Page 171 of Edge of Eternity (The Century 3)

He set the girl on her feet. She was screaming in terror. "It's okay, you're safe now," George told her, but she could not be consoled. Then a distraught woman rushed to her and picked her up. The girl clung to the woman, and George guessed that this was her mother. Weeping, the mother carried her away.

George was bruised and sodden. He turned around to see what was happening. The marchers had all been trained in nonviolent protest, but the furious onlookers had not, and now they were retaliating, he saw, throwing rocks at the firemen. This was turning into a riot.

He could not see Verena.

Police and firemen advanced along Fifth Avenue, trying to disperse the crowd, but their progress was slowed by the hail of missiles. Several men went into the buildings along the south side of the street and bombarded the police from upstairs windows, throwing stones, bottles, and garbage. George hurried away from the fracas. He stopped on the next corner, outside the Jockey Boy Restaurant, and stood with a small group of reporters and spectators, black and white.

Looking north, he saw that more contingents of young marchers were coming out of the church and taking different southbound streets to avoid the violence. That would create a problem for Bull Connor by splitting his forces.

Connor responded by deploying the dogs.

They came out of the vans snarling, baring their teeth, and straining against their leather leashes. Their handlers looked just as vicious: thickset white men in police caps and sunglasses. Dogs and handlers alike were animals eager to attack.

Cops and dogs rushed forward in a pack. Marchers and bystanders tried to flee, but the crowd on the street was now tightly packed, and many people could not get away. The dogs were hysterical with excitement, snapping and biting and drawing blood from people's legs and arms.

Some people fled west, into the depths of the black neighborhood, chased by cops. Others took sanctuary in the church. No more marchers were emerging from the triple arches, George saw: the demonstration was coming to an end.

But the police had not yet had enough.

From nowhere, two cops with dogs appeared beside George. One grabbed hold of a tall young Negro: George had noticed him because he was wearing an expensive-looking cardigan sweater. The boy was about fifteen, and had taken no part in the demonstration other than to watch. Nevertheless the cop spun him round, and the dog leaped up and sunk its teeth into the boy's middle. He cried out in fear and pain. One of the reporters snapped a picture.

George was about to intervene when the cop pulled the dog off. Then he arrested the boy for parading without a permit.

George noticed a big-bellied white man, dressed in a shirt and no jacket, watching the arrest. From photographs in the newspapers he recognized Bull Connor. "Why didn't you bring a meaner dog?" Connor said to the arresting officer.

George felt like remonstrating with the man. He was supposed to be the commissioner of public safety, but he was acting like a street hoodlum.

But George realized he was in danger of getting arrested himself, especially now that his smart suit was a drenched rag. Bobby Kennedy would not be pleased if George ended up in jail.

With an effort, George suppressed his anger, clamped his mouth shut, turned, and walked briskly back to the Gaston.

Fortunately he had a spare pair of pants in his luggage. He took a shower, dressed again in dry clothes, and sent his suit for pressing. He called the Justice Department and dictated to a secretary his report on the day's events for Bobby Kennedy. He made his report dry and unemotional, and left out the fact that he had been fire-hosed.

He found Verena again in the lounge of the hotel. She had escaped without injury

, but she looked shaken. "They can do anything they like to us!" she said, and there was a note of hysteria in her voice. He felt the same, but it was worse for her. Unlike George, she had not been a Freedom Rider, and he guessed this might be the first time she had seen violent racial hatred in its naked horror.

"Let me buy you a drink," he said, and they went to the bar.

Over the next hour he talked her down. Mostly he just listened; every now and again he said something sympathetic or reassuring; he helped her become calm by being calm himself. The effort brought his own boiling passions under control.

They had dinner together quietly in the hotel restaurant. It was just dark when they went upstairs. In the corridor Verena said: "Will you come to my room?"

He was surprised. It had not been a romantic or sexy evening, and he had not regarded it as a date. They were just two fellow-campaigners commiserating.

She saw his hesitation. "I just want someone to hold me," she said. "Is that all right?"

He was not sure he understood, but he nodded.

The image of Maria flashed into his mind. He suppressed it. It was time he forgot her.

When they were in the room she closed the door and put her arms around him. He pressed her body to his and kissed her forehead. She turned her face away and laid her cheek against his shoulder. Okay, he thought, you want to hug but you don't want to kiss. He made up his mind to simply follow her cues. Whatever she wanted would be all right with him.

After a minute she said: "I don't want to sleep alone."

"Okay," he said neutrally.

"Can we just cuddle?"

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