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ENTERTAINMENT FOR MEN JUNE 1963 SIXTY CENTS 


| LAY BOY 


BEGINNING “HARRY, THE 

RAT WITH WOMEN,” 

JULES FEIFFER'S FIRST NOVEL. 
CONCLUSION OF NEW 

- JAMES BOND ADVENTURE 
BY IAN FLEMING. 

PLUS CHARLES BEAUMONT, 
RAY BRADBURY, NAT HENTOFF, 
AND A SPECIAL PICTORIAL 
ON JAYNE MANSFIELD. 


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PLAYBILL If you, like our 
debonair cover 
rabbit, have already flipped to page 118, 
you know we aren’t kidding about The 
Nudest Jayne Mansfield. But you may 
not know that Nudest, in a sense, com- 
pletes our photographic conjugation of 
J-M. which, in the years since her first 
introduction to readers as a Playmate of 
the Month, has included features en- 
titled The New Jayne Mansfield (Feb- 
ruary 1957) and The Nude Jayne 
Mansfield (February 1958). With cach 
appearance on our pages, there has been 
more of Jayne to behold. And New, 
Nude or Nudest, the manifest Miss 
Mansfield is certainly no playne Jayne. 
For a talk on the Wilder side of 
Hollywood, we offer an entertaining 
Playboy Interview with filmdom’s fre- 
netic craftsman, Billy Wilder. Are 
movies getting sexier? Wilder doubts it, 
but Ray Bradbury's delightful story, 
The Queen's Own Evaders, proves that 
they are getting “racier” — at least in 
Ireland. There, Ray tells us, Anglopho- 
bic moviegoers vie for new speed rec- 
ords vacating theaters— for reasons 
revealed in the story. Кау, who has long 
since transcended his title as the world's 
finest science-fiction writer, is currently 
readying two nonsci-fi books which con- 
tain stories which first appeared in 
rLAYBOY. One is a shortstory collection 
led The Machineries of Joy, whose 
title story is from our December 1962 
issue. The other, his first book of plays, 
is entided The Anthem Sprinters and in- 
cludes a dramatization of this month's 
Evaders. 
Jules Feiffer, who transcended his 
title as the top satirical cartoonist of 
our generation when he moved from 


BRADBURY 


pointed pen to the stage with The Ex- 
plainers, moves to still another medium 
with his first novel, Harry, the Rat with 
Women. It is our pleasure to carry 
п two parts, starting in this issue. 
entally, the embattled James 
Bond completes his mission this month 
in the third and final installment of Jan 
Fleming's On Her Majesty's Secret Serv- 
ice. The book, the first of Fleming's to 
debut in a magazine, will be published 
in hard-cover edition by New American 
Library in August. 

In Part Seven of The Playboy Philos- 
ophy this month, Editor-Publisher Hugh 
M. Hefner examines the conflict be- 
tween the private prejudices of censors 
(appointed and otherwise) and the pub- 
lic guarantees of the First Amendment. 
He concludes this portion of the Philos- 
ophy with a strong argument against 
censorship of any kind in a free society. 

Years from now, we'll all look back 
fondly as we recall those fine bits of 
nostalgia that Charles Beaumont wrote 
for rıavsoy, such as his requiems for 
radio, comic strips, pulp magazines and 
(in this issue) Holidays. Macmillan will 
bring out the whole collection this fall 
under the title of Remember? Remem- 
ber? As for his present activities, Chuck 
is writing a good portion of Rod Ser- 
lings Twilight Zone shows and work- 
ing on three movies (Circus of Dr. Leo, 
Mister Moses and The Dunwich Horror). 

Jazz expert Nat Hentoff turns to— 
and on-— folk songs and singers this 
month in Folk, Folkum and the New 
Cirybilly. The word "folkum" inci- 
dentally, is a bastard noun with two 
generations of bastard words behind it. 
The word itself is, of course, a cross 
between folk and hokum. But hokum, 
apparendy, sprang from a marriage of 
hocus-pocus and. bunkum. Hocus-pocus 


FEIFFER 


according to the Oxford English Dic- 
tionary, is lowborn "sham Latin" in- 
vented by 17th Century English jugglers 
as part of an attention-diverting magic 
formula, Bunkum (meaning political 
claptrap) sprang from the floor of the 
16th U.S. Congress in 1821 when a 
Representative from Buncombe County, 
North Carolina, repeatedly and point- 
lesly interrupted an important debate 
to “speak for the people of Buncombe.” 
(If he'd had his guitar along. he could 
have played a little folkum for accom- 
paniment.) 

Continuing on our etymological tad 
we turn to the words “Teevee Jeebies 
and “smørrebrød.” The former, we're 
proud to say, was coined by our own 
Shel Silverstein, who's back this month 
with The Greatest Teevee Jeebies Ever 
Told. While Smørrebrød in the original 
Danish meant only “buttered bread, 
it has since become the last word in 
elegant open-faced sandwiches, as you'll 
see in Food and Drink Editor Tom 
Mario's high-praise spread thercon. 

Aside from bringing us the first fine 
days of summer, the month of June also 
marks three turning points in the 
of Man: graduation, marriage ап 
fatherhood. The first and last of these 
events are commemorated in this issue 
with Playboy's Gifts for Dads and Grads 
—and for the men in the middle, we 
give you Fashion Director Robert L. 
Green’s tips on attire for The Rite Time. 


Harry P. 80 


Jayne P. 118 


Holidays P. 126 


NERAL OFFICES: PLAYSOY BUILDING, 232 € 
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FOR UNSOLICITED MATERIALS. CONTENTS COPY 
тентер O 1953 EY мин PUBLISHING CO.. IKE 
NOTHING MAY BE REPRINTED IN WHOLE OR IN PART 
LISHER. ANY SIMILARITY BETWEEN THE PEOPLE AND 
MAGAZINE AND ANY REAL PEOPLE AND PLACES I5 
JAYNE MANSFIELD, PHOTO BY BILL KORIN, COL- 
LAGE BY SEATAICE PAUL, coven PHOTO BY pon 
BRONSTEIN; P. 3 PROTOS BY WARIO CASILLI, MORT 
SHAPIRO, РОМРЕО POSAR: P. 57 PHOTOS GY DON 
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HAIRSTYLES BY FRED'S SHEARS AND CHEERS; Р. V10- 
M) FIGURES BY WILLIAM GORMAN, DECORATIVE 
BORDER AND DRAWINGS BY SEYMOUR FLEISHMAN 
P. 42503) PHOTOS BY PLAYBOY STUDIOS: ERRATUM 
MAY 1303 ISSUE P. 128.128 PHOTOS DY DESMOND 
RUSSELL, CARROLL St ALLAN GOULD. 


FLAYSOY, JUNE, 1963, VOL. 10, MO. 6, PUB- 
LISHED MONTHLY BY MMN PUBLISHING CO., INC., IN 
NATIONAL AND REGIONAL EDITIONS. PLAYEOY DUILO- 
ING, 232 Е, Оніо ST., CHICAGO 11, ML. SEC- 
SUBSCRIPTIONS: IN THE U.S., бе FOR ONE YEAR. 


vol. 10, no. 6 — june, 1963 


CONTENTS FOR THE MEN'S ENTERTAINMENT MAGAZINE 


PLAYBHL. ... 
DEAR PLAYBOY... 
PLAYBOY AFTER HOURS.. 


THE PLAYBOY ADVISOR... 
PLAYBOY INTERVIEW: BILLY WILDER—candid conversation. 
THE PLAYBOY PHILOSOPHY: PART SEVEN—editorial. 
HARRY, THE RAT WITH WOMEN—nov. 


57 
.HUGH M. HEFNER 69 
JULES FEIFFER 80 
.—RAY BRADBURY 84 


THE QUEEN'S OWN EVADERS—iction 
SMORREBROD— food 
SKIN DEEP—fi 
FOLK, FOLKUM AND THE NEW CITYSILLY—orticle 


. THOMAS MARIO 86 
„BRIAN RENCELAW 91 
NAT HENTOFF 94 
...DON ADDIS 97 


SYMBOLIC SEX—humor.... 


A STYLE OF HER OWN—playboy's playmate of the month. 
PLAYBOY'S PARTY JOKES—humor... 
THE RITE TIME—attire, 
ON HER MAJESTY'S SECRET SERVICE—novel 


~. 108 
ROBERT 1. GREEN 110 
— JAN FLEMING 114 


THE NUDEST JAYNE MANSFIELD—picto 
REQUIEM FOR HOLIDAYS—nostal: 
PLAYBOY'S GIFTS FOR DADS AND GRADS—; - Я 
THE COST OF THE CURE—ribald classic. 


CHARLES BEAUMONT 126 


133 


THE GREATEST TEEVEE JEEBIES EVER TOLD—satiro. 


SHEPHERD MEAD 137 
.—.PATRICK CHASE 198 


HOW TO SAVE MONEY ON YOUR WIFE'S CLOTHING—s« 
PLAYBOY'S INTERNATIONAL DATEBOOK—travel. 


HUGH M. HEFNER editor and publisher 
A. C. SPECTORSKY associate publisher and editorial director 
ARTHUR PAUL art director 


JACK J. kesse managing editor VINCENT T. TAJIRI picture editor 
FRANK DE BLOIS, JEREMY DOLE, MURRAY FISHER, TOM LOWNES, SHELDON WAX associate 
editors; ROBERT L. GREEN fashion director; DAVID TAYLOR associate fashion editor; 
Tuomas MARIO food & drink editor; PATRICK. CHASE travel editor; 1. PAUL GETTY 
consulting editor, business and finance; CHARLES BEAUMONT, RICHARD GEHMAN, PAUL 
KRASSNER, KEN W, PURDY contributing editors; STAN AMBER COD) edilor; RAY WILLIAMS 
assistant editor; DEV CHAMBERLAIN associate picture editor; RONNIE novik. assistant 
picture edilor; DON BRONSTEIN, MARIO CASILLI, POMPEO POSAR, JERRY YULSMAN 
staff photographers; FRANK ЕСК, STAN MALINOWSKI contributing photographers; 
REID AUSTIN associate art director; PHILIP KAPLAN, JOSEPH W. PACZEK assistant art 
directors: WALTER KRADENYCH, ELLEN PACZEK ar! assistants; JOHN MASTRO pro- 
duction manager; FERN A. HEARTEL assistant production manager * HOWARD W. 
LEDERER advertising director; JULES Kase eastern advertising manager; Joserit 
rar midwestern advertising manager; JOSEPH GUENTHER Detroit advertising 
manager; NELSON FUTCH promotion director; DAN CZUBAK promotion art director; 
HELMUT LoRscH publicity manager; nenny DUNN public relations manager; 
ANSON MOUNT college bureau; THEO FREDERICK personnel director; JANET PILGRIM 
reader service; WALTER HOWARTH subscription fulfillment manager; ELDON 
SELLERS special projects; ROBERT PREUSS business manager and circulation director. 


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DEAR PLAYBOY 


EJ] Appress PLAYBOY MAGAZINE - 232 Е. OHIO ST., CHICAGO 11, ILLINOIS 


BERTRAND RUSSELL 

Perhaps the one difficulty in trying 
to present a man such as Bertrand Rus- 
sell (Playboy Interview, March 1968) in 
a dear light is the fact that there is 
an overwhelming possibility that he has 
had the misfortune of being born 75 
years too soon. His precursors, in pro- 
mulgating highly advanced ideas and 
irritating the entrenched “idols of the 
market place," often brought gross mis- 
understanding upon their premature 
deliverances. It seems that Mr. Russell 
must suffer the same inconvenience due 
to his highly controversial position 

Mr. Russell is a mathematician, a 
logician and a philosopher, and not 
necessarily in that order. He quite natu- 
rally views some things as following one 
from another. His fears of the thin ice 
on which we tread are unfortunately 
only too feasible. 

William R. Pickney 
Long Beach, California 


As Lord Russell maintains, the only 
lasting solution lies in the mutual reali- 
zation between the peoples of Russia 
and the United States that ideological 
compromise is manifestly less painful 
than war. He correctly assesses the situ- 
ation when he likens it to the great 
religious wars of past centuries It is 
high time we the people stopped treating 
"free enterprise" as an. idol. Our pres- 
ent system of freedom is far removed 
from the 19th Century concept we wor- 
ship. We have pragmatically accepted a 
living condition of considerably 
liberty than we give lip service to. 

I have not been to Russia and so I 
cannot say what elements of their social 
structure are worth copying — nor what 
should be arbitrarily discarded. But 1 
can see with my own eyes the disparity 
between what we speak to the world 
(and to ourselves) and the fact of our 
life. 

Meanwhile, it is more than a waste to 
promulgate half-truths; it is self-be- 
trayal. Were we, on both sides, willing 
to exchange visits freely between our 
citizens, I am sure the best from cach 
would be speedily borrowed. The fear 
which Lord Russell correctly blames for 
our mutual intolerance would soon dissi- 


less 


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pate in the process. Surely our world is 

big enough for us all The question: 

Are we big enough for our world? 
David H. Sweet 
Sawyer, Michigan 


Lord Russell's wish that the West ban 
the bomb to impress the Russians would 
be similar to scaring a tiger to death 
by throwing your rifle away. 

Capt B. J. Palmer, USMC 
Grosse Isle, Michigan 


"The man is an ass. Well-meaning, but 
an ass, nevertheless. 
Doug Wilchowy 
Winnipeg, Manitoba 


Congratulations on your March inter- 
view with Bertrand Russell. PLAYBOY 
seems to be the only masscirculation 
magazine in the U.S. which presents a 
ariety of political points of view (eg, 
Mailer-Buckley debates, Hentoff articles 
and reports on nuclear contamination). 
Keep up the good work. 

Bruce Cox 
Berkeley, California 


KINGLY CONCERN 

I have always enjoyed reading some- 
thing by the Harrict Beecher Stowe of 
sex, Alexander King. His piece in the 
March issue, A Fledgling of L'Amour, is 
no exception — but I don't understand 
all the hullabaloo about this almost 
17-yearold French kid's introduction to 
the finer things in life. When J was his 
age I had had a credit card at Madame 
Tellier’s for almost five years. 

But seriously, though (as they say in 
the psycho ward at Bellevue), 1 am one 
of the lucky ones whose first sexual ex- 
perience did happen under “idyllic cir- 
cumstances.” It was a moonlit night 
and the nightingales were singing their 
little hearts out in the swoon-inducing 
fragrance of the nearby jasmine bushes. 
It's just too bad that Mildred and I 
were parked in the middle of a grade 
crossing of what we thought was an 
abandoned railroad. Talk about Coitus 
Interruptust Jeeccezl 

Jack Douglas 
New York, New York 


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an intro. Her voice begins to belt a few 
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Our thanks to sexual sophisticate 
Douglas, comedy writer, performer and 
author (“Never Trust a Naked Bus 
Driver? “My Brother Was an Only 
Child”), for pointing out the perils of 
a one-track mind. 


I think Alexander King's A Fledg- 
ling of L'Amour was one of the best 
pieces you have featured in many an 
issue. Bravo King! Bravo PLAYBOY! It 
was positively charming. 
William Kyle Watson 
Odessa, Texas 


PILLOW TO POST 

The University of Vermont. varsity 
pillow-fighting team challenges your 
Playmates to an AAU-NCAA-sanctioned 
pillow fight. 

Chip Platow, Dave Stewart, Norm Zebny 

Burlington, Vermont 


Congratulations on your excellent 
coverage of that epic battle, the Playmate 
Pillow Fight (February 1963). Lam proud 
to announce that your Playmates were se- 
lected as the team the Keystone Pillow 
Fighters would like most to be matched 
against, especially your team's captain, 
Christa Speck. 

Pat Riley 
Keystone Junior College 
La Plume, Pennsylvania 


The Playmate Pillow Fight was just 
ain vulgar. 


Mrs. Michael G. Young 
Boston, Massachusetts 


SHIRT MATERIAL 
As always, the February issue was 

read with great interest and pleasure. 
The area of fashion is always of prime 
importance to me, but the article From 
Collar to Cuffs was unique in that it is 
the only article I have ever seen which 
clearly outlines the whys and wherefores 
of men’s shirtings. 

John A. D'Addamio 

Custom Cleaners and Tailors 

South Plainficld, New Jersey 


AFTER HOURS 

No doubt your imaginative little game 
with adverbs in the February After 
Hours column has brought considerable 
offerings like these, but here are a few 
I came up with. Incidentally, for party 
hosts who insist on playing games this is 
one of the more tolerable ones. 

“I've been transferred to Dallas, dear,” 
said Tom movingly. 

“This dressing needs something,” ob- 
served Tom sagely. 

“We feel this merger is in the public 
interest,” said Tom cxpansively. 

"Lets leave after this drink,” 
Tom stiflly. 


said 


Doug Larion 
Chicago, Illinois 


I suppose you're old enough to re- 
member Little Audrey, Handies, and 
Knock! Knock! — all of which are better 
forgouen. So you're not showing much 
sense in stirring up another meshugaas of 
the same order with those cornball Tom 
Swifties in the February issue. Just as a 
warning. let me sample you out a little 
of what you'll be submerged by, in car- 
load lots. 

"My right front tire had a slow leak," 
explained ‘Tom flatly. 

“Watch out for the guy with the 
switchblade!” warned Tom sharply. 
ht a match and see where that gas 
leak is,” suggested Tom explosively. 

So you can see what you've started. 

Bernard L. Grossman 
Arlington, Virginia 


ON THE WING 
Is the pillow fight in your February 
issue the Buckley-Mailer Debate? I was 
going to say that T thought Norman 
Mailer's arguments were а bust, but that 
may be inappropriate in this case. 
Michael M. Mooney 
National Review 
New York, New York 


egard to your Right Wing "de- 
bate" in the February issue, it seems to 
me that several comments are in order. 

Where you got the idea of having two 
straw men debate each other, I do not 
know. A man who looked for God and 
Man at Yale, and found neither, rather 
failed Yale than the opposite. Another 
who has looked for God and Women, 
and found neither, has perhaps failed 
both. In any case, surely mere loquacity 
is not your standard; you publish so 
much excellent stuff — Barbara Girl for 
instance — that I am sadly disappointed 
that you seem to think this whole non- 
sense of valuc. 

There is a very legitimate debate be- 
tween Liberal and Conservative, and 
many excellent ones have been held. It 
would be fair for such a debate to see 
both protagonists meet the questions 
fairly. Such would be an honest debate, 
and I would look forward with pleasure 
to you publishing it. 

Dr. Jack W. Hines 
C. W. Post College 
Brookville, New York 


I consider the Debate between Messrs. 
Mailer and Buckley in the February 
issue one of the finest editorial pieces 
1 have seen in a long time. 

Clifford Johnson, Jr. 
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 


Please allow me to congratulate you 
on your presentation of the Buckley- 
Mailer debate. In these two men, I be- 
lieve one finds an answer as to why the 
United States is losing the "cold war." 

Mr. Mailer's performance in this de- 


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bate is an eloquent example of what the 
pundit meant when he said, “What? A 
battle of wits? And you only half- 
armed?” 

Mr. Buckley's arguments, although 
more clearly and logically presented, 
offer us a course of action no more at- 
tractive than Mr. Mailer's. 

The ideological battle raging in the 
world today is not communism versus 
democracy; but, rather, freedom versus 
compulsion. When Mr. Mailer realizes 
that communism as a system of compul- 
sion is evil and must be beaten, and Mr. 
Buckley realizes that communism can 
be beaten without resurrecting the ghost 
of Joe McCarthy, we will have made 
some progress. When we realize we are 
fighting to keep our country “a land of 
freedom” and not fighting merely to pre- 
serve a governmental tradition, then we 
will have a road to follow, and an ideal 
the whole world can understand. 

Jack W. Spencer 
Boise, Idaho 


SELL MATES 
As a defrocked minister to advertising 
accounts, 1 have a special reason for 
enjoying Herbert Gold's brilliant. story, 
The Song of the Four-Colored Sell, in the 
March issue, but I also find it one of 
the wittiest and most touching rambles 
through American life I have read in 
years. Gold knows how to pry open the 
heart and does it with the gentleness 
of the literary surgeon who realizes he 
has the sharpest knife in town. 
Brian W. Watt 
Department of English 
Jniversity of California 
Berkeley, California 


SHEL ON THE BEACH 
Having been an avid reader of your 
fine magazine for the past five years and 
a subscriber for the last two, 1 ат com- 
pelled to write you a congratulatory 
note — Shel Silverstein's impressions of 
our sunny and “fronty” gold coast were 
the most truthful and funniest observa- 
tions of “Beach” life I have ever seci 
Richard P. Astley 
Gainesville, Florida 


A frustrated and desperate angler, I 
took great interest in Shel Silverstein's 
unique fighting equipment (March, page 
123). Our bearded peregrinator must 
have posed a fearful sight to that 90-Ib. 
sailfish he cranked in with that fresh- 
water spinning reel. What did he use 
for bait? 

R. Sammons 
New York, New York 
The power of positive thinking. 


After having cast several mental votes 
for Playmate of the Year, I came across 
‘The Beard’s cartoonic meanderings in 
Miami and may I say Silverstein saw all 


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and feared nothing. These are difficult 
days in Miami; what with the Cuban 
influx one cannot tell an anti-Castro 
rebel from a Chasidic scholar, so morc 
power to Shel and his pictorial anecdotes. 
His was a pleasant mixture of comedic 
rambling in which no hooker was left 
unheralded, no Cohen was left un- 
tumed, and the hotels per se were 
properly scolded as pastramied Penta- 
gons whose architecture is sort of Fun 
Gothic or Early Orgy. So here's to more 
Shel in rraysoy, but what kind of 
employ is that for a nice Jewish boy? 
Yours till Sophie Tucker becomes a 
Bunny. 
Jack Carter 
Lido Spa 
Miami Beach, Florida 
Comic Carter's hostelry is а health 
resort that leaves no stern untoned. 


FLIPPED OVER “LIP” 
The only way to describe that fabu- 
lous Jeeves story is that "it's a petrol.” 
Johnny Blue 
Omaha, Nebraska 


Blast! Some dastardly creature ab- 
sconded with my March rrAvsov. "Twas 
left on a table next to the mailboxes by 
the postman and by the time I reached 
it all that was left was the paper with the 
Addressograph label on it. Had to trudge 
down to the local newsstand to find out 
what happened to Wooster. The thief 
must be in need. Thought about posting 
an offer to enter a subscription for the 
blighter. Must confess, had it in mind to 
shoot the scoundrel just as he received 
his first issue. 

David Johnstone 
Los Angeles. C 


jifornia 


PLAYBOY'S PHILOSOPHY 
Like, I'm sure, many another of your 
readers who regularly find PLAYBOY the 
most entertaining magazine on the mar- 
ket, I must confess that until recently 1 
found it difficult (almost in spite of my- 
self) to see how your implicitly free- 
wheeling attitude toward sex could be 
fully justified as a “position.” But I want 
to say that since the appearance of Hugh 
Hefner's brilliant series оп The Playboy 
Philosophy, my reservations have been 
completely erased. TI the most cou- 
rageous, incisive and thought-provoking 
dissection of moralistic taboos that I 
have ever read. If Mr. Hefner succeeds 
in loosening — even slightly — the stran- 
gle hold which puritanical thinking still 
exerts upon the American mind, he will 
have done a very great service indeed for 
his own and future generations. 
Robert A. Keeler 
Princeton, New Jersey 


Mister H.M.H., I owe you an aging 
apology! Although my рглүвоү collec- 
tion dates back to issue number one (I 


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came out of a nauseous fog after more 
than nine hours of thoracic surgery to 
face my first "Playmate" — thoughtfully 
provided by a not-sodemure young Red 
Cross lady, who had a compulsion for 
doing nice things for sick Marines!), 1 
have been of the longstanding assump- 
tion that you parlayed a flash-in-the-pan 
idea into success by surrounding your- 
self and a personal sophisticational void 
with the crudite talents of others. After 
setting aside my "Bunny Book" and Part 
Four of The Playboy Philosophy [March 
1965], I realized my bias-setting required 
adjustment. Throughout the series of 
articies, you have proven yourself to be 
more than adequately articulate. and 
incisive. 

While the “philosophy” has been con- 
sistently expressed between the covers 
of PLAYBOY for some time, this defini- 
tive statement of editorial ideology was 
needed. For years I have supported these 
identical views. They have gained me 
nought but a reputation as a political 
malpatriot, a moral heretic, a social rad- 
ical and a victim of personal anadjust- 
ment. At last— it's so comforting to 
know I'm not alone—and that my 
thoughts do not exist solely as disjointed 
entries in a small and gouged and beaten 
"Doomsday Book" begun as a freshman 
in college. 

Your unequivocal voicing of relativ 
unpopular views on cur modern mi 
tancy represents a kind of milestone in 
both social and publishing progress. You 
know, its been a long time since Tom 
Paine put pen to paper . . . do you think 
that sort of idealism still has a chance? 

Richard Dow 
Van Nuys, California 

We think so, Dick—and the reader 
response to "The Playboy Philosophy" 
only further confirms our inherent op- 
timism regarding the future of man. 


The editorial views expressed in The 
Playboy Philosophy are a clear and hon- 
est expression of what I'd like to call the 
true. American spirit. As you say, to be 
тшу free from religious persccution, 
we must have “freedom of and front reli- 
gion.” It is more than curious that the 
nation's military institutions. demand 
regular church attendance of their stu- 
dents while preparing them to defend 
the Constitution, which stands for pure 
and unqualified religious freedom. 

John Bailey 
Stanford University 
Stanford, California 


Т ат writing in behalf of the United 
Christian Fellowship at the University 
of Illinois. This is a new organization 
representing the campus foundations of 
five major Protestant denominations, 
One of this body's program plans con- 
sists of a series of joint Sunday evening 
lectures and the program committee has 


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expressed a desire that Editor Publisher 
Hugh M. Hefner speak at one of these. 

As you are undoubtedly aware, the in- 
fluence of PLAYBOY magazine has been 
widespread on this campus, and the atti- 
tude on life which it promotes, and 
which has been captured in Mr. Hefner's 
lucid editorials, has been the subject of 
a great deal of commentary and discus- 
sion here. It is recognized that much of 
The Playboy Philosophy rests on. com- 
mon ground with authentic Christianity 
— that a loss of vital receptivity to the 
beauties of life has resulted in a some- 
what shallow piety. On the other hand, 
there are many who feel that PLAYBOY 
has contributed to a lack of authenticity 
and is consequently a menace to our so- 
ciety. For these reasons, we would decm 
it a truly valuable experience to have 
Mr. Hefner meet the students in person, 
both to increase an understanding of 
PLAYBOY's position and to discuss, in a 
face-to-face situation, the similarities and 
conflicts existing between your maga- 
zine’s philosophy and that of Chris- 
чаш 
Robert E. Stauffer, Program Committee 
"The United Christian Fellowship 
University of Illinois 

Champaign, Illinois 

Editor-Publisher Hefner sincerely re- 
grets that his present work schedule 
makes it impossible for him to accept 
any speaking engagements in the imme- 
diate future, but he very much appreci- 
ates the invitation. 


At a time when this great Union is 
engaged in a war against tyranny with 
Godless, atheistic communism as its ad- 
versary, it is, 1 think, most unfortunate 
that you have not let someone more 
qualified in theology do the preaching 
for your magazinc. I am, of course, re 

ing to your series of editorials pro- 
g the PLAYBOY philosophy. I am 
ily disturbed with your attack 
on what you call puritanism and its im- 
pact on personal freedom and liberty. 
You cven went so far as to state that in 
the name of separation of church and 
state, you would like to see a govern- 
ment that was free from church or reli- 
gious influence at the legislative level. 
Now this is the most radical and absurd 
statement I have ever heard from an ap- 
parently well-educated man. It is foolish, 
because most of our civil and criminal 
statutes are based upon and founded on 
the Bible teachings of Christianity. If 
your advice were to be followed to the 
letter, we could not even have a law 
against murder, let alone the many 
lesser laws which are needed to protect 
a free society against the minority who 
would do evil. 

As a great supporter of the Constitu- 
tion, an avid hunter and lover of guns, 
also a member of the National Rifle 
Association, I challenge you to do a 


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scries of articles as zealously defending 
the much infringed Artide П, “A well 
regulated militia being necessary to the 
security of a free State, the right of the 
people to keep and bear arms shall not 
be infringed.” Yours for a strong Chris- 
tian Americ 
Quentin Lineback 

Myrtle Beach, South Carolina 

How about a strong, free America, 
Quentin? One in which lian, Jew 
and men of good will of every religion, 
and of no religion, can live together in 
freedom and equality? When, as you say, 
cur democracy is challenged the world 
over by totalitarian communism, it seems 
all the more important to re-establish the 
paramount principles upon which this 
great nation was founded. Religion is 
not what sets us apart — many tolali- 
tarian nations have had strong religious 
traditions, and some have even used 
those traditions as justification for tor 
turc, murder and war. What sets Amer- 
ica apart is our heritage of freedom. It 
is our greatest strength against tyranny 
of every kind — from. outside and from 
within, And none of our freedoms is any 
more important than the one that as- 
sures the complete separation of church 
and state — for history offers ample evi- 
dence that the greatest tyranny over man 


has occurred when church and govern- 
ment were one. This does not mean that 
some of the basic rules set down by one 
or the other of our organized religions 
may not be the same as some of our laws 
established by government. But it does 
mean that our laws must be decided 
upon for other than religious reasons. 

You are quite right when you suggest 
that much of our common law originally 
grew out of our Christian and Judaic 
traditions, but in order to remain as U. S. 
law today, these doctrines should have a 
reason for their existence unrelated to 
their religious origin. Thus socicty has 
ample justification for laws against mur- 
der, but what possible rationale can be 
found to justify the divorce statute of 
New York, which recognizes no reason 
for dissolving an unsuccessful. marriage 
except adultery; or the Connecticut stat- 
ute that makes it illegal for doctors to 
disseminate information on birth con- 
trol to patients, even when they request 
it; or the countless Blue Laws that exist 
in almost every state in the Union? The 
ideals that you find “radical and absurd” 
were shared by our founding fathers, 
who authored the Constitution and the 
Bill of Rights. One carly American “rad- 
ical” went so far as to slate, “The gov- 
ernment of the United States of America 
is not, in any sense, founded upon the 
Christian religion”; his name was George 
Washington, 

This is not to be considered a rejec- 
tion of the important place that religion 
holds in our society, but only a further 
confirmation that if men are to remain 


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Texas Playboys urge your support 
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bachelor party! 


You may love Texans or you may 
hate them. But one thing you have to 
admit — they've got style. 

"Today's bachelor parties lack two- 
fisted imagination," say our Lone 
Star friends. “If you can't launch the 
old boy right, why bother? Show him 
you care. Show him honor. Pretend 
he's Sam Houston and give him a 
Bacardi Bachelor Party!” 

(A Bacardi Bachelor Party is 
where you serve Light Bacardi, Dark 
Bacardi and Añejo — and all the 
mixings you can think of. It’s got 
swagger!) 

“Remember that old Texas saying: 
Any friend worth a party is worth a 
Bacardi Party!” 

Tex, in our book you're still the 
biggest state! 


RUM, 80 PROOF 


free, there must be limits to the power 
exercised by both our religion and our 
government and each has its separate 
place, apart from the functioning of the 
other. For additional comment on the 
importance of the separation of church 
and state in a free society, sce this 
month’s “Playboy Philosophy.” 


My compliments to you for your ex- 
cellent editorial series. Your magazine is 
the concretization of your denial that 
man's body, mind and soul are in con- 
flict. You have successfully combined 
intellectual stimulation with an appre- 
ciation for the things that make life so 
pleasant. A religion which tells us that 
sex is evil, that pleasure is evil, that 
physical comfort and the accumulation 
of wealth are evil, has no place in the 
20th Century, which stands in defiance of 
those who assert the impotence of man's 
spirit and the hopelessness of his ex 
ence. Unfortunately, our philosophers 
have kept their ideas in the Dark Ages — 
a disturbing contrast with the achieve- 
ments of science and industrial tech- 
nology. 

When you say that capitalism has be- 
come a dirty word and shouldn't be, 
you have identified onc of the things 
that is wrong with this country today. 
You are absolutely correct when you say 
that the reason Russia has succeeded as 
she has is that we Americans do not 
know what we are for. In fact, we have 
conceded to our opponents their main 
premise, The leaders of Russia and the 
leaders of America are both opposed to 
capitalism. 

