“Broken back, huh?” the voice sounded surprisingly upbeat. Almost jovial.

He pried his eyes slowly open to regard his visitor. He blinked a couple of times, but the guy was still there, and still looked just like Robert Preston. Sounded like him, too, come to think about it. He grinned despite himself. The smile he was replying to was wide and infectious.

There was even something familiar about the way the guy was dressed. Like a B movie used car salesman. Light brown tweed suit, pale pink shirt, white vest, and a no foolin’ hand tied red bow tie. Where had he seen that getup before?

He looked up at the IV bag hanging beside his bed, wondering what sort of crud they were pumping into him to cause such vivid hallucinations.

As though he could read his mind, his visitor chuckled, a short, merry burst of sound. “No,” he smiled. “You’re not dreaming. And it’s not the drugs. I’m here alright.”

He had to think about that for a few minutes. Not so much because the mystery was particularly deep as because whatever they were feeding him through that tube really was making it difficult to string thoughts together.

Finally, “you’re wasting your time, pal,” he told the guy, trying unsuccessfully to shrug. “I hit the tree, it didn’t hit me. You need to find a different ambulance to chase. Unless you’re from the Arbor day foundation.”

The laughter this time was longer, more hearty. “No, Sam,” he grinned wide. “I’m no more a lawyer than I am a hallucination.”

Another few minutes of thought to digest that cryptic bit of news. He was getting kind of fed up with the guy, no matter how infectious his amusement. His temper these days had been getting tighter on the trigger even before the crash. He’d become downright surly since Murphy’s death.

“So who the hell are you,” he asked gruffly. “And what the hell do you want?”

“Call me Bob,” the stranger —Bob— doffed his wide-brimmed fedora, smiling even wider. “Think of me as... an agent.”

That required some more thought before he responded with, “federal, state, or local?”

Bob seemed to be getting one helluva kick out of this conversation. Good for him.

“No, Sam,” he chortled. “None of those.”

then he spread his arms and bowed slightly, never losing eye contact. And those were some pretty sharp eyes, for all the buffoonery. “I’m a hunter of talent, Sam,” he admitted.

Sam scratched his head with some difficulty, dragging his arm slowly up his torso and past his fractured ribs, wincing at the pain it caused in those areas where he still had feeling.

“The only talent I ever had was chasing tail,” he hissed through the pain. “And I gave that up when I met my wife,”

“You’re an interesting man,” Bob countered. “And you’re selling yourself short.”

He snorted. It was an involuntary response, and quite painful. “You think my life was so interesting people will want to read about it? Is that what you’re talking about? Or are you talking movies? Even if I could write something that would sell for a dollar online,” he complained. “What have I ever done that would warrant it?”

“You aren’t a bad writer, Sam,” Bob countered. “All things considered. I’ve read every one of your books myself, and quite enjoyed them.”

“So you’re the one.”

“Not the only one, I think,” Bob chortled, “but certainly one of them. Although I may be your biggest fan.” Bob paused here for dramatic affect. Then his eyes went sort of sly, and he quirked a conspiratorial smile. “My favorite, though,” he winked, “is Tucker Shandry and the Long Road West.”

Sam narrowed his own eyes. That book had been a thought exercise. A sort of ‘what if’ scenario ala Robinson Caruso in the far post apocalyptic future. One of those cliched modern man cryogenically frozen for a thousand years travesties. He’d mostly just wanted to see if he could do it.

It had sold exactly one copy.

“I suppose you want me to sign it?”

“Don’t have it with me,” Bob laughed. “you can sign it when you sign your next one.

“I did enjoy it though,” Bob’s voice was casual. “ Considering the setting, there seemed to be quite a bit of research involved. Not like those so-called novels where the author just starts rambling across the pages. You had me pulled right into that man’s world, Sam. Bravo.”

“So you’re looking for a researcher? Or a writer?”

“Neither, exactly,” Bob admitted. “And both. You see, Sam, while I do think you’re an excellent writer, I think you may have other talents that are even more valuable. Talents you haven’t even considered. Interesting talents. Entertaining. Crowd-riveting, even!”

