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  As one, the six occupants of the room turned to appraise the newcomer.

  We have all been studying each other for a month, Father Griffith mused. I know their biographies better than my closest friend’s, and yet, this is our first meeting.

  The priest moved towards his nearest opponent and held out a hand in greeting. “Hello, Mr. Davis.”

  Sinclair Davis, a man of medium height, was of a gym-built compactness, and a well-manicured appearance. His round face was professionally bronzed – unmarked by unaesthetic weathering – and his medium brown hair lay close to his skull in tight curls. He wore jeans and a blue blazer. He stood alone, legs spread apart, near the buffet table. In his hand he held a small plate containing a bunch of grapes and a sliver of a sandwich. He cast a quick appraising look at the priest. “Hello, Father.” Sinclair extended his hand for an overhand shake, wearing a broad smile that exposed rows of perfect white teeth. His dark blue eyes were alert and unsmiling.

  Sinclair Davis ran an edgy, boutique hedge fund called Sharx Capital, known for its innovative approach to risk, which produced inexplicably high and consistent rates of return for its investors. The magic of Sharx Capital was such that it had so far remained untouched by penal law despite meticulous scrutiny by varied arms of the government.

  Justice Martha Other paused on her way to a nearby table. Clad in a navy Chanel suit, she was a monument of a woman with chin-length, glossy, ash blonde hair, and an uncompromising jaw-line. Her severe gaze was sky-blue, and her clear complexion held all the fleeting, fragile beauty of a cluster of fading pink and white cherry blossoms. The judge’s greeting was a nod accented by the briefest of smiles. “Father Griffith…” she murmured.

  “Judge Other.” Father Griffith inclined his head. Justice Martha Other. Nicknamed ‘Mother.’ But not because she was one. Quite the opposite. Judge Other’s determined approach to over-populating the local jail was legendary.

  And yet, there was that other thing in her biography … An incongruous thing, one might think, at first glance.

  Jacob Porter was standing next to the judge with a cup of coffee. He looked a mild sort of grandfather with his half-moon glasses and gentle half-smile, and was neatly and casually dressed; his hair, bald on top, had been carefully combed. Porter was the President of House of Laughter, Inc.: a highly successful empire built on the unassailable assumption that people will always pay to laugh. House of Laughter, Inc. had a hand in every proverbial custard pie, and its clown school was renowned throughout the world. He looked every minute of his sixty years. “Hello, Father Griffith,” Porter smiled amiably over his glasses at the priest. “Are you well?”

  “Yes, Mr. Porter, and yourself?”

  “So, so, you know–” Porter shook his head from side to side. “Doesn’t do any good to complain, does it?”

  Jacob Porter: the man wielding the two-sided mirror – the enigmatic and catchy symbol of his company.

  Your biography was very thorough, thought Father Griffith. I know – we all know – that you were born the youngest son of a butcher. Your mother died when you were a small child of five. A quiet, studious child, you appear not to have taken to the slaughtering business as your more physically robust brothers did. Was that due to lack of interest? Repulsion, perhaps?

  Hardworking, reserved and brilliant are adjectives that surface from your high-school years. You attended Harvard on a full scholarship. Still the same boy, or so it seemed: an introvert destined for academia.

  And then a break…?

  You took a leave of absence from Harvard at the end of your second year to join a local traveling circus: D.R. Agone’s FUnhOuse!

  You joined the circus as a clown and elephant trainer before you took up that two-sided mirror and flashed it towards us, your audience, and beckoned us to come and play…

  If we both look into the mirror from opposite sides, will our reflections meet in the middle?

  Father Griffith made a noncommittal comment as he moved away.

  Here was Daniel Cross: mathematical wunderkind employed to financial advantage by one of the leading investment banking firms as a foreign currency analyst. Danny wore a worn t-shirt, blue jeans and cowboy boots. He sported a goatee and a small gold hoop in his left ear.

  “Hello, Father.” Danny offered his left hand in greeting.

