“Yes, and yes,” said Jasper. “It was incredible—”

“I know. We’re going all out with it. Can you give us an I-was-there piece? As personal and impressionistic as you like. Don’t worry too much about facts and figures, we’ll have all those in the main report.”

“I’d be happy to,” said Jasper. It was an understatement: he was ecstatic.

“Let it run. About a thousand words. We can always cut if necessary.”

“All right.”

“Call me in half an hour and I’ll put you through to a copy taker.”

“Couldn’t I have longer?” said Jasper; but Pugh had already hung up.

“Blimey,” said Jasper to the wall.

There was an American-style yellow legal pad on Woody Dewar’s desk. Jasper pulled it toward him and picked up a pencil. He thought for a minute, then wrote:

“Today I stood in a crowd of two hundred thousand people and heard Martin Luther King redefine what it means to be American.”

• • •

Maria Summers felt high.

The television set had been on in the press office, and she had stopped work to watch Martin Luther King, as had just about everyone else in the White House, including President Kennedy.

When it ended she was walking on air. She could hardly wait to hear what the president thought of the speech. A few minutes later she was summoned to the Oval Office. The temptation to hug Kennedy was even harder for her to resist than usual. “He’s damn good,” was Kennedy’s slightly detached reaction. Then he said: “He’s on his way here now,” and Maria was overjoyed.

Jack Kennedy had changed. When Maria had first fallen in love with him, he had been in favor of civil rights intellectually, but not emotionally. The change was not due to their affair. Rather, it was the relentless brutality and lawlessness of the segregationists that had shocked him into a heartfelt personal commitment. And he had risked everything by bringing forward the new civil rights bill. She knew better than anyone how worried he was about it.

George Jakes came in, immaculately dressed as always, today in a dark-blue suit with a pale gray shirt and a striped tie. He smiled warmly at her. She was fond of him: he had been a friend in need. He was, she thought, the second-most attractive man she had ever met.

Maria knew that she and George were here for show, because they were among the small number of colored people in the administration. They were both reconciled to being used as symbols. It was not dishonest: though their number was small, Kennedy had appointed more Negroes to high-level posts than any previous president.

When Martin Luther King walked in, President Kennedy shook his hand and said: “I have a dream!”

It was meant well, Maria knew, but she felt it was ill judged. King’s dream came from the depths of vicious repression. Jack Kennedy had been born into America’s privileged elite, powerful and rich: how could he claim to have a dream of freedom and equality? Dr. King obviously felt this too, for he looked embarrassed and changed the subject. Later, in bed, the president would ask Maria where he had taken a wrong step, she knew; and she would have to find a loving and reassuring way to explain it to him.