PLAYBOY

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and 9 PENCE
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WALLACE

SUMMER Is SMARTLY SIGNALIZED in this
July issue of America’s foremost li
зу magazine: cartoonist n Wilson
proffers a set of sandy sketches which
we've titled, appropriately enough, On
the Beach with Gahan Wilson; our vari-
ous editorial service departments suggest
y h fun, due

us in on the latest fashion news in secr-
sucker, and provide recipes for a trio of
frosty summer drinks: lenslady Bunny
offers a new and appealing idea in
male fashion, done up by stage/
designer Jack Hakman for this
month's photo ieature, The Nude Look
All that glitters is not Herb Gold.
necessarily; PLAYBOY Assistant Editor
Don Gold (no litters, too, at
the drop of a hat or the drop of a book.
A book that recently dropped from his
numbed fingers was authored by John
OF which explains why versatile
Don — jazz buff, d.j.. and one-time Man-
p Editor of Down Beat — has writ

. as his first bylined contribution to
ges, not a jazz story but a slicing

tc
our

satire of O'Hara called Ourselves 10
Know Too Well. Another writer new to
PLAYBOY is Jeremy Dole, young author
of this issue's farcical election-year story
Wilbur Fonts for President.

No newcomers are PLAYNOY
William Iversen, T. K. Brown
Richard Matheson and John Wal
represented this month by top-draw:
writing, Iversen reverses a rather abom
nable old idea and comes up with the
much more sensible / Only Want a
Sweetheart, Not a Buddy. Brown gives us
a precise and peneuatins portrait of that
shady lady named Luck. Matheson, hav-
ing finished writing the screenplay for
the new film version of Poe's The Fall of
the House of Usher, does а creditable job
of out-Poeing Poe in his story First
Anniversary (it's his fifth rLaywoy yarn).
John Wallace — of / Love You, Miss
Irvine memory — is back with his fifth
story for us, this month's leadoff, O You
New York Girls. This tale of a hip young
chap on the loose in the big town en
joys, by way of illustration, а double-

ROSOFSKY.

DOLE

PLAYBILL

page water color by Seymour Rosobky,
Chicago artist in his early thi
jux back from а Е

paint

and awards, and has ђе ied in
Chicago's Art Institute, York's
Museum of Modern Art, plus galleries
in Los Angeles, Detroit, and far-flung
Rome and Naples.

Bidding us catapult our minds to
regions farther flung than Rome or
Naples, Arthur C. Clarke captains а
Rochel to the Renaissance.

Photographers and their nubile, near-
nude models cavorted at а Hollywood
viAYBoY party under the auspices of dh
American Society of Magazine Photog

phers. and. its far from surprising that
the shutter-bugs snapped their own
shindig. The refreshing results appear
on a couple of colorful double-page

spreads ће

Do we hear someone asking for still
more Teevee Jeebies? They're here, t
in this July eravnov.

PLAYBOY

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DEAR PLAYBOY

E] Avpress PLAYBOY MAGAZINE · 232 Е. OHIO ST., CHICAGO 11, ILLINOIS

CHAPLIN
How about that? My first letter to
rLaysoy and it isn't even the
Playmates! Congratulations to Charles
Beaumont on possibly the finest work in
his carcer. I refer, of course, to the
March article, Chaplin. However, even
more than to Beaumont, congratulations
must be extended 10 rrAytoy [or having
the awareness to recognize Chaplin's
genius and the courage to commission
this article, I, unfortunately, belong to
the group of people who scarcely know
the “artist. Cily Lights was my only
glimpse of his genius but scenes of that
one glimpse will remain in my heart for
the rest of my life. I have wondered
for a long time why no one came to
Chaplin's defense. Now rravmoy has.

Lyle Neighbors

Moses Lake, Washington

about

Bravo! I refer to that Chaplin piece

by Beaumont. lt needed to be said and

I'm glad it was pLaynoy who said it
Herman G. Weinberg
New York, New York

-... An essay worthy of the highest
praise. An eloquent tribute to one of the
most misunderstood men of our time.
Paul DeWitt
New York, New York

GENTLEMEN, THE PIECE ABOUT CHARLIE
CHAPLIN WRITTEN BY CHARLES BEAUMONT
JS THE MOST SENSITIVE AND TOLERANT POR-
IRAIT OF A MAN THAT 1 HAVE EVER READ,
WITH THE POSSIBLE EXCEPTION OF BER-
TRAND RUSSELL ON TOM PAYNE, PLEASE FX-
TEND TO мк. BEAUMONT
FELY BY ALL
THIS ISSUE OF PLAYBOY
ny.

MY MOST HEAR
MEANS SEE ТНА
REACHES CHARLIE
SINCERELY —
JESSEL

NEW YORK, NEW YORK

APPLAUSE

AND HIS РА

Most
GEOR

1 was born a generation too late to
enjoy Charlie Chaplin's artistry, and Im
afraid my image of him, until now, was

the negative one formed by stander.
Thanks, therefore, to Beaumont and

pLaynoy for erasing my prejudice.
Robert Sullivan
amford, Connecticut

The Chaplin article written by Charles
Beaumont is а good piece; a warm and
sympathetic recountin:

Dore Schary
New York, New York

It's about time someone had the guts
to print the truth about Chaplin. Many
thanks!

John C. Weiser
Salisbury, North Carolina

1 found Charles Beaumont’s Chaplin
very interesting indeed: а wise, balanced
and warm description of the artist and
About time, too, before his
le 1 reputation sulfer completely
from his vituperative, ignorant detrac-
tors. Congratulations on PLAYEO
ment
article.

his career

nd

(nd courage in publish

Hollis Alpert
w York, New York

You gained my respect with The Gon-
fominators, and you have retained that
respect with Charles Beaumonts mag-
nificent article on Chaplin. You've said
it all.

Peggy Parkis
H , Ontario

nilto

A sympathetic and long overdue at
tempt to set the record straight on а
much-maligned genius.

John Wilcox

The Village Voice

New York, New York

I bought the March PLavuoy the other
day. И Charles Beaumont can do that
well on Chaplin, I think he ought to
keep on doing stuff like that and leave
the werewolves alone.

Irs wonderful, the
way in which Beaumont makes the point
about how lucky we were that Chaplin
that if anyone lost
anything when he left the country, it
was us. IL is, of course, true, and nobody
before this has ever said it
Robert Paul Smith
Scarsdale, New York

made his movies here

In striking a blow for Cl
immortality while he is still
cloud of misunderstanding and calumny
Mr. Beaumont. has done a service 10 all

plin's
under a

MY SIN

. a most

provocative perfume!

LANVIN

the Cet Fars has to offer

PLAYBOY

I must
admit...
Kahlia
invented
me!

CARL REINER: Writer, Director, Actor, Inventor

No question — the Black Russian (the capital cocktail) was invented
by Каћа (the capital cofjee liqueur from Mexico). Kahlüa is willing
to give "them" credit for the electric light, the internal combustion
engine and the hot dog. But the wonders of the Black Russian are
ours. As in everything of greatness, simplicity is the cue. Over ice
cubes, pour 1 part of Kahliia’s amber coffee warmth, 2 parts of “their”
vodka and stir. You see, it's as simple as the wheel. For other equally.
engrossing recipes, send for the rib-tickling Kahlua recipe book.
Just write: Каћша SA,

Avenida Juan Sanchez Azcona 1447, Mexico 12, DF.

Do not write to Moscow.

2
53 Prot KAHLUA coffee liqueur

Jules Berman & Associates, Inc., Beverly Hills, California

lovers of fair play and of happy. healthy
laughter.

Arthur L. Mayer

New York, New York

An article such as Charles Beaumont's
is much needed in a national, magazine
in this country at this time. Our local
exhibitor dedined to show The Gold
Rush because of American Legion pres
sure and it is in fact becoming more and
more difficult to show Chaplin around
the country. I sincerely hope this article
is in some way instrumental in restoring
Charlie's popularity to the American
public.

John Benson
Grinnell, Iowa

The “protective” picketing of Chap-
lin films will no doubt continue, as well
as Philistine panning of his genius. 1 am
truly sorry for those persons who partici-
pate in such. 1 am more sorry, however,
for the millions who will never share the
experience of crying during the ending
of City Lights, or roaring at Chaplin's
comic mastery in Limelight

Charles В. Yulish
Kent, Ohio

Please transmit to Charles Beaumont
my small mote in the avalanche of grati
tude he must be receiving for his own
“gift of joy.”

Paul С. Woodbri
Vienna, Virginia

Chaplin in your magazine, Larry Adler
on your TV show. You are becom а

stink in the nostrils of the American
people.
А. С. Cohn
Bronx, New York

TRUMBO
Congratulations on The Oscar

drome. It is а well-written and timely
article, entirely in keeping with the ћ
standards of your publication. The au-
thor could have really slammed and
damned Hollywood on a completely per-
sonal level but instead he wrote from a
more mature standpoint. Since reading
ticle, I have noticed
nk Sinatra, а performer 1 have
to admired, has fired the excellent
writer Albert Malz because of the
writer’s political associations. Wouldn't
it be nice if we could keep politics out
of the arts for a change?

Arthur 5. Dutch

Los Angeles, California

Congratulations to you on The Oscar
Syndrome by Dalton Trumbo, with com-
ments and analysis of the Motion Picture
Academy Awards. An organization like
the Academy takes ever vigilant watch.
fulness on the part of those who can
give it observation with perspective, This
is its only chance to function free from

Er

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STATE...

PLAYBOY

Hawaiian Playboys challenge
mainlanders -

“Last in
Statehood,

but first in
Bacardihood"

Last month we reported that Texas was
the home of the first Bacardi party. Men,
we govfed. The playboys in our fiftieth
state claim they first dreamed up this
delightful idea. Hats off to Hawaii

By now you must know that a Bacardi
Party is where the guests bring Bacardi
and the host suppl the mixings—as
many as he can turn ир! Like iced tea.
ginger beer, cider, cola — but you get
the idea.

Зо have yourself a Bacardi Par
From Waikiki to Cape Cod. а new 1
of party for fun-loving playboys. Just
remember—how can you have a Bacardi
Party without Bacardi!

PUERTO RICAN REM

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under the cloud of exploitation and
commercial However, 1 doubt if
either Mr. Trumbo or I have the neces
sary qualifications; nevertheless 1 wel
come Mr. Trumbo's article.
K Vidor
Beverly Hills

California

Keep up the good work. The maga
zine always provides things of great
worth-the April article on taxes, The
Far Out Film nd the Dalton Trumbo
piece were of great interest here
George Stevens. Jı
George Stevens Productions, Inc
Beverly Hills, California

Whats wrong with PLAYBOY? Is it be-
ginning to follow the Communist party
linc?

T. Е. Hanson
New York, New York

Your usually rosy cheeks are starting
ıa look red
Hugh P. Thompson
Indianapolis, Indiana

Please cancel my subscription at once
ist. the hearts-and-flowers for Chaplin
| D Trumbo. As an cx-FBl
ent, it becomes impossible 10 continue
R. E. Chasen

ifton. New Jersey

rLavboy sincerely beli that this
nalion is big enough. strong enough and
right enough lo give free expression to
the ideas and the talents of every man
among их without fear ој being huri by
any man’s individual weaknesses ov fol
lies. We believe. too, that по good idea,
no important work of art and по mean
ingful talent becomes less goud, less im
portant or less meaningful because it
comes from a doubtful source. You
dowi have to be а homosexual to read
Oscar Wilde or an alcoholic and a drug
addict 10 appreciate the руже and
poetry of Edgar Allan Poe. H is also pos
sible to recognize the comic genius of
Chaplin, read an article on the Academy
{wards by Dalton Trumbo and enjoy
the music of Larry Adler without neces
sarily approving of cither the men оу
their personal philosophies of life. For
the vecord, of course, none of these men
has ever been proven a Communtst—a
matter of some importance in this coun
try that prides itself on fair play and
believing a man innocent until proven
guilty. But that’s really beside the point
for we also appreciate Picasso as one
of the world’s greatest living artists, and.
we know hes a Communist. Polities
may be important in government, where
national security is a vital consideration,
bui it has no place in art and literature
Not if America's art and literature, and
indeed the country itself, are lo remain

free.
3

PLAYBOY AFTER

[ши а шыг and present danger
оп the economic level, is quickly be-
coming more and more of a devaluating
influence on our everyday language as
well. We refer specifically to the growing
trend toward making jobs seem what
they are not by giving them pompous

tides. Thus, janitors have become
“superintendents” and “maintenance
engincers"; cab drivers are officially

and truck

known as “public chauffeurs”
drivers want to be known as “van oper-
ators”; buyers have become “purchasing
agents” or even “procurement special-
official title of the man who picks

ists

up papers in the park is *

andscape en-

ginter"; garbage collectors are "sanita-
tion engineers’ с cans are
“refuse disposal containers.” The Wis-

consin Restaurant Association feels that
the term “beverage host” should replace
“bartender” because title
is more dignity." If the trend con-
tinues, where will it all end? Will ele-
ator operators become Ascendant and
Descendant Pilots? Will tailors shortly
be known as Stitch Engineers? Are house
painters to be called Exterior Decora-
tors? Will you get your haircut from
Tress Sculptor? Will you have your mail
delivered by a Communications Ex-
pediter, your windows washed by an
Aperture Renovator, your adry
picked up by a Clothing Immaculator,
your doors opened by an Entrance Traf-
fic Coordinator? Just as the dollar is
losing more and more of its value, so
are our titles becoming more and more
meaningless, which is especially ironic
when we remember that the holder of
the really top position has always had
to be satisfied with the shortest job
tile: God.

the former

According to UPI, Gina Lollobrigida's
explanation for going to Geneva and
then to Paris was; “I've got to wy on

costumes for my new film, Go Naked in
the World.”

Add to the list of strippers’ monickers
that of the Coast ecdysiast, Norma Vin-
cent Peale (dig?).

Last month, in reviewing the Jack
Douglas book, Never Trust a Naked
Bus Driver, we called amused attention
to the dedication: “To Barry and Ella
Fitzgerald.” А playwright pal, inspired,
has suggested a few more matings not
exactly made-in-heaven, but just the
thing if you're planning a book of your
own and are stuck for a suitably senti
mental dedication: Charles and Mamic
Van Doren, Debbie and Quentin Rey-
nolds, Joan and Miles Davis, Peggy and
Pinky Lee, Mae and Nathanael West,
‘Tony and Ma Perkins, Jane and Ве
trand Russell, El and Juliette Greco,
Charles and Dawn Addams, Ayn and
Remington Rand, Mary and Charlie
McCarthy, Brooks and Joyce Brothers,
Barnum and Pearl Bailey, Flash and
Ruth Gordon, Buck and Ginger Rogers,
Sheilah and Billy Graham, Billy and
Tokyo Rose.

The subject of deliberation of a re-
cent seven-hour session of the city coun-
dl in Lockport, New York: How to
Shorten City Council Meetings.

ACTS AND
ENTERTAINMENTS

It's our notion, in this new depart-
ment, to apprise you from time to time
of those acts and entertainments we
think you should look for —or look out
for — when they're on tap at your favor-
ite night spot. Bob Newhart — the new
comic who broke up audiences during
his stay at Mister Kelly’s in Chicago—

strikes us as a happy nominee for inaug-
ural honors. He's a thirty-year-old satirist
who dodged show biz as a full-time ven-
ture until carly this year, when glowing
response to his appearance on Playboy's
Penthouse inspired him to hit the night-
dub circuit. Newhart, who writes all hi:
own stuff, may remind some of Shelley
Berman, who also got his start at Kelly's
less than three years ago and is now the
most successful of all the new hip school
of comics. Coming on as captain of the
atomic sub U.SS. Codfish, Newhart lec-
tures his crew on their arrival home after
two years of underwater endurance:
“Men, we hold the record for the most
Japanese tonnage sunk . . . unfortunately,
they were sunk in 1954." As a television
director putting the Khrushchev landing
rehearsal through its paces, an anxious
Newhart shricks, "Somebody cue Ike.
Have somebody take the putter from
Ike.” But it is а PR man, holding a
phone conversation with Abe Lincoln
just before Gettysburg, that Newhart
broke us into the smallest of pieces

“Hi ya, sweetheart. How are you, kid?
How's Gettysburg? Sort of a drag, huh?
Listen, Abe, I got the note. What's the
problem? You're thinking of shaving it
off? Ah — Abe — ah — don't you see that's
part of the image? Right. Abe, you got
the speech? Aw. Abe, you haven't
changed the speech, have you? Abe, what
do you change the speeches for? You
what? You typed it! Abe, how many
times have we told you: on the backs of
envelopes. I understand it’s harder to
read that way, Abe, but it looks like you
wrote it on the train, What else, Abe?
You changed ‘Fourscore and seven’ to
‘Eighty-seven’? Yeah but, Abe, that's sup-
posed to be a grabber, you know? Abe,
we test-marketed it, baby, and they went
out of their minds. Abe, would Marc
Antony say "Friends, Romans, country
men, Ive got somethin’ I wanna tell

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nothing: it will come to you autom:
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nothing at all— simply state your
wishes on a form always provided. For
regular L.P, albums you will pay the
nationally advertised price — usually
$3.98, at times $4.98; for stereo al-
hums you will pay the nationally ad-
vertised price of $4.98. at times $5.98.
{plus—in all cases—a small charge for
postage and handling).

Music Рот Î
MICKEY SPILLANE'S

MIKE HAMMER

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ya'?... You talked to some newspaper-
men? Abe—ah—J wish you wouldn't
talk to newspapermen. You always put
your foot in it. Huh? That's just what I
mean, Abe. No, no. You were a rail
splitter, then an attorney. Abe, have you
got a pencil and paper there? Will you
take this down? ‘You can fool all of the
people some of the time, and some of
the people all of the time, but you can't
fool all of the people all of the time.’
Well, the thing is, you keep doing it
differently, Abe. What? Saturday night? А
bridge party at the White House? Ah —
Abe, I'd love to make it, but . . . You
and— what's her name, Mary — will be
home alone? Gee, that's too bad. Listen,
Abe — why don’t you take in a play?” A
batch of Bob's skits, you should Know,
are on a new LP— The Button-Down
Mind of Bob Newhart (Warner Bros.).
If Newhart isn't quite “the best new
comedian of the decade,” as PLAYBOY is
misquoted in the liner notes, he is the
best comic to arrive this year and is
certain to be doing well in clubs across
the country the better part of the next
fourscore and seven years.

FILMS

The big comedy news for most of the
summer is I'm All Right, Jack, This British
film itself is that rare thing, a comedy
with real content and profound moral-
ity; so it is all the more thrilling to re-
port that it is hilariously funny. Ian

ichael plays a pleasant, wealthy,
well-educated but none too bright joker
whose main trouble im life is that he
sincerely wants to perform meaningful
work. In his quest for this he encounters
a Jot of shrewdies for whom the concept
of a decent day's work is something to
fight against (Labor and fewer but
filthier types for whom even the peace
of the world doesn't stand а chance
st the hope of turning a fast buck
gement). Alone, in the middle,
away for

(Man.
our dim-witted hero, workin:

perhaps the ultim y
welfare and doom, something called Mis
siles, Ltd. Through an excess of energy
and good will, Carmichael demonstrates
to a snooping time-study monster how
fast he can work; this results in a strike
called by steward Peter Sellers, this time
ош а glassy-eyed, patheticabsurd Cock
ney who loves all things Russian. The
strike spreads, finally endangering а big
arms deal cooked up by Missiles’ elegant
board chairman, Dennis Price, and a
shilty-eyed Arab—all in the interest of
"keeping the peace in the Middle East."
With a big assist from the conservative
press, Carmichael becomes а national
hero. But since no one wants the strike
to continue, or to look very long or hard.

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at the moral bankruptcy its opposing
forces represent, a deal between them
is engineered and it’s business as usual
again. The grim but very amusing end-
ing has Carmichael finding sanctuary in
a nudist colony well-stocked with girls
stacked.

well

Sidney Meyers, director of The Оше!
One, and Ben Maddow, scenarist for
The Asphalt Jungle. teamed with
Joseph Strick to make a real shocker.
The Savage Eye. It features a fine new
comer to films, Broadway veteran Bar-
bara Baxley, as a divorcee-to-be sitting
out a year in L.A. until her decree comes
through. The Eye is hers, and it's pretty
jaundiced. Most of the screen time is
taken up with what she secs, and. nonc
of it is very lovely. The horrors include
operation nose job: a hard-working
young gigolo whispering with his late
ixües date; a stripper parodying real

г а faith-healing factory: and a homo
sexual drag &strip dance, Nothing much
matters to the heroine in this travelog-
turned-inside-out (just the “numbing”
round of receiving alimony checks and
spending them) until an auto wreck
brings her close to death. Her recupera-
tion is accomplished. by some too-facilc
affirmation on her part.

1 Passed for White is а nasty bit of busi-
ness which passes itself off as a social
document, but endorses throughout the
philosophy of "Stay in your own back
yard." Ignore it.

BOOKS

Sterling C. Quinlan, TV exec who
last year produced a book titled The
Merger—a behind-th business
novel —now comes along with a com-
pletely different, and considerably better,

scenes

effort: а robustious, sometimes rowdy,
always lusty and yeasty story centering
about an applejack-swigging picaro

aptly named Jugger (McDowell, Obolen-
sky, $3.95). Jugger is the town drunk of
Grater Village, a bucolic community not
too far from New York City and pretty
clearly modeled on Greenwood Lake, a
lovely-to-look-upon resort community
which was the mis en scéne of the most
famous fictional murder in American
literature, Dreiser's An American Trag-
edy. Quinlan's tale is something very dit-
ferent: his concern is with the raucus fun
he extracts from the antics of the natives
in their effort to commit Jugger to the
poor farm (so he won't freeze to death
over the winter, they say, but actually
to put a stop to his cheerful and rc-
morscless pilferage of whatever he needs
to keep his tattered body and wild free
soul together). All Jugger wants is to be
left alone — which is exactly what the

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town characters (and they are, indecd,
characters) don't want to do — including
his mentor, Carrot Woman, who fancies
her sexy self as Jugger’s protectress. But
despite Tugger's one-man war оп respect-
ability, he rises (in his own outrageous
way) to the needs of a pair of twin wails
even more outcasts than he, and achieves
a kind of cockeyed heroism after all. It's
a shrewd guess that underneath his ebul-
lient excursion is the author's profound
conviction that irreverent iconoclasm is
exactly what the world needs more of —
his comedic, roundabout rural route to
the statement notwithstanding,

British humorous-novelist Kingsley
(Lucky Jim, That Uncertain Feeling)
Amis has written a sharp though slender
suryey of science-fiction called New Maps
of Hell (Harcourt, Brace, $3.95), obviously
a labor of love. Not an sf writer himself,
Amis’ bona fides are those of the ad-
dicted reader, and he assures other ad-
“whatever my shortcomings, 1
am not that particularly irritating kind
of person, the intellectual who takes a
slum holiday in order to ‘place’
some ‘phenomenon’ of ‘popular cul-
ture” ” Amis compares sf to jazz: “Both
emerged as self-contained entities some
ne the second or third decade of
the century, and both underwent rapid
internal change around 1940. Both have
strong connections with mass culture
being mass media in themselves.
Шу American ...
both have a noticeably radical tinge
‚++ both have arrived at a state of anx
and largely naive self-consciousness.
Amis feels sf writers are unadven-
turous and even puritanical as regards
sexual themes, and would like to see sex
play a stronger role in the genre; de-
plores sf whimsy; tells off arty folks who
prefer their s-f heavy on characterization,
light on gimmick, defending the “ide:
hero" school by justifying stock types
"It is necessary that they be so. In this
type of story, which must consistently
stop a good deal short of what is no
more than barely possible, an added ref-
erence-point or reassurance to the reader
can be furnished by treating character
conservatively and limiting interest in it
. . .. [the story's] whole tenor would be
set awry by the kind of specifyi
tinguishing, questioning form of char-
acterization to which general fiction has
accustomed us.” Why is sf worth a
bookful of Amis’ attention? “In the first
place, one is grateful for a medium in
which our society can criticize itself, and
sharply. . . . One is grateful that we have
a form of writing which is interested in
the future, which is ready to treat as
variables what are usually taken to be
constants, which is set on tackl those
large, general, speculative questions that
ordinary fiction so often avoids." Amis
is encouraged by the spread of sf in

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more general magazines "including
rLAYnoV" and devotes space to describ.
ing a representative work of pLavnoy sf,
Sheckley's Love, Incorporated (now on
tap in The Permanent Playboy).

THEATRE

Bye Bye Birdie is a wild and kookie
musical about rock-n'rolling teenagers,
but it has their elders dancing in the
aisles. The titular hero of this joyous
whoopdedo is Conrad Birdie. a hulking.
played by Dick

crooner

Dick

armed force:

to the
Van Dyke, plans а fi

paign to be staged in the town of S
Apple. Ohio. What happens to the
sleepy town of Sweet Apple when the
idolized sexpot steps off the train was
made to order for the talents of Gower
npion. Doubling as the show's direc
tor and chorcographer, Champion is at
his best when he crowds his маде with an
army of screaming. flipping Birdie watch
ers, or matches the teenage tumult with
a series of whirlwind comic ballets for
the indefatigable Chita Rivera. Book is
by Michael Stewart, the Charles Strouse—
Lee Adams score sings nic
way, and Paul Lynde and Kay Medford
have never been as funny before in their
alented lives. Gower
"

however, is the
L champion of the enlivening eve

ning. At the Martin Beck, West 45th
Stree, NYC.
RECORDINGS

Holly
wood when crew.
turned on the trusty Ampex to capture

io on the Sunset Strip (W

пет
г brother
an Frank Ross
cavort madly, turning such standards as
How Did He Look? and You've Changed
into the sort of bluish зиме the airwaves
aren't made for

Norman and а

There are hard-charg-
ing excursions, too, as the trio wallops
its way through Toreador and Circus
Whether it wanders insanely or plays it
t this is an attention-holding
And Mary Kaye can effortlessly
shame most of today's sugary pop shout
ers. Buddy Greco, who leads his hip trio
on the supperclub and lounge circuit, is
one of the beter singer-pianists on the
jazz Їтїпдє. In My Buddy (Epic),
at Chicago's Le Bistro, he

surges his way chro
from а pulsating Like Young to a
Misty to a rousing Check to Che:
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of the variety of monickers it gocs under.
On the front cover: 4 Singer — Annie
Ross] A Swinger — Zoot Sims] A Gasser!
On the back cover: A Gasser) Annie
Ross] Featuring Zoot Sims and Russ
Freeman. On the spine: 4 Gasser. No
matter, Make him stick to his task. Annie
(sans Lambert & Hendricks) has never
sounded better to our ears, wisely chooses
а raft of notoften-heard goodies like I
Didn't. Know About You and Invitation
to the Blues. In the background wail the
gassers and swingers, and the result is
sheer ear balm.