Sam closed his eyes again and lay back against the pillow, letting his breath out in a long, slow sigh. “They’re telling me,” he said after awhile, “that it’s sixty-forty I’ll never walk again, even with a limp. At least where they think I can hear them. When they think I’m sleeping, the prognosis ain’t so good. Old bones don’t heal like young bones, right?” He sighed again. “And nerves require a young man’s recuperative powers to reknit. So unless these talents you’re on about are something I can exercise from this damned bed, Bob, you’re out of luck.”

“Yes,” Bob sighed in commiseration. “It’s awful getting old. Not like when we were nineteen, eh?”

Sam cracked a single eye and peered up at the chucklehead. That statement hadn’t sounded exactly like it should have. Something about the lilting tone of voice. Something about the way.... “am I gonna have to call the nurse?” he demanded irritably. “Or are you going to tell me what the hell this is all about?”

Bob had his thumbs in his vest pockets, tapping his fingers against the material. Those sharp eyes were boring straight into Sam’s, calculating. Like he was struggling with a difficult decision. Like he wanted to play the game out a little longer, but was realizing that his audience was losing interest.

“How’d you like to be nineteen again, Sam?” he let go with no further hesitation.

Sam, for his part, just stared back at him. “That’s a bad joke, pal,” he snarled when he’d calmed himself sufficiently.

“Just hear me out,” Bob held out his hands. “Five minutes, Sam. That’s all I ask. I mean, it’s not like you have anything better to do, right?”

“Five minutes?” Curiosity was a deadly drug.

“Five,” Bob assured him. “After that, if you’re not interested, I’ll leave this room and you’ll never see me again. Deal?”

“Five. And it had better be good.”

“Right,” Bob paced a small circle, arms crossed, one hand working his chin. “I’m a talent agent,” he said over his shoulder. “Just as I’ve said. I search the...” and he paused, which was odd. As though he was unsure. The first time since Sam had opened his eyes that the guy had seemed anything but absolutely confident.

With another glance over to his audience, Bob tried again. “I work for a consortium of entertainment syndicates,” he started, “Well,” and he paused again. “I’m technically an independent. Go my own way sort of fellow.” he turned full on Sam and winked. “not under anybody’s thumb, you see?

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“It’s my job to find, for these consortiums, suitable candidates for the... ah... Grand Game—”

“Grand Game?” Sam interrupted.

“I’ll get to it,” Bob assured. “Anyhow, I locate and prepare contestants to compete.”

He completed his circuit and stood once more over Sam. “And I think that, this time around, you may be my man.”

Sam pried open the other eye. “This Grand Game,” he inquired laconically. “Never heard of it. Is it a wheelchair race? Because I’m not sure I’ll even be qualified for that before spring. You know, broken back and all that. Motorized gurneys, maybe?”

Bob shook his head. “I like you, Sam,” he confided. “You’ve got a twisted sense of humor. That’ll help you in the future.

“No,” he said, “the Grand Game isn’t a wheelchair race. And it’s not anything you’d ever have heard of before.” He paused, tapping his chin again. “It’s a foreign program, you might say. Very foreign. And it’s pay per view. Exclusive.”

“And you think that I can compete in it,” Sam grumbled. “Bob, I was sixty-two years old even before I broke my back and fractured all of these other bones.”

“Oh, Bob smiled. “You won’t have a broken back. Nor any of the rest, come to that.”

Sam closed his eyes again. “I can’t see the clock, Bob,” he hissed through gritted teeth, “but I’m getting the impression that your five minutes are nearly up.”

He was tired and wracked with pain deep enough that even the opiates they were diluting his bloodstream with couldn’t completely quell it. With nothing to look forward to but more of the same, stretching down through...

One more thing he was, was he was through with being taunted. Bad enough he’d been lying here for the two days since they’d peeled the Chevelle off of him in that ravine with nothing to occupy his mind but the fact that he was probably never going to feel his legs again, let alone walk. But to have this bozo show up with his goofy costume and taunt him about it...

“I’m not joking, Sam.” for the first time since Bob had entered the room, his voice didn’t sound jovial. Sam opened his eyes and looked up.

