Tomorrow arrives. His day to join the “community.” Treat the Villagers like human beings. Not vegetables, sheep, cabbages, weaklings. No more superior attitude. No sneers. A promise to himself. He’s made up his mind to keep it.
He sticks his nose out. Sunny day, bustling street. Pedestrians, beach buggies, umbrellas. Happy Villagers. But Rover spoils their fun. They hear its guttural roar before they see it. Step to the side of the street, freeze in place. Well-trained.
Seconds later, Rover appears, hurtling around a corner. The Villagers remain frozen. Except for one fellow in a straw boater holding a cane. He’s walking along casually, foolishly, bravely, about to cross the street. White male. Late 60s, slight limp, no fear, no hesitation. Rover tears down the street and nearly runs him over. The man makes it to the other side. Rover misses him by inches, but doesn’t give chase. Rover continues on his way. The old man does the same. He follows him. To the Village Square where a living chess game is about to being.
The old gentleman turns around. Pretends to notice him for the first time.
“Sir! Do you play chess, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Come and join us. We’re one man short.”
He indicates massive chessboard on the Village green. He trods across the squares. The “pieces” are human beings. Each holds a staff indicating what piece and rank. He can tell at a glance which side they’re on.
A woman notices him. White female, dark hair, late 30s.
“I’m the White Queen,” she says. “Come and be my pawn.”
“Certainly.”
He nods to the not-so-chicken pedestrian.
“Who’s he?”
“I’ll answer as we play.”
The old gent ascends a chair. Bellows chess moves through a megaphone. His opponent does the same.
“Pawn to King’s four.”
The game proceeds, a simple Lopez opening, followed by a symmetrical response. His questions proceed as well. The Queen whispers answers between moves.
“Well?”
“Oh, he’s the Grandmaster.”
“Pawn to King’s four.”
“Not here. Who was he?”
“That’s hard to say.”
“Knight to Queen’s Bishop three.”
“I’ve heard rumors.”
“Such as?”
“He’s an ex-count.”
“Knight to Knight’s Bishop three.”
“Of what principality?”
“Who knows? His ancestors played chess using their retainers.” She smirks, naughty girl. “They were beheaded as they were taken.”
“Charming.”
“Don’t worry. It’s not allowed here.”
No. We’re all nice and civilized now. We leave your head on your shoulders and destroy the mind inside.
The game proceeds predictably. Until the White Rook shows a mind of his own. The Grandmaster orders him to castle. He disobeys, checks the Black King instead. A better move, at least on the chessboard. But not in the Village.
“Check!”
This petty rebellion seems to upset the universe. The loudspeakers start bellowing. Echoing each other. Talking over each other.
“White Rook moved without orders!”
“Call the substitute.”
“Call the substitute...”
“The substitute, the substitute...”
“Call the substitute.”
“Remove Rook to hospital.”
“Remove Rook to hospital.”
A siren whines.
“What’s all that about?”
“It’s not allowed. The cult of the individual.”
The men in the white coats come to take him away. The cart him up in the mini-moke and siren him off. The Queen sadly watches him leave.
“What happens to him?”
“Don’t worry. They’ll get a specialist to treat him.”
“That’s what I’m worried about.”
Another mini-moke roars up and drops off a substitute. They point him to his proper square and hand him a staff. He trots up and stands there. Substitute in place, the game continues. And it’s the endgame. Checkmate in five moves.
“Rook to Bishop five.”
“Bishop to Bishop’s four.
“Bishop to Knight four.”
“Queen to King’s three.”
“Checkmate.”
The spectators applaud. The duffer in the white hat walks up to him.
“Sir, you play a fine game.”
“Yes...”
Only a pawn obeying orders. Is he joking?
“Shall we walk?
“Why not? Lead on.”
As always, he gets the rude question out of the way.
“Why do you use people?”
“It satisfies the desire for power, or so the psychiatrists tell me. It’s the only opportunity here.”
“Depends which side you’re on.
“I’m on my side.
“Aren’t we all?
The Grandmaster scoffs. As if it’s a stupid assumption.
“You must be new here. In time, most of us join the enemy against ourselves.”
“Have you?”
Guarded look.
“Let’s talk about the game.”
“All right. Why do both sides look alike?”
“You mean, how do I know black from white? New men always ask that.”
“I’m new. And I’m asking. How can you tell?”
