Sphinx sat up.
“I don’t care how it looks,” he said. “I should have tried. He’s still a human being.”
“He’s an idiot! A complete dolt!” Tabaqui screamed.
“That’s not a reason to kill him!”
“That is too a reason!”
They were shouting with their faces right against each other. Their noses almost touched. It was as if they were alone. As if there was nobody else around.
“It is very much a reason,” Tabaqui repeated, a bit softer.
Sphinx looked into his eyes for a while more and then turned away.
I took a deep breath. The Great Game reached unprecedented intensity. They almost managed to convince me that it all was for real, that they weren’t playing. That it was a matter of life and death. The faces of everyone present must have reflected the same appreciation of their talents.
“So?” I said. “That means no one can save Pompey now?”
They looked at me like I was seriously ill. With compassion and concern. This marked the end of my attempts to contribute to the Game. I realized that I’d done quite enough contributing for one day. I was sick of playing a simpleton in need of edification.
So I said thank you. I said that they had now helped me to understand everything and that I was content. Their eyes popped out of their heads, like I’d completely lost my mind.
I drank my coffee and never asked anyone anything.
We were walking and wheeling in total darkness. Slowly, like tortoises. The flashlights weren’t much help. The two pale dots under the wheels and a mass of people bumping into each other both ahead of and behind me. Three packs stumbling together in the dark, and it was a good thing Hounds had already gone downstairs. When we passed the doors of the dorms they cracked open, and we could hear the whispering of those left behind—both those like our own Tubby and the others, a little more aware of the world around them. The poor souls tried to make themselves inconspicuous, but it was still unnerving as hell.
Then we saw someone ahead of us, on top of the stairs, shining an industrial-strength beam down the steps. I was sweating and in desperate need of a cigarette. The Crossroads television resembled a hunched figure. Our progress seemed to be echoing through the entire building, and I was waiting for the invasion, at any moment, of counselors and Cases, running to find out what was going on.
The steps smelled of bleach and mouse droppings. The person in charge of lighting the way was doing a really thorough job. He formed groups of six, went down ahead of them himself, illuminating every step and then returning for the next batch.
The first-floor corridor was much more expansive than ours—four wheelchairs could ride abreast here and still leave enough room for a pair of walkers. We were moving much faster. We passed the locked doors to the entrance hall, the movie room, the video-game arcade, the rows of photographs, the rows of fire extinguishers, the laundry window . . . The gym was open, and all the lights were on inside. We could put the flashlights away.
It was already packed, but more and more were arriving. It was also surprisingly quiet. The conversations didn’t rise above a whisper. Hounds occupied the mats, managing in the time they were here to surround themselves with tea in thermal flasks, pass around the paper cups, and in general assume the air of gracious hosts entertaining troublesome guests.
Sphinx, Black, and Humpback made straight for them. Blind remained standing by the door. I followed Tabaqui around like a shadow, but he apparently decided to renew acquaintances with everyone in the room, so we kept circling and circling the gym, saying hello and engaging in pointless banter with every random person. I finally grew tired of this and fell behind.
Pompey was sitting on a separate mat a little way off from the other Hounds and smoking, dropping ash on the floor. Around his neck he had a colorful kerchief tightly twisted into a slim rope. His leather pants were on the verge of splitting open under the assault of his muscular thighs. He did not participate in the talks with Sphinx, which told me that the details of the Great Battle were being hashed out without input from its participants. Then I realized that I had no idea what the plan was—whether Pompey was supposed to prevail or be defeated. I just knew it had to be agreed upon in advance.
