"Or was at least reminded of someone," Nauman clarified.

Again Val shook her head. "That's what you said this afternoon, Oscar, and I keep thinking about Mr. Flythe and how he looked last night and he's no one I ever remember seeing. I'll ask around tomorrow, though." her voice was steely. "Most of John's old friends from our McClellan days will be at the funeral."

Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Whaty ou just said, Oscar-that Flythe might have reminded John of someone. There was a guy in SDS. Not at McClellan, but from Syracuse or Cornell. He had a pointed beard like Flythe's. Maybe that's what Sam meant?"

She jumped to her feet and crossed swiftly to the large oak desk.

"Sam?" Nauman was puzzled.

"Sam Naismith. When I phoned him this afternoon to ask if he'd be one of the pallbearers, he was so shocked; he said he'd just been talking to John one night this week; that they were mulling over the old days."

She had seated herself behind the desk and pulled the phone close while flipping rapidly through a roller-card index.

"I wasn't paying attention," she muttered, "Sam? This is Val again. Hang on a minute, will you?"

She placed the receiver in an amplifying device that acted like a two-way speaker and allowed Sigrid and Nauman to follow the conversation.

"Sam, a police officer is here looking into John's death. We need to ask you some questions."

"Sure, honey," rumbled a solicitous male voice. "Fire away."

"You said you and John talked this week. When?"

"Wednesday night."

Sigrid stood and approached the speaker. "Mr. Naismith, this is Lieutenant Harald of the New York Police Department. Did you call Professor Sutton or-"

"He called me. Lieutenant. Said he was getting together some lectures about the protest movement and wanted to refresh his memory. We were in SDS at McClellan together a million years ago."

"Sam," said Val Sutton, "do you remember a guy who used to visit on campus from one of the upstate New York schools- Syracuse or Cornell? He had long hair and a beard."

"Who didn't?" chuckled Naismith.

"No, but his beard was cut to a sharp point. And his hair was always in a pony tail. I think his name was Chris or Crist-"

"Tris," Naismith said flatly. "Tristan Yorke."

"That's the name! Tristan Yorke. Did John ask about him?"

"Not really. I was the one who brought him up, Val, not John."

"In what connection, Mr. Naismith?" asked Sigrid.

"John said he'd gotten up to the point in his research where the Weathermen splintered off of SDS and went underground. We knew some who went that route. I don't know if you've ever heard of a group called Red Snow?"

"I've heard."

"Well, you probably know that their leader, Fred Hamilton, was from McClellan. They blew themselves up in a camp on Lake Cayuga the summer of 1970, but rumor had it that a couple of them got out alive. Some people said Fred was the one who got away, along with his girlfriend. Others said Fred was blown into a zillion bits of fish food and it was a pair of converts from California. John asked me who I thought might know for sure and we hit on Tris Yorke. He was in the Cayuga area and he used to help some of the conscientious objectors who wanted to go to Canada to evade the draft, you know, put 'em up for a night or two and then drive themo ver the border. If anybody knew who really survived the Red Snow blast, it'd probably be Tris."

"Could any former Red Snow members have a grudge against Professor Sutton?" asked Sigrid. She was watching Val Sutton's grim face.

"There were some hard feelings at the time," Naismith said reluctantly. "They got ticked off because SDS wasn't as confrontational as they thought it ought to be, but I never heard of them killing each other because of it. Besides, there can't be more than two former Red Snow members, remember? Frankly, I've always believed that those other two who're supposed to have jumped from a balcony probably drowned just like the Xavier girl did. Otherwise we'd have heard something by now. Like I told John, nobody stays underground this long."

"Did he agree with you?"

"Oh, you know John-well, no," Naismith caught himself abruptly, "I guess you didn't. Anyhow, he'd yes you to death and then go merrily on his own damn way. Nobody's mentioned Tris iny ears, but John made me promise I'd throw out a few lines and see if I could locate him."

"You'll keep trying, won't you?" Val's voice rasped.

"If you want me to, honey."

"I do."

They went back over the conversation the two men had exchanged Wednesday night, but nothing else suggested itself. John Sutton had not mentioned cribbage, the Maintenon, or Ted Flythe. So far as Naismith knew, Sutton's call had been motivated purely by his desire to nail down all elements of the Red Snow episode for his lectures. Naismith promised to keep trying.

"See you tomorrow," he told Val.

"Tomorrow," Val said huskily.

She lifted the telephone receiver from the amplifier and had just replaced it on the cradle when the door opened and her thin, pale-skinned friend said, "Can you come for a few minutes, Val? They want you to tuck them in."

"I'll be right there." She paused in the doorway of the study. "John's last notes are there on the tape recorder, Lieuten

– Sigrid. You might want to listen to them. Feel free to poke around in his desk, too. Maybe you'll see something I've missed. Oscar, don't you want something to eat or drink? People brought so much food. And wine. I won't have to buy any rosé or Chablis for a year," she said wanly. "Or there's coffee."

"Go kiss your kids goodnight," ordered Nauman gently. "We can fend for ourselves."

When she had gone, he asked Sigrid if she wanted anything. "Coffee would be good," she said and circled the desk to push the tape recorder's play button.

John Sutton had possessed a pleasant baritone voice and an easy style of delivery that helped explain why he'd been such a popular teacher. On this tape he'd been enthusiastic, factual, and confidential all at once, with touches of humor or self-deprecation to lighten the heavy spots. Although older and presumably wiser, he didn't belittle the idealism of the late sixties and early seventies. He could acknowledge its weaknesses, but he had also been superb at communicating the excitemento f the times, the almost tribal closeness and heady optimism of kids who believed they could change things for the better, could make a difference, could replace guns with flowers and politicians with statesmen.

As the tape unwound, Sigrid studied the collage behind John Sutton's desk. It was like a multilayered scrapbook. Among the things that caught her eye were several old Doonesbury cartoons, a copy of the famous Kent State photograph, a banner headline NIXON RESIGNS!, and, over on the edge, a simple white button inscribed Imagine… 1940 – 1980.

Sigrid turned from the collage feeling depressed. Her arm hurt, she was tired, and she wished that the year wasn't heading into winter. Just then Nauman came through the door bearing a tray with cups of steaming coffee and wedges of warm apple pie beneath melted cheddar. "Room service," he smiled at her.

On the tape, John Sutton orally reminded himself, 'Check with Sam and Letty. Find out if anybody ever really saw Fred Hamilton or the Farr girl after Red Snow blew themselves up.'