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Joshua P. Rechnitz, the reclusive philanthropist behind the project, said on Wednesday that he and his team had withdrawn their proposal for the park and would seek another location in or around the city for the indoor sports complex.

For cyclists, it is a velodrome dream deferred. For some Brooklyn residents, who balked at the use of an outsize park parcel for a niche sport, it is good riddance.

But in the end, supporters said, the neighborhood was just too expensive.

The decision to abandon the Brooklyn park, reached at a meeting on Monday, came after planners were unable to produce a design that could fit within the bounds of Mr. Rechnitz's $50 million pledge for its construction and maintenance, despite months of efforts.

"You can't build a facility of this nature, at this site, at this budget," said Greg J. Brooks, the executive director of N.Y.C. Fieldhouse, the nonprofit group behind the project. "We're very excited and eager to find a new home for this recreation center and velodrome. The funding remains intact."

The money came from Mr. Rechnitz, 47, in what is among the largest individual gifts in the history of New York City's parks. A central requirement of the gift had been the inclusion of the bicycle racing track in the complex.

"The New York metropolitan area deserves a world-class cycling and recreation center," Mr. Rechnitz said in a statement on Wednesday. "I greatly regret that this cannot happen in Brooklyn Bridge Park, but I am confident that we will find a new home for the field house in the very near future."

Some Brooklyn Heights residents who live near the proposed site, at Furman Street near Pier 5, had objected to the size of the building and its potential effect on traffic and parking. Others chafed at the notion that a millionaire could, with a large donation, impose an obscure sport on a city park.

But Mr. Brooks, a former deputy comptroller for the city, said it was the costs arising from the site, rather than any local opposition, that had killed the deal.

For instance, the location meant that the roof of the building — visible to those walking above on the Brooklyn promenade nearby — had to be "aesthetic," he said, driving up the price.

Hurricane Sandy also raised concerns about the low-lying site, which did not flood during the storm but sits only about a foot above where the waters came. "A foot doesn't give a lot of room for comfort," Mr. Brooks said, adding that the plan called for raising the structure a few feet off the ground.

The nonprofit organization, he said, had also agreed to provide a boathouse and maintenance for the complex.

The design had been scaled back, reducing the size of the building to 95,000 square feet from 120,000 square feet, and the number of fixed spectator seats to 500 from 2,499, Mr. Brooks said. But even with those changes — and an added $10 million from Mr. Rechnitz for the reserve fund on top of his original $40 million pledge — the project remained stubbornly in the red.

There was no talk of the park making up the difference in the overruns, said Regina Myer, the president of the Brooklyn Bridge Park Corporation.

"We are grateful that we were considered for this facility, and frankly we are saddened that it won't come to fruition in the park," Ms. Myer said.

Ms. Myer said that before Mr. Rechnitz's gift, the site, now occupied by a one-story concrete warehouse, had been planned as a garage for park-maintenance equipment, as a storage area for recreational boats and as restrooms. Officials were looking to return to that plan, she said.

Mr. Rechnitz, a media-shy philanthropist, art collector and cyclist, had considered locations in New York and New Jersey before settling on the Brooklyn park. Many of those locations would be considered again, Mr. Brooks said.

"The moment I feel like I can move, I will go back to the mountains, rearm myself and fight you again," Mr. Mohammed, who is recovering from a recent gunshot wound to the leg caused by a clash with a police officer, recalled warning the governor, police chief and top security official of Badghis Province.

He is not alone. Interviews with more than a dozen former insurgents find a group embittered and torn about their choice to lay down their arms. Many are unable to work and often unable to return to their villages for safety reasons; most feel the government has cheated them.

"I am just counting the days before someone kills me," said Akhtar Mohammad, a former Taliban commander in Oruzgan. "Every passing moment I feel regret for joining the peace process."

Mr. Mohammad, who is from the south, where the insurgency is the deadliest, said the only thing he had to show for his decision to switch sides was the turban he had been given for his reintegration ceremony.

Two years into one of the most ambitious efforts to lure Taliban fighters off the battlefield, many Afghan and Western officials acknowledge that the results have been disappointing. Though the number of people claiming the amnesty has swelled in the past year, violence remains high in the hotbeds of the insurgency, where the program has struggled to take hold.

Of the roughly 6,100 participants so far, 80 percent come from the relatively peaceful north and west of the country, where the Taliban presence is thinnest. And even some of those fighters say their activity was more criminal than political or ideological, even though the program was designed to flip the most committed fighters.

