He stepped lithely to the door and flung it open. Far down the hall there was the faintest suggestion of a scuffle.
"A mouse, I guess." He returned to his bed, but it was plain that he was unsatisfied.
The game wore on for half a metron. Perat's combinations were met with almost sufficient counter-combinations, so that the issue hung in doubt for move after move.
"You've improved considerably since yesterday," he admitted grudgingly.
"Not at all. It's your playing 'blind' that makes us even. No cheating! Keep out of my mind! It isn't fair to know what I'm planning."
Oh, by the merciful god of Galaxus, if he'll stay out of mind and the cat out of the communications room for another five minutes!
"All right, all right. I'll win anyway," he muttered, as he concluded a combination that netted him the black queen. "You could gracefully resign right now."
Evelyn studied the position carefully. She had made a grave miscalculation—the queen loss had definitely not been a part of the plan. She must contrive a delaying action that would invoke an oral argument.
"Bishop to queen rook eight," she murmured. Her telepathic probe, focussed on the bit of nervous tissue that the mentors had cut from her frontal lobe and given to her mannikin as a brain, continued its tight control. In Gorph's office, far down the wing, the little creature was hopping painstakingly from one key to another of the dispatch printing machine.