AT THE STILL and silent center of it all, Hans Ebert sat, facing Tuan Ti Fo across a rock, a wei chi board set up between them.

All about them the drained sea shimmered in the late afternoon heat, its sculpted surface like the vision of a demented child.

Ebert stared blindly at the board, the remote overhead sending him back an image of the game. Leaning in, he slapped a white stone down in shang, the south, then sat back, frowing.

"I feel uncomfortable, playing white. It seems wrong somehow."

Tuan Ti Fo chuckled. "It is several years since I played black, but there is a purpose to this, Hans."

"A purpose?" Ebert laughed. "Let's pray to Mother Sky there is a purpose behind your thinking, Master Tuan, for the King of Hell himself is on us."

"Relax," Tuan Ti Fo said, playing a black stone at the edge of the board, in ch'u, the west, safeguarding a line.

Ebert studied the board a moment, then looked across at the old man. "I still don't understand it. If the Machine can do this much, why doesn't it finish the job outright? Why all these half measures?"

"The Machine acts as it must," Tuan Ti Fo answered; pulling gently at his beard. "There must be a balance in all things. When that balance is lost . . . well, that is not healthy, neh? Our friend DeVore ... histhinking is the thinking of a child-an unhealthy child."

Tuan Ti Fo leaned forward, moving his hand over the board. At once all the stones became white. Tuan gestured at the board. "So our friend would have it. But where is the skill in such a game? Where the beauty?"

He swept his hand over the board once more, returning the stones to their original colors, then smiled at Ebert.

"You must understand. It is not our purpose to win the game for you, merely to allow it to be played. Our friend DeVore ... he plays the game well, but he does not understand its purpose. He thinks that winning is the all of it, but the game is not meant to teach Man ruthlessness. No ... its object is to teach us balance, to school us in the dance of opposing forces. As for the greater game-this game he chooses to play out with men's lives-well, we cannot possibly contest the matter. Forty million against eight." Tuan laughed. "Those are poor odds, neh?"

Ebert stared at him. "You speak as if we can't defeat him."

"And you speak as if you are surprised." Tuan Ti Fo gestured toward the board. "Play your stone."

Ebert slapped down a second stone in shang, then drew his silks about him irritably. "You play with me, Master Tuan."

"Of course . . . But that's not what you really mean, is it? Nor do you understand me. We cannot defeat DeVore. Have no illusions about that, Hans. However, we can let the man defeat himself."

"Defeat himself? How?"

Tuan Ti Fo leaned across and placed a stone in the very center of the board. "By keeping him here. By forcing him to look into the nothingness at the center of it all."

"You speak in riddles," Ebert answered, slapping down a stone beside the Master's last.

"Not at all," the old man answered, pointing to the stone Ebert had just laid. "Just as you were forced to shadow my play, so we might force our friend DeVore to shadow ours."

Tuan Ti Fo placed another stone to the right of his last, extending the line toward his group in ch'u.

"Time," he said, meeting Ebert's sightless stare with his own. "We must buy time. For time, not force of arms, will win this contest."

"There!" Dogo shouted, pointing down to his right. "I see them, by that loaf-shaped rock!"

Master Tuan turned as the eight descended toward him, then stood, greeting them. Behind him, Ebert also stood.

"You took your time," Ebert called, grinning at them, turning his face to the clear sky overhead. "Can't you get the hang of those things?"

Aluko, setting down, looked back at him and laughed. "Dead seas I'm used to, but these . . . Whose idea was this?"

"We merely play his game," Tuan Ti Fo said, turning and throwing a cloth over the board. "DeVore likes symbols. Well, we shall give him symbols, neh?"Aluko frowned at him. He had grown used to the old man's vagueness over the years, but sometimes-as now-it worried him.

"What can symbols do against such a mighty host?" he asked. "What if they simply shoot us down?"

"Oh, they will," Tuan said, folding his silks about him.

"Great!" Dogo said, coming alongside Aluko. "So now we're suicides!"

