I think all Zelazny stories tend to be special, but some more so than others. In the early Eighties I was putting together an anthology having to do with chess, or chesslike games, and naturally (hopefully) I asked Roger to contribute something new.
What I didn’t know was that two other anthologists had made similar requests at almost the same time—one seeking a story about unicorns, the other a tale set in a bar. Roger, being a practical man, wondered if one story might satisfy all three of us; and being a considerate gentleman, he was careful to clear the idea with all of us before proceeding.
So here it is—a unicorn who plays chess in a bar.
—Fred Saberhagen
UNICORN VARIATIONS
by Roger Zelazny
A bizarrerie of fires, cunabulum of light, it moved with a deft, almost dainty deliberation, phasing into and out of existence like a storm-shot piece of evening; or perhaps the darkness between the flares was more akin to its truest nature—swirl of black ashes assembled in prancing cadence to the lowing note of desert wind down the arroyo behind buildings as empty yet filled as the pages of unread books or stillnesses between the notes of a song.
Gone again. Back again. Again.
Power, you said? Yes. It takes considerable force of identity to manifest before or after one’s time. Or both.
As it faded and gained it also advanced, moving through the warm afternoon, its tracks erased by the wind. That is, on those occasions when there were tracks.
A reason. There should always be a reason. Or reasons.
It knew why it was there—but not why it was there, in that particular locale.
It anticipated learning this shortly, as it approached the desolation-bound line of the old street. However, it knew that the reason may also come before, or after. Yet again, the pull was there and the force of its being was such that it had to be close to something.
The buildings were worn and decayed and some of them fallen and all of them drafty and dusty and empty. Weeds grew among floorboards. Birds nested upon rafters. The droppings of wild things were everywhere, and it knew them all as they would have known it, were they to meet face to face.
It froze, for there had come the tiniest unanticipated sound from somewhere ahead and to the left. At that moment, it was again phasing into existence and it released its outline which faded as quickly as a rainbow in hell, that but the naked presence remained beyond subtraction.
Invisible, yet existing, strong, it moved again. The clue. The cue. Ahead. A gauche. Beyond the faded word SALOON on weathered board above. Through the swinging doors. (One of them pinned atop.)
Pause and assess.
Bar to the right, dusty. Cracked mirror behind it. Empty bottles. Broken bottles. Brass rail, black, encrusted. Tables to the left and rear. In various states of repair.
Man seated at the best of the lot. His back to the door. Levi’s. Hiking boots. Faded blue shirt. Green backpack leaning against the wall to his left.
Before him, on the tabletop, is the faint, painted outline of a chessboard, stained, scratched, almost obliterated.
The drawer in which he had found the chessmen is still partly open.
He could no more have passed up a chess set without working out a problem or replaying one of his better games, than he could have gone without breathing, circulating his blood or maintaining a relatively stable body temperature.
It moved nearer, and perhaps there were fresh prints in the dust behind it, but none noted them.
It, too, played chess.
It watched as the man replayed what had perhaps been his finest game, from the world preliminaries of seven years past. He had blown up after that—surprised to have gotten even as far as he had—for he never could perform well under pressure. But he had always been proud of that one game, and he relieved it as all sensitive beings do certain turning points in their lives. For perhaps twenty minutes, no one could have touched him. He had been shining and pure and hard and clear. He had felt like the best.
It took up a position across the board from him and stared. The man completed the game, smiling. Then he set up the board again, rose and fetched a can of beer from his pack. He popped the top.
When he returned, he discovered that White’s King’s Pawn had been advanced to K4. His brow furrowed. He turned his head, searching the bar, meeting his own puzzled gaze in the grimy mirror. He looked under the table. He took a drink of beer and seated himself.
He reached out and moved his Pawn to K4. A moment later, he saw White’s King’s Knight rise slowly into the air and drift forward to settle upon KB3. He stared for a long while into the emptiness across the table before he advanced his own Knight to his KB3.
White’s Knight moved to take his Pawn. He dismissed the novelty of the situation and moved his Pawn to Q3. He all but forgot the absence of a tangible opponent as the White Knight dropped back to its KB3. He paused to take a sip of beer, but no sooner had he placed the can upon the tabletop than it rose again, passed across the board and was upended. A gurgling noise followed. Then the can fell to the floor, bouncing, ringing with an empty sound.
