He didn't have the heart to tell Joe the truth. Joe had, after all, taken him on at the Tribune six years ago when Adam was twenty, and he had taught him everything he knew about newspapers. And now Adam was repaying him by jumping across the bay to the San Francisco Times.

Adam shivered, watching the Oakland sh.o.r.eline shrink away, thinking about the scene in Joe's office.

I'm sorry, Joe. But the truth is, I have a future, a big future. And big futures sure as h.e.l.l don't happen in places like Oakland.

Adam turned and made his way through the parked cars. He stopped abruptly. Even in the sunless morning light, one car stood out, a gleaming vision of black, yellow, and chrome. It was a Wills Sainte Claire, the latest toy of rich auto enthusiasts. Adam touched the fender.

"Nice, isn't she?"

Adam looked up. A man was watching him with a bemused expression. Adam quickly took in the man's cashmere coat, bowler hat and walking cane.

"Yes," Adam said, taking his hand off the car. "The most beautiful machine I've ever seen."

"Could have gotten a Duesenberg," the man said, "but the Wills here has much more style, right?"

Adam nodded, trying to decide if the man was patronizing him. "A superior choice," Adam said, with a smile.

The man smiled back. Adam walked away, thinking about the automobile. Ever since the new machines had begun appearing on the city's streets when he was a boy, he had longed to own one. He had always envied the things money could buy but automobiles especially fired his imagination. He resolved he would someday own a machine as splendid as the Wills. And fine clothes. He was thinking now about the man's clothes. Clothes had never really mattered to Adam. The tweed suit he was wearing had served his needs for years. But now, for the first time, Adam felt shabby, and he realized the old suit was far too small and out of fashion.

Adam went up to the bow, bending slightly in the wind. He gripped the rail and stared at the city spread before him.

San Francisco. Its waters marked with the crosscutting wakes of dozens of ferries. The approaching waterfront, the tower of the Ferry Building extending like a welcoming salute, and beyond the undulating sprawl of the city's pale buildings.

Adam's pulse quickened. He was by nature an emotionally reserved young man. But now he felt himself smiling, and, in a sudden, uncharacteristic burst of expectant joy, he threw back his head and laughed.

CHAPTER TWO.

He was the first one off the ferry, and he went swiftly through the terminal, carrying his small suitcase. As he went up Market Street, his head filled with a dizzying array of images. Everywhere he looked were people, of all means and descriptions, all intent on some purposeful venture. Men in fine lounge suits with flowers in their lapels. Day laborers in dirty overalls. Chinese in both Oriental and western dress.

And women...splendid women in fur-trimmed coats, their pretty faces framed by cloche hats. Everywhere he looked, Adam saw another woman more beautiful than the last.

If there was one thing he coveted more than a new automobile it was a beautiful woman. With his good looks, he had never lacked for female companionship. But these women, so richly dressed and br.i.m.m.i.n.g with confidence, seemed like modern G.o.ddesses. Each one ignored his smiles. No matter. Someday they would be smiling back.

At Union Square, Adam paused outside the entrance of a tall Gothic building and stared at the gilt letters above the door. THE SAN FRANCISCO TIMES. He glanced up at the large clock, which read nine-fourteen, and then quickly looked at his watch. He cursed under his breath. He was late after all.

He quickly found his way to the third-floor city room and was directed to the office of the city editor, George Ringman. Adam anxiously waited for Ringman to finish some business with another man. The pause gave Adam a chance to look around the city room.

It was crowded with plain oak desks and slat-backed chairs. Gooseneck lamps poked out of the piles of paper on each desk top, and telephone cords snaked up into the ceiling. Men in loosened vests and ties, the sleeves of their white shirts rolled high, were bent over black typewriters or seated in silent cl.u.s.ters, their pencils moving like little whirligigs as they edited copy. A cloud of pale yellow cigarette smoke hovered near the ceiling.

A pang of disappointment went through Adam. The San Francisco Times city room looked just like the one in Oakland, just bigger.

Yes, bigger, Adam thought with satisfaction.

"Bryant? Come on in."

Adam looked back to George Ringman, standing behind his desk. Adam shook Ringman's hand and took the offered chair.

"Sorry I'm late, Mr. Ringman," Adam began.

"Late? You're early. And by the way, call me George."

"But the clock outside-"

George Ringman laughed. "Jesus, that thing hasn't worked since the Bickford family built this place in eighteen sixty-five. Just like half the stuff around here."

"Well, I didn't want to be late my first day."