Many onetime fighters say they were only loosely affiliated with the Taliban. Though widely thought of as a unified Islamic movement, the Taliban in reality consist of a shifting constellation of forces whose agendas sometimes line up. Many of the insurgents who have given up fighting said they were formerly of Hezb-e-Islami, a rival faction to the Taliban that has been losing power and influence in recent years.

Although some fighters have found employment, Western officials argue that the reintegration initiative was never meant to be a jobs program. It pays a modest stipend, about $100 to $200 monthly for the first three months, depending on the fighter's rank. In theory, the former fighters can find work on development projects financed in their home villages, though many projects have failed to get off the ground.

In two years, the so-called High Peace Council has spent less than half of what officials hoped to spend in 2011 alone. Tight controls have stalled village development projects meant to employ the former insurgents in their communities. About $180 million of the $235 million the program was granted sits idle in Afghan coffers.

The officials running the program called it a work in progress that would improve over time. The importance of employment for former fighters is acknowledged as an important element of keeping them from picking up arms again.

"We're working on ways to improve the effectiveness of the program," said Paul Martin Mason, who oversees the reintegration program for the United Nations Development Program.

In the meantime, many former fighters are expressing second thoughts with their decisions. Having tired of endless fighting, Hazrat Mir, a former Taliban commander in Laghman, joined the government with 130 of his men last year.

With promises of jobs and land, Mr. Mir said, his men left their villages and turned in their weapons, a dangerous prospect given the threat from former comrades. The danger, it turned out, was made clear by an attack the day before their reintegration ceremony in which the Taliban killed Mr. Mir's top deputy.

French media identified one of the women as Sakine Cansiz, said to be a founding member of the Kurdistan Workers' Party, known by the initials P.K.K. Another was identified as Fidan Dogan, the head of the institute. The third woman was Leyla Soylemez, a youthful Kurdish activist.

Berivan Akyol, an employee at the Kurdish Institute of Paris, was quoted by Reuters as saying the killings were "politically motivated."

Agence France-Press quoted an unidentified police official as saying the circumstances of the killings "could lead to the conclusion that this was an execution but inquiries will determine the precise nature of this drama."

Police officials said a murder investigation had been opened. The bodies and three shell casings were found in a room at the institute. The women were all said to hold Turkish passports.

The P.K.K. has been fighting a bitter guerrilla war against the Turkish authorities for almost three decades to reinforce demands for greater autonomy. The conflict has claimed some 40,000 lives. But recent Turkish media reports have suggested that Turkish authorities have negotiated a tentative peace plan with the imprisoned P.K.K. leader, Abdullah Ocalan.

Turkey, the United States and the European Union have labeled the P.K.K. a terrorist organization, but sympathy for the group and its goals remains widespread in many towns in Turkey's rugged southeast.

Restive Kurdish minorities span a region embracing parts of Turkey, Syria, Iraq, Iran and parts of the former Soviet Union.

The killings, which apparently took place Wednesday or early Thursday, inspired hundreds of Kurdish exiles to gather outside the institute, chanting "We are all P.K.K." and accusing Turkey of assassinating the three women, abetted by the French president, François Hollande, Agence France-Presse reported.

The bodies were discovered at around 1 a.m. Thursday by Kurdish exiles who had become concerned about the whereabouts of three women.

  The women were alone in the building on Wednesday but were unreachable by telephone in the late afternoon, according to Leon Edart, who manages the center. Mr. Edart, speaking to Agence France-Presse, suggested the victims may have opened the door to their killer or killers.

An organization called the Federation of Kurdish Associations in France, representing many of the 150,000 Kurdish exiles in the country, said in a statement that the women might have been killed on Wednesday afternoon with weapons equipped with silencers.

The Firat news agency, which is close to the P.K.K., said two of the women had been shot in the head and one in the stomach. Firat quoted Mehmet Ulker, the head of the Kurdish representative group in France as saying, "A couple of colleagues saw blood stains at the door. When they broke the door open and entered they saw the three women had been executed."

While Kurdish militants blamed Turkey, Turkish broadcasters said the police believed the women could have been killed because of feuding within the P.K.K..

Most of the Kurdish exiles in France are from Turkey. Their presence dates to the mid-1960s when migrant workers from Turkey began arriving in France.

French Interior Minister Manuel Valls called the killings "intolerable."

