each of us, each of us understood. We sought no further advantages from the society we live in, coveted no benefits or positions beyond those we already possess. Through whatever abilities we had, aided by luck, inheritance or the misfortune of others, we had reached a freedom granted to few in this terribly troubled world. But with this freedom comes a responsibility and we accept it, as did our predecessors years ago. It is to use our resources to make this a better country, and through that process hopefully a better world.' Winters leaned back in the armchair, his palms upturned as he shook his head, his voice tentative, even questioning. 'Lord knows, no one elected us, no one anointed us in the name of divine grace, and certainly no bolts of lightning struck down from the heavens revealing any Olympian message, but we do what we do because we can do it. And we do it because we believe in our collective, dispassionate judgment.'
'Don't be defensive, Sam,' interrupted Margaret Lowell gently. 'We may be privileged, but we're also diverse. We don't represent any single colour of the spectrum.'
'I'm not sure how to take that, Margaret,' said Gideon Logan, his eyebrows arched in mock surprise as the members of Inver Brass laughed.
'Dear Gideon,' replied Lowell. 'I never noticed. Palm Beach at this time of year? You're positively sunburned.'
'Someone had to tend your gardens, madame.'
'If you did, I'm no doubt homeless.'
'Conceivably, yes. A consortium of Puerto Rican families has leased the property, madame, a commune, actually.' Quiet laughter rippled across the table. 'I'm sorry, Samuel, our levity isn't called for.'
'On the contrary,' Jacob Mandel broke in. 'It's a sign of health and perspective. If we ever walk away from laughter, especially over our foibles, we have no business here… If you'll forgive me, the elders in the European pogroms taught that lesson. They called it one of the principles of survival.'
'They were right, of course,' agreed Sundstrom, still chuckling. 'It puts a distance, however brief, between people and their difficulties. But may we get to the candidate? I'm absolutely fascinated. Sam says he's a brilliant choice, but totally unexpected. I would have thought otherwise, given—as Peg said—the time factor. I thought he'd be someone in the wings, on the political wings of a Pegasus, if you will.'
'I really must read one of his books someday,' interrupted Mandel again, again softly. 'He sounds like a rabbi but I don't understand him.'
'Don't try,' said Winters, smiling kindly at Sundstrom.
'The candidate,' repeated Sundstrom. 'Do I gather that Varak has prepared a presentation?'
'With his usual regard for detail,' answered Winters, moving his head to his left, indicating the glowing red light on the walled console behind him. 'Along the way he's unearthed some rather extraordinary information relating to events that took place a year ago, almost to the day.'
'Oman?' asked Sundstrom, squinting above the light of his brass lamp. 'Memorial services were held in over a dozen cities last week.'
'Let Mr. Varak explain,' said the white-haired historian as he pressed an inlaid button on the surface of the table. The low sound of a buzzer filled the room; seconds later the library door opened and a stocky blond man in his mid to late thirties walked into the shadowed light and stood in the frame. He was dressed in a tan summer suit and a dark red tie; his broad shoulders seemed to stretch the fabric of his jacket. 'We're ready, Mr. Varak. Please come in.'
'Thank you, sir.' Milos Varak closed the door, shutting out the dim light of the hallway beyond, and proceeded to the far end of the room. Standing in front of the lowered silver screen, he nodded courteously, acknowledging the members of Inver Brass. The glare of the brass lamps that reflected off the glistening table washed over his face, heightening the prominent cheekbones and the broad forehead below the full head of neatly combed straight blond hair. His eyelids were vaguely sloped, bespeaking a Slavic ancestry influenced by the tribes of Eastern Europe; the eyes within them were calm, knowing, and somehow cold. 'May I say it is good to see all of you again?' he said, his English precise, in his voice the accent of Prague.
'It's good to see you, Milos,' countered Jacob Mandel, saying the name with the proper Czech pronunciation, which was 'Meelos'. The others followed with brief utterances.
'Varak.' Sundstrom leaned back in his chair.
'You look well, Milos.' Gideon Logan nodded.
