He ran into Dennis Wilson, who had news. “The Senior Citizens Committee is having an emergency meeting at the chamber of commerce.”

George had heard of this unofficial group, nicknamed the Big Mules. They were the men who held the real power in the town. If they were panicking, something would have to change.

Dennis said: “What are King’s people planning?”

George was glad he did not know. “I wasn’t invited to the meeting,” he said. “But they’ve cooked up something.”

He parted from Dennis and walked downtown. Even strolling alone he knew he might be arrested for parading without a permit, but he had to take the risk: he would be of no use to Bobby if he hid in the Gaston.

In ten minutes he reached Birmingham’s typical Southern-town business district: department stores, cinemas, civic buildings, and a railway line running through the middle.

George figured out what King’s plan was only when he saw it going into operation.

Suddenly Negroes walking alone, or in twos and threes, began to congregate, brandishing placards that they had until now kept hidden. Some sat down, blocking the sidewalk, others knelt to pray on the steps of the massive art deco city hall. Conga lines of hymn-singing teenagers wove in and out of segregated stores. Traffic slowed to a halt.

The police were caught unawares: they were concentrated around Kelly Ingram Park, half a mile away, and the demonstrators had blindsided them. But George felt sure that this air of good-natured protest could last only as long as Bull Connor remained off balance.

As morning turned into afternoon he returned to the Gaston. He found Verena looking worried. “This is great, but it’s out of control,” she said. “Our people are trained in nonviolent protest, but thousands of others are just joining in, and they have no discipline.”

“It’s increasing the pressure on the Big Mules,” George said.

“But we don’t want the governor to declare martial law.” The governor of Alabama was George Wallace, an unyielding segregationist.

“Martial law means federal control,” George pointed out. “Then the president would have to order at least partial integration.”

“If it’s forced on the Big Mules from the outside they’ll find ways to undermine it. Better that it’s their decision.”

Verena was a subtle political thinker, George could tell. No doubt she had learned a lot from King. But he was not sure whether she was right on this point.

He ate a ham sandwich and went out again. The atmosphere around Kelly Ingram Park was now more tense. There were hundreds of police in the park, swinging their nightsticks and restraining their eager dogs. The fire brigade hosed anyone headed downtown. The Negroes, resenting the hoses, began to throw stones and Coke bottles at the police. Verena and others of King’s team moved through the crowd, begging people to stay calm and refrain from violence, but they had little effect. A strange white vehicle that people called the Tank drove up and down Sixteenth Street, with Bull Connor bellowing through a loudspeaker: “Disperse! Get off the streets!” It was not a tank, George had been told, but an army surplus armored car Connor had bought.