came again, very quiet.
—Viso was a sort of gambit tournament, sponsored by an industrialist. The man, Dubuffet, a napkin-maker, or was it roof tiles, I can’t recall, he fancied himself a skillful player, and had come up with a move in an opening line. No one played it because it was terrible, and he didn’t like that, so what do you think he did? What would you do in that situation?
—Think of another move.
—Well, he liked his move, so he made a big prize fund and set up a tournament in which the players had to alternate taking black and white and playing this same sequence every game. Unfortunately for some of the players, the resulting positions didn’t favor their proclivities. But Ezra enjoyed dubious play in open tournaments. He would play solidly against strong players, but in the opening rounds, he’d often sac unnecessarily. To him it was a joy to see terrific imbalances—he liked nothing better than to have three minor pieces for a queen, if it could be managed. Of course, he would only do such a thing if the pawn structure favored it.
Stan nodded a little uncertainly.
—We have that golden plate upstairs somewhere. Trophies are rather odious, though, and terrible to look at. Especially a golden dish, of all things. Better to just pawn it.
She laughed.
The sound of a crowd came closer suddenly, although it had not been there at all. Suddenly it was there, perhaps ten children and a teacher: a class, out for a walk from the nearby school.
—That is Miss Carnaugh. She is very strict, I hear, said Loring, peering under her hand. Perhaps you will have her as a teacher someday.
—I don’t believe I will go to school, said Stan. I wouldn’t like it.
—Your mother says you will.
The students appeared to be ten or eleven. They were playing some trust game where the students would fall from things and be caught, or get wrapped up in a bag and dragged around and then released.
—I have never understood these games, said Loring. I don’t know why you would want to make children more trusting. That is their principle fault to begin with.
—What do you mean?
Loring shook her head.
And with that, they went back to the house.
The Third Visit, 3
Just then, a man was coming out of the house next door.
—I’m sorry to bother you, he said. But I believe this is yours. It was brought to our house yesterday and my daughter accepted the delivery. Of course, she shouldn’t have; it isn’t ours at all. But she did. In any case, here it is now for you.
He handed a long, flat package to Loring.
—Thank you, she said.
If the man was not a mortician, then it is impossible to say anything about him; he spoke soberly and quietly, dressed somberly, made persistent but nonconfrontational eye contact, and wore bifocals. His hair cut was so vague as to be indescribable. In general, one wouldn’t be wrong to mention that he gave the comforting effect of a tree branch.
—Shall we open the package? asked Stan.
—Inside.
They set the package (which was very light) on the floor of the parlor. A scissors was to hand. But first:
The package was not addressed to Loring. As anyone could see, the exterior was entirely blank. Why the man would have thought that it was destined for Loring was a fact completely unexplainable. They might as well open it, then, to see.
Open it they did. Loring handed the scissors to Stan. The boy proceeded to cut here and there enthusiastically. He soon had one end undone, then the other. He put the scissors down and unfolded the cardboard. Inside was the single wing of a large bird.
—But what can it mean? mused Loring.
—What will you do with it?
—Quite right, Stan. What will we do with it?
—It would be a good prize in a contest.
—A jumping contest, said Loring. For people who fall out of planes and survive.
—Do people survive that? asked Stan.
—From time to time. We can call it the Daedalus prize.
She put it back in the box.
—Stick this in the closet
—Viso was a sort of gambit tournament, sponsored by an industrialist. The man, Dubuffet, a napkin-maker, or was it roof tiles, I can’t recall, he fancied himself a skillful player, and had come up with a move in an opening line. No one played it because it was terrible, and he didn’t like that, so what do you think he did? What would you do in that situation?
—Think of another move.
—Well, he liked his move, so he made a big prize fund and set up a tournament in which the players had to alternate taking black and white and playing this same sequence every game. Unfortunately for some of the players, the resulting positions didn’t favor their proclivities. But Ezra enjoyed dubious play in open tournaments. He would play solidly against strong players, but in the opening rounds, he’d often sac unnecessarily. To him it was a joy to see terrific imbalances—he liked nothing better than to have three minor pieces for a queen, if it could be managed. Of course, he would only do such a thing if the pawn structure favored it.
Stan nodded a little uncertainly.
—We have that golden plate upstairs somewhere. Trophies are rather odious, though, and terrible to look at. Especially a golden dish, of all things. Better to just pawn it.
She laughed.
The sound of a crowd came closer suddenly, although it had not been there at all. Suddenly it was there, perhaps ten children and a teacher: a class, out for a walk from the nearby school.
—That is Miss Carnaugh. She is very strict, I hear, said Loring, peering under her hand. Perhaps you will have her as a teacher someday.
—I don’t believe I will go to school, said Stan. I wouldn’t like it.
—Your mother says you will.
The students appeared to be ten or eleven. They were playing some trust game where the students would fall from things and be caught, or get wrapped up in a bag and dragged around and then released.
—I have never understood these games, said Loring. I don’t know why you would want to make children more trusting. That is their principle fault to begin with.
—What do you mean?
Loring shook her head.
And with that, they went back to the house.
The Third Visit, 3
Just then, a man was coming out of the house next door.
—I’m sorry to bother you, he said. But I believe this is yours. It was brought to our house yesterday and my daughter accepted the delivery. Of course, she shouldn’t have; it isn’t ours at all. But she did. In any case, here it is now for you.
He handed a long, flat package to Loring.
—Thank you, she said.
If the man was not a mortician, then it is impossible to say anything about him; he spoke soberly and quietly, dressed somberly, made persistent but nonconfrontational eye contact, and wore bifocals. His hair cut was so vague as to be indescribable. In general, one wouldn’t be wrong to mention that he gave the comforting effect of a tree branch.
—Shall we open the package? asked Stan.
—Inside.
They set the package (which was very light) on the floor of the parlor. A scissors was to hand. But first:
The package was not addressed to Loring. As anyone could see, the exterior was entirely blank. Why the man would have thought that it was destined for Loring was a fact completely unexplainable. They might as well open it, then, to see.
Open it they did. Loring handed the scissors to Stan. The boy proceeded to cut here and there enthusiastically. He soon had one end undone, then the other. He put the scissors down and unfolded the cardboard. Inside was the single wing of a large bird.
—But what can it mean? mused Loring.
—What will you do with it?
—Quite right, Stan. What will we do with it?
—It would be a good prize in a contest.
—A jumping contest, said Loring. For people who fall out of planes and survive.
—Do people survive that? asked Stan.
—From time to time. We can call it the Daedalus prize.
She put it back in the box.
—Stick this in the closet
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