"That troubles you?" The old man asked, smiling faintly.

Dogo looked at Ebert, then shook his head firmly. "Whatever Efulefu asks, we shall do. It is our debt to him."

"And DeVore?" Ebert asked, looking to Aluko. "Do you still owe DeVore a debt?"

Aluko laughed coldly. "We repaid that monster years ago, as you know, my friend. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to destroy him. But Dogo has a point. Are we to be merely symbols?"

"Merely?" Tuan Ti Fo chuckled. "You think men are mere machines-even DeVore's kind of men? No.

Men have fears and deep-rooted instincts. Like you, my brothers, they have beliefs-even when they profess to believe nothing. Why, even the most pitiful rogue will believe in ghosts and demons. So . . ."

"So?" Nza came and stood with his fellows. A moment later the others joined them. The eight stood there, facing Master Tuan, dwarfing him in their harnesses.

"So it is time," Tuan answered, turning and lifting a hand toward the sky.

They looked. As they did the sky seemed to shimmer and take shape. There, where a moment before there had been nothing, was a massive dragon with seven heads and ten horns and seven diadems upon his heads. The sight was awesome, fear-inducing.

Tuan Ti Fo spoke into the sudden silence. "See. He sends his dragon against us."

There was a low moan of fear from the eight, but Ebert only laughed.

"I who have no eyes can see what you cannot. You asked about symbols, Aluko. Well, what you see is but a symbol. A mere air-show. Yet it has a purpose, neh? It is there to drain the courage from those who might dare to stand and fight." He stepped forward, looking from one face to another, his blind eyes seeming to take each of them in before he nodded and looked to another.

"Aluko . . . Nza . . . Dogo . . . Chike . . . Elechi . . . Odile . . . Nwibe . . . Ugoye . . . Your names will live forever. And your deeds today . . ." Ebert smiled, then, as if he'd heard something in his head, turned and looked to the south. "But wait . . . one of their ships is coming."

Aluko stared at Ebert, then looked to Tuan Ti Fo. "But what shall we do? I . . . I thought there would be weapons here."

"Weapons?" Again Old Tuan laughed. "Weapons will not help you against DeVore. No. You must defeat him by other means. Here . . ." He bent down and, removing the cloth, revealed a pile of circular shields.

Aluko stepped across and picked one up. It was perfectly normal on its back, but its front . . .

"But it's a mirror!" Aluko said, staring at Tuan Ti Fo in astonishment. "You mean, we are to fight DeVore's great fleet armed only with mirrors?""How quick are you?"

"How quick?"

Tuan stooped and, without warning, picked up a rock and aimed it at Aluko. Instinctively Aluko raised the shield and fended off the rock. He frowned at the old Han, then turned the shield, dusting it off, examining it for cracks.

"Unmarked," he said, looking back at Tuan.

"Good," Ebert said. "That's all you have to do. Defend yourself. Now . . . who will be first?"

Nza stepped forward, staring at Ebert fiercely. "Let me go, Efulefu."

"You, little bird? You want to fly up and pluck the stone from the air?"

Nza nodded.

"Then fly, Nza. But fly quickly now, for our enemy is almost upon us."

THE TARGET WAS JUST AHEAD. There was nothing now for him to do but wait. The ship's computer had locked onto the distant figure and, as it grew on the screen, the Commander felt the certainty of a kill ripple through him. He could do it now-he could destroy that drifting figure in a blaze of laser light, but he wanted to get closer- wanted a good visual display to send back to his Master.

"Slowly now," he said, conscious of the presence of his senior staff behind him, watching his every move.

Lesser copies they might be, but they would share the glory of this first encounter. The glory, and the rewards.

He could make out details of the figure now. It was a man. One of the eight the remotes had pictured earlier. At first he seemed empty handed, but then, as it came clearer, he saw that the man was carrying some kind of shield.

"It's a mirror, Commander," the technician at the desk nearby stated flatly, the wire at his neck linking him to his console enhancing the image he saw.

