“Have you seen the competition?” I asked.
Mary pointed to the far side of the gymnasium, to a long table full of monitors, joysticks, and keyboards. “You can play all the finalists over there. They set up computers so people can try them. One of them is a total rip-off of Defender.”
“Is it any good?”
“Yeah, it’s great, if you want to play a slower, lamer version of Defender.”
It was the first time I laughed all summer. I couldn’t believe how easily we fell into the old banter, like the last eight weeks had passed in a heartbeat. I wanted to walk past the finalists and see The Impossible Fortress, but our conversation was going well, and I didn’t want to screw it up. Maybe it was better to leave the past in the past.
“By the way,” Mary asked, “is your mom dating Officer Blaszkiewicz?”
“Yeah.”
“Is that weird?”
“Very,” I said, then thought better of it. “He’s not all bad, though. He’s super nice to my mom. And he’s convinced we’re going to win tonight, which is, you know—”
“That’s cool,” Mary said.
“Exactly.”
We were interrupted by a hiss of microphone feedback. At the far end of the gym was a small platform that functioned as a stage; Dr. Brooks stood behind a lectern with two other university trustees. Together they called for quiet, and then Dr. Brooks began to speak. He thanked everyone for coming. He spoke at length about the importance of computer programmers in the near future. He predicted that one day soon, everyone would have computers in their homes. He promised that people would carry computers in their pockets and even wear computers on their bodies. “Imagine a computer no bigger than a candy bar!” he exclaimed, and we laughed at the absurdity of his predictions; they were all straight out of The Jetsons.
Finally he turned his attention to the main event—the winner of the Game of the Year contest. “I want to be clear about something. All five of the finalists have terrific code. They’re very well programmed. But most are variations on popular arcade games like Space Invaders. Only one game tonight aspired to be truly daring, truly original.”
Mary shot a hopeful glance at me and I knew what she was thinking. Maybe Dr. Brooks was a better judge than we realized. After all, what could be more daring and original than The Impossible Fortress?
Dr. Brooks cleared his throat, looked down at his index cards, and continued. “Tonight’s winner is no simple arcade game. It offers a different, more sophisticated kind of fun. With strong graphics and exceptionally catchy music. And it’s artfully programmed in a mix of BASIC and machine language, to minimize the lag time in computer calculations. Please join me in congratulating this year’s first-prize winner, Zhang Hsu, for his extraordinary game Five Card Poker!”
The wall above the platform filled with a screenshot from the winning game, five playing cards on a plain green background. Everyone around me was applauding, but I was too stunned to clap my hands.
Dr. Brooks continued, “Yes, it’s impressive when a programmer animates spaceships and monsters and moves them across a screen. But what Zhang Hsu has done is even more remarkable. His poker simulation is powered by a complex artificial intelligence that can outwit human opponents in thirty-five percent of the games I played. It’s very well done, and I’m confident it demonstrates a bright future in computer programming. Congratulations, Zhang Hsu!”
Zhang Hsu came to the stage, a short, terrified-looking boy who couldn’t be older than twelve. He made a short but gracious acceptance speech, thanking his parents and all of his teachers at Millstone Prep for their patience and support. There was another round of polite applause, and then Zhang Hsu’s father helped him carry the enormous IBM PS/2 off the stage.
“Wow,” Mary said.
“Yeah.”
“We just lost to a nine-year-old?”
“I think so.”
I’m not going to lie. I was disappointed. Losing to a terrific game like Choplifter or Space Taxi would be understandable. But a five-card poker simulation?
To make matters worse, we didn’t even collect our fifty-dollar savings bond. Amid all the excitement, the faculty seemed to forget about them. Mary and I asked three different adults about prizes for runners-up, but no one seemed to know what we were talking about.
My mother walked over, followed by Tack and Zelinsky, and gave us hugs. “I’m sorry, kids. You guys gave it a good try. You should be really proud of yourselves.”
“I think it’s bullshit,” Tack said, and he seemed genuinely outraged. “If I want to play poker, why do I need a four-thousand-dollar computer?”
He put this question to Zelinsky, who just shrugged.
“We should go,” Zelinsky told Mary.
“It’s not over yet,” she said. “You said we could stay for the whole thing.”
Zelinsky nodded at the stage, where a custodian was already unplugging a microphone and dismantling the podium. “They’re wrapping up. Where’s your friends?”
Mary looked around the gym, but there was no sign of Lynn or Sharon anywhere. I hoped they would stay lost. I wasn’t ready for the night to be over. There was nothing left after tonight, nothing but thousands of mascara tubes in a never-ending stream. I didn’t know how I’d find the strength to wake up in the morning.
“Let’s go find them,” Zelinsky said. “It’s late.”
Out of nowhere, Clark pushed his way through the crowd.
“You guys have to come with me,” he said, gesturing not just to me and Mary but Mom and Tack and Zelinsky as well. “You all need to see this.”
Clark led us across the gym to a section designated with a banner as Finalist’s Row. There were two long tables full of computers, and the machines were set to play any of the top five contest entries. We could hear the familiar music before we even reached the tables, before we saw that every machine, every single machine, was playing The Impossible Fortress. Kids and adults were crowded around the screens, gesturing frantically and arguing about tactics and strategy. Even more people were lined up behind them, waiting to take turns. One guy succeeded in rescuing the Princess, and he danced to the game’s victory theme while his friends showered him with high fives.
“Holy crap,” Mary said.
“People love it,” Clark said. “Look at them!”
“No,” Mary said. “I don’t mean that.”
She put a hand on my shoulder, turning me slightly so I could see what she saw. Standing behind Finalist’s Row was a silver-haired man in a purple sports coat and black jeans. He was watching the players carefully, observing how they reacted to the game. I recognized him immediately, of course, the way anyone else might notice if Ronald Reagan walked into a room.
“You’re Fletcher Mulligan,” Mary said. “You made it!”