It was absolutely impossible. Twenty-five chess
masters from the world at large, foregathered in Boston for the annual championships,
unanimously declared it impossible, and unanimity on any given point is an
unusual mental condition for chess masters. Not one would concede for an
instant that it was within the range of human achievement. Some grew red in the
face as they argued it, others smiled loftily and were silent; still others
dismissed the matter in a word as wholly absurd.
A casual remark by the distinguished scientist and
logician, Professor Augustus S. F. X. Van Dusen, provoked the discussion. He
had, in the past, aroused bitter disputes by some chance remark; in fact had
been once a sort of controversial centre of the sciences. It had been due to
his modest announcement of a startling and unorthodox hypothesis that he had
been invited to vacate the chair of Philosophy in a great university. Later
that university had felt honoured when he accepted its degree of LL. D.
For a score of years, educational and scientific
institutions of the world had amused themselves by crowding degrees upon him.
He had initials that stood for things he couldn't pronounce; degrees from France, England, Russia, Germany, Italy, Sweden and Spain. These
were expressed recognition of the fact that his was the foremost brain in the
sciences. The imprint of his crabbed personality lay heavily on half a dozen of
its branches. Finally there came a time when argument was respectfully silent
in the face of one of his conclusions.
The remark which had arrayed the chess masters of the
world into so formidable and unanimous a dissent was made by Professor Van
Dusen in the presence of three other gentlemen of note. One of these, Dr.
Charles Elbert, happened to be a chess enthusiast.
"Chess is a shameless perversion of the functions
of the brain," was Professor Van Dusen's declaration in his perpetually
irritated voice. "It is a sheer waste of effort, greater because it is
possibly the most difficult of all fixed abstract problems. Of course logic
will solve it. Logic will solve any problem–not most of them but any problem. A
thorough understanding of its rules would enable anyone to defeat your greatest
chess players. It would be inevitable, just as inevitable as that two and two
make four, not some times but all the time. I don't know chess because I never
do useless things, but I could take a few hours of competent instruction and
defeat a man who has devoted his life to it. His mind is cramped; bound down to
the logic of chess. Mine is not; mine employs logic in its widest scope."
Dr. Elbert shook his head vigorously. "It is
impossible," he asserted.
"Nothing is impossible," snapped the
scientist. "The human mind can do anything. It is all we have to lift us
above the brute creation. For Heaven's sake leave us that."
The aggressive tone, the uncompromising egotism
brought a flush to Dr. Elbert's face. Professor Van Dusen affected many persons
that way, particularly those fellow savants who, themselves men of distinction,
had ideas of their own.
"Do you know the purposes of chess? Its countless
combinations?" asked Dr. Elbert.
"No," was the crabbed reply. "I know
nothing whatever of the game beyond the general purpose which, I understand to
be, to move certain pieces in certain directions to stop an opponent from
moving his King. Is that correct?"
"Yes," said Dr. Elbert slowly, "but I
never heard it stated just that way before."
"Then, if that is correct, I maintain that the
true logician can defeat the chess expert by the pure mechanical rules of
logic. I'll take a few hours some time, acquaint myself with the moves of the
pieces, and defeat you to convince you."
Professor Van Dusen glared savagely into the eyes of
Dr. Elbert.
"Not me," said Dr. Elbert. "You say
anyone–you for instance, might defeat the greatest chess player. Would you be
willing to meet the greatest chess player after you 'acquaint' yourself with
the game?"
"Certainly," said the scientist. "I
have frequently found it necessary to make a fool of myself to convince people.
I'll do it again."
This, then, was the acrimonious beginning of the
discussion which aroused chess masters and brought open dissent from eminent
men who had not dared for years to dispute any assertion by the distinguished
Professor Van Dusen. It was arranged that at the conclusion of the
championships Professor Van Dusen should meet the winner. This happened to be
Tschaikowsky, the Russian, who had been champion for half a dozen years.
