He tried to read the expressions on Bart Carey’s face, on Dongen’s,­ Holliman’s, Richey’s, Humboldt’s.

“Throwing a scare into the nigras is good,” he said. “But we got to be very, very careful. Because, always remember, we’re trying to do more than just keep integration out of Caxton; we’re trying to kill it for good and all. I’ve outlined some of the ways. There’s lots of others. But every one is calculated, planned so that it’s them—the nigras—who dig their own graves. We hand ’em the noose, see? That’s fine. But they do the lynching. They hang their selves!”

The faces in the room were impassive, inattentive. There was soft whispering.

A voice called: “How do we know that’s gonna work?”

A stranger to Adam. A broad-faced, hairy man. “Sir, you take my word for it. And you look at the record. Demoralization has been proved a thousand times more effective than any bomb ever was. Can’t you see that making someone surrender is better than conquering him? It’s just a different type of war. A smarter type. Okay, now you might think, Sure, that’s okay for here, where we outnumber the nigras, but what about where it’s reversed?—Well, there are answers to that, too. If we were like certain towns in Mississippi, we’d use different means. We’d use what is called ‘economic pressure.’ It would be put on all niggers and whites who didn’t support segregation. No loans to any of them; the supply houses and wholesalers just all of a sudden no longer provide customary credit; and so on. It’s another way of ‘opposing the law by every lawful means.’ No one gets murdered or blown up, no nigger gets to be a martyr, but they get beat just as sure as if we’d strafed ’em with machine guns.” Adam Cramer held up a finger. “So listen: I’m not condemning anybody. Whoever blew up the church, if he’s here, was doing what he thought was right; but he was wrong. I hope you all see that now, and will go on acting according to the orders of SNAP.”

There was a short silence. Then Rev. Lorenzo Niesen said, “I don’t know about any of that, son, but I know one thing. There ain’t one solitary nigger’ll have the guts to step into our school tomorrow. It’s all over!”

A cheer swelled the room.

Adam looked at Carey and Dongen, who were smiling quietly.

“All over,” Niesen cried to the others. “Caxton’s a white town again, and that’s for sure!”

Joan, the owner of the Cafe, limped inside the room and approached Carey.

“Ollie Underwood’s coming,” she said.