Welcome to the Monkey House: The Special Edition (13 page)

Pi Ying leaned over the balustrade and pointed a finger at the struggling soldier. “For those who run from the board or make an outcry, a special form of death can be arranged,” he said sharply. “Colonel Kelly and I must have complete silence in which to concentrate. If the colonel is clever enough to win, then all of you who are still with us when I am checkmated will get safe transport out of my territory. If he loses—” Pi Ying shrugged. He settled back on a mound of cushions. “Now, you must all be good sports,” he said briskly. “Americans are noted for that, I believe. As Colonel Kelly can tell you, a chess game can very rarely be won—any more than a battle can be won—without sacrifices. Isn’t that so, Colonel?”

Colonel Kelly nodded mechanically. He was recalling what Pi Ying had said earlier—that the game he was about to play was no different, philosophically, from what he had known in war.

“How can you do this to children!” cried Margaret suddenly, twisting free of a guard and striding across the squares to stand directly below Pi Ying’s balcony. “For the love of God—” she began.

Pi Ying interrupted angrily: “Is it for the love of God that Americans make bombs and jet planes and tanks?” He waved her away impatiently. “Drag her back.” He covered his eyes. “Where was I? We were talking about sacrifices, weren’t we? I was going to ask you who you had chosen to be your king’s pawn,” said Pi Ying. “If you haven’t chosen one, Colonel, I’d like to recommend the noisy young man down there—the one the sergeant is holding. A delicate position, king’s pawn.”

The corporal began to kick and twist with new fury. The sergeant tightened his arms about him. “The kid’ll calm down in a minute,” he said under his breath. He turned his head toward Colonel Kelly. “Whatever the hell the king’s pawn is, that’s me. Where do I stand, sir?” The youngster relaxed and the sergeant freed him.

Kelly pointed to the fourth square in the second row of the huge chessboard. The sergeant strode to the square and hunched his broad shoulders. The corporal mumbled something incoherent, and took his place in the square next to the sergeant—a second dependable pawn. The rest still hung back.

“Colonel, you tell us where to go,” said a lanky T-4 uncertainly. “What do we know about chess? You put us where you want us.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Save the soft spots for your wife and kids. They’re the ones that count. You tell us what to do.”

“There are no soft spots,” said the pilot sardonically, “no soft spots for anybody. Pick a square, any square.” He stepped onto the board. “What does this square make me?”

“You’re a bishop, Lieutenant, the king’s bishop,” said Kelly.

·    ·    ·

He found himself thinking of the lieutenant in those terms—no longer human, but a piece capable of moving diagonally across the board; capable, when attacking with the queen, of terrible damage to the black men across the board.

“And me in church only twice in my life. Hey, Pi Ying,” called the pilot insolently, “what’s a bishop worth?”

Pi Ying was amused. “A knight and a pawn, my boy; a knight and a pawn.”

Thank God for the lieutenant, thought Kelly. One of the American soldiers grinned. They had been sticking close together, backed against the wall. Now they began to talk among themselves—like a baseball team warming up. At Kelly’s direction, seeming almost unconscious of the meaning of their actions, they moved out onto the board to fill out the ranks.

Pi Ying was speaking again. “All of your pieces are in place now, except your knights and your queen, Colonel. And you, of course, are the king. Come, come. The game must be over before suppertime.”

Gently, shepherding them with his long arms, Kelly led his wife and Jerry and Paul to their proper squares. He detested himself for the calm, the detachment with which he did it. He saw the fear and reproach in Margaret’s eyes. She couldn’t understand that he had to be this way—that in his coldness was their only hope for survival. He looked away from Margaret.

Pi Ying clapped his hands for silence. “There, good; now we can begin.” He tugged at his ear reflectively. “I think this is an excellent way of bringing together the Eastern and Western minds, don’t you, Colonel? Here we indulge the American’s love for gambling with our appreciation of profound drama and philosophy.” Major Barzov whispered impatiently to him. “Oh, yes,” said Pi Ying, “two more rules: We are allowed ten minutes a move, and—this goes without saying—no moves may be taken back. Very well,” he said, pressing the button on a stop watch and setting it on the balustrade, “the honor of the first move belongs to the white men.” He grinned. “An ancient tradition.”

“Sergeant,” said Colonel Kelly, his throat tight, “move two squares forward.” He looked down at his hands. They were starting to tremble.