The ubiquitous André Previn — equal- '

ly at home on a Hollywood sound stage,
at the helm of his jazz trio or as soloist
with the New York Phil— pops up as
leader ist on his latest LP, Like Love
. It's more of the appealing
Like Young sound, with Previn's spa
kling piano soaring over an orchestral
base. The tunes relate to everyone's
favorite emotion and include such testi-
monials as Love Is Here to Stay, 1 Love
a Piano (to each his own . . . and I Wish
1 Were in Love Again. Not to be limited
10 conducting and performing, Previn
donated the title tune and Looking for.
Love; jatz pianist Russ Freeman con-
tributed Nothin’ to Do with Love.

Guitarist Charlie Byrd, heir to Charlie
Christian’s jazz throne, is primly known
as Charles Byrd in a performance of
Four Suites by Ludovico Roncelli (Washington),
an intriguing offering of Seventeenth
Century sounds. Byrd is no Segovia, but
he plays with obvious skill and spirit.
It's comforting to know that thei
musicians who can cope with
the cla: without debasing either. Byrd
lives, it seems, for just that.

‘Two of the sturdiest souls in jazz sound
off on Bean Bogs (Atlantic) —a title, as
hippies know, that announces the com-
manding presence of Coleman (Bean)
Hawkins and Milt (Bags) Jackson. Bean's
passionate tenor and Bags
weave inimitably through three stand-
ards — Close Your Eyes, Don't Take
Your Love [rom Mc and Get Happy —
two Jackson riffs — Sandra's Blues and
Indiam Blues —and Hawkins иу.
‘Thanks to an unintrusive rhythm sec-
tion (Tommy Flanagan, piano; Kenny
Burrell, guitar; Eddie Jones, bass and
Connie Kay, drums) that understates
matters, the peerless leaders сап cook to
their hearts’ content. Never obscure or
ostentatious, Bean and Bags provide the
best antidote we know to the |
disordered, or rigidly mannered
of some of their contemporaries. They do
what comes naturally and they do it well.

“Bill Skon

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15

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spins and cools the smoke

CONTENTS FOR THE MEN'S ENTERTAINMENT MAGAZINE

PLAYBILL.. €— zou
DEAR PLAYBOY... Ba - 3
PLAYBOY AFTER HOURS. ........ — — 7
© YOU NEW YORK GIRLS—fitlon....... c JOHN WALLACE 18
THE СОМЕК—ћотог____- та na JULES FEIFFER 21
THE NUDE LOOK-—picterlal........... ae E21

THE PECKING ORDER OF SPORTS CARS—satire.. — RICHARD G. GOUID 28
FIRST ANNIVERSARY—fidllon...........—. RICHARD MATHESON 31
FRESH IDEAS FOR FROSTY COOLERS—drink....... - 32
ROCKET TO THE RENAISSANCE—arlidle...................AKTHUR C. CLARKE 34
SEERSUCKER CIRCA 60—atiire... ROBERT L GREEN 36
SHIP SHAPE—playboy’s playmate of the month...

PLAYBOY'S PARTY JOKES—humor......—

YOU CAN TAKE IT WITH YOU—modern living.

WILBUR FONTS FOR PRESIDENT—fictlon...............— —

ON THE SCENE—personalities.. uum S153
THE QUIET МАМ—ћотог. S HEL SILVERSTEIN 54
1 ONLY WANT A SWEETHEART, NOT A BUDDY——article...... WILIAM IVERSEN 57
PHOTOGRAPHERS AND MODELS BALL—picterlal......... . 58
OURSELVES TO KNOW TOO WELL—sotire. DON GOLD 63

GAHAN WILSON 64
T. К. BROWN Ш 67
SHEL SILVERSTEIN 71
PATRICK CHASE 86

ON THE BEACH—cartoons.
LUCK—erticlo..........—.
STILL MORE TEEVEE JEEBIES—humor.
PLAYBOY'S INTERNATIONAL DATEBOOK—travel

HUGH M. HEFNER editor and publisher
А. С. SPECTORSKY associate publisher and editorial director
RAY RUSSELL executive editor ARTHUR PAUL art director
JACK J. КЕЗНЕ associate editor VINCENT т. TAJIRI picture editor
VICTOR LOWNES Ш promotion director JOHN MASTRO production manager
ELDON SELLERS special projects HOWARD W. LEDERER advertising director

ROBERTS. PREUSS business manager and circulation director

KEN PURDY contributing editor; ROBERT 1. GREEN fashion director; BLAKE
RUTHERFORD fashion editor; THOMAS MARIO food & drink editor; PATRICK CHASE
travel editor; LEONARD FEATHER jazz editor; DON GOLD, EUGENE TROOBNICK
assistant editors; ARLENE LOURAS copy editor; REID AUSTIN associate art director;
JOSEPH н. paczek assistant art director; ELLEN HERMANSON art assistant;
BEV GHAMBFKLAIN assistant picture editor; DON BRONSTEIN staff photographer;
FERN A. HEARTH production assistant; ANSON MOUNT college bureau; JANET
PILGRIM reader service; WALTER у. HOWARTH subscription fulfillment manager.

GENERAL orrices, PLAYEOY nust
Y ALL VANÜSCHIPTS. MITTED ir THEY JE RETURNED AND NO
ТУ CAN BE assumeD ron џи MATERIALS. CONTENTS сотументке © ipee ву нын run
‚ INC. NOTHING MAY WHOLE OR IN PART WITHOUT WRITTEN ни N FROM THE
PLISHER. ANY SIMILARITY BETWEEN THE PEOPLE AND PLACES IN YHE FICTION AMD SEMI-FICI THIS MAGAZINE.
AND ANY REAL PEOPLE AND PLACES IB PURELY COINCIDENTAL, CREDITS: COVER DESIGN BY ARTHUR PAUL, PHOTOGRAPH
BY MARIO CASILLI; F. 3133 PHOTOGRAPH BY PLAYBOY STUDIO, P. 16 PHOTOGRAPH BY DON BRONSTEIN,
Parser этише, Р. аз PHOTOGRAPH BY PLAYBOY STUDIO) P. їз PHOTOGRAPHS BY PLAYBOY STUDIO AND
заяпү YULENANS а! PHOTOGRAPHS BY DAVE SUTTON, EARL LEAF AND SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA ASMP.

A

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©
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EJ. vol. 7, по. 7 — july, 1960

Јоле Girls

CW

fiction By JOHN WALLACE
the adventures of a very young man in a jungle of lissome limbs

ILLUSTRATIONS BY SEYMOUR ROSOFSKY

20

O you New York girls, can't you dance the polka?

— ош SEA CHANTEY

HARLES CORDAY MIGHT NEVER HAVE BECOME A WRITER IF HIS

mother had not divorced his father. But she did and
Charles took her side because she had always flattered and
amused him; and Charles’ father shocked them both by get-
ting very very tough when it was too late to stop things.
Charles and his mother had to live on a much smaller ali-
mony than she had expected and Charles had to go to an
obscure New England junior college in his freshman year,
instead of to Yale. He had been expensively prepped and at
first he was bitter about this comedown. But he had a pleas-
antly superior nature and besides, the New England college
was coeducational.

Charles wrote his first story to impress a girl who wouldn't
say yes and didn't want to let the matter drop, either. He
was somewhat surprised when the undergraduate magazine printed his story; he was considerably sur-
prised at the vehemence with which the girl said yes. But Charles was quick to learn. He wrote more
stories and impressed more girls who said yes. Clearly, Charles thought, women were fools for a writer;
and by the end of his second year at the college he felt that his career was established. There remained
only the problem of money.

He was saved too much concern about that. Early in the summer his mother said: "Charlie, I think
I'm going to get married again.”

“But what about your alimony?” Charles said, thinking of his share of it.

"Mr. Dolson is a millionaire,” his mother said.

“I know these millionaires,” Charles said. “We had millionaires’ kids at school. They threw dimes
around like ten-dollar bills. One of them said his old lady made soap out of bacon fat.”

“I wish you wouldn't imitate every uncouth writer уоште reading," his mother said. "Now listen to
me: Wouldn't you like to go to Yale, or Harvard? Or perhaps even to Oxford?”

"I want to go to New York," Charles said. "I want to write."

"You do seem to have a gift for it," his mother said. “I always wanted you to go into the world with
a good university behind you as well as a good school but the school is more important after all and
they do say that the literary cachet opens doors."

"It opens more than doors," Charles said.

“Charles!” his mother said. Then she began to smile dreamily and tap at her front teeth with one of
her long fingernails. “Mr. Dolson is a self-made man,” she said. “He loves to talk about how he started
his business from nothing."

“Well, writing is a business,” Charles said. “But you don’t start businesses from nothing any more.”

“Darling,” his mother said, “we do think alike, don’t we.” She was still smiling dreamily. She was an
exceedingly attractive woman, less than twice her son’s age, and at this moment she looked like a
young girl happily making up a guest list for a party. “Well,” she said, “first I must catch my rabbit,
as the cookbook says. We're spending a month in Maine with Mr. Dolson and his sister, that much
is toward. And it's all going to be very proper and correct. You just be sure to be the kind of future
stepson Mr. Dolson would love to send to New York and I think it will arrange itself very nicely.”

Mr. Dolson's house in Maine was damp and big and the wind blew right through it. Charles had had
hopes of, say, an acquiescent upstairs maid, but Mr. Dolson kept few servants, and they were all
elderly. The house was well away from the popular beaches and towns and it was probably all just as
well for Charles. Undistracted, he did a great deal of writing in one of the wooden towers that studded
the house. Mr. Dolson was clearly infatuated with Charles’ mother, their visit stretched to nearly two
months, and by then Charles had sold two minor pieces to two minor publications and had placed a very
serious story in a literary magazine. Mr. Dolson said he was impressed by Charles’ industry and told
Charles to call him Bill. For some reason this was embarrassing to Charles, but always after, he called
Mr. Dolson Bill.

"You're sure you want to marry him?” he said to his mother.

“Darling,” his mother said, “I was born with luxurious tastes and your father let me develop my
tastes into necessities. Life is very hard for a woman, Charles.” (continued on page 22)

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PLAYBOY

22

0 You KEW York Girls {continued from page 20)

So, at the end of the summer, Charles
saw his mother into her second marriage
and left for New York. He would have
a regular remittance, Mr. Dolson said,
so long as he behaved himself and con-
tinued to show improvement. Of course,
the remittance could not go on forever,
Mr, Dolson pointed out, but he was
willing to be reasonable.

Afterward, Charles recognized Green-
wich Village as a mistake, but then, set-
tling there first certainly got any ideas
he'd had about the Village into per-
spective. And Charles always remem-
bered the Village kindly because right
at the beginning the Village reaffirmed
something for him that badly needed
reaffirming,

He could sense things becoming oper-
ative the moment he went into the sec-
ondhand bookstore. An untidy girl with
a madonna face was at the desk and she
gave Charles a look of interest as he
went in. Charles looked around until he
found some dictionaries, and he began
pulling these down and going through
them.

“Perhaps I can help you,” the girl
said.

“Perhaps you can,” Charles said. “1
need a good desk book of usage.”

“Usage?” the girl said. “You mean
like a do-it-yourself book?”

“No,” Charles said, “I mean some-
thing like Fowler. You know how it is,”
he said, “when you're working and you
start wondering shall 1, or shall I not,
use the subjunctive. And things like
that

“Oh,” the girl said, "you must be a
writer. You've come to the right place,”
she said. “All kinds of writers come here.
All of my friends are writers. I do quite
a lot of writing myself."

“Oh,” Charles said. Things didn't
seem operative any more.

"Don't hurry away,” the girl said.
“You are a writer, aren’t you?”

“Well,” Charles said, “Туе really only
had a few things published.”

“A published writer!” the girl said,
and everything was operative again.
"Oh," she said, "that's marvelous. What
have you done?”

"Its rather a funny coincidence,"
Charles said, "but I happened to get
one of them in the mail today." He
took the literary magazine from the
side pocket of his raincoat.

"Isn't this wonderful?" the girl said.
“I don't suppose you'd want to come
around ro my apartment tonight and
meet everybody?"

“I like to write at night," Charles
said. "But I'd like to come around to
your apartment too."

Certainly the bookstore girl's friends
were an odd and raffish lot, but pres-
ently Charles, who was nursing a glass

of terrible-tasting red wine, began to
recognize a familiar pattern, the pattern
of sophomore thought. At college he had
passed through the intellectual phase
quickly. It had seemed to him that the
endless and involved discussing of life
and art was like discussing sex: it was a
postponement of reality, and probably
an avoidance of it. Charles, touching his
wine glass to his lips occasionally, was
polite and pleasant; and he sat them
all out. He sat out the young men in
blue jeans and the young men in beards
and the Harvard man and the Yale man,
who had a feeble fight and fell into the
bathtub, and the Englishman who was
slumming. Charles sat them all out and
when they were gone things became
operative very quickly indeed with the
bookstore girl. It simply went to show,
Charles thought, that women were fools
for a writer.

“Oh, you're different,” the bookstore
girl kept saying. “I’ve never known any-
body like you. Are you going to put us
in a story?” she said. “Will this inspire
you?"

"Why," Charles said, “of course."

"I suppose you'll have to change my
name," she said. “Please give me а beau-
tiful name and when I read it I'll know
it's me and it will be my secret.” Then
she said: "I wish I hadn't had all those
people here tonight but I didn't know
for sure. There won't be another soul
here tomorrow night, though. Just you.”

“Tomorrow night?" Charles said.
“Oh. Well this has been very very lovely,
believe me," he said, "but you see, a
writer really has to be an ascetic most
of the time."

"The girl was thin and dark-haired and
she looked at him with sudden dark
eyes. Then she drew a sheet up to her
chin and turned away from him. “Go
away, please,” she said.

“Oh now look," Charles said. "I
didn't mean to hurt your feelings."

"Didn't you," the girl said.

“After all," Charles said, "I was only
confessing a personal weakness, I can't
help it if I've only got so much сте
ativity,” he said.

The girl turned back to him.
pose I'm being selfish,” she said.
ativity, that's the important thing,
isn't it.”

have to make a lot of sacrifices for
it,” Charles said.

Of course a more experienced or тоге
persistent girl would have topped that
line easily but Charles was learning too
and he learned a great deal that fall.
He had started visiting editors’ and
agents’ offices, he met many girls and
women, and not a few passed through
Charles’ cold-water flat in the Village.
In the matter of terminating these af-
fairs Charles’ instincts were sound:

sooner or later women started to make
claims and to think of perpetuity. The
trick lay in stopping things before they
reached this stage and Charles found
that if you fed a woman enough lines
she would inevitably talk herself into
an untenable position. There were, of
course, some girls who were unable to
recognize an untenable position: with
these, Charles was very helpful.

But the cold-water flat began to seem
dreary to Charles, and so did the Vil-
lage. He wanted to live uptown, in the
East Fifties, which was far beyond his
means, but he might have delayed much
longer in taking a step in the direction
of the East Fifties if his mother had not
called him from Boston.

"Well, well" Charles said, "honey-
mooner. How was the cruise?"

"It turned out to be a third-rate
Italian ship full of cockroaches and
lechers," his mother said.

"Oh," Charles said.

“Including your
mother said.

"As bad as that?" Charles said. He
began to feel very nervous.

"Well perhaps not," his mother said.
“I just don't have anybody to talk to,
darling. I'm bottled up, you know? But
I just thought I'd better warn you:
Bill's beginning to mutter about your
allowance."

"I'd better look for a job," Charles
said.

"If you find one don't tell Bill," his
mother said. "At least not until you're
on your feet.”

“Why don't you come down for a few
days, Josie,” Charles said. “Let me show
you the town. It's wonderful.”

“Don't make me green, Charlie,” his
mother said. "It's impossible. Bill says
that after that cruise we have to econo-
mize. Economize!"

“Wait till I get a decent place and
some money of my own,” Charles said.
“TIl stand you the trip. Just don't do
anything foolish though, Josie" he
said.

stepfather,” his

“Darling,” his mother said, “you
sound so grown-up. Of course I won't
do anything foolish. I just hope I don't
have to,learn how to make soap out of
bacon fat, that's all.”

Charles spent 2 day making up a
scrapbook of everything he had written
that had been printed and took it to an
employment agency. Even then he did
not fully realize that his taste in clothes
and his mannered air were much in his
favor in impressionable New York. He
was offered a choice of jobs; naturally
he first looked into one offered by a
book publisher.

When he went to be interviewed by
the publisher it seemed to him that the
whole thing was a mistake. The recep-
tion room was large and dark, almost

(continued on page 30)

EMPIRE style has waist under the

HAW |":

shaulders, but the girl clearly dae: есоте more memarable.

M ||!

5 nof; elegant first nights ot the apera should b

pe Ан А

pictorial our answer to the foolish feminine fashions of the day

SINCE SOMETHING AFTER THE END OF THE SECOND GREAT WAR, we have watched with what might, at first, have been
described as disbelief, followed by concern, then absolute outrage, as the salons of Paris made ever more preposterous
pronouncements on women's fashions, and the women’s fashion magazines came to heel like so many obedient
puppies, or other kept animals, First it was the "New Look,” which successfully did away with legs. After that came
the "Sack," “Trapeze” and “Balloon,” which tried to do away with the entire female figure. And this spring, Dior
and friends showed us the shape of things to come with the “Pear,” “Pineapple” and “Milk Bottle” looks. Enough,
said we. We like our women to look like women, not odd bits of fruit or something to be left out on the back porch
with a note stuck in it. So we set our own designer to the task of creating fresh Зва) that would please the men
for a change, and with our tongue thrust only the least little bit into our cheek, we proudly present PLAYBOY’s
fashions for Milady, in the "Nude Look." Women will be pleased to learn that we've kept the lines the same — only
the materials have been changed, to reveal the woman within.

23

PLAYBOY

24

PHOTOGRAPHY By BUNNY YEAGER AND PLAYBOY STUDIO JACK HAKMAN

TRAPEZE can help а young lady get in swing of things, since men соп tell that what's underneath is rot c pyramid but a lissome lassie.

BALLOON dress—which used to make wearer laok pregnant all over—will, in тїлүвоү'з version, help gaad-looking girl's praspects soar.

SACK dress need no longer force girl to resemble holf-empty bag of octs. Advantages of our happy variotion ore apparent to naked eye.

CHEMISE emphasizes that wearer is clearly member af opposite sex, will help devatees af Raaring Twenties welcame in the Sexy Sixties.

27

A GUIDE FOR GUYS ON THE
STEERING COMMITTEE ON WHEN TO
WAVE, WAVE BACK OR WAVER

IN 1939 THERE WERE probably not а hun-
dred sports cars in the United States, so
the problem was a simple one: when
two drivers chanced to meet on the road,
they exchanged brisk waves, perhaps
accompanied by dignified bows (from
the neck only). Even ten years later, with
the sportscar count in the thousands
and rising fast, one would not, except in
Westchester County, Westport, Evans-
ton and Greater Los Angeles, expect to
meet so many sportscar brethren that
grecting them would be much of an
effort. But even then it was clear that
some kind of pecking order was needed.
Every once in a while an ugly little
impasse was noted: the driver of a
Stutz Bearcat waiting just too long be-
fore waving to a chap in an Alfa-Romeo
1750, for example.

Today, with sports cars of the high
middle and low degree as common in
the land as the red ant, the problem is
acutc. Should one wave to every MG
that buzzes past? Strict adherence to this
policy, democratic and admirable as it
might be, would give one a case of pitch-
er's arm within two hours, and would
constitute a traffic hazard to boot. Of
course, one might wave only to the
drivers of one’s own make of car, but
to do so would certainly indicate intel-
lectual aridity, and a tendency toward
deviation, since a primary element of
the Sports Car Ethic lays down that all
sports-car drivers owe allegiance to the
Modern Group in the fight against the
common, Big Car, Pre-sliced White
Bread Eater, Tourist-type people.

То wave at everything, though, is not

satire BY RICHARD G. GOULD

only time-consuming and dangerous,
above cited, but socially unthinkabl:
would break down all standards and
open the floodgates го all kinds of indi
criminate interpersonal rela
No. Some bounds, some restraints there
must be. Do policemen smile at hood-
lums? Does an Astor slap a Glotz on the
back? By the same token, could a Fer-
rari driver wave first — or indeed at all —
to an Opel Rekord? The very thought
is absurd. On the other hand, what does
a Jaguar driver do if he’s accosted, as it
were, by the owner of a Lotus Elite?

In an attempt to bring order out of
this chaos, rLaynoy has prepared the
accompanying chart. You will note that
a selection (rather arbitrary and incom-
plete, let us say here and now) of sports
cars has been listed from top to bottom
and from left to right in descending
order of Prestige Factor (P.

"To use the chart, memorize it. Or cut
it out and paste it in the corner of your
windshield. When you sce another sports
car coming, read across the column un-
til you come to your car’s name. Then
read down until you come to the name
of the other fellow's car and take the
action indicated in the а in which
the two lines cross.

Note that in passing a car of the same
make as your own, it is propcr to wave
just as the other chap docs— that is,
simultaneously. However, if your car
has, let us say, wire wheels with knock-
off hubs and his has bolton disks, you
may properly hesitate perceptibly before
waving. If the approaching car is above
yours in Status, you should wave first;
if it is below yours, wave last. If it is
well below yours, don't wave at all.

And, finally, if you are approached by
the ultimate —a stripped, semi-wrecked
Bugatti 5786 — what you must do is
stop your car, get out, and salute.

PECKING
ORDER
OF SPORTS

CARS

ІР YOU'RE IN A

Mercer Raceabout (T-head)

Blower Bentley

Duesenberg SJ
Rolls-Royce P-II Continental

Bugatti 57SC
Hispano-Suiza Boulogne
Ferrari 250 GT

Bugatti 5756
Mercer Raceabout (T-head)
Blower Bentley
Duesenberg SJ

Rolls-Royce Р-11 Continental

Hispano-Suiza Boulogne

AND YOU MEET Е)

Ferrari 250 GT

Maserati 3500 GT

Aston Martin DB4
Mercedes-Benz 300SL

Bentley Continental

Porsche 1600 Carrera

Fiat-Abarth-Zagato

Jaguar ХК 1505

Lancia GT

Morgan SS Three Wheeler
MG TC
Mercedes-Benz 540K

Lotus Elite

Alfa-Romeo Giulietta

Austin-Healey

Auburn 13 Boat-Tail

MGA
Corvette
‘SAAB GT

Maserati 3500 GT
Mercedes-Benz 300SL
Bentley Continental
Porsche 1600 Carrera
Fiat-Abarth-Zagato
Morgan SS Three-Wheeler

Aston Martin 084
Mercedes-Benz 540K

Lotus Elite

Auburn 13 Boat-Tail

Mercedes-Benz 190SL

Triumph TR3

|
Triumph ТЕЗ
Volvo

Mercedes-Benz 190SL

MGTD

MG TF

PLAYBOY

О You New York Girls (continued from page 22)

dingy. Some old leather chairs and an
old leather sofa were grouped around
a fireplace. The receptionists desk
looked blackened with age. But the girl
behind it was fresh and pretty.

“Mr. Stagg will see you right away,”
she said to Charles. “М you come
with me, please?”

“That would be a pleasure,” Charles
said.

Mr. Stagg's office had a worn oriental
rug on the floor and a rolltop desk.
Mr. Stagg was a big tall man, in his
forties, Charles judged. His face was
tanned and he wore a tan-colored suit
and half-Wellington boots. He had hard
hands and a gentle Southern voice.

“This job,” he said, “I've had half a
dozen bright young fellas in here ask-
ing about it. It’s a job that wants the
exact right man, Mr. Corday. Let's see
if you're him."

Charles answered Mr. Stagg's ques-
tions respectfully and concisely. Mr.
Stagg wanted to know much about
Charles New England family connec-
tions. It seemed to Charles that the
diamonds in Mr. Stagg's cuff links were
real and it occurred to him that old
oriental rugs and rolltop desks could
be collectors’ items. There were two
silver-mounted portrait photographs on
the desk: one was of a beautiful woman
and the other was of a beautiful young
girl. They had the resemblance of sis-
ters or mother and daughter, intriguing
to Charles who was gathering his im-
pressions obliquely.

Mr. Stagg started to talk about him-
self. "I'm like the man in the art gal-
Jery,” he said. “I don't know anything
about literature but 1 sure know what
1 like. My wife, she got me started on
this business. Great one for writers, she
was. He touched the photograph of
the older woman. "Killed doing a hun-
dred and twenty in her Cadillac outside
of Fort Worth,” he said, and shook his
head. “I still can't believe it.”