“By their disposition, by the moves they make. You soon know who’s for you or against you.”
“Don’t follow you.”
“It’s simple psychology, the way it is in life — you judge by attitudes. People don’t need uniforms.”
“Why complicate it?”
“To keep your mind alert.”
“What use is that to you here?”
“Let’s walk a bit.”
“You were asking?”
“Yes. Why you bother to keep your mind alert.”
“Now? Here?”
“Here and now.”
“Hmm... from habit. Just to defy them.”
“I know a better way.”
“Escape?”
He nods.
“Not for me. Too old.”
“You had a plan?”
“Everybody has a plan, but they all fail.”
“Why?”
“It’s like the game. You have to learn to distinguish between black and white.”
“How?”
They’ve reached the window of the Rook’s toyshop.
“Attitudes,” he says. He taps to indicate a toy wolf showing teeth on the other side of the window. Then taps to indicate another toy. A cute little lamb, ready for slaughter.
“Clear?”
“Clear as mud.”
“You ...”
The Grandmaster starts to speak, then glances at a CCTV camera, which is rotating in their direction.
“A pinned piece is a paralyzed piece.”
Translation: I can’t talk now because they’re bloody watching.
The Grandmaster leaves. He heads off in the other direction. Acutely aware he’s being followed. By the Queen. He runs ahead, doubles back on her.
“You’re following me. Why?”
“I had to see you. When did you plan to escape?”
“How do you know I was going to?”
“Well, everybody plans to escape ... until their spirit’s broken. You seem all right. You’re not broken, are you?”
“No.”
“Then tell me your plan and I’ll help.”
“Why?”
“I like you. If it’s a good plan, I’ll escape with you. I’ve helped other people’s plans.”
“Then why are you still here?”
“Because none of them succeeded.”
“Well that’s a coincidence.”
“Well it’s been invaluable experience. At least I can tell you what not to try.”
“How do I know I can trust you?”
“That’s a risk you have to take.”
“No I don’t.”
He goes back home. Can feel her watching him until the automatic door opens to let him in.
But Number 2 rolls up on his mini-moke before he can go inside. Just sits there grinning at him with his buck-tooth smile.
“What are you smiling at?”
“You.”
“Why?”
Because you’re finally making progress. Making new friends. Getting out into our community! I’m delighted to see it, Number 6. Did you ...”
He enters the still-open door. He’s expecting it to shut in his face, but it doesn’t. Making progress? Not on his terms. And not on his own.
The morning of the next day. He gets up early. Number 2 is still there, waiting for him. Leaning forward in that mini-moke, with the same buck-tooth grin plastered to his face. As if he’d been there all night.
“Hello again. As I was saying ... Did you enjoy your chess yesterday?”
“Don’t tell me you care.”
“Well, of course. We want you to be happy.”
“Then give me a one-way ticket home.”
“Won’t you ever give up?”
“What do you think?”
You’re wrong — we have ways.”
“I can imagine.”
“All for the patient’s good, of course. Under the strictest medical supervision.”
Dr Mengele or his disciples.
“Like the man you took yesterday?”
“Oh …the Rook? He’ll be fine. It’s just rehabilitation.”
“Do you want me to envy him?”
Number 2 laughs.
“I like your sense of humor. Get in.”
“Why?”
“I’m going to the hospital. I thought you’d like to see the Rook.”
“Yes.”
He gets in. Number 2 drives him off to that castle where they’ve set up the hospital. Either a genuine relic (Western European) or a clever situation.
Inside the hospital, Number 2 leads him down a hallway to an OBSERVATION ROOM. Inside, a one-way window reveals rows of water bottles, each painted a different color.
On his side of the window, he sits with Number 2 in cheap folding chairs. The Nurse is on her feet, holding a clipboard. Basilisk face, not a drop of mercy. She reminds him of an unpleasant individual in the Lubyanka. Perhaps a distant cousin.
On the other side of the window, another nurse rolls the Rook through the door. He’s sitting in a wheelchair, unconscious.
Number 2 points to the Rook. Asks Nurse Basilisk a question.
“Is he ready?”
She answers.
“He’ll wake in about a minute.”
“Splendid.”
Number 2 leans over and whispers confidentially.
“You’ll find this very interesting, Number 6. The treatment’s based on Pavlov’s experiments. With a dash of Skinner.”