“I believe I’ll be slightly unconventional,” said Pi Ying, half turning his head toward the young girl, as though to make sure that she was sharing his enjoyment. “Move my queen’s pawn forward two squares,” he instructed a servant.

Colonel Kelly watched the servant slide the massive carving forward—to a point threatening the sergeant. The sergeant looked quizzically at Kelly. “Everything okay, sir?” He smiled faintly.

“I hope so,” said Kelly. “Here’s your protection … Soldier,” he ordered the young corporal, “step forward one square.” There—it was all he could do. Now there was no advantage in Pi Ying’s taking the pawn he threatened—the sergeant. Tactically it would be a pointless trade, pawn for pawn. No advantage so far as good chess went.

“This is very bad form, I know,” said Pi Ying blandly. He paused. “Well, then again, I’m not so sure I’d be wise to trade. With so brilliant an opponent, perhaps I’d better play flawless chess, and forget the many temptations.” Major Barzov murmured something to him. “But it would get us into the spirit of the game right off, wouldn’t it?”

“What’s he talking about, sir?” asked the sergeant apprehensively.

Before Kelly could order his thoughts, Pi Ying gave the order. “Take his king’s pawn.”

“Colonel! What’d you do?” cried the sergeant. Two guards pulled him from the board and out of the room. A studded door banged shut behind them.

“Kill me!” shouted Kelly, starting off his square after them. A half-dozen bayonets hemmed him in.

·    ·    ·

Impassively, the servant slid Pi Ying’s wooden pawn onto the square where the sergeant had stood. A shot reverberated
on the other side of the thick door, and the guards reappeared. Pi Ying was no longer smiling. “Your move, Colonel. Come, come—four minutes have gone already.”

Kelly’s calm was shattered, and with it went the illusion of the game. The pieces in his power were human beings again. The precious, brutal stuff of command was gone from Colonel Kelly. He was no more fit to make decisions of life and death than the rawest recruit. Giddily, he realized that Pi Ying’s object was not to win the game quickly, but to thin out the Americans in harrowing, pointless forays. Another two minutes crept by as he struggled to force himself to be rational. “I can’t do it,” he whispered at last. He slouched now.

“You wish me to have all of you shot right now?” asked Pi Ying. “I must say that I find you a rather pathetic colonel. Do all American officers give in so easily?”

“Pin his ears back, Colonel,” said the pilot. “Let’s go. Sharpen up. Let’s go!”

“You’re in no danger now,” said Kelly to the corporal. “Take his pawn.”

“How do I know you’re not lying?” said the youngster bitterly. “Now I’m going to get it!”

“Get over there!” said the transport pilot sharply.

“No!”

The sergeant’s two executioners pinned the corporal’s arms to his sides. They looked up expectantly at Pi Ying.

“Young man,” said Pi Ying solicitously, “would you enjoy being tortured to death, or would you rather do as Colonel Kelly tells you?”

The corporal spun suddenly and sent both guards sprawling. He stepped onto the square occupied by the pawn that had taken the sergeant, kicked the piece over, and stood there with his feet apart.

Major Barzov guffawed. “He’ll learn to be a pawn yet,” he roared. “It’s an Oriental skill Americans could do well to learn for the days ahead, eh?”

Pi Ying laughed with Barzov, and stroked the knee of the
young girl, who had been sitting, expressionless, at his side. “Well, it’s been perfectly even so far—a pawn for a pawn. Let’s begin our offensives in earnest.” He snapped his fingers for the attention of the servant. “King’s pawn to king three,” he commanded. “There! Now my queen and bishop are ready for an expedition into white man’s territory.” He pressed the button on the stop watch. “Your move, Colonel.” …

·    ·    ·

It was an old reflex that made Colonel Bryan Kelly look to his wife for compassion, courage. He looked away again—Margaret was a frightening, heartbreaking sight, and there was nothing he could do for her but win. Nothing. Her stare was vacant, almost idiotic. She had taken refuge in deaf, blind, unfeeling shock.

Kelly counted the figures still surviving on the board. An hour had passed since the game’s beginning. Five pawns were still alive, among them the young corporal; one bishop, the nervy pilot; two rooks; two knights—ten-year-old frightened knights; Margaret, a rigid, staring queen; and himself, the king. The missing four? Butchered—butchered in senseless exchanges that had cost Pi Ying only blocks of wood. The other soldiers had fallen silent, sullen in their own separate worlds.