Charles smelled money, somewhere.
Money that had been put into the pub-
lishing business, not taken out of it. “I
need a sort of liaison man,” Mr. Stagg
was saying. “A man that'll get to know
the business, and get to know me. 1 want
my ideas to rub off onto him and I want
him to be able to put them across. That
can't happen overnight, so the money's
according." He looked directly at
Charles and Charles nodded.

Mr. Stagg’s manner shifted.
writing anything now, Mr. Corday?” he
said.

Charles had decided that he wanted
in. “Well, sir,” he said, “Гуе got about
half of a novel done.

“What's it about?’

“About life in a ртапипаг school,”
Charles said.

“You'd know about that," Mr. Stagg
said. "Where I come from." he said, “we
size up a man quick. You size up good,
Charles, real good. What do you think
of my place, here?"

"Ihe whole thing?" Charles said.
“Why, it’s very restful. Very easy. I'd
think writers would like it. And 1 think
it must have cost a lot to get the effect.”

Mr. Stagg laughed and made a fist
and rapped Charles on the shoulder.
"You're a real smart one, Charles,” ће
said. “You want to work for ше?” He
didn’t wait for Charles to answer.
“There's a little bit of an office for you
just around the corner from the гесер-
tion desk. It ain't much but it's like the
шопеу — up to you. And the reception-
ist, she’s kind of new here too, you can
have her whenever you need a girl.”

The receptionist tapped at the door
and came in, although Charles hadn't
seen Mr. Stagg press any buttons. “See
you tomorrow, Charles,” Mr. Stagg said.

Charles followed the receptionist back
through the carpeted hall, admiring her
pretty bottom and the froufrou of her
legs. "You can have her whenever you
need a girl," his employer had said, but.
with the utmost seriousness; and Charles
took note. Besides, there was a more
immediate matter.

He called a girl he knew who was a
junior editor on Ше май of a women’s
magazine. “Tom Stagg?” she said.
“Everybody knows about him. 1 know
a lot of people who'd go into books if
he'd give them a job.”

“Well,” Charles said, "why?"

Because he's loaded, darling, that's
why. He's one of those oil zillionaires,
you know, rode around on one of his
longhorns with no scat to his pants un-
til he got the idea of digging holes in.
the arid ancestral acres. He married a
Smith girl,” the girl said, "since de-
ceased, but Tom Stagy is still married
to some of her aspirations.”

“Good heavens,” Charles said. “Does
everybody in the publishing business
know everything about everybody else?”

"Well," she said, "I'm not the only
girl in the publishing business who
knows where you've got the cutest mole,
darling."

“Thanks for the information," Charles
said. "All of it.”

Even with his remittance sull com-
ing in, Charles’ salary was not enough
for a move to the East Fifties. But a few
carefully placed gratuities bought him
a sublessee for the cold-water flat and
found him a pleasant garden apartment
uptown, below the park. He furnished
it with some good reproductions and
with such stay-a-while items as tele-
vision, a bargain monaural hi-f, а be-
ginners collection of erotica. This last
struck him as so ridiculous that he was

about to write it off as a mistake when
he discovered its real usefulness. A man
who displayed more than passing inter-
est in it would likely turn out to be a
dod; women who had an overt interest
in it were women to be avoided.

Charles knew something about foods
and wines and he learned more; he be-
gan entertaining in a small and select
way and he continued to exercise his
selective taste in women. It was now
winter, with days of smog and slush and
gtay skies; but to Charles Corday it was
a season of brilliance and of generous
everlasting time. It was necessary to
work, of course, and it was necessary to
write because writing was the keystone
of it all. His unfinished novel had been
assigned to one of Mr. Stagg's editors.

“We'll publish it, all right,” the editor
said, “and entirely apart from your be-
ing the fairhaired boy around here. If
we didn't, somebody else would and the
Old Man would cut off our heads." He
looked at Charles curiously. "When I
went to school," he said, "there were
kids like these.” He touched Charles"
script. “They belonged to another world.
They weren't kids at all, not really.”

“Perhaps they thought being kids was
a waste of time,” Charles said.

“I see," the editor said. He began to
look embarrassed. “Well,” he said, “I
comment on the state of contemporary
society when I say there'll be a reader-
ship for this.”

“Charles,” Mr. Stagg said later, "l
knew that book of yours was going to be
all right. I reckon you want to get it
finished.”

“Yes sir,"
do.”

"So do 1. Sit down, Charles," Mr.
Stagg said. "уоште not thinking of quit-
ting your job with me on the strength
of this, are you?”

Charles didn't know what Mr. Stagg
was working up to, but he did know
that Mr. Stagg admired crisp decisions.
“No sir," he said.

"Good," Mr. Stagg said. "I'm mighty
glad to hear that, Charles. 1 like the way
you put my ideas across. Them editors
of mine, they pay attention to my direc-
tives, when you write them.”

And they'd like to murder me, Charles
thought pleasantly.

“Now I've got a little proposition for
you on that book, Charles,” Mr. Stagg
said. “Every writer needs a little ргас
tical help.”

Moncy, Charles
Tangible money.

"Whatll you take, Charles,” Mr. Stagg
said, "a fifteen-hundred-dollar advance
on your book, or banker's hours around
here?"

Damn, Charles thought.
hours,” he said, crisply.

"You look a long ways ahead, don't

(continued on page 78)

Charles said. "1 certainly

thought, at last.

"Banker's

С А

fiction By RICHARD MATHESON

JUST BEFORE HE LEFT THE HOUSE on Thurs-
day morning, Adeline asked him, “Do I
still taste sour to you?”

Norman looked at her rcproachfully.

“Well, do 12"

He slipped his arms around her waist and
nibbled at her throat.

“Tell me now,”

Norman looked submissive.

“Aren't you going to let me live it down?"
he asked

"Well, you said it, darling. And on our
first anniversary, too!"

He pressed his cheek to hers. “So I said
it,” he murmured. "Can't I be allowed а
faux pas now and then?”
ou haven't answered me.”

“Do you taste sour? Of course you don't.”

He held her close and breathed the frag
rance of her hair. “Forgiven?”

She kissed the tip of his nose and smiled
and, once more, he could only marvel at
the fortune which had bestowed on him
such a magnificent wife. Starting their sec-
ond year of marriage, they were still like
honeymooners.

Norman raised her face and kissed her.

“Be damned,” he said.

"Whats wrong? Am I sour again?"

“No.” He looked confused. “Now I can’t
taste you at all."

"Now you can't taste her at all,” said
Dr. Phillips.

Norman smiled. "1 know it sounds ridicu-
lous,” he said. (continued on page 66)

there was only

one thing

wrong with

>. AS
norman 5 Жі

Ў
lovely wife à

gs

т Буын

three piquant potations for slaking summer thirst

FRESH
, IDEAS
FOR
ROSEA
COOLERS

dventurous bibbers, or those of jaded palate

: \ who yearn for a change from the usual hot-

weather coolers, are referred to the three

delightfully delectable quenchers shown here. Each

has vigor and novelty, each is easy to construct, and

all may be confidently predicted to wreath the sum-
mer quaffer's face in blissful smiles, Here's how:

| BLACK VELVET, staunch yet immensely refresh-
ing, is compounded of equal parts of good dark stout
and champagne, poured into a pre-chilled schooner
in the order of mention of the ingredients. Heady!

AMERICANO is an odd name for a drink few Ameri-
canos are familiar with. Help rectify this error by
mixing two jiggers of sweet vermouth with one jigger
of campari, adding ice cubes and a lemon twist, filling
up with club soda. The result is tangy yet smooth,
neither potent nor bland.

ICED IRISH COFFEE requires, merely, very strong

, coffee, ice cubes, a noggin of Irish whiskey. Pour the
whiskey in a glass, add your preferred helping of
granulated sugar (or be a sophisticate and don't
sweeten at all), add ice cubes, fill with the coffee,
drink it black or top with whipped cream or — for
the sweet-toothed — ice cream.

man’s hope for cultural vitality lies beyond the earth

IN A SLOW BUT IRRESISTIBLE EXPLOSION fueled by the energies of the Renaissance, European civilization
started expanding into the unknown some four and a half centuries ago. No longer did Western man huddle
around the Mediterranean, for he had discovered a new frontier beyond the sea. We know the very day he
found it — and the day he lost it. The American frontier opened on October 12, 1492; it closed on May 10,
1869, when the last spike was driven into the transcontinental railroad.

In all the long history of man, ours is the first age with no new frontiers on land or sea, and many of our
troubles stem from this fact. It is true that, even now, there are vast areas of the Earth still unexploited
and even unexplored, but dealing with them will only be a mopping-up operation. Though the oceans will
Keep us busy for centuries to come, the countdown started, even for them, when the bathyscape Trieste
descended into the ultimate deep of the Marianas Trench.

There are no more undiscovered continents; set out toward any horizon, and on its other side you will

find someone already waiting to

check your visa and your vac-

RO C K ET TO cination certificate.
This loss of the unknown has
5 been a bitter blow to all roman-
TH E article tics and adventurers. In the
CE AUT eb CUES words of Walter Prescott Webb,
у the historian of the Southwest:

МА “The end of an age is always
БӨ ЕМ А е А СЕ wut шк:
people are going to miss the
frontier more than words can express. For centuries they heard its call, listened to its promise, and bet their
lives and fortunes on its outcome. It calls no тоге...”

Prolessor Webb's lament, I am glad to say, is a few million years premature. Even while he was writing
it in the small state of Texas, only a thousand miles to his west the vapor trails above White Sands were
pointing to a frontier unimaginably vaster than any that our world has ever known — the frontier of space.

"The road to the stars has been discovered none too soon. Civilization cannot exist without new frontiers;
it needs them both physically and spiritually. The physical need is obvious — new lands, new resources, new
materials. The spiritual need is less apparent, but in the long run it is more important. We do not live by
bread alone; we need adventure, variety, novelty, romance. As the psychologists have shown by their sensory
deprivation experiments, a man goes swiftly mad if he is isolated in a silent, darkened room, cut off com-
pletely from the external world. What is true of individuals is also true of societies; they too can become
insane without sufficient stimulus.

It may seem over-optimistic to claim that man's forthcoming escape from Earth, and the crossing of inter-
planetary space, will trigger a new renaissance and break the patterns into which our society, and our arts,
must otherwise freeze. Yet this is exactly what I propose to do; first, however, it is necessary to demolish
some common misconceptions.

The space frontier is infinite, beyond all possibility of exhaustion; but the opportunity and the challenge
it presents are both totally different from any that we have met on our own world in the past. All the moons
and planets of our Solar System are strange, hostile places that may never harbor more than a few thousand
human inhabitants, who will be at least as carefully hand-picked as the population of Los Alamos. The age
of mass colonization has gone forever. Space has room for many things, but not for “your tired, your poor,
your huddled masses yearning to breathe free . . .” Any Statue of Liberty on Martian soil will have inscribed
upon its base “Give me your nuclear physicists, your chemical engineers, your biologists and mathemati-
cians.” The immigrants of the Twenty-first Century will have much more in common with those of the
Seventeenth Century than of the Nineteenth. For the Mayflower, it is worth remembering, was loaded to the
scuppers with eggheads.

The often-expressed idea that the planets can solve the problem of over-population is thus a complete
fallacy. Humanity is now increasing at the rate of some 100,000 souls a day, and no conceivable “space-lift”
could make serious inroads into this appalling figure.

With present techniques, the combined military budgets of all nations might just about suffice to land
ten men on the Moon every day. Yet even if space transportation were free, instead of being fabulously
expensive, that would scarcely help matters, for there is not a single planet upon which men could live and
work without elaborate mechanical aids. On all of them we shall need the paraphernalia of space-suits, syn-
thetic air factories, pressure-domes, totally-enclosed hydroponic farms. One day (continued on page 38)

“Why talk of love at a time like this?!”

35

tO > 99-49 99-99 99 99 99-99 99 99 9999 49 99 99 99—

attire By ROBERT L. GREEN

IN SPAIN THEY SAY cierto tejido de lino. Persians of yesteryear dubbed it
Shirushahar, while Hindustani chaps called it Sizsakar — literally “milk
and sugar.” To the British, it’s Crimp. Fashionable American bucks
latched onto it during the early part of this century and labeled it good
old seersucker. It’s been on the fashion scene — off and on — ever since.
Trouble was, in the old days, after ten minutes or so on the body during
a steamy summer's day, a seersucker suit or jacket made a guy look like
he had slept in his duds all night. The general attitude toward seersucker
by the well-attired man was that, if you were spending the summer in the
deep South or in the tropics, you could forego the demands of looking
well-pressed, but it had no place at posh resorts and certainly was not
considered for business wear. No more. Seersucker’s been resuscitated. Thanks to a touch
of body-giving synthetics, the lightweight cotton fabric with the built-in pucker is as
cool as it always was, and can now stand up to any sizzling situation and keep you
looking crisp from sunup through the wee hours. To make the fabric even more appeal-
ing, this year’s crop of seersucker breaks from the grandly traditional gray-and-white
vertical stripe and is available in a whopping varicty of fresh patterns: plaids, printed
designs, brilliantly colored stripes and many solid colors. We're pleased to report, too,
that most all of the new seersucker suits and jackets are cut along narrow, comfortable
lines. Sure to be popular is the use of olive tones in a pin-stripe suit that includes a
good-looking reversible vest. Trousers and jacket are slim-cut and the vest adds a special
dressed-up look. Jackets can play a smart double-duty role, too: worn over a lightweight
flannel, worsted blend or seersucker solid slack, they can impart that relaxed, air-con-
ditioned feeling. As if that weren’t enough to trumpet the return of seersucker, the noble
fabric is also available in a whole new range of apparel items that had never felt the
cool touch of scersucker before: sport shirts, swim trunks, hats, etc. Very new and nifty
in the summer wardrobe is the seersucker shirt, which you can get in the classic button-
down collar. It's available in a pullover model, fly-front, in long or short sleeves. With
your necktie removed, it becomes an eye-catching sport shirt; for a more regal occasion,
an ascot changes the whole look. (Neckwear worn with these shirts should be cottons of
small neat patterns or solid knits. Silks, foulards, etc., are too rich and should not be
combined with the casual simplicity of seersucker.) A straight sport shirt in brilliant
Roman stripes shows there is no end to the color possibilities of the new seersucker. This
one — worn with or without an ascot — is perfect for casual fun in the sun. By the sea,
seersucker swim trunks — thanks to the addition of Dacron — are as fast-drying as any
trunk on the market, are less bulky and cooler against the skin than most. In making
your switch to seersucker, check out the items in the photo — every one is sensibly seer-
sucker. Top row, left to right: striped Dacron and cotton swim trunks with plain front,
extension waistband, zipper fly and elastic back inserts; fold neatly into their own back
flap pocket for traveling, by Jantzen, $8. Striped pullover shirt with buttondown collar,
three-button placket, back collar button and short sleeves, by Puritan, $5. Glen plaid
wash-and-wear sports jacket, natural shoulders, slightly cutaway three-button front,
hacking flap pockets, side vents, by H.LS., $13. Dacron and cotton trousers, plain front,
belt loops, quarter top pockets, by Mayhoff, $11.50. Suit with reversible brass-buttoned
vest, natural shoulder, three-button jacket with flap patch pockets, center vent; trousers
are plain front with belt loops, by McGregor, $30. Bottom row, left to right: checked
wash-and-wear sports jacket, natural shoulders, slightly cutaway three-button front,
hacking flap pockets, side vents, by H.LS., $13. Striped flat-top hat, stitched snap brim, by
Better Made, $5. Multi-striped pullover shirt with saildoth Italian collar, by Bartlay, $10.

a fine old fabric, now in a variety of fresh patterns

PO FHF 99 9999 49 99 99 99 99 99-49-99 99 99 9999 99 99 99 99 99

PLAYBOY

38

RENAISSANCE

our lunar and Martian colonies will be
self-supporting, but if we are looking for
living room for our surplus population,
it would be far cheaper to find it in the
Antarctic, or even on the bottom of the
Atlantic Ocean.

No: the population battle must be
fought and won here on Earth. Some of
the obvious means— birth control, com-
pulory abortion and infanticide — аге
odious and/or contrary to the religious
convictions of large segments of Earth's.
people. Though the planets cannot save
us, this is a matter in which logic may
not count. The weight of increasing
numbers, the suffocating sense of pres-
sure as the walls of the ant heap crowd
ever closer, will help to power man's
drive into space, even if no more than a
millionth of humanity can ever go there.

Perhaps the battle is already lost, here
on this planet. As Sir George Darwin has
suggested in his depressing little book,
The Next Million Years, ours may be a
Golden Age, compared with the endless
vistas of famine and poverty that must
follow when the billions of the future
fight over Farth's waning resources. If
this is true, it is all the more vital that
we establish self-sustaining colonies on
the planets. They may have a chance of
surviving, and preserving something of
our Culture, even if civilization breaks
down completely on the mother world.

Though the planets can give no phys-
ical relief to the congested and im-
poverished Earth, their intellectual and
emotional contributions may be enor-
mous. The discoveries of the first expe-
ditions, the struggles of the pioneers to
establish themselves on other worlds —
these will inspire a feeling of purpose
and achievement among the stayat-
homes. They will know, as they watch
their TV screens, that history is starting
again. The sense of wonder, which we
have almost lost, will return to life; and
so will the spirit of adventure.

It is difficult to overrate the impor-
tance of this, though it is easy to poke
fun at it by making cynical remarks
about “escapism.” Only a few people can
be pioneers or discoverers, but everyone
who is even half alive occasionally feels
the need for adventure and excitement.
If you require proof of this, look at the
countless horse-operas now galloping
across the ether. The myth of a West
that never was has been created to fill
the vacuum in our modern lives, and it
fills it well. Sooner or later, however, one
tires of myths (many of us have long
since tired of this one), and then it is
time to seek new territory. There is a
poignant symbolism in the fact that the
giant rockets now stand poised on the
edge of the Pacific, where the covered
wagons halted only two lifetimes ago.

Already, a slow but profound reorien-

(continued from page 34)

tation of our culture is under way, as
men's thoughts become polarized toward
space. Even before the first living crea-
ture left Earth's atmosphere, the process
had started in many segments of our
society. Space-toys for the very young
have been commonplace for years; comic
strips and movie serials such as Buck
Rogers and Flash Gordon ћауе been
read and watched by millions; cartoons
and “Take me to your leader” jokes
have been enjoyed by vast numbers of
people. Increasing awareness of the Uni-
verse has even, alas, contributed to our
psychopathology. A fascinating parallel
could be drawn between the flying sau-
cer cults and the witchcraft mania of the
Seventeenth Century. The mentalities
involved are the same.

As the exploration of our Solar System
proceeds, human society will become
more and more permeated with the
ideas, discoveries and experiences of
astronautics. They will have their great-
est effect, of course, upon the men and
women who actually go out into space
to establish either temporary bases or
permanent colonies on the planets. Ве.
cause we do not know what they will
encounter, it is scarcely profitable to
speculate about the societies that may
evolve, a hundred or a thousand years
from now, upon the Moon, Mars, Venus,
"Titan and the other major solid bodies
of the Solar System. (We can write off
the giant planets, Jupiter, Saturn, Ura-
nus and Neptune, which have no stable
surfaces.) The outcome of our ventures
in space must await the verdict of his-
tory; certainly we will witness, on a scale
their author never imagined, the testing
of Toynbee’s laws of “Challenge and Re
sponse.” In this context, these words
from the abridged Study of History are
well worth pondering: “Affiliated civiliza-
produce their most striking
stations in places outside the
area occupied by the ‘parent’ civiliza
tion. The superiority of the response
evoked by new ground is most strikingly
illustrated when the nev ground has to
be reached by a sea-passage. . . . Peoples
occupying frontier positions, exposed to
constant attack, achieve a more brilliant
development than their neighbors in
more sheltered positions.’

Alter “sea” to “space” and the analogy
is obvious; as for the “constant attack,”
nature provide this more compe
tently than any merely human
adversaries. Ellsworth Huntington has
summed up the same idea in a memora-
ble phrase, pointing out that the march
of civilization has been "coldward and
stormward." The time has come now to
pit our skill and resolution against cli-
mates and environments more hostile
than any that this Earth can show.

As has happened so often in the past,

the challenge may be too great. We may
establish colonies on the planers, but
they may be unable to maintain them-
selves at more than a marginal level of
existence, with no energy left over to
spark any cultural achievements. History
has one parallel as striking as it
ominous, for long ago the Polynesians
achieved a technical tour de force which
may well be compared with the conquest
of space. By establishing regular mari-
time traffic across the greatest of oceans,
writes Toynbee, they“... won their foot-
ing on the specks of dry land which are
scattered through the watery wilderness
of the Pacific almost as sparsely as the
stars are scattered through space.” But
the effort defeated them at last, and they
relapsed into primitive life. We might
never have known of their astonishing
achievement had they not left, on Easter
Island, a memorial that can hardly be
overlooked. There may be many Easter
Islands of space in the eons to come —
abandoned planets littered not with
monoliths but with the equally enig-
matic debris of another defeated tech-
nology.

Whatever the eventual outcome of
our exploration of space, we can be rea-
sonably certain of some immediate bene-
fits—and 1 am deliberately ignoring
such “practical” returns as the multi-
billion-dollar improvements in weather
forecasting and communications, which
may in themselves put space-travel on a
paying basis. The creation of wealth is
certainly not to be despised, but in the
long run the only human activities really
worth-while are the search for knowledge
and the creation of beauty. This is be-
yond argument; the only point of debate
is which comes first.

Only a small part of mankind will
ever be thrilled to discover the electron
density around the Moon, the precise
composition of the Jovian atmosphere,
or the strength of Mercury's magnetic
field. Though the existence of whole
nations may опе day be determined by
such facts, and others still more esoteric,
these are matters that concern the mind,
and not the heart. Civilizations are re-
spected for their intellectual achieve-
ments; they are loved—or despised —
for their works of art. Can we even
guess, today, what art will come from
space?

Let us first consider literature, for the
trajectory of any civilization is most ac-
curately traced by its writers. To quote
again from Professor Webb's The Great
Frontier, "We find that in general each
nation's Colden Age coincides more or
less with that nation's suprematy in
frontier activity. . . . It seems that as the
frontier boom got under way in any
country, the literary genius of that na-
tion was liberated . . .”

‘The writer cannot escape from his en-

(continued on page 48)

“н

seems to be working all right, Mr.
I keep getting a busy signal.”

Bell, but

39

PLAYBOY

40

“You're not taking full advantage of the medium . . .”

3 — |
life on the briny deep SHIP
SHAPE

—7 i Fw
miss july enjoys

r Г LIGHTS OF YACHTING ARE
|| too well-known to require сх-
haustive comment here, but potential
yachtsmen should be apprised that
it’s possible to find a First Mate for
a trim craft who is a trim craft her-
self. Such a one is Miss July: Teddi
Smith, a nubile native of Van Nuys,
Califor Weekdays she works as a
receptionist, but every weekend, she
undergoes a sca change and turns
into the sweetest of sailors, manning
a tiller with the best of them and
showing the coast line's shapeliest
pair of sea legs in the process.

PLAYBOY’S PARTY JOKES

We find ourself in complete accord
with the etiquette expert who says that
only well-reared girls should wear slacks.

Some women, like prizefighters, won't
go into action until they sec a ring.

~

Our Unabashed Dictionary defines
strip poker as а game in which the more
you lose the more you have to show
for it.

Sylvester was a sprightly ninety years of
age when he married Elizabeth, who
was a resoundingly пре cighteen year-
old. As they prepared for bed on their
wedding night, he asked her:
“Tell me, sweet child, did your mother
tell you the facts of life:
She blushed furiously from her hair-
ine to the tips of her toes.
Мо,“ she shyly murmured.
"That's a great pity," he said, "be-
cause I'm afraid I've forgotten them."

When a girl says she's got а boyish
figure, it's usually straight from the
shovlder.

A friend of ours has come up with the
David and Goliath cocktail—a small
one and you're stoned.

She was sweet, she was breath-takingly
lovely, and she was alone. Most of the
men in the cocktail lounge were awed
by her beauty, but afraid to appro:
her. Not so Augie. He downed his d
straightened his tie, and gracefully s

onto the stool next to he
with a warm smile.
“You know,” he began smoothly, “I
hate to see а young girl like you ruin
her reputation and destroy her character
by hanging around a bar. Let me take
you someplace where the atmosphere
quict and morc refined, like my apart-
ment.

Our Unabashed Dictionary dcfincs
neurotic as a woman who likes а psy-
chiauists couch better than a double
bed

voring her

Men with money to burn have started.
many a girl playing with fire.

Advice to the exhausted: When wine,
women and song become too much for
you, give up singing.

If all the world loves a lover, why do
they have hotel detectives?

Pierre, the passionate masseur, was re-
cently fired when he rubbed a lady cus-
tomer the wrong way.

W hen Harry returned looking tanned
ind rested, his secretary asked him about

his vacation.
“Well,” he replied, “a friend of mine
invited me up to his hunting lodge—a
г, secluded place. No night life, no

"Did you
"Who wentz

she asked.

Sometimes a girl can attract a man by
her mind, but more often she can attract
him by what she doesn't mind.

Heard any good. ones lately? Send your
favorites to Party Jokes Editor, РЕХУВОУ,
232 E. Ohio Si., Chicago 11, Ill, and
сат an easy $25.00 for each joke used.
In case of duplicates, payment goes to
first received. Jokes cannot be returned.

PLAYBOY

48

RENAISSANCE

vironment, however hard he tries. (If
Lewis Carroll had lived today, he might
have given us not Alice, but Lolita.)
When the frontier is open we have
Homer and Shakespeare or— to choose
less Olympian examples nearer to our
own age — Melville, Whitman and Mark
Twain. When it is closed, the time has
come for Tennessee Williams and the
Beatniks—and for Proust, whose hori-
zon was a cork-lined room.

