Welcome to the Monkey House - Kurt Vonnegut [41]
"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