. Krakatower shook his head and said, “Thinking gets more expensive every year.”

  From the floor came the harsh voice of Igor Jandorf and the shrill one of Bela Grabo raised in anger. Three words came through clearly:”… I challenge you…”

  Sandra said, “Well, there’s something you can’t built into a machine—ego.”

  “Oh I don’t know about that,” said Simon Great.

  ALL THE WEED IN THE WORLD

  When you first smoke marijuana (the Professor said) there are all sorts of kicks the old teahounds will try to steer you into to heighten your enjoyment. Some of them are pretty much at the physical level, like getting loaded and eating a cheap cafeteria meal to see how much more intensely good it tastes than your sober imagination of gourmet’s feast, or taking a simple amusement-park roller-coaster ride and discovering space flight. Others call on the imagination a little more. There are several pretty obvious ones involving all the most beautiful girls in the world—or if your fellow weed-heads are intellectual you may be guided into imagined converse with all the great musicians of the past and all the great artists and writers. Liszt may play your inner piano, Paganini your violin, Poe may tread behind you on a midnight walk reciting his poetry. Some of these kicks can be very simple. My teacher put his hand lightly on my head as I sipped that first drag and he told me to close my eyes and then he said softly, ““You’re just a little weed
growing in the desert and the wind is blowing through you.” Of course he meant the marijuana weed—weed itself.

  If you’re young and previously unacquainted with drugs and with intense creative activity (the Professor continued briskly), you may take this imaginative bait and have a few memorable bangs before the first flush fades away forever and you quit all drugs if you’ve got sense. It’ll be like you wrote a beautiful poem without ever writing it. If you’re older and have done some heavy drinking and so on, you probably won’t respond at all and you’ll tell your well-meaning mentors that weed is much overrated.

  But there’s one kick they’ll try to give you that will almost certainly work for you at least once, whether you’re a fresh kid or a dull codger. It’s one of the biggest and best and simplest kicks there is, and it involves another ‘all’. And it’s a good kick. (The bad kicks, like knowing that all the cops in the world are just outside that green door, will come whether you’re steered into them or not.) This kick is about all the weed in the world—but before I tell it I’ve got to tell you about the old doctor.

  This ancient six-foot-three-inch wreck—a rain-streaked, fire-blackened ruin of a man with a few bats already flitting through his warped and paintless belfry and a few worms already gnawing at his toes inside his size-fifteen shoes with their little black hangnails of peeling leather—this walking catastrophe had got his M.D. from a homeopathic college back at the turn of the century. He’d occupied the same office for forty years—already the building was changing over from offices to slum apartments—and he was to go on occupying it until he died and they tore the building down. And he was a confirmed miser—he had a box of string (each piece coiled like a rattlesnake) and a box of dead rubber bands (maybe the strings had bit ‘em) and barrels of pharmaceutical samples going back to 1900, and already the newspapers had started to pile up ominously in the corners. Even by middle-class standards his office was a dark and cluttered hole with sooty green walls, but it was good enough for his dollar patients and for me, who paid him five to write me morphine prescriptions. In fact to me his office was a dim dark restful shrine that soothed my jitters as if the black dust of the walls were loaded with cocaine. Eventually we got to know each other well, and by bits and pieces he told me his story.