It is too naive to imagine that astron.
autics will restore the epic and the saga
in anything like their original forms;
space-flight will be too well documented
(Homer started off with the great advan-
tage of being untrammeled by too many
facts). But surcly the discoveries and ad-
ventures, the triumphs and inevitable
tragedies that must accompany man’s
drive toward the stars will one day in-
spire a new heroic literature, and bring
forth latter-day equivalents of The
Golden Fleece, Gulliver’s Travels, Moby
Dick, Robinson Crusoe or The Ancient
Mariner.

‘The fact that the conquest of the air
has done nothing of the sort must not be
allowed to confuse the issue. It is true
that the litcrature of flight is very sparse
(Lindbergh and Saint-Exupéry are al-
most the only examples that come to
mind), but the reason is obvious. The
aviator spends only a few hours in his
element, and travels to places that are
already known. (In the few cases where
he flies over unexplored territory, he is
seldom able to land there.) The space-
voyager, on the other hand, may be on
his way for weeks, months or years, to
regions that no man has ever seen save
dimly through a telescope. Space-flight
has, therefore, very little in common
is much closer in spirit
to ocean voyaging, which has inspired so
many of our greatest works of literature.

It is perhaps too carly to speculate
about the impact of spaceflight on
music and the visual arts. Here again
one can only hope—and hope is cer-
tainly needed, when one looks at the
canvases upon which the contemporary
painters all too accurately express their
psyches. The prospect for modern music
is a little more favorable; now that
electronic computers have been taught
to compose it, we may confidently expect
that before long some of them will learn
to enjoy it, thus saving us the trouble.

Maybe these ancient art-forms have
come to the end of the line, and the
still unimaginable experiences that
await us beyond the atmosphere will
inspire new forms of expression. The
low or non-existent gravity, for example,
will certainly give rise to a strange,
other-worldly architecture, fragile and
delicate as а dream. And what, І won-
der, will Swan Lake be like on Mars,

(continued from page 38)

when the dancers have only a third of
their terrestrial weight — or on the
Moon, where they will have merely а
sixth?

The complete absence of gravity — а
sensation which no human being has ever
experienced since the beginning of the
world, yet which is mysteriously familiar
in dreams — will have а profound im-
pact upon every type of human activity.
It will make possible a whole constella-
tion of new sports and games, and trans-
form many existing ones.

All our esthetic ideas and standards
are derived from the natural world
around us, and it may well turn out that
many of them are peculiar to Earth,
No other planet has blue skies and seas,
green grass, hills softly rounded by
erosion, rivers and waterfalls, a single
brilliant moon. Nowhere in space will
we rest our eyes upon the familiar shapes
of trees and plants, or any of the animals
who share our world. Whatever life we
meet will be as strange and alien as
the nightmare creatures of the ocean
abyss, or of the insect empire whose
horrors are normally hidden from us by
their microscopic scale. It is even pos:
sible that the physical environments of
the other planets may turn out to be
unbearably hideous; it is equally pos-
sible that they will lead us to new and
more universal ideas of beauty, less lim-
ited by our Earth-bound upbringing.

"The existence of extraterrestrial life
is, of course, the greatest of the many
unknowns awaiting us on the planets
We are now fairly certain that there is
some form of vegetation on Mars; the
seasonal color changes, coupled with re-
cent spectroscopic evidence, give this а
high degree of probability. As Mars is
an old and perhaps dying world, the
struggle for existence may have led to
some weird results. We had better be
careful when we land.

Where there is vegetation, there may
be higher forms of life; given sufficient
time, nature explores all possibilities.
Mars has had plenty of time, so those
parasites on the vegetable kingdom
known as animals may have evolved
there. They will be very peculiar ani-
mals, for they will have no lungs. There
is not much purpose in breathing when
the atmosphere is practically devoid of
oxygen.

Beyond this, biological speculation is
not only pointless but distinctly unwise,
since we will know the truth within
another ten or twenty years—and per-
haps much sooner. The time is fast ар
proaching when we will discover, once
and for all, whether the Martians exist.

Contact with a contemporary non-
human civilization will be the mast ex-
citing thing that has ever happened to

our race; the possibilities for good and
evil are endless, Within a decade or so,
some of the classic themes of science-
fiction may enter the realm of practical
politics. It is much more likely, however,
that if Mars ever has produced intel-
ligent life, we have missed it by geo-
logical ages. Since all the planets have
been in existence for at least five billion
years, the probability of cultures flourish-
ing on two of them simultaneously must
be extremely small.

Yet the impact of even an extinct civ-
ilization could be overwhelming; the
European Renaissance, remember, was
triggered by the rediscovery of a culture
that flourished more than a thousand
years earlier. When our archaeologists
reach Mars, they may find waiting for
them a heritage as great as that which
we owe to Greece and Rome. The Chi-
nese scholar Hu Shih has remarked:
“Contact with strange civilizations brings
new standards of value, with which the
native culture is re-examined and re-
evaluated, and conscious reformation
and regeneration are the natural out-
come.” Hu Shih was speaking of the Chi-
nese literary renaissance, circa 1915. Per-
haps these words may apply to a
terrestrial renaissance, a century hence.

We should not, however, pin too much
hope on Mars, or upon any of the
worlds of our Solar System. If intelligent
life exists elsewhere in the Universe, we
may have to seek it upon the planets of
other suns. They are separated from us
by а gulf millions — repeat, millions — of
times greater than that dividing us from
our next-door neighbors Mars and Venus.
Until a few years ago, even the most
optimistic scientists thought it impossible
that we could ever span this frightful
abyss, which light itself takes years to
cross at a tireless 670,000,000 miles an
hour, Yet now, by one of the most
extraordinary and unexpected break-
throughs in the history of technology,
there is a good chance that we may
contact intelligence outside our Solar
System before we discover the humblest
mosses or lichens inside it.

"This break-through has been in elec-
tronics. It now appears that by far the
greater part of our exploration of space
will be by radio. It can put us in touch
with worlds that we can never visit —
even with worlds that have long since
ceased to exist. The radio telescope, and
not the rocket, may be the instrument
that first establishes contact with intelli-
gence beyond the Earth.

Еуеп a decade ago, this idea would
have seemed absurd. But now we have
receivers of such sensitivity, and anten-
nas of such enormous size, that we can
hope to pick up radio signals from the
nearer stars—if there is anyone out
there to send them. The search for such
signals began early in 1960 at the Na-

(continued on page 83)

бїз — portable;

you can
i take it
59 modern living with you

SUMMER SOJOURNS — to shimmering seaside or sylvan mountain glen — turn into twice as much fun when you tuck
into your tote bag a gaggle of electronic entertainers, lightweight and transistorized for portability and precise
performance. 1. Burton transistor radio built into sunglasses; station selector, aerial and earphone in temples;
optically ground and polished glass, by Precision Electronics, $34.50. 2, Safari batteryor-AC portable television
set, in black cowhide case, by Philco, $250. 3. Executive battery-operated dual-track tape recorder, single-knob oper-
ation, $34 and 174 ips speeds, shown with wrist-watch microphone, by Scopus Brockway, $170. 4. Vulcan Fire Maker
with 500-hour motor, by Rowley, $12. 5. Wondergram battery-powered phonograph, 3314 and 45 rpm speeds, dual-
tipped sapphire cartridge, by Emerson, $68. 6. Electra power converter plugs into car lighter, converts car current
to standard, by Terado, $25. 7. Startone seven-transistor clock-radio, by Pentron, $50. 8. Sportsman's pocket-sized
geiger counter, by Gelman, $89. 9. Spacemate seven-transistor radio with standard and short-wave bands, telescop-
ing antenna, leather case. shoulder strap, earphone, by Bulova, $60. 10. Ski-Talkie two-way intercom for use between
towboat and skier, transistorized amplifier, three floats keep 75 feet of line on surface, by Airguide, $65. 11. Seven-
transistor radio in shatterproof case, built-in antenna operates on two penlight batteries, by Westinghouse, $45.

49

PLAYBOY

50

“And please let Mr. Folger be as rich as I think he is.”

UC

|

WILBUR FONTS FOR PRESIDENT

fiction By JEREMY DOLE

THREE... TWO... ONE . . . ZERO! I arose from my swivel chair like an Atlas
missile and exploded with a glad cry of joy. It was five o'clock at last, the
magic hour that marked the beginning of my vacation from Era, a news
magazine noted principally for its emaciated pay checks.

I was already on my way to the door when it flew open, and there was
Eddie, showing a mouthful of festive teeth.

"Let's go, dad,” he cried, and forked his fingers in a Churchillian У.
“I have nothing to offer you but vodka, whiskey, Scotch and gin.”

“The only thing we have to fear is beer itself," I replied, after only
twenty seconds’ thought, and we were on our merry way.

Eddie was my French-Canadian roommate and, when sober,

Era's top camera. We had decided to take our vacations to-
gether that spring, exploring the asphalt jungle o£ New York,
visiting the head waiters of upper Fifth Avenue and, in par-
ticular, examining the tribal customs of two comely natives of
the Copacabana whom we hoped would prove as friendly as
their gymnastic dancing promised.

We were cruising down the hall toward the elevator when it
happened. The door to the Managing Editor's office sucked open and
the M.E. himself, Fighting Bob Maxfield, appeared. He impaled us with
his stiletto eyes and murmured, “I wonder if I might see you fellows for
a minute.”

It was like Eisenhower asking the caddie if he might please have the
putter. We straggled into the office known affectionately as Stalag 17 and
stood uneasily while he ignited a cigar.

Fighting Bob was a little man with a flip-top temper and a tongue as
soothing as a guillotine. He massaged his stomach thoughtfully for a
moment and then smiled.

“Guys,” he began, “you've been doing absolutely top-hole work lately.

a congressman at large in gamy gay paree

PLAYBOY

52

1 don't want you to think it’s gone
unappreciated. Jack —" he punched me
sincerely on the shoulder "Jack boy,
І liked the way you handled Miss Solid
Fuel Propellant in your last interview.”
“So did she,” I said, but my heart

“And Fddie, your pix encourage a
refreshment of faith in the art of news
photography. In these days of —"

“Bob,” Fddie interrupted, "our vaca-
tion started three minutes ago. We'd
like to help you out with whatever you
want, but at this very moment two post-
graduate nymphets are crying piteously
for food and drink. Sorry, but that's the
way the mop flops.”

"Yes," I added, enlarging upon this
theme, “that’s the way the snowball
splatters.”

Fighting Bob pressed his hand to the
place where his heart would be if he had
one. "Please, fellows,” ће said. “I was
only thinking of your best interests.
was under the illusion that you might
like an alLlexpense-paid trip to Paris
Obviously I was wrong. Go, play footsie
with your female girls. 1 guess I'll just
have to find someone else” He faced
the window, a tragic silhouette against
the Bloody Mary wash of sunset.

Eddie and I studied each other.

“All

expenses paid,” Eddie murmured, as in
a benediction.

“Perhaps, Bob, we spoke hastily,” T
said,

speaking hastily. "Whats the

id Fighting Bob. twirling
dow and putting all his
marked cards upon the table. “The
Old Мап —" he pointed upward with
cigar toward the cloud-washed suite
where the Editor in Chief resided in
Olympian splendor — "is a close friend
of one Congressman Wilbur T. Fonts.
The Congressman has decided to take a
fast trip to Europe. He wants to take
with him one bright young man to han-
dle public relations — setting up press
conferences, that sort of thing — and one
bright young photographer to record the
visit for posteri

“І realize this isn't your usual line of
work. But since you two are — you will
pardon the expression — hors de combat
for the next fortnight, you have been
recommended for the job."

“Sounds great to me,” said Eddie.
“Isn't this Fonts the one who plays the
fiddle during clection campaigns? The

guy they call Weepin’ Wilbur?’

“The very
Jack?”

“You bet, coach,” I said. “When do
we suit up?"

"Congressman Fonts is waiting for
you in his suite at the Waldorf. He'll
set it up in type for you. Of course," he
added, hooding his eyes like a cobra, "it
goes without saying that if the Con-
gressman isn't completely satisfied with

ame. How about you,

your work the Old Man will be very,
very annoyed. . ."

“That's all right,” I said with a hollow
laugh. “There's always a market for pen-
cils on Madison Avenue at this time of
year."

“That's very clever,” said Fighting
Bob, chuckling with the lovable warmth
of the Marquis de Sade. "Have a fun
trip, hear?”

The portal to the congressional cham-
bers was opened by a cadaverous young
man outfitted in Shroud Gray. “I am
Congressman Fonts’ personal secretary,”
he intoned. “Who are you?”

“Relatives of the deceased," I told
him. "I hope that he died well and
truly.”

“Congressman,” he shouted at his left
shoulder, “your public relations people
are here." Не gave us a look that would
have chilled Sergeant Preston in his
prime and added, "Kindly follow me."

We walked into a living room the size
of a private airfield. Congressman Fonts
stood before the vast fireplace, jiggling
up and down like a man mixing martinis
in his stomach. "Come in!" he com-
manded. "Sit down! Timothy, bring
these lads a drink!”

He was short and swarthy and stark
naked save for his shorts, and he had a
little black mustache which he licked
like an ice-cream cone when excited.
“Fontsis the name,” he told us brusquely.
"Wilbur T. Fonts. And ГЇЇ tell you
straight of, I like you. You're folks.
Praise be to God I've never lost my con-
tacts with the grass roots.”

He began to pace back and forth in
the heather of a thick rug. “Understand
this,” he said. “I do not actively seek
the highest office in our land. But —" he
pointed at Eddie accusingly — "if destiny
has singled me out to carry the frightful
burdens of the Presidency, I will not
play the coward and step aside. I shall
not shirk a public mandate. I want that
perfectly clear.”

He stalked to the mantelpiece and
hefted an ancient fiddle. “You see this
old cat gut? I reckon I've played it every
campaign Гуе ever been in. Weepin'
Wilbur, they call me. The Bow Jester.
Plain as an old shoe, if you want to know
the truth. But I'm going to level with
you boys. This old fiddle just isn't enough
any more. A man's got to grow with the
times."

said Fddie. "We were won-
you'd explain to us about this
р to Paris —"
Exactly!” he cried. "Now you take
your Kennedy, your Nixon, your Sy-
mington. What, I ask, have they got I
don't? Eh? I'll tell you. Just one lousy
thing. They got international stature.
You see what I mean?"

Eddie went skindiving in his Scotch.
"Not exactly,” he said, as he came

up for air. $

“Their public image is associated with
world problems,” explained the Con-
gressman, bobbing up and down impa-
tiently. “They have rubbed elbows with
what’s-his-name, this Khrushchev. I
mean who needs fiddles? No sir, these
days you've got to put on your walking
shoes and gol”

“In other words,” I said slowly, “you
want us to help you achieve interna-
tional stature ——"

He closed his eyes and beamed at the
ceiling. “Congressman Fonts hailed by
De Gaulle,” he murmured. “Fonts in
two-hour session with NATO leaders.
Adenauer calls Fonts champion of
peace.” He executed a neat pas de deux
and headed for the bar. “Do you get
the big picture?" he cried excitedly.

“J think so," 1 said. My picture was а
picture of Paris.

“Finel” boomed the Congressman. “I
like men with vision. Especially those
who understand news media. You be at
Idlewild at eight tomorrow morning."

"Timothy, the secretary, showed us to
the door.

“Eight o'clock," he said ominously.
"does not mean eight-oh-five.””

"I will add that to my collection of
immortal sayings,” 1 promised.

That evening Eddie and 1 furthered
our research in the care and feeding of
chorus girls. We found them grateful,
and generous to a fault.

We trickled aboard the 707 just min-
utes before she leapt yowling toward the
east. Congressman Fonts greeted us with
a limp flexing of his brow. He looked
gray as Eighth Avenue snow.

"Morning," I said thickly.

"Stop pestering me," said Congress
man Fonts. "Go to sleep."

So I crawled into my seat and went to
sleep, and when I opened my eyes again
the lovely avenues of Paris were pin-
wheeling beneath our port wing and all
our hangovers were lost somewhere at
sea,

I poked Eddie awake and he blinked
for a moment at the band-aid runways of
Orly. “Say,” he said, “I forgot to ask
you. You know anything at all about
public relations?”

"Not a thing,” I said. "All I know
is that Weepin' Wilbur better come out
of this trip smelling like a rose, or our
names will he ground up and sold for
fertilizer."

Being in the entourage of a Con-
gressman has definite advantages when
landing in a foreign airficld. We were
passed through Customs like hot crois-
sants and in a matter of moments were
being whisked through velvet dusk
toward our hotel. Congressman Fonts
popped his head in and out the windows
of our taxi like a little boy. “There's
nothing like geography," he told us

(continued on page 62)

ORNETTE COLEMAN:
beyond the dreams of adolphe

JAZZ AND SYMPHONY TITAN LEONARD
Bernstein flipped over the sounds com-
ing from the strangelooking plastic
instrument, leaped onto the bandstand
of New York's Five Spot to better dig
them, then invited their creator to
Carnegie Hall That creator was Or-
nette Coleman, thirty, gentle and retir-
ing as a Trappist, who has but one
seemingly simple goal: to successfully
emulate the warmth and fluidity of the
human voice on his alto sax. Shelly
Manne says Coleman's already achieved
it: "Sounds like someone crying or laugh-
ing when he plays.” Others have said:
“Coleman is making a unique and
valuable contribution to ‘tomorrow's’
music" (Nat Hentoff); "the only really
new thing in jazz since the innovations
[of Bird and Diz] in the mid-Forties”

EARL BLACKWELL:
who’s who and where

WHAT'S BRIGITTE BARDOT'S HOME ADDRESS?
This burning question can be answered
by leafing to page 52 of the new 864-
page, five-pound, $26 Celebrity Register,
a brisk though bulky book that provides
lively biographies, photos and inside
information on 2240 famous and іп-
famous, national and international fig-
ures — from Hank Aaron to Vera Zorina.
The key force in conceiving and as-
sembling Celebrity Register (upper-crust
expert Cleveland Amory served as edi-
tor-in-chief) was publisher Earl Black-
well, a dapper forty-seven-year-old bach-
elor who has constructed a formidable
$500,000-a-year empire — Celebrity Serv-
ice — out of an energetic interest in the
doings of the well-to-do and do-it-wells.
With the aid of a harried staff, packed
file cabinets and a battery of phones in
New York, Hollywood, London, Paris
and Rome, Blackwell keeps his subscrip-
tion-only dients (radio-TV execs, сој
umnists and the like) posted on the
doings of more than 100,000 big names.
He does so in his Celebrity Bulletin, a
collection of one-liners on big-doers
issued five days a week; his Social Calen-
dar, a monthly listing of important
openings and parties; his Theatrical
Calendar, a weekly dopesheet on New
York stage happenings, and his annual
Contact Book, which is just that. Black-
well spends inuch of his time meeting,
escorting, dining with and informally
interviewing members of the news-mak-
ing set, loves every minute of it, hopes
to revise and issue Celebrity Register
each year “if everybody is as celebrity-
struck as I am." It looks like they are.

(pianist John Lewis); “wild sounds that
Adolphe Sax never dreamed of" (Whit-
ney Ballict); and — representing the
opposition — “structureless, meandering”
(John S. Wilson). Coleman's recent suc-
cess comes after several shapeless years
in L.A., was precipitated by a couple of
far-out, talked-about LPs (Tomorrow Is
the Question, The Shape of Jazz to
Come). Why, ask some, is Coleman pre-
occupied with this human voice kick?
Shyly, haltingly, he tries to tell you:
“Music is—is for our feelings.” Con-
troversial Coleman has had his plastic
sax smashed by a New Orleans audience
that didn't cotton to his sounds. Of that
odd sax, he explains: “I needed a new
horn and couldn't afford a brass one.
Better a cheap horn than an old horn
that leaks, y'know? But after living with
this plastic one here, it's begun to take on
my emotions. The tone scems breathier
than brass, but I like it. More human."

PLAYBOY

54

The QUIET MAN

эде]

3
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XP

ar

PLAYBOY

“Great рави "twould seem to be а perfect
XXXVILXXIV-XXXIVP

1 ONLY WANT A SWEETHEART, NOT A BUDDY

“women,” said Goethe, “are silver dishes
into which we put golden apples.”

This remark, dropped casually at din-
ner, somewhere between the schnitzel
and the strudel, on the night of Oc
tober 22, 1828, may well be the most
important the great philosopher-poet
ever made. Fruitfilled as the image is, it
speaks to us. It communicates a message
for our times.

Though some may argue that women
are golden dishes into which we put
silver apples, or tin dishes into which we
put brass persimmons or little lead
kumquats, the fact remains that Wom-
an's historic function is to be a "dish" —
a function which she has frequently lost
sight of during the past hundred-odd
years. Having won the right to vote,
smoke and wear short hair, she has all
too often come to conceive of herself not
as a dish, but as an apple — a buddy, pal,
chum, colleague and somewhat chesty
bowling companion.

Endowed by nature with certain de-
lightfully obvious sexual characteristics,
she has steadfastly refused to let them
stand in the way of her ambition to
either ride to hounds or run for office.

Nowhere is this lamentable determi-
nation to overcome her own charms
more apparent than in that evolutionary
sport, the Outdoor Girl. No longer con-
tent to sit on the sidelines and look
fetchingly feminine with parasol and
fan, she bounds down the fairways of
masculine friendship swinging a set of
registered clubs. As eager to share a duck
blind as a divan, she brings to both a
hail-fellow-well-met spirit that smacks аз
much of Abercrombie & Fitch as it does
of Aphrodite and Eros. Suntanned, com-
petent, frank and knowing, she ap-
proaches love as if it were a tennis match,
and uses her come-hither look mainly to
lure her male opponent closer to the net,
in order to slam a return shot past his
ear to the baseline.

But if the Outdoor, neo-tomboy type
imagines that she can win her varsity W
for Woman by playing a clean, hard
game and holding up her end of the
canoe on a six-mile portage, the fault is
not hers alone. Bchind every girl's down-
fall lies a man, and there hes always
been а muscle-bound minority ОЁ
thwarted scoutmasters who will stop at
nothing in their lust for heterosexual

article By WILLIAM IVERSEN

athletics and mixed camping. These
fresh-air fiends lurk everywhere, and
many an innocent, gaily attractive young
maiden has been lured down the prim-
rose path only to discover that it leads
to the locker room, the showers or a
weekend of moose hunting.

Clad in a bulky woolen shirt, bowed
by the weight of some wanton deceiver's
rucksack, she soon finds herself strug-
gling to keep afloat in a foldboat, an-
other fair victim of the sleeping-bag
syndrome —that dread antisocial dis-
ease characterized by itchy long under-
wear, damp socks and a strong smell of
citronella. Lying awake at night on her
zippered pallet of mildewed kapok and
sharp rocks, her femininity lost and her
maidenhood still intact, she wonders per-
haps —all too late—if there might not

be a better way to strain a ligament and
earn an aching back. As, indeed, there is.

It is comforting to think that some of
these poor, wayward creatures might be
redeemed, might repent of their virtuous
outdoor ways and be restored to society.
But experience would seem to prove
otherwise. Though the indoor man may
be moved to pity the fallen female, and
seek to woo her gently back to the urban
hearthside, statistics indicate that the
rehabilitation rate is alarmingly low.
Soak her in bubble bath, repair her sun-
bleached coifure, and dress her as
smartly as you will — it is only a matter

of time before she learns to adapt her
former depravity to the more subtle
playgrounds of the Great Indoors. To
all outward appearances a dish, she still
aspires to be an apple — an intellectual
chum.

Having visited a few art galleries, the-
atres and offbeat eateries, and done her
homework in psychoanalysis, politics,
cinema and jazz, she perches on the edge
of ottoman or chair, waiting to snatch
the conversational ball and make a
touchdown with her vocal cords. Viva-
ciously retrieving the first fumble, she
displays such a razzle-dazzle of opinion
and wit that the male line crumbles,
and only a seasoned tailback would at-
tempt a forward pass.

Inevitably, some heroic penthouse
tackle will volunteer to take her home.
More hip to her hips than her hipness,
he may even get himself invited up to
her apartment, where she may decide to
bestow upon him her greatest treasure —
the key to her confidence. Over a friend-
ly nightcap, her conversation will grow
more and more revealing, until at last,
clad only in the thinnest fabric of ideas,
she seduces him into holding her opin-
ions and permits him to probe the soft
contours of her eager little mind.

In order to even broach the subject of
amour, he will first find it necessary to
get her attention (which may take weeks),
and then proceed indirectly by way of
the frontal lobes. If all goes well, and he
plays his cards right, this may eventually
turn the trick. But it seems a hell of a
long way to go, just to dispose of а few
golden apples.

Fortunately, however, all the feminine
dishes have not been cracked in the proc-
ess of being removed from the barrel of
Victorian gentility and placed in the free-
and-easy atmosphere of office, bachelor
apartment and coeducational saloon. A
sufficient number have survived to at
least form a starter set for the light
housekeeping of romantic amour, and
to ensure that all our golden apples
need not be assigned to bags.

To be sure, the all-girl girl is some-
thing of an anomaly in this day and age,
a delectable throwback. During a pe-
riod of almost universal education in the
science and mechanics of sex, she per-
sists in practicing the arts and keeping

(concluded on page 75)

a lament for the passing of an american institution: the all-girl girl

Top left: lensmen Earl Leaf and Dave Sutton chivalrously
help Colette Berne into tight britches before the party. Top
right: an unblushing bride adjusts her garter in the dress-
ing room. Above: a pair of ASMP members ignore girl in
girdle to concentrate on others less conventionally covered.

