Pulp Fiction, 1954 · page 96 of 146
Authentic Science Fiction Monthly No. 47 — page 96: what you’re looking at
A restored page from Pulp Fiction, 1954. Page through the whole issue in the reader above.
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Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
ROBOTS’ chess. They read amazingly well, you know, never forget- ting a thing. My Jose has be- come an excellent chef on the basis of his reading of cookery books.” “IT see,” said the reporter. ‘And so, if the robot Morphy wins the tournament, Mr. Mercer will be adjudged the champion, and if the robot Capablanca wins, you will be the better man?” “Exactly.” The mechanical contest- ants sat down at the board, Morphy’s heavy-set frame fil- lingthe chair and Capablanca’s wiry manufactured body alert on the edge of its seat. Carol, Mike and their fathers took their places close to the contest table. The cameras began to grind as Jose Capablanca, the host robot, shook a black and a white pawn in his cupped hands to determine who would have first play. Morphy won the white and opened with his queen’s pawn. Capablanca went into the Dutch defence. Quiet settled over the room sas the play proceeded with superhuman rapidity. The robot Morphy won the > 95 GAMBIT rapid-fire game with check- mate in fewer than two dozen moves, and the audience applauded. ““That’s my boy!” cried old Mr. Mercer. The second game got under way, Mr. Hobbs’ robot play- ing white this time. The play was too fast for human minds to follow completely, and at the end of ten minutes Morphy tipped over the black king. “JT resign,” the robot an- nounced. Mr. Hobbs beamed. “I protest!’ shouted Mr. Mercer. “‘He should have played to the finish.”’ His daughter and Mike, as judges, overruled him. “Apparently it was im- possible for your robot to win, father,’’ Carol said. “It went too fast for me, but the films undoubtedly will show why he resigned. Be a good loser, Pop.”’ Mr. Mercer grumbled, but was secretly pleased by the interest with which his daugh- ter—who professed to hate the game—was following each whizzing move. The tournament went on. Game after game was played. comichooks.conn