"Danielle," Françoise says, her voice grim, "I am sorry to bother you, but we have a problem, a big problem."

Danielle looks up from her computer and steels herself. "What?"

"It is the accommodations. We have too many people coming from outside Paris, already hundreds more than we expected. We have no room for them, not even in the warehouse, we simply cannot keep more people there."

"I'll talk to Estelle. We'll rent another warehouse."

"There is no time. They arrive in only five days. We will be violating the law already, keeping so many people in one space. The owner of our warehouse will pretend not to see, but we have no more friends who will be so willing. I do not know what to do. These people, many of them cannot afford their own rooms, not in Paris, and we promised all of them accommodations. I know they say money is no obstacle but surely we cannot pay to put thousands of people up in hotel rooms."

"Maybe not," Danielle admits, though she isn't so sure, the mysterious foundation's fountain of wealth seems to be inexhaustible. "Let me think."

As she ponders she distractedly runs her fingers through her hair, which has grown to pageboy length in the last six weeks. An idea hits.

"How many volunteers do we have here?" Danielle asks. "A hundred?"

"Nearly."

Not enough. "And how many more in Paris who signed up for the newsletter?"

"Nearly two thousand."

"Send an email to them all. Ask them to volunteer to put up a guest for two or three nights. Have them send in addresses and phone numbers, we'll make arrangements to route the out-of-towners to the volunteers' places somehow."

"It will be chaos," Françoise says, offended by the notion. A short, curvy, curly-haired fashionista, Françoise is a finicky detail person; exactly what Danielle needs in her translator and right-hand-woman, but sometimes infuriating.

"Isn't it already? Just send the email," Danielle hesitates, "and forward all the addresses and phone numbers to me. And the emails of the over-flow people. I'll match them up."

"You have no time for this."

"Neither does anybody else. I'll make time. I'll have Estelle help."

Françoise shakes her head. "You are an amazing woman, Danielle, but I fear you will die young of exhaustion."

Danielle looks at her. She tries to remember if anyone she wasn't sleeping with has ever called her an 'amazing woman' before. She doesn't think so.

"I will send the email," Françoise says hastily, apparently mistaking astonishment for stern disapproval. She turns and exits Danielle's bedroom/office.

Danielle wants to bask in Françoise's praise, but she has no time. She returns to her computer and the sprawling Excel spreadsheet entitled La Défense 25 Apr that has eaten her life. With a sigh she creates a new page. In the past six weeks Danielle has learned more about Microsoft Excel than any well-adjusted human being would ever want to know. She never realized until she tried it that activism was so like accounting.

But someone has to do the detail work, and there is so much of it to do. They need thousands upon thousands of people in La Défense on what she has been thinking of as The Day. When she, Laurent, Angus and Estelle decided, six weeks ago, to stage a protest at the International Trade Council's annual meeting in La Défense, Danielle thought it was just a matter of sending out an email to the world's activist groups, telling them where and when, then sitting back and watching them stream down the street on the day.

But no. Angus and Estelle have a web of contacts in the global justice movement around the world, friends in Paris able to recruit dozens of volunteer aides, phone numbers for hundreds of organizations, lists of thousands of supporters' email addresses; they are willing to spend a sum of money that impresses even Danielle, daughter of millionaires; but you still have to give people a reason to come, and six weeks' notice isn't much, and the International Trade Council is not a sexy target. A simple invitation will not do. This protest needed marketing, and then, after the marketing succeeded beyond all hopes, it needed organization.

None of the other hundreds of loose-knit groups that make up the global justice movement joined the call for a demonstration. Some of them might pause to criticize the ITC in passing, in speeches and literature, but their rage-on-the-streets ammunition was conserved for bigger targets like the G8 and WTO. By itself that should have doomed Danielle's protest before it began. The conventional wisdom, among the movement, was that a single voice calling for action would never be heard. But they have proved that wisdom wrong, and Danielle gives herself some credit for that. It was Estelle's idea initially, of course, that if we build it they will come, but it is Danielle who has worked twelve-hour days for six straight weeks.

Since their first week in Paris she has hardly seen Laurent except to crawl into bed beside him. Protests of this size require logistical organization on the scale of a military invasion. Except that armies do what they're told, and the international global justice movement consists of people deeply skeptical of all authority. Organizing more than five thousand people, orchestrating the myriad of groups that they belong to, is a profoundly complex and difficult task. But Danielle is good at it. She has never been quite so good at anything before. Between the ordered productivity she learned in law school, and her years of dealing with the same counterculture types who make up the global justice movement, she is perfect for the job. And she enjoys it. All the endless niggling details, the hassle of translating everything to and from French, every crisis du jour, every roadblock, they are a new chance to get something done, something she believes in.

If only she could be left alone to simply do her work. But as the protest has grown, and other groups have gotten involved, the Steering Council has become a battleground. Danielle sighs and begins to order her thoughts and evidence for the council, where once again, she is sure, she and Estelle will have to defend everything they have done against the jealous cows who wish they had done it instead.