Above left: the Greek god Pan dances with a coquettishly
costumed milkmaid, seems ready to give up Olympus in favor
of the rural life. Above right: covered more by paint than

hing else, two revelers strike a colorful pose. Prizes
went to costume showing most originality, and showing most.

pictorial

PHOTOGRAPHERS
oun stle plato party BS MODELS BALI,

ONE OF THE PERKIEST proofs of PLAYBOY'S
popularity is the growing number of
Playboy Parties held by universities,
country clubs and other assorted groups
across the country, using the magazine's
trademark and tenor as their theme.
(The demand for decorations has
prompted рілувоу to produce a party
kit that it makes available for such
shindigs.) Often the affairs are formal,
but when the American Society of Maga-
zine Photographers — Hollywood divi-
sion — decided to throw a PLAYBOY bash,
it turned out to be informal in the ex
treme. About the only thing not on dis-
play was inhibition, and as decorum gave
way to delightfully decorative and mostly
undecorated dolls, the professional pho-
tographers took up the tools of their
trade and covered their own affair. We
were naturally flattered by this tribute
to PLAYBOY as the ne plus ultra of mar-
kets for the camera chaps who like to
lens lovelies, and thought you might en-
joy a sampling of their pictures.

left. festivities in full swing. Above:
in contrast to formal costumes around
her, а near-nude girl arrives at party.

Above: the light fantastic is tripped by fantastic June Wilkinson and partner
tucked tightly into Turkish towels. After watching June gyrate her 43-26-36
about the hall, ogling onlookers enthusiastically agreed that her embarrass-
ment of riches makes Brigitte in her terry cloth look, by comparison, boyish.

Above: Playmate Lari Laine poses prettily with с suave, long-eared companion.
Photographers successfully snared six real-life pLavaoy Playmates for the party.

Left center: Playmate Marguerite Em-
реу is attentive to beachcomber part-
ner, while Playmate Cheryl Kubert
(back to camera) and red-bearded
escort enjoy dance. Left: cheeky in
her cunning cat costume, model
Sandy Silver’s bottom was covered
only by penciled cat scratches. Be-
low: beneath giant Playmcte display,
Earl Leaf amuses his fellows with a
parody titled How to Become a Play-
mate, aided by a cooperative model.

PLAYBOY

FONTS FOR PRESIDENT (continued from page 52)

gleefully. “I don't give a damn what
anybody says.” Even Timothy seemed
pleased by the sights and sounds of that
great city mellowing in the night.

Our suite was something by DeMille
out of Louis XIV. Huge pillowed bed-
rooms opened on a gilded living room,
and a platoon of French type waiters
hovered outside the door, ready to sprint
in on the slightest pretext to spirit away
the Congressman’s bulky tips.

The Congressman decided to put off
affairs of state until the next day. “Jack,”
he said, “tomorrow you can start lining
up interviews and the press conferences.
Right now I want to get out and meet
the people. The common touch, know
what I mean?”

"You bet, Congressman. You want
Eddie to bring his camera?"

“Hell, no. How about you, Timothy?
You with us or agin’ us?"

Timothy's nostrils flared eloquently.
"Im afraid not, sir,” he said. "How.
ever, if I might make a suggestion . . .”
He tugged a notebook from a vest
pocket — "knowing the Congressman's
interest in music and folk dancing, might
I suggest Le Cave, 41 Place Pigalle?”

The Congressman lapped at his mus-
tache. "Absolutely," he exclaimed. “What
are we doing here squatting like a bunch
of fire hydrants? Let's get this li'l ol
show on the road!”

The Place Pigalle that night was
something to stir the hackles of Post-
master General Summerfield. It was
Times Square іп pajamas. Reveling
bands of servicemen and tourists caroled
through the rues, and a dozen pleasure
palaces advertised their raisons d'étre
with posters that made Marilyn Monroe
look like a campfire girl. It was, in a
word, Bardotsville.

The Congressman put his hands on
his hips and breathed deeply, like an old
fire horse at а three-alarm conflagration.
“This is it, fellows,” he told us happily.
“This is the grass roots.”

We found Timothy's cabaret without
much trouble. It was a tiny little place,
tucked below the sidewalk, filled with
hibernating hoods and gloriously im-
modest gals. We were seated at a table
slightly larger than а martini glass, and
a watch-charm Dillinger approached to
take our order. It developed that he
could speak no English, but Eddie had
not wasted all of his youth in Montreal.
He ordered with fluent gusto and soon
refreshinents were being served.

“This is a pretty lively place,” Eddie
remarked. “How do you suppose friend
Timothy ever got the word on a joint
such as this?”

“Timothy is a very talented boy,”
chuckled the Congressman. “He knows
that I am at home in smoke-filled
rooms.”

Eddie opened his mouth to reply,
but no words came forth. I turned to see
what he was staring at and that is when
I saw Rita for the first time. She had
materialized out of the Gauloise mists
and stood swaying above us like one of
my adolescent dreams. She was very
beautiful and very red-headed and her
emerald gown had obviously not been
Sanforized.

She trained licorice eyes on the Con-
gressman and husked, "May a friend of
America join the friends of France?"

The Congressman vaulted to his feet.
"Oui!" ће cried, thereby exhausting his
entire French vocabulary. “But how did
you know we're from the States?"

She slinked into her chair so prettily
that I wanted to ask her to do it again.
“But you are too modest!” she smiled.
“Has any intelligent Frenchman not
heard of Congressman Fonts?"

“By Godfrey” he beamed. “I guess
you're right, at that!” He hailed our
waiter with a finger-snap that would
have done credit to Maurice Chevalier.
“What's your pleasure, my dear?”

"1 have champagne tastes,” she said
with a dehydrating glance. “Both in
drink and men. You may call me Rita.”
‘The Congressman bleated softly. It was
the sound of unconditional surrender.

Well, it was а fine evening, with much
merry chatter and strolling Pagliacci ac-
cordionists, and jugglers of torches fresh
from Ed Sullivan. and lighthearted
dancing girls who sowed the stage with
their tiny garments, but along about
three a.m. Eddie and I were both keen
for a breath of fresh air. 1 said as much
to the Congressman.

"Not me," he said. He patted Rita's
hand, and then added in a rare flight of
poetic fancy, "Why, I'm as happy as a
dead pig in the sunshine. I'll see you
guys later on at the hotel.”

Eddie and I elbowed our way through
the smoke and mounted to the sidewalk,
where we took great gulps of dank
Pigalle air. Even at that hour gay car-
nival throngs still clotted the streets.
“God, what a burg,” Eddie grinned.
“Come on, peerless leader, the night is
still young. Let's let tomorrow take care
of itself.”

“Tt is tomorrow, pal,” I said, but we
straggled across the street to examine the
international stature of one Lola La
Rue, the Girl with the Metronome Hips.

The pattern for the next ten days had
been set. Congressman Fonts proved to
be a man of tremendous stamina. Each
night he popped his homburg on his
head and set sail for Le Cave, where he
frolicked in a sea of champagne that
would have drowned a man half his age.
Each afternoon at two or so he heaved
himself from his bed and bounded into

the living room, exhausted and blissful.

"The little people, Jack!" he cried one
day. “Understand them and you under-
stand the country. Why, I have a whole
new outlook on the surplus wheat prob-
lem."

"Yes sin" I replied, anointing my
head with ice cubes.

"Well, what have you got lined up
for today? Any interviews or TV shows?"

"Nothing yet, Congressman. But I'm
sure working on it."

"Im giving you full responsibility,
you know. I've got other things on my
mind. As a matter of fact," he added,
smiling dreamily up at the chandelier,
“1 think I'm falling in love."

Thad enough problems without worry-
ing about the Congressman's love life.
The truth of the matter was that my
public relations efforts in his behalf had
drawn a big fat zilch. The French public
information people told me that visit-
ing statesmen in Paris were a centime
a dozen and that Fonts, while undoubt-
edly a chic type, was just not good copy.
Every publication from Paris Match to
Le Figaro greeted my announcement of
his availability for interviews with an
eloquent Gallic shrug. The TV biggies
yawned.

Eddie did manage to get 2 couple of
shots of the Congressman mulling world
problems over a breakfast of bacon and
benedictine, but this was clearly not
enough. I had the uneasy feeling that if
we didn’t come up with something juicy,
the resemblance between the Congress-
man and Little Mary Sunshine would
come to a quick and violent end.

"Then one day he did not come home.
Eddie and I didn't discover his absence.
until well into the afternoon of thc
night before, when a bed check revealed
unsullied sheets and no Congressman.

"We never should have left him," Ed-
die moaned. “Maybe he got rolled. May-
be he got mugged. Maybe —"

"Let's give it another hour,” I said. “If
he doesn't show we'll notify the police.

‘Timothy was sitting at a corner table,
rufling through papers. He looked up
and said, "I wouldn't work myself into
such a fuss if I were you. The Congress-
man can take care of himself. Besides,”
he added slyly, “if the police come, can
reporters be far behind? You might
finally accomplish something in the way
of publicity, of course, but it just might
prove embarrassing. . .”

"He's right," said Eddie. “Maybe the
old boy's just snoozing one off some-
where.”

"OK," I muttered. "You don't have to
shout."

We spent our usual feckless afternoon
swallowing aspirin and trying to con-
jure up an idea that would heap favor-
able publicity on our candidate. It was,
to coin a poem, no go. Then shortly

(continued on page 76)

try the view
from john o’hara’s
terrace

Ву ром GOLD

“HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN in Vexville,
Pennsylvania, honey?” Karen Green-
grass asked, smiling warmly.

“Гуе been in Vexville for fifty-seven
years,” Roger Padam replied, tapping
the top of his desk with the index finger
of his left hand.

Roger Padam was born in Vexville,
Pennsylvania, in 1908. His father, Jona-
than Padam, had come to Vexville from
Budapest in 1873. In Budapest, the
Padam family had included Roger’s
father, his mother Clara, his father's
grandparents, Minnizia and Elias
Padam, his father's brother (or Roger's
uncle) Zeb and his father's two sisters,
Zenia (Zeb's twin) and Greta. Zeb owned
the largest flax-flicking factory in all of
Europe. In 1872, he sold out and made
the move to America. In 1922, his son
Roger met Minnje Klinkle. Minnie's

father, Stanley Klinkle, was born in
Cracow, Poland, in 1855. He married
Selma Nordka in 1870, when both were
fifteen, and sailed to America in the
hold of a merchant ship. Minnie, their
only child, was born in 1904. Roger
Padam and Minnie Klinkle were mar-
ried during a warm (mid-seventies)
Philadelphia weekend in 1925, two
months after their first embrace. They
settled in Vexville. Roger, with the aid
of the $400 weekly stipend sent to him
by his father, who had built an empire
in Newark, New Jersey, created a vast
flax-flicking corporate realm in Vexville.

“That's a long time to be in this
town," Karen said.

“It's not so long," Roger said. “It’s а
fine old town and it's been very good
to Minnie and me. Minnie was saying
just yesterday that this is a fine old
town and I can't say she's wrong. Its
been good to us. We have many friends
here and when I stroll to the post office
each day to chat with Marvin Moritat-
sky I know that I'm passing through
the town in which I'll die. But even
then I'll go knowing that I spent many
happy years here with Minnie and all
the wonderful townspeople.”

Karen paused. She thought about this
fascinating man. She thought about
Vexville — new to her after three years
in New York. She doubted that she
could love this town, but she knew she
could love this man.

Karen Greengrass was twenty-two.
Her father, Ezra, had been a pawn-
broker in Butte, Montana, for twenty-
four years. Her mother, Gilda, had been
her father's wife for twenty-three of
those years. They were pleasant beings,
but their life wasn't Karen's kind of
life. Her brother, Kahil, had gone to
Лап when he was thirteen; she hadn't
seen him since. Her two sisters, Emma
and Pernita, had married (at the ages
of seventeen and twenty-one, respec
tively) and had moved from Butte (to
Cedar Falls, Тома, and Norman, Okla-
homa, respectively). Karen sensed the
need to make her own way and had
taken a train (actually a series of trains)
East. She hoped to get a job flicking
flax at the Padam Works in Vexville.
But she hadn't anticipated this inter-
view with Roger Padam.

Padam, she observed, was six feet, one
inch tall. He weighed 170 pounds. His
hair was dark brown, as were his eyes.
He wore brown high-top shoes, purple
stockings, and a green tweed suit with
matching vest. His tie was solid mauve;
his shirt was yellow. He had a mole on
the back of his left hand.

"What's Minnie like?" she asked.

"Kind of roly-poly you might say, but
all sweet inside,” Roger replied, eying
Karen's properly bulging blouse.

“Prettier than I am?" Karen asked,
sliding her chair closer to his desk.

"Мо, I suppose not,” Roger replied,
“put she's a fine person."

“I think you're fascinating,” she said.

“Thank you,” Roger said, gripping
the knot of his mauve tie.

“Kiss me,” Karen urged, rising from
her chair and moving around Roger's
desk.

“No,” Roger answered. “This is a
business interview. I believe in under-
standing my employces. No more than
Шаг”

“I want you, Roger Padam. I've come
all the way from Butte for you,” she
said.

“My mother is dead. You could be a
mother to rne, if you wish, but no more
than that," he murmured.

"I want you,” Karen sighed.

“You can’t haye me—Minnie has
me,” he insisted.

“You're a louse in a lousy town," she
cried. “You show off your big factory and
you talk about your Minnie and you. ..”

Roger Padam glared at her attractive
form and remembered an evening in
Philadelphia in 1929.

“Come on, Rog old boy, come on.
We'll drop in at Mamie's for a few hours
and you'll have something to take back
to Vexville with you. Minnie won't
know about it. I'll be something you'll
remember for years,” Alvin Cornmead
had said. Alyin had attended Haver-
sham University, too, from 1920 to 1925,
and somehow they had managed to
maintain contact after graduation.
Alvin was а big city attorney, a member
of the firm of Cornmead, Medville,
Grogan and Marx (on Broad Street).

"I really don't want to," Roger had
implored.

But he did.

When he stood before the choice
young girl, hc felt weak.

"I don't want to,” he had said to her.

“You're a louse from a lousy town,"
she had said, seizing her clothes and
rushing from the room.

Roger remembered. He looked at
Karen Greengrass and realized that it
wasn't too late to correct past error.

“Maybe just this once,” he whispered.

“Maybe just this once what?” Karen
asked, gazing out the open window
overlooking the vast Padam Works.

"Maybe," Roger mumbled, advancing.

They met at the side of his desk. He
clasped Karen to him, kissed her and
guided her across the room.

It was a simple matter to edge her
out the window.

"It's not a lousy town,” he said, light-
ing a moderately expensive cigar. “It's
home for Minnie and me.”

sandy
smiles

from

our seer
of the
strange
and
inexplicable

“I don’t trust this, Mr. Sween —
it’s altogether too simple!”

PLAYEOY

66

Shi ont (continued from page 31)

“Well, it’s unique, I'll give it that,”
said Phillips.

“More than you think,” added Nor-
man, his smile grown.a trifle labored.

“How so?"

“1 have no trouble tasting anything
else."

Dr. Phillips peered at him awhile be-
fore he spoke. “Сап you smell her?" he
asked then.

MED

“You're sure.”

"Yes. What's that got to do with ——"
Norman stopped. "You mean that the
senses of taste and smell go together,"
he said.

Phillips nodded. “If you can smell her,
you should be able to taste her.”

“1 suppose,” said Norman, “but I
can't."

Dr. Phillips grunted wryly. "Quite a

ser."

"No ideas?" asked Norman.

“Not offhand,” said Phillips, “though
I suspect it’s allergy of some kind.”

Norman looked disturbed.

"I hope I find out soon,” he said.

Adeline looked up from her stirring
as he came into the kitchen. “What did
Dr. Phillips say?"

“That I'm allergic to you."

"He didn't say that," she scolded.

"Sure he did."

“Be serious now."

"He said I have to take some allergy
tests.”

“He doesn’t think из anything to
worry about, does he?" asked Adeline.

"No"

"Oh, good." She looked relieved.

“Good, nothing,” :he grumbled. "The
tastc of you is one of the few pleasures
I have in life.”

“You stop that.” She removed his
hands and went on stirring. Norman slid
his arms around her and rubbed his nose
on the back of her neck. “Wisht I could
taste you," he said. "I like your flavor.”

She reached up and caressed his cheek.
"I love you,” she said.

Norman twitched and made a startled
noise.

"Whats wrong?" she asked.

He sniffed. "What's that?" He looked
around tbe kitchen. "Is the garbage
out?" he asked.

She answered quietly. “Yes, Norman.”

“Well, something sure as hell smells
awful in here. Maybe —" He broke
off, seeing the expression on her face.
She pressed her lips together and, sud-
denly, it dawned on him. “Honey, you
don't think I'm saying ——”

"Well, aren't you?" Her voice was faint
and trembling.

"Adeline, come on."

"First, I taste sour. Now —"

He stopped her with a lingering kiss.

“I love you,” he said, “understand? I
love you. Do you think Га try to hurt
you?"

She shivered in his arms. "You do hurt
me," she whispered.

He held her close and stroked her hair.
He kissed her gently on the lips, the
cheeks, the eyes. He told her again and
again how much he loved her.

He tried to ignore the smell.

Instantly, his eyes were open and he
was listening. He stared up sightlessly
into the darkness. Why had he waked
up? He turned his head and reached
across the mattress. As he touched her,
Adeline stirred a little in her sleep.

Norman twisted over on his side and
wriggled close to her. He pressed against
the yielding warmth of her body, his
hand slipping languidly across her hip.
He lay his cheek against her back and
started drifting downward into sleep
again.

Suddenly, his eyes flared open. Aghast,
he put his nostrils to her skin and sniffed.
An icy barb of dread hooked at his
brain; my God, whats wrong? He
sniffed again, harder. Adeline mumbled
indistinctly and he stopped. He lay
against her, motionless, trying not to
panic.

If his senses of taste and smell were
atrophying, he could understand, ac-
cept. They weren't, though. Even as he
lay there, he could taste the acrid flavor
of the coffee that he'd drunk that night.
He could smell the faint odor of mashed-
out cigarettes in the ashtray on his bed-
side table. With the least effort, he could
smell the wool of the blanket over them.

Then why? She was the most impor-
tant thing in his life. It was torture to
him that, in bits and pieces, she was fad-
ing from his senses.

It had been a favorite restaurant
since their days of courtship. They liked
the food, the tranquil atmosphere, the
small ensemble which played for dining
and for dancing. Searching in his mind,
Norman had chosen it as the place where
they could best discuss this problem.
Already, he was sorry that be bad. There
was no atmosphere that could relieve
the tension he was feeling; and express-
ing.

“What else can it be?" he asked, un-
happily. “Its nothing physical.” He
pushed aside his untouched supper. “It's
got to be my mind.”

“But why, Norman?”

“If I only knew,” he answered.

She put her hand on his. "Please don't
worry,” she said.

"How can I help it?" he asked. "It's
a nightmare. I've lost part of you, Ade-
line."

“Darling, don't," she begged, “I can't

bear to see you unhappy.”

“I am unhappy,” he said. He rubbed
a finger on the tablecloth. "And I've just
about made up my mind to see an ana-
lyst.” He looked up. "It's got to be my
mind," he repeated. “And — damnit! —
I resent it. I want to root it out.”

He forced a smile, seeing the fear in
her eyes.

“Oh, the hell with it," he said. "I'll
go to an analyst; he'll fix me up. Come
on, let's dance.”

She managed to return his smile.

"Lady, you're just plain gorgeous,"
he told her as they came together on the
dance floor.

"Oh, I love you so," she whispered.

It was in the middle of their dance
that the feel of her began to change.
Norman beld her tightly his cheek
forced close to hers so that she wouldn't
see the sickened expression on his face.

"And now it’s gone?” finished Dr.
Bernstrom.

Norman expelled a burst of smoke
and jabbed out his cigarette on the ash-
tray. “Correct,” he said, angrily.

“When?”

“This morning,” answered Norman.
The skin grew taut across his cheeks.
“No taste. No smell.” He shuddered
fitfully. “And now no sense of touch.”

His voice broke. "What’s wrong?" ће
pleaded. “What kind of breakdown is
this?"

"Not an incornprehensible one," said
Bernstrom.

Norman looked at him anxiously,
"What then?" he asked, "Remember
what I said; it has to do only with my
wife. Outside of her ——"

“I understand," said Bernstrom.

“Then what is it?”

“You've heard of hysterical blindness.”

куе

“Hysterical deafness.”

“Yes, but ——”

"Is there any reason, then, there
couldn't be a hysterical restraint of the
other senses as well?”

“АП right, but why?”

Dr. Bernstrom smiled.

“That, I presume,” he said, “is why
you came to see me.

Sooner or later, the notion had to
come. No amount of love could stay it.
It came now as he sat alone in the liv-
ing room, staring at the blur of letters
оп a newspaper page.

Look at the facts. Last Wednesday
night, he'd kissed her and, frowning,
said, "You taste sour, honey.” She'd
tightened, drawn away. At the time, he'd
taken her reaction at its obvious value:
she felt insulted. Now, he tried to sum-
mon up a detailed memory of her be-
havior afterward,

Because, on Thursday morning, he'd

(concluded on page 85)

IT 1s TO BE SUPPOsED that you are an in-
telligent, educated, sensible man. As
such, you are not likely to forearm your-
self for a game of chance or skill with
а magic lodestone, a good-luck amulet,
lucky-lucky powder, fast luck drops (to
be surreptitiously added to your drink
when things are going bad), а four-leaf
clover, or the foot of a rabbit — all of
which, in case you haven't been keeping
up with the ads in the pulps, can be
bought for good US. currency (по
checks, please). You know the difference
between the fun of hollering at the dice
and actually believing that you can in-
fluence how they fall. You apply body
English to that bowling ball without
really expecting it to change its course.
You don't put any stock in these devices;
in fact, you are pretty sophisticated and
realistic about the whole question of
luck and how it can be influenced.

But let's look а bit further. Have you
ever, in a poker game, changed your
seat or the deck in order to improve
your hands? Have you ever bet on a
horse because of its name? Have you
ever, in roulette, bet on red because
black had shown six times running?
Have you ever called for a fresh pair of
dice in a crap game? Have you ever felt
a faint qualm when you broke a pocket
mirror? Have you ever, God forbid, like
a fellow we know, walked around a
leaning ladder instead of under it with
the apologetic remark, "I'm not super-
stitious, of course, but it’s so little trou-
ble"? If any of the answers was Yes, it
is quite probable that you, too, harbor
certain ancient and deeply ingrained
misconceptions about luck.

You are, let us say, in 2 game of draw
poker. You are a good poker player; yet

article ву T. K. BROWN ш

things are going against you. You
haven't won a pot in three hours. Your
pat straight is beaten by the jerk who
draws two cards to fill a flush (one
chance in twenty-four); your three-of-a-
kind doesn't improve on the draw and
is beaten by the two-pairs hand that
draws one to make a full house (one
chance in twelve); your four-flushes,
which ought to hit about twice every
eleven draws, haven't come home a sin-
gle time.

You are having a run of bad luck.

The question is, what do you do about
it? It is the question that makes the sub-
ject of luck so fascinating to the student
of human behavior. There are several
things you can do:

1. Keep on playing the best you know
how, convinced that the past fall of the
cards can have no influence on the
future.

2. Keep on playing because it's time
for the cards to change.

8. Quit playing because you realize
that your bad luck has affected your
judgment and play for the worse.

4. Quit playing because the cards are
against you tonight.

5. Quit playing because you suspect
that the game is crooked.

6. Call for a new deck, take three
turns around your chair, change seats,
play a hand standing up, or otherwise
seek to outfox or ingratiate yourself
with the Goddess of Chance.

The odd numbers above designate
rational responses to the problem.
Were they yours? The even numbers,
sad to say, introduce the typical motiva-
tion and behavior of the man whose
luck has been bad. Were they yours?
Let us hope not. But since they are so

Sable

and how
to separate

fact
from

typical, and so fraught with error, let’s
take a closer look at them.

It’s time for the cards to change. How
reasonable this sounds! The law of aver-
ages has been grossly infringed by that
bad run —it has to get back on an even
keel with a corresponding good run, or
else it can't average out, the way it has
to. This stands to reason.

In roulette (and other games of pure
chance) this theory has a name. It is
called the Maturity of the Chances. If
black has won six, seven, eight times in
a row, the chance that red will come
next time is much better than even,
since the law of averages implies that
the chances for red have now “matured,”
and must start coming in. Similarly in
poker: if you have lost a lot of hands
that you should have won, the time has
come for you to start hitting.

The main trouble with this theory is
that it is wrong. The little ball on the
roulette wheel has no memory of what
it has just done. It has about an even
chance of falling to either red or black
on the next roll, and it has just as much
chance to continue the run on black as
to break it off. It feels no compulsion
to get in there and save the reputation
of the law of averages.

This law of averages is the popular
name given to a theorem propounded
by the Swiss mathematician Bernoulli.
In simplified form the theorem states
that, if there is a certain probability
that an event will take place (say, a fifty-
fifty chance that a flipped coin will come
down heads), then, if the trials are
repeated indefinitely, the event (heads)
will occur the expected number of
times. Note where it says in the small
print: repeated indefinitely. The law of

PLAYBOY

averages deals with vast numbers of
trials; it is not going to help you out
in the next half houf. There is no time
of which it can be said that it’s time for
the cards to change. Forget about the
law of averages: it is never going to do
you any good.

The cards are against you tonight.
This point of view, the very opposite of
the one just dealt with, also seems to
offer 2 sound basis for decision-making.
After all, what are you to think if, again
and again, when you have every expecta-
tion of winning, the cards give the pot
to somebody else? They're against you
and that’s all there is to it. Every time
you give them another chance to do the
decent or probable thing they yank the
rug out from under you. The only sensi-
ble thing you can do is get out of the
game before you get hurt any worse. It
stands to reason.

