"Why, the Machine hasn't even a _Haupturnier_ or an intercollegiate won. It'll over its head be playing." "Yes, but maybe like Capa at San Sebastian or Morphy or Willie Angler at New York. The Russians will look like potzers." "Have you studied the scores of the match between Moon Base and Circum-Terra?" "Not worth the trouble. The play was feeble. Barely Expert Rating." Sandra's chief difficulty was that she knew absolutely nothing about the game of chess--a point that she had slid over in conferring with the powers at the _Space Mirror_, but that now had begun to weigh on her. How wonderful it would be, she dreamed, to walk out this minute, find a quiet bar and get pie-eyed in an evil, ladylike way. "Perhaps mademoiselle would welcome a drink?" "You're durn tootin' she would!" Sandra replied in a rush, and then looked down apprehensively at the person who had read her thoughts. It was a small sprightly elderly man who looked like a somewhat thinned down Peter Lorre--there was that same impression of the happy Slavic elf. What was left of his white hair was cut very short, making a silvery nap. His pince-nez had quite thick lenses. But in sharp contrast to the somberly clad men around them, he was wearing a pearl-gray suit of almost exactly the same shade as Sandra's--a circumstance that created for her the illusion that they were fellow conspirators. "Hey, wait a minute," she protested just the same. He had already taken her arm and was piloting her toward the nearest flight of low wide stairs. "How did you know I wanted a drink?" "I could see that mademoiselle was having difficulty swallowing," he replied, keeping them moving. "Pardon me for feasting my eyes on your lovely throat." "I didn't suppose they'd serve drinks here." "But of course." They were already mounting the stairs. "What would chess be without coffee or schnapps?" "Okay, lead on," Sandra said. "You're the doctor." "Doctor?" He smiled widely. "You know, I like being called that." "Then the name is yours as long as you want it--Doc." * * * * * Meanwhile the happy little man had edged them into the first of a small cluster of tables, where a dark-suited jabbering trio was just rising. He snapped his fingers and hissed through his teeth. A white-aproned waiter materialized. "For myself black coffee," he said. "For mademoiselle rhine wine and seltzer?" "That'd go fine." Sandra leaned back. "Confidentially, Doc, I was having trouble swallowing ... well, just about everything here." He nodded. "You are not the first to be shocked and horrified by chess," he assured her. "It is a curse of the intellect. It is a game for lunatics--or else it creates them. But what brings a sane and beautiful young lady to this 64-square madhouse?" Sandra briefly told him her story and her predicament. By the time they were served, Doc had absorbed the one and assessed the other.