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among the most genial of the Americans; he’d come in second in the most-popular-athlete-on-board contest last night, after Glenn Cunningham.
    “I’d offer you a ciggie…”
    Owens laughed. “Not for me.”
    “I’ve pretty much given up offering butts and hits from my flask. You folks’re too damn healthy.”
    Another laugh. Then silence for a moment as the solid Negro looked out to sea. “Say, Paul. I got a question. You here officially?”
    “Officially?”
    “With the committee, I mean? Maybe like a guard?”
    “Me? Why do you say that?”
    “You sort of seemed like a, well, soldier or something. And then, the way you were fighting. You knew what you were doing.”
    “I was in the War. That’s probably what you noticed.”
    “Maybe.” Then Owens added, “Course that was twenty years ago. And those two fellows I’ve seen you talking with. They’re navy. We heard ’em talking to one of the crew.”
    Brother, another trail of clues.
    “Those two guys? Just bumped into ’em on board. I’m bumming a ride with you folks…. Doing some stories about sports, boxing in Berlin, the Games. I’m a writer.”
    “Oh, sure.” Owens nodded slowly. He seemed to debate for a moment. “Well, if you’re a reporter, you still might know something ’bout what I was going to ask you. Just wondering if you heard anything about those two fellows?” He nodded at some men on the deck nearby, running in tandem, passing the relay baton. They were lightning fast.
    “Who’re they?” Paul asked.
    “Sam Stoller and Marty Glickman. They’re good runners, some of the best we’ve got. But I heard a rumor they might not run. Wondered if you knew anything about that.”
    “Nope, nothing. You mean some qualification problem? Injury?”
    “I mean because they’re Jewish.”
    Paul shook his head. He recalled there was a controversy about Hitler not liking Jews. There was some protest and talk about moving the Olympics. Some people even wanted the U.S. team to boycott the Games. Damon Runyon had been all hot under the collar about the country even participating. But why would the American committee pull some athletes because they were Jewish? “That’d be a bum deal. Doesn’t seem right by a long shot.”
    “No, sir. Anyway, I was just thinking maybe you’d heard something.”
    “Sorry, can’t help you, friend,” Paul said.
    They were joined by another Negro. Ralph Metcalfe introduced himself. Paul knew about him too. He’d won medals in the Los Angeles Olympics in ’32.
    Owens noticed Vince Manielli looking down at them from an upper deck. The lieutenant nodded and started for the stairs.
    “Here comes your buddy. That you just met on board.” Owens had a sly grin on his face, not completely convinced that Paul’d been on the level. The Negro’s eyes looked forward, at the growing strip of land. “Imagine that. We’re almost in Germany. Never thought I’d be traveling like this. Life can be a pretty amazing thing, don’t you think?”
    “That it can,” Paul agreed.
    The runners said good-bye and jogged off.
    “Was that Owens?” Manielli asked, walking up and leaning against the railing. He turned his back to the wind and rolled a cigarette.
    “Yep.” Paul pulled a Chesterfield out of a pack, lit it in cupped hands and offered the matches to the lieutenant. He too lit up. “Nice man.”
    Though a little too sharp, Paul thought.
    “Damn, that man can run. What’d he say?”
    “We were just shooting the breeze.” In a whisper: “What’s the situation with our friend down below?”
    “Avery’s handling it,” Manielli said ambiguously. “He’s in the radio room. Be here in a minute.” A plane flew overhead, low. They watched it for several minutes in silence.
    The kid still seemed shaken by the suicide. Not in the same way Paul was, though: because the death told him something troubling about the people he was going up against. No, the sailor was upset because he’d just seen death up