  “Mr. Cross.” Father Griffith shook the hand, noting the pair of dice that danced nimbly among the fingers of Danny’s right hand. That’s the hand of the Shooter, Father Griffith thought. In addition to his many talents, Danny was a legend at craps tables across the country, as the Shooter: the man who could place the dice as he wished.

  Storm Drake rose part-way from his chair upon the priest’s approach. His face – famously likened to that of a snow leopard in mid-snarl – broke out in a lopsided smile, helped along by the snaking reminder of the tangle with the Renault at Monza during his first season with Ferrari. The scar that lashed the left corner of his mouth to his hairline startled an otherwise unmemorably good-looking set of features into dramatic action. Storm, like most Formula One drivers, was of medium height and weight, but his was a body that had been regularly tested at speeds close to 200 miles an hour in an oven-like cockpit and, as such, he possessed a natural, pure, graceful aggression that could not be replicated in any gym.

  “Hello, Father.”

  Father Griffith was struck by the genuineness of the man’s smile. In this room, at this time, it is the only one, he thought. But out of all of us he is the only one who is accustomed to putting his life at risk for his job.

  “Father Griffith, a pleasure.” Bruce Saber gave the priest’s hand a confident, vigorous shake.

  “Hello, Mr. Saber,” Father Griffith replied. We are the same age, thought the priest, sizing up the man before him: on the better side of tall, with short dark hair flecked with gray at the temples, and clear hazel eyes. We have the same number of Life Points…

  Bruce Saber, an attorney, was dressed in a tailored black suit. He looks ready for court, thought Father Griffith. He looks ready for battle. It’s in the way he walks, smiles, and holds himself. That air of self-confidence, of comfort in his own skin… he earned it. He is battle-trained. I remember one of those battles, perhaps his most famous one: the trial of Peter Krol for murder after the LiGa Chess tournament. It was Bruce Saber who represented Peter before the jury that acquitted him. I recall vividly the spectacle at the courthouse steps after the verdict, broadcast around the world. Yes, I remember you, Mr. Saber, looking just as you do now: effortlessly confident. Yes, Mr. Saber, you earned that confidence, and now you are my opponent.

  “We’re only missing the Senator,” Bruce said to the room at large.

  One player left to meet…

  Father Griffith moved softly towards the table where the judge was sitting erect over a cup of coffee.

  “Judge – may I?” The priest indicated a chair opposite.

  She glanced up sharply. “As you wish, Father,” she said coldly.

  “I don’t mean to bother you, your Honor, I simply wanted to express our appreciation – and I speak for Father General most particularly – for your beautiful creation, Silver Dawn.”

  The judge’s sudden intake of breath was not missed by anyone in the room.

  Silver Dawn…

  A vision in her mind…

  A tall, slim stem of deep, forest green.

  A bud of the purest, palest pink bathed in ivory, overlaid with a hint of summery green. And the petals, as they opened to the touch of the sun … Creamy, buttery, velvety, ivory-pink all the way to the …

  All the way to an eighth of an inch from the edge of the petals… And the rest: transparent. Like a diamond is transparent. Lit by the fire of the sun, the thin, transparent edge of the petals glittering like diamonds…

  It had taken years to achieve the effect. Such long years of trial and error … And then the sliver of success – called Silver Dawn. How many more years to achieve the perfect rose? A perfectly
transparent rose… Ten years? Twenty? Maybe more than her lifetime would allow…

  “How kind of Father General” said the judge coldly.

  “It is a remarkable achievement,” Father Griffith continued. “You must be very proud.”

  “Yes,” Bruce interjected, standing a few feet away. “I understand the transparency was thought to be impossible.”

  Everyone thought it impossible! The judge allowed a self-satisfied smile to glance crisply across her faintly translucent, parchment-fine features.

  “I know you’ve shown it at flower shows, but have you considered growing it to sell?” Bruce asked.

  “Silver Dawn is not for sale,” the judge replied crisply.

  “In that case you must be careful to keep it away from prying eyes and fingers!”

  The judge sniffed. “I keep my roses safe.”