1 salute you and your magazine! The 
points which you make in your Playboy 
Philosophy show that you have a far bet- 
ter grasp of the fundamental dilemmas 
of America than the professional intel- 
lectuals or the politicians of the left and 
right, Your perception is edifying in an 
intellectual atmosphere that is foggy 
with agnosticism, vaguencss and indirec- 
tion. 


Howard A. Hood 
Harvard University 
Cambridge, Massachusetts 


Mr. Hefner's editorial in the February 
issue of your magazine deserves com- 
ment. His opinions on national and in- 
ternational affairs, and more specifically, 
those on the Cold War and the Common 
Market, are just that — "opinions" — and 
should be given no more weight than 
the opinions of Frank Sinatra on similar 
serious subjects (in the same issue). 
These articles have their greatest merit 
in offering insight into the minds of 
their authors. I prefer to hear opinions 
on these topics from a statesman (not a 
politician) rather than from (1) the orig- 
inal playboy or (2) an entertainer. 

In the subdi ion of Mr. Hefner's 
epistle entitled “The Sexual Revolu- 


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tion,” I noted several lines that pose 
questions. I believe that there is a differ- 
ence between moral maturity and moral 
decline. I feel, too, that books such as 
Lolita and Henry Miller's Tropics fall 
into the latter category — not through 
their literary merit, but because of their 
effect. Just because several literary critics 
decided that these books have merit does 
not make them acceptable. These critics 
and other men of letters arc qualified to 
read these books and recognize their un- 
derlying merit. The masses who m 
these books best sellers are not so quali- 
fied, however, and see only what is on 
the printed page. This, in my opinion, 
voids whatever merit the books may 
have. These books serve only to acquaint 
the reader with the promiscuity and de- 
gencracy in the mind of the author. This 
may or may not be the author's intent, 
but it is his effect. To infringe upon the 
freedom of sales or publication of these 
books, or others of the same nature, is 
no more wrong than to infringe upon a 
man’s freedom to commit murder. 
Edward M. Slavish 
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 
There is all the difference in the world 
between curtailing overt acts that are 
harmful to а society and censoring the 
free flow of a society’s art and literature. 
America was founded on the premise 
that the “masses,” in whom you seem to 
have so little faith, are entitled to ex- 
actly the same rights as the “critics and 
other men of letters.” In our view, a 
people which has free access to the 
printed page has the best chance of re- 
maining free. To suggest that “promis- 
cuity and degeneracy” in a book, rather 
than literary merit, should be the scale 
upon which it is weighed is to relegate 
its fate and its availability to the most 
arbitrary and subjective of judgments. 
Good literature will survive and trash 
disappear without the aid of any censor 
and without corrupting the minds of the 
“masses” who, most authorities agree, 
ate much less affected by what they read 
than the would-be censor would have us 
believe. As a citizen of Philadelphia, 
our nation’s “birthplace,” you should be 
especially interested in the comments on 
this subject by Thomas Jefferson, quoted 
on the first page of this month's “Play- 
boy Philosophy.” 


Like it or not, your publication is sub- 
ject to censorship — by me. I am that 
anathema to all so-called liberals of the 
press a censor—and about which you 
can do nothing. This is one instance you 
cannot go to crying to the courts. 

"The action is quite simple — whenever 
a publication of undesirable nature ar- 
rives here, the cover is removed and the 
body of the magazine is then consigned 
to the trash can, Actually, this is the 
most effective means of censorship — the 
seller just not selling a given article — 


Sen ASH Spectaculars by Renauld of Fr 


(01963 * U.S. Address: 975 Timber Way, Reno, Nevada 
~- —— — 


Why did TWA officially approve Sea & Ski Spectaculars for use by its pilots, flight engineers and navigators? 


Because TWA has 
put these precision- 
made sunglasses thru 
the most rigid tests and 
found them to give 180° 
distortion-free vision 
— with no blind spots. 


The reason Sea & Ski Spectaculars 
are optically perfect is that they are made 
with an extraordinary new lens material 
called Orama IV, and hand-crafted by 
skilled French technicians. They are excep- 
tionally lightweight, fog-resistant, scratch- 
resistant, glareproof and shatterproof. 


That's why Sea & Ski 
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instant, hearty approval 
of skiers, sportsmen and 
sun lovers everywhere they 
have been introduced 
in Europe and America. 


Sea & Ski Spectaculars 
are the world's finest sun and 
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25 


PLAYBOY 


26 


Groshire-Austin Leeds Handshaped Suit 


How to enjoy waiting for someone like this 


The cigar smoker waits with pleasure. Once he lights up, he's living. And he can 

enjoy all the rich flavor of the tobacco without inhaling. Which may be why you 

see so many young men smoking cigars today. They start young. And stay young. 
Cigar Institute of America, Inc. 


thereby circumventing the courts (who 
should have done a better job in the 
first place)! In the light of your defini- 
tion, being a censor is in my case for a 
specific reason — Christian morality and. 
obligation. The so-called merits of “free- 
dom" as by your standards leads, eventu- 
ally, to social anarchy. History has 
proved this often enough. Your claim 
actually should be properly labeled for 
what it really is — “license.” In my realm, 
gentlemen, standards do exist and should 
be enforced. My definitions are as good 
as yours, 


"Thomas G. Gisvold 
Gisvold Rexall Drugs 
Stanley, Wisconsin 
How fortunate the citizens of Stanley 
are to have you there to protect them 
from publications of an “undesirable na- 
lure." You scem uncommonly well-quali- 
fied for the job: We only had to correct 
11 errors in spelling and punctuation in 
your short epistle; the logic of it was, how- 
ever, beyond salvation. We hope your 
friends and neighbors fully appreciate 
the special service you are supplying them 
along with the drugs and toiletries in 
circumventing their courts and acting as 
their censor. 


Have been unable to lay my hands on 
a December issue of PrAvmov in which 
you began your “Playboy Philosophy” 
soliloquy. Would appreciate receiving 
one, if possible. Hope to stimulate some 
conversations and log re your phi- 
losophy on this campus within the next 
couple of months. 

Thomas A. Huff, Associate Secretary 

The Caltech YMCA 

California Institute of Technology 

Pasadena, California 


І am not as articulate or literate as 
some of those who have written to you 
praising your Playboy Philosophy, but I, 
too, am awed by this waterfall of reason. 
Why don’t you put the Philosophy into 
book form? To me it is a 20th Century 
version of Thomas Painc’s Age of 
Reason. 

S. Yellin 
Rezo Park, New York 


Having just read part four of The 
Playboy Philosophy, Y feel that I have 
missed something very worth while by 
not having read the three previous in 
stallments. Would it be possible to ob- 
tain copies of the earlier Philosophy? 

James K. Johnston 
Las Vegas, New Mexico 

Because of the considerable number 
of requests for copies of the carlier 
parts of “The Playboy Philosophy,” we 
have reprinted a limited number of the 
first seven installments and all seven 
may be had by sending a check or money 
order for $1 10 PLAYBOY, 232 E. Ohio Sl., 
Chicago 11, Illinois. 


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Tony Bill as appearing in Paramount release, “COME BLOW YOUR HORN", starring Frank Sinatra, an Essex-Tandem production. 


PLAYBOY AFTER HOURS 


€ regret to report that— as is so 

often the case with sequels — Alex- 
ander Graham Bell's recently published 
Manhattan Telephone Directory simply 
doesn’t measure up to the promise of the 
author's earlier work. After poring with 
pleasure through last year's massive tome 
(1780 pages) from this prolific writer — 
a powerful evocation of the sweep and 
stature of a great metropolis — we had 
entertained high hopes for Bell's next 
effort. However, his newest volume is 
merely derivative (where not actually 
imitative) of its predecessor. And his 
decision to introduce a motley array of 
unnecessary new characters has had the 
effect of compounding the confusion of 
an overcrowded and ill-assorted cast of 
characters, and of stretching the threads 
of a virtually invisible plot linc — the 
one tragic flaw which has always marred 
Bell's work — almost to the breaking 
point. The melodramatic appearance of 
no less than eight characters named 
George Washington, for example, struck 
a discordant note of farce. That seven of 
these men are obvious impostors was un- 
questionably intended to indicate the 
often imperceptible distinction between 
truth and falsehood, illusion and reality; 
but we found this symbology both pre- 
tentious and overdrawn. 

In a crass effort to cash in on the 
commercial appeal of the Harold Rob- 
bins— Grace. Metalious school of moral 
(and literary) bankruptcy, Bell has also 
populated his pages with a rogues’ gal- 
lery of pasteboard profligates which in- 
cludes two Satirs, four Leches, two 
Rapers, onc Trollope, 29 Husseys, one 
Sadie Thompson and three Schmucks. 
The entire text, morcover, is riddled 
with inaccuracies: we counted, for ex- 
ample, 428 Wong numbers. And speak 
ing of numbers, the author has auda- 
ciously undertaken the abandonment of 


the Romantic tradition of lettered pre- 
fixes (such as MUrray Hill, ELdorado, 
GRamercy and BUtterficld) in favor of 
the futuristic device of the digital-dialing 
system — doubtless in an attempt to de- 
pict the dissolution of individual identity 
in an age of expanding automation. The 
effect, ironically, has been to dehuman- 
ize his characters and the book itself. 
But perhaps most culpably, the redoubt- 
able Archimedes I. Zzzyandotti a рі 
turesque and familiar figure in all of 
Bells more recent works—has been 
denied the distinction of taking the last 
bow in the book; brazenly appearing in 
his stead is an opportunistic business firm 
improbably yclept the ZzzyZzy Ztamp 
Ztudioz. In sacrificing the engaging Mr. 
Zayandottie for the sake of proving a 
point about the eclipse of modern man 
by the specter of big business, the author 
has chosen to end his book on a note 
of negation rather than of affirmation 
— leaving the reader with an unpleasant 
aftertaste of bitter cynicism which 
undermines entirely the author's lifelong 
belief in the value of human com- 
munion. It is to be devoutly hoped that 
this insidious drift toward denial and 
disbclicf will be arrested — and the Muse 
set free—in Bell’s next effort, for we 
would regret the necessity of confining 
our future acquaintance with his work 
to such lightweight yellow journalism 
as his Classified Directory. 

Golfers at the Westborough Country 
Club in St. Louis will be happy to learn 
that one of the more challenging handi- 
caps of the course has been removed 
from a water hazard between the eighth 
and ninth holes: a three-foot alligator. 

Earth to carth, ashes to ashes, dust to 
dust: Our sympathies to Spanish sculptor 


Pablo Serrano, whose latest creation was 
accorded a memorable reception by 
Madrid's Malaga Hotel, which had com- 
missioned the work for display in its 
lobby, Delivered when an artistically un- 
initiated assistant manager happened to 
be on duty, the avant-garde construction. 
—assembled from a steel beam, an old 
typewriter, parts of a secondhand sewing 
machine and a bent bicycle wheel — was 
borne unceremoniously to the back door 
and deposited on the junk heap. 


Bargain offer to exponents of individ- 
ual enterprise in the “Business Opportu- 
nities” classified column of the San Jose, 
California, News: “voupe BED, box 


springs & matt. Headboard. $15. 


Our man in Movicland reports that 
the management of The Grenadier, a 
well-known Hollywood cuisinery, has hit 
upon a foolproof scheme for coping with 
topers toppled with tee many martooni: 
They send th identical-twin blonde 
waitresses to the tippler’s table, where 
they inquire in unison before his un- 
steady gaze, “May I get you something 
else, sir?” 


Attention cocds: an ad from the Situa- 
tions Wanted column of the Baltimore 
Sun, offering “College Stud. — Des. night 
work of any kind. LA 3-1657.” 

Though esteemed and execrated for 
its “Impolite Interviews," iconoclastic 
editorials and unflinching minority views 
on almost everything, The Realist, Man- 
hattan’s self-proclaimed “Magazine of 
Applied Paranoia,” is perhaps most be- 
loved — and berated — for the irreverent 
cartoons which intersperse its pungent 
prose. Recent samples; beatnik carrying 
placard reading, “Repeat Ye Sinners”; 


PLAYBOY 


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your music 
— you'll enjoy it more 
when you record it 
on Audiotape. 

The refreshing clarity 
of this fine tape 
brings out the best 
in every kind of music. 
You get less distortion, 
less background noise — 
more listening pleasure. 
So, whether you dig it hot, 


cool or in between, 


try Audiotape. 
You'll like this tape 
the most. 


e 
ме) E L| m, 
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AUDIO DEVICES INC., ац мән Ave.. New York 22. N.Y- 
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and Peanuts’ favorite fuss-budget, Lucy, 
e of 
that 
immortal line, “Good grief, Charlie 
Brown!” 


Rare opportunity for the economy- 
minded apartment hunter of unselfish 
i ion: an ad from the Winnipeg, 
itoba, Free Press offering, “Broad 
and Room for 2 Men to Share. Home 
privileges. SU 3-1684.” 

Among the more visionary peacetime 
uses of atomic energy now under research 
by the British AEC is a top-priority 
project involving the bombardment of 
freshly distilled whisky with radio- 
isotopes — thus, it is hoped, eliminating 
the necessity of two years’ aging in the 
cask. Possible result: instant whisky. 
Possible aftermath: atomic fallover. 


Sign of the times crayoned on a Green- 
wich Village billboard: PEACE 1s COOL. 


Between machine-gun bursts on a re- 
cent episode of The Untouchables about 
the jukebox racket, we found ourself 
musing musically about what might hap- 
pen to the Hit Parade if the underworld 
decided to exploit Tin-Pan Alley as a 
personal publicity medium as well as a 
source of income. The Top Twenty, or 
Most-Wanted Tunes, we reasoned, would 
soon read something like this: Stoolie by 
Starlight, Crime on My Hands, Ain't 
Misdemeanor, A Felony Needs a Girl, 
Come Fry with Me, Let's Take an Old- 
Fashioned Ride, 1 Could Write a Bookie, 
Erasable You, Stone Cold Dead in the 
Car Trunk, The Mann Act I Love, I 
Might as Well Be Sprung, Three Cons 
in the Fountain, You Made Me Rub 
You (flip side: Pm Gonna Rub that Man 
Right Outa My Life), Don't Throw 
Grenades at Me, You're the Cop, Bye- 
Bye Blackjack, Knife Work If You Can 
Get It, Ole ’Lectric Chair's Got Me and 
the ever-popular Sing-Sing Sing. 


THEATER 


Enter Loughing has all the dog-earmarks 
to stamp it as just another shopworn 
cloak-and-situation comedy, but in the 
magic hands of Alan Arkin, it is strictly 
made to measure. A fugitive improviser 
from Second City (where he played 
everything from a far-out folknik to an 
aged pretzel vendor), Arkin is a friendly 
faced. gopherish comic who can mimic, 
mug and marshal audiences into helpless 
laughter. In this adaptation by Joseph 
Stein of Carl Reiner's autobiographical 
novel, Arkin is David Kolowitz, a hammy 
errant boy for a millinery-machine manu- 
facturer (Yiddish actor Irving Jacobson 


in his belated Broadway debut), who is 
willing to overlook his protégé's past 
tı cies, if he will only stop with those 
Ronald Colman imitations. The boy's 
wise old mother (Sylvia Sidney), who 
will forgive him everything as long as he 
has meat for dinner, wants him to be a 
druggist. But Arkin hates druggists. He 
likes actors, though, and tries out for 
a part with a seedy band of players, 
catches the eye of le; lady Vivian 
Blaine and gets to be her leading man. 
‘The stage direction says “(Enter Laugh- 
ing)" and at rehearsal Arkin tries them 
all, from a staccato heh-heh to an ear- 
blasting haaargh. The more he acts, the 
worse he acts. The day of the play, with 
his family beaming backstage (so if he's 
not a dry at least he'll be a good 
actor), he swashbuckles to stage front, 
and then, swash!, he buckles. He stands 
there gaping as the play continues 
around him. “You were the best,” says 
his mother after the show. Running. 
jumping, standing still or struck dumb, 
Alan Arkin is the town clown. At Henry 
Miller's Theater, 124 West 43rd Street. 


Watching Vivien Leigh perform in a 
musical comedy is like watching Queen 
Elizabeth dance the limbo. She’s doing it, 
thinks the audience. She's really doing 
it! OK. so she's doing it. . . . In Tovarich, 
Miss Leigh sings passably in a tecny-tiny 
baritone, dances delicately, and gets to 
don a maid’s habit. The story, much the 
same one Jacques Deval and Robert E. 
Sherwood devised for their 1936 comedy, 
is about a royal couple who turn kitchen 
couple. Grand Duchess Tatiana and her 
consort, Prince Mikail, driven from Rus- 
sia by the Bolsheviks, are holed ир 
Paris garret (their 4,000,000,000 
francs are holed up in a Swiss b: 
Finally down to their last pawnabli 
and pursued by the hated Bolshevik 
Gorotchenko and the secret police (who 
want the dough more than they want 
the Duchess, they decide to pet jobs. 
and "Mike" hire themselves out 
and butler to a pair of rich ugly 
Americans, parents to a pair of musical- 
comedy children, snobby George and 
sloppy Helen, The parents throw a party 
for some visiting oilmen, and the guest 
of honor is the oily Gorotchenko him- 
self. There’s a clash at the bash. The 
book is not quite as tsarrible as it 
sounds. It has a certain confectioned 
charm at times, but the songs are no 
help at all. The music, by Lee Pockriss, 
is collective — a little Loewe, a little 
Weill, a little less of Loesser, a polonaise, 
a tango, a charleston, a strolling accor- 
dion street song, and even some Cossack 
squatjumping. The lyrics, by Anne 
Croswell, are not nearly so di h 
go to bed and pull the covers 
up around my head." Consorting with 
Miss Leigh is Jean. Pierre Aumont. He 
sings a bit better than she docs, and 


Ronson introduces a butane lighter as slim as the cigarette it lights. 


This is the Ronson Varaflame? Adonis. It 
isthe slimmest butane lighter in the world. 
Yet Ronson has squeezed everything it 
knows into it. 

Slim as it is, the Adonis lights up а thou- 
sand times without refueling. 

Slim as it is, the Adonis has the ingen- 
ious Ronson no-escape valve (undoubtedly 


1 


L1 9 


€) 1963 RONSON CORP., WOOOBRIOGE, н. 3 


the most successful fuel-hoarder ever in- 
vented). 

Slim asit is, the Adonis runs on the clean 
modern fuel, butane gas; fills clean from a 
Ronson Multi-Fill® injector as fast as you 


can say phfft! 
Slim as it is, the Adonis sports the fa- 
mous Ronson flame: it turns up tall for 


Ronson, Varaflame Adonis 


| 


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pipes, down small for 
cigar-height in between. 
The Adonis is slim, elegant, and every 
a hard-working Ronson. It fits flat in 
a man's pocket, snug in his hand, and is 
much admired by ladies (for whom we have 
made styles of their own, so they don’t 
have to pocket yours). 


gerettes, and to 


PLAYBOY 


f 


Billy Casper Sportswear Tailored by Glenshore Manufacturing Company, 1622-30 Arapahce Street, Denver 2, Colorado. Fabric by Harold A, Jason. 


Swing in the Billy Casper groove 


Smooth. Clean. Best form off the tee, in a Kodel® poly- 
ester and Avril* rayon fabric. The luster, softness, supple 
strength is par for Avril. And the Glenshore Wash'n Wear. 
Swing starts in half-belt slacks. Waist adjusts. Well de- 
tailed. Follow-thru with tailored jacket, same fine cloth. 


Ventilated underarms. Knit waist and cuffs. Zipper front, 
breast pocket. Stand-up coolie collar. Mix or match 
the two in all popular colors, Pants 28 to 42, jackets 
34 to 46 regular... about $12.95 per. Keeps neat 
and straight on the course or in the club. Like Billy. 


32 “New Generation a... Viscose Corporation, 350 Fifth Avenue, New York 1,N. Y. 


passes better as a butler than she as a 
maid, which is to his credit as an actor 
and to hers as a lady. Both stars are 
likable, but their show is novarich. At 
the Broadway Theater, 1681 Broadway. | PLENTY OF PETE 


Rem 
“onal te ispre- 
ce Шо 


When Eugene O'Neill's Strange Interlude 
possess in this plen- 


was first staged in 1928, it was startlingly Û . | n? S eee In hinian 
innovative — nine acts, almost five hours ea oes РЕТЕ FOUNTAIN 
long, the action interrupted by asides ; 1 ) dci ека 
and soliloquies revealing the characters’ 1 E x lassi PR, ue 
most guarded secrets. Today, structurally, : Things, After veuve 
Strange Interlude no longer scems such a ED oup 
novelty. The asides are now said right т ү уо 

out loud in other plays, ог revealed 3 CRL 757424 (S) 


indirectly through nuances in the con- 
temporary actors bag of methodical 
tricks. But though O'Neill's theatricks 


= BYE В BURL 
are out of style, in this Actors Studio даде 


‘Theater revival, Strange Interlude does 3 E IVES at his -beam- 

З ата y $ ч ing best, bursting 
not creak with age; it crackles with ex e pug 
citement as it unfolds the epic life of folksong festival 
Nina Leeds (Geraldine Page), sacrificial Магу ann Regrets 


lamb and seductive enchantress. Around Busted, The Bliz- 


^i zord, and mony 
her revolve three males: Sam Evans - зет 
(Pat Hingle), the bumpkin she marries; Favorites 5 О гу 
Dr. Edmund Darrell (Ben Gazzara), the ) 
self-deceived sensualist she loves; and Play 
Charles Marsden (William Prince), the 


avuncular prig she pets. Above all, Nina | ә - 
wants a baby (another male to rule), and D E RECORDS > 
since she is convinced that insanity runs a, 

in her husband's family, she refuses to 
have Sam's son. She and Darrell commit 
premeditated (and supposedly loveless) 
adultery, and find, after the fact, that 2 
they are passionately in love. Both m — 
abnegate their happiness for Sam's, and wallzingin the dark THE DARK 
keep torturing themselves for it. “We (pousse 
See c Darrell r CARMEN CAVALLARO | 5,25: eels 


5 я perfect prelude to 
many years later, “have made a sane life 


the piano of 
CARMEN 


for [Sam] out of our madness.” For Nina y + CAVALLARO 
and Darrell the present is only a strange GRE BO Haec 
a узе, If You Were 
interlude between past and future. For The Only Giri Io 
the audience it is a series of brutal, т mony others, 2" 
brittle encounters between father and “Жу 


DL 74356 (М) (S) 


daughter, mother and son, husband and 
wife, wife and lover. During the long 
evening (broken by a one-hour dinner 
intermission) the drama attains a cumu- au atowe ase BRENDA LEE 
lative intensity. Director José Quintero 
has adroitly maneuvered his expert cast 
through the maze of meshed motivations. 
Geraldine Page captures the full range 
of Nina—from tease to tempest— and 
Gazzara, Prince, Hingle, Geoffrey Horne 
and Jane Fonda are faultless in less- 
demanding roles. Like the cast, this first 


EARLGRANT 
2 MIDNIGHT 
Midnight Sun Magical moments 
E beneath the Mid- 
night Sun os EARL 
GRANT gothers this 
glittering group of 
melodies, featuring 
Red Sails In The 
Sunset, Stranger On 
The Shore, Island In 
The Sun, and many 
тоге. 
DL эв (м) 
DL 74338 (5) 


ALL ALONE AM I 


Actors Studio venture into the market- Whot Kind OF Foci Am I? sings 
place is dazzling. At the Hudson Theater, fpr каж Meum CDD 
141 West 44th Street menting loves Tost ond fot | n 
left My Heort In San Francisco, Y ^ Y 
E Есхат Ну Ме To The Moon, ond [1 
HERR Ф ^ ird : BABY WORKOUT 
Peter Ustinov's Photo Finish is an cx DL 370 (м) o1 74370 о MEN JACKIE » (4 IE You can't resist do- 
periment in trick photography in which : ing ihe “twist” os 
Ustinov freely juggles time to study the ma WILSON m Wels his, wildly 
80-year life and wife of a protean novel- j Tene aeey WE 
ist Eileen Herlie plays the wife at all t out, along with 


1 eleven others. 
> BL 54110 (M) 
BL 754110 (S) 


the ages, from sexy to senescent. Ustinov 
plays the author only as a grizzled gray- 


beard, and employs other actors tO | oy indicates DECCA Leng Play CRL incer CORAL Long Ploy = BL Indicates BRUNSWICK Long Play ® (N) Monaural (5) Stereo 
portray the younger ages of his man. BRUNSWICK and CORAL Records are subsidiaries of DECCA Records Inc. 


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A 
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34 


Lest he miss even a little piece of the 
action when he is not directly partic 
ipating, star, author, co-director Ustinov 
hides himself onstage beneath a mound 
of blankets — listening to his own dialog 
and probably chuckling to himself at thc 
sheer wit of it all. Ustinov is Sam Kin 
a fussy old sickbedded novelist who 
is fidgeting away his last years with 
thoughts about ordering the disorder of 
his life into an autobiography. In struts 
himself at 60, a stylish writer of pap-ular 
fiction, to arrange an assignation with a 
pea-brained gold digger who is one-third 
his age. Old Sam groans at the memory; 
the affair ended in a heart seizure. Sud- 
denly Sam-at-40 bursts in; his pomposity 
reminds his two elders of their middle- 
aged pretension and forgotten novels. He 
is followed by Sam-at-20, a knickered boy- 
ish boob who writes esoteric verse. All 
three of his elder egos have a go at 
the artist as a young Sam, smacking 
their lips over the 60, 40 or 20 years 
of secrets they have on him. A non-Sam 
enters as the father of them all, Reginald 
Kinsale, Esq, a starchy stuffed shirt who 
tries to discourage young Sam from 
marrying his love, Stella. Oldest Sam 
intrudes: “You may be my father, but 
I'm older than you are. In fact, I'm 
older than you ever will bı Usti- 
nov's final bit of whimsy — at the third- 
act curtain—is to be introduced to 
himself as an infant. "Might I hold 
him?" he and Ustinov cradles 
himself in his arms. If Photo Finish is 
gely Ustinov cradling himself — when- 
ever he gets his teeth into one of his 
own good lines, he savors it past the 
point of artistry—the play is still a 
delight, no less trivial and no Jess fun 
than it is gimcracked up to be. At the 
Brooks Atkinson Theater, 256 West 
47th Street. 


MOVIES 


Jean Genet’s play The Balcony isn’t 
“healthy” by cornball standards, but the 
fact that it was filmed in America is a 
milestone in the maturing of U. S. 
movies. This far-out French fantasy (an 
off-Broadway hit) takes place in a bor- 
dello in a nameless revolt-torn country. 
The bordello specializes in customers 
who dress in costumes and dream it up 
with the dolls. Three of the johns like 
to be a general, a judge and a bishop, 
respectively, and their play-acting with 
the poules is a caricature of the stupidity 
and evil in the world outside. The pay- 
off comes when the three impersonators 
have to impersonate their real-life coun- 
terparts for real-life stakes. Genet's jabs 
at the lies of life, pomposities of power, 
and silliness about sex have been boiled 
down in the movie, and too many cooks 


almost spoil the brothel. Still, while Ben 
Maddow's screenplay is more satirical 
farce than bitter fantasy, it keeps much 
of the original's originality, and would 
have fared better with a better director; 
the play is poctic, and Joseph Strick is 
strictly prosaic. Peter Falk, as the chicf 
of police, can't quite decide to be either 
Groucho or grim. Shelley Winters never 
ly gets into the part of the madam 
—it's only skinedeep. The standout is 
Lee Grant, as her Lesbian friend — tiger- 
ish, tender and talented. 


Paul Newman's new film Hud is about 
a Texas badman, vintage 1963. Hc packs 
a complex instead of a Colt and rid. 
Cadillac inst 
shoot-out, there's show- 
down. The script by Irving Ravetch 
and Harriet Frank, Jr., based on a 
novel by Larry McMurty, tells the story 
of Hud Bannon, headstrong, hedonistic 
cowpuncher, who lives on a cattle spread. 
with liis aging father, his young nephew, 
and a housckceper. He hells around 
with hooch and hungry wives, doesn't 
get along with pa, and would like to 
get along much better with the thirtyish 
housekeeper. The dialog is full of pith 

d vinegar and there are a lot of 
sizzling scenes, but we never really are 
told the core of the trouble between 
him and his father, what makes Hud 
think he's the hub of things, why he 
believes the world is, as he says, “crap.” 
Newman, as Hud, fills the screen with fire 
d feeling — one of the best perform- 
ances in an American picture since the 
one in The Hustler by a fellow named 
Newm icia Neal, the housekeeper, 
is neally perfect. Melvyn Douglas, despite 
a touch of torishn makes the old 
man massive, and Brandon de Wilde 
has so much personal appeal as the 
nephew that he almost convinces you he's 
got talent. Martin Ritt has directed with 
dexterity and devotion. Everything's here 
for a fine film but the foundation. 


Alfred Hitchcock's film-making formula 
is to find a good gimmick (a chase over 
the faces at Mount Rushmore, a stabbing 
in a shower) and build a picture around 
it. Only sometimes he jerry-builds it. 
The Birds, his latest, never really takes 
wing. Evan Hunter's script, from Daphne 
du Maurier's story, has witless characters 
and snapless dialog. Hitchcock's direc- 
tion, cxcept for the shock sequences, is 
trite and untrue. A San Francisco hcircss 
(madcap, but with heart of gold) chases 
a young lawyer to his weekend home 
(Bodega B terrific in Technicolor) 
where he lives with his young sister and 
possessive ma. Heiress rooms with a 
pretty schoolmarm who also has a crush 
on the lawyer, The birds in the vicinity — 
thousands of gulls, crows, finches — sud- 
denly mass in great flocks to attack the 
town. This doom de plume gets rid of 


BARMATE 


HOME BARTENDERS' GUIDE TO EXPERT DRINK MIXING 


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Join the club...of those who appreciate fine drinks and know 
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mate. It contains simple (and superb) recipes for drinks 
made with all the popular, basic liquors... Bourbon, Scotch, 
gin, vodka, rum and Southern Comfort. In fact, it shows 
you how to improve many of your old favorites... in some 
of them, just by replacing the traditional basic liquor with 
another one. One example is the use of Southern Comfort, 
where the good taste of the liquor itself will give you the 
reputation for making outstanding Old-Fashioneds, Sours, 
Manhattans, Collins, etc. The secret is in the difference of 
taste and character of the basic liquor. Try the simple taste 
test below and prove it to yourself. 


What is Southern Comfort? 


In the gracious days of the Old South, men 
had time for the finer things. One such man- 
of-leisure in New Orleans was disturbed by 
the taste of even the finest whiskeys. He took 
time to “smooth his spirits” with rare and 
delicious ingredients...and Southern Comfort 
was born! The formula for this unique 
100-proof liquor has remained a family secret 
even to this day. We think that you'll like it, 


TRY THIS TASTE TEST 


If you're not already enjoying Southern Comfort, you can easily 
prove its difference and its deliciousness by a simple com- 
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the next page... the way the experts make their Own taste test. 

* Southern Comfort® 


tips from e experts 
THE MAGIC FORMULA TO WHAT KIND OF SUGAR 
SUCCESS — MEASURING! 1S BEST? 
Not even a highball should Finely granulated sugar 
be mixed by the “eyeball” won't cake, mixes faster, 
method. The best drinks makes clearer drinks. Con- 
are the result of exact fectioners’ sugar (often 
measurements of the finest called “powdered”) is not 
ingredients. for drinks. Always dissolve 
Here are the figures you sugar before adding liquor. 
can count on: 
pony = 1 oz. 
one jigger = 1% oz. 
dash = 4 to 6 drops. 


SECRET OF THE 

FROSTED GLASS 

For “frosted” drinks, put 
wet glasses in the refrig- 
erator or bury in shaved 
ice. To “sugar-frost,” 
dampen rim of pre-cooled 
glass with lemon slice, then 
dip rim in sugar for a few 


DONT SKIMP 
ON THE ICE! 
Use cracked ice for shaker 
drinks, lots of cubes for 
highballs. When pre-mix- 
ing drinks, add ice when 
ready to serve. Avoid 
“stale” ice, with that “ice- 


рол юне seconds. Brush off the 
excess. 

