Welcome to the Monkey House: The Special Edition
Page 10
Colonel Kelly and the fifteen on the other side of the door had crash-landed two days before on the Asiatic mainland, after they had been blown off course by a sudden storm and their radio had gone dead. Colonel Kelly had been on his way, with his family, to a post as military attaché in India. On board the Army transport plane with them had been a group of enlisted men, technical specialists needed in the Middle East. The plane had come to earth in territory held by a Communist guerrilla chief, Pi Ying.
All had survived the crash—Kelly, his wife Margaret, his ten-year-old twin sons, the pilot and copilot, and the ten enlisted men. A dozen of Pi Ying’s ragged riflemen had been waiting for them when they climbed from the plane. Unable to communicate with their captors, the Americans had been marched for a day through rice fields and near-jungle to come at sunset to a decaying palace. There they had been locked in a subterranean room, with no idea of what their fates might be.
Now, Colonel Kelly was returning from an interview with Pi Ying, who had told him what was to become of the sixteen American prisoners. Sixteen—Kelly shook his head as the number repeated itself in his thoughts.
The guard prodded him to one side with his pistol and thrust the key into the lock, and the door swung open. Kelly stood silently in the doorway.
A cigarette was being passed from hand to hand. It cast its glow for an instant on each expectant face in turn. Now it lighted the ruddy face of the talkative young corporal from Minneapolis, now cast rugged shadows over the eye sockets and heavy brows of the pilot from Salt Lake, now bloomed red at the thin lips of the sergeant.
Kelly looked from the men to what seemed in the twilight to be a small hillock by the door. There his wife Margaret sat, with the blond heads of her sleeping sons cradled in her lap. She smiled up at him, her face misty white. “Darling—you’re all right?” Margaret asked quietly.
“Yes, I’m all right.”
“Sarge,” said the corporal, “ask him what Pi Ying said.”
“Shut up.” The sergeant paused. “What about it, sir—good news or bad?”
· · ·
Kelly stroked his wife’s shoulder, trying to make the right words come—words to carry courage he wasn’t sure he had. “Bad news,” he said at last. “Rotten news.”
“Well, let’s have it,” said the transport pilot loudly. Kelly supposed he was trying to reassure himself with the boom of his own voice, with brusqueness. “The worst he can do is kill us. Is that it?” He stood and dug his hands into his pockets.
“He wouldn’t dare!” said the young corporal in a threatening voice—as though he could bring the wrath of the United States Army to bear on Pi Ying with a snap of his fingers.
Colonel Kelly looked at the youngster with curiosity and dejection. “Let’s face it. The little man upstairs has all the trumps.” An expression borrowed from another game, he thought irrelevantly. “He’s an outlaw. He hasn’t got a thing to lose by getting the United States sore at him.”
“If he’s going to kill us, say so!” the pilot said explosively. “So he’s got us cold! What’s he going to do?”
“He considers us prisoners of war,” said Kelly, trying to keep his voice even. “He’d like to shoot us all.” He shrugged. “I haven’t been trying to keep you in suspense, I’ve been looking for the right words—and there aren’t any. Pi Ying wants more entertainment out of us than shooting us would provide. He’d like to prove that he’s smarter than we are in the bargain.”
“How?” asked Margaret. Her eyes were wide. The two children were waking up.
“In a little while, Pi Ying and I are going to play chess for your lives.” He closed his fist over his wife’s limp hand. “And for my four lives. It’s the only chance Pi Ying will give us.” He shrugged, and smiled wryly. “I play a better-than-average game—a little better than average.”
“Is he nuts?” said the sergeant.
“You’ll all see for yourselves,” said Colonel Kelly simply. “You’ll see him when the game begins—Pi Ying and his friend, Major Barzov.” He raised his eyebrows. “The major claims to be sorry that, in his capacity as a military observer for the Russian army, he is powerless to intervene in our behalf He also says we have his sympathy. I suspect he’s a damn liar on both counts. Pi Ying is scared stiff of him.”
“We get to watch the game?” whispered the corporal tensely.
“The sixteen of us, soldier, are the chessmen I’ll be playing with.”
The door swung open.…
· · ·
“Can you see the whole board from down there, White King?” called Pi Ying cheerfully from a balcony overlooking the azure-domed chamber. He was smiling down at Colonel Bryan Kelly, his family, and his men. “You must be the White King, you know. Otherwise, we couldn’t be sure that you’d be with us for the whole game.” The guerrilla chief’s face was flushed. His smile was one of mock solicitousness. “Delighted to see all of you!”
To Pi Ying’s right, indistinct in the shadows, stood Major Barzov, the taciturn Russian military observer. He acknowledged Kelly’s stare with a slow nod. Kelly continued to stare fixedly. The arrogant, bristle-haired major became restless, folding and unfolding his arms, repeatedly rocking back and forth in his black boots. “I wish I could help you,” he said at last. It wasn’t an amenity but a contemptuous jest. “I am only an observer here.” Barzov said it heavily. “I wish you luck, Colonel,” he added, and turned his back.
Seated on Pi Ying’s left was a delicate young Oriental woman. She gazed expressionlessly at the wall over the Americans’ heads. She and Barzov had been present when Pi Ying had first told Colonel Kelly of the game he wanted to play. When Kelly had begged Pi Ying to leave his wife and children out of it, he had thought he saw a spark of pity in her eyes. As he looked up at the motionless, ornamental girl now, he knew he must have been mistaken.
“This room was a whim of my predecessors, who for generations held the people in slavery,” said Pi Ying sententiously. “It served nicely as a throne room. But the floor is inlaid with squares, sixty-four of them—a chessboard, you seer The former tenants had those handsome, man-sized chessmen before you built so that they and their friends could sit up here and order servants to move them about.” He twisted a ring on his finger. “Imaginative as that was, it remained for us to hit upon this new twist. Today, of course, we will use only the black chessmen, my pieces.” He turned to the restive Major Barzov. “The Americans have furnished their own chessmen. Fascinating idea.” His smile faded when he saw that Barzov wasn’t smiling with him. Pi Ying seemed eager to please the Russian. Barzov, in turn, appeared to regard Pi Ying as hardly worth listening to.
· · ·
The twelve American soldiers stood against a wall under heavy guard. Instinctively, they bunched together and glared sullenly at their patronizing host. “Take it easy,” said Colonel Kelly, “or we’ll lose the one chance we’ve got.” He looked quickly at his twin sons, Jerry and Paul, who gazed about the room, unruffled, interested, blinking sleepily at the side of their stunned mother. Kelly wondered why he felt so little as he watched his family in the face of death. The fear he had felt while they were waiting in their dark prison was gone. Now he recognized the eerie calm—an old wartime friend—that left only the cold machinery of his wits and senses alive. It was the narcotic of generalship. It was the essence of war.
“Now, my friends, your attention,” said Pi Ying importantly. He stood. “The rules of the game are easy to remember. You are all to behave as Colonel Kelly tells you. Those of you who are so unfortunate as to be taken by one of my chessmen will be killed quickly, painlessly, promptly.” Major Barzov looked at the ceiling as though he were inwardly criticizing everything Pi Ying said.
The corporal suddenly released a blistering stream of obscenities—half abuse, half self-pity. The sergeant clapped his hand over the youngster’s mouth.
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.