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Chessville
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Thompson's Mission Last week Thompson invited me for a drink and lunch at his local, The Ruddy Duck in the nearby village of Sharpe Ende. He said he wanted to tell me about a recurring fantasy he’d been having and he needed my advice. Although intrigued, I was a little dubious about taking up the invitation. I mentioned it to my friend DB who immediately counseled against my going, saying he feared for my sanity in view of previous experiences with Thompson. After some thought I decided to accept, though not without trepidation, as I sensed the opportunity for another story. After all, I do have some responsibility to my readers. Incredible as it may seem, this is what ensued. The reader may decide for himself whether my bravery was justified. I duly met Thompson at The Duck, we bought drinks at the bar and ordered cheese baguettes together with portions of their excellent chips. Thompson led the way to a table and as we sat down I noticed a reserved notice on it. “Oh, that doesn’t matter,” said Thompson, “I always sit here.” A chess set was obtained from behind the bar - it was tacitly understood that we would have a game - and shortly the baguettes and chips were served by Lesley the charming young barmaid. As we ate Thompson began to tell me about his hallucination in which he appeared to have another persona, that of an android. I remembered that in the past Thompson had often enthused about the “Alien” films, but I could only listen in astonishment as he told me about Android Z193 which had been created by a superior race from another galaxy, the inhabitants of the planet Gnatugnaro. Thompson wasn’t sure whether he was the android or it was a separate entity, a replica of himself - a doppelganger as he described it with one of his science fiction expressions. I must have sat for several minutes with my cheese baguette halfway to my mouth before I realised I had stopped eating. The possibility of two Thompsons was overloading my brain. Thompson suddenly exclaimed “There’s something wrong with one of my chips!” I looked at his plate but his chips looked all right to me, crisp and golden as they always were at The Duck. “No,” said Thompson, pointing to his chest, “I mean in here. One of the circuits has a fault and fluctuates if I suffer a trauma, with unpredictable results.” It occurred to me that this could explain certain happenings in the past, such as the eventful night at the chess club when a completely out of character Thompson had demolished Bill Grimshaw with various gambits. Then I suddenly realised that I was almost believing him and pulled myself together. “So if I clip you round the ear that will affect your circuits?” I asked, rather sarcastically I must admit. Thompson stared at me then moved further away. “That won’t be necessary,” he said, “I can induce it myself, although I never know how it will affect my play. I’ll do it now and we‘ll see what happens.” I was not at all keen on this experiment but before I could say anything Thompson closed his eyes for a couple of seconds then opened them again. There was no obvious physical sign of any change and at that point Thompson played his opening move, pawn to queen knight four. Thereafter he made his moves instantly without pausing for thought. It seemed to me that he played well above his usual standard, while I performed rather feebly. In my defence I can only say that it isn’t easy to concentrate on a chess game while listening to Thompson’s ramblings. As we played Thompson went on with his story. It seemed that this advanced race, the Gnatugnarovians, had invented chess aeons ago as a test vehicle to assess the suitability of other races to become members of the Pan Galactic Alliance. Z193 had been placed on Earth to influence and monitor the progress of this intellectual pursuit and its effect on the human race. Thompson’s voice seemed to take on a metallic tone as he said “I’ve been around for hundreds of years, monitoring the development of chess on this planet.” By now I’d eaten all of my baguette but I hadn’t tasted a thing. Although play was continuing I was finding it difficult to concentrate on the game as I was struggling to comprehend all the strange ideas that Thompson was throwing at me. Just then, when it was my turn to move, the barmaid came across and said that the party who had made the reservation had arrived and would we please transfer to another table. Thompson, engrossed in the game and his story, only heard half of this. “Eh?” he said vaguely. “You’ll have to move,” said the barmaid. “No, no,” said Thompson, “it’s black to move.” Eventually Thompson was persuaded to shift and we relocated to another table. Still moving effortlessly without taking any time to