Tommy did not have to turn around to see Lincoln Scott stiffen his back and clench his fists. He hoped the black airman would manage to keep his own fury in check. From the crowded kriegie audience, Tommy heard a ripple of conversation, like a wind racing through treetops, and he knew Visser had just helped him to take the trial of Lincoln Scott across an important line.

For a moment, he rubbed his chin.

"What makes a man a man, Hauptmann?" Visser did not reply immediately, letting a smile curl across his face. The scars he wore on his cheeks from his encounter with the Spitfire seemed to glisten, and finally, he shrugged.

"A complex question, lieutenant. One that has bedeviled philosophers, clerics, and scientists for centuries. Surely you do not expect me to be able to answer it here, today, in this military court?"

"No, Hauptmann. But I would expect you to be able to give all of us your own definition. Personal definition."

Visser paused, thinking, then replied, "There are many factors,

Lieutenant Hart. Sense of honor. Bravery. Dedication.

These would be combined with intelligence. The ability to reason."

"Qualities Lieutenant Scott does not possess?"

"Not to the degree sufficient."

"You consider yourself to be an intelligent, educated man, Hauptman?

A sophisticated man?"

"Of course."

Tommy decided to take a chance. He could feel his own fury at the fanatic German's smug responses fighting to take over his emotions, and he had to struggle to keep a certain coldness in his voice and in his questions. At the same moment, he hoped that all his prep school training from a decade earlier had stuck with him. The faculty back at his old school had always said there was a reason for memorizing certain great works, and that someday a recitation might prove important.

He trusted this to be one of those times.

"Ah, an educated, intelligent man would understand the classics, I suppose. Tell me, Hauptmann, are you familiar with the following: Arma virumque cano, Troiae qui primus aborts Italiam fato profugus…"

Visser stared harshly at Tommy Hart.

"Latin is a dead language, from a corrupt and decadent culture, and not among my skills."

"So you do not recognize…" and Tommy stopped.

"Well, don't let me tell you…" He spun sharply about, taking a gamble.

"Lieutenant Scott?" he demanded in a loud voice.

Scott sprang to his feet. He stared across at the German, a small, cruel smile of his own on his face.

"It would seem to me that any truly educated man would recognize the opening lines to Virgil's Aeneid," Scott said sharply. "

"I sing of arms and the man who first from the shores of Troy came destined an exile in Italy…" Would you like me to continue, Hauptmann'? '… multum ille et terris iactatus at alto Vi supe ram saevae me morem Iunonis ob iram…' That would be:… Much buffeted he on land and on the deep by force of the gods because of fierce Juno's never forgetting anger…"

Lincoln Scott stood stock-still as he recited the poet's words. The courtroom remained silent, a long, electric moment, and then Scott, still wearing a look of barely constrained fury, spoke out loudly, but evenly, not removing his eyes from the German.

"A dead language, for sure. But the verses can speak as loudly today as they did centuries ago." Scott hesitated, then added, "But Mr. Hart, it is perhaps unfair to ask this highly educated man a question about a language he doesn't know. So, Hauptmann, perhaps you could use your knowledge to identify, ‘Es irr der Mensch, so long er strebt…’"

Visser smiled nastily at Lincoln Scott.

"I am pleased that the lieutenant has read the German masters as well.

Goethe's Faust is a standard work in our colleges and universities."

Scott seemed coolly pleased.

"But not so much in ours, in America. Would the Hauptmann be so kind as to translate for the audience?"

Visser's smile faded just a touch. He nodded.

"Man is in error, throughout his strife…" the German said sharply.

"I'm sure you can understand what the poet meant by that, Hauptmann"

Scott said.

Then the black flier sat down, with a small nod in Tommy's direction.

Tommy noticed that even Walker Townsend was hypnotized by the exchange.

Tommy looked over at the German. Visser seemed outwardly unruffled, unaffected by the give-and-take. He doubted that was true deep within the German. Tommy thought Visser was as much a performer as he was a policeman, and he suspected that some of Visser's strength came in his ability to shield his real feelings. Tommy took a deep breath and reminded himself that Visser remained coiled, alert, and extremely poisonous.

"And so, Hauptmann, there came a time when you were summoned to the Abort where Captain Bedford's body was discovered…"

Visser shifted in his chair and nodded.

"Ah," he said, "we have finished with the philosophical inquiries, and returned to the real world?"

"For the moment, Hauptmann, yes. Please explain to all assembled what you were able to deduce from the crime scene in the Abort."

Visser settled back.

"To begin with, lieutenant, the crime scene was not the Abort. Captain Bedford was murdered in a different location and then transported to the Abort where his body was abandoned."

"How can you tell this?"

"There was a bloody footprint of a shoe on the floor of the Abort. It was pointing toward the stall where the body was located.

Had the murder taken place in that location, then the blood would have been on the shoe, exiting the Abort. In addition, the bloodstains on the body, and the adjacent privy area, suggested that most of the victim's bleeding was done elsewhere."

Walker Townsend rose, opened his mouth, seemed to think better of it, then returned to his seat.

"Do you know where Trader Vic was actually killed?"

"No. I have not uncovered that location. I suspect steps have been taken to conceal it."

"What else did you learn from examining the body?"

Visser smiled again, continuing to speak in a self-satisfied and self-assured voice.

"As you previously suggested, lieutenant, it appeared that the blow which took the captain's life was delivered from behind, by someone wielding a narrow, double-edged blade. A dagger, I suspect. And this weapon was in the assailant's left hand, as you surmised. This is the only possible explanation for the type of wound on the victim's neck."

"The weapon the prosecution claims was used to commit the murder?"

"It would have produced a large, ragged, bloody slash-like wound. Not the more precise stab that Captain Bedford suffered."

"Now, you have not seen this other weapon, have you?"

"I have searched. Unsuccessfully," Visser said coldly.

"A weapon such as that would be verboten. Prisoners of war are not permitted to have such a weapon in their possession."

"And so, Hauptmann. The murder did not occur where the prosecution says it did, did not happen as the prosecution claims it happened, was not performed by the weapon the prosecution contends is the murder weapon, and left clear-cut evidence suggesting a completely different series of events.

Is that not the sum of your testimony?"

"Yes. An accurate recitation, Mr. Hart."

Tommy left unsaid the obvious. But he left his own words hanging long enough in the air so that every kriegie in the jam-packed room-those hanging from each window, and those gathered outside, having every element of the testimony relayed to them-could find the same conclusion.

"Thank you, Hauptmann. Most instructive. Your witness, captain."

Tommy went and sat down, as Walker Townsend rose from his seat. The captain from Virginia seemed patient, and he, too, wore a small smile.

"Let me get this straight, Hauptmann. You hate Americans, although you lived as one for nearly a decade…"