Adam said nothing, but took the paper. It was, he saw, one of the sensational New York dailies.

The large type on page one read: FIREBRAND IN THE SOUTH. And underneath, in smaller print: See Page 16 for Shocking Story of Adam Cramer, Young Terrorist Who Seeks to Defy U.S. Gov’t.

He looked up at the unsmiling faces and turned to page sixteen of the paper.

A quarter of the page was filled by a poor photograph of Adam on the courthouse steps, surrounded by a large crowd. It had been taken during his first speech.

Beneath the photograph was the title again, with the by-line: Edward Driscoll.

He turned the page and was confronted with a second photograph, showing him and Preston Haller together. He remembered when they’d had it made—on Venice Pier, in one of those silly snapshot booths, almost two years ago; they’d been drunk.

There was also a picture of Adam’s mother, with the notation: Photo by Peter Link.

“You got anything to say for yourself?” Lorenzo Niesen demanded angrily.

“When I’ve read the article, I’ll answer you.”

He sat down at one of the tables, spread the paper on the checkered oilcloth and read carefully. It was mostly about his life in Los Angeles, although there were some quotes from Caxton residents.

When he came to the section which recounted his dates with the colored girl, Alice, he tightened; but he did not change his expression.

“What about it?” Carey said.

Adam closed the newspaper. “I’m impressed,” he said, smiling.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just what I said. I’m impressed with the lengths they’re willing to go to stop us. Apparently we’re a lot more important than we thought!”

“Skip all that,” Niesen said. “Just tell us what this means about you and the nigger girl.”

Adam stared scornfully at the little man, and gave no hint of the wild thoughts that were exploding inside his mind, no hint of the cold terror he was feeling; the immediate, ineluctable sense of urgency.

“Well?”

“Relax, Mr. Niesen,” Adam said. “I’ll be happy to explain the whole thing.”

25

25

Although he had been conscious for several minutes, fully aware of Ruth’s presence and of Ella’s, Tom did not move or speak until he was certain that he was truly himself.

Then, in a quiet but clear voice, he asked: “Am I going to lose the eye?”

This startled Ruth. Her head came up quickly, and she glanced at Ella.

“No,” Tom said. “Don’t call them, yet.”

Ella stopped at the door.

He looked at Ruth. “I’d like to know,” he said. “I’m pretty sure the rest of me will live.”

She took his hand, and said, “It’s badly damaged. But I spoke to Doctor Hill and he said—”

“Tell the truth.”

“He said that there’s a chance—” Ruth bit her lower lip and kept from crying in that way.