The killings came against a complex political backdrop after the Turkish government opened talks with the political wing of the P.K.K. in Oslo last year. The negotiations were suspended after a recent surge of violence in southeastern Turkey that prompted complaints from nationalist Turks that the authorities should not talk to the guerrilla fighters.

In the absence of any clear-cut military outcome, democracy advocates in Turkey have been advocating a political settlement which would give greater rights to the Kurds, who account for around 15 million of Turkey's 74 million population.

In a speech on Wednesday, Prime Minister Recep Tayyip Erdogan said the negotiations grouped senior intelligence and government officials. Mr. Ocalan, the P.K.K. leader who has been imprisoned since 1999, still has a powerful following among the rebels.

Turkish news reports have said the government wants the rebels to lay down their arms without preconditions and send fighters into exile, leaving other Kurdish representatives to join Turkish political life. But analysts say any further negotiations could be sabotaged by opponents an agreement if it appeared that it would resolve the longstanding tensions.

The bodies of the women were found early on Thursday at the Information Centre of Kurdistan in the city centre, a police source said.

An employee of the centre, which has close links to Kurdistan Workers Party (PKK), told French broadcaster i<Tele that one of the dead was a founding member of the group, which is fighting for greater Kurdish autonomy.

The Firat news agency, which is close to the PKK, said another victim was the Paris representative of the Brussels-based Kurdistan National Congress political group.

"There is no doubt this was politically motivated," Berivan Akyol, the centre employee, told i<Tele.

Police launched a murder investigation after discovering the bodies, along with three shell casings, in a room of the Centre in central Paris, the source said, adding that their nationality was Turkish.

The PKK has waged a 28-year insurgency against the Turkish state in which more than 40,000 people are estimated to have been killed.

The Turkish government has recently acknowledged holding talks with the organization's jailed leader, Abdullah Ocalan.

They have agreed a framework for a peace plan, according to Turkish media reports.

Firat said two of those killed were shot in the head and one in the stomach, and that the murder weapon was believed to have been fitted with a silencer.

"A couple of colleagues saw blood stains at the door. When they broke the door open and entered they saw the three women had been executed," French Kurdish Associations Federation Chairman Mehmet Ulker was reported as saying by Firat.

Turkish broadcasters reported police as saying the women had links to the PKK and could have been the victims of executions conducted within the group.

The PKK is designated a terrorist group by Turkey, the United States and European Union.

(Reporting By Nicolas Bertin, Nicholas Vinocur, additional reporting by Daren Butler in Istanbul; Writing by Nick Vinocur; Editing by John Stonestreet)

In the breakneck six-and-a-half-minute monologue — hair tousled, sitting in a wood-paneled dorm room — Stephen exuberantly declared himself "a queer, a nerd fighter, a writer, an artist and a guy who needs a haircut," and held forth on everything from his style icons (Truman Capote and "any male-identified person who wears thigh-highs or garters") to his toy zebra.

Because Stephen, who was born Kathlyn, is the 21-year-old child of Warren Beatty and Annette Bening, the video went viral, garnering nearly half a million views. But that was not the only reason for its appeal. With its adrenalized, freewheeling eloquence, the video seemed like a battle cry for a new generation of post-gay gender activists, for whom Stephen represents a rare public face.

Armed with the millennial generation's defining traits — Web savvy, boundless confidence and social networks that extend online and off — Stephen and his peers are forging a political identity all their own, often at odds with mainstream gay culture.

If the gay-rights movement today seems to revolve around same-sex marriage, this generation is seeking something more radical: an upending of gender roles beyond the binary of male/female. The core question isn't whom they love, but who they are — that is, identity as distinct from sexual orientation.

But what to call this movement? Whereas "gay and lesbian" was once used to lump together various sexual minorities — and more recently "L.G.B.T." to include bisexual and transgender — the new vanguard wants a broader, more inclusive abbreviation. "Youth today do not define themselves on the spectrum of L.G.B.T.," said Shane Windmeyer, a founder of Campus Pride, a national student advocacy group based in Charlotte, N.C.

Part of the solution has been to add more letters, and in recent years the post-post-post-gay-rights banner has gotten significantly longer, some might say unwieldy. The emerging rubric is "L.G.B.T.Q.I.A.," which stands for different things, depending on whom you ask.

"Q" can mean "questioning" or "queer," an umbrella term itself, formerly derogatory before it was appropriated by gay activists in the 1990s. "I" is for "intersex," someone whose anatomy is not exclusively male or female. And "A" stands for "ally" (a friend of the cause) or "asexual," characterized by the absence of sexual attraction.

