by Gene Wolfe
“Nevertheless,” Herr Heitzmann declared, “I have such a machine.”
“My friend, I do not believe you.”
“I take it you are a player yourself,” Herr Heitzmann said. “Such a learned man could hardly be otherwise. Very well. As I said a moment ago, my machine is outside.” His hand touched the table between Professor Baumeister’s glass and his own, and when it came away five gold kilomarks stood there in a neat stack. “I will lay these on the outcome of the game, if you will play my machine tonight.”
“Done,” said Professor Baumeister.
“I must see your money.”
“You will accept a draft on Streicher’s, in Furstenwald?”
And so it was settled. Doctor Eckardt held the stakes, and six men volunteered to carry the machine into the inn parlor under Herr Heitzmann’s direction.
Six were not too many, though the machine was not as large as might have been expected—not more than a hundred and twenty centimeters high, with a base, as it might be, a meter on a side. The sides and top were all of brass, set with many dials and other devices no one understood.
When it was at last in place, Professor Baumeister viewed it from all sides and smiled. “This is not a computer,” he said.
“My dear friend,” said Herr Heitzmann, “you are mistaken.”
“It is several computers. There are two keyboards and a portion of a third. There are even two nameplates, and one of these dials once belonged to a radio.”
Herr Heitzmann nodded. “It was assembled at the very close of the period, for one purpose only—to play chess.”
“You still contend that this machine can play?”
“I contend more. That it will win.”
“Very well. Bring a board.”
“That is not necessary,” Herr Heitzmann said. He pulled a knob at the front of the machine, and a whole section swung forward, as the door of a vegetable bin does in a scullery. But the top of the bin was not open as though to receive the vegetables: it was instead a chessboard, with the white squares of brass, and the black of smoky glass, and on the board, standing in formation and ready to play, were two armies of chessmen such as no one in our village had ever seen, tall metal figures so stately they might have been sculptured apostles in a church, one army of brass and the other of some dark metal. “You may play white,” Herr Heitzmann said. “That is generally considered an advantage.”
Professor Baumeister nodded, advanced the white king’s pawn two squares, and drew a chair up to the board. By the time he had seated himself the machine had replied, moving so swiftly that no one saw by what mechanism the piece had been shifted.
The next time Professor Baumeister acted more slowly, and everyone watched, eager to see the machine’s countermove. It came the moment the professor had set his piece in its new position—the black queen slid forward silently, with nothing to propel it.
After ten moves Professor Baumeister said, “There is a man inside.”
Herr Heitzmann smiled. “I see why you say that, my friend. Your position on the board is precarious.”
“I insist that the machine be opened for my examination.”
“I suppose you would say that if a man were concealed inside, the bet would be canceled.” Herr Heitzmann had ordered a second glass of beer, and was leaning against the bar watching the game.
“Of course. My bet was that a machine could not defeat me. I am well aware that certain human players can.”
“But conversely, if there is no man in the machine, the bet stands?”
“Certainly.”
“Very well.” Herr Heitzmann walked to the machine, twisted four catches on one side and with the help of some onlookers removed the entire panel. It was of brass, like the rest of the machine, but, because the metal was thin, not so heavy as it appeared.
There was more room inside than might have been thought, yet withal a considerable amount of mechanism: things like shingles the size of little tabletops, all covered with patterns like writing (Lame Hans has told me since that these are called circuit cards). And gears and motors and the like.
When Professor Baumeister had poked among all these mechanical parts for half a minute, Herr Heitzmann asked: “Are you satisfied?”
“Yes,” answered Professor Baumeister, straightening up. “There is no one in there.”
“But I am not,” said Herr Heitzmann, and he walked with long strides to the other side of the machine. Everyone crowded around him as he released the catches on that side, lifted away the panel, and stood it against the wall. “Now,” he said, “you can see completely through my machine—isn’t that right? Look, do you see Doctor Eckardt? Do you see me? Wave to us.”
“I am satisfied,” Professor Baumeister said. “Let us go on with the game.”
