"As you wish, lieutenant."

With that, the German stepped up, passed Tommy, and headed into the

Abort. Renaday hurried after him. Fritz Number One waved wildly, now that the officer was out of sight, for Tommy to follow him, and the two men set off across the camp again. The milling knots of kriegies still gathered on the parade ground let them pass. Behind him, Tommy Hart could hear the men murmur with questions and speculation, and perhaps the first few tones of anger.

There was a single guard clutching a Schmeisser machine pistol standing outside the door to cooler cell number six.

Tommy thought the man young, probably no more than eighteen or nineteen. And although he stood at attention, the guard seemed nervous, almost scared to be in such close proximity to the kriegies.

This was not all that uncommon, Tommy thought. Some of the newer and younger, less experienced guards arrived at Stalag Luft Thirteen so propagandized about the Terrorfliegers-terror-fliers, according to the constant harangue of Nazi broadcasters-in the Allied armies that they believed the kriegies all to be bloodthirsty savages and cannibals. Of course. Tommy knew that the Allied air war was admittedly one that was predicated upon the twin concepts of savagery and terror. Night and day incendiary raids on the populated centers of the cities could hardly be considered something different. So he guessed that the unsettling thought of coming into close contact with a black Terrorflieger kept the teenager's finger dancing around the trigger of the Schmeisser.

The young guard wordlessly stepped aside, pausing only to unbolt the door, and Tommy stepped past him into the cell.

The walls and floor were a dull gray concrete. There was a single overhead bare lightbulb and a solitary window up in the corner of the six by nine room. It was dank, and seemed a good ten degrees colder inside the cell than outdoors, even on the overcast, rainy day.

Lincoln Scott had been sitting in a corner, his knees drawn up to his chest, across from the sole piece of furniture in the cell, a crusted metal pail for waste. He stood up rapidly as Tommy entered the room, not exactly coming to attention, but certainly close to it, rigid and stiff.

"Hello, lieutenant," Tommy said briskly, almost officiously.

"I tried to introduce myself to you the other day…"

"I know who you are. What the hell is going on?" Lincoln Scott demanded sharply. His feet were bare and he wore only pants and blouse. There was no sign in the cell of either his sheepskin flight jacket or boots, and he must have had to fight to prevent himself from shivering.

Tommy hesitated.

"Haven't you been told " Scott interrupted.

"I haven't been told a damn thing! I'm pulled out of formation and hustled into the commandant's office sometime this morning. Major Clark and Colonel MacNamara demand I hand over my jacket and boots. Then they question me for a half-hour about how much I hate that cracker bastard Bedford. After that, they asked me a couple of questions about last night, and then the next thing I know, I'm being escorted into this delightful place by a couple of Kraut goons. You're the first American I've seen since this morning's session with the colonel and the major. So, Lieutenant Hart, please tell me what in the hell is going on!"

Scott's voice was a mingling of restrained fury and confusion.

Tommy was taken aback.

"Let me get this straight," he said slowly.

"You haven't been informed by the major…"

"I told you, Hart. I haven't been told a thing about anything! And what the hell am I doing in here? Under guard." "Vincent Bedford was murdered last night."

Scott's mouth opened and his eyes widened for an instant, before narrowing and fixing Tommy Hart with an unwavering gaze.

"Murdered? Here?"

"Major Clark informs me that you will be charged with this crime."

"Me?"

"Correct."

Scott leaned back against the cement wall, almost as if he'd been struck by a steady, surprise blow. The black flier took a deep breath, steadied himself, and once again stood ramrod straight.

"I've been assigned to help you prepare a defense to the charge." Tommy hesitated, then added, "And I must warn you that they consider this to be a capital offense."

Lincoln Scott nodded slowly before he replied. His shoulders were thrust back. His eyes fixed on Tommy Hart. He spoke slowly, deliberately, his voice slightly raised, as if he could weight each word with a passion that reached beyond the cement walls of the cooler cell, avoided the guard and his automatic weapon, and traveled past the rows of huts, over the wire, beyond the woods, and all the way across Europe to freedom.

"Mr. Hart…" he said, each word echoing in the small room, "if you believe nothing else, believe this: I did not kill Vincent Bedford. I may have wanted to. But I did not."

Lincoln Scott took another deep breath.

"I am innocent," he said.

Tommy was momentarily taken aback by the forcefulness of Lincoln Scott's denial. He realized he must have looked astonished because the black flier immediately burst out:

"What's the matter. Hart?"

Tommy shook his head.

"Nothing."

"Liar," Scott snorted.

"What was it that you expected me to say, lieutenant? That I killed the racist bastard?"

"No…"

"Then what?"

Tommy took a slow breath, organizing his thoughts.

"I didn't know what you would say. Lieutenant Scott. I hadn't really considered the overall question of your guilt or innocence yet. Only that you are about to be charged with a crime."

Scott exhaled sharply, and took a few steps around the tiny cooler cell, shrugging his shoulders against the damp cold.

"Can they do that?" he demanded suddenly.

"Do what?"

"Charge me with a crime. Here…" He swung his arm around as if encompassing the entirety of the prisoner-of-war camp."

"Yes, I believe so. We are technically still under the command of our own officers and members of the army and therefore subject to military discipline. I suppose, technically, you would argue that we are in a combat situation, and consequently controlled by the special regulations that imply…"

Scott shook his head.

"It doesn't make sense," he said briskly.

"Unless you're black. And then it makes perfectly reasonable sense.

Goddamn it! What the hell did I ever do to them? What conceivable evidence could they have?"

"I don't know. All I know is that Major Clark said there was ample evidence to convict you."

Scott snorted again.

"Crap," he said.

"How can there be any evidence when I had nothing to do with the cracker sobs death? And how did it happen, anyway?"

Tommy started to answer, then stopped himself.

"Why don't we talk about you first," he said slowly.

"Why don't you tell me what happened last night."

Scott pushed his back up against the gray cement cooler wall, staring up toward the tiny window for a moment, collecting his thoughts. Then he blew out slowly, turned his gaze on Tommy, and shrugged.

"There's not much to tell," he said.

"After the afternoon count, I walked a bit. Then I ate alone. I read in my bunk until the Krauts turned off the lights. I rolled over and went to sleep. I woke up once in the middle of the night. Needed to take a leak, so I got up, lit a candle, and went down to the toilet. I did my business, returned to the bunk room, climbed back into the sack, and didn't wake up until the Germans started whistling and shouting.

Next thing I knew, I was in here. Like I told you."

Tommy tried to imprint every word on his memory. He wished he'd at least brought a notepad and pencil with him, and cursed himself for his forgetfulness. He promised himself he would not make that mistake again.