“I’m sorry,” he said, rising and returning to his pack. “I’d have offered you one if I’d thought you were something that might like it.”
He opened two more cans, returned with them, placed one near the far edge of the table, one at his own right hand.
“Thank you,” came a soft, precise voice from a point beyond it.
The can was raised, tilted slightly, returned to the tabletop.
“My name is Martin,” the man said.
“Call me Tlingel,” said the other. “I had thought that perhaps your kind was extinct. I am pleased that you at least have survived to afford me this game.”
“Huh?” Martin said. “We were all still around the last time that I looked—a couple of days ago.”
“No matter. I can take care of that later,” Tlingel replied. “I was misled by the appearance of this place.”
“Oh. It’s a ghost town. I backpack a lot.”
“Not important. I am near the proper point in your career as a species. I can feel that much.”
“I am afraid that I do not follow you.”
“I am not at all certain that you would wish to. I assume that you intend to capture that pawn?”
“Perhaps. Yes, I do wish to. What are you talking about?”
The beer can rose. The invisible entity took another drink.
“Well,” said Tlingel, “to put it simply, your—sucessors—grow anxious. Your place in the scheme of things being such an important one, I had sufficient power to come and check things out.”
“ ‘Successors’? I do not understand.”
“Have you seen any griffins recently?”
Martin chuckled.
“I’ve heard the stories,” he said, “seen the photos of the one supposedly shot in the Rockies. A hoax, of course.”
“Of course it must seem so. That is the way with mythical beasts.”
“You’re trying to say that it was real?”
“Certainly. Your world is in bad shape. When the last grizzly bear died recently, the way was opened for the griffins—just as the death of the last aepyornis brought in the yeti, the dodo the Loch Ness creature, the passenger pigeon the sasquatch, the blue whale the kraken, the American eagle, the cockatrice—”
“You can’t prove it by me.”
“Have another drink.”
Martin began to reach for the can, halted his hand and stared.
A creature approximately two inches in length, with a human face, a lionlike body and feathered wings was crouched next to the beer can.
“A mini-sphinx,” the voice continued. “They came when you killed off the last smallpox bacillus.”
“Are you trying to say that whenever a natural species dies out a mythical one takes its place?” he asked.
“In a word—yes. Now. It was not always so, but you have destroyed the mechanisms of evolution. The balance is now redressed by those others of us, from the morning land—we, who have never truly been endangered. We return, in our time.”
“And you—whatever you are. Tlingel—you say that humanity is now endangered?”
“Very much so. But there is nothing that you can do about it, is there? Let us get on with the game.”
The sphinx flew off. Martin took a sip of beer and captured the Pawn.
“Who,” he asked then, “are to be our successors?”
“Modesty almost forbids,” Tlingel replied. “In the case of a species as prominent as your own, it naturally has to be the loveliest, most intelligent, most important of us all.”
“And what are you? Is there any way that I can have a look?”
“Well—yes. If I exert myself a trifle.”
The beer can rose, was drained, fell to the floor. There followed a series of rapid rattling sounds retreating from the table. The air began to flicker over a large area opposite Martin, darkening within the glowing framework. The outline continued to brighten, its interior growing jet black. The form moved, prancing about the saloon, multitudes of tiny, cloven hoofprints scoring and cracking the floorboards. With a final, near-blinding flash it came into full view and Martin gasped to behold it.
A black unicorn with mocking, yellow eyes sported before him, rising for a moment onto its hind legs to strike a heraldic pose. The fires flared about it a second longer, then vanished.
Martin had drawn back, raising one hand defensively. “Regard me!” Tlingel announced. “Ancient symbol of wisdom, valor and beauty, I stand before you!”
“I thought your typical unicorn was white,” Martin finally said.
“I am archetypical,” Tlingel responded, dropping to all fours, “and possessed of virtues beyond the ordinary.”
“Such as?”
“Let us continue our game.”
“What about the fate of the human race? You said—”
“. . . And save the small talk for later.”
“I hardly consider the destruction of humanity to be small talk.”
“And if you’ve any more beer . . .”