WHEN TO SHAKE— 

WHEN TO STIR? CHILLED GLASSES— 

A drink made with clear BETTER DRINKS 

liquors needs only stirring T Before mixing, fill glasses 


with ice (the Sunger's an 
exception). Shake drinks 
made with hard-to-blend 
ingredients like fruit juice, 
eggs, cream, sugar... and 
give it all you've got! 


with cracked or shaved ice, 
Tet stand. When mixture is 
ready, dump ice, dry the 
glasses, and pour. 


prove it to yourself (the way the experts do it) 


* Fill three Old-Fashioned glasses about half-full of cracked ice. 
Pour one ounce of Scotch or Bourbon (whichever you prefer)t 
into the first glass . . . an ounce of good gin into the second glass 
«апа an ounce of Southern Comfort into the remaining glass. 
Then swirl the glasses carefully until all the liquors are well chilled. 


* First, pick up the glass containing the Scotch or Bourbon. Sniff 
it slowly, then take a sip. In the same way, sniff the gin . . . then 
sip it. Finally, sniff the glass of Southern Comfort and taste it, 


* By now you'll understand why Southern Comfort is so popular 
with knowledgeable people . . . why it's so good no matter how you 
drink it: straight, on-the-rocks, as a mist, in tall drinks, or in 
cocktails. You'll realize why so many more people are enjoying it 
regularly, as their No. 1 favorite or for variety and extra pleasure. 
tOr substitute rum or brandy PLAYBOY June 1963 


Smooth attraction at the 

PLAYBOY CLUB in St. Louis 

"Today this tall, cool legacy of riverboat days is be- 
coming more popular than the famous St. Louis Blues. 
Jigger (1% oz.) Southern Comfort © juice % lime © 7-UP 
Blend Southern Comfort and lime juice in а tall glass. 
Addicecubes, fill with 7-UP, and stir drink thoroughly. 


PLAYBOY June 1963 


Honolulu Cooler 


Girl-watchers' favorite at the 
PLAYBOY CLUB in Miami 


1 The most refreshing drink under the sun. It's as 
much at homeon Main Street as in Miami or Waikiki. 


Juice % lime • 1% oz. Southern Comfort • pineapple juice 
Pack tall glass with cracked ice; add lime juice, 
Southern Comfort, Fill with pineapple juice, stir. 


PLAYBOY June 1963 


BARMATE 


HOME BARTENOERS' GUIDE TO EXPERT DRINK MIXING 


These striking contemporary 
glasses can be yours at 
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SCREWDRIVER 

1 jigger (1% oz.) vodka • orange juice 

Place two ice cubes into 6-oz. glass. Pour in 
vodka, fill with orange juice, and stir. | 
SC. instead of vodka gives the screwdriver a bright new turn. 


Sa 


GRASSHOPPER 
% oz. fresh cream © 1 oz. white creme de cacao 
1 oz. green creme de menthe 


Shake well or blend thoroughly with cracked ice 
and strain into cocktail glass. 


ALEXANDER 

M от. fresh cream • Ў oz creme de cacao 

1 jigger (1% oz.) Southern Comfort, gin, or brandy 

Shake well with cracked ice and strain into glass. 


ST. LOUIS COCKTAIL 
% canned peach or apricot © chilled Southern Comfort 
Place peach or apricot in large champagne or 


sherbet glass. Add cracked ice, fill with Southern 
Comfort. Serve with demitasse spoon and straw. 


Save over % on these 
SOUTHERN COMFORT STEAMBOAT GLASSES 


Each set a $7.95 value. Save $4.45 per set on handsome blue and gold basic glasses. 


A.LONG DRINK GLASS 
Welcome in every home. Use for Collins, 
coolers, highballs . . . any tall favorite. 
Set of B glasses Ф БО 
(12-oz. size) 3 

B.DOUBLE OLD-FASHIONED 
Your all-purpose favorite . . . for high- 
balls, on-the-rocks, and even coolers. 
Set of 8 glasses $750 
(15%-oz. size) 3 

C. ON-THE-ROCKS GLASS 
Perfect for serving on-the-rocks, mists, 
and even the popular "short" highballs. т 
Set of 8 glasses (B-oz. size) 
PLUS matching 2%-oz. 

."STEAMBOAT" Master Measure $2350 

E NAPKINS glass, all 9 only 3 
Cheery napkins say “Smooth D. MASTER MEASURE GLASS 
Sailing," are color-mated to This versatile single glass enables you to 
match glasses. Two plump pour all the correct measures. Marked for 
packages of 40 each, $1.00 34 oz. (Và jigger); 1% oz. (jigger); 2 oz.; 
value, only 256 and2%0z — Soldalone SOC 


(Please print your name and address) 
Order items desired by letter and send check or money order to: 
Dept. 63JP, Southern Comfort Corporation, 
1220.N. Price Road, St. Louis 32, Missouri. 
Offers void in Ga.. Ind., N. H., Texas, Wash., and Provinces of 
Ontario and British Columbia, 
The following appearing herein are all trademarks, service marks, or both, of HMH Publishing 
Co., Inc.: PLAYBOY. PLAYBOY CLUB, KEY. RABBIT HEAD DESIGN. and BUNNY COSTUME 


SOUTHERN COMFORT CORPORATION, 100 PROOF LIQUEUR, ST. LOUIS 32. MO 
© 1963, SOUTHERN COMFORT CORPORATION PRINTED W US A 


Co 


? 


mfort' n Tonic 
Popular favorite at the 
PLAYBOY CLUB in Chicago 
These favorites from the Windy City mix so well 
that it's a breeze to enjoy them right at home, too. 
1% oz. Southern Comfort © juice % lime (optional) © tonic 
Squeeze lime over ice cubes in 8-oz. glass. Add 
rind, Southern Comfort, fill with tonic, and stir well. 
PLAYBOY June 1963 *Southern Comfort® 


@ Winning, Solvation 


COMFORT* OLD-FASHIONED 

Dash Angostura bitters • splash of dry soda 

A tspn. sugar (optional) 

1 jigger (1% oz.) Southern Comfort 

Stir bitters, sugar and soda in glass, add ice 
cubes and S.C. Top with twist of lemon peel, 
orange slice, and cherry. 

For ordinary Old-Fashioned, muddle 1 lump sugar with 

‘soda and bitters, and replace S.C. with Bourbon or rye. 


THE ALAMO 

1 jigger (1% oz.) Southern Comfort 

Unsweetened Texas grapefruit juice 

Pack Collins glass (12 oz.) with cracked ice, 
add Southern Comfort, fill with juice, stir. 


WHISKEY MIST 

1 jigger (1% oz.) Bourbon, Scotch or rye 
Pour into Old-Fashioned glass filled to brim with 
cracked ice. Add twist of lemon peel and 
stir. Serve with short straw. 

For a new twist to a mist, use Southern Comfort. 


COMFORT* ON-THE-ROCKS 

1 jigger (1% oz.) Souther Comfort 

Pour into Old-Fashioned glass filled with 
ice cubes. Add twist of lemon peel and stir. 


LEMON COOLER 

1 jigger (1% oz.) Southern Comfort 
Schweppe's Bitter Lemon 

Pour Southern Comfort over ice cubes in highball 
glass, fill with Bitter Lemon, and stir. 


MANHATTAN 

% oz. Italian (sweet) vermouth 

1 jigger (1% oz.) Bourbon or rye 

Dash Angostura bitters (optional) 

Stir with cracked ice, strain. Serve with cherry. 


Raise your glass in a perfect prelude to dining... 


Comfort 
Manhattan 


Picked by patrons 
of Sardi's Restaurant & 
Sardi's East, New York 


Toast a special night on the 
town or dinner at home, with 
the drink New Yorkers 
proudly named their own. 

1 jigger (1% oz.) Southern Comfort 
% oz. extra dry (French) vermouth 
Dash Angostura bitters (optional) 
Stir well with cracked ice,then 
strain intoglass. Add acherry. 


*Southern Comfort 


Comfort’ Julep 


Gentlemen's choice at the 
PLAYBOY CLUB in New Orleans 


You'll like the comfort of the Old South even today. 
4 sprigs fresh mint © dash water • 2 oz. Southern Comfort 


Crush mint in water in tall glass. Pack with cracked 
( ice, pour S. C. almost to top, stir till frosted. 
( For a Bourbon mint julep, add  tspn. of sugar to the mint and water. 


TS PLAYBOY June 1963 


GIN RICKEY 
Juice, rind % lime © jigger (1% oz) gin * dry soda 


Squeeze juice of lime over ice cubes in 8-oz. 
glass. Add gin, lime rind, fill with soda, stir. 


DAIQUIRI 

Juice of % lime or М lemon • 1 tspn. sugar 

1 jigger (1% oz.) light rum 

Shake with cracked ice 'til shaker frosts, 
then strain into cocktail glass. 

For a Daiquiri with a difference, try Southern Comfort instead of 
tum. Use only 34 tspn. sugar, same amount of fruit juice. 
GIMLET 

% oz. Rose's sweetened lime juice 

1 jigger (1% oz.) gin or vodka 

Shake well with cracked ice, strain into glass. 


— 


BLOODY MARY 

2 jiggers tomato juice • % jigger lemon juice 

1 jigger (1% oz) vodka • dash of Worcestershire sauce 
Salt and pepper to taste. Shake with cracked ice, 
Strain into 6-oz. glass. 

COMFORT* HIGHBALL 

1 jigger (1% oz) Southern Comfort * dry soda 

Twist of lemon peel or juice % lime (optional) 

Pour Southern Comfort over ice cubes in 
highball glass, add lime juice or twist of lemon 
peel; fill with soda and stir gently. 

WHISKEY SOUR 

% jigger lemon juice • 1 tspn. sugar 

1 jigger (1% oz.) Bourbon or rye 

Shake well with cracked ice, strain into glass. 
Serve with orange slice on rim of glass, and cherry. 


Watch this sour put a smile on your lips 


Comfort® 


Sour 


Pleasant custom at the 
Hotel Mark Hopkins, 
San Francisco 


A classic that reached the 
“top” mixed the smoother 
way. Try it and you'll be 
the top mixer in your crowd. 
Jigger (1% oz.) Southern Comfort 
Yatspn. sugar * % jigger lemon 
juice © cherry, orange slice 

Shakewith cracked ice, strain. 
Add cherry and orange slice. 


*Southern Comfort® 


schoolmarm, unites heiress and lawyer, 
reconciles ma to their marriage. No 
reason is given as to why the birds attack, 
and why only this community. At the end. 
they are in possession of the hero's farm, 
and we get no clue about the future. The 
attack scenes — sparrows flooding down 
the chimney and out of the fireplace, 
crows diving on the schoolkids— are 
scary; the rest of the picture — for the 
birds. Jessica Tandy, the mother, is the 
only competent cast member. Rod Tay- 
lor, the hero, is stodgily stalwart, and. 
newcomer Tippi Hedren, the heiress, 
comes from TV commer and it 
shows. The Birds is a frazzled feather in 
Hitchcock's cap. 


Icarus Montgolfier Wright, Ray Bradbury's 
ix-page story, has becn made into a 
jmated short that runs only 18 
minutes; but like the original, the film 
distills the cssencé of mankind's urge to 
fly. On the night Before the first rocket is 
launched to the moon in 1970, the pilot 
lies dreaming, and his dream highlights 
some high points in flight history: Icarus, 
whose father fixed wings to his shoulders 
with wax, but who flew too near the sun; 
the Montgolfier brothers, 18th Century 
pioncer French balloonists; the Wright 
brothers at Kitty Hawk. When the pilot 
is asked his own name in the dream, he 
replies with the tide. Together with 
George Clayton Johnson, Bradbury has 
converted his story into a vividly visual- 
ized screen script. But the giant job has 
been done by Joe Mugniani, the well- 
known illustrator of Bradbury's books. 
From over 1000 sketches, Mugniani made 
180 paintings, which, shot from various 
angles and juxtaposed in creative mon- 
tage, are skillfully used to suggest motion 
and life — but with an added imaginative 
quality for which real actors would have 
been too real. James Whitmore and Ross 
Martin narrate. If your local Bijou 
hasn't shown this short, get the manager 
to order it (from United Artists). 


Brando Bounces Back could be the 
subtitle of The Ugly American. Marlon 
redeems the limp-larynxed lord he played 
in Mutiny on the B. with a tight-lipped 
performance as an American ambassador 
in the Far East. Stewart Stern’s screen- 
play of the Lederer-Burdick smash seller 
drags a bit and is somewhat simple- 
minded, but it still spells out a dramatic 
question: Why does the U.S. send stuffed- 
shirt staflers to win a propaganda war in 
countries where people are cool to white 
skins and warm to Red tongue-wagging? 
The big issue in Sarkhan is a U.S.- 
financed highway, which the Reds label 
a military project. Brando's big hope is 
a World War II buddy, now a Sarkhanese 
leader, but he misreads his old friend 
a new Communist, and soon trouble 
the road. As the buddy, Eiji Okada 
packs power; and Kukrit Pramoj, the 


prime minister, has the dignity of a 
Siamese cat. Jocelyn Brando (M.'s sister) 
and Pat Hingle click as a Yank couple: 
he builds the road; she runs a kids" 
clinic. The Eastman Color and George 
Englund's direction are both a bit pallid. 
But Brando wins his fight to put charac- 
ter into a slightly cardboard part — and 
he wins respect anew as a rare-type star 
who won't stay typecast, 


RECORDINGS 


We recommend a 
re-issuance of tracks gleaned from the 
Riverside library — Great Jazz Artists Play 
Compositions of (in order of their issue) 
Richard Rodgers, Cole Porter, Jerome Kern, 
George Gershwin, Herold Arlen and Irving 
Berlin (Riverside). The cast of players in- 
cludes the likes of Cannonball Adderley, 
Thelonious Monk, Bill Evans, Wes Mont- 
gomery, Charlie Byrd, Herbie Mann and 
Sonny Rollins; the compositions on hand 
read like an all-time all-time hit parade 
and are, in the main, more than given 
their due. 


A triumvirate of top chanteuses sup- 
plies large measures of lyrical kicks this 
goround. First and foremost is Some- 
thing Wonderful/Carmen McRae (Columbia) 
wherein Miss McRae salutes an octet 
of Broadway's distaff conquerors, from 
Pearl Bailey's Come Rain or Come Shine 
in St. Louis Woman to a trio originally 
offered by Gertrude Lawrence in The 
King and I (Getting to Know You, Hello 
Young Lovers and the LP's title tune) 
McRae is the McCoy throughout. June 
Christy/Big Band Specials (Capitol) finds 
Miss C. in the milieu that made her 
famous. Backed by an outsized aggrega- 
tion, June warbles her way through such 
instrumentally inclined items as Swingin’ 
on Nothin’, Night in Tunisia, Skyliner 
and Stompin’ at the Savoy. Another 
songstress back in a felicitous bailiwick 
is Dinah Washingten/Back to the Blues (Rou- 
lette). Dinah is never finah than when 
she’s wailing some indigo lament and 
this LP gives her all the room she needs 
to weave a blanket of blue. 

Sonny Stitt & The Top Brass (Atlantic) 
puts that estimable alto man smack dab 
in the middle of a brass choir and rhythm 
section that galvanizes Sonny into some 
of his best efforts in recent years. The 
group, conducted and charted by Tadd 
Dameron and Jimmy Mundy, continu- 
ally pushes Stitt into a maximum display 
of his considerable talents. The outing, 
made up primarily of originals, also con- 
tains sparkling take-outs on the antique 
Coquette and the often cornballish 
Poinciana. 


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Worthy of Your Trust 


Three Times Seven Poems, from Al- 
bert Giraud's Pierrot Lunaire (Concert-Disc), 
a Melodrama by Arnold Schoenberg, Op. 
21, is still, though it has been 50 years 
since its creation, an aural obstacle 
course to the listener. The controversial 
father of the 12-tone scale wrote it as a 
stage work for chamber-music group and 
Sprechstimme (speaking-voice). Sprechge- 
sang (speech-song) is neither speech nor 
song but a middle ground (precisely anno- 
tated by Schoenberg), a difficult assign- 
ment for mezzo-soprano Alice Howland 
who handles the German translation of 
Giraud's expressionistic poems admi- 
rably. The chamber group, under the 
direction of Herbert Zipper, has its ups 
and downs, but is usually up to the in- 
strumental explorations. The composi- 
tions do not fall easily on the ear, but 
close attention to Schoenberg’s musical 
probings will provide ample rewards, 
and the English libretto has a hauntingly 
somber beauty to it. 


Bobby Darin/You're the Reason I’m Living 
(Capitol) is a great argument for bring- 
ing the current Country-and-Western 
contagion to a halt. Here are Darin, a 
fine singer, and Shorty Rogers and Ger- 
ald Wilson, consummate jazz arrangers- 
conductors, drowning in the bathos, 
hokum and viscous sentimentality that 
typify the C&W syndrome — a woeful 
waste of talent, We think a lot of people 
have been given a Hank Snow job. 

Sonny Rollins — Our Man In Jazz (Victor) 
shows the kingpin of contemporary tenor 
men in a highly exploratory [rame of 
mind. With cornetist Don Cherry, bassist 
Bob Cranshaw and drummer Billy Hig- 
gins as aides-de-champ, Sonny eschews 
most beaten paths through Oleo, a 25- 
minute sail down a stream of conscious- 
ness that is both experimental and 
exciting. Dearly Beloved and Doxy, 
which make up side two, require a good 
deal less work from the listener; they are, 
nevertheless, refreshing fare. 


Art Farmer and the Fligelhorn have, 
by now, almost become synonymous. No 
jazz musician extant comes close to 
Farmer in realizing the instrument's rich 
potential, especially in the lower ranges. 
Listen fo Art Farmer and the Orchestra (Mer- 
cury) is a sparkling showcase for Art's 
artful horn. An orchestra whose path has 
been strikingly charted by Oliver Nelson 
is a powerful plus, but Farmer's Flügel- 
horn provides the highspots of the ses- 
sion, We dug particularly the dark 
sonorities on Street of Dreams; Rue 
Prevail, a Farmer original; and My 
Romance. 

Cannonball Adderley Sextet/Jozz Workshop 
Revisited (Riverside) brings jarrin’ Julian 
and his shock troops to the scene of 
their carlicst recording triumph. The 


San Francisco club proves as salubrious 
as ever, with the group fanning their 
creative fires on Cannonball's Primitivo, 
frère Nat's hit single, The Jive Samba, 
and a quartet of other evocative goodics. 

Mark Murphy/That's How 1 Love the Blues! 
(Riverside) is further evidence of the 
young man's growing stature as a jazz 
singer of considerable note. The LP 
ranges from the avant-garde aspects of 
the blues — the Joe Williams-Lambert, 
Hendricks & Ross take-off on the Basie- 
Rushing Going to Chicago Blues and 
Horace Silver's Señor Blues — 10 ап an- 
tique, vaudeville-born bit of nonsense, 
Everybody's Crazy "Bout the Doggone 
Blues. Murphy's phrasing supplies a flair 
and finesse which stamp him as a prime 
vocal talent, while the arrangements by 
Al Cohn add considerably to the electric 
excitement of the session, 

. 

Picking up where Dave Brubeck still 
hasn't left off, Stan Kenton's king-sized 
contingent has ctched Adventures 
(Capitol). Conventional time signatures 
topple like tenpins on this outing as the 
Kenton crew tackles 9/8, 5/4. 7/4 and 
6/8 beats that fill both sides with rhyth- 
mic surprise packages. The alto of Gabe 
Baltazar and Don Menzàa's tenor are 
especially estimable solo voices, but the 
overpowering Kenton ensemble sound is 
still The Thing. 


Time 


BOOKS 


“I have just read Tropic of Cancer 
again and feel I'd like to write you a line 
about it.” Such is the opening sentence 
of Lawrence Durrel's first letter to 
Henry Miller in 1935, and it’s the under- 
estimate of the century: That “line” is 
still going on. Their rich exchange of 
letters up to 1959 crams the 400 pages of 
Lawrence Durrell & Henry Miller: A Private 
Correspondence (Dutton, $6.95). Miller was 
43 in 1935, living in Paris, writing 
furiously because he had started late, 
convinced of his own importance, Durrell 
was 23, living on Corfu, ambitious but 
plagued by self-doubt. He asked himself: 
"Are you a writer — or merely a literary 
geng” They did not meet until two 
years later, but the letters trace their con- 
fidences before and between their meet- 
ings over the years, during their wartime 
separation and through their various 
marriages, divorces, entanglements, trav- 
els, books. Each thinks the other a 
genius, yet not infallible: After read- 
ing Sexus, Durrell cabled: sexus Dis- 
GRACEFULLY BAD WILL RUIN REFUTATION 
UNLESS WITHDRAWN REVISED LARRY. Miller 
is generous, single-minded; Durrell is 
worshipful but sporadically snappish, 
sometimes uncertain about his writing 
but generally on fue. We catch fasci- 


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nating glimpses of him unconsciously 
collecting material for the Alexandria 
Quartet. Defily edited and annotated. by 
George Wickes, the correspondence is a 
salty and moving record of writers’ lives 
in our time. The last line of Miller's last 
long letter: “To be continued.” 

In the bad old days of Louis B. Mayer, 
MGM committed many atrocities, but 
occasionally they performed a humane 
deed. One of the latter was not to pro- 
duce a screcnplay concocted in 1943 by 
enfant terrible Dore Schary and a strug- 
gling Nobel Prize winner named Sinclair 
Lewis. Now, unfortunately, years 
trading on the nostalgia for “Red 
Lewis, the recent successes of Dore Schary 
and the vogue for the screenplay-novel, 
a publishing house has resuscitated this 
bag of old bones. The screenplay, Storm 
in the West (Stein & Day, $4.95) was a non- 
adult Western which — such was Schary's 
grand illusion — was supposed to derive 
significance from the fact that actually, 
sec, it's all about World War II and per- 
sonifications of the countries and leaders 
involved. The setting is a valley in the 
West over which several landowning 
ranchers struggle for control. There are 
the weak, passive characters like Poling, 
Franson and Belger; the evil ones like 
Нуран and Михов and their podners 
Gerret and Gr att Hitler's 
brand 


vakia); and two rather British fellows 
named Ned Chambers (a forlorn type, 
lacking only the umbrella) and Wally 
Chancel, who smokes big cigars, Also 
there are Ulysses Saunders, the store- 
keeper with the goatee who waits an aw- 
fully long time to intervene, and that 
other good guy of the Forties, stolid Joc 
Slavin, who always carries around a ham- 
mer and sickle on the back of his wagon. 
If the screenplay is the epitome of soph- 
omorism, then what can be said of the 
foreword by Schary, in which (Depart- 
ment of Fascinating Insight into the 
Working Habits of Authentic Geniuses) 
he tells breathlessly of how, while they 
were creating this epic, old Red used to 
consume enormous quantities of iced 
coffee and then periodically rush off to 
relieve himself. Readers may experience 
a similar urge. 


Who is the only American author 
whose newest book could roll off the 
press with blurbs from Norman Mailer, 
Barry Goldwater, Arthur Schlesinger and 
Dean Clarence Manion? No, not Harry 
Golden, but that even more lovable 
American sage, William F. Buckley, Jr. 
It is difficult now to recall that just a 
few short years ago Buckley was the 
defender of Joe McCarthy, the scourge 
of the Yale faculty, the political outcast 
scolded by The New York Times and 
scoffed out of polite liberal dinner con- 


versation. Mr. Buckley has not since 
retreated from his far-right views. He 
has, however, appeared on the Jack Paar 
Show, gone many rounds with Gore 
Vidal in David Susskind’s ring, and flashed 
his pen across the pages of Harper's and 
PLAYBOY as well as the American Legion 
Magazine. His new collection, Rumbles 
left ond Right (Putnam, $4.95), includes 


appreciations of Barry Goldwater, ama- 
teur 


sailing, Murray Kempton, and 
malist China, and saber thrusts at 
Fidcl Castro, Jack Paar, Norman Mailer, 
and the American Establishment. Mr. 
Buckley proves, among other things, that 
the stylish pen is mightier than the 
political label, and that perhaps the best 
way of becoming part of the Establish- 
ment is to attack it. If he isn't careful, he 
may be soon awarded a grant by his old 
enemy The Ford Foundation to make a 
study of himself. 


rd Wright's first novel, Lewd Today 
‚ $3.50), bears much of the anger 
but little of the skill which sustain his 
later books. Taken simply asa new novel 
(it has never been published befor 
it is both awkward and uninteresting. 
Taken as а rough-hewn step in the 
Wright direction, it acquires a certain 
fascination. The story encompasses a sin- 
gle day in the life of Jake Jaci 
Chicago Negro. It is Lincoln's 
day, and from time to time, over the 
adio, in ironic counterpoint, are heard 
vignettes from the Great Ema 
tor’s life and struggles. The book is a 
ponderous, pitiless dissection of Јаке" 
enslavement. He awakes from а frusua 
ing dream, in which he has been climb- 
ing an endless азе. He spends an 
hour in the bathroom combing and 
greasing the kinks out of his hair— 
another futility. Then into the kitchen 
t0 down his breakfast, scan a newspaper 
and pummel his sickly wife. Then out 
for a stroll around the neighborhood. 
We see him playing a hunch on the 
numbers—and losing; playing a few 
rounds of bridge with his equally miser- 
able cronies— one suffering the pains of 
venereal disease, another wasting away 
from tuberculosis. We spend eight long 
hours with Jake at the post office, where 
he sorts mail for $21.50 a weck. Then we 
follow him and his friends to a South 
Side whorehouse and watch him get 
rolled by a “high yellow” whom Wright 
has named Blanche. The odious odyssey 
ends in a drunken and bloody sct-to 
with his wife. In Wright's grim vision, 
everything happens fo Jake, nothing 
happens because of him. He is a victim 
of a world he never made, without a 
single weapon at his disposal for chang- 
ing it, or himself. “Lawd,” says his wife, 
gazing forlornly at Jake's stuporous hulk, 
“1 wish I was dead." It is a last-ditch 
hope for eternal emancipation. 


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THE PLAYBOY ADVISOR 


"Tuis may sound like a silly question, 
but I mean it in all seriousness and hope 
you'll give me a serious answer. Do you 
think it is possible to fall in love with a 
girl you have never met? Once upon a 
time I would have scoffed at the idea, 
but I swear it has happened to me. Six 
months ago, when I was down in the 
dumps over a busted romance, a female 
friend gave me the name and address of 
a former roommate of hers who's living 
on the East Coast—she said the girl 
wrote amusing letters and might, per- 
haps, cheer me up. Well, she answered 
my initial letter with a warm and 
friendly one of her own, our correspond- 
ence gradually increased in frequency, 
and almost before 1 knew what was hap- 
pening I found myself falling in love 
with her. She's sent me her picture, and 
in both it and her letters I'm sure I can 
read real character and a passionate na- 
ture. During my next vacation I plan to 
fly to New York, where she's agreed to 
meet me. My buddies tell me I'm nuts 
and say that I'm kidding myself if I 
think I'm in love and that Im wasting 
the transcontinental round-trip air fare 
to find out she’s not the girl for me, I'm 
enough of a realist to think that just 
possibly they may be right—and yet 
every time I get another letter from her 
my heart misses a beat. Will I be making 
а fool of myself by paying her this flying 
visit?— K. B., Los Angeles, California. 
Not at all. Just don’t set your sight- 
unseen hopes too high, since girls on 
paper and in person are often two dif- 
ferent people. But you know by your 
correspondence that you and she have 
a number of similar interests, so who can 
tell? At the very least, you should have a 
swinging vacation in New York. 


Bm planning а vacation in England, 
and I'm ordering a car to use there and 
bring home. Naturally it will be left- 
d drive. Will I be at a serious dis- 
advantage on British roads?—T. K., 
Tampa, Florida. 

No. You'll be used to driving on what 
is for the British the wrong side of the car 
and what is for you the wrong side of the 
road within an hour. Furthermore, there 
is а distinct advantage: British law does 
not really concede the existence of the 
turn. indicator, although all British cars 
have them. British drivers are required 
to make definite hand signals to indicate 
turns, slowing, stopping, ete. Driving 
from the left side excuses one from this 
John Bull-headed shaggy dogma. 


Bm a junior. junior executive in a 
rather large corporation. I have a yen to 
grow a beard, but, in casing the executive 


echelons, I note a conspicuous absence 
of chin shrubbery. Will I be put down 
as an oddball, and will my chances of 
advancement be jeopardized if I go the 
beard route? — C. S., Detroit, Michigan. 

If your job is one involving outside 
business contacts, forget the foliage; 
mast companies frown on beards as an 
unnecessary handicap in dealing with 
people whose prejudices are not a known 
quantity. But even if your job involves 
only contact with your employers and 
fellow employees, we suggest that you 
place a moratorium on building up a 
beaver until you've advanced out of the 
junior, junior class. By the time you 
reach a slightly higher stratum, your 
abilities (as well as your personality and 
personal habits) will be better known; 
then you can grow a beard with impunity 
and join the estimable ranks of Com- 
mander Whitehead, Peter Ustinov, Jim 
Moran, Skitch Henderson, John Stein- 
beck and PLAYBOY’s own Shel Silverstein 


Bling an intellectual, my only concern 
in high school was academic activity. But 
now that I’m in college, I have discov- 
ered the female of the species. Therein 
lies my problem: I don't know any sweet 
little nothings to say to girls. Perhaps you 
could supply me with a few such phrases 
that would enable me to master the fair 
зех. — С. C., Ann Arbor, Michigan. 
Sure. One little nothing we've had a 
lot of luck with is 2x*—y?—2x --y*—0. 
Another good one with less intellectual 
girls is that old reliable "three plus one, 
take away four." Actually, there are no 
pat formulas for mastering the fair sex. 
Our own playmates dislike idle chitchat 
and a “line,” preferring, instead, sincerity 
and the discovery of mutual interests. A 
good way to get things started is to evi- 
dence considerable interest in your date 
by asking her about herself, about her 
ideas and attiiudes on various subjects, 
etc. People are usually interested in those 
who show an interest in them and it will 
be doubly flattering to a girl's ego to 
have an intellectual seriously asking her 
for her opinion. As a scholar, you may 
recall a Latin proverb from Persius, 
which pretty well sums up the value of 
sweet little nothings: “De nihilonihilum” 
—"From nothing comes nothing.” 


Ша what circumstances is it correct 
to sport a stickpin in one's tie? — B. C., 
Boulder, Colorado. 

Since stickpins ате a personal-prefer- 
ence item, no hard and fast rules pertain 
to their use, other than the general dic- 
tum that they are more often worn with 
dress clothes than with sportswear. To- 
day, incidentally, original Edwardian and 


positively 
crackles 
with 


PLAYBOY 


54 


"| E Victorian stickpins are enjoying a vogue 
How did you remember | 277... пем эре 


"Fo begin with, I am a 27-ycarold 
medical-school graduate presently search- 
ing for a residency. While interning in 
California 1 have become involved with 
a young divorcee who found, after her 
marriage, that—as she puts it—her 
husband was not really a man. Now she 
wants to marry me, although I made it 
е clear from the start that I am not 
interested in settling down. How do I 
divorce mysclf from this situation with 
out hurting her too much?—H. K. 
Alhambra, California. 

This, doctor, is a case for merciful but 
prompt surgery. The sooner you cut this 
girl out of your life, the better for both 
of you. (As a professional, you should 
realize the psychological implications of 
your own phrase, "she wants to marry 
me,” es opposed to the more natural 
statement, “she wants me to marry her”) 
As for how to make the operation as 
painless as possible, we suggest you anes- 
thetize her with some sincere flattery 
about what a fine wife she is going to 
make someone, then make a quick inci- 
sion by felling her that you, like her 
former husband, are not the man for 
her. If the job is done properly, her scar 
should heal nicely. Just be sure you don’t 
get involved in postoperative treatment. 