** *

"We've examined your preliminary list of speakers," the gray-haired woman who has become Danielle's bete noire says, "and we thought it would be worthwhile to discuss it further until we reach a consensus."

Dr. Laura Sayers. American-born, Yale-educated, French resident, author of several academic books about the language of economic inequality, and the chairperson of Accat, a French organization whose full unacronymed name Danielle can never remember, but which has a membership of forty thousand dues-paying members and thus considerable economic weight in the perpetually underfunded global justice movement. Dr. Sayers is also the de facto spokesperson for the seven members of the thirteen-person Steering Committee who are both offended by and opposed to the very idea of Danielle's protest in La Défense.

"Of course I'm open to a quick discussion," Danielle says, smiling brightly. She leans back and looks out the window. The steering committee meetings are held around a table in a spacious room with a timbered ceiling, in an old warehouse along the Canal St-Martin in Paris's 18th arrondissement. Through the dozen westward windows she can see across the canal to another warehouse, this one so dilapidated that few of its windows have not been shattered. There are barges parked on the bank of the canal, and a few trees onshore, leafy with new growth. Danielle looks at the trees and affects an air of not really listening. She learned this looking-out-the-window trick from a fellow law student who used it to infuriating effect in a law-school show trial.

"Frankly, Miss Leaf, of course we understand that you're unaccustomed to organizing anything on this scale –"

"Danielle works with me," Estelle says, an edge in her voice, "and I have put together dozens of protests. I helped organize a million people in Hyde Park, Ms. Sayers. Seven thousand is pocket change."

"Dr. Sayers, please, for the sake of accuracy, and attention to detail, and of course we understand that you young women are very well-meaning, but I think attention to detail is just why you should be willing to consister a greater share of assistance in the organizational efforts on the part of Accat and the other groups represented here. To say nothing of the perception, the unseemly appearance, of two Americans running a protest here in Europe."

"You'd rather it be three?" Danielle asks dryly.

Dr. Sayers winces. "Please. Miss Leaf. I do not consider myself American, that's only an accident of birth, and more to the point I am by no means putting my name forward, what I am saying is that your organizational techniques seem to verge on autocracy rather than consensus. Take this list of speakers, for instance. It's unprecedented to simply come in with a list of speakers and ask us to accept it. As the council facilitator, I must remind you that the accepted behaviour is to allow all members of this spokescouncil to nominate and vote on the names, rather than dictate to us who we will and will not hear. That flies in the face of the notion of consensus."

Middle-aged faces nod sober approval. Danielle smiles sardonically. She knows Dr. Sayers is no more interested in consensus than Stalin was. Danielle wishes that when the council was first formed she had known enough to veto Dr. Sayers' acclamation as Facilitator, a role the older woman has been trying hard to transform into Agenda-Setter, Chairperson, and Dictatrix ever since. At least the ridiculous position of Vibes-Watcher has been abolished, ever since Irina, the meek Italian women who held it, burst into tears and fled the room during a previous battle between Danielle and Dr. Sayers.

"Of course we would have preferred to do it that way, but you do understand that the protest will take place in," Danielle glances ostentitiously at her watch, "one hundred and eighteen hours. We simply don't have time to take suggestions, assemble a list, and then get in touch with people and see if they can come."

"But this list is ridiculous. Are you seriously suggesting that we give Silas Warren a full fifteen minutes' time?" Dr. Sayers demands. "He's no more than a thug."

"Diversity of tactics should necessarily imply a diversity of speakers," Danielle says smoothly. It is amazing how quickly the right lines come to mind now, as if she is an actress with a little earpiece that gives her exactly the right words, the coded language of angry diplomacy. Six weeks ago she stuttered when talking to Dr. Laura Sayers. Now she treats her adversary across the table with something like contempt.

"'Diversity of tactics'." The gray-haired woman says this as if she wants to spit. "Code for black blocs. Code for violence. Code for smashed windows and smashed faces and all the worst, wrongest kind of media attention. Miss Leaf, I have no time, none whatsoever, for your 'diversity of tactics.' I move in the strongest possible terms that we expel Mr. Warren from the agenda, and further than we make it clear that this protest has no time for the black blocs and, further, if any turn up, we as organizers will do our best to prevent them from attending and will help turn them over to the police if they do appear."

Danielle looks over at Estelle, who is sitting absolutely motionless with the rictus smile on her face that means she's on the verge of eruption. Danielle represses a wave of irritation – she likes Estelle very much, but can't she control herself around these useless old biddies? – and intervenes quickly before Estelle can say anything.

"Of course we respect your personal views, Ms. Sayers," Danielle says, her voice honey on treacle, "but as a representative of Accat you're presumably here to represent its members and the desire to participate in this protest that many of them have expressed. Naturally if you feel that your personal views conflict with your duties to the extent that you can no longer continue on this committee, we will understand."

