Page 18 of Edge of Eternity (The Century 3)

The Greyhound pulled out of the bus station.

For the first few days George had feared that the Freedom Ride would be too peaceful. Regular bus passengers did not react to the black people sitting in the wrong seats, and sometimes joined in their songs. Nothing had happened when the Riders defied WHITES ONLY and COLORED notices in bus stations. Some towns had even painted over the signs. George feared the segregationists had devised the perfect strategy. There was no trouble and no publicity, and colored Riders were served politely in the white restaurants. Every evening they got off the buses and attended meetings unmolested, usually in churches, then stayed overnight with sympathizers. But George felt sure that as they left each town the signs would be restored, and segregation would return; and the Freedom Ride would have been a waste of time.

The irony was striking. For as long as he could remember, George had been wounded and infuriated by the repeated message, sometimes implicit but often spoken aloud, that he was inferior. It made no difference that he was smarter than 99 percent of white Americans. Nor that he was hardworking, polite, and well dressed. He was looked down upon by ugly white people too stupid or too lazy to do anything harder than pour drinks or pump gas. He could not walk into a department store, sit down in a restaurant, or apply for a job without wondering whether he would be ignored, asked to leave, or rejected because of his color. It made him burn with resentment. But now, paradoxically, he was disappointed that it was not happening.

Meanwhile the White House dithered. On the third day of the Ride the attorney general, Robert Kennedy, had made a speech at the University of Georgia promising to enforce civil rights in the South. Then, three days later, his brother the president had backtracked, withdrawing support from two civil rights bills.

Was this how the segregationists would win, George had wondered? By avoiding confrontation, then carrying on as usual?

It was not. Peace had lasted just four days.

On the fifth day of the Ride one of their number had been jailed for insisting on his right to a shoeshine.

Violence had broken out on the sixth.

The victim had been John Lewis, the theology student. He had been attacked by thugs in a white restroom in Rock Hill, South Carolina. Lewis had allowed himself to be punched and kicked without retaliation. George had not seen the incident, which was probably a good thing, for he was not sure he could have matched Lewis's Gandhian self-restraint.

George had read short reports of the violence in the next day's papers, but he was disappointed to see the story overshadowed by the rocket flight of Alan Shepard, the first Ame

rican in space. Who cares? George thought sourly. The Soviet cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin had been the first man in space, less than a month ago. The Russians beat us to it. A white American can orbit the earth, but a black American can't enter a restroom.

Then, in Atlanta, the Riders had been cheered by a welcoming crowd as they got off the bus, and George's spirits had lifted again.

But that was Georgia, and now they were headed for Alabama.

"Why did King say we're not going to make it through Alabama?" Maria asked.

"There's a rumor the Ku Klux Klan are planning something in Birmingham," George said grimly. "Apparently the FBI knows all about it but they haven't done anything to stop it."

"And the local police?"

"The police are in the damn Klan."

"What about those two?" With a jerk of her head Maria indicated the seats across the aisle and a row back.

George looked over his shoulder at two burly white men sitting together. "What about them?"

"Don't you smell cop?"

He saw what she meant. "Do you think they're FBI?"

"Their clothes are too cheap for the Bureau. My guess is they're Alabama Highway Patrol, undercover."

George was impressed. "How did you get to be so smart?"

"My mother made me eat my vegetables. And my father's a lawyer in Chicago, the gangster capital of the USA."

"So what do you think those two are doing?"

"I'm not sure, but I don't think they're here to defend our civil rights, do you?"

George glanced out of the window and saw a sign that read ENTERING ALABAMA. He checked his wristwatch. It was one P.M. The sun was shining out of a blue sky. It's a beautiful day to die, he thought.

Maria wanted to work in politics or public service. "Protesters can have a big impact, but in the end it's governments that reshape the world," she said. George thought about that, wondering whether he agreed. Maria had applied for a job in the White House press office, and had been called for an interview, but she had not got the job. "They don't hire many black lawyers in Washington," she had said ruefully to George. "I'll probably stay in Chicago and join my father's law firm."

Across the aisle from George was a middle-aged white woman in a coat and hat, holding on her lap a large white plastic handbag. George smiled at her and said: "Lovely weather for a bus ride."

"I'm going to visit my daughter in Birmingham," she said, though he had not asked.

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