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                              FORCED MOVE

                             BY HENRY LEE

                    _Wars are won by sacrifice. But
                  computers don't consider sacrifice
                         an optimum move...._

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
               Worlds of If Science Fiction, June 1955.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


Snow had fallen in the morning but now the sky was clear and Ruy, with
a glance at the frosty stars and a sharp twist of his foot as he ground
out a cigarette, stepped out quickly. It was axiomatic. What had to be
done, had to be done. A forged pass, with 48 hours of alleged validity
gleaming brightly in red letters under the plastic overlaminate was
better than no pass. And an outdated pass would wipe away a week's work
in the underground.

The sharp, massive gray outline of the Pentagon loomed before him, dark
and foreboding against the sky. The brightly lighted entrance through
which he must gain admittance resembled the glowing peep-hole into the
inferno of an atomic drive.

Ruy's stomach hardened, then exploded in a surge of bitter, stringent
gastric juices as the MP glanced at his pass, scrutinized his face, and
then turned his attention toward others coming through the entrance.

Ruy wanted to run and hide. His dark blue uniform seemed to shrink
tighter and tighter. The misfit must be apparent from the back. The
silvery commander's insignia on his jacket weighed heavily at his
chest and at his heart. He wished desperately for one fleeting, but
excruciating, moment that he were back on his ship, in his own uniform,
at the control panel of his computer.

He started off to the right in a seeming trance. The first step had
been taken. His many hours of thought, study and planning would carry
him from here.

This was the only way. He had repeated the fact over and over. It was
an ugly business, but had to be done. Five years of war was enough.
Man was on his knees before the invaders from outer space; but they in
turn had been too long from home and were near the breaking point. A
continued drain would mean defeat for both sides. Ruy could turn the
tide, but very probably his life would be the minimum sacrifice.

He had decided his fate long before he left the decks of his ship.
Only the belligerent pride of statesmen, and the steadfast belief in
the infallability of their computers, kept the two great battle fleets
drawn in null position against each other. The computers, perhaps,
deserved such ultimate confidence--in theory. They always predicted
optimum maneuver envelopes, always predicted mobilization rates to
develop force fields designed to offset those of the enemy. And they
always kept battle losses to a minimum--merely dribbling away the
resources of the solar system. Yet in five years of such optimum
maneuvering, not a single battle had been won.

Two doors gave way before Ruy's pocket vibrator, the lock tumblers
slipping and turning freely in a mad frenzy to escape the resonating
hum. A short, windowless corridor lay before him, broken only by a
massive door at the other end. Beyond that door lay Ruy's objective.

The guard never had time to do more than note Ruy's presence in this
sanctum sanctorum. The needle thin spray of a paralyzing drug made his
body feel stiff, unmanageable, and peculiarly buoyant, as though he
were being hurled through space. His thoughts became blurred and then
after a blinding flash, complete oblivion set in.

The two officers seated at the control panels of the master computer
experienced similar depression of their cardiovascular systems and
medullae.

Small thermite igniters pressed against the door lock and hinges fused
the steel door to its frame.

With the smell of scorched paint still stinging his nostrils, Ruy
seated himself at the control panel, dabbed his left wrist with
stringent antiseptic, gripped his hand into a fist, and plunged the
silver probes deep into the nerves of his wrist.

Glancing through the observation window into the battle plotting room
below, he studied the positions of the fleets as they appeared on the
large wall diagram of the solar system.

Disregarding the distraction offered by the moving figures of the few
officers and technicians on duty by the map, he fixed the positions of
the fleets into his mind. He would have need for a clear visual picture
until he adapted to the mental images the computer would feed into his
brain. He worked with furious haste, yet each step was meticulously
precise--everything depended on his grasping the reins of battle
from the computer and successfully twisting its authority to his own
purposes.

Grasping the viewing switch, he threw it on. Pinpoints of light flared
deep within his brain and seemed to blot his vision. Closing his eyes,
his brain fought for perspective. Gradually, it focused and perceived
the solar system, resplendent with sun, planets, moons, and men of war.
Enveloping each ship were lines of force, scintillating sharp and hard;
forming cosmic vortexes as the lesser computers on board followed the
master's directives and distorted the ether around the ships, seeking
to build a pattern to penetrate the opposing fields and engulf the
enemy men of war.

A moment, and the game was on. Ruy grasped the "Manual" switch before
him, pulled hard, and dropped his hands to the keyboard before him.

       *       *       *       *       *

The General, who was known in military circles as a good Joe, but a
stickler for the theory of war, relaxed languidly at his desk in the
small office off the Battle Room. The other officers on duty milled
around the plotting board within his eyesight awaiting the end of the
evening shift.

It was strange and new to relax on the job after so many years of fleet
duty. But staff duty to the master computer was good, politically. He
was getting along in years, and a few more contacts here might mean a
separate fleet command of his own, perhaps in pursuit of the invader,
if the computers could ever break the deadlock.

Suddenly, the sweet reverie of the General was snapped like a tight
tension cable. A gong on the wall clanged rapidly three times and a
red flashing light next to the gong told him what his ears refused to
believe. The computer had been switched to manual. He had received no
such instructions. In fact, the computer hadn't been on manual since
the war started.

"Captain, who ordered manual control?" he barked as he sprang to the
doorway of the Battle Room.

"I don't know, Sir," stammered the Captain. His manner and bearing were
those of a man who had just been faced with a problem of cataclysmic
proportions.

