This was Senator Greg Peshkov, George’s father.

Their relationship was an open secret, known to Washington insiders but never publicly acknowledged. Greg was not the only politician to have such a secret. Senator Strom Thurmond had paid for the college education of a daughter of his family’s maid: the girl was rumored to be his child—which did not stop Thurmond being a rabid segregationist. When Greg had appeared, a total stranger to his six-year-old son, he had asked George to call him Uncle Greg, and they had never found a better euphemism.

Greg was selfish and unreliable but, in his own way, he cared for George. As a teenager George had gone through a long phase of anger with his father, but then he had come to accept him for what he was, figuring that half a father was better than none.

“George,” Greg said now in a low voice, “I’m worried.”

“You and Mom too.”

“What did she say?”

“She thinks those Southern racists are going to kill us all.”

“I don’t think that’ll happen, but you could lose your job.”

“Has Mr. Renshaw said something?”

“Heck, no, he doesn’t know anything about this, yet. But he’ll find out soon enough if you get arrested.”

Renshaw, who was from Buffalo, was a childhood friend of Greg’s, and senior partner in a prestigious Washington law firm, Fawcett Renshaw. Last summer Greg had got George a vacation job as a law clerk at the firm and, as they both had hoped, the temporary post had led to the offer of a full-time job after graduation. It was a coup: George would be the first Negro to work there as anything other than a cleaner.

George said with a touch of irritation: “The Freedom Riders are not lawbreakers. We’re trying to get the law enforced. The segregationists are the criminals. I would have expected a lawyer such as Renshaw to understand that.”

“He understands it. But all the same he can’t hire a man who has been in trouble with the police. Believe me, it would be the same if you were white.”

“But we’re on the side of the law!”

“Life is unfair. Student days are over—welcome to the real world.”

The leader called out: “Everybody, get your tickets and check your bags, please.”

George stood up.

Greg said: “I can’t talk you out of this, can I?”

He looked so forlorn that George longed to be able to give in, but he could not. “No, I’ve made up my mind,” he said.

“Then please just try to be careful.”

George was touched. “I’m lucky to have people who worry about me,” he said. “I know that.”

Greg squeezed his arm and left quietly.

George stood in line with the others at the window and bought a ticket to New Orleans. He walked to the blue-and-gray bus and handed over his bag to be loaded in the luggage compartment. Painted on the side of the bus were a large greyhound and the slogan: IT’S SUCH A COMFORT TO TAKE THE BUS . . . AND LEAVE THE DRIVING TO US. George got on board.