think, he continued his dissertation. Apparently configurations of chess pieces perceived by Z193 register in his (its?) internal circuits. If a certain chess position corresponds with a neural matrix within the circuits it may trigger an exponential enhancement of the global human psyche to a higher level of awareness and invention. Alternatively it may bring about the obliteration of the human race if an unsuitable assessment is made. It is the final mission of Z193 to initiate one or other of these events if the gestalt matches (another of Thompson’s science fiction expressions.) The critical assessment will be made by the Gnatugnarovians from the inputs received through Z193 over the years. The crucial position, according to Thompson, is most likely to arise from the opening pawn to queen knight four, which perhaps explains his predilection for the Polish opening. On learning this I began to feel nervous. Thompson said he didn’t know if he was dreaming all this or if he really was an android. Even worse, he had heard that someone was writing stories about him and he wondered if he was merely a figment of somebody’s imagination. He mentioned that he was fond of authors such as Philip K Dick and Michael Moorcock who wrote speculative fiction about alternative worlds, multiple realities and so on. Perhaps reading their inventive stories had over-stimulated his brain. “I often wonder about reality,” he said. If I leave this room are you still here, is the chess set still here? Or does everything vanish when I go out? If I suddenly turn round and come back in does everything reappear in the split second before I come through the door?” I assured him that when he had briefly left the room earlier neither I nor the chess set had disappeared. “Yes, but that’s in your consciousness, not mine. Anyway, I still wonder whether I’m a human who imagines he’s an android, or an android that thinks it’s a human that imagines it’s an android.” At that moment Thompson allowed me to take a piece with check. I thought at first that he had lost concentration and blundered, but soon I realised that it was a cunning strategy which perhaps only an android could have dreamed up. It wasn’t long before I had to resign, but I turned down Thompson’s suggestion that we analyse the game. It seemed that we had not reached the decisive position but who knows what might have happened if we started to analyse all the possibilities? Then Thompson said, “You don’t think I’m barmy do you? I have a lot of respect for your opinion, as you’re nearly normal.” Taken by surprise by this backhanded compliment I managed to harumph and prevaricate my way out of giving a definite answer, saying that he’d been reading too many science fiction stories and perhaps he should see his doctor and get a medical opinion. This seemed to reassure Thompson and he then declared that he’d been silly, of course he wasn’t an android. I felt some slight relief at this but became apprehensive again as I took my leave. Thompson gave me one of his piercing stares and his voice became metallic again as he said “I have a big responsibility, haven’t I.” It wasn’t a question, more of a statement. That night I found it difficult to sleep as my mind was full of androids and multiple universes. Eventually I dropped off, only to awake in the small hours with all sorts of questions running through my mind. Did I really exist, or was I a figment of Thompson’s imagination? Had I invented Thompson? Had Thompson invented me? Did I really meet Thompson the previous day, or am I a character in somebody else’s story? I decided that I could only describe that strange meeting and let you, the reader, form your own opinion. In the clear light of day I have decided that I won’t play chess again with Thompson. Unbelievable though it is, I have the nagging fear that we may hit on that crucial combination of pieces which matches the gestalt in Z193’s neural matrix and thus trigger one or other of those awesome consequences. I have just looked at today’s date and realised that the day last week on which I played Thompson at The Ruddy Duck was April 1st. And yet I wonder.......... Here is the game we played. Analyse it at your peril, Thompson might just be looking over your shoulder. Thompson - Storyteller 1. b4 e5 2. Bb2 Bxb4 3. Bxe5 Nf6 4. a3 d6 5. Bb2 Bc5 6. d4 Bb6 7. Nd2 Bf5 8. e4 Nxe4 9. Bd3 Ba5 10. Bxe4 Bxe4 11. Nf3 Bxd2+ 12. Nxd2 Bxg2 13. Rg1 Qg5 14. Qe2+ Kf8 15. O-O-O Nc6 16. f4 Qxf4 17. Qxg2 Rg8 18. Rdf1 Qh4 19. Qd5 f6 20. Rg5 Ne7 21. Qb5 c6 22. Qxb7 Re8 23. Ra5 Qxh2 24. Rxa7 Qe2 25. Qd7 d5 26. a4 Qe3 27. Rb7 c5 28. Qd6 Ra8 29. Ba3 Qxa3+ 30. Kd1 Qa1+ 31. Ke2 Qxf1+ 32. Nxf1 Re8 33. Ne3 cxd4 34. Nxd5 Kf7 35. Nxe7 g5 36. Qd5+ Kg7 37. Kf2 d3 38. Qf5 Rgf8 39. Nd5+ 1-0
Copyright R. Canter, 2000-2006
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