“Dogs? Rats?”
“Rats, I think.” To the Nurse. “What’s the technical ...?”
“Aversion therapy. Combined with positive reinforcement.”
“Ah.” Whispering again. “He’s been dehydrated, you see. He’ll wake with an insatiable thirst. That’s called?”
“Unconditioned response.”
“Right. We’ll associate that with ...”
The Nurse shushes him. Number 2 actually obeys. Like a rude patron in the theater.
On the other side of the glass, the Rook’s rehabilitation proceeds.
The Rook wakes, begging for water, then sees the water bottles. A Voice of Authority blasting from a loudspeaker inside the room tells him not to drink. He disobeys. Each water bottle gives him a painful electric shock. The voice orders him to drink from the blue bottle. He obeys. Receives water, not electric current. Drinks like a man in a desert, then collapses in his wheelchair. The nurse reappears and wheels him out.
You must be proud of yourself
“We’re proud of him. It’s been hard. But now he’ll be co-operative. He’s been a lot of trouble.”
“Your troubles are only just beginning.”
The Nurse glares at him.
“Is he in for treatment?”
“Not yet.”
She looks him up and down with bedroom eyes.
“I should like to know his breaking point.”
“You could make that your life’s ambition.”
He leaves. You could make that your life’s ambition. Perhaps a stupid thing to say. Like telling Torquemada to throw another log on the bonfire. That face of hers tells you exactly what ...
Attitudes.
Wolf. Sheep.
He’d actually missed it.
The guardians sneer, bark orders, push you aside. The prisoners, smile, bow, scrape, keep their heads down. Just that simple.
He tracks the old man down. Won’t talk. Leads him to a table at the Village Square. The band is playing raucously. They play a game of chess on a small board.
“Figured it out yet?”
“As simple as black and white.”
The Grandmaster smiles. He doesn’t.
“When did you figure it out?”
“First week I arrived.”
“What delayed your departure?”
“Identifying the pieces isn’t enough.”
“Why not?”
“Black cheats. Listens in. Knows your moves before you make them. Plants bad moves in your head.”
“No hope then.”
“Not for me. But here’s a present. “The Little Boy Who Cried Wolf.”
The Chessmaster lifts up a small doll. Screaming child. Hideous.
“What’s that?”
“Gadget. Present from the Rook.”
He pushes a button on its tiny head.
“We can talk freely now.”
“Really?”
“Really. An EMP pulse. I’ve disabled all listening devices in a 50 meter radius.”
“Prove it.”
“No time.” Hands him the doll. “Take this, don’t overuse it. Get the Rook. He’s the key. Get him on our side. Then identify a group of like-minded prisoners. And get the hell out of here.”
“That simple?”
“Not simple at all.”
“How long to the electrics truck?”
“Five minutes. Speak freely until then.”
“You first.”
“Fine. Why are you here?”
“Burning curiosity, apparently. I resigned. They want to know why.”
“It’s your life.”
“So I thought. Listen, just between us I didn’t resign. I’m still working for MI-6. I only pretended to resign so they’d bring me here. You know what I'm after.
The Grandmaster shrugs.
“The scones recipe, In the Village Bakery. I’ll get it, or die trying.”
“You’re mad.”
“At times. Are you really a count?”
“Of what?
“That’s what I wondered.”
“I’m a mathematician. I suppose that’s a form of counting. Who told you that?”
“The Queen. Silly woman.”
“No, she isn’t. Are you familiar with the Queen’s Gambit.?
“Is that anything like the King’s Gambit.”
“More like the Drunken Master Gambit.”
Martial arts term, Chinese. Playing the fool, playing drunk. A way to get your opponents to underestimate you.
The electrics truck blares.
“Your move.”
“I resign.”
He tips the King on its side.
“Good move,” the Grandmaster smiles.
He tracks the Rook down. The man tries to run away, but he’s fat and out of shape.
“What have I done?”
“Why did you run?”
“I don’t know!”
“A sign of resistance.”
“No!”
“The will to escape.”
“No! I didn’t think!”
“It was instinctive?”
“Y... yes. No! Oh, anything you say.”
“Your thoughts interest me.”
“What do you mean?
“Come with me.”
The Rook is out of breath. He drags him along anyway.
“Why should you hide?”
“How long have you been here?”
“A month... A year...”
“Don’t you know?”