It may be a mouthful, but it's catching on, especially on liberal-arts campuses.

The University of Missouri, Kansas City, for example, has an L.G.B.T.Q.I.A. Resource Center that, among other things, helps student locate "gender-neutral" restrooms on campus. Vassar College offers an L.G.B.T.Q.I.A. Discussion Group on Thursday afternoons. Lehigh University will be hosting its second annual L.G.B.T.Q.I.A. Intercollegiate Conference next month, followed by a Queer Prom. Amherst College even has an L.G.B.T.Q.Q.I.A.A. center, where every group gets its own letter.

The term is also gaining traction on social media sites like Twitter and Tumblr, where posts tagged with "lgbtqia" suggest a younger, more progressive outlook than posts that are merely labeled "lgbt."

"There's a very different generation of people coming of age, with completely different conceptions of gender and sexuality," said Jack Halberstam (formerly Judith), a transgender professor at the University of Southern California and the author, most recently, of "Gaga Feminism: Sex, Gender, and the End of Normal."

"When you see terms like L.G.B.T.Q.I.A.," Professor Halberstam added, "it's because people are seeing all the things that fall out of the binary, and demanding that a name come into being."

And with a plethora of ever-expanding categories like "genderqueer" and "androgyne" to choose from, each with an online subculture, piecing together a gender identity can be as D.I.Y. as making a Pinterest board.

BUT sometimes L.G.B.T.Q.I.A. is not enough. At the University of Pennsylvania last fall, eight freshmen united in the frustration that no campus group represented them.

Sure, Penn already had some two dozen gay student groups, including Queer People of Color, Lambda Alliance and J-Bagel, which bills itself as the university's "Jewish L.G.B.T.Q.I.A. Community." But none focused on gender identity (the closest, Trans Penn, mostly catered to faculty members and graduate students).

Richard Parsons, an 18-year-old transgender male, discovered that when he attended a student mixer called the Gay Affair, sponsored by Penn's L.G.B.T. Center. "I left thoroughly disappointed," said Richard, a garrulous freshman with close-cropped hair, wire-framed glasses and preppy clothes, who added, "This is the L.G.B.T. Center, and it's all gay guys."

Through Facebook, Richard and others started a group called Penn Non-Cis, which is short for "non-cisgender." For those not fluent in gender-studies speak, "cis" means "on the same side as" and "cisgender" denotes someone whose gender identity matches his or her biology, which describes most of the student body. The group seeks to represent everyone else. "This is a freshman uprising," Richard said.

On a brisk Tuesday night in November, about 40 students crowded into the L.G.B.T. Center, a converted 19th-century carriage house, for the group's inaugural open mike. The organizers had lured students by handing out fliers on campus while barking: "Free condoms! Free ChapStick!"

"There's a really vibrant L.G.B.T. scene," Kate Campbell, one of the M.C.'s, began. "However, that mostly encompasses the L.G.B. and not too much of the T. So we're aiming to change that."

Students read poems and diary entries, and sang guitar ballads. Then Britt Gilbert — a punky-looking freshman with a blond bob, chunky glasses and a rock band T-shirt — took the stage. She wanted to talk about the concept of "bi-gender."

"Does anyone want to share what they think it is?"

Silence.

She explained that being bi-gender is like manifesting both masculine and feminine personas, almost as if one had a "detachable penis." "Some days I wake up and think, 'Why am I in this body?' " she said. "Most days I wake up and think, 'What was I thinking yesterday?' "

Britt's grunginess belies a warm matter-of-factness, at least when describing her journey. As she elaborated afterward, she first heard the term "bi-gender" from Kate, who found it on Tumblr. The two met at freshman orientation and bonded. In high school, Kate identified as "agender" and used the singular pronoun "they"; she now sees her gender as an "amorphous blob."

By contrast, Britt's evolution was more linear. She grew up in suburban Pennsylvania and never took to gender norms. As a child, she worshiped Cher and thought boy bands were icky. Playing video games, she dreaded having to choose male or female avatars.

In middle school, she started calling herself bisexual and dated boys. By 10th grade, she had come out as a lesbian. Her parents thought it was a phase — until she brought home a girlfriend, Ash. But she still wasn't settled.

"While I definitely knew that I liked girls, I didn't know that I was one," Britt said. Sometimes she would leave the house in a dress and feel uncomfortable, as if she were wearing a Halloween costume. Other days, she felt fine. She wasn't "trapped in the wrong body," as the cliché has it — she just didn't know which body she wanted.