This fallacy is essentially the same
as the one above, It assumes that the
cards know what they are doing. Above,
they knew they were acting wrong and
would soon reform; in this case they are
determined to keep on being naughty.
Therefore, on the next hand you do not
have your usual expectation of success:
you have less,

This sort of thinking derives directly
from the “belief” in luck, about which
we shall have more to say. The point
to make now is that the mathematical
probabilities in a series of independent
events (such as poker hands, spins of
the roulette wheel, draws at blackjack,
throws of the dice) cannot possibly be
affected by what has happened before.
If things have gone for you or against
you in the past, it is perfectly correct to
say that you have had good luck or bad
luck. But — and listen carefully, because
this truth is worth its weight in your
gold — to act as if you will be lucky or
unlucky is sheer superstition. In fact, the
word "superstition" is the operative
word here. And now, at last, we are
about to get into the realm where it is
sovereign.

Call for a new deck, circumambulate
the chair, etc. Here we approach one of
the crossroads in man’s perilous hike
toward his present precarious eminence.
His main instrument of survival has
been his rational brain. Ever since he
got up on two feet and began to think,
his struggle has been to see the physical
universe in the right perspective; and
his chief problem has been that of every
animal, his tendency to regard himself
as the most important thing in the
world. Gradually he has begun to over-
come this tendency. In the last few hun-
dred years he has succeeded pretty well
in formulating — and putting to his use
— the rules by which the physical world
operates. He has evolved the scientific
view of things, according to which mat-

ter obeys laws that are proof against
manipulation to give any man an ad-
vantage or disadvantage.

The intelligent modern man does not
question this. On going out to his car
in the morning, he does not say to him-
self, "I don't think it will start this
morning — 1 spilled the salt at breakfast
and neglected to throw a pinch over my
shoulder." If the car should not start, he
does not walk around it three times to
make it behave better; he looks for the
cause under the hood, or calls a taxi.
And yet, observe his behavior when he
becomes involved in a game of which
chance is an element. An ancient
memory, an atavistic impulse, takes
over. His clear intelligence becomes
willing to accept the notion that a
mysterious force called luck has attached
itself to him, or to the inanimate objects
with which he plays. He does not be-
lieve in haunted houses, but he may
very well believe that he or his adversary
is haunted by a spirit called good luck
or bad luck. And — what is more extraor-
dinary — this spirit or force can be con-
trolled and influenced by the proper
application of techniques.

But this is manifestly impossible. Luck
is that which happens by chance. The
element of the unforeseen, the haphaz-
ard, and the uncontrollable is an essen-
tial part of the meaning of the word.
By its very definition, luck is something
that cannot habitually attach itself to a
particular person.

What conclusions can we draw from
this analysis so far? Several — even
though we shall confine ourselves to
games that involve betting.

1. There is no such thing as a lucky
or unlucky gambler. Chance may favor
him for a day, or a week, or even (most
improbable) a year. But if he wins over
the long run he is not lucky. He is
skillful.

2. In games of pure chance, there is no
such thing as a valid hunch. However
strongly you may fcel that a certain
event will occur, you are kidding your-
self.

3. There is no such thing as being
"hot." There is only the fact of having
been hot—at one or another time, or
so far. What has happened in the past
offers no likelihood that it will continue.

4. There is nothing you can do to
change your luck. If you are deeply de-
bauched by superstition, the fact of your
observing some ritual may so far restore
your confidence as to make you play
better. In this case you have improved
your skill, not your luck.

Luck, in short, has an utterly negligi-
ble influence on success. In games, as
in life, the elements that make a differ-
ence are probability and skill. They are
closely related. Because of the general
misuse of the word luck, and the mis-
conceptions regarding it, we want to

examine these two elements in some
detail.

Probability informs all our lives. The
wildest improbabilities happen to us
every moment of every day. The very
fact that you are you, and not any one
of a million other possible persons, de-
pended on the highly improbable union
of a particular sperm with a particular
ovum. Now, in that poker game we men-
tioned above, you are dealt a hand con-
sisting of QW, 104, 9V, 3%, 2^.
There was just one chance in 2,598,960
that you should get those five cards.
How utterly improbable that you should
have done sol

Quite true. But you are perfectly justi-
fied in asking, “So what? Who needs a
hand like that?” Probabilities, or im-
probabilities, though our lives are full
of them, are of absolutely no interest un-
less some significance is attached to them.
If you have anted two dollars for the
privilege of getting this stinker, you are
not a bit awed by how unlikely it was
that you should have got it. Probability
would begin to take on some meaning if
four of the cards had been hearts and
you had to calculate whether it was
"worth your while to draw to the four-
flush.

We can gain our best insight into the
relation between probability and luck if
we look at it in connection with the
games of pure chance (eg. craps, rou-
lette, chuck-a-luck, slot machines). These
games are usually played in a gambling
establishment, which prescribes the pay-
offs for all bets. Built into these prescri
tions is the house percentage, or cut. It
should not come as a surprise to you that
gambling places, since they are not non-
profit organizations, stay in business by
rewarding your wins at less than the
true odds.

‘At the crap table, let us say, you wish
to bet that the shooter will roll a seven
on his first roll. There are six ways he
can do this: 6-1, 5-2, 4-3, 34, 2-5, 1-6.
There are thirty-six possible rolls of two
dice. Thus he has one chance in six of
rolling the number you want. The prob-
ability that he will do so is one/six; or,
stated differently, the chance that he
will fail is five to one.

ТЕ you bet one dollar on this proposi-
tion, the correct odds demand that you
should get five dollars for winning. Over
the long run you will lose one dollar five
times for every time that you win five
dollars, and you will break even. But the
house doesn't offer five to one on this
bet; it offers four to one. This means
that you will lose five dollars for every
four dollars that you take You will
lose one dollar for every six bets that
you make. That is, the house percentage.
is 16.67.

Betting under these circumstances is
called bucking the odds. You have no

(continued on page 70)

“The terrific upsurge in sales last month was
accident. While Miss Beeman was bringing the gi
I happened to reach over and...

actually an
raph up to date,

PLAYBOY

70

LUCK (continued from page 68)

other choice in a gambling house: you
are always bucking the odds, and in the
long run you are going to lose. It is your
privilege to call your losing bad luck if
you wish, but it is precisely what proba-
bility tells you to expect. It is, from an-
other point of view, the price you pay
for the entertainment you get from gam-
bling. But if your purpose in gambling
in such places is to win, you are exhibit-
ing a lack of skill in not taking the
probabilities into account.

In the games of skill (eg, poker,
bridge, backgammon) a knowledge of
probabilities is absolutely essential, as it
is in the vaster game of life. But here
skill and chance (luck) are intermingled,
and it is not always easy to separate the
two.

Let's take an instance from a game of
golf. Sixth hole, 165 yards over a water
hazard. Player A addresses his ball with
an imprecation and a five iron. He
shanks it: the ball loops off to the right,
hits a tree, ricochets into the pond but
lands on the one projecting rock, bounces
up onto the green, and trickles into the
cup. A hole in опе!

"You lucky bastard!” Player В ex-
claims.

"What do you mean, "lucky?" rejoins
Player A. “This is a game of skill, isn't.
it? I was trying to get my ball into that
hole with as few strokes as possible,
wasn't I? Well, that's what I did. Where
do you get that ‘luck’ stuff?"

They can argue about this forever.
The consensus will be that Player A
was indeed an extremely lucky bastard.
(There will be another school that ar-
gues how unlucky he was, since he must
now stand drinks for everyone in the
clubhouse. But this introduces an ex-
traneous consideration.) He was, to be
sure, engaged in a game of skill. How-
ever, he cvinced a lack of skill when he
shanked his ball. From that moment
chance took over and did a thorough-
going job of conferring luck.

Another example. Mortal A is a Mexi-
can peasant, born in a mud-floored hut
in the mountains, condemned by his
circumstances to illiteracy and lifelong
poverty. Mortal B, American tourist,
drives up to the village in his T-bird
on a sightseeing tour. He was born in
a big house in Scarsdale; his parents
gave him every advantage, put him
through college, placed him in the fam-
ily brokerage business. Now he earns
$50,000 2 year.

“These primitive people have a hap-
piness and a simple joy of life that we
have lost,” he says to his well-groomed
female companion.

“Cabrón suertudo!” says the Mexican,
enviously. "Lucky devill"

Again, the concept of luck is being
correctly applied. Mortal B is unques-

tionably luckier, at least in material
things than Mortal A. His advantages
are due primarily to the accident of
birth, not to superior skill. Similarly, the
pretty girl is, in one respect, luckier than
the plain, the athlete than the weakling,
the talented than the imbecile. Life
deals out such inequalities, and luck
may be the only word for them.

Case three. Stockbroker X, with ex-
tensive holdings in many securities, sells
every last one of them in the week end-
ing October 28, 1929. On October 29 the
Crash finds him comfortably counting
his money while his colleagues on Wall
Street shout "You lucky bastard!" as
they plummet past his window. They
cannot pause to argue the matter, but
Mr. X is not lucky, in the correct use of
the word. Here, as in thc holcin-onc
case, there is a mixture of luck and skill,
but the preponderance is on the other
side. Mr. X was lucky not to have waited
a week longer, but it was skill that dic-
tated his significant act of getting out
at about that time, while his friends
were blithely riding the gravy train to
its destination.

Probability and skill being the factors
that mainly count in one's gaming and
one’s day-to-day encounters with life,
what is the explanation for the wide-
spread and often vehement belief in the
existence and pervasive power of luck?
"What are the psychological sources of
this rational disorder? — and that is as
good a name for it as any.

‘They are manifold and complex, but
perhaps we can suggest a few avenues
of approach.

Its most immediate emotional source
lies in the stress that attends the ex-
posure to any situation in which chance
plays a large part. In such a situation
the human being feels himself vulnera-
ble to powers that, because he has no
command over them, are the more
mysterious and dangerous, He loses his
detachment. His rational control, shaky
at best, yields to the primitive voice that
tells him he can regain the upper hand.

"This motivation shows up vividly in
warfare, when men will commit the most
irrational acts to gain the illusion that
they have reduced chance to their serv-
ice. The story is told of the British sea-
man at Trafalgar who, when a cannon-
ball passed through the side of his ship,
at once put his head through the hole,
explaining that this was the safest spot
on the vessel because of the unlikelihood
that two shots should land in exactly the
same place. In World War I, soldiers
leapt into new shell holes for the same
reason. (Shell B, of course, does not
know where shell A landed, and may
land there just as well as anywhere else;
but, just for kicks, ask yourself whether

you wouldn't feel safer in a nice псу
hole instead of a beat-up old one. And
then ask yourself why.)

A second source of the belief in luck
is not so much emotional as it is a law
in the reasoning process itself. Even per-
sons highly trained in scientific thinking
are prone to this error when chance en-
ters their lives. It is the error of forget-
ting that there is only one set of natural
laws, that things work in only one way.
If the laws can be set aside in response
to special pleas, or if they habitually
favor one person over another, then the
whole reasoning of science is wrong
from top to bottom and our image of
an orderly world is nonsense.

Another factor that contributes to the
belief in luck is something we will call
the subconscious selection of evidence.
It works like so: Suppose you have a
bias toward believing some particular
thing—that Friday the thirteenth, for
example, is an unlucky day. Any mis-
fortune, big or little, that befalls you on
a Friday the thirteenth will impress it-
self indelibly on your memory and will
serve to “prove” that your theory is cor
rect. Quite subconsciously you will for-
get whatever good things have happened
to you on that day; and you will cer-
tainly not go to the trouble of compiling
accurate statistics for the amount of

or bad fortune you have had on
other days of the month, which would
show that Friday the thirteenth is a day
just like any other. You want to believe
in its maleficence and, by a careful
process of selection, you will gather the
“evidence” to "prove"

Having made this point, we will now
admit that Friday the thirteenth may
indecd be an unlucky day for you. For
there is another process at work in this
matter of luck: the self-fulfilling expec-
tation. If you are really convinced that
a certain day means bad luck, you are
subconsciously predisposed to create
that bad luck for yourself on that day.
You are more accident prone; you are
more likely to commit errors in judg-
ment. Without conscious volition you
will make the day unlucky. Similarly, if
you believe that good luck comes in
streaks, you will, on the day that gets
off to a good start, create more so-called
good luck for yourself. Your mental tone
will be better; you will attack life, or a
game, with more confidence that you
will succeed.

The same process is at work, of course,
whenever you are under heavy psy-
chological pressure. If you are up against
aman in а business deal who has a repu-
tation for being fantastically lucky in
the way things turn out for him, subcon-
sciously you expect him to get the better
of you, and you are at precisely the sort
of disadvantage that can result in your

(concluded on page 74)

humor Ву SHEL SILVERSTEIN

THE моѕт POPULAR humor feature ever
ILL printed in praywoy: that was your
verdict on Teevee Jeebies and More

July 1959
а ] у year, respectively.
ar those of you who have just tuned in,
and is, to make TV's con-
tinual showing of the same ancient films
more bea the sound
down and making up your own dialog

do-it-yourself subtitles for the midnight movies

for the actions that flit across your
screen. Let logic go let in
tion run riot — just as we've done

captions lor these TV

“And all the guys at the office were betting it was “Er... what does poison ivy look like?"
going to be a boy or а girl!”

“No kidding, Ernie—you grab ту knee once more “You know what 1 dig about you. Mom? You're
and I'm going lo punch you right in ihe mouth.” willing to try and understand the Beat Genevalion!!”

т

PLAYBOY

“Just scream, why don't you, and get it “We'll do it this way, fellows —each of you pick a
oul of your system.” number between one and ten. . .”

“No, Mama, no—the guys with the stars are the bad “Well, just as I'm driving the getaway car up
guys — the guys with the mustaches are the good guys!” to the bank, I pass this sign that says, ‘En-
а: A list Now — Excitement — Security — Travel —' and

I figure, what the hell, so —"

“I don't give a damn if it is your ball— O'Brien ig "1 is not my imagination, officer — I tell you, there ате
coming in to pitch!” Peeping Toms in the neighborhood!”

72

“Would you mind leaning forward just a bit?” “OK, OK. J-B.— you want me lo wear Гоу League
clothes, ГЇЇ wear Тоу League clothes.”

“Say that again!” “And this fellow is willing to pay us plenty of money
for our story. What do you say, Lolita?"

13

PLAYBOY

14

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LUCK
(continued from page 70)

enhancing his reputation at your ex-
pense.

The belief in bad Inck often derives
from what might be called pressure
failure. If we are engaged in а game
at sta much higher than we can
afford, and need desperately to win, our
skill is going to be affected adversely by
our anxiety. We shall be particularly
sensitive to the loss that we shall proba-
bly suffer, and will blame it bitterly on
bad luck of the worst sort. Our emo-
tional involvement will conceal from us
the extent to which our misfortune re-
sulted from a failure of skill because of

pressure.
Finally, the belief in luck can have из
source in defensive rationalization.

Good luck, in a great п
simply the good things that happen to
a person we don’t like. We are unwilling
to admit that he earned his good fortune
through skill. It is painful to say, “He
certainly showed how capable he is
when he pulled that one off.” How much
more gratifying it is to attribute his suc-
cess to the blind operation of chance!
In the same way, our own lack of suc-
cess is much more digestible if we blame
it on bad luck rather than on some fault
ourselves. In either case we are ration-
alizing what happened as a means of
defending our sell-este

As a general rule it wi
objecti:

cases,

1 be found, on
mination, that the person
with a reputation for being lucky is the
person who has at his command the
skills th ble him to make the most
situations that come his way. Tt is
tt that Napoleon had im mind
when he wrote, "Chance remains always
a mystery to mediocre spirits and be-
comes a reality to superior men." The
mediocre spirit, the poor unlucky fel-
low, the schlub, the guy for whom every-
, is very likely to be the

self-defeater, the injustice-collector, the
man who subconsciously wishes to do
himself harm because he hates himself.
Such a man, of course, is particularly
prone to discover the source of his mis-
fortune in the malevolent machinations
of chanc
Aside the gross incqualities of
opportunity that are an inevitable part
of life, a man makes his own luck. His
attitude toward it will be a very per
sonal thing. If he has been successful,
whether in games or in the larger arena
of life, he will be less likely to say
much about luck, and will probably have
very little belief in it. Skill, alertness,
insight, intelligence — these are the
qualities to which he will attribute his
well-being. If he has been unsuccessful,
lud: will in all likelihood loom large in
his picture of himself. Bad luck, of

course.
а

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(continued from page 57)
alive the humanities.

No weather-beaten safari sidekick or
mixed-doubles partner is she. Her play-
are sheer whimsies, her seams are
straight, and her goal the highest
—to cheer the victor, comfort
nquished, and to give to both
their just desserts.

Preferring to be a prize rather than
to win one, her competition is confined
to her own More concerned with
privileges than rights, she has never per-
mitted a few belated civil liberties to
transform her into a Susan В. Anthony
Memorial Shrew. A true daughter of
Eve, her capacity for apples is infinite.
Her interests are your interests, and her
conversation is always provocative in
precisely the right way. Though she will
never be a buddy, she will always be a
sweetheart, a bewitching companion
arms.

Admittedly, such a wom
ous—as fraught with perils as she is
loaded with appeal. For all her sculp-
uned beauty and high-fired gloss, the
feminine dish may yet contain a rose-
covered-cottage design and a border of
wedding bells. But in playing the golden-
apple game, who wants safety?

As Goethe himself must have realized,
the danger is half the fun. Old Johann
was a dish collector from way back, and
Wolfgang was his middle name. The
Eleventh Edition of the Encyclopaedi
Britannica — hardly a scandal sheet —
lists no less than 11 major passions in
Goethe's life, commencing with onc
Gretchen at the age of 15, and ending
with “a young girl, Ulrike von Levetow,
whom he met at Marienbad" when he
was 73.

His most enduring attachment
Christiane Vulpius, who "gave

to
him

quietly, unobtrusively, without ma
demands on him, the comforts of a
home.” When she presented him with a

son in 1789, Goethe briefly considered
“legalizing his relations with Christiane,
but this intention was not realized un-
til 1806, when the invasion of Weimar
by the French made him fear for both
life and property.”

That it took an en
Goethe into marriage is strictly beside
the point. The point is that even though
he took a wife, he never saddled himself
with a buddy bride or a girlabout-
Weimar chum. Right up until the very
end, he always had а place to put his
golden apples. Which is one thing that
helped make the man so great.

Turning from Goethe's biography to
his own thumb-worn address book, small
wonder if our present-day philosopher-
poet might not be moved to exclaim:
“Comfort me with dishes, for I am sick

ol apples!"

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PLAYBOY

76

FONTS FOR PRESIDENT

after six Timothy sheathed his pen and
nearly fractured his jaw with the first
smile 1 had ever seen him attempt. Un-
used cheek muscles shivered under the
strain.

By the w у tle-
men don't mind. I thought we could
switch on the TV in a few minutes.
Mi catch something interesting,
yknow.”

A certain catwhohas јиз ипсћед-о
prime-canary quality in his voice made
me reach for the Tribune. There, in the
jon schedule, 1 found it, a French
on of Face the Nation. At six-thirty,
per announced, а surprise guest,
Wilbur T. Fonts, would make an ap-
pearance on the show to answer ques-
tions posed by а panel of reporters, Top-
ics to be discussed included the A

he said, “if you

question and the role of
ATO.
I don't believe it," I said in slack-

jawed wonder. “Timothy, how in the
world did — Why, Eddie and 1 haven't
п gotten a nibble . . .”

n't too difi-

Eddie fondled the paper thou
"A reprieve from the gov

htfully.
ror, he

murmured. "Look, let's run over to the
studio and take some pictures. We'll
nce like this again.”

1, reaching for my hat.
you coming, Timothy?”

No,” said Timothy in his best casket
ne. "I don't like those

hand and our taxi driver, crazed by the
prospect of a thousindfranc tip, sped

arnage that
made Ben Hur lool an amateur. We
embarked shortly before air time,
paid our ransom to the cabby and
sprinted into the building. A succulent

(continued from page 62)

and with
1-

receptionist gave us directions,
a flourish of credentials we gained
mittance to the right studio.

We entered upon a scene of monu
mental chaos. Television studios in gen
eral ае ies of
calm: if th
onfusion is multip
flashed off and

net noted as

d by ten. Li
ihe stage crew
th operatic insults

tricians, A violinist and а horn
puted sharps and flats. Behind
a pool of light the four members of the
panel breathed dragon-clouds of smoke
and spat insults at the moderator, who
had made a temple of his hands and was
gazing prayerfully toward the ceiling,
By the clock the show was to go on in
two minutes, and Congressman Fonts
was nowhere to be seen
Ve beter ask John Di
permission to shoot duri
said Eddie. “Frankly, 1 got sort of a
sinking sensation. Where do you sup-
pose Weepin’ Wilbur
We threaded our way to the modera-
tors table. I tapped him on the shoulder,
and he looked up at me as though 1 were
Marshal Dillon and ће the man who
had maimed Chester. "Do you speak
English?" 1 asked.
Yes," he said nervously. "I am goii

y there for

g the show,"

[4
to interpret for the Congressman during
the show." He rolled his eyes wildly
toward the clock and added, "We have
only the one minute. You must forgive
me. I am always very а
show. АП the great ones are. Т.
aple —"
"Where's the Congressman?” I de-
ded.

He shrugged. “He might perhaps be
in that dressing room. И vou sce him tell
him we are on the air in a matter of
seconds. Do you have a cigarette?"
We dashed through a crescendo of con-

ruso, for

mi

“Watch и, Mr. Carruthers, we're rolling.

fusion to the dressing room.
knocked and drew open the door,
we were looking into the leopa
of Rita, the svelte pelt from Le Cave.
Beside her stood two squat Bolsheviks,
as darkly bewhiskered as the Smith
Brothers. On a chair in the center of
the room was Congressman Fonts.

He blinked up at us and mumbled,
“Welcome aboard, troops! Grab your
self I] snort an’ join the party!” А g
slipped from his hand and splintered on
the floor. He was patently potted.

h:

lass.

you done to the poor
1 shouted in rhetorical panic.
You know he can't go on like this!
Rita showed her pi
just say that his diet has been largely
liquid,” she replied sweetly, “It should
be an interesting half hour, don't you
thin!

It didn't require an IBM
put ovo and two togeth
imothy," I summarized quickly. “You
planned the whole thing to give the
U.S. à black eye. Is a Commie curve
ball —

“I'm sorry to interrupt your feeble
metaphors,” Rita said, “but we do have
sement. By the arm, Во
dropped his Neanderthal
long enough to remark, “Try to stop an’
I keel you both dead," and then u

gums. "Let us

brain to
"You

of them proceeded out the door wh
Eddie and 1 gaped in horror. Unless
we did som Dm
ng
on French

hing in
a crocked Congressman Fonts was
to go staggering into ten mi
ing rooms.

“Good-bye, job w
mumbled feverish
reers shot down in fl
Weepin' Wilbur has got his fiddle. We
don’t even —

“That's it" Eddie yelped. He leapt

nto the air like a flushed quail, and
then plunged out of the dressing 100m.

А pall of silence had desc
studio. АП chaos and homicidal disputes
were stilled by that old equalizer, ox тик
alk, or its French equivalent. WI
announcer simpered sonnets of praise
above it tube of toothpaste
man sloshed into his appoi
waved cheerily to the panel :
t him with smoking nostrils and twitch-
ing pencils, vivisectionists all with tools
heshly honed. Rita and her pink pals
withdrew to the sl their
lips in anticipation.

I watched numbly while Eddie
toward the cameras, slipping
ables and crew with the nimbleness of
у Legs Hirsch. Without bre:

very

ith pay che

nded in the

an

dows, smac

€
stride he plucked violin and bow from

ng

startled
are
ward, but Rita leashed him with her
hand. Eddie was standing poised behind

musician and leapt into the

Boris took

p for

the. Congressman when the announcer
swept his commercial to a rhapsodic con-
clusion.

Eddie whispered something to thc
moderator, who paled and interred his
head in his hands. An alert camera dol-
lied in with predatory instinct. Eddie
spread his lips and began to speak.

Since my French is rusty enough to
give a man lockjaw, 1 could not then
catch the gist of his remarks. But Eddie
translated for me later. In his thick
Montreal argot he spoke to the French
public follows: "Patriots of France
Our distinguished guest was asked to
talk to vou this evening on matters of
great political import. But —on a soft
spring night, when lovers gather like
chestnut blossoms in the Bois de Bo-
can we dwell for long on dusty
of state? The Congressman Fonts
no!

"Not ten minutes ago he told me that
he had intoxicated with the
charm and beauty of your capital. Let us
forget Algi ers and disarma ament and t
iffs, he said. Let me commu: е with
these S with the
best— the universal 1,

“Ladies and gentlemen of France — I
present to you the Congressman Fonts
international violin!” Dripping
Eddie wheeled and
handed the instrument to the Congress-
nan, who sat slumped in happy oblivion.
! ldie whispered fiercely in
. "Election rally

A dim light of recognition flickered

in Congressman Fonts’ eyes. He nodded
ind smiled benignly at the cameras and
then, while I promised God never to cut
chapel again, he tucked that fiddle under
his several chins and sailed fullsteam
nto Turkey in the Straw.
The rest, of course, is political history.
For a lull half hour our convivial Con-
gressman sawed away, tackling every-
thing from Red River Valle у to La Vie
en Rose. The panclists were enthralled.
They applauded each. number, and ar-
gued savagely among themselves over
what selection he should play next. I
don't think the Congressman really knew
where he was, but it didn't matter. He
had his fiddle under , and if
there was one activity he liked better
than talking, it was making cornpone
music in front of the voting public. He
never even opened his mouth.

