Wharton looked at Percy and remembered that he was married to Babe Lee, a white woman. “I’m sorry if this offends you, Mr. Marquand,” he said.

“I’m used to it,” Percy said mildly; not denying that he was offended, but declining to make a big deal of it. Dave thought that was remarkably gracious.

Evie said indignantly: “Maybe television should work to alter people’s prejudices.”

“Don’t be naïve,” Charlie said rudely. “If we show them something they don’t like, they’ll just change the goddamn channel.”

“Then all the networks should do the same, and portray America as a place where all men are equal.”

“It won’t work,” said Charlie.

“Perhaps it won’t,” said Evie. “But we have to try, don’t we? We have a responsibility.” She looked around the group: Charlie, Tony, Dave, Percy, and Wharton. Dave felt guilty when he met her eye, for he knew she was right. “All of us,” she went on. “We make television programs, which influence how people think.”

Charlie said: “Not necessarily—”

Dave interrupted him. “Knock it off, Charlie. We influence people. If we didn’t, Mr. Wharton would be wasting his money.”

Charlie looked angry, but he had no answer.

“Now we have a chance, today, to make the world a better place,” Evie went on. “Nobody would mind if I kissed Bing Crosby on prime-time television. Let’s help people to see that it’s no different if the cheek I kiss is a little darker in color.”

They all looked at Mr. Wharton.

Dave felt perspiration break out under his skintight frilled shirt. He did not want Wharton to be offended.

“You argue well, young lady,” said Wharton. “But my duty is to my shareholders and my employees. I’m not here to make the world a better place, I’m here to sell Foam to housewives. And I won’t achieve that if I associate my product with interracial sex, with all due respect to Mr. Marquand. I’m a big fan, by the way, Percy—I have all your records.”

Dave found himself thinking of Mandy Love. He had been crazy about her. She was black—not golden tan like Percy, but a beautiful deep coaly-brown. Dave had kissed her skin until his lips were sore. He might have proposed to her, if she had not gone back to her old boyfriend. And Dave would now be in Percy’s position, straining to tolerate a conversation that insulted his marriage.

Charlie said: “I think the duet works as a beautiful symbol of interracial harmony without hinting at the prickly topic of sex between the races. I believe we’ve done a wonderful job here—provided we leave out the kiss.”

Evie said: “Nice try, Charlie, but that’s bullshit, and you know it.”

“It’s the reality.”

Trying to lighten the mood, Dave said: “Did you call sex a ‘prickly topic,’ Charlie? That’s funny.”

No one laughed.

Evie looked at Dave. “Aside from making jokes, what are you going to do, Dave?” she said, almost taunting him. “You and I were raised to stand up for what’s right. Our father fought in the Spanish Civil War. Our grandmother won women the right to vote. Are you going to give in?”