The following is a portion of an email from Joe Mafi, a friend and former coworker of Max Hammond's. Just in case you weren't prepared to take my word about how wonderful a man Max was.

I mostly remember Max as someone whose door was always open, willing to talk to a lowly, ignorant undergrad. Whether it was rock music, William F. Buckley, Jr., free-masonry, accents and culture of the "New South," Ken Burns' documentary on the Civil War, educating the foreign grad students on the finer points of American culture... graduate student life (if it can be called that) or life in general, or even (believe it or not) the physics of space plasmas, he was always ready to talk (and talk, and talk...). Ready to talk despite my ignorance and how busy he must have been keeping up with his work for Margy and trying to finish a PhD.

"I knew what you meant," he would tell me. He knew what I meant, but if he ever thought it was a waste of time to talk to me he never let on. I could use such humility and patience.

The people who died cannot be measured by numbers. They were individuals. I hope these memories of Max remind you of that. I know they remind me.