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soundlessly into the vault of space. Marmorth found his fingers twisted in the
epaulet at his right shoulder.
As he watched Krane s
Magnificent-class destroyer wheel in the control-room screens, a half-
naked, blood-soaked and perspiring crewman burst into the cabin s
entrance-well.
 Captain! Captain, sir!
Marmorth looked over the plastic rail, down into the well.
 What? His voice snapped with brittleness.
 Cap n, the port side is riddled! We re losing pressure from thirteen
compartments. The
Reclamation Mile is completely lost! The engineers group was in one of the
compartments along that mile, Cap n! They re all bloated and blue and dead in
there! We can see them floating around without any...
 Get the Hell out of here!
Marmorth turned, lifting a spacetant from his chart-board, and flinging it
with all his strength at the crewman. The man ducked and the spacetant bounced
off the bulkhead, snapping pieces from its intricate bulk.
 You maniac! he yowled, leaping back out of the well, through the exit port,
as Marmorth reached for another missile.
Marmorth shut his eyes tight, blanking out the shuddering ship, space, the
screens, everything.
 Right, right, right, right, right! I m right! he shouted, lifting clenched
fists.
The explosion came in two parts, as though two torpedoes had been struck
almost simultaneously.
The ship rocked and heeled. Bits of metal sheared through the outer bulkheads,
crashed against the opposite wall.
As the lights went dead, and the screams drove into his brain, Marmorth
shouted his credo once more, with all the force of his conviction, with all
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the power of his lungs, with all the strength in his gasping body.
 I m right! May God strike me dead if I m not right! I know I m right, I made
an inexhaustible...
...check! he finished, opening his eyes and looking back down at the
chessboard. The pieces, happily, had not moved. He still had Krane blocked
off.
 I say check, he repeated, smiling, steepling his fingers.
Krane s black-bearded face broke into a wry grimace.
 Most clever, my dear Marmorth, he congratulated the other with sarcasm.  You
have forced me to touch a pawn.
Marmorth watched as Krane, with trembling fingers, reached down to the jet
pawn. It was carved from stone; carved with such care and intricacy that its
edges were precisely as they had been desired by the master craftsman. They
were razor sharp.
The pieces were all cut the same. Both the blanched alabaster pieces before
Marmorth, and the ebony-stone players under Krane s hand. The game had been
constructed for men who played more than a
 gentleman s game. There was death in each move.
Marmorth knew he was in the ascendant. Each of them had had two illusions-that
remembrance was sharp-and this was Marmorth s. How did he know? The older man
looked down at the intricately
carved chess pieces. He was white, Krane was black. As clear as it could be.
 Uh, have you moved? Marmorth inquired, his voice unctuous with casualness.
He knew the other had not yet touched his players.  I believe you still lie in
check. He was enjoying toying with his once-arrogant foe.
He thought he heard a muted,  Damn you! under Krane s breath, but could not
be certain.
Slowly Krane touched the player, carefully sliding the fingers of his hand
across the razor-thin, razor-sharp facets. The piece almost slid from his
grasp, so loosely was he holding it, but the move was made in an instant.
Marmorth cursed mentally. Krane had calculated beautifully! Not only was his
King blocked out from Marmorth s Rook-Marmorth s check-piece-but in another
two moves (so clearly obvious as Krane had desired it) his own Queen would be
in danger. In his mind he could hear Krane savoring the words:
 Garde! I say garde, my dear Marmorth!
He had to move the Queen out of position.
He had to touch the Queen!
The most deadly piece on the board!
 No! he gasped.
 I beg your pardon? said Krane, the slash-mouth opening in a violent grin.
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