What matter if the moment we went
oft the air he suddenly sprang to his
feet and roared, “Hey, gotta go! Be late
for that lH] ol’ TV show!" The point
is that the studio switchboard was soon
twinkling with calls from ай ove
France, Who was this saint, this politi-
cian who kept his mouth shut? Never
had a half hour gone so quickly. Why,
the man seemed almost drunk with emo-
tion. He was an artiste, a genius with a

become

his chii

soul dear as cognac.

For the next hour Eddie and I alter-
nately fed the Congressman great steam-
cups of coffee and pumped cach
others hands, happy to be still num-
bered among the working clases. And
when the Congressman regained his pe
spective we explained what had hap-
pened. He sat blinking for a while, and
then asked quietly, "Where's Rita?

Rita and her bearded bully boys, we
said, had departed the scene during the
third chorus of The Blue Тай Fly.

Тһе Congressman sighed. “Boys,” he
said, “let me give you a word of advice.
Never, never trust a red-headed Com
munist.

We were not too surprised to find on
our return to the hotel that Timothy had
also disappeared. It seemed more than
likely that he, Rita and friends had all
received. ап impromptu armed escort to
the deepfreeze country. Nice tries don't
count there.

If you follow the newspapers at all
you will remember that for the next two
5 Congressman Fonts was a Paris
celebrity. It was all I could do to handle
the avalanche of interview requests, and
Eddie soon developed а cramp in his
snapping finger. The Congressman was
asked to play the Marseillaise in the
Chamber of Deputies. Two movie offers

were made, No one was at all surprised
а com-

when he was summoned to pla
mand performance for Gene
Gaulle.

In fact, the only sour notes, aside from
a few Соп, ional clinkers, came from
the Communist press which shouted
something about a red herring. Fortu-
nately no one paid any attention to
them, or to the slightly damp orig
of the Congressman's sudden fame.

With the instinct of an old pro he
left them shouting for more. We planed
out on schedule and, rocked in the cra-
dle of the jetstream, snoozed all the
happy way back to Idlewild

“You know, fellows,” the Congressman
mused as we walked into the terminal,
“I never did pet to talk to anyone about
the Algerian problem or this — whadya-
callit — this NATO thing. Do you think
anyone noticed?

Eddie paused by a newsstand and held
up а copy of the Daily News. FONTS
FIDDLES WHILE REDS BURN, the
headlines bellowed. “I don't thi
he said thoughtfully.

“By Godlrey,” murmured Congress-
man Fonts, lighting a fresh cigar. "In
ternational stature

"Come on, Congressman,
you a drink," ] said, point
bar.

The Congressman hesitated. “No, you
0 ahead without me.” he grinned.
Personally, I never touch the stuff.”

So Eddie aud I went in and touched.

the stuft.

at last."

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PLAYBOY

18

О You New lork Giris Continued from page 30)

you, Charle gg said.

Tt was а time to be absolutely frank.
“Yes sir,” Charles said. "I do. But I want
to finish my book too. I really want to

be a writer.”

gg said
I'm going to
d you work in this bankers-
hours setup. You better have a nicer
office and you better have a fulltime
gil. That hatsworth, she's just
about right for you.”

Virginia Chatsworth was the
mit who doubled as Charley stenog-
es VIL raise her fifteen." Mr. Stage
said. "and TI let vou break the good
news to her.

Carefully evaluated, the whole thing
was good. news to Charles, too. But. the.
best part of it was wrecked
mother called him a few days later.
tharlie,” she said, "Рус got to tell
Bill about your job. Нез going to New
York, something about business, and
I've talked him into taking me. But he
would have found out I think
you'd better pretend you haven't had
your job very long.”

“АП right,” Charles said. “I don't
think I want to meet your plane. ГА
rather see vou alone first.”

“Ids а under-
мапа your feelings perfectly. Can I meet
you at your office? And will you make
sh, darling?”
rtainly Charles h
his mother, but they had never been
i 1 about each other
is surprised at his upsurge of
mth when Miss Chatsworth
his mother into his offic

his moth ‚ "you look
пе, Charlie, You look just
like your father, damn him.

"Well" Charles said. “you're more
beautiful than ever raid you'd
turned into а crone.”

“It would take more than Bill Dolson
to do that. And by the way, llow-
ance is cut off dear, I'm sorry, and lets
please not even talk about it right now.”
She looked arou les’ оћсе. “My,”
she s And how rich.
And what а pretty. pretty little girl to

tend your wants and needs. What's her
name?

""Temptatioi aid. "T thin!

"Darling, said, “I
know what to do with a subtlety
mor

Well,”
chivalrous man, He'd cut off his
ht arm rather than put it around the
waist of a defenseless m And
an idea he wants to be damn sure I'm
ol the sa ion. Hence the de-
lectable. V Chatsword

Vinginia Chatsworth, how
Then she said:
h you.

with

Miss

тесер-

when his

train, d

g and I

d much affection

and

Г was

your

* Charles
his mothe

don't

rles said,

th

very

ide: Ive

nice,” his
I think

said

Now . “Behave
yourself. I've just explained to you that
I can't afford to get involved with the
female help here.

W 1 someday,
said. "It seems to me that you've a fu
ture with this Mr. Stagg if he’s testing
you so carefully

“It’s the pres
‚ “1 have a d.

his mother

` Charles
good job here and
established.

money!”
"He's not a philanthropic institution
Josie," Charles said
“L should hope not!” his mother said.
Then she began to smile her dreamy
smile and tap at her front teth, “You
said he has а daughter,” she said.
ghed. "What a plouer you
he said. “Гус never eve
seen the girl. But vou should hear him
talk about һе is beautilu
thoughtful, kind. w
nonpareil, in fact. And she lives а car
Шу supervised life. No fortune hu
t her, no sir. Tom Stag

goin

ries his d
tells
1.
tells me all kinds
said. "I'm

you

of things
Friday. It’s

kable

Charles
my job to understand Ћи

his boy

"He тим be а ren man,”
Cha mother said.

You should meet him,” Charles said.
"Say," he said, “there’s no reason why
you shouldn't. Would you like to"

“ws about time you thought of it,
darling" his mother said. "Fm only
dying of curiosity

Mterward Charles saw that there was

nothing fortuitous about that day. It
was inevitable that his mother should

be curious about Mr. Sti
evitable that Mr. Stagg should buy the
а lunch; and it was also inevitable that
Mr. Stagg should use the occasion to
ntroduce his daughter. Her name was
Beth-Anne and she was waiting
black limousine outside of the res
taurant,
"They were a

g it was in-

m

1 events that were simpl
waiting to happen, but at the time
Cha Mdb was split between won-
dering how he was going to get alon;
without Bill Dolson’s allowance and an
knowledgment of his mother’s right
ness in the surroundings of that expen-
sive restaurant. Mr. Stagg couldn't read
the French menu and ће did d
tying. His conversation with the som-
r was intelligent but not knowl-
ble. But he tasted with apprec
tion and he commanded superb service
and Charles, mulling his own problems,
observed that Mr. Stagg had the

les m

gift of conveying the g
ке to the women at his table, Charles
1 never seen his mother happier
After lunch they strolled in Beekman
Mr. Stagg and his mother walk.
ig ahead.
Beth-Anne Si
“What?” Charles said

id to Charles.
"Oh. yes. It

wonderful. I don't often
places like that.
"You shoudn't worry when youre

cating,” Beth-Anne said. “My.” she said.
but your mother is beautifu

“Well.” Charles said. “as your father
pointed out when he introduced us, In
not the only one with a beauty in the
family.”

Beth-Anne laughed. “ГИ accept that,
from you,” she said. "Most men would
Aaner me if I looked like a toad, you
know.

"I suppose so,”
be tough
“Don't be nasty,” Beih-Anne said.
think I like you." She put her hand on
his arm and Charles noticed, ahead ог
them, that Mr. Stagg had his mother's
elbow cupped in his hand. “And you'll
probably want to marry me,” Beth-Anne
ng, “like all the rest of them
cd up ac him and smiled with
a kind of teasing maliciousness. "Would
vou like to marty me, Charles Corday?”
“Why yes" Charles said. “I think
we've been engaged much too long,
don't you?”
“What are you two la Mr.
Е айне апа! сап шск АШ
stopped and the black limousine һай

myste

Charles said. “It must

ously ared.

Mr. out ove
River. "Isn't it fine to be alive,
“And a beautiful woman ma
whole thing make sense, don't you
Charles?
ће chauffeur had opened the door
of the car and Mr. Stagg said: "Let me

take vou to your hotel, Mrs. Dolson.”

For the first ne that day С!
his mother at a loss, and it ca
that Bill Dolson had undoubtedly
booked into à commercial hotel. “Why,”
id, “thank you. But I'd really like
t out at Fifth or Mac and

"dow shop.

“Whatever you say, ma'am,” Mr
Stagg said. “You stay with your mother
awhile, Charles," he said. "And dont
hurry back.”

Charles went in and out
specialty shops with his mother
looked at things and kept turning
over and pushing them about in an
iwi Whats the matter with
you, Charles said. "I thou
you had a good time.

's whats the matter
his mother said. She looked
at the imported blouse that was being

"Oh." she said, "il

les saw.
me to him

ison

оГ several
She
them

ble w
Josie

nodeled for her

only I could spend and spend and spend.
Why don't you run back to your office.
darling." she said. “ГИ get over this.
And don't forget. you're having dinner
with Bill and me tonight.”

Dinner that night turned out to be
at Bill Dokon's third-rate hotel. Bill
Dolson had made some money that dav.
He drank a lot of old fashioneds and
got himself into an expansive mood.
‘Lers do the town. ch Charlie boy?” he

You know any good nightclub:

Charles named a few and Bill Dolson
seemed to get sober Now Charlie,
he said, “1 didn't make any million dal-
lars today, you know.”

“Well.” Charles said, “you can always
ask a taxi driver.

OK." Bill Dolson said. “You do that
little thing, Charlie-boy.

"No. Charles said,
better do it, Bill.”

Charles’ mother shuddered when they
went into the place and les patted

you'd

she whispered to Charles, А
ne him

not an evening that Ch.
cared to remember, but one incident
saved in his mind. A cigarette girl
stopped at their table, She was nearly
ked in a ratty costume, and she looked
down at Charles with tired eyes. “Feet
hurt, honey?" Charles said.

God yes,” the girl said.

Charles took а five out of his billfold
and dropped it into her tray and turned
his palm against her gesture of making
change. “You must of had а fig
your girlfriend.” the cigarette

“but thanks anyway." She moved to
Bill Dolson.

Bil Dolson had been watching
Charles with amazement. “Well.” ће

said to the с

cette girl, “I think our
young friend here has bought me а

pack. too, at least.” One of his hands
hovered over the tray. Charles didn't
see the other hand but he saw the

arcte. girl st
buy you tha

suddenly. “He didn't
mister." she said. “Yo

want something ebe for free? Like a
free ride out on your ass?"
"Now girlie.” Bill Dolson said. "Don't

get above yourself.”

Charles mother some-
where else and smiling brightly, but the
rims of her nostrils had turned white.

At the station the next day he had a
few moments alone with his mother.
“Well.” she said. "I certainly made my
bed, didn't 17 And don't start te
me not to do anything foolish. de
I'm not that foolish. Darling." she said,

looki

was

"vou know | didn't try to sell vou to

vesterday, don't. you
ОГ course.” Charles said. “You didn't
need to, Josie. You just made your own
marvelous. impressior if you didn't
know."
“Darlin

your Mr. Si

I love bald fatte:

1 hope

it doesn’t mean I'm getting old. Well
anyway dear. I'm worried about vou
and PH certainly send you any loose
money I can scrape up. but if 1 did
make this impresion on Mr. Stagg
couldn't you just go and ask him for a
raise?

"No." Charles said. "I don't think it
would be wise at all to let Mr. Sta
know 1 have any concern about sm:
money."

But Charles was deeply concerned,
His standard of living was about to be
forced down. Walking across town to
his apartment he thought of a tele-
vision producer he had met and enter-
twice. Charles decided

ained once or

to call him.
“Remember when vou told me to stop

wasting my time on ser

mike some real money in tele

wus writing and
ion?"

"And те

the producer said
member you said you'd have to be
starving before you'd think of writi
such стар?

“Well.

les said, “
the producer s
beter soak up some of ехе
Westerns, but not too many. And go
down to the Forty-second Street library
nd t vourself а working knowledge
of sodbusters, diamond hitches, the
Lincoln County War. the Ghisolm ‘Trail.
Then lets see what kind of a script
you can do.
It was the beginning of a period of
very hard work. And Charles could not
be single-minded about it. He wanted
the prestige of a published novel, and
he wanted а legitimate advance, and ће
set aside a period each day to continue
writing the novel. Mr. Stagg had much
for him to do. Charles stopped enter
and sacrificed sleep. He became
His nerves started to jump.
“Charles,” Mr. Stagg siid, "your
mother is abour the most charming and
beautiful woman Гуе ever met”
And I wish youd met her a ve
Charles thought. “Yes, sir,” he said, and
laughed. “I agree with vou completely.”
He might not have said апу more, but
hed been up nearly all night with his
television script. "She's also one of the
bravest women I know." he said.

adult

call me Тот. Charles," Mr. Stagg
id. "And whats that about your
mother?”
There was nothing like the truth.

Charles decided. especially when you
found yourself blurting things. "Well.
he said. "she made a terrible mis
in Mr. Dolson, Aud she has to
live with it.”
“Charles.” Mr
you to call me
mistake, Charles
“Tom.” Charles said. “iUs an unpleas
ant word. but Mr. Dolson has turned
out to be а lecher.” And hang on to
yourself about the miser part, Ci

tid. “1 want
d of a

Stage

Tom. WI

des

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tive.

Tom Stage’s face reddened a little.
“I hatc а skirt-chaser.” he said, "just as
much as you do, Charles

Charles went back to his office. "Miss
Chatsworth,” he said, “you arc the most.
beautiful and charming girl I have ever
known.

“Why——" she
opened and her
Mr. Corday.
noticed me!
Charles sat at his desk. “Get me some
pirin, Miss Chatsworth,” he said, “and
get thee to a nunnery.”

Charles sent the producer his script
and went to see him a few days later.

hc producer seemed to be having a
quarrel in his office with a stunning
brunette girl, and he seemed glad to
have Charles interrupt.

I haven't a thing for you, Lorene,”
the producer was saying. "Why don't
you let me call you.”

The brunette's eyes were flaming and.
her mouth was set; but the producer's
secretary was holding the door open.
The brunette turned to go, her look sof-
tened somewhat as she faced Charles, and.
then shc swept out.

Actresses,” the producer said, “if you
could call that one an actress. І don't
know how they leak through casting and
set up here, but they do." He took
Charles’ script from his blotter. “This
isn't bad, Charlic," he said. “С;
do a dozen or twenty more:
A dozen or twenty!" CI
"Well I want a pack;
right, do three or four more
put you in touch with somebody who'll
show you how to whip them into shape.
And шу to get you some money too.
You've got some real nice touches,
Charles, but you have things to learn
yet.

The brunette named Lorene was still
in the reception room when Charles
went out. “Did he throw you out too:
she sai

said, and her eyes
ips trembled. “Why,
I never knew you even

you

rles said.
» Charlie. АП
nd TH

Charles said. "Oh
just showing him а sample."
"So w L" Lorene said.
ways take a free sample.”
Charles looked at Lorene and then
at his watch. “Care to have lunch with
me?" he said.
"Lunch!" Lorene said i

э. Iw

They'll al-

а horrified

wa

ht," Charles said. "Dinner,
then.” Dimly, Charles had the thought
that she was not his cup of cea at all.
But Charles was tired beyond good
judgment, and his celibacy was crowd-
ing him.

In the morning Charles said: “Good
morning, Lorene. You're аз smooth as
am, Lorene.

r God's sake,” she said. "Its the
middle of the night.

“Up and at "em," Charles

aid, forcing

himself to briskness. "You like coffee, T
trust. A litle juice and coffee before you
start your daily rounds?’

"Charlie," Lorene said, "let me stay
with you

“Lorene,” Ch
knowing you."

She got up and stretched, smiling.
‘There was no doubt about her figure,
it was terrific, and Charles felt really
grateful to her: he felt like a human
being again this morning. But the li
had to be drawn, especially when they
started talking like that.

Lorene was still smiling. She padded
ћ of the room, opened the
French windows, and went into the gar-
den. Charles pulled on a dressing gown
and rushed after her. “What in the hell
is the idea,” he said, pulling her back
inside. “Going out there in your pelt.
Do you want the cops around here?"

She twined herself around him
Charles began to hold her in a differ
way. At once she slipped away from him.
and ran back to the French window:
Charles knew better than to chase her.
“You win,” he said, "temporarily. Just
don't be here when I come back.

That morning Tom Stagg said,
"Charles, I've кога problem I want you
to help me on. This time i

was nice

rles said,

Its Beth-Anne. I can't keep these
young fellows away from her completely.
She's over eighteen. But there's a lot
of snakes, as I told you before. Trouble
is, we don't belong up here. Any m
got serious about her J could get a line
on him, sure. But by then it could be
too late.

"Why not send her
a year,” Charles said.
Charles, she's all I've got now," Tom.
said. "I wish you'd take her out
a little. She likes you, you know. And
some of these Ivy boys that come slob-
bering around —1 guess you'd. know
some of their families, the good ones
th

o Switzerland for

1 certainly know some of them,
Charles said.

Well I wish you'd take Beth-Anne
to tea at the Plaza this afternoon."

Jt was a command, of course, but
Charles could not truthfully say d
he resented it. The idea of squiring
Beth- and the hands-off implic:
refinement
ginia Chat
Is had been

worth. More than a few gi

invited to Charles’ apartment by reason
of Miss Chatsworth's aphrodisiac effect
on him.

At noon Miss Chatsworth said: “А
lady wants to talk to you, Mr. Corda

but she won't е her na
"Charlie," Lorene said, "would you
likc me to cook vour dinner?
“No,” Charles said. Once or twice be-
fore he had let girls linger in the apart-
ment, but he had never liked doing ii

“I thought I told you to get out of
there,” he said.

rlie," she said, “I haven't any-
where to go to. ГЇЇ make it worth your
while, honest. I'm better than I was last
night."

After all, the day was half over.
Charles thought of her figure, and her
ardor. “АП right,” he said, “and there's
опе condition. Don't you сусг call me
at the office here again.”

‘Two weeks later Lorene s;
Aren't E a good housekeeper

"Yes," Charles said. He did
typing.

“And good for other th
bent over him.

Charles pulled the sheet out of his
machine. The type and а Тог of other
black specks were dancing in front of
his cyes and a nervous tic was having a
life of its own in the muscles of his back.
He had taken Beth-Anne to the Plaza,
he had taken her to Rumpelmayer's, he
had given her Sunday lunch on the ter-
race the zoo, he had taken her to
Chinatown and to Eddie Condon's. He
had taken Lorene to the Stork Club and
dis and he knew he wouldn't be
welcomed back, not with her. Lorene
wanted to be seen but she wanted some-

Ww.

not stop

Lorene

т from aw;

Charles had contrived to bring up her
name. "She'd rather bitch things up
than cat, that one. Nobody the busi-
ness'll touch her. Say, this is really a
nice tense buildup. You're coming along,
Charles. You're not ready, but you're

Charles said now to Lorene,
з. too, and
s can't ро on, You aren't even look-
ing for a job. ТИ give you enough w
keep you in the Barbizon for a month,

and let

"Anywhere,"
Her eyes be,
knew that she w:

ning to work
herself up to another one of those scen
she had used to keep hersel in the

it. She could scream and throw
nd she could tear her clothes
n screaming out of the apartment.
4 tried all of these thi
Charles had had a final wa
the building agents. Charles Corday w
п а classic trap and he was beginning
to understand why men murdered
women.

Suddenly Lorene said: “I love you.
Why can’t we get married?”

"Because 1 don't want to get married.
I don't want to marry you and 1 don't
want to marry anybody else.

"Oh ves you do. You want to marry
that pie-faced rich girl you've been tak-
ing to those so-nice places.

"How do you know about any rich
2" Charles put his hands to his head.
He was picking up her lines like a fool.

“Because 1 wateh-you, th
know- where you go and :
Lorene smiled. “I like doing that better
than 1 like looking for work.”
“Well it won't pay as well,
said.
Wao
liona
“You do r

everyt

it Your stepfather is а n

rch as well as spyin:

y telephone him some
ene said. “They won't like it
what you're doing with me
gh. Не
but it was
iet a

know it at the ti bad
mis "You may surprise if y
send that. news to Boston.” he said.

Darling," Lorene said. "It's only be-
cause I love you."

“AI right,” Charles said.

arles,” Lom Stagg said, "I guess

is all

about, hi

les, would you say Beth-Aune's
in love with you?”

"E don't know," Charles said. "I cer-
tainly haven't promoted anything there,
Tom.

“I know you haven't, son. You're too
decent. Charles; |. “I just
want you to know Га be mighty glad
to have you fo w. Thats what
it’s es. That's what it's
long time now.”
knocked. There's

ur mother?" Tom Stagg said, look-
ve. "Take it outside if you like,

" Lorene ~ “I've been
np. Maybe they don't care in Bos-
ton if E talk, but your boss wouldn't like
it if he he: bout you and I. Would
he, Charlie.

“TU have to give you а de
that ater," Ch: said.

“It has to be a lot more tl
month at the Barbizor
and lots more.”

“T'I give it very serious сог
Charles said. "God," he said, wh
had hung up.

Not bad news, Charles.” Tom Stage
id. His door had been open
“А woman writer Charles
“Persistent, and а pest

"Oh, one of those. 1 don't ki
T thought it was your mother
about her, Charles. It's sad. Wel
Stagg said, "we wi
Beth-Anne.

ion om

said.

w why
1 think
Tom

id A
concern

g fe

les
honored. My realest
Annes age. She's awfully у
riage.”

“You want to n

greatly
Beth-

(ту her, don't you?"

Tom-Stagg-said-
“Certainty,” CI
though it was beyo
Tom. She's ble
“Well don't worry about
And Charles. Ask my g
new pay check

sait,
wildest dre

her

age,
rl out there
I think you'll

then.

nd paid for, Charles thought,
is own office. He looked at th
. It was tremendous. He looked

t his bank statement and then went to
his apartment,

“Loreng,” he said, "I'm going to give
you a thousand dollars, and that's the
end.

She looked at him carefully. “No,”
she said.

“Listen,” Charles said.

"Thats a lot more than a month at
the Barbizon,” she said. "And why
tting right to work on your tc
ipt. the way you usually do?
nd happened to you today,

How much do Charles
ad.” she said.
vt you ask for fifty thou-

les said. "Your chances of
uing it are the same.”
The next day Miss Chatsworth said:
"That same lady is calling you agai
Mr. Corday.

“Tell her Em not here,” Charles

aid.

Hew:
into he

hed-VirginiC
telephone, the

usworth speak
tum white,

then hang up. “I've never heard а wo-
man say things like that before in my
life," she said. Then she said: "Mr

Corday,
for you?"

Charles looked into Miss Chatsworth’s
guileless eyes, ad the concern in
her face. “Ves,” he said. "and she's going
to take it to Mr. Stagg if I don't buy
her off soon.”

“Well E know it isn't
Corday. It couldn't be. ГЇЇ do ту
to keep her from getting throu
Mr- За;

Vi
hope to be able to rew:
quately.

The telephone rang а
Chatsworth said. “he isn’t.”

“TH talk to hi Charles said. He
ited until the secretary had closed the
door behind ће then he said: “АП
tight, Lorene. I'm going to try to get
it for you from ту stepfather
can't do it all in one day, so behave
yourself”

"Charlie," Lorene said, “I hope you
mean il. Why can't we get married,
Charlie? You'll have all of his money
someday,

"He's р
said. "Don't you w:

"Yes," Lorene

she trying to make trouble

fault. Mr.
best
lo

э:

nd I

to live foreve Charle
nt yours right now?

aid.

81

PLAYBOY

Charles called his mother in Boston.

Listen," he said, “to а long long story,”
and he told her everything.
Well,” his mother said, “congratula-
tions on the Beth-Anne part. I don't
sce Bill buying you out of this other,
though.

"Even if he sees what I lose

"Well he wou't be losing anything,
dear.

1 might as well sign on a freighter,”

Charles said.

“Don't be silly,” his mother said. “Let
me think for a minute.” She began to
laugh. “Is this Lorene good-looking?”

“Terrific,” Charles said. "But in a
cheap sort of way. I promise you, Josie,
1 never would have Jooked at her twice
if 1 hadn't been so damn tired and —
well.

His mother laughed again. "I think
I'm going to tell Bill that you called to
invite us to New York. You had such a
wonderful time with him last time you
nt to do the town again."
Charles said. "I

mean, 1

“Promise your Lorene anything, dear,”
his mother said. “It can't do any
even though І can't promise you
thing except that Г be down. And Bill
is restless. I'm sure he'll come too.”

His mother met Charles in his office.
ling,” she said, “you look terrible.”
"It's like living on the edge of a damn
diff,” Charles said. “And
telling me to go away and have a rest”

His mother sat in one of Charles’
chairs. "I think you'd better take us all
to dinner tonight," she said. "And tell
this Lorene to be very nice to Bill. Tell
her that's where the money's coming
from but say he thinks it’s for her stage
training or whatever.”

“Do I see the plot?" Charles said. Не
began to laugh. "Josie," he said, "I
think I'm catching up with you."

"Lets catch our rabbit first," his
mother said. "Our rabbits, 1 mean.

Charles reserved a table at а place
where there was dancing. Не encour-
aged Bill Dolson to drink and he en-
couraged him to dance with Lorene.
After a while Bill Dolson didn't need
any encouragement at all. Going back
to the hotel in a taxi, Bill Dolson did
something that made Lorene gasp, and
then giggle; and he said something pri-
vately to her when Charles was handing
his mother out of the taxi,

“You did quite well tonight.” Charles
said to Lorene when they were alone.
"p think he'll part with your five
thousand.”

