"It must be a terrible feeling for a pro like you to lose to an old California hacker like me," Vietor said with a smile.
"Absolutely galling is what it is," replied Martyn. "Staggering."
In the back of the room Esmond Cooper-Key steadied himself against the subtle movement of the ship.
Martyn is a tall, lean, athletic-looking man with hair that has turned muddy gray. Besides being on an Olympic bobsled team, he played rugby at college and he drives fast cars. Martyn runs in a park for exercise with his friend Jackie Stewart, and he is married to Nina Rindt, 28, widow of racing driver Jochen Rindt. Talking about backgammon, Martyn describes some fierce primeval struggle that may not be immediately apparent to a casual observer.
"Backgammon is a sport, not a game," Martyn said after he had calmed down a bit from his loss to Vietor. "It has contact, violence, one-to-one competition like boxing. Good players tend to stay in good physical shape. People used to think you had to stay up all night and drink and smoke to be a backgammon player. That's silly. One can think much more sharply when the body is fit.
"This is not an intellectual endeavor like bridge, where the players are usually ashen gray and cigarette stained, and it's certainly not like chess. Backgammon is all out in the open, full of stingers, very aggressive. I went bonkers when I lost to a softer player like Vietor. Backgammon has had the image of rich, bum sportsmen and very private clubs, and some of these sportsmen want to keep it their own private affair, but I want to see backgammon become widely popular. It's not hard to learn. I've got no flair for math. Even a beginner can play well if he doesn't let his ego defeat him. The doubling cube is what makes it so extraordinary."
Martyn foresees pro backgammon leagues with players dressed in sweatshirts that say OMAHA or MADRID, competing with each other on TV. The final of the Las Vegas tournament, in which Martyn lost to Claude Beer, was on closed-circuit TV at the Hilton with a commentary by Lewis DeYoung ( London, 39, Oxford, noted amateur tennis player and international gambler). "The tension of an international match would be terrific," Martyn said, "and all there for the audience to see, millions of people watching and criticizing the moves."
While Martyn was talking, Esmond Cooper-Key went to recoup his fortunes at the ship's casino. But he was distracted by his friend the Baron, who had put down quite a few doubles at the bar and had decided to disrobe.
The Baron, it should be explained, is not actually a baron. He is a young London businessman who came on the voyage to be with some of his pals who were involved with the backgammon tournament. On a whim, he wrote on the booking form, in the space for titles, that he was a baron. As a result he was furnished with a dressing room, refrigerator and enormous stateroom at no extra charge, addressed as Baron by the staff and requested to dine in the smaller and more exclusive of the First-Class restaurants.
The Baron's real name will not be mentioned here for reasons to be made clear. For now it is enough to say that when the Baron felt the urge to undress in the casino, he even removed his eyeglasses. The Baron trotted around the casino naked a couple of times and then careened into the Tourist-Class disco. There is an assumption in First Class that people in Tourist Class are probably having more fun, the swine, and the disco in the QE 2 was crowded every night with elegantini looking for a serving wench to pinch or a plumber's apprentice to say hidy to. The Baron loped onto the dance floor and blinked at the laughter. Abruptly, he whirled and fled from the room.