Bin in a kind of social bind that has me 
thoroughly perplexed. A new group of 
friends I've become very fond of are, for 
the most part, young marrieds. I enjoy 
their company and they all do quite a bit 
of entertaining, which I also find most 
enjoyable. However, the wives and hus- 
bands are forever giving their spouses 
birthday parties, and it scems to be an 
unwritten rule that no small trinket or 
gag gilt is considered appropriate. In 
fact, these people almost seem to vie with 
one another in the munificence of their 
gifting. I really haven't the money to buy 
expensive presents, although I've been 
doing my best w keep up with these 
charming and delightful people. How- 
ever, Christmas was the last straw: six 
parties in three 5, with the same gang 
at all of them, gifting each other all over 
the place. Can you think of any way for 
me to maintain my position in this clique 
without going broke?—W. S., Palm 
Beach, Florida. 

Only by displaying more candor than 
you seem to have done so far—if you 
don’t mind sharing the news that you are 
not in the same financial league as your 
new friends. It will then remain to be 
seen whether you are a genuinely liked 
person; also, whether you and your 
wealthier pals will be comfortable with 
one another when you've stopped pre- 
tending you can spend right along with 
them. The results of this leveling will 


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tell you quickly whether they really are 
as delightful as you think. 


Bim a person of average income who has 
just met a very rich, spoiled, attractive, 
wild 23-year-old girl of local importance. 
I get along admirably with her parents 
and friends, and have a near-perfect “no 
holds barred” relationship with her. 
Here's the problem: She talks incessantly 
about sex and her whole life is dominated 
by it. She runs around with everyone, be 
they young or old, married or single, 
Americans or foreigners. Now I'm no 
prude, but a guy expects a little demure- 
ness and discretion from a girl he is get- 
ting more than sexually attracted to. 
What should I do to confine her passions 
and interests to myself? She has said to 
me, “I love you and will eventually 
marry you, but meanwhile let me sample 
all the fruits which I'll have to deny my- 
self after marriage.” (Next year, possibly.) 
Should I accept the situation as is or is 
there a way to alter it more to my liking? 
I have no intention of breaking the 
relationship. — I. R., Portland, Maine. 

Continue the present relationship if it 
suits you, but you'd do well to put out 
of your mind any serious, long-range in- 
tentions with this neurotic litile swinger. 
While you may be getting your kicks 
now, you'll be kicking yourself the rest 
of your life if you two tie the knot—a 
girl who demonstrates her love prior to 
marriage by dispensing her charms to all 
the neighborhood lads isn’t apt to change 
her ways thereafter. 


ММ... are the basic rules for wearing 
, solid-color or paucrned hand- 
f with suits and sports jackets? — 
R. P, Mayport, Florida. 

Currently, patterned squares (sartori- 
ally very unsquare) are worn loosely 
gathered in the jacket breast pocket, 
either in direct contrast to the solid tie 
or as a coordinate of the shirting color. 
Solid-color handkerchiefs are put to best 
use when the nechtie is heavily patterned 
and the suit patterned as well. Although 
the white handherchief is still worn, it is 
not nearly as popular as it once was. 


М, wite and т have separated after 
less than a year of marriage. We are 
nearly 30, both work, and have no 
children. We both want a divorce but 
her demands for a settlement, in my esti- 
mation, are quite out of proportion. As 
it happens, I know some rather "un- 
pleasant" details about her life prior to 
our marriage. Do you think I could use 
these facts to force her to agree to a 
more reasonable settlement? Or would 
that be less than gentlemanly? — B. K., 
Chicago, Illinois. 

Less than gentlemanly, hell. It sounds 
to us like blackmail. Whether those “un- 
pleasant” details can be used in court is 


another matter — a matter for your attor- 
ney to decide. 


Hs frequent usc of an automatic record 
changer apt to cause scratching and 
other wear and tear on one’s records? In 
other words, is it wiser to use just a turn- 
table and manual tone агт? — N. W., 
Chicago, Mlinois. 

Ii depends on the record changer 
There are quality changers, with vibra- 
tion-free motors and mechanisms, in 
which the tone arm is completely di; 
gaged during record play. These should 
cause no more wear on records than a 
manual tone arm, especially if the auto- 
matic arm is made to track at pressures of 
3 grams or less. Changers that are not as 
carefully designed rely on heavier stylus 
pressure and the changer mechanism 
exerts lateral force on the tone arm, 
which can cause record wear. As for 
scratching, most of il is inflicted by 
humans; the gentle action of a good 
changer is less likely to cause mayhem 
than the heavy touch of Homo sapiens. 


WW nac can 1 do about a girl who has 
plans to marry me in the very near fu- 
ture? I feel the same way she does about 
marriage, but not about the date. 1 am 
still in college and naturally want to 
finish the year 1 have remaining. But I 
can't make her understand how impracti- 
cal — financially and otherwise — it would 
be to marry now, and she insists that the 
date be set within the month (to keep the 
record straight, this is not a shotgun sit- 
uation). 1 have strong feelings for the 
girl and would not like to lose her. Any 
suggestions? — B. R., Albany, New York. 

It would be a mistake to татту this 
or any other girl before you complete 
your schooling and havc made al least a 
meaningful first step toward establishing 
yourself in your chosen career. If this 
girl is unwilling to wait for you to first 
establish the firm academic and financial 
foundation upon which a good mar- 
riage is built, you should probably have 
some second thoughts about her suita- 
bility as a wife. In any working marriage, 
the husband should have the final word 
and be the ultimate authority; if at this 
slage of the game she is giving you a hard 
lime on a matter of practical judgment, 
the contretemps may bode ill for the fu- 
ture. More than her feelings are at stake 
here, and you should look most carefully 
before you leap. 

All reasonable questions — from. fash- 
ion, food and drink, hi-fi and sporis cars 
to dating dilemmas, taste and etiquette 
— will be personally answered if the 
writer includes a stamped, self-addressed 
envelope. Send all leiters to The Playboy 
Advisor, Playboy Building, 232 E. Ohio 
Street, Chicago П, Illinois. The most 
provocative, pertinent queries will be 
presented on these pages each month. 


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55 


Her age is a secret, ours isn't! 


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86.8 PROOF, © 1953 SCHENLEY OISTILLERS CO. КҮС. 


ss DILLY WILDER 


a candid conversation with the master of filmic seriocomedy 


For solo and collaborative efforts as 
director and. scenarist, Billy Wilder has 
been nominated 24 times for Academy 
Awards, amassing nine Oscars during 28 
years in the movie capital. Recently 
PLAYBOY interviewed him in his suite of 
offices on the Goldwyn lot in downtown 
Hollywood, where he and co-writer 
LA.L. Diamond — having just com- 
pleted "Irma La Douce" — were brain- 
storming over the script for his next 
picture. They would be working and 
reworking it right up to the final day of 
shooting, for Wilder has conceded that 
although he always knows where he's 
going with his plots, he's never quite sure 
how he’s going to get there. Between 
intermitient sips of a vodka martini, 
he answered our questions with a rapid- 
fire delivery reminiscent of the brisk 
dialog from one of his own films. He 
strode restless) up and down as he 
spoke, slapping his thigh occasionally 
with an ornately carved walking stick, 
his colloquial English enunciated in the 
guttural accents which still bespeak his 
beginnings as a struggling screenwriter 
in Berlin between the wars. Much of 
Wilder's work — from such eminently 
unfunny films as “The Lost Weekend,” 
“Double Indemnity” and “Sunset Boule- 


ul 
"To make pictures in Europe would be 
like going to a cathouse not as a lover 
but to fix the plumbing. I go to Europe 
for fun, not to work.” 


vard” to such comedic tours de force as 
“Some Like It Hot,” “The Apartment” 
and “One, Two, Three” — has been 
touched by a cynicism which reflects the 
mood of that worldly city during the 
Twenties. We began with an exploration 
of these carly years and influences. 
PLAYBOY: Are you conscious of any kin- 
ship in your films or your philosophy, as 
several critics have suggested, with the 
savage satire of Bertolt Brecht, or with 
the intellectual cynicism he articulated 
for his gencration? 

wiper: I knew him in Germany, and I 
knew him when he lived for a time here 
in Hollywood, and I regard him with 
Mr. Shaw — George Bernard, not Irwin 
— as one of the monumental dramatists 
of this first half-century, but I was never 
aware that he influenced me. Brecht was 
dealing with enormous subjects of the 
hungry, exploited masses which neither 
my brain nor my attentionspan can 
cope with. His was a much vaster canvas 
than mine. After all, was Mickey Spil- 
lane influenced by Tolstoy? "That's Leo 
Nikolaevich, not Irwin. If there was 
any influence on me in those days. it 
must have come more from American 
books and plays I read. One of the most 


“I saw a picture about sex the other day. 
It was a crashing bore. Unless treated with 
humor, wit and gaiety, even sex is unbe- 
lievably dull. I can’t take it seriously.” 


popular writers was Upton Sinclair. I 
read him, and Sinclair Lewis, Bret Harte, 
Mark Twain, I was also influenced by 
Erich von Stroheim and by Ernst Lu- 
bitsch, with whom I first worked on 
Bluebeard's Eighth Wife. But I don't 
believe I have been influenced by the 
cynicism of the times or even shown 
any of it on the screen. When they say 
that I have, they could be referring to, 
say, Double Indemnity, but this was done 
from a short story by James M. Cain, an 
American, It is not sugar-coated, my 
work, but I certainly don’t sit down and 
say, “Now I am going to make a vicious, 
imental picture.” 

PLAYBOY: As a native-born Viennese, you 
were already living in one of Europe's 
principal artistic and cultural capitals. 
What made you leave it to go to Berlin? 
WIDER: Simple. After опе year at the 
University in Vienna, I became a space- 
rates reporter. Paul Whiteman played a 
concert in town, liked my review, and 
took me along to Berlin with him. There 
I danced as a gigolo for a while in the 
Eden Hotel, and at the Adlon I served 
asa teatime partner for lonely old ladies. 
PLAYBOY: How did you make the transi- 
tion from dance floor to sound stage? 

WILDER: Well, before long I got another 


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reporting job. I was already trying to 
break into film writing, but having as 
much luck as the New York Mets. Dur- 
ing this time I was living in a rooming 
house where there was a daughter who 
was engaged but also playing around a 
little on the side. One night her fiancé 
came pounding at the front door. I was 
in bed— my own bed — asleep, and be- 
fore I knew what was going on, she had 
pushed this scared old man with his 
shoes in his hand into my room while 
she went to answer the front door and 
admit Helmut or I or whatever his 
name was. I recognized the old man 
immediately as the head of the company 
called Maxim Films. He looked at mc 
sheepishly and said, "Have you got a 
shoehorn?” I said, "I have a shoehorn, 
but I also have this script I would like 
you to read.” “Yes, yes, send it along to 
the office,” he said. "No. Now,” I said, 
so he sat down and read it, and he gave 
me 500 marks for it on the spot, and I 
gave him my shoehorn. After a while 
Helmut went away and he was able to 
sneak out, and that was how my film 
career began. Soon I was up to my ears 
in movies. І must have written 50 silent 
pictures; sometimes I did two a month. 
One, People on Sunday, directed by 
Robert Siodmak, ill shown in places 
where they call movies "the cinema." 
PLAYBOY: This was about the time when 
Hitler began his rise to power. Did politi- 
cal events have any effect on your career? 
миев, They ended it. I was having my 
dinner in the Kempinski Hotel the day 
after the Reichstag fire. I knew I had 
to get out. The Nazis were getting too 
warm. I rolled up the paintings I was 
collecting, packed a small bag and got on 
the train to Paris. A year later I came 
to the United States. I've been here 
ever since and eventually found my way 
to Hollywood. 

PLAYBOY: Your long-time collaborator, 
Charles Brackett, once said your work 
was characterized by “ап exuberant vul- 
garity.” What is your own appraisal? 
WILDER: Did you read that piece by some- 
body called Simon — or Irwin — who 
really crapped all over me in Theatre 
Arts? It boiled down to this: what he 
objected to was not the vulgarity in my 
art but the lack of art in my vulgarity. 
I have been pursued for ycars by that 
nasty word there. The bad-taste thing. 
They sit there in the theater and laugh 
their heads off, and then they go out and. 
say, “Cheap! Vulgar!” Then they go and 
see Pillow Talk and pronounce it ur- 
bane humor. Maybe my work is a little 
robust, but one has to work with what 
one has. It would be disaster if I used 
the sugar tongs and tried to regiment 
myself into something unnatural for mc. 
PLAYBOY: Less critically, Brackett has also 
id that you have a "sure sense of audi- 
ence reaction." Do you feel that's true? 


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WILDER: When you start a movie script, 
it's like entering a dark room: You may 
find your way around all right, but you 
also may fall over a piece of furniture 
and break your neck. Some of us can see 
a little better than others in the dark, 
but there is no guaranteeing audience 
reaction. I've been lucky; I've taken 
a lot of chances in treading on new 
ground which could have slipped out 
from under me. Though Гуе got away 
with it about 90 percent of the time, 
1 don't flatter myself that I can hit all 
the time. But I have to live in the hope 
— or perhaps under the delusion — that 
if 1 like it, a great many other people 
will like it, too. 

PlAYBOY- Your films in this country have 
been written in collaboration. Why? 
WILDER: Here I have the handicap of 
working in a new language — even alter 
28 years. Then there is the question of 
time. A movie is not like a novel. Some- 
times the publisher may want to bring 
a novel out by Christmas; but in films 
we always have time limitations. Certain 
stars are available at a certain time, 
so you have, say, six months to write a 
screenplay. If theyre compatible, two 
people can stimulate each other and get 
it done a little faster and, most of the 
time, better. 

PLAYBOY: A friend of yours once said 
"Billys collaborators are $50,000 secre- 
taries." Is your creative hand really that 
authoritative in writing a scenario? 
wiper: First of all, whoever said that 
is no friend of mine. If that were the 
case I would hire my relatives and make 
the money I give them tax-deductible, 
at least. But my collaborator, Iz Dia- 
mond, and I work together from the 
word go, and after it's done it cannot be 
said that this was his idea, this was mine, 
this was my joke, this was his. It all 
occurs together, like playing a piano 
piece four-handed. 

PLAYBOY: Since your native language is 
not English, how have you managed to 
become so adept at ma 
ances of the American comi 
элш: If you think J have an accent 
— which unquestionably I do— you 
should have heard Ernst Lubitsch. But 
he had a wonderful ear for American 
idiom and dialog. You either have an 
ear or you don't, as Van Gogh said — 
that’s Irwin, not Vincent. 1 suppose I 
have it. Many foreigners do. When I 
arrived in the U.S., I couldn't speak 
a word of English. Well, let's say 1 knew 
a dozen the Johnson Office wouldn't 
tolerate. T learned by not associating 
myself with the European refugee col- 
ony, by going around with new Ameri- 
can friends, by listening to the radio. 
Perhaps it helps you to learn the lan- 
guage if you go into it cold. It pours 
into you and. it stays. 

тдүвоү: Bucking the trend toward over- 
seas location pictures, you've said you 


prefer to make movies right here in 
Hollywood. Why? Wouldn't you save 
thousands on budgets by filming abroad? 
WILDER: To make pictures in Europe 
would be like going to a cathouse not 
as a lover but to fix the plumbing. I go 
to Europe for fun, not to work, But 
seriously, it’s much easier technically to 
shoot a picture in Hollywood. If you're 
going to perform a delicate operation, 
why not do it in the best hospital? 
PLAYBOY. Many moviemakers claim to 
have found an intellectual stimulation 
and creative freedom in Europe that's 
unattainable in Hollywood. Have you? 
WILDER: Remember, the movic scripts that 
Hollywood people go to Europe to shoot 
are still written in Hollywood, don’t 
forget. So they make La Dolce Vita in 
Rome; but they also make Hercules and 
the Seven Dwarfs. As for freedom, all the 
Mirisch Company asks me is the name 
of my picture, a vague outline of the 
story, and who's going to be in it. The 
rest is up to me; can you get morc frec- 
dom than that? And as for there being 
more intellectual stimulation in Europe, 
some of my best friends have gone to 
Europe and then to seed intellectually. 
I don’t believe any of that “intellectual 
stimulus" crap. Take Confucius—he 
said some pretty stimulating things, but 
he never got to Paris in his life. 
тлүвоү: Hollywoodians often speak en- 
viously of you as a man of uncompro- 
mising standards. How is it that you and 
a few other film makers have managed 
to resist the pressures of compromise? 
WILDER: To me, it is a matter of dollars 
and cents. It doesn’t have only to do 
with Hollywood, it has to do with a 
man’s approach to the problem of mak- 
ing those dollars and cents. Some com- 
promise, some do not. Look at Fel 
He cleaned up with La Dolce Vita. 
When I saw it I couldn't decide if it was 
the greatest or dreariest picture I'd ever 
seen, and finally 1 decided it was both. 
A remarkable film, excellent because he 
had stuck to his own principles. But the 
worst thing that can happen to us in 
this business is if a dog picture makes a 
hit, then we all have to make dog pic- 
tures because the people with the money 
trust dogs. But if one like Fellini’s makes 
a hit, it is the greatest thing — as long as 
it is not loaded with the stars who are 
always advertising themselves in the 
trades. It's a question of money, and yet 
it is not a question of moncy anymore in 
Hollywood. The beauty of our capitalist 
system is that you can’t keep what you 
make even if you make a lousy picture 
that's a hit; so why not try to make 
something good? "Today's capitalist sys- 
tem is for those who already have the 
money, not for those who are making 
it. There is really very little use in my 
working, since I can't keep the money. 
I can never get richer than I am. So 
why am I beating my brains out? I 


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go to the studio because I can't stand 
listening to my wife's vacuum cleaner at 
home, and also because I can't find 
three bridge partners or somebody to 
go to the ball game with. Also I work 
to waylay some of the phonies from 
getting Academy Awards. 

тдүвоү: How do you view the decline of 
Hollywood as the world movie capital? 
wiper: The future of major studios as 
we have known them, I view with tre- 
mendous pessimism. They are all but 
dead. But that makes me optimistic. The 
breakup of the major studios, the advent 
of the independent producers, and the 
growing influence of really good foreign 
films —all these developments are very 
much for the best. 

тлүвоү: Analytically inclined reviewers 
are fond of “discovering” secondary 
levels of social and satirical comment 
in your films, even in the comedies. Do 
you consciously inject such messages? 
wiper: I am not really a message man. 
Pictures like Love in the Afternoon and 
Sabrina are not in any way a comment 
on the world. Maybe The Apartment 
had a few things to say about our society, 
but it was not meant to be a deep-search- 
ing exploration of how we are. On cer- 
tain levels, once in a while, maybe we 
smuggle in a little contraband message, 
but we try never to jump in their faces 
with our naked pretensions showing, be- 
cause they'll recoil In certain pictures 
I do hope they'll leave the theater a lit- 
tle enriched, but I never make them pay 
a buck-and-a-half and then ram a lecture 
down their throats. In Munich not long 
ago 1 saw Chaplin's Limelight for the 
first time; it was never shown on the 
West Coast, and I was anxious to see 
it. A girl in our party said she had seen 
it cight times, and later I told her I 
knew how she felt, because I saw it once 
and it seemed like eight times. 1 found. 
it completely shallow and commonplace. 
If only he had stuck to comedy. In the 
silents he never philosophized. In sound 
he never stopped philosophizing; when 
he finally found a voice to say what was 
on his mind, it was like a child writing 
lyrics to Beethoven's Ninth. I found it 
shocking to think that he was attacked 
for his political convictions and forced 
to leave the U.S. when everything he 
was saying was on a grammarschool 
level. Mind you, I still think he was 
an authentic genius, and I would do 
a picture with him today for frec — if 
he would only shut up. 

PLAYBOY: Some critics have asserted that 
you do have a message: that man is 
essentially mean. Playwright George 
Axelrod has said flatly that you yourself 
are mean, that “he sees the worst in 
everybody, and he sees it funny.” True? 
wiper: I cop the Fifth. There are cer- 
tain traits in certain characters that 
make them interesting to me, but I 
don't think 1 go too far from reality 


in emphasizing their meanness. I stylize, 
maybe, but not too much. And if I'm 
so mean personally, how come I've man- 
aged to go through life with a good 
number of very close friends? 

PLAYBOY; Though it certainly didn't 
dwell on the subject of human mea 
ness, One, Two, Three was an incisive 
satire of both sides involved in the Cold 
War. Were you concerned, while filming 
in Berlin, that the authorities on one 
side or the other might cause trouble? 
wiper: We got to Berlin the day they 
sealed off the Eastern sector and 
wouldn't let people come across the 
border. It was like making a picture in 
Pompeii with all the lava coming down. 
Khrushchev was even faster than me and 
Diamond. We had to make continuous 
revisions to keep up with the headlines. 
It seemed to me that the whole thing 
could have been straightened out if Oleg 
Cassini had sent Mrs. Khrushchev a new 
dress. But we weren't afraid of creating 
an inddent like Mr. Paar. We minded 
our manners and were good boys. When 
they told us we couldn't use the Bran- 
denburg Gate in Berlin, we went to 
Munich and built our own. 

PLAYBOY: Was there any negative reaction 
to the picture as a flip treatment of a 
serious subject? 

мирев: Of course. There is a little 
group of people who always say I'm not 
Spinoza. The thinner the magazine, the 
fatter the heads of the reviewers. They 
were shocked because we made fun of 
the Cold War. Others objected because 
it was very quick-paced and they could 
not catch everything, People either 
loved it or hated it. 

PLAYBOY: Why did you switch to comedy 
after establishing yourself as a director 
of such grimly ironic dramas as Double 
Indemnity and Sunset Boulevard? 
WILDER: Tt wasn't done deliberately. What 
1 make depends on what tickles me at 
the moment — and what I hope will 
show a profit But I will be making 
serious pictures again; this is a warning. 
PLAYBOY: You seem to enjoy taking heavy 
subjects — the Cold War, transvestitism, 
adultery, prison camps—and turning 
them into funny pictures, What is your 
attraction to such themes, and how do 
you manage to make them funny? 
WIDER: It’s not the subject as such, 
it's the treatment. Those thin-magazi 
people I mentioned before said Some 
Like It Hot had homosexual overtones 
as well as transvestite undertones, Well, 
1 know that transvestites are cases for 
Krafft-Ebing, but to me they are terribly 
funny. Wasn't Charlie's Aunt one of the 
most successful comedies ever written? 
The stronger the basic story, the better 
the jokes play against it. 1 think the 
funniest picture the Marx Brothers ever 
made was 4 Night at the Opera, be- 
cause opera is such a deadly serious 
background. I saw a picture about sex 


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the other day. It was a crashing bore. 
Unless treated with humor, wit and 
gaiety, even sex is unbelievably dull. 
I can't take it seriously. I'm not talking 
about love, mind you, but about sex. 
PLAYBOY: You have been accused of play- 
ing down to your audiences, via the use 
of puns and slapstick. Do you? 

wider: You run into people who shud- 
der when you make a pun, but it’s only 
because they can't make one themselves. 
I don't make pictures for the so-called 
intelligentsia; they bore the ass off me. 
I think they're all phonies, and it de- 
lights me to be unpopular with them. 
"They are pretentious mezzo-brows. My 
pictures scem to appeal more to the 
true highbrows and lowbrows. 1 happen 
to think that puns and slapstick are 
funny. Those who look down on it and 
on me, they are overestimating me, they 
are overestimating my ambition in life. 
I have at no time regarded myself as 
one of the artistic immortals. I am just 
making movies to entertain people and 
I try to do it as honestly as I can. I 
don't want anything more rewarding 
than to travel halfway around the world, 
as I did, and hear them roaring at Hol. 
That was good cnough for me. 

PLAYBOY: Your films have been criticized 
for being overloaded with visual bits of 
business and breakneck action. Truc? 
WILDER: I am not James McNeill Whistler. 
Nor am 1 O'Neill — Irwin, not Eugene. 
I hate to have people face each other 
and talk-talk-talk-talk-talk, even if they 
are in a moving taxicab. I make moving 
pictures. On the other hand, you will 
not find in my pictures any phony 
camera moves or fancy setups to prove 
that I am а moving-picture director. My 
characters don't rush around for the 
sake of being busy. I like to believe 
that movement can be achieved elo- 
quently, elegantly, economically and 
logically without shooting from a hole 
in the ground, without hanging the cam- 
era from the chandelier and without the 
camera dolly dancing a polka. 

PLAYBOY: The fast plot pace and dialog 
which have characterized your last three 
pictures have become for the public the 
expected ingredients of a Wilder movie. 
Are you concerned about being typecast, 
or about the possibility 
tried-and-true comic situations for the 
sake of a sure laugh? 

WILDER: If you develop a certain style 
you inevitably repeat yourself to some 
extent— but never consciously. Every 
writer-director with his own distinctive 
ignature will do things reminiscent of 
pictures he has done before. But I would 
never do it intentionally. Iz and I al- 
ways try to be original, though some- 
i do say, "Remember when we 
and then do a switch on it. 
But I would never do a remake of one 
of my own pictures. I never even look 
at my pictures after theyre finished — 


not on 35 millimeter, not on 16 milli- 
meter, not on сїрїї millimeter. All 1 
have are a few bound scripts at home 
which are gathering dust there. Witness 
for the Prosecution was on television 
a few Sundays ago and I would have 
dreaded to look at it again. It would 
have made me sick. 

PLAYBOY: Are there any of your own pic- 
tures to which you're still partial? 
wiper: As soon as I'm donc, I go on 
to something else. But there are certain 
parts in a few of them which I remem- 
ber with fondness: maybe parts of Sun- 
set Boulevard and Double Indemnity; 
some of Lost Weekend and Hot. I also 
like the runt of my litter, Ace in the 
Hole. It didn't make a nickel here even 
after we changed the title to The Big 
Carnival, but it cleaned up in Europe 
and won at the Venice Festival, But be- 
lieve me, most of the time I remember 
only the booboos I’ve committed. 
PLAYBOY: Many of the stars you've worked 
with have vowed they would “work for 
Billy for nothing.” Which of them have 
you most enjoyed working with? 
WILDER: Promises, promises. If they would 
work for me for nothing, I wish they 
would tell that to their agents. But I 
have enjoyed working with nearly all of 
them, with just a few exceptions. There 
have even been some pleasant surprises. 
Outstanding among them Gloria 
Swanson. You must remember that this 
was a star who at one time was carried 
in a sedan chair from her dressing room 
to the sound stage. When she married 
the Marquis de la Falaise and came by 
boat from Europe to New York and by 
train from there to Hollywood, people 
were strewing rose petals on the railroad 
tracks in her direction. She'd been one 
of the all-time stars, but when she re- 
turned to the screen in Sunset, she 
worked like a dog. Or take Shirley 
MacLaine; she was infected with that 
onetake Rat-Pack all-play-and-no-work 
nonsense, but when she came to work 
for Iz and me in The Apartment, she got 
serious and worked as hard as anybody. 
Now she’s playing drama. And of course 
Lemmon 1 could work with forever. 
Some stars I have trouble with, of course, 
but it can’t be avoided because, after all, 
they are actors. In Sabrina, Bogart gave 
me some bad times, but he was a needler 
anyway and he somehow got the idea 
that Bill Holden, Audrey Hepburn and 
T were in cahoots against him. Bill at 
one point was ready to kill him. Eventu- 
ally we smoothed it out and everything 
worked out well. But in most cases there 
haven't been any problems. In fact, one 
of the things I am proud of is that ten- 
sion is totally absent from my sets. Peo- 
ple extend themselves to do their best 
when they're happy, and I feel it's my 
job to make them fecl that way. 
PLAYBOY: Are there any stars you haven't 
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direct in a movie? 

wiper: Sure. Grant — Cary, not Irwin. I 
thought I had him for Sabrina, but at 
the last minute he changed his mind and 
told me he wouldn't do it, although I 
never found out why; so the part had to 
be rewritten for Bogart. And I'd like to 
work with Brando. If he wanted me, and. 
we could have a meeting of the minds, it. 
would be worthwhile to take a little 
beating just to have him in a picture. 
Jackie Gleason — one of the great, great 
talents. Dean Martin is a doll. Chaplin 
of course. And Guinness— an aristocrat: 
I would like to work with him. And 
Peter Sellers . . . but I think 1 am going 
to be working with him; Iz and I are 
planning our picture after Irma La 
Douce with Sellers. 

PLAYBOY: What are your movie plans after 
Irma and the Peter Sellers picture? 
wnoer, Iz and I bought an Italian play, 
L'Hora della Fantasia; it takes place in 
the 18th Century, but we are going to 
do it in the present. After that, who 
knows? Maybe I'll rest a while, then it 
will be a year before I'm ready to do the 
next onc, or at least six to nine months. 
PLAYBOY: What will you do with yourself 
during the interim? Isn't it true that 
when youre between pictures you've 
been known to volunteer your services 
to other producers and directors? 
wupm: Only when asked. І enjoy mak- 
ing movies, I enjoy the problems. If 
I'm not working on something of my 
own and someone calls me up and s 
"Look here, Billy, I have a problem, 
I will try to do what I can to help out. 
I'm restless. My stomach hurts when I'm 
working, but it also hurts when I'm 
not. It's exasperating — І should get into 
something else. But that's the way it is, 
and I'm stuck with it. After 30 years 
ing films I'm used to trouble 
ell-acquainted with grief. 

Do you remember my telling you 
earlier about that rooming house I lived 
in when I first was trying to get into 
the movies in Berlin? Well, next to my 
room was the can, and in it was a toilet 
that was on the blink. Ihe water kept 
running all night long. 1 would lie there 
and listen to it, and since I was young 
and romantic, I'd imagine it was а 
beautiful waterfall— just to get my 
mind off the monotony of it and the 
thought of its being a can. Now we dis- 
solve to 25 years later and 1 am finally 
rich enough to take a cure at Bad- 
gastein, the Austrian spa, where there 
is the most beautiful waterfall in the 
whole world. There | am in bed, listen- 
ing to the waterfall. And after all 1 
have been through, all the trouble and 
all the money I've made, all the awards 
and everything else, there 1 am in that 
resort, and all I can think of is that 
goddamned toilet. That, like the man 
says, is the story of my life. 


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THE PLAYBOY PHILOSOPHY 


the seventh part of a statement in which playboy's editor-publisher spells out—for friends 
and critics alike—our guiding principles and editorial credo 


IN EXPRESSING OUR VIEWS about the im- 
portance of the individual and his free- 
dom in а free America, we have pointed 
out how essential a total separation of 
church and state is to our concept of 
democracy. We have also tried to show 
how religiously inspired puritanism has 
been allowed to subtly undermine cer- 
tain of our most precious freedoms. No- 
where is this more insidiously dangerous 
than in the continuing erosion of our 
Constitutionally guaranteed rights to 
free speech and press, for it is these 
freedoms that assure the protection of 
all our other freedoms. It is for this rea- 
son that we are personally opposed to 
censorship in any form. 

"The U. S. Constitution and the Bill of 
Rights assure these freedoms and our 
legislatures, courts and officials of gov- 
ernment continue to pay lip service to 
their protection, but in the brief life- 
time of this nation, exceptions have 
been introduced — small cracks in the 
wall that encircles and protects our de- 
mocracy's ideals — cracks that will surely 
spread, and thus weaken and eventually 
destroy the wall, if they are not mended. 

The right of the individual to speak 
and write what is on his mind — to ex- 
press himself freely and without fear of 
any action against him by his gov- 
ernment—does not allow for any 
exceptions. "It is time enough for the 
rightful purposes of civil government,” 
wrote Thomas Jefferson, “for its officers 
to interfere when principles break out 
into overt acts against peace and good 
order.” Our speech and our press cannot 
be half free or they are not truly free 
at all. 