“All right,” Martin said, retreating to his pack as the creature advanced, its eyes like a pair of pale suns. “There’s some lager.”
Something had gone out of the game. As Martin sat before the ebon horn on Tlingel’s bowed head, like an insect about to be pinned, he realized that his playing was off. He had felt the pressure the moment he had seen the beast—and there was all that talk about an imminent doomsday. Any run-of-the-mill pessimist could say it without troubling him, but coming from a source as peculiar as this . . .
His earlier elation had fled. He was no longer in top form. And Tlingel was good. Very good. Martin found himself wondering whether he could manage a stalemate.
After a time, he saw that he could not and resigned.
The unicorn looked at him and smiled.
“You don’t really play badly—for a human,” it said.
“I’ve done a lot better.”
“It is no shame to lose to me, mortal. Even among mythical creatures there are very few who can give a unicorn a good game.”
“I am pleased that you were not wholly bored,” Martin said. “Now will you tell me what you were talking about concerning the destruction of my species?”
“Oh, that,” Tlingel replied. “In the morning land where those such as I dwell, I felt the possibility of your passing come like a gentle wind to my nostrils, with the promise of clearing the way for us—”
“How is it supposed to happen?”
Tlingel shrugged, horn writing on the air with a toss of the head.
“I really couldn’t say. Premonitions are seldom specific. In fact, that is what I came to discover. I should have been about it already, but you diverted me with beer and good sport.”
“Could you be wrong about this?”
“I doubt it. That is the other reason I am here.”
“Please explain.”
“Are there any beers left?”
“Two, I think.”
“Please.”
Martin rose and fetched them.
“Damn! The tab broke off this one,” he said.
“Place it upon the table and hold it firmly.”
“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 adjusting 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 things 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.
“I’ve 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 kings, 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 brass 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 dropping, 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 closed 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 swindling 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 Tlingel’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 & 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 needs is a piano—rinkytink, 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 those 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 moment.
“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-Q 3. 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.”
“I’d say. Then I’ll just knock off your knight with this one.”
“I guess I’ll just pull this knight back to K2.”
“. . . And I’ll take this one over to B3. May I have another beer?”
An hour and a quarter later, Martin resigned. The rain had let up and he had folded the umbrella.
“Another game?” Grend asked.
“Yes.”
The afternoon wore on. The pressure was off. This one was just for fun. Martin tried wild combinations, seeing ahead with great clarity, as he had that one day . . .
“Stalemate,” Grend announced much later. “That was a good one, though. You picked up considerably.”
“I was more relaxed. Want another?”
“Maybe in a little while. Tell me more about bars now.” So he did. Finally. “How is all that beer affecting you?” he asked.
“I’m a bit dizzy. But that’s all right. I’ll still cream you the third game.”
And he did.
“Not bad for a human, though. Not bad at all. You coming back next month?”
“Yes.”
“Good. You’ll bring more beer?”
“So long as my money holds out.”
“Oh. Bring some plaster of paris then. I’ll make you some nice footprints and you can take casts of them. I understand they’re going for quite a bit.”
“I’ll remember that.”
Martin lurched to his feet and collected the chess set.
“Till then.”
“Ciao.”
Martin dusted and polished again, moved in the player piano and scattered sawdust upon the floor. He installed a fresh keg. He hung some reproductions of period posters and some atrocious old paintings he had located in a junk shop. He placed cuspidors in strategic locations. When he was finished, he seated himself at the bar and opened a bottle of mineral water. He listened to the New Mexico wind moaning as it passed, to grains of sand striking against the windowpanes. He wondered whether the whole world would have that dry, mournful sound to it if Tlingel found a means of doing away with humanity, or—disturbing thought—whether the successors to his own kind might turn things into something resembling the mythical morning land.
This troubled him for a time. Then he went and set up the board through Black’s P-Q3. When he turned back to clear the bar he saw a line of cloven hoofprints advancing across the sawdust.
“Good evening, Tlingel,” he said. “What is your pleasure?”
Suddenly, the unicorn was there, without preliminary pyrotechnics. It moved to the bar and placed one hoof upon the brass rail.
“The usual.”
As Martin drew the beer, Tlingel looked about.
“The place has improved, a bit.”