"Joe Davenport said you were that kind of guy. And that you were the best reporter he ever had."

"Best one he trained," Adam said with a smile.

George Ringman laughed.

"Mr. Ringman...George." Adam paused. "We never discussed my exact salary. You said only that it would be generous."

"I'm starting you at fifteen hundred dollars a year," Ringman said. "That's what all our young street men start at."

Adam struggled to hide his disappointment. The figure was only a hundred dollars more than he had been making at the Oakland Tribune.

"When do I start?" Adam said.

"Right now. But first you have to go upstairs and meet the owner. Old man Bickford likes to meet every new man. He's expecting you."

As Adam rode the elevator up to the tenth floor his disappointment over the salary hardened into anger. He was worth more than what Ringman was paying. It would not take long to prove that. But more important, it was the last time, he resolved, that anyone was going to take advantage of him.

Robert Bickford's office was a mahogany-paneled fortress guarded by a stern secretary. Bickford himself was not nearly as imposing as his surroundings. He was a short fat man, his red face straining above the crisp collar of his immaculate white shirt and finely tailored suit. He sat behind his desk, lobbing questions at Adam about his background.

"So, you are from Oakland?" Bickford said.

"I was born in San Francis...o...b..t after my parents died in the earthquake, I was sent to an orphanage in Oakland."

Bickford sobered. "Oh, I'm sorry," he said. "Yes...April eighteenth, 1906, a black day." He paused, his eyes drifting to the window. "My father ran the Times in those days," he said. "We couldn't publish, you know. We lost the house on n.o.b Hill and had to move my family over to Oakland. We lived over there for almost eight months while we rebuilt."

His eyes came back to Adam, lingered for a moment then he picked up Adam's resume. "How did you come to be in the newspaper business? I don't see anything here before your job with the Oakland Tribune."

"I left the orphanage when I was fourteen and worked at a bunch of odd jobs - street cleaner, caulker's a.s.sistant in the shipyards," Adam said. "When I went to apply as a printer at the Tribune I got off on the wrong floor. The first person I met was Joe Davenport. We started talking and he asked me what I really wanted to do for a living."

Adam paused. The memory of that day was still vivid -- the smell and bustle of the newsroom. "I told him I wanted to be a reporter," he said. "Joe offered me a job as a copy boy. I worked my way up from there."

"So why did you want to leave Oakland?" Bickford asked.

Adam could recall the exact day he had asked himself that very question. It was five years ago, January 16. Prohibition had just become law and Adam was a.s.signed to cover how it was creating economic chaos in the wine country and in San Francisco. It was his first trip to the city, and it instantly ignited his imagination and all his latent ambitions. Suddenly, his happy existence at the Oakland Tribune seemed too small. Or maybe the rest of the world was too alluringly big. Adam became obsessed with the idea of moving back across the bay.

"Why did I leave Oakland?" Adam smiled. "You lived there for a while, sir. Why did you want to leave?"

Bickford stared at Adam. The impa.s.se was interrupted by the door opening. Adam smelled the woman's perfume before he saw her. She moved across the suite to Bickford and kissed his balding head.

"h.e.l.lo, Daddy," she said.

"Lilith, I've told you to knock," Bickford said. "I'm busy."

The woman looked over at Adam. "Oh, sorry," she said with a smile. She was in her early twenties, tall and slim, with dark eyes. Two curlicues of black hair wound out of her green hat onto her white cheeks, and her lips were painted bright red. She wore a bottle-green suit, trimmed in mink. "I'm Lilith Bickford," she said, extending her hand to Adam.

He took it and introduced himself.

"Adam's our new street man," Bickford said. "Just starting today."

"Well, the Times can use some new blood," Lilith said. "Why did you decide to come work for my father, Mr. Bryant?"

Adam considered the question before replying. The truth was, he wanted to work for San Francisco's other newspaper, the Journal. It was bigger and far superior to the Times. But he hadn't been able to land a job there.

"I came here because this is an excellent newspaper," Adam said.

Lilith Bickford stared at him then slowly smiled. "Oh yes, the Times is, indeed, an excellent newspaper."

Adam realized Bickford was oblivious to her sarcasm.

"Well, Mr. Bryant," Lilith said, "I hope you do better than those washed-up lushes down there." Bickford shot his daughter an angry look, which she ignored.

"I intend to, Miss Bickford," Adam said. "Within a year, I guarantee that I'll be the Times' top reporter."

She arched her penciled eyebrow then turned to her father. "Daddy, we have to talk."