“The machine has already taken its move. You may think about your next one while these gentlemen help me replace the panels.”
Professor Baumeister was beaten in twenty-two moves. Albricht the moneylender then asked if he could play without betting, and when this was refused by Herr Heitzmann, bet a kilomark and was beaten in fourteen moves. Herr Heitzmann asked then if anyone else would play, and when no one replied, requested that the same men who had carried the machine into the inn assist him in putting it away again.
“Wait,” said Professor Baumeister.
Herr Heitzmann smiled. “You mean to play again?”
“No. I want to buy your machine. On behalf of the University.”
Herr Heitzmann sat down and looked serious. “I doubt that I could sell it to you. I had hoped to make a good sum in Dresden before selling it there.”
“Five hundred kilomarks.”
Herr Heitzmann shook his head. “That is a fair proposition,” he said, “and I thank you for making it. But I cannot accept.”
“Seven hundred and fifty,” Professor Baumeister said. “That is my final offer.”
“In gold?”
“In a draft on an account the University maintains in Furstenwald—you can present it there for gold the first thing in the morning.”
“You must understand,” said Herr Heitzmann, “that the machine requires a certain amount of care, or it will not perform properly.”
“I am buying it as is,” said Professor Baumeister. “As it stands here before us.”
“Done, then,” said Herr Heitzmann, and he put out his hand.
The board was folded away, and six stout fellows carried the machine into the professor’s room for safekeeping, where he remained with it for an hour or more. When he returned to the inn parlor at last, Doctor Eckardt asked if he had been playing chess again.
Professor Baumeister nodded. “Three games.”
“Did you win?”
“No, I lost them all. Where is the showman?”
“Gone,” said Father Karl, who was sitting near them. “He left as soon as you took the machine to your room.”
Doctor Eckardt said, “I thought he planned to stay the night here.”
“So did I,” said Father Karl. “And I confess I believed the machine would not function without him. I was surprised to hear that our friend the professor had been playing in private.”
Just then a small, twisted man, with a large head crowned with wild black hair, limped into the inn parlor. It was Lame Hans, but no one knew that then. He asked Scheer the innkeeper for a room.
Scheer smiled. “Sitting rooms on the first floor are a hundred marks,” he said. He could see by Lame Hans’s worn clothes that he could not afford a sitting room.
“Something cheaper.”
“My regular rooms are thirty marks. Or I can let you have a garret for ten.”
Hans rented a garret room, and ordered a meal of beer, tripe, and kraut. That was the last time anyone except Gretchen noticed Lame Hans that night.
And now I must leave off recounting what I myself saw, and tell many things that rest solely on the testimony of Lame Hans, given to me while he ate his potato soup in his cell. But I bel
ieve Lame Hans to be an honest fellow; and as he no longer, as he says, cares much to live, he has no reason to lie.
One thing is certain. Lame Hans and Gretchen the serving girl fell in love that night. Just how it happened I cannot say—I doubt that Lame Hans himself knows. She was sent to prepare the cot in his garret. Doubtless she was tired after drawing beer in the parlor all day, and was happy to sit for a few moments and talk with him. Perhaps she smiled—she was always a girl who smiled a great deal—and laughed at some bitter joke he made. And as for Lame Hans, how many blue-eyed girls could ever have smiled at him, with his big head and twisted leg?
In the morning the machine would not play chess.
Professor Baumeister sat before it for a long time, arranging the pieces and making first one opening and then another, and tinkering with the mechanism; but nothing happened.
And then, when the morning was half gone, Lame Hans came into his room. “You paid a great deal of money for this machine,” he said, and sat down in the best chair.
“Were you in the inn parlor last night?” asked Professor Baumeister. “Yes, I paid a great deal: seven hundred and fifty kilomarks.”
“I was there,” said Lame Hans. “You must be a very rich man to be able to afford such a sum.”
“It was the University’s money,” explained Professor Baumeister.
“Ah,” said Lame Hans. “Then it will be embarrassing for you if the machine does not play.”