When Kate told her about the term "bi-gender," it clicked instantly. "I knew what it was, before I knew what it was," Britt said, adding that it is more fluid than "transgender" but less vague than "genderqueer" — a catchall term for nontraditional gender identities.

At first, the only person she told was Ash, who responded, "It took you this long to figure it out?" For others, the concept was not so easy to grasp. Coming out as a lesbian had been relatively simple, Britt said, "since people know what that is." But when she got to Penn, she was relieved to find a small community of freshmen who had gone through similar awakenings.

Among them was Richard Parsons, the group's most politically lucid member. Raised female, Richard grew up in Orlando, Fla., and realized he was transgender in high school. One summer, he wanted to room with a transgender friend at camp, but his mother objected. "She's like, 'Well, if you say that he's a guy, then I don't want you rooming with a guy,' " he recalled. "We were in a car and I basically blurted out, 'I think I might be a guy, too!' "

After much door-slamming and tears, Richard and his mother reconciled. But when she asked what to call him, he had no idea. He chose "Richard" on a whim, and later added a middle name, Matthew, because it means "gift of God."

By the time he got to Penn, he had been binding his breasts for more than two years and had developed back pain. At the open mike, he told a harrowing story about visiting the university health center for numbness and having a panic attack when he was escorted into a women's changing room.

Nevertheless, he praised the university for offering gender-neutral housing. The college's medical program also covers sexual reassignment surgery, which, he added, "has heavily influenced my decision to probably go under the Penn insurance plan next year."

PENN has not always been so forward-thinking; a decade ago, the L.G.B.T. Center (nestled amid fraternity houses) was barely used. But in 2010, the university began reaching out to applicants whose essays raised gay themes. Last year, the gay newsmagazine The Advocate ranked Penn among the top 10 trans-friendly universities, alongside liberal standbys like New York University.

More and more colleges, mostly in the Northeast, are catering to gender-nonconforming students. According to a survey by Campus Pride, at least 203 campuses now allow transgender students to room with their preferred gender; 49 have a process to change one's name and gender in university records; and 57 cover hormone therapy. In December, the University of Iowa became the first to add a "transgender" checkbox to its college application.

"I wrote about an experience I had with a drag queen as my application essay for all the Ivy Leagues I applied to," said Santiago Cortes, one of the Penn students. "And I got into a few of the Ivy Leagues — Dartmouth, Columbia and Penn. Strangely not Brown."

But even these measures cannot keep pace with the demands of incoming students, who are challenging the curriculum much as gay activists did in the '80s and '90s. Rather than protest the lack of gay studies classes, they are critiquing existing ones for being too narrow.

Several members of Penn Non-Cis had been complaining among themselves about a writing seminar they were taking called "Beyond 'Will & Grace,' " which examined gay characters on shows like "Ellen," "Glee" and "Modern Family." The professor, Gail Shister, who is a lesbian, had criticized several students for using "L.G.B.T.Q." in their essays, saying it was clunky, and proposed using "queer" instead. Some students found the suggestion offensive, including Britt Gilbert, who described Ms. Shister as "unaccepting of things that she doesn't understand."

Ms. Shister, reached by phone, said the criticism was strictly grammatical. "I am all about economy of expression," she said. "L.G.B.T.Q. doesn't exactly flow off the tongue. So I tell the students, 'Don't put in an acronym with five or six letters.' "

One thing is clear. Ms. Shister, who is 60 and in 1979 became The Philadelphia Inquirer's first female sportswriter, is of a different generation, a fact she acknowledges freely, even gratefully. "Frankly, I'm both proud and envious that these young people are growing up in an age where they're free to love who they want," she said.

If history is any guide, the age gap won't be so easy to overcome. As liberated gay men in the 1970s once baffled their pre-Stonewall forebears, the new gender outlaws, to borrow a phrase from the transgender writer Kate Bornstein, may soon be running ideological circles around their elders.

Still, the alphabet soup of L.G.B.T.Q.I.A. may be difficult to sustain. "In the next 10 or 20 years, the various categories heaped under the umbrella of L.G.B.T. will become quite quotidian," Professor Halberstam said.

Even at the open mike, as students picked at potato chips and pineapple slices, the bounds of identity politics were spilling over and becoming blurry.