“Glad you think so. Would you care for some music?”
“Yes.”
Martin fumbled at the back of the piano, locating the switch for the small, battery-operated computer which controlled the pumping mechanism and substituted its own memory for rolls. The keyboard immediately came to life.
“Very good,” Tlingel stated. “Have you found your move?”
“I have.”
“Then let us be about it.”
He refilled the unicorn’s mug and moved it to the table, along with his own.
“Pawn to King six,” he said, executing it.
“What?”
“Just that.”
“Give me a minute. I want to study this.”
“Take your time.”
“I’ll take the pawn,” Tlingel said, after a long pause and another mug.
“Then I’ll take this knight.”
Later, “Knight to K2,” Tlingel said.
“Knight to B3.”
An extremely long pause ensued before Tlingel moved the Knight to N3.
The hell with asking Grend, Martin suddenly decided. He’d been though this part any number of times already. He moved his Knight to N5.
“Change the tune on that thing!” Tlingel snapped.
Martin rose and obliged.
“I don’t like that one either. Find a better one or shut it off!”
“And get me another beer!”
He refilled their mugs.
“All right.”
Tlingel moved the Bishop to K2.
Keeping the unicorn from castling had to be the most important thing at the moment. So Martin moved his Queen to R5. Tlingel made a tiny, strangling noise, and when Martin looked u smoke was curling from the unicorn’s nostrils.
“More beer?”
“If you please.”
As he returned with it, he saw Tlingel move the Bishop to capture the Knight. There seemed no choice for him at that moment, but he studied the position for a long while anyhow.
Finally, “Bishop takes bishop,” he said.
“Of course.”
“How’s the warm glow?”
Tlingel chuckled.
“You’ll see.”
The wind rose again, began to howl. The building creaked.
“Okay,” Tlingel finally said, and moved the Queen to Q2.
Martin stared. What was he doing? So far, it had gone all right, but—He listened again to the wind and thought of the risk he was taking.
“That’s all, folks,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Continued next month.”
Tlingel sighed.
“Don’t run off. Fetch me another. Let me tell you of my wanderings in your world this past month.”
“Looking for weak links?”
“You’re lousy with them. How do you stand it?”
“They’re harder to strengthen than you might think. Any advice?”
“Get the beer.”
They talked until the sky paled in the east, and Martin found himself taking surreptitious notes. His admiration for the unicorn’s analytical abilities increased as the evening advanced.
When they finally rose, Tlingel staggered.
“You all right?”
“Forgot to detox, that’s all. Just a second. Then I’ll be fading.”
“Wait!”
“Whazzat?”
“I could use one, too.”
“Oh. Grab hold, then.”
Tlingel’s head descended and Martin took the tip of the horn between his fingertips. Immediately, a delicious, warm sensation flowed through him. He closed his eyes to enjoy it. His head cleared. An ache which had been growing within his frontal sinus vanished. The tiredness went out of his muscles. He opened his eyes again.
“Thank—” Tlingel had vanished. He held but a handful of air.
“—you.”
“Rael here is my friend,” Grend stated. “He’s a griffin.”
“I’d noticed.”
Martin nodded at the beaked, golden-winged creature.
“Pleased to meet you, Rael.”
“The same,” cried the other in a high-pitched voice. “Have you got the beer?”
“Why—uh—yes.”
“I’ve been telling him about beer,” Grend explained, half-apologetically. “He can have some of mine. He won’t kibitz or anything like that.”
“Sure. All right. Any friend of yours . . .”
“The beer!” Rael cried. “Bars!”
“He’s not real bright,” Grend whispered. “But he’s good company. I’d appreciate your humoring him.”
Martin opened the first six-pack and passed the griffin and the sasquatch a beer apiece. Rael immediately punctured the can with his beak, chugged it, belched and held out his claw.
“Beer!” he shrieked. “More beer!”
Martin handed him another.
“Say, you’re still into that first game, aren’t you?” Grend observed, studying the board. “Now, that is an interesting position.”
Grend drank and studied the board.
“Good thing it’s not raining,” Martin commented.
“Oh, it will. Just wait a while.”
“More beer!” Rael screamed.
Martin passed him another without looking.
