Mr. Fischer, demon of the chess world.

In the history of championship chess there had never been such an awesome display of power. Seven weeks ago, America's Bobby Fischer defeated a Russian grandmaster named Mark Taimanov by the unheard-of score of 6-0. Last week, in the second of three elimination matches leading to an eventual showdown with World Champion Boris Spassky, Fischer led Bent Larsen of Denmark 4-0. In ten consecutive matches with two of the dozen best players in the world, he had won every game, not only without a loss but without even a draw. At the grandmaster level, this is equivalent to pitching a series of no-hitters.

Ever since he became U.S. champion at 14, chess experts have predicted that this terrible-tempered prodigy would someday take the world title. The temper is under control now, and the title seems to be within reach. "Fischer at 28 is the strongest player in the world," says Larry Evans, a former U.S. champion. "In fact, the strongest player who ever lived."

Just before Fischer flew to Denver to play Larsen, we spent five hours together in mid-Manhattan. I'd been led to expect a frail, bespectacled spook. Instead I found a blond giant with an oarsman's shoulders, a big easy smile and eyes so open that a bird could fly in one and out the other.

"C'mon! Got things to do!" Fischer blurted when we met. Then he went striding across town as though city blocks were chess squares. After 50 yards I broke into a muck sweat, but Fischer went barreling on.

"Know anything about chess?" he shot over his shoulder.

"A little," I said.

"Like what?"

"Like you should try to dominate the center of the board."

He yelped with delight. "That's like saying you should try to hit the ball with the bat!"

Was he looking forward to Denver? A grunt. "Been traveling for a year, match to match. I need a personal life. I'm not as narrow as people think, you know. But right now all I think of is the championship. Chess is my whole life."

Did he expect to beat Larsen? "He's good. But I think I'm the best around. I don't say that to brag. I think it's true, I love the game-and I hate the Russians because they've almost ruined it. They only risk the title when they have to, every three years. They play for draws with each other but play to win against the Western masters. Draws make for dull chess, wins make for fighting chess.

"Hey!" he said, looking surprised. "It's after 5. I haven't eaten yet today. How about a steak?" When the steak came, a think sirloin, he ripped into it."Good!" he mumbled through a big bite. "Good!" He ate as he did everything else, with a kind of focused fury.

"He is terrifically keen," Larry Evans had told me. "His chess is clean, clear, classical, but at the same time aggressive and dynamic. He hates defensive positions. He prefers a weakness in his own position as long as it holds a possiblility of attack. And don't ever make a mistake. With any grandmaster you can hope to recover, but with Bobby, you're dead!"

I knew it was silly, but I had to ask him: "Bobby, would you mind-uh-playing a game of chess with me?" He grinned and pulled out a wallet that was really a soft leather chessboard slashed with slits that held tiny sheet-metal chessmen.

I took white and advanced the king's pawn two squares. He advanced his queen's bishop's pawn two squares. I played slowly, thoughtfully. Fischer took about one second to make each move. I found this somewhat demoralizing. After five moves I asked him diffidently for the name of the attack I was developing. "Well, actually," he said, "it's a sort of a kind of a closed Sicilian defense. I guess."

On his twelfth move, Fischer took one of my pawns. Swelling with power, I took one of his pawns. But a few moves later I found myself a rook and a pawn behind. "Give up?" he asked. "Not until I'm mated," I said grimly. I didn't have to wait long.