“Do you still hope?”
“Hope? To die. Nothing else.”
“Death is an escape?”
“One day I’ll die and beat you all!”
“Why were you brought here?”
You don’t need to ask.”
“I’m asking.
“I invented a new defense system.”
“Go on.”
“But I’ve confessed it all before.”
“Try again.”
“If both sides had it, it would have ensured peace. I tried to give the plans away ...”
“Commit an act of treason like the Rosenbergs?”
“Perhaps. MI-6 stopped me—and let the plans get stolen anyway. Then the Village stole me.”
“You think that’s funny?”
“Yes. All this to safeguard secrets, then some fool gets his bag swiped.”
“You had nothing to do with that?”
“I’d die happy if I had. I didn’t mean that. Leave me alone!”
“No. You still have an independent mind. There are very few of us left.
“You’re wrong!” Catches on. “Us?”
“I’m a prisoner, too.”
“Oh, I’ve been caught that way before.”
“It’s a fact.”
“Then why the inquisition?”
He holds up the ugly doll.
“It’s more of a private conservation.”
“Please put that thing away! Go home, destroy it immediately, scatter the parts down the sewer. Oh what a waste! Now I’ll never get the parts! .... It was emergency use only, you idiot. Why take the risk?”
“To make sure you’re the man I need.”
“For what?”
“We’ll talk again. Chess game, tomorrow.”
“It won’t be a private conversation, you ... Talk in code, all right?”
“What code?”
“Er ...”
“’Black’ is guardian; ‘white’ is prisoner.”
“You’ve done this before.”
“Be seeing you.”
Before he can go back home, they drag him into the hospital. Again. Give him a stupid word association test. Send him out with a clean bill of mental health.
The Queen is waiting for him outside.
“Stop following me!” he shouts.
“I follow my heart.”
He scowls. Gets close to her. Whispers.
“Tell me what not to try.
“Trusting yourself.”
“Why not?”
“They’ve weaponized human psychology. Turn your instincts against you. Me for example. I’m in love with you. Suddenly. Want to follow you around like a dog.”
“Keep doing it. If you stop, it’s a tip-off.”
“Obviously. I’m not an imbecile. What do you want?”
“I need your help. Chess game tomorrow. A distraction.”
She nods. He pushes her away.
“That’s disgusting! I never want to see you again!”
“I love you!”
He strides away.
“Thanks for the locket.”
Another tomorrow. Village Square. Another living chess game is in progress. He sits at a table with the Rook. They comment on the game.
“Discovered attack. I didn’t see ..”
“Seeing is the point.”
“I wish you’d get to the point.”
“Imagine a game where all the pieces were all white.”
“You couldn’t play.”
“Unless the pieces were people. With two different set of responses, depending on the side.”
“For example.”
By my manner, you assumed I was ‘black.’”
“That’s true.”
“By your manner, I knew you were a ‘white’ piece.”
“Lovely knight fork!”
“He should have moved the King’s Knight.
“But Bishop takes Knight.
“Queen takes Bishop - checkmate.” The spectators clap.
Until the White Queen starts shouting and pointing at pieces and spectators alike.
“Off with his head! And her head!”
A Pawn walks up to her.
“Please don’t spoil the fun.”
“Speak when you’re spoken to, Pawn!”
She knees him in the groin.
“Now that’s my idea of fun!”
He falls to his knees groaning.
“That's much better!”
Pieces and spectators run screaming, but she’s just getting started.
“I am the Queen! I can go move in any direction. Diagonally!”
She zips off the board and hits the little Butler in the head with her staff.
“What are you driving at,” the Rook whispers.
“In our little chessboard, ‘black’ pieces pose as ‘white.’ They look the same—but none would be intimidated by me.”
“Because they know you’re a pri ... a ‘white’ piece?”
“Only other white pieces would obey me.”
“Horizontally!” shouts the queen.
She bustles into the bandstand and kicks over a drum set.
“So you’ve found a way to identify ...”
“One has to know who one can rely on.”
“To the center of the board!”
“What is the plan?”
“First things first. Let’s set up on the board.”
“To the center of my heart!”
The Queen appears.
“What are you whispering about?”
“Just kibbitzing.”
“Cease immediately.” She points her staff in his face. “I order you to love me!”
“Sorry.”
“I am your Queen! Love me now—or it’s off with your head!”