Bob was leaning over the bed, and his face was deadly serious. “If you agree to compete in the Grand Game, Sam,” Bob told him levelly. “You won’t be doing it with a broken back. Nor with arthritis, or bad eyes, or a trick knee, or that tinnitus.

“You really will be nineteen again, Sam. Physically, at least. Hell, you’ll need to be.”

Sam was trying hard to dismiss the nonsense he was hearing, but something in that piercing gaze was holding him short. The seriousness with which his visitor was laying these claims out, as though he utterly believed them.

He shook his head, slowly, barely a few inches. “I think I’d have heard about that sort of technology, Bob,” he said, hushed. “Even if it were only for the rich and famous, word of that sort of...” he went on in a more normal tone. “I mean, sure, I’ve heard the rumors. If you can believe those tabloids. Head transplants and that sort of nonsense. But that stuff is all years away! Even then, the cost of it... I’m not some sort of football star or Olympic athlete that anybody would spend that sort of money on me. I’m just an old guy without....”

“It’s real, Sam,” Bob assured him. “Just like I am.”

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, hard, clenching his jaw. He’d fallen for it! He wanted to believe. No matter how much he’d been telling himself that he didn’t care whether he lived or died... No matter how crazily casual he’d been being with his life these past five years since Meg had— Up against the hard reality of lying here, metaphorically cut in half, he came to the realization that he didn’t want to go out like this.

He opened his eyes, and Bob was still staring down on him with that grim seriousness. “And I’m supposed to know you’re not bullshitting me how?”

The smile was back full force, almost without transition. “Why,” Bob withdrew an electronic pad from within his jacket with a wide flourish. “I’ll prove it to you of course. All you have to do is sign me as your agent, agree to compete in the game, sign the contract and non-disclosure agreement, and I’ll take care of the rest!”

Sam’s eyes narrowed again. “You still haven’t told me what this game of yours entails... Bob.”

The smile wavered a bit. “Does it matter, Sam? If it gets you up and out of that bed, do you really care?”

He thought about it. Found that it did. “It does, Bob,” he sighed, still mildly surprised he was giving the subject even this much credit. “You’re promising me an awful lot, and that usually means that an awful lot is expected. There are things I won’t do even to get up out of this bed. You should know that about me along with all the rest, wherever you found all of it.”

Bob crossed his arms again and had another go at his chin. Then he walked across the room to the folding chair standing in the corner, bringing it over to the bed and taking a seat facing Sam. “As much as I’d like to tell you, Sam,” his voice was almost mournful. “I can’t. I’ve told you that the game is very exclusive. It’s also very secret. I’ve already told you about the non-disclosure agreement, right? Oh, nothing nefarious. Standard stuff, really. But I’ve signed one too, and the consequences of breaking it are... shall we say,” he shivered theatrically. “Somewhat dire.”

“Mexican standoff then, I suppose,” Sam wished he could fold his arms with finality, but in truth he could barely move them.

“Tell ya what,” Bob seemed to perk up. How about this. You sign me as your agent. Separate contract entirely. Sign the non-disclosure, and you’ll be in the fold.” he smiled wider. “Then, if you decide you don’t want to sign the main contract, you’re not obligated to. I’ll leave you my card, and be off to find somebody else who might do half as well as I think you can.”

He was laying it on pretty thick. The book hadn’t been that good. Hell, he’d written it and didn’t think it had been that good. Tucker Shandry had been a thinly veiled him. It had been a glorified vanity piece of wish fulfillment that even Meg had considered schlock.

“Do I get to read it first?” he wondered.

Bob handed him the device.

“The hell is this?” he indicated a pattern of bizarre characters all scrunched together and overlapping one another at the top of the page.

“Ah,” Bob cleared his throat. “That’s, ah, the legal spelling of my name. Bob’s the Americanized version, and not legally binding.”

Sam rolled his eyes, but read past the Fibonacci spiral signature to the meat of the document. It seemed pretty straightforward. Very similar to those he’d browsed back in the days when he’d thought he might actually have a writing career and was looking for literary agents.

