The game over, the Icelandic organizers approached two local scientists to examine the scarcely veiled charges of electronic and chemical chicanery. One was Dadi Augustin, an electrical engineer; the other was Sigmundur Gudbjarnason, a U.S.-trained professor of chemistry who had returned to his native Iceland from Detroit two years earlier. Augustin would investigate the lights, while it was Gudbjarnason’s job to inspect the chess table and the chairs: “When I returned from America, I brought back with me a state-of-the-art gas Chromatograph. It enabled me to analyze chemicals. We put on disposable gloves and took smear tests by wiping the table and chairs with a special tissue.” He also took samples from the walls and the stage. All were carefully placed in plastic bags marked “Fischer’s chair,” “rear wall,” and so on. They agreed to conduct their investigations gratis. Says Gudbjarnason, “It was our contribution to the match; we wanted to ensure that it would continue.” Had the Soviets known that, they might well have questioned the objectivity of the evaluation.
Gudbjarnason then set about comparing the profile of the chemicals on the one chair with that of the other and examining the surface swabs from both sides of the table. Throughout this period, the chemistry professor refused to answer the question put to him by journalists: Was it indeed possible surreptitiously to infect someone, in the way the Soviets had alleged? In part, he was silent because he did not want to spread alarm, but “I knew it was feasible, and I’m sure the Russians and the Americans knew it could be done. I’m sure they have used this kind of technique in the past.”
The study took several days to complete; they wrote up their findings in a short report, only a few pages in length. This was then handed in to the Icelandic assistant arbiter, Gudmundur Arnlaugsson. The Icelandic Chess Federation said Soviet charges of tampering were unfounded. The bottom line was that Gudbjarnason had found nothing wrong—the chemical composition of the chairs and either side of the table was identical and, as one would expect, consisted mainly of the materials used in polishing. Augustin had more luck—in the huge lighting fixture he found two dead flies, prompting much press hilarity.
However, that did not settle the matter: something unusual was observed. X-rays were taken by the Icelandic Maritime Administration (they routinely took X-rays to check the welding of shipping). The X-ray of Fischer’s chair appeared to show a long, tubelike object with a cylindrical loop at one end. It did not appear in Spassky’s chair. A second X-ray was taken. This time there was nothing. The chair was later dismantled. Inside they found some wood filler, apparently there because of a crack in the plywood seat. Loftily, the organizers took it to be the item seen in the first X-ray (though they never explained why in that case it did not show up in the second).
If game seventeen was seen by the Soviet camp as Spassky’s last chance to alter the course of the match, with his failure to break through defeat now loomed large. Tenaciously, he fought on. However, game eighteen also ended in a draw through repetition. Spassky’s king had been exposed throughout; by contrast, Fischer’s king spent much of the game locked away in a corner, a state of affairs with its own sort of frailty—if attacked, it had nowhere to run. This time, it was Fischer’s willingness to accept a draw that surprised the experts—he was a pawn up. For anybody else in the same position, the draw would have been understandable; with every half point, Fischer was edging closer and closer to victory. But Fischer, as Gligoric put it, “was reputed never to gun for a draw,” whatever the score. Was he now showing a human side? A psychological infirmity? Pragmatism?
The score was Spassky 7.5, Fischer 10.5, leaving the American only two points away from the title.
Prior to the eighteenth game, Geller had issued a protest about the removal of the front rows of seats, for which the Soviets had not granted permission. Schmid now negotiated an ingenious compromise which would have made that consummate deal-maker Henry Kissinger proud. The seats would go back to their original place, but they would be roped off and thus remain empty. Fischer entered the hall for the next game and appeared not even to notice the change. But Schmid’s patience was finally running out. When Cramer reiterated his demand for the removal of the first seven rows, accusing Schmid of bias toward the Soviets, the chief arbiter fired off a barbed letter, its tone entirely out of character. Cramer’s letter, Schmid said, [is] “no doubt meant to be helpful, but if so, then unfortunately is deprived of any opportunity of being useful by its largely inaccurate contents.” It concluded, “If you have any complaints or protests to make, please, and I must underline the importance of this, please make them in accordance with the rules of the match.”
Game nineteen was a clever little game, with both players producing the unexpected. Fischer came up with a startling defense on move twenty-one. Spassky had just sacrificed a piece—when he did so, one grandmaster said, “Hold on to your seat belts.” Brazenly ignoring his opponent’s undefended rook, Fischer forced instead the exchange of queens; it left the American with a drawn game. He was absolutely right: to have taken the rook—indeed, any alternative move—would have spelled disaster. Spassky had brilliantly and daringly taken risks, but to no avail. “That Bobby,” said Gligoric, “he always escapes.”
Before game twenty, the Icelandic Ministry of Finance made a goodwill gesture. It announced that the government had decided to ask Parliament in the next session to make the prize money tax-free. Normally, the winner would have to pay government and local income taxes of $28,000 and the loser about $16,000.
The game itself was a long, tough struggle that lasted through the five-hour session. The advantage moved from one player to another and then back again. At the adjournment, they were well into an ending, but one that was not clear-cut. The following day, when the game resumed, Geller was seen in the audience barely able to stay awake. The night had been spent buried in analysis. Spassky too looked gaunt and fatigued; they had been searching for a win that patently was not there.
It was the seventh draw in a row. There had not been such a consecutive run in the world championship since the marathon contest between Alekhine and Capablanca in 1927. Far from being dull, lazy games, several of these had been desperate, protracted, bare-knuckle brawls, exciting if not always pretty. Fischer, who normally moved much more quickly than his opponent, was now taking just as long on the clock. Spassky prodded and probed and took gambles; Fischer, on untested ground, clung on. While the commentators had predicted a Spassky collapse, the champion had instead dug in, held the line, and, incredibly, fought back. This had required more than just skill and concentration; above all, the champion had had to draw upon cavernous reserves of psychological strength.
The twenty-first game took place on 31 August. Since game eight, not a single move had been filmed. But on this day, the Yugoslav journalist Dimitri Bjelica smuggled a Sony videocamera into the hall and sat in the back row. On one occasion, as the ushers wandered up and down, looking for the slightest disturbance, Bjelica covered up the camera’s hum with a fit of coughing. He realized this could be the last game, and so his last chance to film.
Fischer had 11.5 points and thus needed only one more for the title—a win or two draws. With tickets at a premium, the auditorium was packed for what was potentially the culminating moment. After two months of farce, mystery, and tragedy, of edgy strain and petulant anger, of showbiz and high jinks, of bluff and double bluff, of demands and climb-downs, of genius and blunder, the people of Reykjavik—even those ignorant of the rules of the game—wanted to be there to witness the climax.