Sandra studied Doc's face carefully through her glasses. He looked terribly tired now, almost a death's head. Something tightened in her chest and she looked away quickly.
The Angler-Jal and Grabo-Machine games were still ding-dong contests, Dave told her. If anything, Grabo had a slight advantage. The Machine was "on the move," meaning that Grabo had just made a move and was waiting the automaton's reply.
The Hungarian was about the most restless "waiter" Sandra could imagine. He twisted his long legs constantly and writhed his shoulders and about every five seconds he ran his hands back through his unkempt tassle of hair.
Once he yawned selfconsciously, straightened himself and sat very compactly. But almost immediately he was writhing again.
The Machine had its own mannerisms, if you could call them that. Its dim, unobtrusive telltale lights were winking on and off in a fairly rapid, random pattern. Sandra got the impression that from time to time Grabo's eyes were trying to follow their blinking, like a man watching fireflies.
Simon Great sat impassively behind a bare table next to the Machine, his five gray-smocked technicians grouped around him.
A flushed-faced, tall, distinguished-looking elderly gentleman was standing by the Machine's console. Dave told Sandra it was Dr. Vanderhoef, the Tournament Director, one-time champion of the world.
"Another old potzer like Krakatower, but with sense enough to know when he's licked," Bill characterized harshly.
"Youth, ah, un-van-quish-able youth," Judy chanted happily by herself. "Flashing like a meteor across the chess fir-ma-ment. Morphy, Angler, Judy Kaplan...."