“It does play,” said the professor. “I played three games with it last night after it was brought here.”
“You must learn to make better use of your knights,” Lame Hans told him, “and to attack on both sides of the board at once. In the second game you played well until you lost the queen’s rook; then you went to pieces.”
The professor sat down, and for a moment said nothing. And then: “You are the operator of the machine. I was correct in the beginning; I should have known.”
Lame Hans looked out the window.
“How did you move the pieces—by radio? I suppose there must still be radio-control equipment in existence somewhere.”
“I was inside,” Lame Hans said. “I’ll show you sometime; it’s not important. What will you tell the University?”
“That I was swindled, I suppose. I have some money of my own, and I will try to pay back as much as I can out of that—and I own two houses in Furstenwald that can be sold.”
“Do you smoke?” asked Lame Hans, and he took out his short pipe, and a bag of tobacco.
“Only after dinner,” said the professor, “and not often then.”
“I find it calms my nerves,” said Lame Hans. “That is why I suggested it to you. I do not have a second pipe, but I can offer you some of my tobacco, which is very good. You might buy a clay from the innkeeper here.”
“No, thank you. I fear I must abandon such little pleasures for a long time to come.”
“Not necessarily,” said Lame Hans. “Go ahead, buy that pipe. This is good Turkish tobacco—would you believe, to look at me, that I know a great deal about tobacco? It has been my only luxury.”
“If you are the one who played chess with me last night,” Professor Baumeister said, “I would be willing to believe that you know a great deal about anything. You play like the devil himself.”
“I know a great deal about more than tobacco. Would you like to get your money back?”
And so it was that that very afternoon (if it can be credited), the mail coach carried away bills printed in large black letters. These said:
IN THE VILLAGE OF ODER SPREE
BEFORE THE INN OF THE GOLDEN APPLES
ON SATURDAY
AT 9:00 O’CLOCK
THE MARVELOUS BRASS CHESSPLAYING AUTOMATON WILL
BE ON DISPLAY
FREE TO EVERYONE
AND WILL PLAY ANY CHALLENGER
AT EVEN ODDS
TO A LIMIT OF DM 2,000,000
Now, you will think from what I have told you that Lame Hans was a cocky fellow, but that is not the case, though like many of us who are small of stature he pretended to be selfreliant when he was among men taller than he. The truth is that though he did not show it he was very frightened when he met Herr Heitzmann (as the two of them had arranged earlier that he should) in a certain malodorous tavern near the Schwarzthor in Furthenwald.
“So there you are, my friend,” said Herr Heitzmann. “How did it go?”
“Terribly,” Lame Hans replied as though he felt nothing. “I was locked up in that brass snuffbox for half the night, and had to play twenty games with that fool of a scholar. And when at last I got out, I couldn’t get a ride here and had to walk most of the way on this bad leg of mine. I trust it was comfortable on the cart seat? The horse didn’t give you too much trouble?”
“I’m sorry you’ve had a poor time of it, but now you can relax. There’s nothing more to do until he’s convinced the machine is broken and irreparable.”
Lame Hans looked at him as though in some surprise. “You didn’t see the signs? They are posted everywhere.”
“What signs?”
“He’s offering to bet two thousand kilomarks that no one can beat the machine.”
Herr Heitzmann shrugged. “He will discover that it is inoperative before the contest, and cancel it.”
“He could not cancel after the bet was made,” said Lame Hans. “Particularly if there were a proviso that if either were unable to play, the bet was forfeited. Some upright citizen would be selected to hold the stakes, naturally.”
“I don’t suppose he could at that,” said Herr Heitzmann, taking a swallow of schnapps from the glass before him. “However, he wouldn’t bet me—he’d think I knew some way to influence the machine. Still, he’s never seen you.”
“Just what I’ve been thinking myself,” said Lame Hans, “on my hike.”
“It’s a little out of your line.”