"Direct the cannon to avoid that area," the Commander said. The last thing they wanted was their own fire coming back at them.

"Kill speed," he said quietly.

Let him come to me. Let him fall upon my spear.

He waited, counting in his head. Ten, nine, eight, seven . . .

He stopped. Something was wrong.

"How big is he?"

"Twelve, fourteen feet . . . No, sixteen. No . . . Oh, shit!"

The technician's words merely confirmed what was obvious to the eye. The figure was growing. Growing perceptibly and by the moment. Slowly, very slowly, it expanded, the mirror it held growing with it, until it was like a tiny moon, reflecting back their own image."Disarm the lasers," he said, a tiny ripple of fear running down his back. "We'll hit him with missiles. Prime and fire. Don't wait for my order."

The figure was so big now that it filled the screen. The image was recalibrated, so that again the figure could fit into it, but still it grew. It had to be half a li tall now.

It's some kind of trick, he thought, trying to reassure himself, but that wasn't what the instruments were telling him. What he saw was what was happening. All of the readings confirmed it. As the figure grew, so its mass grew, in direct and correct proportion to its size.

"It's impossible," he whispered, awed now that he'd had time to consider just what was happening out there. And even as he said it, he felt the slight judder of the ship as the first of the missiles were launched, then another as a second pair streaked out toward it.

The giant raised his shield. The Commander watched in astonishment as the missiles vanished into it, then gasped as a beam of pure white light bounced back at him from the mirror's surface.

"Take avoiding action! Now!" he yelled, but even as he gave the order he knew it was too late.

DEVORE STARED at the screen in disbelief.

"One eight eight. You're in that area. What happened?"

There was a moment's hesitation, then a sobered voice answered him. "It blew up, Master. It simply blew up."

"But the giant ..."

"Giant, Master? What giant?"

What was happening? What in the gods' names was going on out there?

"One eight eight. Go in there now. Hit that target. And pay no attention to anything you might see on your screen. Just kill it. Understand?"

"Going in now, Master."

He let out a breath, then shook his head. An illusion. It had to be an illusion. But how? And when had an illusion ever registered with such solid' ity?

He shivered. He didn't know. He simply didn't know.

"Two six zero," he said. "Follow one eight eight in. I want to make sure we've nailed that target. If anything happens to one eight eight, you take over the mission."

"Understood, Master!"

And if they all blow up?

He looked up at the screen again. "All ships in Shang Command go in there at once. I want that sector scoured and cleaned out, and I want it done now!"

COMING TO THE TOP of the slope Ebert stopped, then laughed, surprised by the sight that met his eyes.

Tuan Ti Fo was sitting on a low rock, DeVore's fleet to his back, studying the wei chi board that was setup before him.

Ebert went across and looked down at the board. It was the same game they had been playing earlier.

As he watched, Tuan Ti Fo laid another stone, extending his line.

"Isn't it rather late?" he asked.

"Play a stone," Old Tuan answered him.

"Where?"

Tuan looked up at him and smiled. "Deep into his territory. Turn him. Play behind his lines."

"Behind?"

Tuan nodded. "You must distract him a moment longer. The storm . . . the storm will decide it all."

Ebert frowned, then looked up at the darkening sky. And as he did the first drops of rain fell onto his face, trickling down his brow and pooling in the hollows of his eyes.

THE STORM DRAINS WERE FULL, the sluices overflowing, but still the rain fell, heavier by the moment. Chen looked up at the sky, drawing his fingers through his soaked hair, then looked back at the village, urging the last few stragglers on toward the safety of the bunker. His son, Jyan, was the last of them, coming down the street between the big farmhouses, carrying Old Mother Ling, a waterproof sheet wrapped about her. Seeing how he was struggling, Chen began to wade toward him, his feet sticking in the mud that was everywhere now-that pulled and sucked and threatened to send one sprawling at any moment.

"Come on!" he yelled, taking the old woman from his son, then turning to half walk, half limp toward the steps.