The current card-playing capability of software is so low compared to that of humans that bridge-playing computers are mostly a subject of ridicule. However, we are all in awe of Chthonic (the first two letters are silent), the creation of the Orttman Foundation, a machine with superb technique, high talent for imitation, and personality traits that compete with the very worst homo sapiens have to offer. Below, one of his escapades.
Pronoun Trouble
by Nick Straguzzi
Normally, Marty McClain and I are the only two people who
work in the basement robotics lab at the Orttman Foundation for Scientific
Advancement. But last Tuesday, as I strolled in at 8 a.m., about half
the building was crammed in there waiting for me.
"Morning, everyone," I said as nonchalantly as I
could muster.
They set upon me like tabloid reporters. "Mike, what
happened?" "We heard Orttman's been barred from the bridge
club!" "Yeah, over a fight with Chthonic!"
"Oh?" I said innocently. "Who told you that?"
"Chthonic, of course," said Marty, elbowing her way
through the crowd. "He sent out a message on the electronic mail
system. Plus, he's been broadcasting the news every ten minutes over
the intercom."
"Oh, brother," I groaned. "Orttman's going to
sell him for scrap metal."
I looked for an exit, but they had both doors covered. I
feigned amnesia, but they wouldn't buy it. There wasn't much I could
do but tell the story.
The night before, Chthonic and I were the stationary pair
in a six-table Howell at the Pinelands Bridge Club. We didn't face
the inimitable Dr. Frederick O. Orttman, founder, president and principal
visionary of the Foundation, until the final round. With his sharp
features, bald head, and gray-streaked beard, the 300-pound Orttman
was an even more intimidating presence at the club than Chthonic,
if that's possible.
"Rather dull set of hands tonight, wouldn't you say?"
boomed Orttman as he sat down.
"Why, yes," said Chthonic in the voice of George
Sanders. "Quite mundane, I agree. We're probably no more than
six boards above average."
Orttman ignored him. "Board 17 was particularly tedious.
We were plus 920 in a cold six-diamond contract on our five-two fit. Of
course, most of the field was in the hopeless six notrump."
"Hmm? Oh, yes, I suppose it would be hopeless if one
were unfamiliar with basic guard-squeeze play."
"And of course," continued Orttman, undaunted, "your
opponents found the falsecard on Board Five to hold three notrump
to nine tricks, as I did."
"I wouldn't know. I was in six clubs, making."
"Pass," I said firmly. When those two got started,
they could go on all night. Here was the board that caused all the
trouble:
North dealer
North-South vulnerable
NORTH 6 5 4 3 2 3 10 4 3 K Q 9 8
WEST K 10 8 7 4 Q 9 8 7 6 2 6 3
EAST -- 10 8 7 6 5 2 A A J 10 4 3 2
SOUTH A Q J 9 A K Q J 9 K J 5 5
SOUTH
WEST
NORTH
EAST
Chthonic
Orttman
Barton
Birdsworth
--
--
Pass
Pass
1
3
Double*
Pass
3 NT
Pass
Pass
Pass
*negative
East was B. Endicott Birdsworth, chief engineer at the Foundation.
With his wire-rim glasses, greased black hair and bow tie, the timid
Birdsworth was about as far removed from Orttman in personality as
imaginable. He stared dumbfoundedly at his 12 round-suit cards and
decided that no opening bid was quite right. By his next turn, all
four suits had been mentioned in one way or another so he quietly
passed again. Birdsworth files his income tax retum on January second
every year, just in case it gets delayed in the mail.
Orttman led a club. A thin red beam of light slid across
the table as Chthonic examined my cards. I could tell he wasn't happy,
but that's nothing new. Chthonic thinks the only truly intelligent
human was the one who coined the term "dummy."
"Good show, Michael. You've taken the negative double
to a stunning new low."
"I wanted to show you my five spades," I mumbled.
"Oh, and they're splendid indeed. Perfect for rummy.
I hope it will not diminish their luster in any way if I remind you
we're presently playing bridge. King, please."
Endicott won the ace and cashed the ace of diamonds. Chthonic
unblocked the jack and took the heart return with the ace. The king
of hearts brought a diamond and a small smile from West. On the spade
ace, Birdsworth threw a club and Orttman's grin grew wider.
"A most unfortunate lie of the cards," he announced
to no one in particular. "Declarer, who is marked with 4=5=3=1
distribution, has no ready entry to dummy. He cashes the spade ace
in the hopes of dropping the king or maneuvering an endplay, scarcely
expecting the actual layout.
