Now the purveyors of the war are setting in motion another wave, one they intend to ride to wealth and fortune, a wave that will destroy another country in its wake. Even to someone as politically uninclined as Bill, it seems obvious that the proposed war is a cynical misuse of 9/11, initiated by oil companies and their Washington enablers seeking access to Iraq’s oil fields. The ever-changing rationales for the war—Saddam Hussein’s purported links to 9/11; next, his arsenal of weapons of mass destruction; finally, freedom and democracy in the Middle East—strike Bill as similar to the ever-changing explanations that Wall Street had spouted to justify its exuberant evaluations of the dot-com start-ups before the bust. Wall Street had claimed that the market was no longer constrained by outdated laws or history, just like the proponents of the war are now claiming the right to preemptive strikes and expressing an optimism not supported by past misadventures.

There seems to be hope in the air, though, as Bill marches down Market Street. Surely such a massive demonstration of the people’s will cannot be ignored. The moment is pregnant with possibility, as if this march were not only about preventing a war but also about reclaiming strengths left unused, about rediscovering kinship long forgotten. Bill, whose only experiences of comparable crowds were football matches in Stanford’s stadium, is jolted awake to a boisterous, almost joyous new world bursting all around him.

Someone hands him a placard. Peace, it says simply, a sentiment he can get behind wholeheartedly, something Mame could have no objection to. He thrusts it in the air in time to the drumming and the ringing of a temple bell somewhere ahead, as do the others marching beside him.

By Powell Street, near the cable-car turntable, there’s a sudden commotion. A minute ago the march was proceeding peacefully, but now a section in front charges to the left into the Nordstrom mall. Bill stands rooted as he sees figures dressed in black jeans and black long-sleeved T-shirts emerge from the group ahead. They have black ski masks pulled down to cover their faces, and armed with skateboards, they pound away at the display windows. Chants turn to hoots and shouts; the sound of breaking glass replaces the drumming.

Soon the air is rent with screams as the riot police swoop in from both sides of the road, their batons raised, their bikes careening toward the mall to seal off the entrance. Bill’s section of the march is in disarray. The street flashes with the chaos of batons, placards, and banners caught in sunlight, the black of the vandals, the blue of the riot police, the gleam of motorbikes, the glitter of glass shields.