Damien picked Buher next. He wasn't sure why he made that choice. Maybe it was some kind of reciprocal gesture, a response to Buher's odd but moving speech of the night before. Or maybe he had a sense that Buher was someone to play with, instead of against. In any case, Buher seemed extremely pleased to have been chosen by Damien. He sped over toward Damien and Richard and skidded to a sharp stop beside them, spraying chips of ice all over them in the process. He was togged out in the same style of ostentatiously correct casual clothing that had marked him the night before.

Mark's next choice was Pasarian. He liked Pasarian, who was proving himself to be game by simply going out on the ice to begin with. Given his background and training, he was about as much use to a team as a brood mare in a horse race, but his spirit made up for it. He showed signs of being the little Yogi Berra of Lake Geneva ice hockey, doing not much more than cheering, as far as anyone could see, but bringing in a winning team nonetheless.

The rest of the teams were picked, the sides of the playing area chosen, and the game was on.

Buher was an expert player, ruthless and assured. He had obviously practised a great deal. Richard held back, avoiding any star plays because he did not want to be the center of attention. He watched Buher though, and realized—for the first time—that the man had absolutely no sense of 'play.' What was startling to Thorn was that he had never noticed this quality in Buher before. Usually his instincts about people were razor-sharp.

But Thorn didn't dwell on it. He was far too busy watching Damien.

Even in this equivalent of a sandlot game, Damien's skill was astonishing, particularly for a young boy. Flashing about, challenging, delighting in the battle, his skates gleaming in the sun, Damien looked like a premier danseur of the ice, a Nureyev on skates. He was magnificent to watch; he controlled the puck most of the time, wielding his stick with style and power, and, to all intents and purposes, he determined the course of play. When Damien smashed through an opening to make the first goal. Richard Thorn smiled with a pride that could have been no more genuine had Damien been his natural son. The shouts and applause from the wives and older executives standing on the shore had nothing at all to do with who Damien was; they were seeing virtuosity on display and were responding to the thrill and the beauty of it.