“I’ll move my pawn to N6,” Grend said.
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Then you’ll take that pawn with your bishop’s pawn. Right?”
“Yes . . .”
Martin reached out and did it.
“Okay. Now I’ll just swing this knight to Q5.”
Martin took it with the Pawn.
Grend moved his Rook to K1.
“Check,” he announced.
“Yes. That is the way to go,” Martin observed.
Grend chuckled.
“I’m going to win this game another time,” he said.
“I wouldn’t put it past you.”
“More beer?” Rael said softly.
“Sure.”
As Martin poured him another, he noticed that the griffin was now leaning against the tree trunk.
After several minutes, Martin pushed his King to B1.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought you’d do,” Grend said. “You know something?”
“What?”
“You play a lot like a unicorn.”
“Hm.”
Grend moved his Rook to R3.
Later, as the rain descended gently about them and Grend beat him again, Martin realized that a prolonged period of silence had prevailed. He glanced over at the griffin. Rael had tucked his head beneath his left wing, balanced upon one leg, leaned heavily against the tree and gone to sleep.
“I told you he wouldn’t be much trouble,” Grend remarked.
Two games later, the beer was gone, the shadows were lengthening and Rael was stirring.
“See you next month?”
“Yeah.”>
“You bring my plaster of paris?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Come on, then. I know a good place pretty far from here. We don’t want people beating about these bushes. Let’s go make you some money.”
“To buy beer?” Rael said, looking out from under his wing.
“Next month,” Grend said.
“You ride?”
“I don’t think you could carry both of us,” said Grend, “and I’m not sure I’d want to right now if you could.”
“Bye-bye then,” Rael shrieked, and he leaped into the air, crashing into branches and tree trunks, finally breaking through the overhead cover and vanishing.
“There goes a really decent guy,” said Grend. “He sees everything and he never forgets. Knows how everything works—in the woods, in the air—even in the water. Generous, too, whenever he has anything.”
“Hm,” Martin observed.
“Let’s make tracks,” Grend said.
“Pawn to N6? Really?” Tlingel said. “All right. The bishop’s pawn will just knock off the pawn.”
Tlingel’s eyes narrowed as Martin moved the Knight to Q5.
“At least this is an interesting game” the unicorn remarked. “Pawn takes Knight.”
Martin moved the Rook.
“Check.”
“Yes, it is. This next one is going to be a three flagon move. Kindly bring me the first.”
Martin thought back as he watched Tlingel drink and ponder. He almost felt guilty for hitting it with a power-house like the sasquatch behind its back. He was convinced now that the unicorn was going to lose. In every variation of this game that he’d played with Black against Grend, he’d been beaten. Tlingel was very good, but the sasquatch was a wizard with not much else to do but mental chess. It was unfair. But it was not a matter of personal honor, he kept telling himself. He was laying to protect his species against a supernatural force which might well be able to precipitate World War III by some arcane mind-manipulation or magically induced computer foulup. He didn’t dare give the creature a break.
“Flagon number two, please.”
He brought it another. He studied it as it studied the board. It was beautiful, he realized for the first time. It was the loveliest living thing he had ever seen. Now that the pressure was on the verge of evaporating and he could regard it without the overlay of fear which had always been there in the past, he could pause to admire it. If something had to succeed the human race, he could think of worse choices . . .
“Number three now.”
“Coming up.”
Tlingel drained it and moved the King to B1.
Martin leaned forward immediately and pushed the Rook to R3.
Tlingel looked up, stared at him.
“Not bad.”
Martin wanted to squirm. He was struck by the nobility of the creature. He wanted so badly to play and beat the unicorn on his own, fairly. Not this way.
Tlingel looked back at the board, then almost carelessly moved the Knight to K4.
“Go ahead. Or will it take you another month?”
Martin growled softly, advanced the Rook and captured the Knight.
“Of course.”
Tlingel captured the Rook with the Pawn. This was not the way that the last variation with Grend had run. Still . . .
He moved his Rook to KB3. As he did, the wind seemed to commence a peculiar shrieking, above, amid the ruined buildings.
“Check,” he announced.
The hell with it! he decided. I’m good enough to manage my own endgame. Let’s play this out.
