At the following morning's roll call, the kriegies assembled in their usual ragged formations, except for Lincoln Scott. He stood apart, at parade rest, arms clasped behind his back, legs spread slightly, ten yards away from the nearest block of men, waiting to be counted like every other prisoner.

He wore a blank, hard expression on his face and kept his eyes straight ahead, looking neither right nor left until the count was completed and

Major Clark bellowed the dismissal.

Then he immediately turned on his heel and quick-marched back to Hut 101, disappearing through the wooden door without a word to any other kriegie.

Tommy thought for a moment of pursuing him, then turned away. The two men had not discussed the discovery of the knife-other than for Scott to deny any knowledge about it.

Tommy had spent the night in his own bunk fitfully, nightmarishly, waking more than once in the dark feeling a sullen, helpless cold surrounding him. Now he quickly headed for the front gate, at the same time waving at Fritz Number One to provide an escort. He saw the ferret spot him and seem to hesitate, as if eager to avoid him, then seemingly think twice of that desire, stop and wait. Before he reached the ferret, however, Tommy was intercepted by Major Clark. The major wore a slight, mocking grin that did little to mask his feelings.

"Ten a.m." Hart. You and Scott and the Canadian who's helping out and anyone else you damn well need. We're going to be set up in the camp theater. My guess is that we're going to play to overflow crowds.

Standing room only, huh, Hart? What sort of performer are you, lieutenant? Think you can put on a good show?"

"Anything to keep the men occupied, major," Tommy replied sarcastically.

"That's right," Clark answered.

"Will you provide me with lists of evidence and witnesses at that time, major? As you are required by military law."

Clark nodded.

"If you want…"

"I do. I'm also going to need to inspect the alleged evidence.

Physically."

"As you wish. But I fail to see " "That's precisely the point, major,"

Tommy interrupted.

"What you fail to see."

He saluted and, without waiting for a command, turned sharply and headed toward Fritz Number One. Before he'd taken three steps, he heard the major's voice bursting like a shell behind him.

"Hart!"

He stopped and pivoted.

"Sir?"

"You were not dismissed, lieutenant!"

Tommy came to attention.

"Sorry, sir," he said.

"I was under the distinct impression we'd finished our conversation."

Clark waited a good thirty seconds, then returned the salute.

"That's all, lieutenant," he said briskly.

"Until ten a.m. Be on time," he added.

Once again. Tommy turned, heading rapidly toward the waiting ferret.

He thought he'd taken a risk, but a calculated one. Far better to have Major Clark furious with him, because that would only serve to draw his focus away from Scott.

Tommy sighed deeply. He thought things could not seem much worse for the black airman, and not for the first time since the discovery of the homemade knife the prior evening, Tommy felt a deepening sense of discouragement travel through him. He felt as if he only had the flimsiest idea what he was doing in fact, it seemed to him he hadn't done anything and realized that Lincoln Scott would be standing in front of a German firing squad if he didn't come up quickly with some sort of genuine scheme.

As he walked, he shook his head, thinking it was all well and good to suggest that they find the real killer, but he was unsure what the first step would be in that search. In that second, he longed for the simple navigational tasks aboard the Lovely Lydia. Find a marker, use a chart, note a landmark, make some simple calculations with a slide rule, bring out the sextant and take a sighting, and then chart a course to safety. Read the stars glittering above in the heavens and find the way home. Tommy thought it had been easy. And now, in Stalag Luft Thirteen, he had the same task in front of him, yet was unsure what tools to use to navigate. He walked along quickly, feeling the early morning damp loosen in the air around him. It would be another good day for flying, he thought to himself. This was incongruous. Far better to wake up to fog, sleet, and wildly tossing storms. Because if it were a clear, bright, warm day, this meant men would die. It seemed to him that death was better delivered on gray, cold days, the chilling, wet times of the soul.

Fritz Number One was shuffling his feet as he waited. He made a smoking gesture, making a V with two fingers and then lifting them to his lips. Tommy handed him a pair of cigarettes.

The ferret lit one, and placed the other carefully in his breast pocket.

"Not so many good American smokes now, with Captain Bedford dead," he said, eyes sadly following the thin trail of smoke rising from the end of the burning cigarette.

The ferret smiled wanly.

"Maybe I should be quitting.

Better maybe to quit than smoke the ersatz tobacco we are being issued."

Fritz Number One strode along with his head declined, giving him the appearance of a lanky, gangly dog that has been disciplined by its master.

"Captain Bedford always had plenty of smokes," he said.

"And he was most generous. He took good care of his friends."

Tommy nodded, but was suddenly alert to what the ferret was saying.

"That's what the men in his bunk room said, too."

Almost exactly. Tommy thought to himself. Word for word.

Fritz Number One continued.

"Captain Bedford, he was liked by many men?"

"It seemed that way."

The ferret sighed, still walking along rapidly.

"I am not so sure of this, Lieutenant Hart. Captain Bedford, he was very clever. Trader Vic was a good name for him. Sometimes men are too clever. I do not think clever men are always so well liked as they maybe believe. Also, in war, to be so clever, this is not a good thing, I also think."

"Why is that, Fritz?"

The ferret was speaking softly, his head still bent.

"Because war, it is filled with mistakes. So often the wrong die, is this not true, Lieutenant Hart? The good man dies, the bad man lives.

The innocent are killed. Not the guilty. Little children die, like my two little cousins, but not generals."

Fritz Number One had deposited an unmistakable harshness in the soft words he spoke.

"There are so many mistakes, sometimes I wonder if God is really watching. It is not possible, I think, to outwit war's mistakes, no matter how clever you may be."

"Do you think Trader Vic's death was a mistake?" Tommy asked.

The ferret shook his head.

"No. That is not what I mean."

"What are you saying?" Tommy demanded sharply, but beneath his breath.

Fritz Number One stopped. He looked up quickly, and stared at Tommy.

He seemed about to answer, but then, in the same moment, looked past Tommy's shoulder, his eyes directed at the office building where the commandant administered the camp. His mouth was partly open, as if words were gathering within his throat. Then, abruptly, he clamped shut, and shook his head.

"We will be late," he said between tightly pursed lips. This statement, of course, meant nothing, because there was nothing to be late for save the mid-morning hearing still several hours distant. The ferret made a quick, dismissive gesture, pointing toward the British compound, and hurried Tommy in that direction. But not fast enough to prevent Tommy from tossing a single glance over his shoulder at the administration building, where he caught sight of Commandant Edward Von Reiter and Hauptmann Heinrich Visser standing on the front steps, busily engaged in a rapid-fire conversation, both men seemingly on the verge of raising their voices angrily.