“I think it’s time for you to concede,” said Pi Ying. “It’s just about over, I’m afraid. Do you concede, Colonel?” Major Barzov frowned wisely at the chessmen, shook his head slowly, and yawned.

Colonel Kelly tried to bring his mind and eyes back into focus. He had the sensation of burrowing, burrowing, burrowing his way through a mountain of hot sand, of having to keep going on and on, digging, squirming, suffocated, blinded. “Go to hell,” he muttered. He concentrated on the pattern of the chessmen. As chess, the ghastly game had been absurd. Pi Ying had moved with no strategy other than to destroy white men. Kelly had moved to defend each of his chessmen at any cost, had risked none in offense. His powerful queen, knights, and
rooks stood unused in the relative safety of the two rear rows of squares. He clenched and unclenched his fists in frustration. His opponent’s haphazard ranks were wide open. A checkmate of Pi Ying’s king would be possible, if only the black knight weren’t dominating the center of the board.

“Your move, Colonel. Two minutes,” coaxed Pi Ying.

And then Kelly saw it—the price he would pay, that they all would pay, for the curse of conscience. Pi Ying had only to move his queen diagonally, three squares to the left, to put him in check. After that he needed to make one more move—inevitable, irresistible—and then checkmate, the end. And Pi Ying would move his queen. The game seemed to have lost its piquancy for him; he had the air of a man eager to busy himself elsewhere.

The guerrilla chief was standing now, leaning over the balustrade. Major Barzov stood behind him, fitting a cigarette into an ornate ivory holder. “It’s a very distressing thing about chess,” said Barzov, admiring the holder, turning it this way and that. “There isn’t a grain of luck in the game, you know. There’s no excuse for the loser.” His tone was pedantic, with the superciliousness of a teacher imparting profound truths to students too immature to understand.

Pi Ying shrugged. “Winning this game gives me very little satisfaction. Colonel Kelly has been a disappointment. By risking nothing, he has deprived the game of its subtlety and wit. I could expect more brilliance from my cook.”

The hot red of anger blazed over Kelly’s cheeks, inflamed his ears. The muscles of his belly knotted; his legs moved apart. Pi Ying must not move his queen. If Pi Ying moved his queen, Kelly would lose; if Pi Ying moved his knight from Kelly’s line of attack, Kelly would win. Only one thing might induce Pi Ying to move his knight—a fresh, poignant opportunity for sadism.

“Concede, Colonel. My time is valuable,” said Pi Ying.

“Is it all over?” asked the young corporal querulously.

“Keep your mouth shut and stay where you are,” said
Kelly. He stared through shrewd, narrowed eyes at Pi Ying’s knight, standing in the midst of the living chessmen. The horse’s carved neck arched. Its nostrils flared.

The pure geometry of the white chessmen’s fate burst upon Kelly’s consciousness. Its simplicity had the effect of a refreshing, chilling wind. A sacrifice had to be offered to Pi Ying’s knight. If Pi Ying accepted the sacrifice, the game would be Kelly’s. The trap was perfect and deadly save for one detail—bait.

“One minute, Colonel,” said Pi Ying.

Kelly looked quickly from face to face, unmoved by the hostility or distrust or fear that he saw in each pair of eyes. One by one he eliminated the candidates for death. These four were vital to the sudden, crushing offense, and these must guard the king. Necessity, like a child counting eeny, meeny, miney, moe around a circle, pointed its finger at the one chessman who could be sacrificed. There was only one.

Kelly didn’t permit himself to think of the chessman as anything but a cipher in a rigid mathematical proposition: if
x
is dead, the rest shall live. He perceived the tragedy of his decision only as a man who knew the definition of tragedy, not as one who felt it.

“Twenty seconds!” said Barzov. He had taken the stop watch from Pi Ying.

The cold resolve deserted Kelly for an instant, and he saw the utter pathos of his position—a dilemma as old as mankind, as new as the struggle between East and West. When human beings are attacked,
x
, multiplied by hundreds or thousands, must die—sent to death by those who love them most. Kelly’s profession was the choosing of
x
.

“Ten seconds,” said Barzov.

“Jerry,” said Kelly, his voice loud and sure, “move forward one square and two to your left.” Trustingly, his son stepped out of the back rank and into the shadow of the black knight. Awareness seemed to be filtering back into Margaret’s eyes. She turned her head when her husband spoke.

Pi Ying stared down at the board in bafflement. “Are you in your right mind, Colonel?” he asked at last. “Do you realize what you’ve just done?”