It froze, for there had come the tiniest unanticipated sound fromsomewhere ahead and to the left. At that moment, it was again phasinginto existence and it released its outline which faded as quickly as arainbow in hell, that but the naked presence remained beyondsubtraction.
Invisible, yet existing, strong, it moved again. The clue. Thecue. Ahead. A gauche. Beyond the faded word SALOON on weatheredboard above. Through the swinging doors. (One of them pinned alop.)
Pause and assess.
Bar to the right, dusty. Cracked mirror behind it. Emptybottles. Broken bottles. Brass rail, black, encrusted. Tables tothe left and rear. In various states of repair.
Man seated at the best of the lot. His back to the door. Levi's.Hiking boots. Faded blue shirt. Green backpack leaning against thewall to his left.
Before him, on the tabletop, is the faint, painted outline of achessboard, stained, scratched, almost obliterated.
The drawer in which he had found the chessmen is still partlyopen.
He could no more have passed up a chess set without working out aproblem or replaying one of his better games than he could have gonewithout breathing, circulating his blood or maintaining a relativelystable body temperature.
It moved nearer, and perhaps there were fresh prints in the dustbehind it, but none noted them.
It, too, played chess.
It watched as the man replayed what had perhaps been his finestgame, from the world preliminaries of seven years past. He had blownup after that—surprised to have gotten even as far as he had—for henever could perform well under pressure. But he had always been proudof that one game, and he relived it as all sensitive beings to certain