Tactics of Conquest by Barry N. Malzberg Page A

of those pursuits which combine the beauty of the orderly mind with innovation. But it was chess for me from the outset; from the moment I was given a small board and pieces by my father at the age of eight when I was ill (he lived to regret it), there has been only one consuming interest in my life and that has been chess, that magnificent game which has given me such satisfaction, to say nothing of income, for almost four decades. Last year, the last complete year before this unfortunate instance, I was able to clear five thousand four hundred dollars (above expenses) from tournaments. Since there is little on which to spend my money, and all of my expenses are provided for, this was an exquisite sum, more thanI might have ever conceived previously. Almost all of it nestles in my personal savings.
    Louis is beginning to sweat now, faint little trickles of moisture pouring from his high forehead, mingling in his beard. I look at him intently, seeking out his gaze, but his eyes become furtive, his gaze slips downward and folding his hands he stares into the board. It is obvious that he already regrets the information he has given me; our ancient enmity has never been more apparent to him than it is now. Staring at him in this way, seeing this creature winking and blinking, trying to construct his next move, it suddenly occurs to me with shocking precision that he has not been lying. He has been telling the truth as far as he knows it. His reaction is far too stressful to be feigned; if he is not telling the truth, he is at least telling the truth as he believes it to be. I find that this sudden insight twists my bowels around into a strange position; they seem to momentarily reside above my stomach rather than in their customary and comfortable position below, and a kind of nausea overtakes me, waves of revulsion spinning through. The board, that tunnel of concentration, spins beneath me. I am unable to bring further attention to it, and momentarily everything seems to dwindle and assume miniscule proportions.
    As if from some great height I look upon a tiny Louis, a miniaturized board, an infinitesimal series of dots upon that board which must be chess-pieces. Is this possible? Am I seeing things, at last, in truest perspective? Have I dedicated my life to an inconsequentiality, narrowed my focus to a series of objects and purposes so slight that they can hardly be said to exist?
    The questions are dazzling, but even more dazzlingare the series of burps and groans which I begin to emit; I sound like some dyspeptic animal lost in the woods (or perhaps I am thinking of an animal in a slaughterhouse, turned upon huge racks, ready for skewering). Little burbles and gasps escape me, my intestines take a final lurch, the board zooms toward me with great speed, beginning to assume massive proportions, growing and growing in my distorted consciousness, until by some feat of reversal the board seems not to be miniscule but literally to be overtaking the world. The pieces are
huge
, gallivanting Knights and Bishops swollen to grotesque proportions. As these pieces swarm before me, the horses seeming to open their mouths filled with rows of giant teeth, their riders with lances to skewer me, it occurs to me that I am very ill.
    I look over at Louis, who is bloated and swollen as well, a series of red lines streaking the white surfaces of the ballooning face leering out over me. “I am very ill,” I say to him. “Pardon me, I am very ill, I need rest, I need recovery, I need aid of some sort.” And I push the chair back from the board. It screeches across the floor.
    I remember a tournament in Paris at which one of the competitors—Nilsson, I believe it was—suffered a cerebral hemorrhage while in the very midst of a two-Knights’ defense and had to be carried out by a crew of seconds, his hands still twitching as if to seize the two Knights. This fills me with even further dread; it is so dreadful to become ill in public. There