Kintyre nodded. He was a stocky man of medium height, with straight dark hair above a square, snub-nosed, sallow-complexioned face. His eyes were gray under level brows, and set unusually far apart; there was little else to mark him out physically, until you noticed his gait. To an only slightly lesser degree than Yamamura's, it had the indefinable compactness of a judo man. They stood in a garden in Berkeley. Walls enclosed them: the main house, now vacant while its owner and family were on vacation; the three-room cottage to the rear which Kintyre rented; a board fence strewn with climbing blossoms on either side. Overhead lay a tall sky where the afternoon sun picked out the vapor trail of a jet sliding above San Francisco Bay. "I agree, Samurai swords make these look like pitchforks," said Kintyre. "But you can't do much with them except collect them. Too damned effective!" Yamamura removed his padded coat and fished for his pipe. "You off work now?" he asked. "Yep. Last bloody paper corrected, last report in, term's over, and I'm not teaching again till fall. It's great, though impoverished, to be free." "You're making a pack trip into Kings Canyon, aren't you?" "Uh-huh. Bruce Lombardi and I were supposed to leave tomorrow. Only what the devil has become of Bruce?" Kintyre scowled. "His girl called me last night, said he'd left the day before--Saturday--and hadn't come back yet. She was worried. I'm beginning to be." "Hm." Attentiveness flickered up in Yamamura. His agency, small and new, had no engagements at the moment. However, he spoke with no more than friendly concern. "Is it like the kid to go tearing off that way? I don't know him especially well, he's just somebody I meet now and then at your place." "That's the point," said Kintyre. "It is not like him. The department head inquired about it this morning. Bruce hasn't turned in the grades for two of his classes; and he's disgustingly reliable, normally." He paused. "On the other hand, he's having his troubles these days and--anyhow, I hesitate to--" Footsteps sounded in the driveway. A trim quasi-military shape came around the house. "Officer Moffat," said Yamamura. He had belonged to the Berkeley force until he set up for himself. "What's happened?" "Hello, Trig," said the policeman. He turned to the other. "Are you Professor Robert Kintyre?" "Assistant professor only, no cobwebs yet." Why did he answer with a bad joke, he wondered--postponing something? "How do you do. I'm sorry to bother you, sir, but we're trying to identify a young man who was found dead this morning. I was told that someone of his description was a teaching assistant in the history department, and that you knew him best." The voice was sympathetic, but Kintyre stood very quietly for a moment. Then: "I know a lot of young men, but perhaps--Bruce Lombardi?" "That's the name I was given," said Moffat. "I'm told you were his faculty adviser."