Macroscope

He had made an error — in not acquainting himself with the complete rules of play. He should have questioned the purpose of the second color. It was as valid a mistake as a misplay on the board.

“I understand,” he said.

That was it. They finished the play, and he lost.

Fred Blank was next, also picking up the red crayon. Ivo defeated him.

No one kept official score. Apparently it was up to the individual. By the time Ivo completed the circuit, he had nine victories, one defeat.

The group dispersed, the entertainment over. There was no celebration, no awarding of any prize. He could not believe that what he observed was all of it, but hoped to learn the truth from Groton very shortly.

Ivo headed for the door, wondering whether Afra could still be sleeping — there. This entire “night” had a surrealistic flavor; nothing was quite as he expected, though he had thought he had no expectations.

Once more there was a hand at his shoulder. He paused to look down at the woman who had translated for him. “You — you are one loss only,” she said.

He nodded.

“And so with Dr. Kovonov.” She gestured, and he observed the Russian still seated at the table. Everyone else was gone.

“A playoff? What’s the prize?”

She left without answering, and there was nothing to do but rejoin Dr. Kovonov. Now, at last, it came to him: this was the man behind the scene, mentioned so often. The important Russian who compelled even Brad’s intellectual respect.

Did this weird tourney co

Kovonov picked up the red crayon and made seven dots, just as he had before. Ivo smiled; the good doctor really wanted to win this one!

This time, familiar with the rules, Ivo played flawlessly and had the victory, misère.

The Russian did not move or change expression. Ivo erased the design and picked up the blue marker, looking askance. A nod. He set down fifteen spots.

Kovonov smiled and took the crayon. The play was on.

The strategy was fiendishly complex, and his opponent dwelt a long time on each move. Ivo felt the strain as his peculiar talent wrestled with the problem and was baffled. He realized that Kovonov’s greater experience was telling. Having plunged in well over the level of the sure guide of his instinct, Ivo knew that he was not a good player at all. If Kovonov fathomed the game before he did, his talent in the later stage would not avail him; it would only inform him when to concede. The situation was so complex that he might find himself in the losing position even if he did fathom it first; the proper strategy could guide the Russian to victory without complete analysis.

Twenty minutes passed. Kovonov’s broad forehead was damp and his dark hair seemed to erect itself stiffly. Ivo was nervous, too, having no idea where he stood in the game, or whether he really wanted to win. Something very serious was at stake; something Kovonov might well be more competent to possess. The prize might not be a physical one at all.

Why should he let victory or loss concern him? Groton wanted him to win — but Groton hardly knew the truth. There were so many far more important matters to worry about, yet he was taking this foolish tournament as seriously as he ever had taken anything. What did the sprouts championship of this station matter, when his closest friend was a vegetable? So victory would place his name at the top of the sprout-ladder; would that make everything worthwhile?

Then the state of the game clarified: he saw that he could win. Three moves later the Russian reluctantly conceded, and it was over.

Kovonov stood up and walked regretfully over to the statuette ensconced in the middle of the room. Two out of three was it, Ivo decided. Carefully the man lifted the gilded steam-shovel from its pedestal — Ivo could see that it was very heavy, for its size — and brought it to the table.

This was the prize? “What does it mean?” he asked, pointing to the letters on the pedestal, S D P S. He could think of no other comment to make.

He had not expected an answer, in the circumstances, but he received one. “Sooper Dooper Pooper Scooper,” Kovonov said with Russian accent, and smiled evilly. Then he, too, left, and Ivo remained to stare at this final evidence of Brad’s subterranean humor.

A platinum-plated steam-shovel, including the crescent moon symbol, with a world in its mouth. Exactly the type of image Brad would fashion. A friendly insult to the station with the day’s most powerful nose.

So they had had a tourney in Brad’s memory, and the wi

Ivo tucked it under his arm somewhat awkwardly — it was heavy — and marched back to his room. He was afraid the gesture might be misunderstood, if he returned it to its pedestal.

Afra woke as he entered, instantly alert. “What are you doing with that?” she demanded. She was, of course, still in night clothing, and she had forgotten to replace her slippers. It was quite a contrast to her usual precision of dress, but her beauty powered through all obstacles.

“I guess I won it.”

“You guess you won it!” There was pink polish on her toenails.

“I entered this contest, and it was the prize. Should I put it back?”

“Shut up and let me think.” She recovered her slippers, dusted off her feet, jammed on the footwear. She paced around the room as a man would pace, taking wide strides and swinging into the turns abruptly. The motions, however, did unmanly things to her body.

Ivo watched, still supporting the S D P S. He discovered that he liked Afra angry, too. She had torn off the kerchief, and her bright hair swirled as she spun. Absolutely refined Caucasian, Northwest European, no admixtures… her torso a marvelous sight as thighs braked, arms accelerated, midriff flexed to avoid some structure. Definitely not for the polyglot creature that was what she would perceive him to be. Georgia born…

She halted, hair, breasts and slippers stabilizing in unison. “All right. It’s not all right, but all right! We’ll have to make the best of it. Go fetch Harold — he put you up to this, I’m sure of it — and bring him to my room pronto. No, leave that thing here. Go — on.”

Ivo set down the statuette and retreated before her urgency. He had intended to consult with Groton first; what had brought him back here with the S D P S?

Whom was he fooling? He knew what had brought him back.

“You did it!” Groton exclaimed when Ivo told him. “You took the Scooper!”

“I did it, yes. Now Afra’s furious. She wants to see you in her room. Pronto, she says.”

“Right. Smart girl, that. We’re going to be busy as hell.” Ivo had not heard Groton speak that colloquially before, and he took it as another indication of strain. The afflatus of war, he thought ironically, was breathed upon them all. History repeated itself, as ever. The Senator, in death, had destroyed the macroscope, and all that it might accomplish for the benefit of mankind.

Groton raised his voice. “Beatryx!”

“Yes, dear,” came the quick answer.

“Get into your suit and stand by the tube; we’ll be ferrying some stuff out in a hurry.” Without waiting for her acknowledgment, he drew Ivo back into the hall. “God, I’m glad you did it,” he said. “They have the screws into us, and this is the only way.”

“You’ve left me behind. What are you talking about?”