Architecturally, Gurgeh thought, the place was a hopeless mix of styles, and far too big. Some buildings soared, some sprawled, but each seemed to have been designed without any regard to any other, and the whole effect — which might have been interestingly varied — was in fact gruesome. He kept thinking of the Little Rascal, holding ten times as many people as the city in a smaller area, and far more elegantly, even though most of the craft's volume was taken up with ship-building space, engines, and other equipment.

Groasnachek had all the planning of a bird-dropping, Gurgeh thought, and the city was its own maze.

When the day came for the game to start he woke feeling elated, as though he'd just won a game, rather than being about to embark on the first real, serious match of his life. He ate very little for breakfast, and dressed slowly in the ceremonial garments the game required; rather ridiculous gathered-up clothes, with soft slippers and hose beneath a bulky jacket with rolled, gartered sleeves. At least, as a novice, Gurgeh's robes were relatively unornamented, and restrained in colour.

Pequil arrived to take him to the game in an official groundcar. The apex chattered during the journey, enthusing about some recent conquest the Empire had made in a distant region of space; a glorious victory.

The car sped along the broad streets, heading for the outskirts of the city where the public hall Gurgeh would play in had been converted into a game-room.

All over the city that morning, people were going to their first game of the new series; from the most optimistic young player lucky enough to win a place in the games in a state lottery, right up to Nicosar himself, those twelve thousand people faced that day knowing that their lives might change utterly and for ever, for better or worse, starting from right now. The whole city was alive with the game-fever which infected it every six years; Groasnachek was packed with the players, their retinues, advisors, college mentors, relations and friends, the Empire's press and news-services, and visiting delegations from colonies and oominions there to watch the future course of imperial history being decided.

Despite his earlier euphoria, Gurgeh discovered that his hands were shaking by the time they arrived at the hall, and as he was led into the place with its high white walls and its echoing wooden floor, an unpleasant sensation of churning seemed to emanate from his belly. It felt quite different from the normal feeling of being keyed-up which he experienced before most games; this was something else; keener, and more thrilling and unsettling than anything he'd known before. All that lightened this mood of tension was discovering that Flere-Imsaho had been refused permission to remain in the game-hall when the match was in progress; it would have to stay outside. Its display of clicking, humming, crackling crudity had not been sufficient to convince the imperial authorities that it was incapable of somehow assisting Gurgeh during the game. It was shown to a small pavilion in the grounds of the hall, to wait there with the imperial guards on security duty.

It complained, loudly.

Gurgeh was introduced to the other nine people in his game. In theory, they had all been chosen at random. They greeted him cordially enough, though one of them, a junior imperial priest, nodded rather than spoke to him.

They played the lesser game of strategy-cards first. Gurgeh started very cautiously, surrendering cards and points to discover what the others held. When it finally became obvious, he began playing properly, hoping he would not be made to look too silly in the rush, but over the next few turns he realised the others were still unsure exactly who held what, and he was the only one playing the game as though it was in its final stages.

Thinking that perhaps he'd missed something, he played a couple of more exploratory cards, and only then did the priest start to play for the end. Gurgeh resumed, and when the game finished before midday he held more points than anybody else.

"So far so good, eh, drone?" he said to Flere-Imsaho. He was sitting at the table where the players, game-officials and some of the more important spectators were at lunch.

"If you say so," the machine said grumpily. "I don't get to see much, stuck in the out-house with the jolly soldier boys."

"Well, take it from me; it's looking all right."

"Early days yet, Jernau Gurgeh. You won't catch them that easily again."

"I knew I could rely on your support."

In the afternoon they played on a couple of the smaller boards in a series of single games to decide order of precedence. Gurgeh knew he was good at both these games, and easily beat the others. Only the priest seemed upset by this. There was another break, for dinner, during which Pequil arrived unofficially, on his way home from the office. He expressed his pleased surprise at how well Gurgeh was doing, and even patted him on the arm before he left.

The early-evening session was a formality; all that happened was that they were told by the game-officials — amateurs from a local club, with one imperial official in charge — the exact configuration and order of play for the following day, on the Board of Origin. As had now become obvious, Gurgeh was going to start with a considerable advantage.

Sitting in the back of the car with only Flere-Imsaho for company, and feeling quite pleased with himself, Gurgeh watched the city go by in the violet light of dusk.

"Not too bad, I suppose," the drone said, humming only a little as it lay on the seat by Gurgeh. "I'd contact the ship tonight if I were you, to discuss what you're going to do tomorrow."

"Would you really?"

"Yes. You're going to need all the help you can get. They'll gang up on you tomorrow; bound to. This is where you lose out, of course; if any of them were in this situation they'd be getting in touch with one or more of the less well-placed players and doing a deal with them to go for—"

"Yes, but as you never seem to tire of telling me, they would all demean themselves doing anything of the sort with me. On the other hand though, with your encouragement and the Limiting Factor's help, how can I lose?"

The drone was silent.

Gurgeh got in touch with the ship that night. Flere-Imsaho had declared itself bored; it had discarded its casing, gone black-body, and floated off unseen into the night to visit a city park where there were some nocturnal birds.

Gurgeh talked over his plans with the Limiting Factor, but the time delay of almost a minute made the conversation with the distant warship a slow business. The ship had some good suggestions, though. Gurgeh was certain that at this level at least he must be getting far better advice from the ship than any of his immediate opponents were receiving from their advisors, aides and mentors. Probably only the top hundred or so players, those directly sponsored and supported by the leading colleges, would have access to such informed help. This thought cheered him further, and he went to bed happy.

Three days later, just as play was closing after the early-evening session, Gurgeh looked at the Board of Origin and realised he was going to be put out of the game.

Everything had gone well at first. He'd been pleased with his handling of the pieces, and sure he'd had a more subtle appreciation of the game's strategic balance. With his superiority in position and forces resulting from his successes during the early stages, he'd been confident he was going to win, and so stay in the Main Series to play in the second round, of single games.

Then, on the third morning, he realised he had been overconfident, and his concentration had lapsed. What had looked like a series of unconnected moves by most of the other players suddenly became a coordinated mass attack, with the priest at its head. He'd panicked and they'd trounced him. Now he was a dead man.