Almost. “Where’s your cut?”

Bob raised an eyebrow. “Oh, my cut doesn’t come from you, Sam,” he smiled. Don’t worry about it.”

Well, that wasn’t suspicious at all. Hmmm. Yadda yadda yadda, full representation, right to refuse ancillary contracts, power of— “Power of Attorney?”

“Keep reading.”

Ah. When dealing with officials, patrons, advertisers. Oh! “And what’s your cut of advertising revenue?”

Bob held five fingers up and gave them a little wiggle.

“Just five?” he raised an eyebrow. “You must be pretty sure.”

“Oh, I am, Sam,” Bob’s voice was firm. “I really think you’re the one who’ll make it!”

“What?”

“Oops!” Bob held up a hand. “Nothing. Never mind. Non-disclosure and all that. Keep reading.”

He started over and moved much more slowly. This was obviously not going to be a browse through kind of document. When he was finished, he eyed his potential new agent from beneath one raised eyebrow. “This seems pretty clear and concise, Bob,” he had to admit. “There are a number of entities in here that I’d like a whole lot more information on, but there’s nothing in here that gives you any power to shanghai me into anything I don’t want to be involved in.”

Bob merely gave him that flourishing bow.

“So where do I sign?”

Bob was up like a flash and beside the bed. “Thumb print here.”

Sam laid his thumb on the indicated spot, watching a thin green line scan beneath it.

“Hold your eye still so I can get a good retinal scan,” Bob held the device up close to his face.

Sam held still.

“Okay, now open wide and say, ‘ah,” as he withdrew a stylus from one end of the pad.

“The hell?”

“DNA swab.

“Alright,” Bob fed the scraping into the machine with a broad smile. “Now—”

“What,” Sam demanded snarkily. “No blood?”

“Not as accurate as you’d think,” Bob didn’t seem to catch the sarcasm.

“Now about the non-disclosure.”

Sam took the pad as it was re-offered, moving carefully as though it might shock him. But the non-disclosure document was as solidly boilerplate as had been the representation contract. Until he got to the failure clause. “Uhm... Bob?”

“Ah,” Bob seemed to know just what he was asking. “Yes, I did say dire, didn’t I?”

“Bob,” he growled low in his throat. “This says that if I say anything about the great game, they’ll kill my children.” He glared up at his new agent, murder in his eye. “They can’t do that,” he insisted. “That’s monstrous, and not even remotely legal.”

Bob held his hands out placatingly. “Calm down, Sam,” he backed half a step away, despite the man he faced being all but tied in place. “It’s not an issue, is it? You aren’t going to say anything, are you?”

“But they can’t—”

“Oh ho ho!” Bob shook his head and waggled a finger. “That’s where you’re wrong, Sam. They can and they will. The circles we’re dealing with here, you must understand. They... let’s just say that where the law is concerned, they are the law. Your law— I mean, Earth’s— Damnit, Sam, sign the non-disclosure so that we can speak freely. I’ve got a family too.”

The change that had come over Bob was startling. Sam wondered what sort of hold these syndicates had on him, and what he was signing himself up for. But, then, the only thing he was signing up for at the moment was to keep his yap shut. But at what risk?

Bob intervened. “Hand me that thing,” he demanded. He took the pad and turned his back, pecking out a few lines of text before drawing a wire from within his jacket of wonders and plugging it into a port in the side. There followed some warbling staticky noise that almost sounded as though it was coming from Bob rather than the device.

When he turned, Bob proffered the pad. “Alright, Sam. Just for you, I’ve had the form amended. Initial here,” and he indicated a line in the document.”

Sam read the correction and frowned. “Bob? The only change is that now it says they’ll kill me.”

“Yes,” Bob shrugged. “Well, don’t thank me too quickly. You’ll still have to re-sign a new copy of the original when and if you agree to compete.”

Thank him? Whatever had given him the idea that he’d wanted to thank him?

But with only his own life at stake, he went through the whole signing process again.

“Now?” he asked when the pad was safely stowed in Bob’s jacket once more. “What is this Great Game?”