  They were distracted from further speech by the tepid sound of a sliding door. The opaque walls of the LifeBank cleared once again to reveal three people.

  The first was a man in a gray suit whose scowl tangled with an uneasy beard, and who walked with a decided limp. Despite the difference in their physical appearance, he, like Peter, possessed an indefinable air of vitality. Those in the room recognized him as Diarmid Tanner (Imm.). In addition to his accomplishments as an architect, Tanner was a three-time world champion in bridge. A man who could wilt a hapless partner with a mere look from his dagger-point gray eyes.

  He walked with a limp, and carried a black case in his right hand. Tanner was followed by Peter Krol, and a taller, distinguished-looking man in a Polo t-shirt and khaki pants, who, despite his careful grooming, appeared inexplicably dim in comparison to the other two.

  Peter introduced the third member of the trio as Senator Frederick Heath.

  The room acknowledged the missing member of the competition, and expectantly turned to face Tanner.

  “Welcome to the eighth annual tournament of LiGa Bridge USA,” Tanner began. “I am the director for this tournament, and I will be assisted by Peter Krol–” Tanner nodded towards Peter, who bore an armful of black folders under his faint, impersonal smile.

  “The first game of the tournament will begin at 2:00 p.m. I will take a few moments to explain the rules and format of the games,” Tanner continued. “But before I begin–” Tanner glanced out of the transparent outer wall towards the building that lay to the right of the glass cube before turning back to face the group, “we will be joined by Xavier Redd. As you may know, Xavier is the overall director of LiGa Bridge. It is our tradition at LiGa Bridge for Xavier to give a short introduction to the players at the start of each and every LiGa Bridge tournament in all of our worldwide locations.”

  The impassive smile on Peter’s face flickered to life as he gazed through the glass wall towards the building to the right.

  He looks like a wolf, thought Father Griffith, watching a tall man in a dark gray suit walk towards the cube. A large gray wolf loping towards us.

  They all watched in silence as the man moved with a purposeful spring towards the entrance. Peter’s excitement was a contained, palpable thing. The glass wall moved aside for Xavier Redd (Imm.). Tanner and Peter stepped back to let him through.

  He’s not as tall as he appears, thought Father Griffith with surprise. I would say he’s about my height, or a shade taller – an inch or so over six feet, I would guess – but seems… he seems taller, larger… somehow. I have known men like this. Smaller, dimmer versions of him, but like him, I think. Men who inspire. Inspire loyalty, love, fear… fear, too, yes.

  Xavier’s steady gray gaze scanned the room in a slow, deliberate movement. He looked at each player, and it was a look that said: you are here. Here, which is the most important place you have ever been and ever will be.

  “I want to welcome each of you,” Xavier began in a voice of absolute authority. “Your presence in this glass cube is a reflection of our philosophy at LifeGame–” he paused and gestured towards the glass walls.

  “Here you are on a lovely summer’s day in the middle of nature’s serene beauty to play a game that will change the course of your lives dramatically. This is LifeGame. As it is out there, beyond the sheet of glass, so it will be in here.

  “We at LiGa seek to create as natural a state as possible, and we impose nothing but freedom. Freedom to choose. Insofar as it is possible, we try to ensure that our contestants are free of any constraints beyond those imposed by the cards themselves. We trust each of you is entering this tournament freely of your own accord, and you may leave at any time – before the deposit of Life Points in the LifeBank at the start of each game. Although if you leave before the end of the tournament, you will forfeit at least a portion of the entrance fee, depending on the timing of your exit as well as any Life Points you may have lost until that time.”

  What is freedom? Wondered Father Griffith. Are we truly free? Free to do what? Am I truly free? Have I come to this tournament of my free will?

  “The bedrock of LifeGame is personal responsibility,” Xavier continued. “This means that you accept the consequences of your actions and inactions. You have accepted to play a game of bridge for the ultimate prize: the possibility of eternal life. And what you are risking is death. You have accepted this, and you will abide by it, for it is natural that you should do so. In nature there are no safety nets, no do-overs for the unlucky, those with poor judgment, or for those of weak and insufficient character.”

