The two players, forearms on table, were sitting rigidly still, staring as though entranced at the board, neither moving so much as an eye. As the two Chickladorians watched, Cloud’s left forearm, pivoting on the elbow, swung out and he moved his knight. “Oh, no . . . no!” Shocked out of silence, Thlasoval muttered the words under his breath. “Your queen, man—your queen!” But this opportunity, so evident to the observer, did not seem at all attractive to the woman, who sat motionless for minute after minute. “But come on, boss, and look this mess over,” the assistant urged. “You’re on plus time now.” “I suppose so.” They turned away from the enigma. “But _why_ didn’t she take his queen? I couldn’t see a thing to keep her from doing it. I would have.” “So would I. However, almost all the pieces on that board are vulnerable, some way or other. Probably whichever one starts the shin-kicking will come out at the little end of the horn.” “Could be, but it won’t be kicking shins. It’ll be slaughter—and _how_ I’d like to be there when the slaughter starts! And I _still_ don’t see why she didn’t grab that queen. . . .” “Well, you can ask her, maybe, when they leave. But right now you’d better forget chess and take a good, long gander at what that Vegian hell-cat is doing. She’s wilder than a Radelgian cateagle and hotter than a DeLameter. She’s gone just completely nuts.” Tense, strained, taut as a violin-string in every visible muscle, Vesta stood at a wheel; gripping the ledge of the table so fiercely that enamel was flaking off the metal and plastic under her stiff, sharp nails. Jaws hard set and eyes almost invisible slits, she growled deep in her throat at every bet she put down. And those bets were all alike—ten thousand credits each—and she was still playing the numbers straight. They watched her lose eighty thousand credits; then watched her collect three hundred and fifty thousand. Thlasoval made the rounds, then; did everything he could to impede the outward flow of cash, finding that there wasn’t much of anything he could do. He beckoned his assistant. “This is bad, Althagar, believe me,” he said. “And I simply can’t figure any part of it . . . unless. . . .” His voice died away. “You said it. I can’t, either. Unless it’s them two chess-players in there, and I’ll buy it that it ain’t, I haven’t even got a guess . . . unless there could be some Lensmen mixed up in it somewhere. They could do just about anything.” “_Lensmen?_ Rocket-juice! There aren’t any—we spy-ray everybody that comes in.” “Outside, maybe, peeking in. Or some other snoopers, maybe, somewhere?”