We have quoted Jefferson, James 
Madison, Justice William O. Douglas, 
Judge Thurman Arnold, and Presidents 
Franklin D. Roosevelt and John F. Ken- 
nedy on the importance of frec and 
unhampered speech and press to our 
democratic way of life. We have 
shown how the U. S. Supreme Court has 
continually upheld these freedoms, but 
we have also pointed out an exception 
that the highest Court — itself composed 
of fallible men, influenced by our puri- 
tan traditions — has allowed to co-exist 
with these Constitutional guarantees, 
thus making us truly only half free. 


editorial By Hugh M. Hefner 


The exception is sex and the courts 
have ruled that “obscenity” is outside 
the protections of the First Amendment. 
We have argued, however, that so-called 
“obscenity” cannot and must not be con- 
sidered outside the protections of our law 
or the law itself will soon break down 
and the broader protections of speech 
and press inevitably disappear. We ar- 
gued that “obscenity” can never be satis- 
factorily defined and that the Supreme 
Court's definition, while curtailing the 
most wanton, wholesale censorship. is 
nonetheless, in the words of Supreme 
Court Justice Douglas, “too loose, too 
capricious, too destructive of freedom of 
expression to be squared with the First 
Amendment.” Justice Douglas stated fur- 
ther that the Supreme Court's standard 
for obscei as what offends “the co 
mon conscience of the commun 
would certainly “not be an acceptable 
one if religion, economics, politics or 
philosophy were involved. How,” asked 
the Supreme Court Justice, “does it be- 
come a Constitutional standard when 
literature treating with sex is concerned?" 

It clearly should not, for we have 
shown that no true community standard 
oF "common conscience of the commu- 
nity” exists. As Justice Douglas has stated, 
Inder that test, juries can censor, sup- 
press, and punish what they do not like. 
. .. This is community censorship in one 
of its worst forms. !t creates a regime 
where, in the battle between the literati 
and the Philistines, the Philistines are 
certain to win,” 

What is more, even if a satisfactory 
community standard ever could be estab- 
lished, that is no argument for suppress- 
ing other minority opinions. For the 
high Court has ruled that the Constitu- 
tion rightfully protects even the most un- 
popular and distasteful ideas and history 
has shown us that some of our greatest 
literature and art met with public dis- 
favor when-it was first produced and 
was banned and censored as “obscene” 
in other times and places. 

We have previously established that 
our founding fathers did not intend 
“obscenity” to be outside the protections 
of the Constitution. Jefferson stated, 


“The press, confined to truth, needs no 
other restraint . . . no other definite line 
can be drawn between the inestimable 
liberty of the press and demoralizing 
licentiousness”; Madison wrote that to 
make a “distinction between the free- 
dom of and the licentiousness of the 
press" would subvert the First Amend- 
ment, 

Last month we attempted to show not 
only the impossibility of ever adequately 
defining what is "obscene," but also 
demonstrated how the charge of “ob- 
scenity," once established as being out- 
side the protections of the Constitution, 
can spread to include philosophical, po- 
litical, social, medical, religious and ra- 
cial ideas of which the censor does not 
approve, 

Lastly, we pointed out that the very 
premise upon which the censorship of 
“obscenity” is based— that “obscene” 
nd "pornographic" literature and art 
luce acts of sexual violence and 
crime —is without foundation; there is, 
in fact, a serious school of scientific 
opinion that believes that “obscenity” 
actually makes a valuable contribution 
to the mental health of a society, since it 
may act as an outlet for sexually re- 
pressed desires that might otherwise take 
the form of overt sexual offenses in the 
emotionally unstable or maladjusted. 
Drs. Eberhard and Phyllis Kronhausen 
subscribe to this belief, as does noted 
sex authority Dr. Albert Ellis. A report 
by a committce of Brown University 
psychologists (Drs. Nissim Levy, Lewis 
Lipsitt and Judy F. Rosenblith) con- 
cluded, after reviewing all available 
U.S. research on the subject: “There is 
no reliable evidence that reading or 
other fantasy activities lead to antisocial 
behavior" Dr. Benjamin Karpman, 
chief psychotherapist at St. Elizabeth's 
Hospital in Washington, D. C., stated in 
a report before the American Medical 
Association, that “contrary to popular 
misconception, people who read s. 
cious literature are less likely to become 
sexual offenders than those who do not, 
for the reason that such reading often 
neutralizes what aberrant sexual inter- 
ests they may have.” 

The Drs. Kronhausen wrote in their 
book, Pornography and the Law: 


69 


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"Erotic books may fulfill several emi- 
nently useful and therapeutic func- 
tions. We have already elaborated on 
the principle of catharsis through 
vicarious participation by reading. It 
always strikes us as strange that this an- 
cient idea should be considered by some 
to be so novel and highly controversial. 
As far as we know, the concept is at least 
as old as Aristotle, who recommended 
that Athenians go and watch the trage- 
dies in the theater to avoid succumbing 
to antisocial impulses. We believe that 
this may apply equally to the antisocial 
sex impulses which are often given free 
rein in so-called ‘hard core obscenity’. . - 

Supreme Court Justice Brennan has 
written, in a decision in an obscenity 
case: “Implicit in the history of the First 
Amendment is the rejection of obscenity 
as utterly without redeeming social im- 
portance.” Now this prompts us to raise 
a rather fascinating, point of law: If the 
Supreme Court considers as “obscene”— 
and therefore outside the protections of 
the Constitution — only those works that 
are "utterly without redeeming social 
importance," then, based upon the pro- 
fessional scientific opinions cited herein, 
it can be argued that — since all erotic 
literature and art may have some thera- 
peutic value as a release for sexual ten- 
sions—no work can cver be judged 
“legally obscene,” because — by this defi- 
nition — no such thing as “legal obscen- 
ity” can ever exist. 


JUSTICE BLACK AND THE 
CONSTITUTION 


In a recent interview, Supreme Court 
Justice Hugo Black expressed his per- 
sonal views on our American ideal of 
absolute freedoms of speech and press. 
The oc n of the interview was a 
banquet in New York City honoring 
Justice Black on his completion of 25 
years of service on the United States 
Supreme Court. The interview was con- 
ducted by Professor Edmond Cahn, of 
the New York University School of Law, 
who stated-in-his introduction: "Hugo 
Black [is] one of the few authentically 
great. judges in the history of the Amer- 
ican bench. . .. He is great because he 
belongs to a certain select company of 
heroes who, at various crises іп the des- 
tiny of our land, have created, nurtured, 
and preserved the essence of the Amer- 
n ideal. 

- The torch of [such a man's] spirit 
leads first a few, then the vast majority 
of his countrymen . . . toward freedom, 
equality and social justice. 

“This is what happened at the very 
birth of our country. . . . It was the same 
kind of inspiration that gave us our 
national Bill of Rights. The original 
Constitution, drafted at the Philadel- 
phia Convention, contained no bill of 
rights. The Federalists contended that 
though bills of rights might be necessary 


against emperors and kings, they were 
needless in a republican form of gov- 
ernment. They argued that the people 
ought to repose trust in popularly chosen 
representatives. But "Thomas Jefferson 
indignantly referred them to the words 
of the Declaration of Independence 
which announced that governments de- 
rived their just powers from the consent 
of the governed: words to be taken 
literally, absolutely, and without excep- 
tion. He dedared, ‘A bill of rights is 
what the people are entitled to against 
every government on earth.’ His demand 
succeeded, and a Bill of Rights was 
added to the Constitution. The Bill of 
Rights protects us today because Jeffer- 
son stood firm on the inspired text. 
“Then there is the next momentous 
episode, the series of court decisions in 
which Chief Ju: John Marshall held 
that acts of legislation that violated the 
Constitution of the United States were 
null and void. What was the clause on 
which Marshall relied in asserting this 
awesome power for the Supreme Court? 
It was the provision, to which all Amer- 
icans had pledged themselves, that the 
Constitution of the United States must 
be ‘the supreme law of the land’ 
“President Lincoln also drew guid- 
ance and inspiration from a single basic 
text. He opposed the institution of 
slavery because, as he said, the country 
was dedicated to the proposition that 
‘all men are created equal.’ Our own 
epoch has again demonstrated the ex- 
ive validity of that propositio: 
"What does one see happe: in 
each of these historic instances? The 
majority of the people, at least at the 
beginning, are wont to say that though 
the basic text may embody а fine ideal, 
it cannot work in practical application. 
They say it is utopian, visionary, un- 
realistic. They remark condescendingly 
that any experienced person would 
know better than to take it literally or 
absolutely. Accepting the words at face 
value would be naive, if not simple- 
minded. In 1776 Worldly Wisemen of 
this kind said that while the colonists 
might be entitled to the rights of Eng- 
lishmen, they ought to put their trust in 
the King and Parliament and submit to 
a few convenient adjustments in the in- 
terest of imperial security. In 1788 they 
said that while a bill of rights might be 
desirable in theory, the people must 
learn to show confidence in their rulers. 
Why not leave it all to a majority, 
whether in Congress or in the Supreme 
Court? In every generation, the lesser 
minds, the half-hearted, the timorous, 
the trimmers talked this way, and so 
they always will. Ours would be a poor, 
undernourished, scorbutic freedom in- 
deed if the great men of our history had 
not shown determination and valor, de- 
claring. 'Here are the words of our fun- 
damental text, Here are the principles 


to which we are dedicated. Let us hold 
ourselves erect and walk in their light." 

"It is to this rare company of inspired 
leaders that Hugo Black belongs. He has 
been inflamed by the political and ethi- 
cal ideals that Jefferson, Madison, and 
other libertarians of the 18th Century 
prized the highest. . . . He draws his 
inspiration from the First Amendment. 
in the Bill of Rights, which forbids the 
Government to abridge our freedom of 
speech, freedom of press, freedom of reli- 
gion, and freedom of association. . . . 
[These freedoms] are, to him, the mean- 
ing and inner purpose of the American 
saga. 

“Justice Black's major premise and 
point of departure is the text of the 
Constitution, which he emphasizes in all 
his decisions. He believes that the main 
purpose of the Founders, in drafting 
and adopting a written constitution, was 
to preserve their civil liberties and keep 
them intact. On their own behalf and 
on ours, they were not satisfied with a 
fragment or fraction of the basic free- 
doms; they wanted us to have the whole 
of them. 

“Some people display a curious set of 
values. If Government employees were 
to come into their homes and start slic 
ing off parts of the chairs, the tables and 
the television set, they would have no 
doubt that what was happening was 
absolutely wrong. Not relatively or de- 
batably, but absolutely wrong. But when 
the same Government slices their civil 
liberties, slashes their basic freedoms or 
saws away at their elementary rights, 
these people can only comment that the 
case is too complicated for a doctrinaire 
judgment, that much can be said on 
both sides of the matter, and that in 
times like these the experts on sedition, 
subversion, and national security know 
what they are doing. (Sometimes I won- 
der whether it is quite fair to assume 
that the experts know what they are do- 
ing; perhaps it would be more charitable 
to assume that they do not know.) 

“Justice Black's uncompromising zeal 
for freedom of speech, press, religion, 
and association might not have seemed 
so urgently necessary in previous periods 
of our history. In Lincoln’s day, men 
naturally felt more excited about eman- 
cipation from slavery; in Franklin D. 
Roosevelt's day, more excited about 
food, employment, and social welfare. 
But today, when democracy stands here 
and on every continent presenting its 
case at the bar of destiny, our supreme 
need is to share Hugo Black’s devotion 
to the First Amendment and his intrepid 
defense of the people's rights. 

“The American covenant was solemnly 
inscribed on the hearts of our ancestors 
and on the doorposts of our political 
history. It is a covenant of freedom, 
justice and human dignity. Through 
keeping it in a quarter-century of judi- 


"E 


PLAYBOY 


72 


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cial decisions, he has proved himself a 
great jurist. Through keeping it in all 
the transactions of our public life, we 
can prove ourselves a great and enlight- 
ened nation.” 

Alter this most impressive introduc- 
tion, Professor Cahn recalled a lecture 
Justice Black had delivered two 
vars before in which he had stated, 
“It is my belief that there are ‘absolutes’ 
in our Bill of Rights, and that they were 
put there on purpose by men who knew 
what words meant and meant their pro- 
hibitions to be ‘absolutes. 

Cahn began the interview by as 
the Supreme Court Justice to expl 
what he meant by this, to which 
Justice Black replied, “I believe the 
words do mean what they say. I have no 
reason to challenge the intelligence, in- 
tegrity or honesty of the men who wrote 
the First Amendment.® Among those I 
call the great men of the world are 
"Thomas Jefferson, James Madison, and 
various others who participated in for- 
mulating the d the First 
Amendment for this country and in 
writing it. 

".. The begi 


as beh; 


ng of the First 
Amendment is 0 ‘ongress shall make 
no law. I understand that it is rather 
old-fashioned and shows a slight naiveté 
to say that ‘no law’ means no law. It is 
one of the most amazing things about 
the ingeniousness of the times that strong 
rguments are , which abnost con- 
nce me, that very foolish of me 
to think ‘no law’ means no law. But 
what it says is ‘Congress shall make no 
law respecting an establishment of reli- 
gion,’ and so on. 

I have to be honest about it, I con- 

fess not only that I think the Amend- 
ment means what it says but also that 
I may be slightly influenced by the fact 
that I do not think Congress should 
make any law with respect to these sub- 
cts, 
Then we move on, and it says, ‘or 
prohibiting the free exercise thereof.’ I 
have not always exercised myself in rc- 
gard to religion as much as I should, or 
perhaps as much as all of you have. 
Nevertheless, 1 want to be able to do it 
when I want to do it. I do not want any- 
body who is my servant, who is my agent, 
elected by me and others like me, to tell 
me that I can or cannot do it. 

*". . . Then I move on to the words 
‘abridging the freedom of speech or of 
the press.’ It says Congress shall make 
no law doing that. What it means — ac- 


The First Amendment states: “Con- 
gress shall make no law respecting an 
establishment of religion, or prohibiting 
the free exercise thereof; or abridging 
the freedom of speech, or of the press; 
or the right of the people peaceably to 
assemble, and 10 petition the Govern- 
ment for a redress of grievances.” 


cording to a current philosophy that I 
do not share — is that Congress shall be 
able to make just such a Jaw unless we 
judges object too strongly. One of the 
statements of that philosophy is that if 

shocks us too much, then they cannot. 
do it. But when I get down to the really 
basic reason why I believe that ‘no law" 
means no law, I presume it could come 
to this, that I took an obligation to sup- 
port and defend the Constitution as I 
understand it. And being a rather back- 
ward country fellow, I understand it to 
mean what the words say. Gesticulations 
apart, I know of no way in the world to 
communicate ideas except by words. And 
if T were to talk at great length on th 
subject, I would still be saying — al- 
though I understand that some people 
say that I just say it and do not believe 
it—that I believe when our Founding 
Fathers, with their wisdom and patriot- 
ism, wrote this Amendment, they knew 
what they were talking about. They 
knew what history was behind them and 
they wanted to or this country 
that Congress, elected by the people, 
should not tell the people what religion 
they should have or what they should 
believe or say or publish, and that is 
about it. It says ‘no law, and that is 
what I believe it mean: 

Professor Cahn then me xb that 
some of Justice Black's colleagues believe 
it is better to interpret the Bill of Rights 
so as to permit Congress to take what it 
considers “reasonable steps" to preserve 
the security of the nation even at some 
sacrifice of freedom of speech and press 
d association, and he asked the Judge's 
w of th 

Justice Black replicd: “I fully agree 

with them that the country should pro- 
tect itself. It should protect itself in 
peace and in war. It should do whatever 
is necessary to preserye itself. But the 
question is: preserve what? And how? 
-. I want it to be preserved as the 
kind of Government it was intended to 
be. I would not desire to live in any 
place where my thoughts were under 
the suspicion of government and where 
my words could be censored by govern- 
ment, and where worship, whatever it 
was or wasn't, had to be determined by 
an officer of the government. That is not 
the kind of government I want pre- 
scrved. 

“I agree with those who wrote our 
Constitution, that too much power in 
the hands of officials is a dangerous 
thing. What was government crcated for 
except to serve the people? Why was a 
Constitution written for the first time in 
this country except to limit the power 
of government and those who were se- 
lected to exercise it at the moment? 

“My answer to the statement that this 
Government should preserve itself is yes. 
The method I would adopt is different, 
however, from that of some other peo- 


ple. I think it can be preserved only by 
leaving people with the utmost freedom 
to think and to hope and to talk and to 
dream if they want to dream. I do not 
think this Government must look to 
force, stifling the minds and aspirations 
of the people. Yes, | believe in self- 
preservation, but I would preserve it as 
the founders said, by leaving people 
free. J think here, as in another time, 
it cannot live half slave and half free." 

In response to a question about allow- 
ing full and sometimes sensational news- 
paper reports about a crime and the р 
sible effect this might have upon a 
trial, Justice Black replied, “I do not 
myself think that it is necessary to stifle 
the press in order to reach fair verdicts. 

- I want both fair trials and freedom 
of the press. I grant that you cannot get 
everything you want perfectly, and you 
never will. But you won't do any good 
in this country, which aspires to frec- 
dom, by saying just give the courts a 
little more power, just a little more 
power to suppress the people and the 
press, and things will be all right.” 

Professor Cahn asked, “Is there any 
kind of obscene material, whether de- 
fined as hard-core pornography or other- 
wise, the distribution and sale of which 
can be constitutionally restricted in any 
manner whatever, in your opinion?” 

To which Justice Black replied, “My 

view is. without deviation, without e 
ception, without any ifs, buts, or where- 
ases, that freedom of speech means that 
you shall not do something to people 
either for the views they have or the 
views they express or the words they 
spat or write. 
. . It is the law [because the courts 
have held that it is the law] that there 
can be an arrest made for obscenity. It 
was the law in Rome that they could 
arrest people for obscenity after Augus- 
tus became Caesar. Tacitus says that 
tl it became obscene to criticize the 
Emperor. It is not any trouble to estab- 
lish a classification so that whatever it 
is that you do not want said is within 
that classification. So far as I am con- 
cerned, I do not believe there is any 
halfway ground for protecting freedom 
of speech and press. If you say it is half 
free, you can rest assured that it will not 
remain as much as half free. Madison 
explained that in his great Remonstrance 
when he said in effect, ‘If you make laws 
to force people to speak the words of 
Christianity, it won't be long until the 
same power will narrow the sole religion 
to the most powerful sect in it’ I real- 
ize that there are dangers in freedom 
of speech, but I do not believe there аге 
any halfway marks.” 

In conclusion Judge Black said, “The 
Bill of Rights to me constitutes the dif- 
ference between this country and many 
others. I will not attempt to say most 
others or nearly all others or all others, 


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74 


But I will say it constitutes the differ- 
ence to me between a free country and 
a country that is not free. 

“. .. [The Bill of Rights] is intended 
to see that a man cannot be jerked by 
the back of the neck by any government 
official; he cannot have his home in- 
vaded; he cannot be picked up legally 
and carried away because his views are 
not satisfactory to the majority, even if 
they are terrible views, however bad 
they may be. Our system of justice is 
based on the assumption that men can 
best work out their own opinions, and 
that they [the opinions] are not under 
the control of government. Of course, 
is particularly true in the field of 
ion, because a man's religion is be- 
self and his Creator, not be- 
tween himself and his government. 

“I am not going to say апу more ex- 
cept this: I was asked a question about 
preserving this country. I confess I am 
a complete chauvinist. I think it is the 
greatest country in the world. I think 
is thc greatest because it has a Bill of 
Rights. I think it could be the worst if 
it did not have one. It does not take a 
nation long to degenerate. We saw, only. 
а short time ago, a neighboring country 
where people were walking the streets 
in reasonable peace one day and within 
а month we saw them marched to the 
back of a wall to meet a firing squad 
without a trial. 

“L am a chauvinist because thi 
try offers the greatest opportun: 
any country in the world to people of 
every kind, of every type, of every race, 
of every origin, of every religion — with- 
out regard to wealth, without regard to 
poverty. It offers an opportunity to the 
child born today to be reared among 
his people by his people, to worship his 
God, whatever his God may be, or to re- 
fuse to worship anybody's God if that is 
his wish. It is a free country; it will re- 
main free only, however, if we recognize 
that the boundaries of freedom are not 
so flexible; they are not made of mush, 
They say ‘Thou shalt not,’ and I think 
that is what they mean. 
I am for the First Amendment 
from the first word to the last. I believe 
it means what it says, and it says to 
me, ‘Government shall keep its hands off 
religion. Government shall not attempt 
to control the ideas a man has. Govern- 
ment shall not abridge freedom of the 
press or speech. It shall let anybody talk 
in this country.’ I have never been 
shaken in the faith that the American 
people are the kind of people and have 
the kind of loyalty to their government 
that we need not fear the talk of Com- 
munists or of anybody else. Let them 
talk! In the American way, we will an- 
swer them.” 


As Time observed a few weeks ago, in 


reporting on three cases in which the 
Supreme Court overturned or amended 


its own previous decisions: “Ideally, the 
flow of U.S. law should run straight and 
true. In fact, it has countless twists and 
turns [and] often reverses its course . . .” 
It is our feeling that in its decisions of 
the last few years, under Chief Justice 
Earl Warren, the Supreme Court has 
moved the course of U.S. law closer to 
the original intent of our Constitution 
than at any previous time in history. 
While approving the high Court's intent 
in putting an end to segregation in 1954, 
Life Magazine, nonetheless, expressed 
the opinion in an editorial that the deci- 
sion was based more upon sociology 
than law. Life was not the only one to 
voice this view, but — in truth — just the 
opposite was the case. In reversing an 
earlier Supreme Court decision that had 
upheld the principle of "separate but 
equal,” the present Court re-established 
the guarantees and protections of the 
Constitution for a number of our citi- 
zens who for too long had been forced 
to live without them. 

‘The high Court did the same in the 
three cases Time reported: “A VOTE FOR 
ALL. On four previous occasions . . . the 
Court had in eflect declined to upset 
Georgia's countyunit voting system. 
Under that system, politicians with rural 
backing have been able to hold state 
power even though they failed in win- 
ning a popular majority. . . . The Fed- 
cral District Court judges ruled against 
it "The Supreme Court decision erased 
the system once and for all. In its opin- 
ion, the Court held that ‘the concept of 
ical equality can mean only one 
thing — one person, one vote." 

"APPEAL FOR ALL. Amending its long- 
held principle that state. prisoners may 
not turn to federal courts until all 
avenues of state appeal have been ex- 
hausted, the Court ruled that Convicted 
Murderer Charles Noia could be re- 
leased from a New York State prison on 
a L.deral writ of habeas corpus. Two 
other men, convicted with Noia in 1942 
for the same murder, appealed to the 
state that they had made confessions 
under coercion. They were released. But 
Noia waited until after the state time 
limit for such an appeal; a lower federal 
court therefore refused to entertain his 
petition. The Supreme Court ruled that 
doctrine of ‘exhausting state reme- 
dics’ did not mean keeping a man in jail 
because of that sort of procedural de- 
fault. 

“COUNSEL FOR ALL. By a unanimous 
vote, the Court ruled that the states, 
under the 14th Amendment, must pro- 
vide free legal counsel to any person 
charged with a crime and unable to pay 
for his own lawyer. It thereby reversed 
its 1942 decision in Betts vs. Brady, in 
which it held that such aid is required 
only if the defendant is charged with a 
crime punishable by death.” The major- 
ity opinion stated: “In our adversary 


system of criminal justice, any person 
haled into court cannot be assured a fair 
trial unless counsel is provided for him. 
This seems to us an obvious truth.” 

The Supreme Court justice who wrote 
the majority opinion in the last case w: 
Hugo Black, who was onc of three dis- 
senters in the 1942 case. 

Tn the same way, we hope that Justice 
Black's minority opinion on the Consti- 
tutional guarantees of absolute freedom 
of religion, speech, press and association 
may become the opinion of the majority 
while Black is still serving his country 
and his fellow man as a member of the 
U.S. Supreme Court. It would be a fit 
ting tribute if this American — whom 
Professor Edmond Cahn called a "torch 
of “freedom, equality and social justic 


— were the one to write the then major- 


ity ој n for the Court, re-establish- 
ing the full and absolute protections of 
the First Amendment. 


PROTECTING THE YOUNG 


The argument most often advanced 
for the suppression of certain ideas and 
images — especially sexual ones— is the 
protection of our youth. 

It is not necessary to reduce the adult 
population of our nation to the level of 
children in order to protect the young, 
however. 

The Supreme Court has ruled that 
is illegal to censor literature on the basis 
that it may harm minors In finding 
unconstitutional that section of the 
Michigan Penal Code which prohibited 
circulation of publications that might 
tend "to incite minors to violent or de- 
praved or immoral acts,” Justice Felix 
Frankfurter spoke for the unanimous 
Court when he said: “The State insists 
that, by thus quarantining the general 
reading public against books not too 
rugged for grown men and women in 
order to shield juvenile innocence, it is 
exercising its power to promote the gen- 
eral welfare. Surely, this is to burn the 
house to roast the ... We have before 
us legislation not reasonably restricted to 
the evil with which it is said to deal. 
. - - The incidence of this enactment is 
to reduce the adult population of Mich- 
igan to reading only what is fit for chil- 
dren. It thereby curtails one of those 
liberties . . . that history has attested as 
the indispensable conditions for the 
maintenance and progress of a free so- 
ciety.’ 

Matters of religion and personal 
morality should rightly be the con- 
cern of the individual and his family, 
with one generation passing its own 
traditions on to the next, to be ac 
cepted, rejected, or modified and passed, 
in turn, to the generation that follows. 
But if the champions of censorship are 

incerely concerned with the moral up- 
bringing of our country's children — to 
the point that they are willing to over- 


ride this American tradition — it should 
bc pointed out that there are ways of 
accomplishing this end without curtail- 
ing the freedom of the adult population, 
ways that remain largely unexplored. 
The United States is, for example, one 
of the few major countries in the world 
that does not use some method of class 
fication for its movies, England breaks 
down all motion pictures into three 
go: А — adult films, which chil- 
dren under 16 may see only if accom- 
panied by a parent or a bona fide 
guardian; U — approved for adults and 
children alike; and X — films to which 
no one under 16 is admitted under any 
circumstances, 

Books and magazines could be clas: 
fied in the same way and a serious pe 
alty invoked if a dealer sold 
book or n 

For television and radio, all progr 
before а certain hour could be produced 
lor family consumption; but after the 
designated time, all restrictions would 
be lifted and the stations would be free 
to program uncensored shows for adults. 

The fact that those who cry out for 
censorship in the name of our youth do 
not promote these more reasonable 
natives prompts us to suspect that invok- 
ing child welfare may be— as often as 
not—a subterfuge and what the would- 
be censors are really after is thought- 
control over our adult population. 

The classification of all methods of 
mass communication into what is suit- 
able for children, and what is not, is 
certainly no ideal solution. But it is 
preferable not only to official or quasi- 
official censorship, but also far better 
than any related kind of control iutro- 
duced by the media themselves. The 
selEimposed restrictions of an individual 
writer, director, producer, editor or pub- 
lisher are desirable, to be sure — and the 
acceptance of freedom from undue out- 
side supervision leads naturally to the 
development of a more responsible and 
mature selldiscipline the majority of 
the time; but industry-wide controls аге 
not the same as individually imposed 
restrictions and we need look no further 
than Hollywood's recent expe in 
so-called “self-censorship” to see how 
thoroughly an entire industry can throttle 
its own freedom and creativity. 

“Sell-censorship” is usually imposed 
by a medium of communication to avoid 
outside pressures or the threat of actual 
outside censorship. It is ely intro- 
duced to improve the medium or its 
product and, naturally enough, the 
medium and product are rarely im- 
proved. Such was the case in the 1920s, 
when the Hollywood film makers — fcar- 
ful that growing national с m of 
movie morals might prompt some form 
of government control — joined to estab- 
lish what is now the Motion Picture Asso- 
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then Postmaster General, at an annual 
salary of $100,000 to become czar of the 
industry with power not only to regulate 
all picture-making, but also to act as a 
sort of moral guardian over the private 
lives of the stars themselves. 

Hays did his job only too well. A 
rigid Production Code was introduced in 
1934 that gave seals of approval only to 
films that adhered to the most simon- 
pure standards. By defining morality as 
a lack of sex and swear words, Hays 
kept the movies out of controversy and, 
for the most part, totally removed from 
the real stuff of life. Suggestiveness re- 
placed honest sexuality. The only bows 
to realism were violent crime films glori- 
fying such cinematic gangsters as Scar- 
face and Little Caesar. Not until Howard 
Hughes released The Outlaw in 1946, 
successfully introducing his new double- 
feature discovery Jane Russell without 
benefit of a Code seal, did any major 
film producer consider issuing a motion 
picture sans Association approval. Otto 
Preminger carried the fight for freedom 
further by releasing The Moon Is Blue 
(1953) and The Man with the Golden 
Arm (1957), both excellent films, without 
seals. The emergence of the independent 
Hollywood producer, who was outside 
major studio control, coupled with the 
increasing popularity of foreign films in 
America, supplied the coup de gráce to 
the old, unrealistic and inflexible Pro- 
duction Code. In 1961 the Production 
Code Review Board reversed its previous 
verdict on both of Preminger’s pictures 
and granted them each a seal. 

The Supreme Court has had this to 
say about the effect upon freedom of not 
only censorship, but the very existence 
of the threat of censorship, which so 
hobbled Hollywood for a generation: “It 
is not merely the sporadic abuse of 
power by the censor but the pervasive 
threat inherent in its very existence that 
constitutes the danger to freedom of 
discussion." 

It should be mentioned that in most 
of Europe it is not sex that primarily 
concerns those who classify the movies as 
suitable for children or only for adults, 
but scenes of crime, violence and bru- 
tality — the sort that enjoyed widest dis- 
tribution in the U.S. when sex was 
being most severely suppressed by the 
Hays Office during the Thirties. The 
point of view that depicting acts of 
amour on the screen is more harmful 
than acts of terror, violence and hate is 
peculiar to our own Puritan America. It 
is perfectly permissible to show one man 
destroying the life of another, but the 
creation of life is the prime target of the 
censor — whether it is the act of coition, 
banned everywhere, or the birth of a 
baby bison, which New York censors cut 
from a Walt Disney nature film. 

This is the level of the sociological, 
theological and philosophical thinking 


that we bring to the Atomic Age and the 
terrifying task of coping with the de- 
structive forces that our technological 
advances have produced, Nothing is more 
frightening to contemplate than the gap 
that exists between man’s social and 
scientific progress as we move into the 
second half of the 20th Century. We are 
attempting to deal with the realities of 
the most complex of modern societies 
with a cultural sophistication rooted in 
superstitions some of which are more 
than 2000 years old. 

Because the modern world does require 
such real sophistication and maturity, we 
do not personally favor any technique 
for raising our young that fails to fully 
equip them for adult life — so a classify- 
ing of our mass communication into 
categories for "adult" and "underage" 
consumption is suggested only as a far 
better answer than any continuation of 
the present tendency to bring even our 
adult society down to the level of the 
child. The suggestion is made, also, to 
emphasize that more reasonable alterna- 
tives than totalitarian thought-control do 
exist—if we insist upon this “protec 
tion” for our offspring — so as to reveal 
to the cold light of logic the true motives 
of many who cry out for censorship over 
all, to save from “harm” (knowledge) the 
young and immature. 

Let’s now consider the virtues of cen- 
sorship for children. Before seriously 
advocating a desexualized. sanitized, cel- 
lophane-wrapped society for our young- 
sters, we should seriously weigh the 
opinions of child psychologists and ex- 
perts in juvenile behavior. They seem 
unanimous in their belief that an overly 
protected child will find it more difficult 
adjusting to an adult society after he is 
grown. A youngster who is reared in an 
environment sufficiently removed from 
the real world may never fully mature 
and become capable of accepting the 
responsibilities of adult life. 

On the other hand, what are the dan- 
gers inherent in a young and impression- 
able mind being allowed to mature 
naturally as a part of an adult society? 
Will frankly adult books, magazines, 
television and motion pictures tend to 
lead a child into patterns of antisocial 
and delinquent behavior? There is no 
evidence to suggest that this is so. 

Drs. Sheldon and Eleanor Glueck, 
leading specialists in the field of child 
behavior, published in 1950 the results 
of ten years’ research into the causes of 
juvenile delinquency of 1000 boys in the 
Boston area. In the 399 pages of what 
has been termed a "classical study," 
the subjects of. pornography, or of the 
reading or viewing of erotic materials of 
any kind, are never сусп mentioned as 
contributory or causative factors in 
delinquency. 

In the same vein, a prominent chil- 
dren's court judge, George S. Smyth, of 


New York, informed an inquiring state 
commission that of 878 causative factors 
which troubled children, reading was not 
on his list, but that difficulty in read- 
ing was. 