"The success of this hand," he continued, raising
his voice thoughtfully so the players across the room could hear,
"was assured by my daring three-diamond preempt. A weaker player
would never think of making such a bid when holding four of the unbid
major, despite its obvious disruptive advantages and its . . . "
While Orttman pontificated, Chthonic considered the end
position for nearly ten seconds, an eternity by his standards. Then
he played with lightning speed. He cashed two rounds of hearts, pitching
spades from dummy as Orttman threw diamonds. With five tricks in,
that left:
NORTH 6 5 -- 10 3 Q 9
WEST K 10 8 -- Q 9 3
EAST -- 10 8 -- J 10 4 3
SOUTH Q J 9 9 K 5 --
Orttman nodded sagely as Chthonic placed the spade queen
on the table. "An excellent attempt, my friend, but as you see
I've kept an exit card." He took his king of spades and in the
same sweeping motion played the club three. "Few defenders would
have the foresight to retain such a seemingly worthless card, especially
as it presents declarer access to the queen in dummy, but his total
still comes to only eight tricks. I . . . "
"Your play," interrupted Chthonic. He had won the
queen of clubs, pitching his last heart, then played the king and
five of diamonds. West had to win and return a spade into the jack-nine.
"I congratulate you, Frederick," said Chthonic dryly
as I marked plus 600 on the traveling scoresheet. "Few defenders have
ever endplayed themselves five times in a six-card ending."
Orttman shot him a dirty look, which Chthonic took as an
invitation to elaborate. "When you won the spade king, you were
endplayed in three suits. A diamond return presents me with nine tricks
immediately. A club, as we just saw, costs a trick and sets up endplay
number four in spades. And on a spade retum, I win the jack-nine and
play king and a diamond for a club endplay at trick 13. Shall I demonstrate?"
"Enough, Chthonic. Next time I'll duck the spade queen
and the only number you'll count to is minus 100."
"I hardly think so."
"Well, then, shall I demonstrate?" snapped Orttman.
He recreated the five-card end-position but with the king of spades
exchanged for the eight. "There. You can throw me in widi a spade
or a diamond, but my club exit holds you to eight tricks."
Chthonic, meanwhile, had removed a card from his holder and
placed it face down on the table. "Throw you in? My dear Frederick,
you flatter yourself." He slowly turned over the heart nine. "Endicott
can take his hearts, but then he'll have to lead a club to the board.
I'll save a spade and a diamond in dummy and the king-eight of diamonds
in my hand. And which two cards will you keep, Frederick?"
And before the boss could respond, he added, "Have I
mentioned that four spades is unmakable?"
Orttman's neck turned bright red. The nerve of this . .
. thing, humiliating him in front of the club! "Chthonic,"
he said, his voice trembling, "I find your gloating tiresome.
Had a diamond not, er, accidentally slipped from my hand on the fourth
heart, your silly three-notrump contract would have been unmakable
as well."
"Frederick, you cannot set it."
"I am warning you, Chthonic!" bellowed Orttman,
leaping from his chair. He rearranged the cards again, this time with
a third diamond in place of his little club:
NORTH 6 5 -- 10 3 Q 9
WEST K 10 8 -- Q 9 8 --
EAST -- 10 8 -- J 10 4 3
SOUTH Q J 9 9 K 5 --
"We have another board to play," I said, not that
anyone was listening. Several kibitzers edged their way to the table.
Beads of perspiration dripped from Orttman's brow as he pushed Chthonic's
card holder until it was flush against his laser eye.
"See? Lead a heart and we get three tricks. Play on diamonds
and we get at least three. Lead a spade and I win and get out with
a spade." Orttman's voice had risen a full octave. "You can
concede the last two tricks to me or East, your choice. What have
you got to say about that?"
"Play the queen of spades," said Chthonic. Orttman
slammmed the spade king and eight onto the table, then reached for
Chthonic's nine.
"I'd prefer the jack, Frederick, if you'd be so kind."
Orttman's expression slowly turned from anger to puzzlement
to the look of a deer caught in headlights. Chthonic was about to
put him on play again with the spade ten, and the forced diamond return
would concede the last three tricks.
Dr. O slumped into his chair, a beaten man. "You win,
Chthonic, you win," he whimpered. "The hand was cold for three
notrump all along. But . . . why didn't you just say so in the first
place?"
"Because it's not."
Orttman's face reddened again. "You said not two minutes
ago that it couldn't be set."
Chthonic switched to the voice of Daffy Duck: "Aha! Pronoun
trouble! I didn't say it couldn't be set. I said you couldn't
set it." (Back to George Sanders) "A competent West, on the
other hand, would simply save three diamonds, then exit with the ten
of spades after winning the king. From there, declarer cannot mmmmmph."
It took four men to pull Orttman off Chthonic. The director
suffered a sprained wrist in the melee and one lady was knocked to
the floor. The Ethics Committee ruled that Orttman's suspension would
be reduced to thirty days on account of his previously spotless record,
but he'll remain on disciplinary probation for the rest of the year.
As for Chthonic, he's got a few dents in his chassis but they're nothing
Marty can't fix.
But the worst was yet to come. The director had awarded us
an average-plus on the final board, the one we never played in all
the commotion. We won the event by half a matchpoint. Over Orttman.
Chthonic phoned him at 3 a.m. to tell him the good news.