"You'll understand? You'll understand?" Dr. Sayers demands, getting to her feet. Danielle smiles inwardly. Victory. "Young lady, you don't understand the first thing, not about how the movement works, not about our goals, not about the need for ethical and non-violent means, not about anything that I have devoted my life to! All you want to do is come to France and wave your dollars around and put ten thousand people in the streets for the sake of your own vanity. It's publicity hounds like you two who will destroy this movement, destroy any hope we have of making a better world, just so you can see yourself on CNN and tell yourself how important you are! Well, you won't, we won't let you get away with it. We are not for sale!"

Danielle looks out the window and tries to seem embarrassed for Dr. Sayers. It isn't hard. After a moment the old woman sits down, breathing hard.

"Dr. Sayers," Danielle says, her voice soothing. "I understand you're passionate about the movement, but I don't think outbursts like this are productive. Why don't we get back to the list of speakers? As you say, I think it can benefit from discussion."

Danielle and Estelle have chosen the names on the list with care. Danielle's policy is that steering council meetings should be held not to reach decisions, but to ratify decisions she and Estelle have already made. However, the committee has to be tossed a meaty bone once in awhile, lest its representatives withdraw their support. Silas Warren has always been intended as just such a bone. Danielle is tempted, though, to push her point and keep him on the agenda, just to prove how wrong Dr. Laura Sayers is. Maybe she isn't for sale, but the past six weeks have shown that the thousands en route to Danielle's protest most certainly are. Not for money, not exactly, but for something arguably even tawdrier; convenience. Despite the disinterest and even opposition of every other activist organization, Danielle and Estelle have been able to convince an expected seven thousand people to converge on La Défense five days hence with only six weeks' notice, simply by making it easy and cheap.

Flood the streets with the foundation's money, organize everything in advance, so that all the protestors have to do is show up. Market it as a most-expenses-paid weekend in Paris, plus a communal festival with thousands of other fellow-travellers, culminating in a Monday protest. And to the dismay of the global justice movement's aristocracy, its dues-paying masses have jumped at the offer. Despite their numerical supremacy on the steering council, when faced with Estelle's money and the protest's popular support, all Dr. Sayers and her supporters can do is try to limit the scope of what they see as a disaster.

** *

"It's almost a shame, what you've done," Keiran says. He is putting more memory into Danielle's too-slow computer as she fills him in on the steering council goings-on. She hasn't seen him in almost a month, he's been in London at his day job, but with only four days to go until the protest, Keiran showed up at Gare du Nord's Eurostar terminal labouring under a duffel bag full of sharp and heavy objects. "I mean aesthetically. I'm glad you've got the protest going, you've done a wonderful job, but it makes me fear for the future of humanity."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm fascinated by your so-called global justice movement. It's very like the Internet. Distributed decisionmaking. It isn't a single movement, it's like a huge primordial agglomeration of cells, each one some individual group. A dozen people calling themselves Brummies for Africa or some such. Different sizes, different locations, often rather different directions. But through relentless communication they become a functional organization. The cells spontaneously self-organize into a single being to perform a particular action, then disintegrate once again into a thousand separate elements. Right?"

"More or less," Danielle says cautiously.

"Growth from the grassroots. Distributed hierarchies. Wave of the future. The protest movement works almost exactly the same as the open-source movement, or the Internet itself. But then you come along, and all this dispersed decisionmaking goes by the wayside as half the cells in Europe run for your beautiful image of a romantic little weekend waving placards in Paris. You're like a cancer. You've taken this wonderful little bottom-up self-constructing network and squashed it into a top-down hierarchy with a jackboot made of money."

"Piss off," Danielle says, a little angry. "That's not true. What gets Dr. Sayers' panties in a knot is that we're not following their hierarchy. We're giving the grassroots a choice, and they're choosing to follow us. How is that not democratic consensus? And besides we're getting something done. Something really valuable."

"You've really gotten into this protest, haven't you?" Keiran asks.

Danielle hesitates. She badly wants this protest, her protest, to succeed. She wants newspaper pictures and TV coverage around the world to show pictures of thousands of people denouncing the International Trade Council, even shutting the meeting down. It could echo, this protest, she really believes that. If done right, it could change the whole movement, show that they shouldn't be saving their efforts for the high-profile WTO and G8 meetings, that they should be hounding every meeting, every get-together, every photo-op among that conspiracy of the rich called the global free market. Make them hide behind barbed wire and in remote Swiss castles, make it clear that ordinary people will not accept their venality any more. If her protest goes well, then maybe, just maybe, it could set an example for activists around the world.

"I'm getting something done," is all she says. "I really don't think Angus and Estelle could have done this themselves. Estelle keeps talking about how she helped organize a million people in Hyde Park, but honestly, the scale of this thing seems totally beyond them, and they have no idea how to deal with the other groups. I thought they were supposed to be the experts."

"There is some disjoint between how Angus and Estelle portray themselves and how they really are."

"What do you mean?"

He snaps the lid of her computer back into place and sits on her bed. This tiny room, wooden floors and ceiling, brick walls, is undecorated except for her computer desk and chair, a metal filing cabinet so full of papers most of its drawers will not close, and the perpetually-folded-out sofa-bed where she sleeps on those nights she can't make it back to Laurent and their apartment in the 11th arrondissement. The single window looks across a narrow street onto a brick wall.