“Oh shut up,” Lorene said.

In the morning Charles talked for a
while with his mother on the telephone
and then went in to sce Tom Stagg.
"Tom," he said, “I hate to bother you
about а personal matter, but my mother
needs help."

"She can sure count on it from me,”

Zr

Тот Stagg said.

“It's my stepfather,” Charles said. “He
and my mother are in town and there's
this girl he's been playing around with
and, well, my mother can’t stand it any
more. I was wonde: Г your lawyers
could put me on to a reliable detective
agency. $

"p can't say I'm sorry to hear this,
Charles,” Tom Stagg said. “That snake
has it coming to him. Call my lawyers
and use my name.”

Charles met the detective in a quiet
cocktail lounge. "I'm pretty sure they'll
try to get together tonight,” he said,
vand at this address.” He gave the а
tective the address of his apartment.
“But they could go someplace else so
don't lose them once we all get to-
gether.
There'll be three of the detec-
tive said. “I gather that expense is no
object.

"That's right," Charles said, “but no
cure, no pay. I want them absolutely
flagrante. delicto.

"We call it something else,” the de-
tective said, laugh Very rude. But
our photographer never misses. Don’t
wor

Bur Charles did worry. Fortunately
Bill Dolson wanted them all to have
dinner together again, so Charles didn't
have to risk the possible obviousness of
making another invitation himself. The
rest of it could look thin, if inspected.

He arrived at the dinner party latc.

5

"Mr. Staga’s been holding me up,” he
said. “Hes making me take a train
tonight for Baltimore. Some writer I

have to talk to.”

‘Oh darling,” his mother said.

“That's tough. Charlie," Bill Dolson
said. “Real tough.”

“I wanted to be with you as long as I
could," Charles said, “so I rushed home
and packed my bags and left them at

the office. There's some stuff there 1 have
to take, 100.

Loreng,” Bill Dolson said, "let's
dance.

Charles’ mother broke a stick of cel-
ery and then began to giggle. “I'm
going to get hysterical,” she said. “What
shall I sue for, darling, alimony or a
property settlement?”

“Property settlement,” Charles said
bbits aren't caught.
he's holding her."
"s holdin;

Look at the w:

yet. у
“Look at the way sh
"t we wicked?"

him.

survival," Charle:

At cleven o'clock Charles stood up.
"Don't let me break up the party," he
said.

Vot a chance, boy," Bill Dolson
said.

“I hate to say good-bye to you," his
mother said. "Why don't I go to the
station with vou.

“Stay and have fun," Charles said.

“I'm starting to get à headache from

the smoke," his mother said. "I want to
go to the station with you and then
1 ack to the hotel. I feel as though
усаг.
“Well,” Charles said, “in that сазе.
Outside, his mother clutched his arm
suddenly. “Has she got a Key?" she said.
"Key?" Charles said. “Oh, to my apart-
ment. You don’t know Lorene very well,
darling. She lifted my spare and had a
duplicate made long ago.” He put a
bill into the doorman's hand and the
doorman whisded at a taxi. "So now
all we have to do is go to mv office,
and wait. Are you nervous?"
could scream," his mother said.
“Well I've got some Scotch there,”
Charles said.

fall Tom Stagg said: “Charles,
how'd vou like me for a stepfather?”
"Why," Charles said, “I can't think of
anything better." He put out his hand.
“I can't say I haven't scen this coming,
he said
We're going to go to Paris," Tom
Stags said. "London, Paris, Vienna,
Rome. Maybe acros to Rio.”
She'll love that," Charles said.
So will I. Let's sit down, Charles.
Your novel's doing well. Making thc
salesmen cuss, but I told them to push

п stand the salesmen's displeas-
ure," les said. "And I've got an-
other one going.

jood. good.” Tom Stagg began to
look around the office in an embar-
rassed way. "I know how important your
writing is to you, Charles," he said, “but
I can't just throw this business aw
Think you could adle it and your
writing too?

Yes," Charles said.

"I hoped you'd say that." Tom Stagg
stood up. “Moye into my office any
time,” he said. "It's yours now. I'm go-
ing to have lunch with your mother, and
you're not invited." He laughed and
then p п the doorway. "Ву the
way," he said, "your mother thinks
Beth-Anne should go to Switzerland,
same as you."

She's too young to be rushed,”
Charles said. “We have to bc fair to her,
even though she doesn't like it."
Nobody could be fairer than
Charles," Tom Stagg said.

Charles. washed hands and then
went back to his office for his hat. "TII
bc back about three,” he said to Miss
Chatsworth.

Miss Chatsworth turned her beautiful

you,

face up to him. “Yes, Mr. Corday,” she
said.
“Virginia,” Charles said, “it won't be

long now.”
What won't, Mr, Cc
“You'll see, Virgin

You'll sce."

RENAISSANCE

(continued from page 48)
Astronomy Observatory,
Green Bank, West Virginia, and many
other observatories will follow suit when
they have built the necessary equipment.
This is perhaps the most momentous
quest upon which men have ever em-
barked: sooner or later, it will be suc-
cessful.

From the background of cosmic noise,
the hiss and crackle of exploding stars
and colliding ies, we will someday
filter out the faint, rhythmic pulses that
are the voice of intelligence, At first we
will know only (only!) that there are
other minds than ours the Universe;
later we will learn to interpret these
signals. Some of them, it
sume, will carry images — the eq
of picture-telegraphy, or even televisi
It will be fairly easy to deduce the cod-
ing and reconstruct these images. One
ps not far in the future, some
cathode-ray screen will show pictures
Írom another world

Let me repeat that this is no fantasy.
At this very moment millions of dollars’
worth of electronic equipment are en-
gaged upon the search. It may not be
successful! until the radio asi
an get into orbit, where they can b
antenn miles across and can shicld
them from the incessant din of Earth.
We may have to wait ten — or a hundred
ars for the first results: no matter.
The point I wish to make is that even
if we can never leave our Solar System
in a physical sense, we may усе learn
something about the civilizations circling
other stars — and they may learn about
us res

tional Radio

For as soon as we detect те
from space, we will attempt to answer
them,

There are
grounds for speculation here: let us con-

fascinating апа endless

sider j
in a univers
lion suns,
certainty — somewhere, sometime
have known radio for barely a
and TV for an cven shorter period
our techniques of electronic cc
tion must be incredibly primitive. Yet
even now, if put to it, we could send
our culture pulsing across the light-

a few of the po: . (And
of a hundred thousand mil-

Imost any possibility is a
We

years. Perhaps our TV has already been

picked up by Outsiders: in which case
they have received examples of our cul-
ture at its lowest, instead of at its highest
and best.
Music, p:

nting, sculpture, cven archi-
tecture present no problems, since they
nvolve easily transmitted. patterns. Liter-
ature raises much greater difficu
could be transmitted, but could
communicated, even if it were preceded
by the most claborate radio equivalent
of the Rosetta Stone?

But something must bc lost in any

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JAZZ ALL-STARS

VOLUME THREE

«++ includes all the winners in the third

annual Playboy Jazz Poll — plus, the All-
Stars as chosen by the musicians themselves

— 32 separate performances, including
highlights from the nationally acclaimed
Playboy Jazz Festival.

You'll hear such jazz greats as: Count
Basie, Stan Getz, Erroll Garner, Ella Fitz-
gerald, Stan Kenton, Louis Armstrong,
Dave Brubeck, Oscar Peterson, Gerry
Mulligan and Frank Sinatra,

More than two hours of solid jazz enjoy-
ment by the greatest jazz talents today.
This is an absolute must for every real jazz
collector. Three LPs, beautifully boxed.
with biographies, discographies and full-
color photographs of the artists—$16.50
(Stereo) ; $13.50 (Monaural),

Send check or moncy order to: Dept. 760,
PLAYBOY JAZZ

232 E. Ohio St., Chicago 11, Ill.

83

PLAYBOY

мас! between cultui

s; what is gained

s far more In the
come we may ds with many
strange beings, and study with incre

dulity, delight ог horror,
that may be older than our Earth. Some
of them will have ceased to exist dur
ihe centuries that their signals have
been crossing sp The radio astron-
omers will thus be the true interplane-
ists, read i

tary archacolog
and examining works of a в сте
ators passed away before the building
of the pyramids. Even this is a modest
estimate; a radio wave arriving now
from a star at the heart of the Milky
Way (the stellar whirlpool in whose

lonely outer reaches our sun gyrates)
must have started its journey around
000 в.с. When Toynbee defined rev

aisances as “contacts between civiliza
tions in time" he could hardly have
guessed that this phrase might one day
have an astronomical application.
Radio-prehistory — electronic archae-

шу — may have consequences at least

at as the classical studies of the
past. The races whose messages we in-
terpret and whose images we reconstruct

will obviously be of a very high orde
and the impact of their art and tech
nology upon our own culture will be
enormous. The rediscovery of Greek and
Latin literature in the Fifte Cen-
tury, the nche of knowledge when
the Manhattan Project was revealed, the
uncovered at the opening of
Tutankhamen’s tomb, the excavation of
Troy, the publication of the Principia
and The Origin of Species — these wide-
ly dissimilar examples may hint at the
stimulus and excitement that may come
when we haye learned to interpret the
messages that for ages have fallen upo
the heedless Earth. Not all of these
messages —not many, perhaps— v
bring us comfort. The proof. which is
now only a matter of time, that this
young species of ours is low in the scale
of cosmic intelligence, will be a shatter-
g blow to our pride. Few of our cui
nt religions ¢
y to the optir
? certain quarters.

ет

glories

€

istic forecasts

The examples I have given, and the
possibilities 1 have outlined, should be
enough to prove that there is rather
more to space-exploration th
mice into orbit, or taking photos ог
the far side of the Moon. These
ely the trivial preliminaries to the
we of discovery that is now about to
dawn, Though that age will provide the
y ingredi

n shooting

песе nts for

renaissance,

we cannot be sure that one will follow
‘The present situation has no exact par
Пе] in the history of mankind: the past

can provide hints, but no firm guidance
To find anything comparable with our

forthcoming ventures into space, we
must go back far beyond Columbus, far
beyond Odysseus — far, indeed, beyond
the first ape man, We must contemplate
the moment, now irrevocably lost in the
mists of time, when the ancestor of all
of us came crawling out of the sea

For this is where life began. and where
most of this planet's life remains to
this day, trapped in а meaningless cycle
of birth and death. Only the creatures
who dared the hostile, alien land were
able to develop intelligence; now, that
intelligence is about to face
challenge. It may even be that this beau-
tiful F
brief resting place berwi
salt where we were born, and the sea of
stars on which we must now venture
forth.

I here are, of course, many who would
deny this, with varying degrees of in-

fear. Consider the

on or even

following extract from Lewis Mumford’s

The Transformation of Man: “Post-hi
1's starvation of life would reach
its culminating point in interplanetary
travel. . . . Under such. conditions, life
would again narrow down to the physi
ological functions of breathing, eatin

and excretion. . . . By comparison, the
ptian cult of the dead was overflow.
ing with vitality; from a mummy in his

tomb one can still gather more of the
attributes of а

view of space-travel is slightly myopic,
and conditioned by the present primitive
€ of the art. But when he a
o опе can pretend .. . u
on a space satellite or on the barren face
of the Moon would bear any resemblance
to human life y well be express-
ing a tuth he had not intended.
“Existence on dry Jand,” the more con:
servative fish may have said to their ап
phibious relatives, a billion yeas a
“will bear no n
life. We will stay where we are.

They did. They are still fish.

It can hardly be denied that Professor
Mumford's view is held, consciously or
otherwise, by a very large number of
Americans, particularly those older
more influential determi
policy. This prompts certain somber ca
clusions, which are reinforced by the
successes of thé Russian effort.
Perhaps the United States has. already
sulfered that failure of nerve which is
one of the first signs that а civilization
has contracted out from the future,
ad suffi

existence

he

0

mblance to piscttorial

ones who

space

Anyone sufficiently cynical,
ciently well-informed. could produce
ample evidence of this from the record
of the United States’ space program. The

rivalry between the various services 15
notorious, and the foll fantastic story
of the Pentagon's dealings with the Army

Ballistic Missile Age

су (which was re-

luctantly permitted to launch the first
American satellite) is almost а textbook
example of the saying “Whom the gods
would destroy, they first make mad.”
ion that, in this case,
duly.

There is no indi
the gods had to exert themselves
The whole structure of American so-

ciety may well be unfitted for the effort
that the conquest of space demands. No
ion can afford to divert its ablest
n into such essentially non-creative,
nd occasionally parasitic. occupations as
Jaw, advertising and banking. (Some of
my best friends are — or were — lawyers,
Lmen and banker: but truth must
out) Nor can it afford to squander in-
definitely the it
does possess. Not long ago Life m.
zine published a photograph that w
horrifying social doc

seven thousand engineers

m

technical man рохе

as
ment: it showed
assed behind

1 combined efforts, plus
al hundred million dollars, had just

seve
produced. The
the United 5

ne may well come when
es, if it wishes to stay

in space, will have to consider freezing

automobile design for a few years— or
better still, reverting to the last models
that were any good. which some author-
ities date around 195

It does not necessarily follow that the
Soviet Union can do much better: if it
expects to master space by its own eflorts,
it will soon find thar it has bitten off
more than it can chew. The combined
resources of mankind are inadequate for
the task, and always will be. We
regard with some amusement the Rus
sians’ attempts 10 "go nd
should be patient with their quaint old
fashioned flag-waving as they plant the
h; and sickle on the Moon. All
such flurries of patriotism will be neces
sarily shortlived. The Russians them
selves destroyed the concept of nation-
ality when they sent Spui 1 flashing
across a hundred frontiers. But because
this is perfectly obvious, it will be some
litle time before everyone sees it, and

may

Ш governments realize that the only
runner in the much-vaunted space race
is— man.

Despite the perils a
our times, we should be glad that we
= living in this age. Every civilization
is like a surrider. carried forward on
the crest of a wave. The wave beari
us has scarcely started its run: those who
ht it was already slackening spoke
centuries too soon. We are poised. now,
in the precarious but. exh эн bal.
ance that is the essence of real living,
the antithesis of mere existence. Behind
us roars the reef we have already passed;
beneath us the great wave, as yet barely
flecked with foam, humps its back still
higher from the sea.

And ahead . . . ? We cannot tell: we
are too far out to see the unknown Jand.
lt is enough to ride the wave.

ad problems of

BS az
Б ОЛСО? (continued from page 66)

been unable to taste her at all.

Norman glanced guiltily toward the
kitchen where Adeline was cleaning up.
Except Гог the sound of her occasional
footsteps, the house was silent

Look at the facts, his mind persisted.
He leaned back in the chair and started.
to review them.

Next, on Saturday, had come that
dankly fetid stench. Granted, she should
resentment if he'd accused her of

g its source. But he hadn't; he was

en, asked her if she'd put the ga
out. Yet, instantly, she'd assumed that
he was talking about her.

And, that night, when he'd waked up,
he couldn't smell her.

Norman closed his eyes. His mind must.
could justify

really be in trouble if ћи
such thoughts, He loved Ade needed.
her. How could he allow himself to be-
lieve that she was, in any way, respon-
sible for what had happened?

Then, in the restaurant, his mind
went on, unbidden, while they were
dancing, she'd, suddenly, felt cold to
him. She'd, suddenly, felt — he could not
evade the w

And, then, this morning ——

Norman flung aside the paper. Stop
nbling, he stared across the room
with angry, frightened eyes. It's me, ће
told himself; те! He wasn't going to let
his mind destroy the most beautiful thing
in his life, He wasn't going to let —

Jt was as if he'd tured to stone, lips
parted, eyes widened, blank. The
slowly —so slowly that he heard the deli
cate crackling of bones in his neck —he
turned to look toward the kitchen, Ade-
line was moving around.

Only it wasn't footsteps he heard.

He was barely conscious of his body
as he stood. Compelled, he drilted from
the living room and across the dining
alcove, slippers noiseless on the carpet-
ing. He stopped outside the kitchen
door, his face a mask of something like
revulsion as he listened to the sounds
she made in moving.

Silence then. Bracing himself, he
pushed open the door. Adeline was
standing at the opened refrigerator. She
turned and smiled.

“1 was just about to bring you —”
She stopped and looked at him uncer-
питу. man?” she said.

He couldn't speak. He stood frozen in
the doorway, staring at her.

"Norman, what is И?” she asked.

He shivered violently.

Adeline put down the dish of choco-
te puddii nd hurried toward him.
He couldn't help himself; he shrank
back with a tremulous cry, his face
ed, stricken.

“Norman, what's the matter?”

“I dont know,” he whimpered.
Again. she started for him, halting at
his cry of terror. Suddenly, her face grew
hard as if with angry understanding
“What is it now?” she ed.
to know."
He could only shake his head.
I want to know, Norman!”
No." Faintly, frightenedly.
She pressed trembling lips together.

“I can't take much more of this,” she
said. “I mean it, Norm:
He jerked aside as she sed him.

Twisting around, he watched her going
up the stairs, his expression one of hor-
ror as he listened to the noises that she
made. Jamming palsied hands across his
ears, he stood shivering uncontrollably.
It’s те! he told himself again, again;
until the words began to lose their me.
ing —me, it’s me, ils me, it’s те!

Upstairs, the bedroom door slammed
shut. Norman lowered his hands and
moved unevenly to the stairs. She had to
know that he loved her, that he wanted
to believe it was his mind. She had to
understand.

Opening the bedroom door, he felt his
way through the darkness and sat on the
bed. He heard her turn and knew that
she was looking at him.

Im sorry,” he said, “I'm . . . sick.”
“No,” she said. Her voice was lifeless.
Norman stared at her. “What?”
“Theres no problem with other peo-

ple, our friends, tradesmen . . ." she
said. "They don't see me enough, With
you, it’s different. We're together too
often. The strain of hiding it from you
hour alter hour, day after day, for a
whole year, is too much for me. Гус lost
the power to control your mind. All I
can do is— blank away your senses one

by one.

“You're not ——”

*— telling you those things are real?
T am. "They're real. The taste, the smell,
the touch — and what you heard to-
night."

He sat immobile, staring at the dark
form of her.

“I should have taken all your senses
when it started," she said. “It would
саѕу then. Now it's too late.

"What are you talking about?” He
could barcly speak.

“Tt isn’t cried her voice. “I've
been a good wife to you! Why should I
have to go back? | won't go back! ГИ
find somebody else! I won't make the
same mistake next time!”

Norman jerked away from her and
stood on wavering legs, his fingers clutch-
ing for the lamp.

‘Don't touch it!” ordered the voice.

The light flared blindingly into his
eyes. He heard a thrashing on the bed
and whirled, He couldn't even scream.
Sound coagulated his thr s he
watched the shapeless т
dripping deca:

“All right!” the words exploded іп his
with the illusion of sound. “АП
right, then know me!”

All his senses flooded back at once.
The air was clotted with the smell of her.
Norman recoiled, lost balance, fell. He
saw the moldering dead bulk rise from
the bed and start for him. Then his mind
was swallowed in consuming blackness
and it seemed as if he fled alon ht-
swept hall pursued by a suppliant voice
which kept repeating endlessly, “Please!
I don't want to go back! None of us want
to go back! Love me, let me stay with
, love me ..."

you! Love me, love me

*,.. And if I die before I wake ..

PLAYBOY

PLAYBOY

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PLAYBOY'S INTERNATIONAL DATEBOOK

BY PATRICK CHASE

FALL
is when

LIKE, FOR
lot of sen:

STANCE, SEPTEMBER -
ble chaps take the
vacations. The pressure’s off most ev
where — trains. planes, restaurants. and
hotels — and fewer rubbernecks spell Бес
ter service for you no matter where vou
head. Kiddies are out of sight, too. back
in schools where they belong. Pr
plummet to near normal and fall foliage,
if you're in a part of the world with
ids its special zest to the

theatre circuit in September: In Dublin
you can audit the brogueful talents of
the Abbey, Gate and Globe players. In
London, miss the R
Hoppin the Chin
you'll want to visit the
of P
the ghost of Bertolt B
Vi
productions run rampant
Scandinavia.

While doing the Continent. some
nifty relaxation combined with just the
t amount of high living can be found
in a counuy too long underrated by
touring Americans — Belgium. Try its
wide. windswept North Sea beaches and
sundy-floored pine forests near resort
towns that all boast. fine casinos — nott-
bly at Ostend and Knokke-Le Zoute.
Definitely go on to Brussels, cither by
way of the medieval canal city of Bruges
or the lusty Gothic port of Antwerp.
Brussels cuisine — as served at the inim-
itable old Epaule de Mouton near the

don't gency re-

vivals. el,

ris, then move on to Berlin, where
cht reigns. In
nit, it’s the Staatsoper, while Ibsen
throughout

Grand' Place —is sensational. After
you've eaten. yourself silly and danced
all night. you can hop a helicopter out
of town. Instead of a slow jog by train
or а blurfast plane trip. vou ride rest
fully at a wonderful viewing level — jux
a few hundred leet up — over the rich

countryside, on to Соло:
Another spot where copters add a new
kick 10 vacation travel is Naples. You
ts around

can dig most of the high poi
the Bay of Naples in а day or two via the
whirlybirds, should time be a problem.
As great as the Amalfi Drive is by car
its a yawn compared to flying at 1500
feet in a copter to Pompei. hovering
over the rocky sides of Vesuvius, drop-
ping over to Capri or Ischia

For that fall break in the U.S., reserve
vour rooms at the San Ysidro ranch in
Santa B California, The English-
style cottages (with gardens) are quaint:
the food is а constant joy

The stables

pool, tennis courts and nearby golf
courses are available for guests, Accom:
modations limited to sixty-five. А

Pacific mountain retreat just a mile from
the oc m Ysidro maintains a small,
but luxurious, cabaña on ihe
beach, too. Vivien Leigh and Laurence
Olivier were married here and don't be
surprised to run into Aldous Huxley,
Adlai Stevenson or Richard Nixon
They've all been guests

For further information on any of the
above, write 10 Playboy Reader Service,
232 E. Ohio Steet. Chicago 11, Illinois.

nearby

NEXT MONTH:

THE PLAYBOY KEY CLUB—ALL ABOUT THE MAGAZINE'S OWN PRIVATE
DRINKING CLUB AND HOW YOU CAN JOIN

FICTION AND SATIRE—BY RAY BRADBURY, ROBERT PAUL SMITH,

LARRY SIEGEL, LELAND WEBB

SOPHIA LOREN—ENTICING VIEWS OF AN ENDOWED DAMOZEL

JACK COLE—REVISITING HIS CURVILINEAR CUTIES

“А THIEF IN THE NIGHT —AN ENGROSSING LEAD STORY BY A NEW

YOUNG WRITER, EUGENE ZILLER

MORE JOHNNY'S
GREATEST HITS

5. Also: Let It Rain,
Stairway to the Sea:
Flame of Love, etc.

e, NUTCRACKER SUITE
T$ eG PUR GIT
у © щш
CLAIR DE LUNE

ons
пина oe

46 "Fine perform-
s and reproduc-
Von Mah Емен

13,
truly priceless
edy”—LA. Examiner

[ West Side Story

Original Broadway
Cast Recording

35. The exciting
Score of this fabu-
lous Broadway hit

18. Also; Billy the
Kid, In the Valley,
Strawberry Roan, etc.

TCHAIKOVSKY
MENDELSSOHN

. the tone is
бї shivering Sik
High Fidelity

sics: Sing, Sing, Si
Let's Dance; atc.

Q

| THE MOVIES ||

mone—Gigi; etc.

1Goodmanclas-

Rhapsody in Blue
An American in Paris

4. А new recording
of these 2 ever-pop-
ular Gershwin scores

AHMAD "
JAMAL
TRIO

Mu LEAVES
tovt von sait

11. Also: Donkey
Serenade, Don't
^ Blame Me, elc.

PERCY FAITH mo комут

)>= ا
MUSIC OF MEXICO‏

16. Estrellita, ЕТ
Rancho Grande, La
Paloma, 11 others

[BEETH
STMPHINES к. ЕН

BRUNO WALTER
pups

24. Walter displays
"depth of under-
standing""—N.Y. Trib.

14. Also: Penthouse
Serenade, Frenesi,
Easy to Love, etc.

52. Streets of Lare-
do, Red River Valley,
Cool Water, 10 тоге

31. “intriguing rep-
Фоке" — Christian
Science Monitor

Гена
PICTURES AT AA

nd dash’ St. Lo
Globe Democrat

= fee, You're Mine, atc,

THE WORLD'S LARGEST RECORD CLUB OF
RECORDS FOR EVERY MUSICAL TASTE

Classical |

Broadway Hits!

3. Also: Everybody
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Mo or Leave Me, etc.

BATTE ТИХ OF THE НЕШ
THE LOIS МАПО - most
22. Also: Blessed Are

They That Mourn,
Come Ye Saints, etc:

| ELLINGTON
INDIGOS

“Best musical
I've seen in years" —
"а N. Y. Herald-Tribune

PANI

30. Solitude, Where
ог When, Dancing in
the Dark, 6 more

Played with
'datzling brilliance”
—Boston Globe

38. The Man | Love,
Blue Room, Stardust,
im 1 Blue, 11 more

GOLDEN VIBES
LIONEL HAMPTON

61. Three beauliful
sonalas played with
rare artistry

53, My Funny Valen-
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40. Also: Street of
Dreams, Black Cot-

ү ч
PdeptiaOreh— Dandy.

56. “Мис of singu-
lar. breadth" — Phil-
adelphia Inquirer

RODGERS £ HAMMERSTEIN

43. Complete score.
“A hit, another REH
winnerl" Newsweek

Popular! Dance Muic!

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