Adam took the cue and rose. He shook Bickford's hand and said his good-byes to Lilith Bickford.

He lingered outside the open door just long enough to hear Bickford say, "Arrogant chap."

And his daughter's reply, "And much too handsome for his own good."

CHAPTER THREE.

Within a year, Adam made good on his promise, rising quickly among the Times' lackl.u.s.ter reporters. He was indefatigable and relentless in his pursuit of stories. When a carpenters' strike erupted into violence, the city's readers found the best accounts in the Times. After a small earthquake, it was Adam Bryant's colorful reporting everyone quoted over breakfast the next morning. The rival Journal repeatedly tried to lure him away, but he turned the offers down. He had studied the inner workings of the Times carefully and decided that it was an arena in which he could make his mark quickly.

Adam became Bickford's favorite reporter -- and the object of Lilith Bickford's attention. He wanted to be editor in chief of the Times someday, and he considered that Lilith could be a conduit to his goal but he wanted to make it on his own merits.

Then, one afternoon, Bickford came down to the city room to see Adam. They chatted about the day's news, but then the conversation sputtered to a stop. Bickford pulled a cigar out of his breast pocket and clipped off the end.

"Say, Adam," he said, "I'd like you to come to dinner tomorrow."

"We have city elections tomorrow, sir," Adam said. "I really should be here for the late results."

"It's Lilith's birthday," Bickford said. "I know she'd be pleased if you came." He paused. "So would I."

"I'd be honored," Adam said with a stiff smile.

Despite their wealth, the Bickfords were not considered to be among San Francisco's best families. They lived in Pacific Heights, but their mansion on Vallejo Street was small by neighborhood standards. Still, it was more opulent than any home Adam had ever seen.

He had worn his new lounge suit, which had cost him two months' pay. He glanced at Bickford, focusing on his gold collar pin, and thought about the hidden safety pin holding his own collar erect.

But it wasn't feelings of inferiority that made him uncomfortable. It was Lilith. She had been acting strangely possessive, as if she considered him a birthday gift delivered by Daddy.

He glanced at her. She was babbling about the opera star Luisa Tetrazzini, who had married a man twenty years her junior.

"Quel scandale!" Lilith said. "But then, what can one expect of Italians, after all."

Her mother nodded sympathetically.

Adam took a bite of the dry white cake and with a discreet glance at Mrs. Bickford's plate carefully set his little fork, tines up, across his own plate. The room was overheated and was making him drowsy. He tried to look interested in the conversation, but his mind kept wandering.

Yesterday, Bickford had told him that the city editor position was coming open soon and that there were only two candidates: Adam and another man named Rogers. Adam knew he had proved himself yet Bickford was still dangling the job in front of him like a carrot. Was Lilith part of the package?

The conversation had deteriorated into local gossip. Adam caught Bickford's eye and saw the man's weary resignation. He felt a little sorry for Bickford in that second, caught as he was between two insipid women.

There was a lull as Lilith paused to drink her coffee and Adam jumped in, "So, sir," he said to Bickford. "What did you think of the Dempsey-Tunney fight?"

Bickford brightened. "Dempsey's nose is like gla.s.s. Couldn't hold up after he had it rebuilt for the moving pictures, you know."

Adam listened as Bickford went on about the fight, offering an occasional comment. The conversation moved on to the upcoming World Series, and Lilith and her mother sat in silence, sipping their coffee. Adam felt a slight distaste for resorting to the ingratiating ploy with Bickford, but he was beginning to accept the evening for the opportunity it was. After all, it was he -- not Rogers -- who had been invited.

"What do you think, Adam?" Bickford asked. "Can the Cards finally beat the Yankees?"

"They've got the talent," Adam said.

Bickford laughed. "It'll take more than talent. It'll take plenty of luck!"

Adam felt Lilith's eyes on him. "Yes," he said. "A little bit of luck never hurts."

"Spoken like a true Irishman," Bickford said. He rose, patting his belly. "A fine dinner, Catherine," he said to his wife. "How about a cigar in the library, Adam?"

"Sounds fine to me, sir."

"It's time we drop this 'sir' stuff," Bickford said. "It's just plain ol' Bick."

Adam smiled and allowed himself to be led out of the dining room. "If you insist, Bick."

During the next two months, Bickford invited Adam to the house often. It became clear to Adam that the promotion was forthcoming. And that Lilith was, indeed, part of the deal. He began to see her occasionally, just enough to appease everyone. Then, one afternoon, Adam was called up to Bickford's office. Lilith was sitting there.