After this expected result of the tournament Hillsbury,
a noted American master, spent a morning with Professor Van Dusen in the latter's
modest apartments on Beacon Hill. He left
there with a sadly puzzled face; that afternoon Professor Van Dusen met the
Russian champion. The newspapers had said a great deal about the affair and
hundreds were present to witness the game.
There was a little murmur of astonishment when
Professor Van Dusen appeared. He was slight, almost child-like in body, and his
thin shoulders seemed to droop beneath the weight of his enormous head. He wore
a number eight hat. His brow rose straight and dome-like and a heavy shock of
long, yellow hair gave him almost a grotesque appearance. The eyes were narrow
slits of blue squinting eternally through thick spectacles; the face was small,
clean shaven, drawn and white with the pallor of the student. His lips made a
perfectly straight line. His hands were remarkable for their whiteness, their
flexibility, and for the length of the slender fingers. One glance showed that
physical development had never entered into the schedule of the scientist's
fifty years of life.
The Russian smiled as he sat down at the chess table.
He felt that he was humouring a crank. The other masters were grouped near by,
curiously expectant. Professor Van Dusen began the game, opening with a Queen's
gambit. At his fifth move, made without the slightest hesitation, the smile
left the Russian's face. At the tenth, the masters grew intensely eager. The
Russian champion was playing for honour now. Professor Van Dusen's fourteenth
move was King's castle to Queen's four.
"Check," he announced.
After a long study of the board the Russian protected
his King with a Knight. Professor Van Dusen noted the play then leaned back in
his chair with finger tips pressed together. His eyes left the board and
dreamily studied the ceiling. For at least ten minutes there was no sound, no
movement, then:
"Mate in fifteen moves," he said quietly.
There was a quick gasp of astonishment. It took the
practised eyes of the masters several minutes to verify the announcement. But
the Russian champion saw and leaned back in his chair a little white and dazed.
He was not astonished; he was helplessly floundering in a maze of
incomprehensible things. Suddenly he arose and grasped the slender hand of his
conqueror.
"You have never played chess before?" he
asked.
"Never."
"Mon Dieu! You are not a man; you are a brain–a
machine–a thinking machine."
"It's a child's game," said the scientist abruptly.
There was no note of exultation in his voice; it was still the irritable,
impersonal tone which was habitual.
This, then, was Professor Augustus S. F. X. Van Dusen,
Ph. D., LL. D., F. R. S., M. D., etc., etc., etc. This is how he came to be
known to the world at large as The Thinking Machine. The Russian's phrase had
been applied to the scientist as a title by a newspaper reporter, Hutchinson
Hatch. It had stuck.
Lucky Pierre, that well-known cat about town, is back! He was all settled down to enjoy his favorite occupations of napping and snacking when his humans, Jeremy and Linda Austin, land him in the middle of another murderous mess. Honeysuckle House Bed and Breakfast, which the Austins own and run on sweat, tears, and a couple of shoestrings, is the site of a writer's salon organized by science fiction enthusiast Angela Griffin. Honeysuckle House has been the site of several other unpleasant little mishaps, and this may be the last chance for the Austins to redeem their reputation and avoid closing down their business. Things are going fine until one of the writers turns up dead with a shish-kabob skewer stuck through his heart. He was a drunk who beat his wife, so no one misses him much, even if he was a pretty good writer. But when Angela Griffin proposes a toast to his memory and dies after drinking a poisoned glass of champagne, even Pierre has to admit that things are getting serious. For one thing, these killings are interfering with his naps. For another, they mess up his snack schedule. Detective Mark Stoddard joins forces with writer and amateur sleuth Gramps Derry, but neither of them are making much headway. Even Gramps' delectable granddaughter, Grub, is having a hard time seeing through the felonious fog. It's up to Pierre to uncover the vital clue that will keep the villain from killing again. But can he? And once the mystery starts to unravel, will revealing the long-hidden secrets of the past keep the heartless killer from striking again? This light-hearted romp through mischief, murder, and mayhem uncovers the innermost secrets of a writer's life, with everything from light-hearted infidelity through sugar cube bar bets and adventures in one-upmanship. 
