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.

“That’s nice. I’m George Jakes.”

“Cora Jones. Mrs. Jones. My daughter’s baby is due in a week.”

“Her first?”

“Third.”

“Well, you seem too young to be a grandmother, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

She purred a little. “I’m forty-nine years old.”

“I would never have guessed that!”

A Greyhound coming in the opposite direction flashed its lights, and the Riders’ bus slowed to a halt. A white man came to the driver’s window and George heard him say: “There’s a crowd gathered at the bus station in Anniston.” The driver said something in reply that George could not hear. “Just be careful,” said the man at the window.

The bus pulled away.