A siren blares, approaching. She points her staff in its direction.
“I order this noise to stop!”
The Queen makes a noisy show. He heads off with the Rook to go looking for a few reliable men. And sorting out the unreliable. Also narrowing the selection to brawn, not brains.
A man in a jumpsuit snipping a flowerbed.
“I’d like a word with you.”
“You’ll have to wait.”
“All right, forget it.”
Guardian.
Another man in an identical jumpsuit whitewashing a wall.
“What do you think?”
“Something wrong, sir?”
“Did you paint this?”
“Yes. If it’s not satisfactory I’ll …”
“You’ll what?”
“I’ll do it again.”
“No, I’m satisfied. Are you?”
The Rook considers his workmanship. Finally nods.
“Yes.”
“Carry on, 42. We’ll be in touch.”
“Very good, sir.”
Prisoner.
The shopkeeper who’d spoken in tongues on his first day. Overweight, but tough enough. Probably lifts weights.
He looks up nervously, wiping his hands in his apron.
“Yes, gentlemen?”
We’d like to inspect your books.
“Never been done before!”
“There’s always a first time.”
Well, er, I think you’ll find everything in order.”
Another Prisoner.
They select a total of four burly men.
Later on, the Rook asks each one if they want to escape. Once they all say “yes,” he informs them of the meeting place and time. Table at the edge of an outdoor cafe. Suspicious, obviously. The mic’s in an obvious position. The Rook kills it the old-fashioned way just before the rendezvous.
Electric repair truck quickly arrives. Rook ransacks it while their backs are turned.
The burly men go home. The Rook and he go their separate ways. They meet at an agreed-upon cabana by the sea. Rook arrives first with his latest spoils. He lifts the flap and spies him. Like a cunning shoplifter, produces the contents of a small electronics store from his belly. Shows surprising guts.
He prods him with antenna.
“Touché.”
Rook jumps, but doesn’t cry out.
“Where did you get it?”
“One of the taxis.”
“You took risks.”
“You took more. How’s it going?”
“We need more transistors.”
“Right. I’ll fix it.”
“How?”
“No idea.”
He exits. Wondering where ...
The Queen meets him on the beach. Doing her silly woman act. Flushed, fluttering her hands, apologizing for everything.
“So sorry for this morning. Attack of egotism, delusions of grandeur. Sorry. I’m only a Queen on the board. I know that now. They gave me these pills.”
She rattles a bottle.
“All better now?
“Right as rain. Oh. Did I thank you for this locket?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Well ... thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Coming for a swim?”
“Er, no, but don’t let me stop you.”
She palms him the locket.
“You’re no fun at all.”
She splashes into the water.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you didn’t love me.”
He returns to the cabana. Hands the locket to the Rook.
“A present from our Queen.”
Rook opens it up. Not touching it, using pliers. The locket’s contents include a photo of his smiling face. And a miniaturized circuitboard.
Rook’s eyes go wide.
“It’s a reaction transmitter.”
“No audio?”
“No. Designed for contact. I think it monitors her heartbeat. She’s been an automatic alarm system.”
“They’ll think she’s dead.”
“They’ll think she lost it in the water.”
Clever girl.
“Can you use it?”
“Can I use it? It’s all I need.”
“Convenient.”
“That occurred to me.”
A bit of the old Deus ex Machina. But that way lies madness. They're past second-guessing. In for a penny, in for a pound.
“When can you get it ready?”
“Tonight.”
“They’ll toss the cabana, of course.”
“I’ll finish back at the shop. This time tomorrow … we’ll be free.”
“I’ll go and alert the others.”
He passes on the code phrase. Tonight, Rook to Queen’s pawn six.
Back at the toy shop, Rook cobbles a transmitter together. Two settings. One for audio, one for an automatic distress signal. He hauls the device back to a different cabana before midnight. Turns it on. He takes the microphone and sends out a Mayday call, Pretends to be an aircraft in distress. Crackles a sheet of paper to imitate static.
“Mayday. Mayday. Any station receiving, come in, please. Mayday.”
Crackles paper.
“This is a Mayday call. Starboard engine in flames, port engine oil pressure dropping. Over. Any station receiving, come in, please.”
He keeps this up.
