Upon hearing itself mentioned, the crowd was helpless but to applaud, though what precisely they were applauding was unclear and unimportant, for the final man was already speaking rapidly, like a preacher awed by his topic: “He makes safe the ocean lanes for the way of the mariner. He measures the heat of the stars. He fixes the standards of weights and measures.” His voice went deeper, it echoed, it had friction as it carried him into excited realms. “He speeds the sure, swift flight of the three-cent letter!” (There was applause.) “He smites the rock, and the dead waste of the desert teems with life!” (More applause, mixed with cheers.) “He makes two stalks of grain grow where only one grew before,” and then, squeezing in more before the rhythm of the applause took over, he added, “and some of that is hops, barley, and malt, thank you, San Francisco!”

Lee watched as the first man, the one who seemed most reasonable, lowered the boom. In his quiet but firm tone, he said, “But now Sam has turned warrior. He has grappled with the mad power that has transgressed the rights of mankind.”

The second shook hands with him, a finger-and-palm-tapping affair suggesting Masonic intensity. “He wants to borrow your money. And you want to lend it. Don’t you, San Francisco?”

Throaty calls and cries, demands to be taken seriously. Yes, San Francisco wanted to pledge money.

“You wish to buy bandages for the wounded, San Francisco?”

They did.

“To buy bullets for your children’s guns, San Francisco?”

Oh, how they did.

“You want your boy to have anesthetic and bandages when they take out that bullet”—tying it all together. “San Francisco? Are you with America? I can’t hear you.”

By the end of the speech, the four men were side by side, waving to the audience, which was on its feet with admiration. Lee stood carefully, eyes sweeping the aisles, assessing the reaction. Girls fifteen and sixteen years old rushed to the lip of the stage, holding photographs and fountain pens. Simultaneously, the aisles flooded with Boy Scouts running toward the audience, and the promissory chits ran across the rows of seats and toward the patrons, and then, signed and pledged, back to the Scouts, as efficient a motion as the full-moon tide. Lee whistled. Nothing he had seen had impressed him.

Someone tripped against him. A rumpled older man, dressed as if he’d slept on the ground in his tweed jacket.

“I’m sorry,” Lee said.

The man did not respond. For a moment, in the half-light, they exchanged a glance. The older man was clearly in tears. He was carrying canisters of film, which struck Lee as odd. Then he was gone.

7

Münsterberg fled into the daylight. His glasses were sticky with tears. He walked one way on the sidewalk, then another, confused by the noise and distraction; that he was in the thick of parade watchers made him sick.