The Brown University Psychologists 
Report, commenting on a series of state- 
ments linking delinquent behavior to 
obscenity, called auention to a series 
of similar scicntific studics and statc- 
ments disputing any correlation between 
obscene material id the antisocial 
activity of children, including a recent 
comprehensive report on 90 cases of 
delinquency by Mitchell in the Austral- 
ian Journal of Psychology. The study 
reported such complex conditions as 
personal tension, defective discipline, 
insecurity, lack of home guidance and 
emotional instability as the prime con- 
tributors to delinquency and the Drs. 
Kronhausen point out that “all of these 
factors refer to deep-seated emotional 
problems and disturbances in inter- 
personal relations, in comparison to 
which the reading of [sexual materials] 
or even ‘hard-core obscenity’ appears a 
rather trifling surface concern." 

Another report, based on research in 
the United States, presented at round- 
table conferences headed by Dr. Benja- 
min Karpman at two annual meetings 
of the American Orthopsychiatric Asso- 
tion, concluded that there are three 
major causes of delinquency: (1) organic 
brain damage; (2) faulty relations in the 
family unit; and (3) social dislocation. 
Oncc again there was no mention of the 
viewing or reading of salacious or ob- 
scene materials and Dr. Karpman has 
expressed the belief that, contrary to 
popular misconception, contact with 
obscenity tends to curb antisocial be- 
havior rather than foster it, by offering 
an outlct for abnormal sexual interests. 

Dr. Wendell Sherman of the Univer 
sity of Chicago has stated: “1 have never 
scen one instance of a child whose 
behavior disturbance originated in the 
reading of books, nor even a case of a 
delinquent whose behavior was exag- 
gerated by such reading. A child may 
ascribe his behavior to a book hc has 
read or a movie he has seen, But such 
explanations cannot be considered scien- 
tific evidence of causation.” 

Edwin J. Lucas, director of the Society 
for the Prevention of Crime, has stated: 
“I am unaware of the existence of any 
scientifically established causal relation- 
ship between the reading of books and 
delinquency. It is my feeling that efforts 
to link the two are an extension of the 
archaic impulse by which, through the 
ages, witchcraft, evil spirits and other 
superstitious beliefs have in turn been 
blamed for anti-social behavior.” 

Dr. Robert Lindner, noted psychoana- 
lyst and author (The Fifty-Minute Hour, 
Rebel Without a Cause), specialist in 
the treatment of juvenile offenders, has 


said: "I am utterly opposed to censor- 
ship of the written word, regardless of 
the source of such censorship or the type 
of material it is directed against. As a 
psychoanalyst who has had more than a 
decade of experience with the emo- 
tionally disturbed, and especially with 
delinquents, I am convinced of the ab- 
surdity of the idca that any form of 
reading matter . . . can either provoke 
delinquent or criminal behavior or 
instruct toward such ends. . . . І am con- 
vinced that were all so-called objection- 
able books and like material to disappear 
from the face of the earth tomorrow 
this would in no way affect the statistics 
of crime, delinquency, amoral and anti- 
social behavior, or personal illness and 
distress. The same frustrating and deny- 
ing society would still exist, and both 
children and adults would express them- 
selves mutinously against it. These prob- 
lems will be solved only when we have 
the courage to face the fundamental 
social issues and personal perplexities 
that cause such behavior.” 

Drs. Eberhard and Phyllis Kronhausen 
have written, on the subject of "Psy- 
chological Effects of Erotic Literature”: 
“It is our view that instead of the comics, 
‘lewd’ magazines, or even hard-core 
pornography causing sex murders, or 
other criminal acts, it is far more likely 
that these ‘unholy’ instruments may be 
more often than not a safety valve for 
the sexual deviate and potential sex 
offender. This is not only our own vicw, 
but that of many other experienced 
clinicians, especially among those who 
have worked with more severely dis- 
turbed patients and delinquents.” 

In The Playboy Panel on “Sex and 
Censorship in Literature and the Arts” 
(rtAvmov, July 1961), we commented 
that one of the evils of pornography, 
according to James Jackson Kilpatrick, 
in his book The Smut Peddlers, is that 
“When a youth accepts the idea of sex 
without love he is stained inside.” 

To which Judge Thurman Arnold 
replied: “Sounds like gobbledygook to 
me. I don't know what he's talking 
about." Film Producer Otto Preminger 
said. "It is an old-fashioned point of 
view, in my opinion. We know very 
well that sex without love exists — only 
hypocritical people can say that nobody 
has sex without love or that nobody 
should have sex without love." Author- 
publisher Ralph Ginzburg observed, “Is 
Mr. Kilpatrick trying to suppress sex 
without love? Is that what he is trying 
to do indirectly by getting at pornog- 
raphy? Well, I think he's got a great 
big job ahead of him, even after he gets 
rid of all the pornography." 

Maurice Girodia: itor-publisher of 
Olympia Press, of Paris, said "Protecting 
children against moral corruption has 
always been the lastresort argument of 
the champion of censorship. It is the 


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weakest and most idiotic justification 
invoked to suppress books written for 
adult readers, Mr. Kilpatrick's remark is 
too elliptical not to be misleading. Sex 
exists with or without love. Sex is the 
primary agent of love between males 
and females. Should we hide the fact 
from young pcople? Should we teach 
is corrupting in some 
cases, and not in others? Then I leave to 
Mr. Kilpatrick the task of explaining to 
our young friends what is sex and what 
is love, when sex is just sex and when 
sex is sex with love. Such guidance will 
probably make the whole continent 
frigid, but that shouldn’t bother Mr. 
Kilpatrick. 

"Seriously, if we want to restore 
mental sanity to our world, we must 
first of all save the young from the lies 
and hypocrisy inherited from genera- 
tions of Puritans. Modern man must find. 
h in a world which has become 
infinitely dangerous and dense. Our so- 
ciety will only survive if it starts pro- 
ducing individuals endowed with full 
freedom of judgment; we do not need 
an elite of specialized thinkers, but posi- 
tive and personal thinking at every level. 
Those children that Mr. Kilpatrick is so 
concerned about are not corrupted by 
bad books. I don't think they are in- 
terested in books, or pornography, which 
is a game for adults. If they feel they 
were born in a dry, cold and hopeless 
world, this cannot be corrected by more 
censorship.” 


THE SEXUAL NATURE OF MAN 


Those who favor censorship are often 
motivated by what they believe to be 
the best of principles. We have Govern- 
ment agencies to ban harmful foods and. 
medicines — why not do the same with 
"harmful" art and literature, thcy reason. 
What they fail to recognize is that a bad 
food or drug is a matter of indisputable 
fact, but a "bad" book or movie is a 
matter of taste or opinion, and nothing 
more. And in our free society, we are 
fundamentally opposed to the suppres- 
sion of ideas with which we do not 
agree, or the forcing of our own ideas 
onto others. The fact that the bulk of 
scientific and enlightened opinion favors 
the dissemination of frankly sexual and 
erotic material for the mental health 
and well-being of our society is beside 
the point, for no one is forced to buy or 
read the book that does not please him, 
or attend the movie or watch the tclevi 
sion program that offends his perso: 
sensibilities. We are all left the freedom 
of choice, as we should be in a free 
society, without the specter of censorship 
hanging over us. 

Those who fear and oppose the erotic 
in our literature and art do so because 
of personal repressions and feelings of 
frustration, inadequacy or guilt regard- 
ing sex. They are unwilling to accept 


the basic sexual nature of man. Litera- 
ture and art are a mirror in which man 
secs his own reflection. Only a man who 
carries the obscenity within him will see 
obscenity in a book, a painting or a 
photograph. If you find the obscene in a 
work of art or literature, or in life itself, 
you have manufactured the idea of ob- 
scenity yourself. And you have no one 
to blame but yourself for having made 
it obscene. If it is true that “beauty is in 
the eye of the beholder,” one must accept 
its logical corollary, that ugliness is, too. 

What the antisexual amongst us do 
not recognize is that they themselves are 
the major perpetuators of pornography. 
Most deliberate pornography has little 
enough artistic merit to commend it. It 
persists in a society where prudishness 
and hypocrisy are the rule. Editor- 
Publisher Girodias was quoted in the 
New York Times Book Review as saying: 
"The publication of pornography is a 
defensible, even a socially useful under- 
taking.” We asked him, in The Playboy 
Panel, to explain what he meant by this. 

Girodias answered by reading some- 
thing he had written in a letter published 
in the London Times Book Supplement 
a short time before: “What is known as 
pornography is a simple and elementary 
reaction against an age-old habit of 
mental suppression, of deliberately con- 
ditioned ignorance of ‘the facts of life.” 
‘True, pornography is a very crude and 
excessive form of protest — but the very 
intensity of the protest proves that it is 
not gratuitous, and that there is a deep 
and general need for free expression 
which is still far from being gratified. In 
other words, contrary to current belief, 
pornography is simply a consequence of 
censorship. Suppress censorship and por- 
nography will disappear.” 

The very attempt to ban a book will 
create an interest in it that the book 
may not deserve; the would-be censor 
may thus do more to promote the sale of 
salacious material than curb it. If the 
censor could be counted upon to only 
publicly d worthwhile books, his 
existence might be almost justified for 
creating considerable public curiosity in 
good literature that would not otherwise 
be so widely read (no one can doubt 
that Vladimir Nabokov's delightful Lolita 
found her way into hundreds-of-thousands 
of additional American homes, because 
of the hue and cry created over her by 
the blue noses). But, unfortunately, the 
censor has never been particularly noted 
for his ability to discern between the 
erotic wheat and the salacious chaff — 
partly, we suspect, because the distinc 
tion is of no real importance to him. He 
may come up with a work of rea! literary 
merit one month and a piece of trash 
the next — and give them both the same 
publicity. No, the censor really can’t be 
counted upon as a dependable guide to 
our reading habits. He would have us 


reading many of the right books, but 
for the wrong reasons; as well as many 
of the wrong books, for the right reasons. 

The anti-sexual in our society so fail 
to understand the true sexual nature of 
man that they try to suppress what is 
unsuppressible. In so doing, they hurt 
society in three distinct way: 

1. The censor curtails our freedom. 
As we have seen, censorship attempts 
to thwart our God-given and Co 
tionally guaranteed rights to freely use 
our own minds and bodies, so long as 
we do not impair the similar rights of 
others: the right to speak and write our 
leas — whatever those ideas happen 
to be—and to accept (or reject) the 
ideas expressed by others, equally fr 
the right to worship our own God, 
our own way —or no God at all, if 
suits us; the right to associate with whom- 
ever we choose, whenever we choose — 
without fear or prejudice of others. 

2. The censor attempts to control our 
thoughts. By limiting our speech and 
press, by disapproving certain words and 
ideas, the censor in fact tries to practice 
thought control. 

In his book 1984, George Orwell dem- 
onstrated how it is possible to actually 
control thought through the censorship 
of words. In Orwell’s society of the 
future, the political party in power is 
called Ingsoc (for English Socialism), 
with Big Brother as its leader (“Big 
Brother is watching you!”). The Ingsoc 
had created a new language, called New- 
speak, to serve its political ends; Orwell 
had the following to say about New. 
speak: “The purpose of Newspeak was 
not only to provide a medium of expres- 
sion for the world-view and mental 
habits proper to the devotees of Ingsoc, 
but to make all other modes of thought 
impossible. It was intended that when 
Newspeak had been adopted once and 
for all and the Oldspeak forgotten, a 
heretical thought — that is, a thought 
diverging from the principles of Ingsoc 
—should be literally unthinkable, at 
least so far as thought is dependent on 
words. . . . To give a single example. 
"The word free still exi Newspeak, 
but it could only be used in such a state- 
ment as "This dog is free from lice' or. 
"This field is free from weeds.’ It could 
not be used in its old sense of ‘politically 
free’ or ‘intellectually free; since politi- 
cal and intellectual freedom no longer 
xisted even as concepts, and were there- 
fore of necessity nameless. Quite apart 
from the suppression of definitely hereti- 
1 words, reduction of vocabulary was 
regarded a: end in itself, and no word 
that could be dispensed with was allowed 
to survive, Newspeak was designed not 
to extend but to diminish the range of 
thought, and this purpose was indirectly 
assisted by cutting the choice of words 
down to a minimum.” 

(continued on page 176) 


WHAT SORT OF MAN READS PLAYBOY? 


A young man whose interests run full range, the PLAYBOY reader is apt to be the first to sound out an exciting new trend, style or 
design. Interested in qualities that will set him apart, he reflects tastes in tune with his proven ability to acquire all the components of 
good living. Facts: 7,492,000 men (plus a bonus of 4,647,000 women) read PLAYBOY every month. 91.9% of PLAYBOY's house- 
holds own hi-fi equipment—either a packaged unit or component. 68.5% own at least one record player and 56.1% own component 
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Sources: 1962 Benn Management Corp. PLAYBOY Male Reader Survey and Sindlinger & Co.'s Magazine Audience Action Study. 


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79 


no one could look at him without loving him—yet, when he 


LITTLE HARRY WAS LOVED; of that he was aware every waking hour of the day. But not even in sleep did love 
escape him. During the day his big, athletic-smelling father and his thickening, plum-ripe mother lavished 
him with the sweet fragrance of their affection. Their passion, their whole appetite was for Harry, their 
little Harry, who had come to them so late, so unexpectedly, so long after all hope for miracles was gone. 
But, unlike other parents who found their children lovable enough to eat — and so did — Harry's approached 
the object of their appetite with the innate sensitivity of born gourmets. They prepared him for dinner but 
nibbled only lovingly and slightly, savoring the act, inhaling its aroma and noting it forever in their book 
of memories, and then ever so delicately pushing away from the table to gently demur another serving — 
“Tomorrow, maybe. Not now.” ] 

And in his sleep, love, a thing as real to him as his house or his bicycle, rolled with Harry in its arms, 
over and over, warm and slow; the woman: love. It never left him. He walked with it on the street to school 
and at his desk it gently proctored him when he needed to remember famous dates or the multiplication 
table. One day the teacher, who always called on Harry first (the divine right of personal magnetism), 
asked, "Harry, what does your father do?” Harry stood up at his desk and answered, “Love.” 

The class roared dirtily. The teacher flushed. "Love whom?” she bravely asked. And Harry answered, "Me." 


а novel by JULES FEIFFER part one HARRY, n 


looked out at the world, he wanted still more, and still more... 


"This time the class did not stir; Harry was more certain of his father than any of them could be of theirs. 

Harry could not avoid being loved. Physically he was the perfect child — expect no description here — 
everyone has his own image of perfection; Harry fit them all. He was only to be seen in soft focus with 
blurred, tear-filled eyes. "Wonderful," said the passing stranger, "like a painting." But he would not dare 
pinch a cheek or squeeze an arm or inflict the pain which is an adult's way of checking off perfection in a. 
child — as if the only means to recognize it is to mar it. Harry's was the kind of beauty that set its own 
terms on admirers. They would not come close unless he allowed them. 

He knew and accepted the fact that he was beautiful. Just as any prodigy looks upon his gifts as 
normal, because for him they are, Harry regarded his aptitude for beauty with equanimity; he saw nothing 
peculiar about it: since he felt very special why should he not look very special? Again like the prodigy he 
centered his focus on his aptitude, studying methods to enhance its development; practicing for hours out 
of the day before his mother's mirror the arts of facial expression and body movement. His taste about 
himself was impeccable; his drive was strong; to stay only this beautiful was sheer defeatism; to grow more 
beautiful with the years — now that was a goal a boy could work for. 

It was never noticed nor would it have seemed strange if it had been that Harry thought only of 


gm THE RAT WITH WOMEN 


PLAYBOY 


82 


himself. Since all those around him 
thought only of Harry, the boy was 
merely following example. His mirror 
was fine company; his toys were bores 
in comparison, Strangely, children were 
no morc frec of his spell than were 
their elders or Harry himself. Girls, 
dumb struck in his presence, wrote his 
name on sheets of paper and pinned 
them close to their hearts where in their 
dreams they could speak to the paper 
and listen to its rustle beneath their 
dresses return their love. Boys became 
his functionaries, his retinue: they ran 
his errands, did his homework, and 
crowded as close to him as they dared, 
watching his wandering eye jealously to 
see which of them he favored as a best 
friend. But Harrys eye always wandered 
back to itself and his servitors knew no 
satisfaction, but only: hunger and self- 
loathing for being unworthy; for being 
different. They saw Harry as the norm: 
the multitude beneath him were unfor- 
tunate aberrations shabbily highlighted 
by the glow of his perfection. Parents 
lost their pride in their children: seeing 
Harry made them feel toward their own 
the mixed emotions one feels toward an 
invalid. On the day Harry's mother took 
him on his only trip to the zoo the ani- 
mals could not take their eyes off him, 
At an early age it became clear to his 
parents that Harty was going to be some- 
thing special — а famous man, perhaps 
President, perhaps even a movie star. To 
prepare him for his destiny they saw he 
would require a special kind of training: 
a wutorship aimed at channeling his 
beauty in constructive directions. They 
had little means: his father was a physi- 
caleducation instructor in the city high 
school system, his mother was a private 
nurse. But relatives — aunts and uncles, 
cousins, nieces and nephews — insisted 
on raising a monthly Harry Fund as 
an investment; a premium on Harry's 
future. “Don’t worry about it,” they 
philosophized grandly. "Isn't he ours as 
much as yours? He'll pay us back.” 
With the first month’s installment a 
full-time tutor and governess was em- 
ployed. Her name was Fanny Braintree. 
At the time his tutorship began Harry 
was still a quiet child, unresponsive to 
the demands of an adult world that 
placed a sliding scale of values on a 
child's cuteness or cleverness. Cuteness he 
had no need for, nor cleverness either: 
both were defensive affectations designed 
to gain the attention that Harry by 
being Harry automatically had. His lan- 
guage from the beginning dealt only in 
basics; his first spoken word was “Harry,” 
his first sentence was “Give me.” His 
baby remarks were hardly quotable but 
they got for him all that he wanted. As 
he began to grow into boyhood he saw 
no urgent need to amplify them: his 
beauty was in the eye, not the ear of the 
beholder. When, during an English les- 


son, he asked his public-school teacher, 
“What good is all this stuff going to do 
me?" she could honestly offer no answer. 
In terms of formal education be had 
fallen far behind; yet, in some ways, not 
very far behind Fanny Braintree. 

Miss Braintree was in mid-passage 
when she came to tutor Harry. She was, 
by nature, a large, voluptuous woman 
and, by principle, a slender, shapeless 
one. Feeling heavily the responsibility of 
a career in education she entered the 
field by dieting most of her shape away 
and then tightly corseting whatever she 
found left. Through such sanctification 
she placed her own soul in readiness for 
those tiny little other souls whose future 
and guidance lay helpless in her hands. 
Her male friendships had been restricted 
to several YMCA secretaries with whom 
she read poetry. For years she had not 
stared at a man below the first button on 
his suit. 

But now she was on her way elsewhere: 
quietly and mysteriously her direction 
had changed; the layers of protection 
had cracked; her corsets no longer fit; 
‘her body was rather tentatively bursting 
through. Her mind was suddenly awake 
to hidden possibilities and her attempts 
to keep them hidden were halfhearted 
and, so, failed. Secretly, she entertained 
dreams and engaged in forbidden prac- 
tices, At age 40 Miss Braintree had dis- 
covered adolescence. Shortly thereafter 
she discovered Harry. 

One popular dream of youth is to have 
had a sultry seductress of a governess 
who pads into one's bedchamber on 
nights the grownups are away at the 
opera, warmly sheds her paltry negligee 
and slips beneath the covers to teach one 
those facts she fears might otherwise be 
picked up in the streets. 

If Fanny Braintree was not of that 
caliber, her dreams were. She came to 
love Harry madly but, being raised in a 
tradition where a young woman was only 
aggressive about those things she didn't 
want, she demurely and passively waited 
for the object of her love, just turned 11, 
to pad silently into her bedchamber, fold 
her into his arms and stretch open those 
doors which, at all other times, she had 
to open for herself. Though during tutor- 
ing sessions the Harry of her dreams 
never once conflicted with the little boy 
she tutored (a woman never makes the 
first move), at night the other Harry, 
her Harry, subverted and confused her 
senses. He was no age and no shape. He 
was Man! 

And since he never did show up 
though night after night she left her 
door across the hall just a bit ajar and 
posed a bottle of sherry and two empty 
glasses on her bed table, she came to 
resent him for his boorishness; she came 
to hate him. That dirty, teasing, frus- 
trating rat of a Harry! 

Eventually Miss Braintree’s odd eve- 


ning habits came to the attention of 
Harry's family. Each night there were 
two empty glasses and a full bottle of 
sherry at her bedside; cach morning 
there was an empty bottle of sherry and 
two rubystained glasses in their place. 
An odor, other than love, began to fill 
the household. 

Fanny Braintree was a controlled and 
practiced tutor of the old school; her 
ability to communicate thickened slightly 
but never fogged. Her lessons were given 
in a loud, almost overly clear voice and 
only during written examinations while 
Harry's face was buried busily in a test 
paper did her pink-rimmed eyes and her 
sagging chalked face gaze at him in fond 
regret, all love at the sight of him, all 
womanly forgiveness at her wretched 
lover's lack of faith. Soon she took to 
writing poems which she tied with rub- 
ber bands around small rocks and left in 
Harry's path as he strolled in the garden. 
Harry never read unless he had to, so 
he ignored the poems. At night as the 
family sat singing round the piano she'd 
sneak back among the bushes and nerv- 
ously recover her scattered rocks. 

Harry’s parents became disturbed. 
“The wine glasses, the open door, the 
moping around the garden. What does 
it all mean?" the mother asked. "Let's be 
patient alittle longer,” replied the father 
in self-interest. That night, on their way 
to bed as they passed Fanny Braintree's 
open door, Harry's father knew he must 
quickly arrive at a decision. He had 
known for weeks what the poor be- 
deviled tutor must be going through: 
her romantic dream of love, the waiting 
wine glasses, the inviting door, the lost 
walks in the garden lamenting а frustra- 
tion she could barely control. No woman 
had ever wanted him this way and, 
though Fanny Braintree did not have 
the spare, gymnasts type of build be 
found attractive, he felt himself think- 
ing of her with a growing excitement. 
How long could he resist the adventure? 
"Was it fair to Fanny Braintree to let her 
wither? Was it fair to Harry — wouldn't 
it adversely affect bis lessons? He could 
scarcely believe his wife would mind if 
she but understood the purity of his 
motives, the rehabilitation aspects of his 
projected program. 

The night-after-night passing of that 
open door slowly maddened him. He 
stirred in his sleep, drank warm milk, 
fought desperately against the growing 
image of that tantalizing enchantress 
with the golden body whose arms waited 
to welcome him the moment he chose to 
cross her portal. But this was not the 
way to go to her; it was unclean, It was 
guilty. He had to establish control over 
his emotions, sec her again аз a poor 
bereft woman and himself as a minister 
to her needs. 

One night, after long and thoughtful 

(continued on page 183) 


"Tuck my shirt into what shorts?” 


"Do You povst—? the Connemara 
Runners are bestl” 

"No! The Galway Cinema Ramblers!” 

“The Waterford Shoes!” 

These words, sprung out on the smoky 
air in a great commotion of tongues, 
ricocheted off the bar mirrors, passed 
undiminished through hiss of spigot, 
clink of glass and a great fish-scaling of 
coins, to reach me at the far rim of the 
crowd. 

Alert, I tuned my ear. 

“When it comes to that, the Dear 
Patriots are the men —" 

“The Queen's Own Evaders! No finer 
team e'er took the incline. Their reflex: 
uncanny. Of course, here in Dublin, our 
grandest man is Doone.” 

“Doone, hell! Hoolihan!” 

The argument raged above the tenor's 
singing, the concertinas dying hard in 
the Four Provinces saloon at the top of 
Grafton Street in the heart of Dublin. 
The argument was all the more violent 
because it was getting on late at night. 
With the clock nearing 10, there was 
the sure threat of everything going shut 
at once, meaning ale taps, accordions, 
piano lids, soloists, trios, quartets, pubs. 
sweetshops and cinemas. In a great 
heave like the Day of Judgment, half 
Dublin's population would be thrown 
out into raw lamplight, there to find 
themselves wanting in gum-machine mir- 
rors. Stunned, their moral and physical 
sustenance plucked from them, the souls 
would wander like battered moths for a 
moment, then wheel about for home. All 
the more reason, then, for fiery arguments 
to warm the blood against the cold. 


“Doone!” 

“Doone, my hat! Hoolihan!” 

At which point the smallest, loudest 
man, turning, saw the curiosity en- 
shrined in my all-too-open face and 
shouted: 

“You're American, of course! And 
wondering what we're up to? Would you 
bet on a mysterious sporting event of 
great local consequence? Nod once, and 
come here!” 

I nodded, smiled and strolled my 
Guinness through the uproar and jostle 
as one violinist gave up destroying a 
tune, and an old man took his hands out 
of the piano's mouth and hurried over. 

“Name's Timulty!” The little man 
gripped my hand. 

“Douglas,” I said. “I write for motion 
Pictures.” 

“Fillums!” gasped everyone. 

“Films,” I admitted, modestly. 

“It staggers belief!” Timulty seized me 
tighter. “You'll be the best judge in his- 
tory. In sports now, do you know the 
cross-country, 440 and such man-on-foot 
excursions?” 

“I have personally witnessed two com- 
plete Olympic Games.” 

“Not just fillums, but the world com- 
petition.” Timulty grabbed his friends 
for support. “Then, good grief, surely 
you've heard of the special all-Irish 
decathlon event which has to do with 
picture theaters?” 

"I've heard only what 1 take to be the 
names of teams, tonight.” 

“Hear more, then! Hoolihan!” 

An even littler fellow, pocketing his 
wet harmonica, leapt forward, beaming. 


“Hoolihan. That's me. The best an- 
them sprinter'in all Ireland!” 

“What sprinter?” I asked. 

“Ал” spelled Hoolihan, much too 
carefully. hem. Anthem. Sprinter. 
The fastest.” 

“Have you been to the Dublin cine- 
mas?" asked Timulty. 

“Last night" I said. “I saw a Clark 
Gable film. Night before, an old Charles 
Laughton. Night before that—” 

"Enough! You're fanatic, as are all the 
Trish. If it weren't for cinemas and pubs 
to keep the poor and workless off the 
street or in their cups, we'd have pulled 
the cork and let the isle sink long ago. 
Well!” He clapped his hands. “When the 
Picture ends each night, have you ob- 
served a peculiarity of the breed?” 

“End of the picture?” I mused. “Hold 
on. You can't mean the national anthem, 
can you?" 

“Can we, boys?” cried Timulty. 

"We can!" cried all. 

“Any night, every night, for tens of 
dreadful years, at the end of each damn 
fillum, as if you'd never heard the bale- 
ful tune before,” grieved Timulty, “the 
orchestra strikes up for Ireland. And 
what happens then?” 

“Why,” said I, falling in with it, “if 
you're any man at all, you try to get 
out of the theater in those few precious 
moments between THE END of the film 
and the start of the anthem.” 

“Buy the Yank a drink!” 

“After all,” I said, “I'm in Dublin 
four months now. The anthem has be- 
gun to pale. No disrespect meant.” 

(continued on page 171) 


AWE QUEENS OWN WADERS 


THE TRICK WAS TO MAKE THE BEST USE OF THOSE FEW PRECIOUS 
MOMENTS BETWEEN FILM'S END AND ANTHEM'S COMMENCEMENT 


fiction By RAY BRADBURY 


ILLUSTRATION BY TOMI UNGERER 


PORK AND RED CABBAGE 


BEEF TARTAR 


Ny 


SUNNY SANDWICHCRAFT 
FROM THE 
UNMELANCHOLY DANES 


FOOD 
BY THOMAS MARIO 


SMOKED SALMON ANO EGG 


WHEN THE EDITORS of Websters New Collegiate Dictionary defined the noun "sandwich" as “two or 

slices of bread with other food, as meat, cheese, or savory mixture, spread between them,” they irreverently 
snubbed those modern-day Vikings whose tables are dedicated to the proposition that the real art of sandwich- 
making (and sandwich enjoyment) lies in the theorem that in halving the bread one doubles the eating 
pleasure. Although the open sandwich, or smørrebrød, is lavishly served all through the Scandinavian coun- 


PHOTOGRAPHY BY DON BRONSTEIN 


ORT MOUND 
IMPORTED SHRIMP MO SMOKED DYSTERS 


AT 
ГМ» X 


ROAST BEEF AND BACON 


TRUFFLED LOBSTER SALAD 


tries, as well as in Germany and Austria, the Danes are credited with having brought it to its present peak of 
virtuosity. Comestibles that most Americans wouldn't think of putting between slices of bread become 
magnificent booty when perched atop a single slice. In Scandinavia, such toppings as herring in cold lobster 
sauce, slices of roast goose mingled with fruit stuffing, raw egg yolks, bits of crisp bacon with sautéed onion 
atop rare roast beef, or fillet of freshly smoked eel aren't esoteric oddities but properly satisfying fare 


PLAYBOY 


88 


for the more knowledgeable trencher- 
man. The well-trained smérrebróder 
astutely brings together the doughty and 
the delicate. Scraped or ground raw beef 
in cannibal sandwiches cavorts with 
tiny shavings of fresh horseradish, capers 
and onions. Smoky sprats rest atop 
weightlessly soft scrambled eggs and hot 
curry finds its way into the blandest 
mayonnaise. 

‘Americans touring Scandinavia recog- 
nize the sumptuous open sandwich feast 
as more than merely the familiar smor- 
gasbord on bread. Unlike the full-dress 
smorgasbord, which often requires con- 
sultation with elaborate recipes, all you 
need for a successful open-sandwich party 
is the route to the nearest fine food 
counter. With herring as the base. ad- 
mirable open sandwiches can be built 
easily from such wonderful pickings as 
herring in dill, in madeira, in fruit 
sauce, in lobster sauce or in cream. The 
Danes will be the first to forgive the 
pun when we call theirs the land of 
the checry herring. But the kingdom of 
little fishes is only a beginning. Bache- 
lors planning a smørrebrød fest will now 
find in gourmet shops and delicatessens 
an appetite-rousing array of sliced cooked 
meats, sliced fowl, seafood, salads, cheeses 
and condiments. So lavish is the present 
pageant of things pickled, canned and 
jarred that your most difficult decision is 
not what to buy but when to call a halt. 

‘The Dane customarily puts eating first 
among the practical arts of living. The 
natural goodness of smørrebrød ingredi- 
ents is found in the Danish imports now 
coming to this country — mild cured ham, 
smoked salmon with not a grain of salt 
in it, Danish blue and mynster cheeses, 
the latter much closer to the Swiss than 
the pallid munster produced in this 
country, the accompanying great Tuborg 
and Carlsberg beers and, of course, the 
incomparable Aalborg Akvavit, with its 
dry caraway flavor, and cherry heering. 

For bearing your smørrebrød to the 
table, you should conscript huge silver 
or fine wooden platters, china platters 
or outsize wooden cheese trays. The knife 
and fork are more utile than the hand in 
doing the smørrebrød justice. Each sand- 
wich should be not only succulent but a 
color delight as well. On sun-yellow 
scrambled eggs, diagonal stripes of pink 
smoked salmon are ribbons of gastro- 
nomic honor. Atop thin slices of roast 
pork loin, mounds of pickled red cabbage 
please both eyes and taste buds. Among 
the sandwiches there should be islands of 
additional color — large bunches of water 
cress, lemon or lime wedges, nests of 
lettuce filled with mushroom salad, cur- 
ried pasta salad or cucumber salad in 
dill. 

The translation of smørrebrød is but- 
tered bread. The butter must be sweet, 
the color of white gold, and worked with 
a knife or spatula until it's creamy soft 


but not melting. It should be spread lav- 
ishly. The Danes are past masters in 
making compound butters such as but- 
ter mixed with curry, with chives, with 
mustard, with pimiento or with horse- 
radish. Both the genuine Danish rye 
bread, called rugbrød, and black pum- 
pernickel should be sliced not more 
than an eighth-inch thick. Sour ie, 
white bread or whole-wheat bread should 
be a quarteránch thick. 

