board—Black 95, White 96, Black 97—had an unearthly quality about
them, as of echoing in a chasm.
The Master deliberated for more than half an hour before playing White
98. His eyes blinking, his mouth slightly open, he fanned himself as if
fanning up the embers in the deepest reaches of his being. Was such grim
concentration necessary, I wondered.
Yasunaga of the Fourth Rank came in. Just inside the room, he knelt
down to make his formal greetings. His bow was solemnly respectful and
diffident. Neither contestant noticed. Each time one or the other seemed
about to look his way, Yasunaga repeated the bow. There was nothing else
for him to do. Demonic forces seemed lost in horrid battle.
Immediately after White 98 the youth who was keeping records
announced that a minute of play remained. Then it was twelve thirty, time
for the sealed play.
“If you are tired, sir,” said Onoda to the Master, “suppose you leave.”
“Yes, do, please, sir, if you feel like it,” said Otaké, back from the
lavatory. “I’ll think for a while by myself here, and seal my play. I promise
not to ask for advice.” For the first time there was laughter.
They spoke out of concern for the Master, whom it seemed inhuman to
keep longer at the board. There was no real need for him to be there, since
Otaké’s Black 99 would be a sealed play. His head cocked to one side, the
Master deliberated whether to stay or to go.
“I’ll stay just a little longer.” But immediately he went to the lavatory,
and then he was joking with Muramatsu Shofu in the anteroom. He was
surprisingly lively when away from the board.
Left to himself, Otaké gazed at the White pattern in the lower left corner
as if he wanted to sink his fangs into it. An hour and thirteen minutes later,