A ship called the Polotska finally responds. He gives it a fake call letters (TransOcean flight D for Delta 250) and crackles the paper to hide his lack of coordinates. Splashdown in the water. Injuries, no casualties. Still floating. A general description of the coastline half a kilometer away. Ends transmission. Turns the device off and hands it to Rook.
“That’s it. Shove off. Wait till you see the ship come or see my signal.”
Rook paddles off to sea in an inflatable rubber raft with the transmitter. Turn it on again to a blunt distress signal. Beep beep beep.
He meets up with the four burly men at the stone boat. Along with the not-so-burly Grandmaster, who insisted on joining the party.
Shopkeeper pops his face in the porthole.
“You’re late,” he says.
“Everybody here?” he asks.
Shopkeeper nods.
He goes inside.
“Is it going to plan?” asks the Grandmaster.
“There’s a boat coming to our rescue.”
“Splendid! But we’re on land.”
“They think we’re an aircraft at sea. Rook is sending a distress signal.”
“The guardians’ll pick it up. They’ll see.”
“Not they won’t,” says the painter. Who appears to have no neck.”
“You knocked out the searchlight?”
The painter nods.
“Knocked out the searchlight crew as well. And some bald man going up stairs in a lab coat. Heard him on that wireless phone thing. Supposed to report back to Green Dome after. Had this thing to get in.”
Tosses an electropass on the table. Presumably in working order.
He smiles.
“Let’s pay Number 2 a social call.”
They reach the Green Dome. The pass works. The front doors open, then the two sets of doors after that. Inside the big round room, Number 2 is meditating. Eyes closed.
“Report.”
“It’s been a lovely day. We wanted to thank you for having us. Watch him. If he moves, make him stop moving.”
“With pleasure,” says the Painter.
Number 2's desk is emitting a strident beeping noise. He frowns.
“Your signal, I take it?”
“I’m afraid you’re catching on a little late.”
“Very enterprising.”
“Why are you wasting time here?”
“No waste. Tie him up.”
“How very primitive. I’m disappointed. I hoped for something
more original...”
“Originality is your department. You’ll discover good old-fashioned brute force can be very effective.”
The beeping stops. The Shopkeeper claps his hands.
“The ship’s come for us!”
“Perhaps. You stay, hold him here. Keep him tied up. Don’t let him push any buttons. I’ll greet our rescuers.”
As agreed, he meets Rook onshore. Rook goes back to the Green Dome. He paddles out to sea to meet the MS Polotska.
A deckhand notices him.
”Ahoy, there! Are you flight D for Delta 250?”
”Yes. Who are you?”
“MS Polotska.”
The deckhand hoists him onboard.
“You all right?”
“Fine.”
“What about the passengers and crew?”
“I’ll talk to your skipper.”
“Sure.”
On deck. Enters the cabin. Big fat man appears.
“I’m the skipper. You’ve had a lucky escape.”
“You don’t know how lucky.”
Number 2 is grinning at him from a color TV screen.
“I hate to disappoint you, Number 6, but I’m afraid the Polotska’s our ship. The weather forecasts was very bad. You wouldn’t have stood a chance in that toy boat.”
“I’m touched by your concern. What happened?”
“Oh there’s been a slight misunderstanding.”
The Rook pops his face into the camera. The traitor revealed. They squabble like angry children.
“You — you’re one of them!”
“I’m not, you are.”
“What?”
Number 2 grins.
“As I was saying, a slight misunderstanding.”
Rook points an accusing finger.
“You tried to trap me!”
“I did what?!”
Number 2 tut-tuts him.
“The mistake was yours. You mustn’t malign Number Six.”
“You mean he really is a prisoner?”
Number 2 nods.
“You see what happened, don’t you Number 6?”
“You convinced him I was a guardian. And he released you?”
“Precisely. You only have yourself to blame.”
“How do you make that out?”
“I gather you avoided selecting guardians by detecting their subconscious arrogance. But...”
“But what?”
“Rook applied your own tests to you. Your air of authority convinced him you were one of us. And he convinced the others."
“What’s going to happen to them?”
“They’ll be back in the community tomorrow along with you.”
“Back on the chessboard, as pawns?”
“Six of one, half a dozen of the other.”
Game over. Knowing that, he stubbornly knocks the daylights out of skipper and crew, tosses all three overboard. Takes the wheel. And the motor instantly dies. Rover pops up at the stern of the boat and pushes him back home.
Checkmate.
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