Architects of late supper parties or 
all-night beer parties often simplify the 
smørrebrød ritual by merely emptying 
their plunder out of cans, jars and pack- 
ages from the delicatessen into serving 
plates alongside huge trays of bread. The 
assembled sandwich munchers may then 
create their own smørrebrød on the spot. 
For prepared posh smørrebrød parties, 
you need simply phone the nearest Scan- 
dinavian or Danish restaurant, such as 
the newly opened Copenhagen in New 
York, or the Kungsholm in Chicago, and 
order your catered smørrebrød im ad- 
vance. Oskar Davidsen's famous old res- 
taurant in Copenhagen has air-expressed 
open sandwiches all over the world. Of 
course, dedicated members of the smør- 
rebréd cult will want to make their own 
sandwiches in their own private digs. It 
isn't necessary to emulate Davidsen's 
four-foot-long menu with 712 open sand- 
wiches made from 178 combinations on 
four different kinds of bread. But you 
should plan on a batting order that in- 
cludes each of the main categories of the 
Danish cold board: fish and shellfish, 
fresh meats and poultry, smoked meats, 
eggs and cheese. 

With all sandwiches, such appetite- 
whewing accompaniments as gherkins 
cut into fan-shaped slices, plum tomatoes, 
pickled walnuts and artichoke hearts in 
spiced olive oil are guaranteed aids 
to gourmandise. Although professional 
smérrebróders like to construct their 
sandwiches at the very last moment, it's 
possible to make them in advance and 
keep them fresh by following a simple 
technique: place the assembled sand- 
wiches in large shallow baking pans or 
shallow cartons; cover the top tightly 
with Saran-type or foil wrap, or a mois- 
tened kitchen towel wrung dry; store 
them in the refrigerator until served. 

In enjoying his open sandwichcraft, 
the Dane follows an old drinking cere- 
mony. Because he loves eating more 
than drinking, he always takes a bite of 
smørrebrød before he raises his glass of 
icy cold snafs to his lips. Invariably his 
snaps is the Aalborg Akvavit, and the 
first one is always taken neat For a 
chaser he immediately takes a prodigious 
draught of his beer. Thereafter his snaps 
is swallowed in small sips, each sip fol- 
lowed with generous quaffs of beer. 

While the art of the open sandwich 
can be mastered without ever scanning a 
single recipe, the cooked smørrebrød 


specialties have their own very special 
allure. "Their number is legion, and the 
technique of their construction couldn't 
be easier. PLAYBOY's own array of open 
sandwiches is designed for any bon vi- 
vant with access to a skillet. 

Each of the following recipes serves 
four. 


PÁTÉ DE FOIE GRAS AND SMOKED TURKEY 
SANDWIGHES 


4oz crock paté de foie gras with 
truffes 

&oz. tin sliced smoked turkey 

Sweet butter 

4 slices pumpernickel 

4 large tomato slices, Y4-in. thick 

Salt, pepper, sugar 

Flour 

1 egg, well beaten 

Bread crumbs 

Salad oil 

Work butter until it is soft enough to 
spread easily. Butter pumpemickel. 
Spread paté de foie gras on bread. Ar- 
range parallel slices of smoked turkey 
on foie gras. Sprinkle tomatoes with salt, 
pepper and sugar. Dip in flour. Pat off 
excess and dip in beaten egg, then in 
bread crumbs. Heat М in. salad ой in a 
large skillet. Fry tomato slices until 
golden brown on both sides. Place a 
tomato slice on each sandwich. 


BEEF TARTAR SANDWICHES 


141b. boneless prime porterhouse 
steak 
2 teaspoons salt 
4 teaspoon freshly ground black 
pepper 

4 dashes cayenne pepper 

4 teaspoons horseradish 

4 teaspoons capers, drained 

2 tablespoons onion, minced fine 

4 egg yolks 

Sweet butter 

4 slices rye bread 

4 sour gherkins 

2 teaspoons minced chives 

‘Trim meat of all fat. Put it through 
a grinder twice, using fine blade. Add 
salt, black pepper, cayenne, horseradish, 
capers, onion and egg yolks. Mix well. 
Butter bread. Spread meat on bread and 
place a gherkin, cut into fan-shaped 
slices, on corner of each sandwich. Sprin- 
kle with chives. 


HAM, EGG AND BLUE CHEESE SANDWICHES 


8 thin slices Danish or Virginia ham 
2 hard-boiled eggs, chilled 

2 ozs. blue cheese 

3 tablespoons mayonnaise 

Y teaspoon mustard 

M, teaspoon lemon juice 

X4 teaspoon sugar 

и teaspoon grated onion 


Salt, pepper 
Sweet butter 


4 slices rye bread 
(concluded. overleaf) 


“You asked how far I could be trusted — well, 
Miss Wilson, you just stepped over it." 


PLAYBOY 


Cut hard-boiled eggs into small dice. 
Crumble blue cheese. Combine eggs, 
cheese, mayonnaise, mustard, lemon 
juice, sugar and grated onion. Add salt 
and pepper to taste. Butter the bread. 
Place ham on bread. Spoon egg mixture 
onto the center of each sandwich. 


SMOKED OYSTER SANDWICHES 


3 34-02. cans smoked oysters, chilled 

1 hard-boiled egg 

% large green pepper 

Sweet butter 

1 teaspoon minced chives or onion 

1 teaspoon minced parsley 

4 slices whole-wheat bread 

With a very sharp knife cut cight 
lengthwise strips of egg white V4 in. wide. 
Cut the pepper into eight long strips. 
Work butter smooth on cutting board, 
then add chives and parsley. Spread 
bread with butter. Chop egg yolk until 
very fine. Arrange oysters on bread and 
sprinkle with chopped egg yolk. Cut 
each sandwich in half diagonally. On 
each half place a strip of green pepper 
and a parallel strip of egg white. 


ROAST BEEF, BACON AND ONION SANDWICHES 


8 thin slices rare roast beef 

8 slices bacon 

1 medium-size onion 

Sweet butter 

4 slices rye bread 

1 tablespoon horseradish 

Salt, pepper 

12 thin slices cucumber 

Mince onion very fine. Cut bacon into 
small dice about М-їп. square and heat 
in a frying pan until it is almost crisp. 
Add onion and continue to fry until 
bacon is crisp. Drain onion and bacon 
of all fat. Work butter until it is soft 
enough to spread easily. Add horseradish 
to butter and spread on bread. Place 
roast beef on bread and sprinkle lightly 
with sal and pepper. Sprinkle with 
bacon and onions. Place alternate slices 
of tomato and cucumber, overlapping, 
on the center of each sandwich. 


SCRAMBLED EGG AND SMOKED SALMON 


SANDWICHES 
4 eggs 
4 Тог. slices smoked salmon 
Butter 


4 slices rye bread 

8 medium-size fresh mushrooms 

] teaspoon fresh chives, minced fine 

Salt, pepper 

Work 3 tablespoons butter until it is 
soft enough to spread easily. Butter the 
bread. Cut mushrooms into slices about 
Yin. thick and sauté in ] tablespoon 
butter until they are just tender. Set 
aside. Beat eggs until whites are no 
longer visible. Add chives and season 
with salt and pepper. Melt 2 tablespoons 
butter in skillet. Add eggs and cook over 


9o moderate flame, stirring constantly, un- 


til eggs are soft scrambled. Divide eggs 
among the 4 slices of bread, spreading 
evenly. Arrange a row of mushroom 
slices diagonally across each sandwich. 
Top mushrooms with salmon slices. 


LOBSTER SALAD SANDWICHES 
2 14-1b. northern lobsters, boiled and 
chilled 


% cup minced celery 

% cup mayonnaise 

1 tablespoon chili sauce 

1 teaspoon lemon juice 

14 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce 

Salt, pepper, celery sale 

Sweet butter 

8 slices French bread 

8 lettuce leaves 

8 slices hard-boiled egg 

8 anchovies 

8 thin slices black truffle 

Remove meat from lobsters. Cut into 
small dice, no more than 14-in. thick. In 
a mixing bowl combine diced lobster, 
celery, mayonnaise, chili sauce, lemon 
juice, Worcestershire sauce and salt, 
pepper and celery salt to taste, Butter 
the bread and place a lettuce leaf on 
each slice. (Boston lettuce leaves, me- 
dium size, are best for this kind of 
sandwich.) Spoon Jobster onto lettuce. 
Place a slice of hard-boiled egg on each 
piece of bread. Curl an anchovy around 
the rim of each slice of egg. Turn truf- 
fles into fancy shapes with a truflle cutter 
(available at stores featuring imported 
housewares and kitchen utensils), Place 
a slice of truffle on each slice of egg. 

IMPORTED SHRIMP MOUND SANDWICHES 

4 294-02, jars tiny imported shrimps 

Sweet butter 

4 slices white bread 

14 cup celery, diced fine 

34 cup Spanish onion, diced fine 

% cup canned pimiento, diced fine 

1 cup mayonnaise 

Salt, pepper 

Half lemon 

Be sure shrimps and vegetables are icy 
cold. Drain shrimps. Work butter until 
it is soft enough to spread easily. Butter 
bread. In a mixing bowl combine celery, 
onion, pimiento and mayonnaise, mixing 
well. Add salt and pepper to taste. Place 
a mound of the celery mixture on each 
piece of bread. Arrange the shrimps on 
top of the celery mixture. Sprinkle with 
the juice of the half lemon. 


SLICED PORK AND RED CABBAGE SANDWICHES 


3-Ib. center-cut pork loin 

14 cups finely shredded red cabbage 
Salt, pepper 

2 tablespoons sugar 

2 tablespoons vinegar 

Y& cup mayonnaise 

34 teaspoon prepared mustard 

1⁄4 teaspoon celery seed 

14 teaspoon turmeric 


4 slices white bread 

8 strips canned pimiento, 14 in. thick. 

Place meat in uncovered rozsting pan 
and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Roast 
in preheated oven at 400° for 136 hours. 
While meat is roasting, pour off melted 
fat into small container from time to 
time. Place fat in refrigerator until serv- 
ing time. In a mixing bowl combine 
cabbage, sugar, vinegar, mayonnaise, 
mustard, celery seed and turmeric. Mix 
well. Add salt and pepper to taste. Chill 
in refrigerator. Spread bread with pork 
fat. Cut meat from bones, removing it 
in one piece. Slice meat thin and ar- 
range slices on bread. Sprinkle with salt 
and pepper. Across the center of each 
sandwich arrange a long mound of red 
cabbage salad. Place two strips of pi- 
miento on sides of each cabbage mound. 


CURRIED CRAB MEAT AND DANISH 
SAUSAGE SANDWICHES 


Tygoz. can king crab meat 
4oz can (drained weight) Danish 
cocktail sausages 

Sweet butter 

-cup onion, diced 

2 tablespoons flour 

1 teaspoon curry powder 

1 cup light cream 

Salt, pepper 

2 tablespoons brandy 

4 slices bacon 

8 slices French bread 

Buy the tendonless chunk-style crab 
meat, if possible. If the regular king crab 
meat is used, the tendons must be care- 
fully removed before cooking. Melt 2 
tablespoons butter in a saucepan or skil- 
let over a low flame. Add onion. Sauté 
only until onion is yellow. Remove from. 
flame. Stir in flour and curry powder, 
mixing very well. In a small saucepan 
heat cream until bubbles appear around 
edge of pan. Slowly stir cream into pan 
with onion. Mix very well. Return to a 
moderate flame, and simmer 5 minutes. 
Add crab meat, brandy and salt and 
pepper to taste. Simmer over a low flame 
5 minutes more. Set aside until serving 
time. Cut each slice of bacon crosswise 
into 4 pieces. Wrap a piece of bacon 
around each sausage. Fasten open end 
of bacon with toothpick. Sauté sausages 
in a skillet without added fat until 
bacon is brown, turning when necessary. 
Butter bread. Heat crab meat if neces- 
sary, and spoon over bread, Remove 
toothpicks from sausages and arrange 
sausages on top of crab meat. 

‘The above sampling merely skims the 
surface of a cornucopian array of brød- 
based Danish delights. Your own varia- 
tions on Scandinavia’s urbane upgrading 
of the Earl of Sandwich's bid for im- 
mortality are limited only by the reaches 
of your imagination and the proclivities 
of your palate. 

Ba 


fiction By BRIAN RENCELAW 


ugliness, like beauty, is only — 


SKIN DEEP 


"What's the score?" 

"Let's see..." Stark sighed and 
studied the clipboard. "Eight moons 
explored. Of these, five support sen- 
tient life. Of the five, three are be- 
nevolent, two malignant.'' He hungthe 
Clipboard above the control panel. 
“That leaves three moons to go.” 

Croydon asked, “Want to knock off 
for the day?" 

Stark thoughtfully massaged the 
stubble on his face. ‘No, they're small 
moons. Let's get 'em out of the way." 

“I'm game." Croydon guided the 
ship toward Moon Nine. “Eleven 
moons—that's a lot to cover in two 
days." 

Stark nodded, then stretched and 


PLAYBOY 


92 


yawned widely. "A lot. But we'll never 
be too fast for the Colonial Bureau. 
‘They have a list of prospective settlers а 
mile long. We barely get a chance to 
clear a planet before the first colony 
starts to spring up. Moons are always 
a pain in the neck. Gravel, I call ‘em. 
They really slow up the report.” 

Croydon frowned and studied the 
shifting lights of his navigation chart. 
"TII say they do,” he replied. "It drives 
me crazy trying to keep track of them 
in their orbits. Just look at the way 
they shuffle around. Damn!" 

“ “Swear not at the inconstant moon,’ 
misquoted Stark, the poetic line coming 
incongruously from his leathery, space- 
hardened face. 

“What?” asked Croydon. 

“Nothing, forget it. It’s a line from 
some ancient play.” 

“Never figured you for a scholar, 
Stark.” 

“I'm not. Just an old spaceman. But 
the pioneer ships didn’t have expensive 
film libraries like today. Any entertain- 
ment we had was dog-cared reading 
matter donated by kind old ladies. On 
my first trip it was a tossup between 
going nuts or wading through a set of 
plays by some forgotten poet. So I 
waded. Read every single one of ‘em. 
Some of the lines still stick in my head.” 

“You've been doing this for a long 
time, haven't you, Stark?” 

Stark grunted, “Thirty years. I was 
eighteen when I started. The pay was 
almost as bad then as it is now.” 

“Ever explore a planet with 11 moons 
before?” 

“Hell, I was assigned to the planet 
Orestes in System K when I was a kid. 
Its got 20 moons! And back then we 
didn’t have this gadget to help us.” 
His pressure suit hung within reach and 
he tapped the insectlike antennae on 
the helmet. 

“The Probe certainly saves a lot of 
time,” Croydon agreed. “As well as 
lives.” 

He brought the ship to a smooth land- 
ing on Moon Nine. The two men pulled 
on their pressure suits and stepped out. 
Moon Nine was small, with little grav- 
ity. Automatically, their suits adjusted 
to the situation and supplied enough 
artificial gravity to make up for the lack. 

Their heavy-booted feet sank into 
spongy soil. Croydon dug up a piece of 
it and put it in his sample case. 
“Couldn't grow anything here, I'm 
afraid," he mumbled. 

Stark heard him over his helmet- 
phones and growled, "Not a chance. But 
the fools will come here and live in pres- 
sure cabins and irrigate the whole damn 
moon with chemicals and try to raise 
a few weeds just the same. ‘They're crazy. 
Just because they can buy a moon for a 
few hundred bucks they think they're 
lords of creation. Of course,” he added, 


“if a man were lucky enough to buy 
himself a moon loaded with precious 
Tock...” 

“Look!” said Croydon. 

Stark looked. Perched on a mound of 
the spongelike soil was a woman. She 
was smiling and flexing a richly curved 
naked body. Her eyes Mashed with un- 
mistakable invitation. 

Stark heard his young companion 
chuckle, "I'd pay a couple of hundred 
for this moon any day: it has a built-in 
harem!” Croydon started to walk toward 
her. 


Don't be a fool, lad,” Stark said 
sharply. “Turn on your Probe." Both 
men touched buttons on their helmets 
and felt their minds go out to the deli- 
cious siren and burrow into her thoughts. 
‘What they found there made them stop 
suddenly. 

‘They felt first an overwhelming hos- 
tility. Then hunger: a strong, raging 
hunger for flesh. 

Stark pulled out his blaster and 
burned a hole through the smiling 
charmer's chest. The thing that 
thrashed in agony on the ground was a 
slimy obscenity with no eyes and mon- 
strous jaws that gaped but did not 
smile. Another blast and it was dead. 

“Chalk up another moon with malig- 
nant inhabitants," said Stark. 

Croydon's voice was unsteady: "Let's 
go back to the ship." 

Inside the ship, they climbed out of 
their suits. Croydon's face was pale. 

“What's wrong, kid?" Stark laughed. 
“You've had close shaves before.” 

“But not like this. A beautiful girl 
one second, a monster the next . . .” He 
shuddered. 

Stark said, “ “Chere are more things in 
heaven and earth, Horatio, than are 
dreamt of in your philosophy.’ " 

“Horatio? What's that — more of that 
ancient gibberish?” 

"Yeah. In other words, when you've 
been ploughing space as long as I have, 
you'll stop being surprised at the dis- 
guises these critters can get into. The 
one out there had a special knack for 
assuming the shape of the opposite sex 
of any species that crossed its path. If we 
were girls, it would have changed into a 
Greek god without benefit of fig leaf. 
If we were, say, tomcats, it would have 
become a тотса. Don't let it throw 
you. Just thank your Probe for letting 
you see beyond the sugar coating.” Stark 
made a notation on the clipboard and 
Croydon drove the ship up and away, 
into space, toward the next satellite on 
their schedule. 

When Moon Ten began to fill their 
viewplate, they donned their suits again 
—in advance of landing, to save time. 
Croydon brought the ship down with a 
sharp roll that threw them to the deck. 
You all right, Stark?” 

“Sure, it'll take more than a bumpy 


landing to kill me off. How are you?” 

“Dented my helmet, but I'm fine.” 

“Then let's go.” 

Croydon stepped out first. Moon Ten 
was a rocky world punctuated infre- 
quently with scraggly trees. From behind 
one of these, a swarm of spidery, fist-sized 
creatures skittered out and crawled on 
his legs. Revolted, he brushed them off 
with quick panicky strokes and reached 
for his blaster. 

Stark said, “Hold off. They're friend- 
ly little beggars. What do you want to 
blast them for?” 

“Friendly?” Croydon played with the 
button of his Probe. “I'm not getting a 
thing from them, Stark. My Probe's 
dead.” 

“Must have damaged it when you 
bumped your head. Don't worry about 
it. Mine's OK. That's the great thing 
about these Probes, kid — not only do 
they see through appealing disguises, 
they see through ugliness, too. In the 
old days, we would have blasted these 
critters just because of their crawly looks. 
Ugliness is only skin deep.” 

The "spiders" followed them like 
faithful dogs as they trod the hard rock 
of Moon Ten. Stark chiseled a piece of 
the rock and dropped it in his sample 
case. Immediately, his helmet-phones be- 
gan to cluck like laying hens. A hoarse 
cry burst from his lips. 

“What is it?" asked Croydon. 

"My sample case is going crazy. This 
bunk of gravel is hot, boy! Radio- 
active as hell.” 

“Why, that's great!” 

"I'll say it's great. If the rest of the 
moon is even half as hot as this, it's 
worth billions!" His voice dropped to a 
whisper. "And it's ours." 

Croydon said, “This news 
big with the Colonial Bureau. 

Stark snorted. "The Colonial Bureau! 
"That's not what I mean when I say ours. 
I mean you and me, Croydon. Think of 
it: a moon worth billions of dollars and 
it's ours— if we play our cards right." 

"How?" 

“First thing we do is list this moon 
along with those having hostile inhabit- 
ants. We say nothing about these cheer- 
ful little spiders. And we say nothing 
about the radioactive deposits. Abso- 
lutely nothing.” 

“Why? We can enter a claim to the 
moon when we make our report . . . “ 

“Yeah? And have them up the ante 
because it's hot? Or tie it up with red 
tape? Or pull some legal shenanigans to 
grab it as government property? Not on 
your life!” 

“But, Stark — ” 

"Listen, kid. I've been blazing space 
trails for a long time and I've seen the 
Bureau pull some pretty fancy tricks. 
Таке my word for it. The less they know, 
the better. If we keep quiet about the 

(concluded on page 182) 


ll go over 


woobv cUrHRIE, the saline singer and 
balladmaker from Okfuskee County, 
Oklahoma, once auditioned at the Rain- 
bow Room in Rockefeller Center. It 
was in the early 1940s, and folk music 
was still limited mainly to the folk 
itself in rural areas and small towns. 
A few sophisticated field collectors, 
academicians and sanguine propagan- 
dists for the Left were aware of its 
prickly existence, but the general public 
either ignored folk music or regarded 
it all as squawking exotica. The Bela- 
fontes and the Kingston Trios had not 
yet applied detergent to the folk roots 
and become millionaires in the process 
of dilution. 

The billowy lady in charge of the 
Rainbow Room looked at the scraggly 
Mr. Guthrie, puzzled over his wild singu- 
larity, and said brightly, "I have it! 
Pierrot! We shall dress him in a Pierrot 
costume. One of those darling clown 
suits! It will bring out the life and the 
pep and the giddy humor of his period. 
Isn't that simply a swell idea?" 

Woody asked the way to the men's 
room, ducked into an elevator and, as 
he recalled in his autobiography. Bound 
for Glory: "When we hit bottom, I 
walked out onto the slick marble floor 
whariging as hard as I could on the 
guitar and singing. . . . I filled myself 
full of the free air and sung as loud 
as the building would stand." 


Well this Rainbow Room's a funny 
place to play 

It's a long ways from here 
to the U.S.A. 


By 1949, the Weavers were organized, 
and while they didn’t play the Rainbow 
Room in costume, they did make the 
hit record charts the next year with 
Goodnight, Irene. Burl Ives, Josh White 
and Richard Dyer-Bennet had already 
established a folk salient in several of 
the more intimate night clubs, and their 
prospects were considerably gilded by 
the Weavers’ success. In the next decade, 
Harry Belafonte, Theodore Bikel and 
a motley roster of other minstrels ac- 
celerated popular acceptance of folk 
material. The swift ascent of the King- 
ston Trio in 1958 heralded a further rush 
of emulators, and the folk fever has 
continued to rise ever since. 

In the early stages of the transmuta- 
tion of folk music into show business, a 
fan walked up one night to Lee Hayes, 
a grizzled charter member of the Weav- 
ers, and said, “You guys sure got a 
great act!” 

“It's not an act,” Hayes growled. "It's 
real.” 

By 1963, however, the percentage of 
“real” folk music in the hundreds 
of LPs in that genre and in the scores 
of nightclub jongleurs who specialized 
in what they call folk expression had be- 
come conspicuously small. There was 


even an Ivy League Three singing work 
songs at the Blue Angel in New York; 
and Billboard, the voice of the com- 
mercial music industry, pointed out in 
accurate if dispiriting language: “Vo- 
cal groups — particularly those in the 
folksy collegiate category — are register- 
ing strong sales appeal, both on albums 
and singles.” 

A saddened though now richer folk 
singer of quality, Glenn Yarbrough, 
recently keened when asked his reaction. 
to the spiraling fortunes of the ebullient 
but hoked-up Limeliters to which he 
belongs: “The only thing that success 
has taught me is that success is mean- 
ingless. An audience is like a lynch 
mob. Three years ago they were walking 
out on me. Now that they know we've 
been on the Sullivan show, they come 
and cheer.” Another Limeliter, Alex 
Hassilev, said of his colleagues: “They 
want to have commercial success and 
still be above it. And that's having it 
just a little too good.” 

Even the church-based Negro gospel 
groups have begun to discover in the 
past few years that their heated wit- 
nessing is folk singing and is therefore 
negotiable on much more lucrative terms 
than they had ever imagined. Mahalia 
Jackson, the first gospel singer to make 
a major breakthrough into integrated, 
secular audiences, has retained the un- 
alloyed passion she hurled at exultant 
Baptists in the years before she appeared 
on the Dinah Shore show. But Miss 
Jackson has nonetheless now allowed 
Columbia Records to package her more 
“palatably” on occasion with boneless 
studio choirs and cotton-candy violins. 

As a definitive sign of big show busi- 
ness’ embrace of this shouting branch 
of the folk, Clara Ward and her gospel 
troupe are now regular hezdliners in Las 
Vegas. The Ward Singers and other gos- 
pel units have also become familiar on 
the college circuit and in the big-city 
folk clubs. 

In her latter, non-Las Vegas activi- 
ties, Miss Ward may well cross paths 
with Pete Seeger, who has been pros 
elytizing among the young — from kin- 
dergarten to college — for many years. 
"То most of the more solemn urban con- 
verts to folk music, Seeger is still a 
paradigm of forthright musical honesty. 
The young citybillies, who attend and 
play in the coffeehouses where the folk 
acolytes hold their services, scorn the 
Limeliters Peter, Paul & Mary; the 
Kingston Trio; and the Brothers Four. 
But Pete Seeger is bathed in a nimbus 
of virtue as one carrier of the tradition 
who has not sold out to the Yahoos. As 
a person, Sceger deserves their plaudits, 
because he is remarkably guileless and 
idealistic. As a performer, however, 
Seeger is more a nimble cheerleader than 
an excavator of the marrow of folk 
feeling. It is Secger's continuing stature 


PAINTED ESPECIALLY FOR PLAYBDY BY ROY SCHNACKENDERG 


FOLK,FOLKUM 


AND THE NEW 


CITYBILLY 


casting a critical eye on folk sing- 
ers—the simon-pure and the phony, 
the sophisticated and the square 


article By NAT HENTOFF 


as a folk guru that symbolizes the con- 
fusion of standards today even among 
the hip folk audience. 

An extremely rare flicker of heresy 
at the gospel as transmitted by Seeger 
appeared in the British Jazz News during 
a Seeger tour of England a couple of 
years ago. Peter Clayton, a chronic free- 
thinker, wrote: “It was when he turned 
to attack that log that I began to feel 
uneasy. He had flung off his jacket by 
this time and, picki 
quite as long as his banjo, he sang a 
work song to the rhythmic accompani- 
ment of his own chopping. The chips, 
significantly, flew everywhere. This ought 
to have been authentic, but somchow 
it had the embarrassing tameness of a 
Zulu warrior exhibited at a fairground.” 
"The reviewer hastened to proclaim his 
sympathy with Secger’s catechism of 
universal brotherhood and his persistent 
refusal to answer questions of the House 
Un-American Activities Committee; but 
he added sadly: “This thin figure who 
stood and played banjo and 12-string 
guitar, who blew a little wooden pipe, 
who threw his head back and sang 
slightly Leftish songs for two hours in 
the Albert Hall's yellow spotlight was 
being judged by his audience on these, 
rather than on musical, grounds. But it 
was in any case alll so pathetically naive. 
. - . Incidentally, why did he bother to 
tell the crowd they sounded wonderful 
[singing along with him]? They sounded 
quite as dreadful as any other English 
crowd self-consciously singing: a sort 
of uncertain half-Gregorian chanting.” 

And yet not all the audiences are self- 
conscious nor are all the formers on 
the expanding folk carrousel limited to 
the folkum style of the Kingston Trio 
or the earnest pamphleteering of Pete 
Seeger. It is, in fact, the growing diver- 
sity in the current folk farrago that 
makes this phenomenon so absorbing 
and increasingly difficult to compart- 
mentalize. On the one hand, for exam- 
ple, a stiff, angry Negro from Detroit, 
Bill McAdoo, performs with grating 
tonelessness as he transmogrifes the 


work song Jumping Judy with such gs 


PLAYBOY 


leaden lyrics of his own as: 


I will never drop that bomb 
I will never drop that bomb 
I will never drop that bomb 
And blow this world to Hell. 


But there is also Bob Dylan, a 22-year- 
old wanderer, originally from Minnesota, 
who has somehow assimilated a rainbow 
of styles from archaic Negro blues to 
acrid white mountain wailing, and has 
emerged as a penetratingly individual 
singer as well as an expert harmonica 
whooper and guitarist Dylan, the most 
vital of the younger citybillies, looks at 
first like a fawn at bay; but when he 
starts to sing, the slight boy in the black 
corduroy cap, green jumper and blue 
corduroy pants draws his audiences into 
his stories as if he were an ancient bard. 

Like most of the citybillies, both the 
commercialized and the comparatively 
“pure,” Dylan is often ironic “I went 
down South a couple of years ago,” he 
says in his hesitant drawl, “and bung 
around chain gangs looking for folk 
songs. I never heard any singing, though.” 
Dylan is also serious, though not pom- 
pous in the manner of some coffeehouse 
aesthetes. In his Talkin’ New York, a 
blues done in the wry conversational 
manner of one of his idols, Woody 
Guthrie, Dylan tells of looking for work 
in Greenwich Village one day and of 
being instantly dismissed ("You sound 
like a hillbilly. We want folk singers 
here.”). He then looks quizzically at his 
audience, as if wondering whether to 
level with them, and finally says, “I 
never create anything. I just record what 
I hear. I run around with my eyes and 
my pencil" 

Onc of the pervasive preoccupations 
among the committed young folk audi- 
ences and. performers which Dylan has 
recorded is their nuclear pacifism: 


I will not go down under the ground. 

Because someone tells me that death's 
comin’ round. 

T will not carry myself to die. 

When I go to grace my head will be 
high. 

Let me die in my footsteps 

Before I'll go down under the ground. 


The fierce opposition to nuclear test- 
ing and the fervent support of racial 
integration that characterize most city- 
billies does not, of course, necessarily 
extend to the majority of the huge popu- 
lar audience for folk music. Most of the 
public for Harry Belafonte; Theodore 
Bikel; the Brothers Four; Peter, Paul & 
Mary; and the Kingston Trio are either 
average teenagers, delighted to be in 
tribal vogue in music as well as in dress, 
or they are young marrieds about to 
assume the proportions and attitudes of 
comfortable burghers but using glossy 
folk music as a last link to what they 
conceive of as unfettered youth and 


96 carthy virility. 


It is also likely that much of this 
larger audience has turned to folk music 
of a sort in recent years out of boredom 
at the mewling childishness of American 
popular music which has been increas- 
ingly directed to subteens since the mid- 
19505. In a previous generation, many 
of these listeners might have preferred 
jazz for their post-Hit Parade kicks, but 
jazz is becoming as unsparingly challeng- 
ing and complex as contemporary classi- 
cal music. Much of modern jazz requires 
too much concentration to appeal to a 
broad audience and, accordingly, the 
average jazz album still sells under 5000 
copies— with exceptions such as the 
work of Miles Davis, Dave Brubeck and. 
Erroll Garner — while the Kingston Trio 
can sell a million copies of the single 
Tom Dooley. At least 5 of their 16 Capi- 
tol albums, moreover, have been pur- 
chased by more than a million of the 
citizenry. As Richard Dyer-Bennet notes, 
somewhat caustically, “Harry Belafonte 
and the Kingston Trio have found a 
repertoire and a manner that have cn- 
abled them to cross into the pop field, 
and their recordings are quite correctly 
listed by Schwann in the popular-music 
section of the LP catalog.” 

It is among those singers and instru- 
mentalists who have not “crossed over” 
—and among their audiences—that the 
durable meanings of the folk ferment of 
the past few years can be found. It is 
there, too, that the future, if any, of 
American folk music is being shaped. 
‘The authentic rural prototypes are dying 
and most of their progeny are becom- 
ing — through radio, records and televi- 
sion—as eclectic as city folk Texas 
sharecropper Mance Lipscomb, a re- 
cently discovered repository of vintage 
Negro folk traditions, is proud, for ex- 
ample, to be finally recorded, and his 
albums on Arhoolie and Reprise are 
treasures of ethnic lore. His granddaugh- 
ters are also impressed at the attention 
the old man is getting, but they prefer 
collecting the releases of Ricky Nelson. 

"The survival of folk music from now 
on will depend increasingly on per- 
formers who have seldom seen, let alone 
milked, a cow, and whose first exposure 
to the folk ethos came from books and 
recordings, not from grandfather rumi- 
nating over the dulcimer. Can folk music 
be transplanted and continue to grow? 
Who, moreover, will be in charge of the 
orchard, and who are the customers to be? 