"Well check with the control room--on the double--before our fleet gets
out of defensive position." His parade ground roar snapped the Captain
out of the catelepsy which had enveloped him and sent him scurrying
into the corridor.

An almost hysterical shout whirled the General back to the plotting
board.

"Sir, our fleet is attacking--_attacking!_"

"What? Where?" asked the General, his eyes darting over the board in a
frantic effort to orient himself.

"Here, Sir, see. The positions are changing gradually in an unusual
pattern. A patrol ship, a destroyer, and a cruiser have all gone right
into the enemy vortex field," analyzed the Major.

"Yes, I see--But with the enemy concentrating his ships
orthogonally--he'll build a vortex that will disintegrate each and
every ship of ours near the vortex," said the General, his mind coming
up to full battle speed as it grasped the situation. "My God! Can't
they see that they're going to certain death?"

       *       *       *       *       *

A gong sounded in a muffled sort of way in the plotting room below Ruy,
as a gentle buzz told him that the computer had relinquished control.

His fingers began to play rapidly over the keys. Swift orders of
strategy were transmitted through steel conduits deep into the computer
vaults of the building. There, the orders were transposed into detailed
tactics and beamed throughout the solar system. And as his fingers
limbered to the keys, he played a deadly tune, a concerto of death.

The fleet grew alive with a sudden awareness; it seemed to be a thing
alive, straining at its bonds in response to the music played into its
computers and controls. Suddenly, the fleet sprang forward. A destroyer
shot out into the midst of the enemy fleet, launching all of its energy
in one tremendous lurch--only to go down in a flaming wreck as the
enemy ships swerved and concentrated on it. And a second ship, and then
a third ship repeated the frightful maneuver, until the whole heavens
were lighted with the flaming novae of berserk atomic drives.

"General, sir," said the Lieutenant, with sweat rolling from his brow
as he saluted.

"Yes, Lieutenant," said the General looking away from the battle map of
the solar system.

"We can't make any headway against the control room door. Must be solid
steel. Whoever got in there must have fused it shut."

"Well, get a welding torch," said the General, his eyes going back to
watch the devastation of the fleet. "We've got to get in--get that
computer back on automatic. Get explosives, if necessary."

"We've sent for a welding torch already, sir. It'll be here in a few
minutes."

"All right. Send someone for hand grenades too. We've got to stop this
sabotage before the fleet is annihilated. They're losing ships every
minute."

"Sir," interposed the Captain standing nearby, "maybe we can cut off
the computer room someway. I know it's a direct conduit, right to the
vaults from the control room, but maybe we can cut the conduits and let
the ships fall back on their emergency circuits."

"Looks like a possible alternative, Captain, though we'd put the
computer out of operation for several days," said the General. "But
we're losing our fleet this way."

Seven, eight, nine great men of war went down before the blazing force
fields of the enemy, who pounced on every sacrifice offered to it by
the computer.

The Lieutenant turned his eyes from the incandescent glare of the thick
steel conduit glowing red under the finger of the acetylene torch.
"General, its extremely resistant to cutting. I doubt if we can cut
through it before they finally get the door and frame cut away up in
the control room."

"Keep at it, boy. We've got to get through at the saboteur one way or
another. Do the best you can. The boys in the fleet are counting on
you. They're going down to certain death while we delay."

       *       *       *       *       *

With the last terms of the new equations of strategy played into the
computer, Ruy sat back, gave a sigh, opened his eyes, and slipped the
electrodes from his wrist. His job was almost done. If he could keep
the others from this control panel for another half hour, the computer
could operate on his equations fully, and the battle would be won.

The first ships from Earth had already gone down in flames, expendable
sacrifices to his purpose. But they were not dying in vain. The end
result would be--must be--victory.

_Wars are fought by strategy, but also by sacrifice. Every general must
send troops into battle, must expect to sacrifice to make the enemy
commit himself in the desired way, and so make victory possible._

This was what Ruy believed. He believed it deeply, deeply enough to
throw aside his career as a rising young theoretical mathematics
officer of the fleet and to go over the heads of his unconvinced
superiors, with all their unread reports and unanswered recommendations
from subordinates, in the only way a man of action could--by taking
things into his own hands, and staking his life on the gamble.

The General, eyes riveted to the board, winced with pain as ship after
ship roiled the heavens with flaming death. And as he watched, a
gradual subtle design became apparent. For every ship he had lost, his
ships had taken a similar tally--for each sacrifice, a trap was sprung
and a similar toll taken. Computers did not sacrifice, did not send men
out to certain death. Therefore a sacrifice was greedily snapped up
as a mistake of the enemy. And such greed snapped the trap. One move
forced the next, once the bait was taken.

As the theme of the theory formed in the General's mind, he suddenly
muttered: "Even exchange will balance a computer's potential--but a
series of forced, even-exchanges can distort a fleet's position from
optimum.... I never realized it before--an optimum move is not an
optimum move--if it's a forced move."

He turned from the board and spoke quietly to the men who stood in
hushed groups watching the flaming battle.

"Gentlemen, we are winning a great victory; the war will soon be over."

       *       *       *       *       *

The door to the computer room toppled outward, frame and all, after
several ceaseless hours of cutting. The impact left the hallway of
armed men silent and still, like specters in the unreal light from the
glowing acetylene torch. Just inside the doorway stood a man, his youth
belied by wise and thoughtful eyes, grinding a cigarette under his
foot. And as he stepped through the wrecked and twisted door frame not
a hand was raised against him.