The Battle of the Brains

THE negotiations were going so poorly, Presidential Adviser Henry Kissinger revealed last week, that he felt compelled to intervene "for the good of the country." Kissinger was not referring to his latest secret maneuverings for peace in Viet Nam. He was talking about peace in Reykjavik, Iceland, and the confrontation between Bobby Fischer of the United States and Boris Spassky of the Soviet Union for the world chess championship. After weeks of petty infighting, the stormy encounter of East v. West, of Boris the witty, urbane champion v. Bobby the temperamental, demanding challenger, had grown into an international incident. To avoid a stalemate, Kissinger, a chess player himself, put through a call to Fischer and implored him to play. Fischer agreed, but only with the reluctance of a pouty patriot who says: "If there is one thing I ask for and I don't get, then I don't play."

To those who know him best, Bobby was merely being Bobby. "He is," says U.S. Grand Master Larry Evans, "the most individualistic, intransigent, uncommunicative, uncooperative, solitary, self-contained and independent chess master of all time, the loneliest chess champion in the world. He is also the strongest player in the world. In fact, the strongest player who ever lived."

Fischer readily agrees with the best-ever claim. For the past decade he has considered himself the "unofficial champion," the maligned and misunderstood victim of a Communist conspiracy to keep him from the world title that is rightfully his. He refused to enter the past two world championships, which are held every three years, charging that the long, grueling play-off rounds favored the "Russian cheaters." Four years ago, unable to gain a title match outside the Fédération Internationale des Echecs, the governing body of world chess, he stormed into retirement to "plot my revenge." Then, 18 months later, he suddenly stormed right back with a "new sense of mission," entered the championship play-offs and demolished one grand master after another. Now the knight-errant of the royal game, rated a solid 5-to-2 favorite by British bookmakers, has at last won his audience with the king.

The first game was played across the $5,000 marble and mahogany chess table on the stage of Reykjavik's Sports Hall. On the 29th move, when it seemed that the game was destined to be a draw, Fischer boldly picked off an unprotected pawn with his bishop. A gasp of astonishment swept the 2,000 spectators in the hall. It was, as any amateur could see, a "poisoned pawn." Trapped behind enemy lines, the bishop fell six moves later, and Spassky, making the most of his advantage, went on to win. The second game, boycotted by Fischer in a dispute over the use of TV cameras (see box opposite), was won by Spassky on a forfeit. Fischer was now down two games and had to scramble.

Scramble he did. In the third game he seized the initiative on the eleventh move by swinging his knight to the edge of the board, a daring and unorthodox move for a piece that fights best in the center. Spassky pondered for a full 30 minutes, then, just as Fischer hoped he would, countered with a faulty line of attack. Before the game was adjourned for the day, Fischer scribbled his 41st move on a piece of paper, sealed it in an envelope and