His head inclined to one side, his brows wrinkled and his torso sternly
upright, the Master gazed at the board while Black 145 was being opened.
Otaké played more rapidly, perhaps because he knew he had won.
The tension of the final encounter at close quarters is unlike that through
the opening and middle stages. Raw nerves seem to flash, there is
something grand and even awesome about the two figures pressing forward
into closer combat. Breath came more rapidly, as if two warriors were
parrying with dirks; fires of knowledge and wisdom seemed to blaze up.
It was the time when, in an ordinary game, Otaké would be going into
his sprint, playing a hundred stones in the course of his last allotted minute.
He still had a margin of some six or seven hours, and yet, as if riding the
wave of his aroused nerves, he seemed intent upon keeping his momentum.
He would reach for a stone as if whipping himself on, and then, from time
to time, he would fall into deliberation. Even the Master would sometimes
hesitate when he had a stone in his hand.