“If you’ll put up the cash, I’d be willing to go a little out of my line for my tenth of that kind of money. But what is there to do? I make the bet, find someone to hold the stakes, and stand ready to play on Saturday morning. I could even offer to play him—for a smaller bet—to give him a chance to get some of his own back. That is, if he has anything left after paying off. It would make it seem more sporting.”
“You’re certain you could beat him?”
“I can beat anybody—you know that. Besides, I beat him a score of times yesterday; the game you saw was just the first.”
Herr Heitzmann ducked under the threatening edge of a tray carried by an overenthusiastic waiter. “All the same,” he said, “when he discovers it won’t work …”
“I could even spend a bit of time in the machine. That’s no problem. It’s in a first-floor room, with a window that won’t lock.”
And so Lame Hans left for our village again, this time considerably better dressed and with two thousand kilomarks in his pocket. Herr Heitzmann, with his appearance considerably altered by a plastiskin mask, left also, an hour later, to keep an eye on the two thousand.
“But,” the professor said when Lame Hans and he were comfortably ensconced in his sitting room again, with pipes in their mouths and glasses in their hands and a plate of sausage on the table, “but who is going to operate the machine for us? Wouldn’t it be easier if you simply didn’t appear? Then you would forfeit.”
“And Heitzmann would kill me,” said Lame Hans.
“He didn’t strike me as the type.”
“He would hire it done,” Hans said positively. “Whenever he got the cash. There are deserters about who are happy enough to do that kind of work for drinking money. For that matter, there are soldiers who aren’t deserters who’ll do it—men on detached duty of one kind and another. When you’ve spent all winter slaughtering Russians, one more body doesn’t make much difference.” He blew a smoke ring, then ran the long stem of his clay pipe through it as though he were driving home a bayonet. “But if I play the machine and lose, he’ll only
think you figured things out and got somebody to work it, and that I’m not as good as he supposed. Then he won’t want anything more to do with me.”
“All right, then.”
“A tobacconist should do well in this village, don’t you think? I had in mind that little shop two doors down from here. When the coaches stop, the passengers will see my sign; there should be many who’ll want to fill their pouches.”
“Gretchen prefers to stay here, I suppose.”
Lame Hans nodded. “It doesn’t matter to me. I’ve been all over, and when you’ve been all over, it’s all the same.”
Like everyone else in the village, and for fifty kilometers around, I had seen the professor’s posters, and I went to bed Friday night full of pleasant anticipation. Lame Hans had told me that he retired in the same frame of mind, after a couple of glasses of good plum brandy in the inn parlor with the professor. He and the professor had to appear strangers and antagonists in public, as will be readily seen; but this did not prevent them from eating and drinking together while they discussed arrangements for the match, which was to be held—with the permission of Burgermeister Landsteiner—in the village street, where an area for the players had been cordoned off and high benches erected for the spectators.
Hans woke (so he has told me) when it was still dark, thinking that he had heard thunder. Then the noise came again, and he knew it must be the artillery, the big siege guns, firing at the Russians trapped in Kostrzyn. The army had built wood-fired steam tractors to pull those guns—he had seen them in Wriezen—and now the soldiers were talking about putting armor on the tractors and mounting cannon, so the knights of the chessboard would exist in reality once more.
The firing continued, booming across the dry plain, and he went to the window to see if he could make out the flashes, but could not. He put on a thin shirt and a pair of cotton trousers (for though the sun was not yet up, it was as hot as if the whole of Brandenburg had been thrust into a furnace) and went into the street to look at the empty shop in which he planned to set up his tobacco business. A squadron of Ritters galloped through the village, doubtless on their way to the siege. Lame Hans shouted, “What do you mean to do? Ride your horses against the walls?” but they ignored him. Now that the truce was broken, Von Koblenz’s army would soon be advancing up the Oder Valley, Lame Hans thought. The Russians were said to have been preparing powered balloons to assist in the defense, and this hot summer weather, when the air seemed never to stir, would favor their use. He decided that if he were the Commissar, he would allow Von Koblenz to reach Glogow, and then …