At one point, Santiago, a curly-haired freshman from Colombia, stood before the crowd. He and a friend had been pondering the limits of what he calls "L.G.B.T.Q. plus."

"Why do only certain letters get to be in the full acronym?" he asked.

Then he rattled off a list of gender identities, many culled from Wikipedia. "We have our lesbians, our gays," he said, before adding, "bisexual, transsexual, queer, homosexual, asexual." He took a breath and continued. "Pansexual. Omnisexual. Trisexual. Agender. Bi-gender. Third gender. Transgender. Transvestite. Intersexual. Two-spirit. Hijra. Polyamorous."

By now, the list had turned into free verse. He ended: "Undecided. Questioning. Other. Human."

The room burst into applause.

There seemed little enthusiasm among the justices for that categorical approach. Instead, the argument turned into a search for a middle ground that would take account of the practical realities of roadside stops, body chemistry and the administration of justice in the digital age.

On the one hand, the natural dissipation of blood alcohol means that time is of the essence when people suspected of drunken driving are pulled over and refuse to consent to a breath test. Obtaining a warrant, moreover, takes time.

On the other hand, several justices expressed discomfort with what Chief Justice John G. Roberts Jr. called the "pretty scary image" of government-sanctioned bodily intrusions involving sharp needles.

The case arose from the arrest of Tyler G. McNeely, who was pulled over for speeding on a Missouri highway and exhibited, the State Supreme Court said, "the telltale signs of intoxication — bloodshot eyes, slurred speech and the smell of alcohol on his breath." He performed poorly on a field sobriety test and was arrested.

Mr. McNeely refused to take a breath test or, after being taken to a hospital, to consent to a blood test. One was performed anyway, about 25 minutes after he was pulled over, and it showed a blood alcohol level of 0.15 percent, almost twice the legal limit.

The state court suppressed the evidence, saying there had been no "exigent circumstances" that excused the failure to obtain a warrant. "Warrantless intrusions of the body are not to be undertaken lightly," the court said in an unsigned opinion.

In 1966, in Schmerber v. California, the United States Supreme Court said no warrant was required to take blood without the driver's consent after an accident in which the driver and a passenger were injured. The fact that alcohol levels diminish over time figured in the court's analysis, as did the time it took to investigate the scene of the accident and move the injured people to the hospital.

The question in the case heard Wednesday, Missouri v. McNeely, No. 11-1425, was whether the dissipation of blood alcohol by itself justifies taking blood without a warrant when there are no additional factors complicating matters.

Much of the argument concerned how long obtaining a warrant actually takes these days and whether the Supreme Court should encourage streamlined procedures. In some places, the justices were told, warrants can be obtained by phone in as little as 15 or 20 minutes; in others, the process can take two hours or longer.

Nicole A. Saharsky, a lawyer for the federal government, said the day might come when warrants could be obtained so quickly that courts should perhaps require them. "If the world changed," she told the justices, "so that every police officer had an iPad and that judges were always on duty and that the warrants could be gotten that quickly, you would consider that." But she said that was not the reality in most of the country today.

That concession, Justice Antonin Scalia said, supported a case-by-case approach. "If it would have taken too long, then it's O.K. without a warrant," he said. "If it wouldn't have taken that long, it's bad."

Later, though, Justice Scalia asked Steven R. Shapiro of the American Civil Liberties Union, which represents Mr. McNeely, whether warrants played an important role in stopping unreasonable searches if they were quickly and routinely available.

Mr. Shapiro responded that "the privacy safeguards of the Fourth Amendment benefit by having a neutral and detached magistrate review the evidence before the state does something as intrusive as putting a needle in somebody's arm."

The justices also explored other ways of obtaining the required evidence.

"Breathalyzers in my mind have a much different intrusion level," Justice Sonia Sotomayor said. "They don't intrude into your body."

But John N. Koester Jr., a lawyer for Missouri, explained that "it's very difficult for practical reasons to force someone to blow into the Breathalyzer."

"You have to take a very deep breath," he said. "And one police officer told me it's sort of like you can put a balloon in front of somebody's mouth, but you can't make him blow it up."

Justice Scalia later proposed a second idea: that drivers "in a paddy wagon and on the way to the hospital" could be told a warrant had been requested and that, one way or the other, blood would be drawn unless they agreed to a breath test.

Ms. Saharsky said such drivers might nonetheless "take their chances that the evidence is going to dissipate."

Justice Elena Kagan said it was also possible that the drivers would not make rational calculations.

"Maybe they're drunk," she said.