her thin dark hands together to push away the terror growing in her now, and she felt the car bucket and lurch around other cars. She heard the voices yelling, Hey Willie, look! and hands holding up ropes and guns as they rushed by! and mouths smiling at them in the swift rushing.
‘Here we are,’ said Willie, and braked the car into dusty halting and silence. He kicked the door open with a big foot and, laden with weapons, stepped out, lugging them across the airport meadow.
‘Have you thought, Willie?’
‘That’s all I done for twenty years. I was sixteen when I left Earth, and I was glad to leave,’ he said. ‘There wasn’t anything there for me or you or anybody like us. I’ve never been sorry I left. We’ve had peace here, the first time we ever drew a solid breath. Now, come on.’
He pushed through the dark crowd which came to meet him.
‘Willie, Willie, what we gonna do?’ they said.
‘Here’s a gun,’ he said. ‘Here’s a gun. Here’s another.’ He passed them out with savage jabs of his arms. ‘Here’s a pistol. Here’s a shotgun.’
The people were so close together it looked like one dark body with a thousand arms reaching out to take the weapons. ‘Willie, Willie.’
His wife stood tall and silent by him, her fluted lips pressed shut, and her large eyes wet and tragic. ‘Bring the paint,’ he said to her. And she lugged a gallon can of yellow paint across the field to where, at that moment, a trolley car was pulling up, with a fresh-painted sign on its front, TO THE WHITE MAN’S LANDING, full of talking people who got off and ran across the meadow, stumbling, looking up. Women with picnic boxes, men with straw hats, in shirt sleeves. The streetcar stood humming and empty. Willie climbed up, set the paint cans down, opened them, stirred the paint, rested a brush, drew forth a stencil and climbed up on a seat.
‘Hey, there!’ the conductor came around behind him, his coin changer jangling. ‘What do you think you’re doing? Get down off there!’
‘You see what I’m doing. Keep your shirt on.’
And Willie began the stencilling in yellow paint. He dabbed on an F and an O and an R with terrible pride in his work. And when he finished it the conductor squinted up and read the fresh glinting yellow words, FOR WHITES: REAR SECTION. He read it again. FOR WHITES. He blinked. REAR SECTION. The conductor looked at Willie and began to smile.
‘Does that suit you?’ asked Willie, stepping down.
Said the conductor, ‘That suits me just fine, sir.’
Hattie was looking at the sign from outside, and holding her hands over her breasts.
Willie returned to the crowd, which was growing now, taking size from every auto that groaned to a halt, and every new trolley car which squealed around the bend from the nearby town.
Willie climbed up on a packing box. ‘Let’s have a delegation to paint every streetcar in the next hour. Volunteers?’
Hands leapt up.
‘Get going!’
They went.
‘Let’s have a delegation to fix theatre seats, roped off, the last two rows for whites.’
More hands.
‘Go on!’
They ran off.
Willie peered around, bubbled with perspiration, panting with exertion, proud of his energy, his hand on his wife’s shoulder who stood under him looking at the ground with her downcast eyes. ‘Let’s see now,’ he declared. ‘Oh yes. We got to pass a law this afternoon; no intermarriages!’
‘That’s right,’ said a lot of people.
‘All shoeshine boys quit their jobs today.’
‘Quittin’ right now!’ Some men threw down the rags they carried, in their excitement, all across town.
‘Got to pass a minimum wage law, don’t we?’
‘Sure!’
‘Pay them white folks at least ten cents an hour.’
‘That’s right!’
The mayor of the town hurried up. ‘Now look here, Willie Johnson. Get down off that box!’
‘Mayor, I can’t be made to do nothing like that.’
‘You’re making a mob, Willie Johnson.’
‘That’s the idea.’
‘The same thing you always hated when you were a kid. You’re no better than some of those white men you yell about!’
‘This is the other shoe, Mayor, and the other foot,’ said Willie, not even looking at the mayor, looking at the faces beneath him, some of them smiling, some of them doubtful, others bewildered, some of them reluctant and drawing away, fearful.
‘You’ll be sorry,’ said the mayor.
‘We’ll have an election and get a new mayor,’ said Willie. And he glanced off at the town where up and down the streets signs were being hung, fresh-painted: LIMITED CLIENTELE: Right to serve customer revocable at any time. He grinned and slapped his hands. Lord! And streetcars were being halted and sections being painted white in back, to suggest their future inhabitants. And theatres were being invaded and roped off by chuckling men, while their wives stood wondering on the curbs and children were spanked into houses to be hid away from this awful time.
‘Are we all ready?’ called Willie Johnson, the rope in his hands with the noose tied and neat.
‘Ready!’ shouted half the crowd. The other half murmured and moved like figures in a nightmare in which they wished no participation.
‘Here it comes!’ called a small boy.
Like marionette heads on a single string, the heads of the crowd turned upward.
Across the sky, very high and beautiful, a rocket burned on a sweep of orange fire. It circled and came down, causing all to gasp. It landed, setting the meadow afire here and there; the fire burned out, the rocket lay a moment in quiet, and then, as the silent crowd watched, a great door in the side of the vessel whispered out a breath of oxygen, the door slid back and an old man stepped out.
‘A white man, a white man, a white man …’ The word travelled back in the expectant crowd, the children speaking in each other’s ears, whispering, butting each other, the words moving in ripples to where the crowd stopped and the streetcars stood in the windy sunlight, the smell of paint coming out of their opened windows. The whispering wore itself away and it was gone.
No one moved.
The white man was tall and straight, but a deep weariness was in his face. He had not shaved this day, and his eyes were as old as the eyes of a man can be and still be alive. His eyes were colourless; almost white and sightless with things he had seen in the passing years. He was as thin as a winter bush. His hands
