“Nonsense,” grunted the scientist. “They’re only robots. Now—Hey! Look there! Look at that move!”

* * *

Bishop sorkas took one step ahead, into the black square adjoining Flambard’s. He bowed and smiled. “The war is ended,” he said.

Slowly, very slowly, Flambard looked about him. sorkas, merkon, theutas, they were crouched to leap on him wherever he turned; his own men raged helpless against the Barriers; there was no place for him to go.

He bowed his head. “I surrender,” he whispered.

Rogard looked across the red and black to Evyan. Their eyes met, and they stretched out their arms to each other.

* * *

“Checkmate,” said the scientist. “That game’s over.”

He crossed the room to the switchboard and turned off the computers.

Upon the Occasion of Being
Asked to Argue That Love and
Marriage are Incompatible

Love is no lady, but a wench with wings,
Fickle and fleet, the child of wind and sky,
Cool as a fall where tumbling waters ring,
Brazen as sunlight and like moonlight shy.
Love is a hawk no man may hope to tame.
She is not chased, but hers is the attack.
Love is no bride who meekly leads her name,
Nor, being winged, lies always on her back.
How shall you cage the river or the gale?
How shall you pluck and lifelong keep alive
Blossoms in bowls where air is walled and stale?
Love comes to whom she will, not those who strive,
Therefore, my sweet, be in no haste to marry,
So it may be that Love will deign to tarry.

Backwardness

As a small boy he wanted to be a rocket pilot—and what boy didn’t in those days?—but learned early that he lacked the aptitudes. Later he decided on psychology, and even took a bachelor’s degree cum laude. Then one thing led to another, and Joe Husting ended up as a confidence man. It wasn’t such a bad life; it had challenge and variety as he hunted in New York, and the spoils of a big killing were devoured in Florida, Greenland Resort, or Luna City.

The bar was empty of prospects just now, but he dawdled over his beer and felt no hurry. Spring had reached in and touched even the East Forties. The door stood open to a mild breeze, the long room was cool and dim, a few other men lazed over midafternoon drinks and the TV was tuned low. Idly, through cigarette smoke, Joe Husting watched the program.

The Galactics, of course. Their giant spaceship flashed in the screen against wet brown fields a hundred miles from here. Copter view…now we pan to a close-up, inside the ring of UN guards, and then back to the sightseers in their thousands. The announcer was talking about how the captain of the ship was at this moment in conference with the Secretary-General, and the crewmen were at liberty on Earth. “They are friendly, folks. I repeat, they are friendly. They will do no harm. They have already exchanged their cargo of U-235 for billions of our own dollars, and they plan to spend those dollars like any friendly tourist. But both the UN Secretariat and the President of the United States have asked us all to remember that these people come from the stars. They have been civilized for a million years. They have powers we haven’t dreamed of. Anyone who harms a Galactic can ruin the greatest—”