He watched and waited and finally saw Tlingel move the King to N1.
He moved his Bishop to R6. Tlingel moved the Queen to K2. The shrieking came again, sounding nearer now. Martin took the Pawn with the Bishop.
The unicorn’s head came up and it seemed to listen for a moment. Then Tlingel lowered it and captured the Bishop with the King.
Martin moved his Rook to KN3.
“Check.”
Tlingel returned the King to B1.
Martin moved the Rook to KB3.
“Check.”
Tlingel pushed the King to N2.
Martin moved the Rook back to KN3.
“Check.”
Tlingel returned the King to B1, looked up and stared at him, showing teeth.
“Looks as if we’ve got a drawn game,” the unicorn stated. “Care for another one?”
“Yes, but not for the fate of humanity.”
“Forget it. I’d given up on that a long time ago. I decided that I wouldn’t care to live here after all. I’m a little more discriminating than that.
“Except for this bar.” Tlingel turned away as another shriek sounded just beyond the door, followed by strange voices. “What is that?”
“I don’t know,” Martin answered, rising.
The doors opened and a golden griffin entered.
“Martin!” it cried. “Beer! Beer!”
“Uh—Tlingel, this is Rael, and, and—”
Three more griffins followed him in. Then came Grend, and three others of his own kind.
“—and that one’s Grend,” Martin said lamely. “I don’t know the others.”
They all halted when they beheld the unicorn.
“Tlingel,” one of the sasquatches said. “I thought you were still in the morning land.”
“I still am, in a way. Martin, how is it that you are acquainted with my former countrymen?”
“Well—uh—Grend here is my chess coach.”
“Aha! I begin to understand.”
“I am not sure that you really do. But let me get everyone a drink first.”
Martin turned on the piano and set everyone up.
“How did you find this place?” he asked Grend as he was doing it. “And how did you get here?”
“Well . . .” Grend looked embarrassed. “Rael followed you back.”
“Followed a jet?”
“Griffins are supernaturally fast.”
“Oh.”
“Anyway, he told his relatives and some of my folks about it. When we saw that the griffins were determined to visit you, we decided that we had better come along to keep them out of trouble. They brought us.”
“I—see. Interesting . . .”
“No wonder you played like a unicorn, that one game with all the variations.”
“Uh—yes.”
Martin turned away, moved to the end of the bar.
“Welcome, all of you,” he said. “I have a small announcement. Tlingel, awhile back you had a number of observations concerning possible ecological and urban disasters and lesser dangers. Also, some ideas as to possible safeguards against some of them.”
“I recall,” said the unicorn.
“I passed them along to a friend of mine in Washington who used to be a member of my old chess club. I told him that the work was not entirely my own.”
“I should hope so.”
“He has since suggested that I turn whatever group was involved into a think tank. He will then see about paying something for its efforts.”
“I didn’t come here to save the world,” Tlingel said.
“No, but you’ve been very helpful. And Grend tells me that the griffins, even if their vocabulary is a bit limited, know almost all that there is to know about ecology.”
“That is probably true.”
“Since they have inherited a part of the Earth, it would be to their benefit as well to help preserve the place. Inasmuch as this many of us are already here, I can save myself some travel and suggest right now that we find a meeting place—say here, once a month—and that you let me have your unique viewpoints. You must know more about how species become extinct than anyone else in the business.”
“Of course,” said Grend, waving his mug, “but we really should ask the yeti, also. I’ll do it, if you’d like. Is that stuff coming out of the big box music?”
“Yes.”
“I like it. If we do this think tank thing, you’ll make enough to keep this place going?”
“I’ll buy the whole town.”
Grend conversed in quick gutturals with the griffins, who shrieked back at him.
“You’ve got a think tank,” he said, “and they want more beer.”
Martin turned toward Tlingel.
“They were your observations. What do you think?”
“It may be amusing,” said the unicorn, “to stop by occasionally.” Then, “So much for saving the world. Did you say you wanted another game?”
“I’ve nothing to lose.”
Grend took over the tending of the bar while Tlingel and Martin returned to the table.
He beat the unicorn in thirty-one moves and touched the extended horn.
The piano keys went up and down. Tiny sphinxes buzzed about the bar, drinking the spillage.