  Of course, thought Father Griffith. An early death is all part of our ‘personal responsibility.’

  “In the final analysis, LiGa is about character as you will see during the course of this tournament. As human beings we are made up of a great many traits and talents, but in our experience there are a select few who emerge triumphant in the test of Life. Or rather, in the case of LiGa, the test of the life transfer. I leave it to you to find out what those character traits are during this tournament, for that too is natural. Nature does not provide an instruction manual for Life.

  As I said at the beginning, your presence here is a testament to the abiding philosophy of LifeGame. Life. Game. Two words, one concept. LiGa Bridge is a game of bridge, but LiGa is a life choice – however long yours may last. If you prevail in this tournament, you will have the opportunity to join a growing group of remarkable people around the world who embody the ethos of LifeGame: to live their lives with the clarity, the transparency of glass–” Xavier paused again. The room remained wrapped in silence.

  “Glass can cut.” Father Griffith’s voice rang out loud and clear.

  “Exactly, Father,” Xavier nodded. “Glass can cut. It breaks. It is brittle… And glass – clear, transparent glass – is truthful. That within cannot be hidden from without.”

  Father Griffith smiled. “What about the walls of the LifeBank?” he asked quietly. “They are not transparent when the room is occupied.”

  “You are right, Father.” Xavier nodded. “We respect the privacy of the individual. We do not expose gratuitously. We do not expose the giving and taking of life. You will notice that the walls of the game rooms also cloud when the rooms are occupied. That is necessary to ensure a fair tournament. But the ethos of LiGa, what LiGa does, is wholly transparent.”

  No one else spoke.

  “As you are doubtless aware, LiGa consists of two branches: bridge and chess. These two branches have always existed as two autonomous groups. While we recognize that we are united by the same technology, and, to a large extent, the same philosophy, our organizations have traditionally maintained significant differences.

  “In an effort to bridge the gap, we include a member of our sister organization in the running of our respective games. As you know, Peter Krol comes from LiGa Chess. He is, of course, an able bridge player, and is the assistant director for LiGa Bridge tournaments in this country. Similarly, a LiGa Bridge Immortal is always present at LiGa Chess matches.

  “While participation in both tournaments is by invitation, LiGa Chess,
unlike LiGa Bridge, has always insisted on the non-transferability of its invitations. The reason for this is inherent in the nature of that game: a chess player will, with near certainty, be defeated by one of greater skill. Therefore, in order to ensure a fair tournament, LiGa Chess has to carefully calibrate its contestants according to their skill at chess.

  Bridge, on the other hand, contains a heavy dose of chance, such that a player of lesser skill may win any given game for a variety of reasons that are unrelated to his or her abilities. We have taken advantage of this element of chance, and made LiGa Bridge invitations transferable.” Xavier paused, and looked at each player in turn. “If you are one of the original invitees, you can rest assured that you will have a sporting chance in this tournament. And if you are not… well, this is after all a game of bridge.”

  Senator Heath cleared his throat. Xavier ignored him. “In addition to the invitation, you were also required to pay an entrance fee which would not have been required in order to enter a LiGa Chess tournament,” Xavier resumed. “The reason for this apparent disparity is to be found, once again, in the vital difference between the games. Because LiGa Chess invitations are non-transferable, our sister organization has deemed it unfair to impose an entrance fee. By contrast, LiGa Bridge often issues invitations to the heads of large and wealthy institutions, such as universities, hospitals and conservatories, knowing that the actual player to enter the tournament will be someone chosen from within the institution, and most likely not the original invitee. In fact, many institutions that have supplied us with players have established grants and other funds specifically allocated to pay the entrance fee.

  “There are instances when we issue invitations to individuals, of course, but only do so if we believe the person capable of affording the fee, or, possessing the wherewithal to procure the necessary sum.” Xavier paused and looked around the room. “Players, I will now leave you in the capable hands of Mr. Tanner and Mr. Krol. Mr. Tanner will explain the format of the tournament,” Xavier gestured towards the two directors standing to his rear. “Good luck.”