“All hell’s out for noon!” he whispered intensely as the manager reached the doorway. “The crowd’s winning like crazy—everybody’s winning! D’you s’pose it’s them damn Patrolmen there crossing us up—and how in hell could it be?”
“Have you tried cutting out the gimmicks?”
“Yes. No difference.”
“It can’t be them, then. It couldn’t be anyway, for two reasons. The kind of brains it takes to work that kind of problems in your head can’t happen once in a hundred million times, and you say everybody’s doing it. They can’t be, dammit! Two, they’re Grand Masters playing chess. You play chess yourself.”
“You know I do. I’m not a Master, but I’m pretty good.”
“Good enough to tell by looking at ’em that they don’t give a damn about what’s going on out there. Come on in.”
“We’ll disturb ’em and they’ll be sore as hell.”
“You couldn’t disturb these two, short of yelling in their ear or joggling the board.” The two walked toward the table. “See what I mean?”
The two players, forearms on table, were sitting rigidly still, staring as though entranced at the board, neither moving so much as an eye. As the two Chickladorians watched, Cloud’s left forearm, pivoting on the elbow, swung out and he moved his knight.
“Oh, no . . . no!” Shocked out of silence, Thlasoval muttered the words under his breath. “Your queen, man—your queen!”