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when they were herded away had gone with them, as friend, as chaplain, as fellow martyr. He was buried in the crypt of Sacred Heart.
    “I have developed a devotion to him,” Whelan confided. “I often visit him there.”
    This straightforward acceptance of the communion of the saints warmed Roger’s heart. How few moved from acceptance of the doctrine to its realization. Saints have written of the angels that attend the altar on which the Mass is offered, the Church Triumphant as well as the Church Suffering there with the Church Militant as the central event in cosmic history was commemorated. For Whelan, Petit was a contemporary, separated only by the veil of death.
    “But that was before Sorin came?”
    “And after Badin.”
    “Ah.”
    Whelan went on. Speaking as a lawyer, he doubted that either Badin’s or Sorin’s title to the land could successfully be contested.
    “Besides, who has status to contest it?”
    “Descendants?”
    “You must read of the death march to the Southwest to see how improbable that is.”
    “Could someone come forward on behalf of those Indians?”
    “They could try.”
    “I think they are.”
    Although cleared of snow, the campus walks were icy and Roger made slow progress in his golf cart to Juniper Road across which he inched, hoping he was sufficiently visible to traffic. Motorists sometimes seemed to think that if they had a clear shot at a crossing student they could take him out with impunity. He reached the library parking lot and headed across it as if it were frozen tundra. The tire treads were packed with snow and had lost their traction. An icy wind whipped at him, changing directions constantly as if to assault him on all sides. When he reached Bulla Road, he headed east toward the house where Orion Plant lived.
    Once this road had been lined with residences. Now the Day Care Center and the vast village containing the buildings which housed graduate students commanded it. In one of those buildings was the apartment Roger shared with Philip, and he felt a powerful impulse to postpone his mission and return to the warmth of his workroom and his computer. But talking with Whelan had made this visit seem even more important. What he and Phil had been commissioned to do was something he could do more easily than his brother. Faculty status should be an Open Sesame to the Plant residence.
    Five minutes spent shivering on the doorstep, wondering if he should sound the bell yet again, made Roger doubt he would be admitted. Lights were on, he had the sense that someone was in the house, though the racket of the wind would have whisked away any sound that might have come to him, even ifhis ears had not been hidden away beneath the woolen cap he had pulled down firmly over his head. There was a taste of winter in the air, though the prediction was that there were still warm weeks ahead. Indian Summer.
    Finally there was the sound of the door being unlocked. It was opened and someone was vaguely visible through the steamed glass of the door. A woman’s hand cleared a porthole and peered out. Roger pulled off his hat and shouted to the wind that he was Professor Knight. Finally the storm door was unlocked and pushed open. Roger heaved himself inside and fell onto the sofa, huffing and puffing.
    “Thank you. Is your husband home?”
    “Who are you?”
    “Roger Knight. Professor Knight.”
    “In history?” Her manner had changed from wary to sympathetic when he sat on the sofa without hesitation. Now she was wary again.
    “No, no. I am a university professor.” He smiled. “A man without a country.”
    She was an unprepossessing young woman. Suddenly a man appeared from another room. He stood and looked with disappointment at Roger.
    “I’ve heard of you.”
    “Word gets around. I know your dissertation director Otto Ranke rather well. He mentioned you.”
    Orion’s reaction to this was edgy and odd. He swung on his wife. “Get us some coffee, why don’t you?”
    She