Doctor Who_ Just War - Lance Parkin [40]
‘I know about Emil Hartung, of course,’ the Doctor said quietly. Steinmann looked up at him. On first impression, this Doctor resembled nothing more than a smelly old tramp. The trick was to look into his eyes, gaze beyond the shabby exterior into his labyrinthine, brilliant mind. There you would find true genius, allied with the cunning of a wild animal. The Doctor was an opponent to be reckoned with, in life as well as in chess. Even a bully like Wolff had seen that. This Doctor was proving a fascinating diversion from the business of war, and was the only chess player for over a decade who had come anywhere near to beating him. Steinmann turned his attention back to the board.
‘And I know exactly what Hartung is building. Please send him my regards,’ the Doctor finished. The words hung in the air for the moment, then the little man said cheerfully,
‘There are two kinds of chess-players.’ Steinmann looked up again, as the Doctor continued. ‘Those who give up when they lose their Queen and those who carry on playing.’
Steinmann moved his bishop out of harm’s way. ‘An interesting theory, if a little simplistic. Which camp do you belong in, Herr Doktor?’
‘Oh, I never lose my Queen. It was just an observation.’
The Doctor pressed his knight forward, capturing the white queen. Steinmann could hardly believe his eyes, and turned his full attention back to the game. ‘Which camp are you in?’
the Doctor asked sweetly, as he removed the white piece from the board.
Steinmann knocked his king over. The Doctor grinned.
‘Doktor, I congratulate you. You have mastered chess,’
Steinmann offered.
‘No,’ said the Doctor, ‘it isn’t possible to. There’s always someone better, somewhere.’
A fascinating philosophical point. There are more potential moves in the game of chess than there are atoms in the galaxy, did you know that? The number of moves is finite, though. One day, the solution will be found to every possible chess game. Chess is just a more complicated version of noughts and crosses, or draughts, and a good enough mathematician should be able to work it out.’
The Doctor pursed his lips. ‘That’s not true. You’re right that there are strict rules and only a finite number of moves, but there is a random element to the game: the players themselves. You could never work out your opponent’s thoughts, or know his memories. You couldn’t predict when he’ll cough or when he’s bluffing.’ Listening to the Doctor’s answer, Steinmann found it possible to believe that the little man had tried to square the circle — he talked as if he’d played every possible game, and tried to win them all. Tried and failed. He had won this particular contest, though.
‘So you have proved,’ Steinmann muttered, sipping at his wine. ‘You are right, of course. There is always another set of variables to take into account. It’s like that British slogan,
“Careless Talk Costs Lives”: a London housewife gossiping on the bus might reveal some sensitive information, a spy could overhear and we could use it to win the war. Even with obsessive secrecy, information slips out.’
‘There’s nothing you can do about it,’ said the Doctor gloomily, ‘it’s the nature of the universe. Congratulations.
You’ve discovered the Butterfly Effect eleven years early.
Everything is interrelated: a butterfly flapping its wings in Granville might lead to a hurricane sweeping across Berlin.
You can never predict all the consequences of an action. You can never control everything. We all have to muddle along as best we can.’
There is another way, thought Steinmann, we could kill all the butterflies. Or make them flap their wings when we order them to. Visions of a party rally swam before his eyes, twenty thousand arms surging skywards in salute. Control the universe, never allow yourself to be controlled by it.
‘Would you like another game?’ the German offered. The Doctor was already setting up the pieces.
Reed’s chest rose and fell steadily beneath Forrester’s head, hypnotizing her. He cradled her in his arms, one hand resting in the small of her back,