Many of the folk consumers of the 
next few decades are now being dili- 
gently oriented in kindergartens, elemen- 
tary schools and summer camps by young 
teachers whose enthusiastic avocation is 
folk singing and collecting records. Lou 
Gottlieb, a Ph.D. in musicology be- 
fore he helped organize the Limeliters, 
observes with uncharacteristic awe: “My 
seven-year-old knows morc folk songs all 
the way through than I did at the age 


of 27.” Pete Seeger, the Mr. Chips of this 
pedagogical movement, adds: “The kids 
I sang to at summer camps are now 
asking me to sing on campuses whose 
student governments they re now part of. 
Now, if only they can ger themselves 
elected to Congress.” 

Folk-music clubs are burgeoning in 
high schools; and for collegians, there 
are enclaves of coffeehouses in most of 
the larger cities where folk music—and 
only occasionally jazz — provides the rites 
for initiation into hipness. The initial 
attraction for many of the young con- 
verts is not the music. "Most of the folk 
fans on campuses," Lou Gottlieb points 
out, "comc from departments other than 
the music divisions. It's the words that 
draw them. Only later does the value of 
the music make itself felt.” 

In both the Anglo-Saxon ballad tradi- 
tion and Negro blues— two of the main, 
intermingling streams of American folk 
music—those words magnetize by the 
elemental passions they state and the 
pungent clarity of their metaphors: 


Says I, my dear, lay close to me 

And wipe away them tears. 

Then I hauled her shift up over her 
head 

And I wrapped it ‘round her ears. 

We was all right in the winter time 

And in the summer, too; 

And I held her tight that livelong 
night 

To save her from the foggy, foggy 
dew. 


I got to keep movin’, I got to keep 
movin', 

Blues fallin’ down like hail, blues 
fallin’ down like hail, 

And the days keep on worryin’ me, 
for a heli-hound on my trail, 

Hell-hound on my trail, hell-hound 
on my trail. 


Not all folk lyrics, to be sure, are 
evocative. There are banalities in the 
blues and gray patches in Appalachian 
ballads. By and large, however, the words. 
of the songs do strike closer to actual 
emotions, frustrations and sensual pleas- 
ures than do the soggy euphemisms of 
pop ballads, As for the commercial folk 
groups, the citybillies complain with 
varying justification that the most popu- 
Jar of them weaken the impact of the 
tunes they sing by the slickness of their 
style and by their frequent penchant for 
inserting gag lines into even their most 
mournful material. "Y find myself suspi- 
cious,” says Pete Seeger of such units as 
the Kingston Trio, “of their inability to 
sing a song straight. Many of them can 
actually do a very good job as far as 
singing goes, but at some point in the 
song they have to louse it up just to let 
the audience know they are not so naive 
as to take it seriously.” 

A further source of attraction in 

(continued overleaf) 


a droll call of satyric signs of our times у КҮ 
humor By DON ADDIS йк 


SYMBOLIC SEX 9 


MAHER, PLEASE! ID 


RATHER Do iT шг, Ж 


СО оос ФОС 


V KNOW MAN... BUT, d 
LIKE, HES RicH! ee CAREFUL... HES Puy 


ded dag 


CANT You Кїї$ PLAY. SOMEWHERE ELSE ? чє TAKES AFTER Ms OID Maw 


Се 


PLAYBOY 


98 


FOLK,FOLKUM (continued от page 96) 


straight folk material comes from a strong 
need among the urban young for some 
kind of roots, some kind of communal 
identification, however ingenuous it may 
appear to be. As scores of sociologists, 
academic and amateur, arc ceaselessly 
pointing ont, ours is in part a society of 
alienation — alienation from traditional 
mores and self-alienation. The young 
who seek refuge in the coffechouses are 
even more skeptical of their parents’ 
accommodations to life than their parents 
in turn were of the compromises of their 
elders. Many also feel impotent or at 
least highly doubtful of their ability to 
direct their own future. If Sir Charles 
Snow, hardly an alarmist, predicts Arma- 
geddon within 10 years unless the arms 
race is curbed, it is not unremarkable 
that even the nonpacifists among the 
young share a kind of floating anxiety. 

Folk music, despite the pietism of Pete 
Seeger, offers no cure. The British critic 
Peter Clayton has noted Seeger’s charac- 
teristic assumption that folk music has 
magical potency: “‘I'd like to knock 
down all the walls between people,” 
Seeger said, forgetting apparently that 
‘people’ of some sort or other had made 
the walls in the first place.” 

But if folk music is no counter to 
power politics, it does provide some of 
its listeners and performers with a sense 
of sharing, if only a sharing of kindred 
protest against the suffocating present-as 
well as a vicarious affirmation of what 
seem to have been the uncomplicated 
values and direct emotions of the folk 

ast. 

Some of this moralistic immersion in 
folk music is as sentimental and as mu- 
sically shallow in its way as the adoles- 
cent love plaints of Paul Anka, Shel 
Silverstein has told in The Realist of 
walking thgough Washington Square, 
the Greenwich Village fount of amateur 
folk singing: “This one 18-year-old kid 
is sitting there with his guitar, and on 
the guitar is a sign that says, THIS MA- 
CHINE FIGHTS FOR FREEDOM. This is too 
much—an 18-year-old with a freedom- 
fighting machine. It's a goddamn guitar, 
is what it is. It's a guitar, and it don't 
fight for nothing — it plays. Unless may- 
be... he hits with it.” 

Similarly, when Washington Square 
"was temporarily closed to folk singers 
in the spring of 1961 and a civil liberties 
demonstration by the citybillies turned 
into a riot, Lenny Bruce observed calmly, 
"Mayor Wagner was simply express- 
ing a musical fact. He didn't mean they 
can't sing. He was just pointing out 
they can't sing." 

In its use by the student movement 
for equal rights in the South, howcver, 
folk music has shown during the past 
few ycars its capacity to strengthen the 


morale and communicate the emotional 
urgency of workers for specific political 
and economic goals. On an individual 
basis, moreover, out of the banjo pickers 
from the Bronx (one Washington Square 
regular prefers to be addressed as Texas 
Weinstein) and the Barbara Allans of 
San Francisco, a few boldly personal 
continuers of the folk tradition are 
emerging. In addition to Bob Dylan, 
there is Joan Baez, a shy, slim, implaca- 
bly uncompromising 22-year-old who 
served her apprenticeship in the coffee- 
houses of Cambridge, Massachusetts, and 
is now a major box-office attraction on 
the concert circuit — when she chooses 
to work. Only moderately interested in 
money. Miss Baez spends most of the 
year reading, sketching and nurturing 
assorted animals in her Carmel, Cali- 
fornia, home. She will not play night 
clubs (the audiences are not sufficiently 
attentive) and she will appear on tele- 
vision only on her own terms (an exten- 
sive solo spot with mo orchestral 
background and no distracting sets). 

Musically, Joan Baez’ is the most ar- 
resting voice of all the city folk singers. 
Using a disciplined, luminously clear 
soprano, she specializes in Anglo-Ameri- 
can ballads with some admixture of 
Spanish tunes, Negro songs and country 
music. By contrast with Miss Baez’ seem- 
ingly effortless lyricism, such a self- 
conscious performer as Odetta sounds 
rigid and choked and gives the impres- 
sion of auditioning for a part as the 
Earth Mother in a Paddy Chayefsky 
play. 

By avoiding the “fake ethnic” ap- 
proach of many citybillies, Miss Baez, as 
one of her admirers has pointed out in 
The Reporter, “does not pretend to 
have.been a Negro or a British maiden 
broken by a feudal lord. What she gives 
are her own feelings about these people. 
She's like a passionate biographer; and 
more than that, she makes these songs 
contemporary by identifying with their 
emotional content as herself—as Joan 
Baez in 1963. In that way, her audience 
immediately identifies with Aer. She's 
not imitating the Earth Mother. She's 
one of us who happens to sing beauti- 


fully." 
Miss Baez, however, does have critics 
among the purist citybillies. ‘The 


monthly conscience of the folk field, 
The Little Sandy Review, warns her that 
she has not learned enough about the 
authentic singing styles of the various 
folk forms to which she applies herself. 
"She is not a folk singer," says the bris 
uing publication, "since she neither 
sings nor plays in traditional style— пог 
docs she perform traditional versions of 
folk songs." 

This kind of criticism is at the core of 


the fierce debate among urban folk sing- 
ers as to which of the aspirants can 
qualify for certification as a true singer 
of folk songs rather than an exploiter. 
Alan Lomax, the prodigiously energetic 
collector in this country and abroad, 
has edited several books — most recently, 
Folk Songs of North America (Double- 
day)— which have provided much of 
the source material for many apprentice 
bards. From his position as dean of the 
restless, heterogeneous undergraduates in 
folk music, Lomax insists that years of 
study and practice of ethnic models are 
necessary before a city folk singer can 
presume to offer his own contribution 
as a performer. 

Sandy Paton, a folk singer and owner 
of Folk Legacy Records, agrees: “There 
are too many night-club singers learning 
songs from other night-club singers and 
never bothering to learn anything about 
the music they are ‘interpreting.’ I doubt 
that they even listen to the Library of 
Congress material, much less spend a 
little of their ‘ill-gotten gains’ to seek 
out a real ballad singer and sit at his 
knee awhile. By the time the music has 
passed through several citybilly interpre- 
tations, it but vaguely resembles folk 
music, taking on the nature of 'pop' or 
‘art’ music instead." 

Directly opposed is Dominic Behan, 
younger brother of Brendan, а novelist 
and a robustly uninhibited singer of 
Irish folk tunes. Behan declares that the 
emphasis on the ethnic approach forces 
2 young singer into a phony accent and 
otherwise restricts his spontaneity. 
"Open your mouth," Behan prod 
"and whatever your voice is like, singl 
And to hell with the ethnicists! Folk. 
song is not the special preserve of the 
few but the undeniable heritage of the 
many." 

Increasingly, the majority of the more 
consdentious urban folk singers are 
taking a middle course. They would 
agree with Peggy Seeger, younger sister 
of Pete and a more persuasive singer 
than her brother. Miss Seeger points out 
the obvious fact that it is impossible 
for a city-born singer to project himself 
into the narrow range of experience of 
the echt folk singers. Instead, he “must 
rather consciously adapt the music to 
his own needs. Every city singer in the 
present-day American scene goes through 
a period of adaptation through which 
he fits, musically speaking, from one 
song genre to another—from Negro 
work songs to foreign songs to party 
games to humorous songs, and so оп... 
with his instrumental style adapting 
itself accordingly. And out of this ex- 
perience, if the singer is a creative one, 
will come a personal musical style which 
will of necessity be an amalgam of the 
musical stages through which he has 

(continued on page 168) 


“Have you got one that says, ‘Good riddance’?!” 


PHOTOGRAPHY BY POMPEO POSAR 


A style of HER OWN 


HAUTE COUTURE MANNEQUIN 
CONNIE MASON Has A Flair 
and A form for fashion 


A clothes call comes to Connie as roommate Rosemarie Yaiser listens in. Says 


Connie: “А new assignment always excites me— feel too flattered to be blasé.' 


VIEWING THE CURIOUS WORLD of haute couture, disgruntled males have long 
suspected that fashion's feudal lords require their standard-bearers to be 
spindle-shanked, slab-chested, hollow-cheeked creatures who collectively possess 
all the earthy sensuality of a soda straw. Like most sweeping generalizations, 
this one has its exceptions —and if there are, admittedly, a depressing number 
of Jean and hungry lookalikes in dress circles, it is also true that a few couture 
mannequins do exist who are as eye-catching and artistically assembled as the 
gowns they wear. Such an exceptional one is Connie Mason, an all-girl fashion 
model from Chicago who is our decorative June Playmate. In addition to 
being an admirable answer to the bizarre misses of Harper's Bazaar, Connie 
is also an energetic, gregarious sort who obviously enjoys both her work and 
her life. “The way I sce it," she says, “modeling is a near-perfect job for me. 
I love fine clothes — wearing gowns I couldn't possibly afford gives mc a won- 
derfully regal feeling. This, I suppose, is a holdover from my childhood when 
1 used to dress up in my mother's clothes, Of course, modeling is not always a 
gay, mad glamor routine — there's a lot of hard work mixed in, as well as some 


101 


boredom — waiting around in a tiny dressing room can be a kingsize drag. 
But, with the possible exception of Cary Grant's latest leading lady, 1 wouldn't 
trade places with anyone.” Capsuling her career, Connie notes, "I was born 
25 years ago in Washington, D. C., went to high school in Silver Spring, Mary- 
Jand, and attended Stratford (Junior) College in Danville, Virginia. I have an 
older sister, married, and a younger brother, unmarried, who is a whiz at 
horseback riding and is always winning all kinds of jumping prizes. For a 
yearand-a-half after I finished school I managed the cosmetic department at 
Woodward & Lothrop, a department store in Bethesda, Maryland. Then 
friends persuaded me to give modeling a whirl. I did.” The whirl led to 
quick acceptance by the dres-parade set and a number of choice assignments, 
including a stint last summer in New York wearing the colors of Oleg Cassini 
("He's the best — it was quite a challenge working for bim, and I loved every 
minute of it"), and her current Windy City employment. Though she still feels 
the life of a successful high-fashion model is made to order for her, Connie 


Below: couture mannequin Connie exudes the warm appeal of a girl who has оп old-fashioned interest in men. “I've always been 
complimented on my hair," she says, “and | wouldn't cut it for the world. With men, a girl needs every weopon she can muster.” 


After being refueled by Rosemarie (above, left], 
Connie dons duds for her trip to work (above). 


ШЕШ УУУУ 


TE te лалык, 


a 


Following o spray set-to (above), Connie set- 
tles down (below) for o hair-raising hairdo. 


Above: Miss June owaits her call to charm in the Pompian Shop of Chicago. 
“It's o morvelous feeling,” she says. "I have no problems about what to wear." 


was recently exposed to show business for the first time — and found it catching. 
While visiting her family — her dad is the president of a seawall-and-piling 
construction company in Hollywood, Florida — she was spotted by movie talent 
scouts for an outfit modestly dubbed Box Office Spectaculars, Inc, who 
promptly signed her to play the heroine of a Florida-filmed, gore-splattered 
quickie entitled The Blood Feast, which will be released this month. “It’s all 
about sacrificing beautiful young virgins to Egyptian deities," says Connie. 
“You know, a typical, everyday kind of story. I'm rather proud of the fact that 
at the end of the show I'm still healthy, while every other girl is either dead or 
horribly mutilated. I don't imagine we'll win any Academy Awards, but it was 
fun taking time off to do it and I'd love to act in more films if I get the 
chance. I want to try everything. I'd hate to grow old, and look back and say 
to myself, ‘Now, why didn't you at least give that a try? It would be a horrible 
feeling, not having attempted something that might have been fun.” Now back 
modeling in Chicago, Connie shares a North Side apartment with roommate 
Rosemarie Yaiser and a pampered French poodle, and is chief cook, bottle 
washer and conversationalist of the household. “Talking,” she says, “has always 
been one of my favorite hobbies.” A random sampling of the Masonic code: 
"I'm not an intellectual by any stretch of the imagination, but I do love to 
read, especially autobiographies and collections of love letters. I just finished 


MISS JUNE raveovs мамат or THE моман. 


that book of Woodrow Wilson's love letters and it really flipped me. He looks so 
stolid, you know. Basically, I'm an outgoing person — 1 adore people and am happy 
whenever I'm in a group. I think of myself as an optimist —I like movies with happy 
endings, Italian foods and wines, romantic poetry, upbeat ballads. My taste in men 
tends toward guys with aggressive minds, but I can't take phonies. The worst feeling 
in the world for me is falling out of love. The best, of course, is falling in. My biggest 
fault is that I get too enthusiastic about what I'm doing and am sloppy about little 
details. I'm a good cook, though. And I'm the only girl I know who owns 600 jazz 
records. My favorite is Joe Williams. My biggest ambition at the moment is to be 
successful enough as a model to make myself happy and to be able to settle down in a 
place where there’s lots of sunshine and palm trees and water and eligible bachelors. 
I don't get to meet too many single men in my line of work — but I always enjoy it 
whenever there are males in the salon where I'm modeling. The women are all fasci- 
nated by my clothes — but I know the men, at least, are looking at me. I've never found 
that to be an uncomfortable feeling.” For the nonce, all frocks forgotten, curvilinear 
Connie stretches out on her bed and our gatefold, proving herself in the process a 
likely nominee for any design-conscious connoisseur's Best Undressed List. 


Below: our ben-ton bonbon makes o sweeping entrance before salon society. “These 


showings used to make me nervous,” says Connie. "Now, | just relax and have a ball.’ 


PLAYBOY'S PARTY JOKES 


Our Unabashed Dictionary defines nudist as 
one who suffers from clothestrophobia. 


A famed, but particularly succinct, psychia- 
trist had been invited to address an interna- 
tional conclave of his fellows on the subject of 
sex. When the day for his speech came, the 
amphitheater was packed and scores of report- 
ers sat waiting at the press desk as the great, 
solemn man strode to the podium. A hush fell 
over the crowd as he adjusted his glasses and 
sipped a bit of water. Then he looked up and 
said in a firm, clear voice, “Gentlemen, it gives 
me great pleasure” . . . and sat down. 


It’s a great life — if your “don'ts” weaken. 


Drawn by the crowd, we stopped in at a book- 
store recently that had a huge sign in the 
window reading: NEWLY TRANSLATED FROM THE 
ORIGINAL FRENCH: 27 MATING POSITIONS. 

Inside, copies of the book — pre-wrapped — 
were selling like hot cakes. 

It was only by accident that we heard one 
harried clerk say to another, after ringing ш 
his 423rd sale of the volume for the day, “This 
is really the most extraordinary sale I've ever 


seen for a chess book.” 


1 must insist on knowing one thing,” said the 
groom as he lay beside his bride in the dark: 
ness of their honeymoon suite. “Am I the first 
man to sleep with you?” 

“You will be, darling,” said his bride, “if 
you doze off." 


Attend now to a fable that proves that lasting 
fame is not always built upon success: Once 
n a time, two boll weevils from the дее 

South traveled to New York, there to seek their 
fortune. Upon arriving, the first boll weevil 
got a job as a ringmaster in a small flea circus. 
As time went by, he moved to bigger and 
better flea circuses until he became interna- 
tionally renowned as a flea-circus impresario. 
The other boll weevil, however, was unable to 
find any employment and, as time passed, he 
faded into total obscurity. 

That was 50 years ago. But today, do you 
suppose anyone remembers that boll weevil 


who was once impresario of the world's great- 
est flea circuses? No! But we do remember the 
other one —the.one who was a failure — for, 
even today, we refer to him as “the lesser of 
two weevils.” 


Our Unabashed Dictionary defines intoxica- 
tion as a physical state in which one feels 
sophisticated without being able to pronounce 
it. 


Darling,” said the young bride, "tell me 
what's bothering you. We promised to share 
all our joys and all our sorrows, remember?" 

"But this is different,” protested her hus- 
band. 

"Together, darling,” she insisted, "we will 
bear the burden. Now tell me what our prob- 
Jem is.” 

“Well,” said the husband, "we've just be- 
come the father of a bastard child.” 


Heard a good one lately? Send it on a postcard 
to Party Jokes Editor, PLAYBOY, 232 E. Ohio 
St, Chicago 11, Ill., and earn $25 for each joke 
used, In case of duplicates, payment is made 
for first card received. Jokes cannot be returned. 


"Surprised?" 


Unimpeochably attired for 
оп infarmal ceremony, twa 

guests of the groom await 
the bride's arrival. Gentleman 
at for left is correctly con- 
servative in a versatile black 

wool bengoline business suit 
with two-button jacket, notched 
lapels, flap pockets, center vent, 
ploin-front cuffless trousers with 
belt loops, Ya-top pockets, by 
Timely, $80; white cotton broadcloth 

shirt with standard short-pointed 

collar and obligatory French cuffs, 
by Von Heusen, $8; understated 
black-ond-gray liolion silk grenadine 
necktie by Knize, $10; supersoft black 
felt hat with narrow bound-edge brim 
ond tapered crown, by Chomp, $10. 
Other guy is impeccably gorbed for o 
warm-weather wedding in the classic 
resort ensemble: o wool flannel novy 
blozer with single-breasted, three- 
button front, natural shoulders, center 
vent and flap-patch pockets, by 
Monte Cristo, $50; immaculate white 
Orlon-cotton cuffless trousers with 
belt loops and side packets, by 

Corbin, $16; custom-toilored white 

sea-island cool cottan broadcloth 
shirt with regulation spread collar 
ond French cuffs, by Knize, $34; 

subdued gray ribbed silk necktie, 
also by Knize, $10; topped off 
by smart white Messina strow 
hat with uncreased crown, 
norraw brim ond crepe 
band, by Knox, $8. 


Uo Р Sime 


middle-aisle garb and guidance 
for the marry month 


"ADAM. CATCHED EVE by the furbelow. And that,” according 
to famous catch composer, Henry Purcell, "is the oldest 
catch we know.” The history of mating does, indeed, reach 
back to Adam's delighted discovery of the world's first prime 

rib. The mating rite—or the contractual formalization of 
what had once merely been a blissful verbal agreement — is 
somewhat more recent, but has rapidly developed into what 
one cynic described as, “Marriage: a community consisting of 
a master, a mistress, and two slaves, making in all, two." In 
the relatively brief time that it took this hitherto loose union 
to evolve into a closed shop — a wedlock, as it were — and as 
monogamy developed, so have nuptial fashions become more 
and more formalized, from Adam's original fig leaf and Eve's 
furbelow to their present stylized and specialized state. Even 
the most jaundiced of us will admit that there are occasions 
when a freedom-loving bachelor considers an altar-ation in 
his status. For just those occasions, and for those brave lads 
won over by the urge to merge, we (continued on page 164) 


Best mon of distinction is gladly clad for formal worm- 
weather wedding in bontamweight British tropical worsted 
dinner jacket with self-showl lopels, two-button front, 
natural shoulders, flop pockets, center vent, $60; black 
Docron-wool cuffless formal trousers with plain front, 
topered legs, adjustable side tabs, $20, both by lord 
West; breezy botiste formal shirt with narrow-pleored 
front of cotton broadcloth, regulation pointed collar, 
French cuffs, by Von Heusen, $6; black silk cum- 
merbund and tie set, by Lord West, $9; natural- 
toned Panama straw Homburg, by Cavonagh, $15. 


Two members of the wed- 

ding stand by for the marry- 

making to begin—flowlessly 
outfitted for rent semifor- 

mal ceremonies. Bloke at far 

left is accoutered for nighttime 
nuptials in black Dacron-worsted 
formal suit with silk foille shawl 
lapels, two-button front, natural 
shoulders, flap pockets, center 
vent, cuffless belt-loop trousers 
with plain front, side pockets and 
tapered legs, by Lord West, $90; 
featherweight white cotton batiste 
formal shirt with medium-pleat cot- 
ton piqué front, regulation pointed 
collar, French cuffs, by Van Heusen, 
$6; black silk faille formal waistcoat 
with shawl lapels, matching tie, by 
Lord West, $20; and distinguished 
black felt soft-top derby, by Stetson, 
$14. Other man is Britishly traditional 
in attire apropos for daytime rites: 
lightweight Oxford-gray Dacron- 
worsted sack coat with braided 
edges, two-button front, center 
vent, $65; cuffless gray-black striped 
worsted formal trousers with plain 
front, side pockets, adjustable side 
tabs, $25; cotton broadcloth 
formal shirt with narrow-pleat 
front, medium-spread collar, 
French cuffs, $10; peorl-gray 
tropical worsted waistcoat, 

$12; silk tie, $3, all by After Six; 

gray sueded calfskin gloves, 

by Knize, $19.50; black 
Homburg, by Dobbs, $20. 


Bedecked in full-dress re- 

galio for о formal wedding, 

two top-hotted gentlemen 
prepare to cut foshionoble 
figure as ushers at evening 
ond afternoon ceremonies, 
respectively. Guy ot for right is 
elegant in opporel appropriate 
for after-six service: mohcir-wor- 
sted tail coat with sotin-foced 
lapels, sotin-piped breast pocket, 
single-pleat formal trousers, $115; 
white cotton piqué formal waistcoat, 
$11; matching formal bowtie, $1.50; 
white botiste formal shirt with de- 
tochoble wing collar, French сий, 
$11, oll by After Six; smart white 
British kid formal gloves with wrist- 
snap closure, by Knize, $8; and а 
black beaver-finish top hat, by 
Cavanagh, $45. Other chap is irre- 
proachably attired for a daytime 
ceremony in bantamweight Oxford- 
gray Dacron-worsted cutaway with 
braid edging, peoked lopels, $80; 
cuflless black-and-gray striped wor- 
sted formal trousers with adjustable 
side tabs, pleatless front, $25; white 
batiste formal shirt with detachable 
wing collar, cotton buttonfront, 
French сий, $11; peorl-gray wool 
flannel double-breasted waist- 
coat, $11; and gray-black striped 
formal silk ascot, $3, all by 
After Six; groy sueded colf- 

skin gloves, by Knize, $19.50; 
sumptuous coshmere-finish 

top hat, by Cavanagh, $35. 


ON HER MAJESTY'S SECRET SERVICE 


he had been close to death and in deadly peril — then, with the 
dread brotherhood as his ally, james bond closed in on his prey 


CONCLUSION of a novel by IAN FLEMING Synopsis: In the heli- 


copter, after the take-off from Zürich, James Bond wore a mask of 
nonchalance as he sped toward the Alpine hideaway of his prey, the 
malevolent Ernst Stavro Blofeld, mastermind of SPECTRE and the most 
hunted criminal in the Western world. Beside him sat the inscrutable 
Früulein Irma Bunt, plain-as-a-prune and personal secretary to Le Comte 
de Bleuville who, Bond believed, was actually the devious Blofeld himself, 
and behind him lay a chain of events that had involved not only Bond 
and his government's security but a dread brotherhood of Corsican cut- 
throats, a beautiful girl with suicidal intentions, and a mission so perilous 
that Bond’s own chief — the ineffable M —placed no more than a farthing 
on the possibility of its success and less than that on Bond’s own chances 
of survival. 

It had begun that day on the beach at Royale les Eaux when La 
Comtesse Teresa “Tracy” di Vicenzo (whose losses at chemin de fer Bond 
had covered the night before at the Casino, and who had repaid him for 
this gesture with a night in her bed) ran toward the surf in an apparent 
attempt at self-destruction. Bond had rushed to save her — and then there 
were two automatics at-his back and two thugs behind them. Kidnaped 
and taken to the hide-out of Marc-Ange Draco, Tracy's father and head of 
the Union Corse, infamous Corsican crime syndicate, Bond was offered 
£1,000,000 by Draco to marry his daughter. Instead, Bond persuaded Draco 
to send Tracy to a Swiss sanitarium to treat her suicidal compulsions — 
while he, in the guise of Sir Hilary Bray, of Her Majesty's College of Arms 
and Heraldry, embarked again upon the quest for Blofeld. 

At the mountain eyrie of the mysterious De Bleuville, apparently inno- 
cent yet strangely ominous experiments were being conducted in a secret 
laboratory where he investigated the cures for psychosomatic allergies to 
vegetables and farm animals. His subliminally brainwashed guinea pigs: 
10 beautiful girls, each from a different area of the United Kingdom. After 
learning the identity of each of the girls (and spending a night in the 
boudoir of the choicest of them), Bond’s real identity was suspected by 
Blofeld when Shaun Campbell, a fellow Secret Service man captured by 
Blofeld’s henchmen while on another mission, blurted out his colleague's 
first name while under the pressure of torture. What a God-awful mess! 
thought Bond behind the cool fagade of Sir Hilary Bray. 

Realizing that it would be but a matter of hours before Blofeld would 
send an emissary after him asa prelude to a rather thoroughgoing “investi- 
gation” of his identity, Bond resolved to depart from his foe's redoubt 
with as much alacrity as possible under the circumstances. That night he 
slipped from his room, adroitly dispatched the guard at his door and, as 
the man’s body slid to the carpet, bolted from the lodge, locked the door 
behind him, ran to the ski shack and bound on his skis. In his pocket a flask 


He lay in the snow gasping for 
life — while a few yards away gleamed the 
lights of the masked ball. 


PLAYBOY 


of schnapps burned warm against his 
fiank. He pulled his goggles down 
over his eyes; he knew that as soon as 
Blofeld's men pried open the lodge 
door they would be after him. Every 
minute, every second was a bonus for 
Bond. Ahead lay the Gloria ski run, 
the metal warning notices beside it 
hatted with snow. James Bond went 
straight for it and over the edge. 


Те first vertical drop had a spine- 
chilling bliss to it. Bond got down 
into his old Arlberg crouch, his hands 
forward of his boots, and just let himself 
go. His skis were an ugly six inches apart. 
The Kannonen he had watched had 
gone down with their boots locked to- 
gether, as if on a single ski. But this was 
no time for style, even if he had been 
capable of itl Above all he must stay 
upright! 

Bond’s speed was now frightening. But 
the deep cushion of cold, light powder 
snow gave him the confidence to try a 
parallel swing. Minimum of shoulder 
turn needed at this speed — weight onto 
the left ski—and he came round and 
held it as the righthand edges of his 
skis bit against the slope, throwing up a 
shower of moonlit snow crystals. Danger 
was momentarily forgotten in the joy of 
speed, technique and mastery of the 
snow. Bond straightened up and almost 
dived into his next turn, this time to the 
left, leaving a broad S on the virgin 
mountain behind him. Now he could 
afford to schuss the rest down to the hard 
left-hand turn round the shoulder. He 
pointed his skis down and felt real rap- 
ture as, like a black bullet on the giant 
slope, he zoomed down the 45-degree 
drop. Now for the left-hand corner. 
There was the group of three flags, 
black, red and yellow, hanging limply, 
their colors confused by the moonlight! 
He would have to stop there and take 
a recce over the next lap. There was a 
slight upward slope short of the big turn. 
Bond took it at speed, felt his skis leave 
the ground at the crest of it, jabbed 
into the snow with his left stick as an 
extra lever and threw his skis and his 
right shoulder and hips round to the 
left. He landed in a spray of snow, at a 
dead halt. He was delighted with him- 
self! A Sprung-Christiana is a showy and 
not an easy turn at speed. He wished his 
old teacher, Fuchs, had been there to 
sce that one! 

He was now on the shoulder of the 
mountain. High overhead the silver 
strands of the cable railway plunged 
downward in one great swoop toward the 
distant black line of the trees, where the 
moonlight glinted on a spidery pylon. 
Borid remembered that there now fol- 
lowed a series of great zigs and zags more 


116 or less beneath the cables. With the piste 


unobscured, it would have been easy, 
but the new snow made every descent 
look desirable. Bond jerked up his gog- 
gles to see if he could spot a Вар. Yes, 
there was one away down to the left. 
He would do some S turns down the 
next slope and then make for it. 

As he pulled down his goggles and 
gripped his sticks, two things happened. 
First, there came a deep boom from high 
up the mountain, and a speck of flame, 
that wobbled in its flight, soared into the 
sky above him. There was a pause at the 
top of its parabola, a sharp crack and 
a blazing magnesium flare on a para- 
chute began its wandering descent, 
wiping out the black shadows in the 
hollows, turning everything into a hid- 
eous daylight. Another and another 
sprayed out across the sky, lighting every 
cranny over the mountainside. 

And, at the same time, the cables high 
above Bond's head began to sing! They 
were sending the cable car down after 
him! 

Bond cursed into the sodden folds of 
his silk handkerchief and got going. The 
next thing would be а man after him — 
probably a man with a gun! 

He took the second lap more carefully 
than the first, got across to the second 
flag, turned at it and made back across 
the plunging slope for the series of 
linked Ss under the cables. How fast did 
these bloody gondolas go? Ten, fifteen, 
twenty miles an hour? This was the latest 
type. It would be the fastest. Hadn't he 
read somewhere that the one between 
Arosa and the Weisshorn did 25? Even 
as he got into his first S, the tune of the 
singing cable above him momentarily 
changed and then went back to its usual 
whine. That was the gondola passing 
the frst pylon! Bond's knees, the 
Achilles' heel of all skiers, were begin- 
ning to ache. He cut his Ss narrower. 
snaking down faster, but now feeling the 
rutted tracks of the piste under his skis 
at every turn. Was that a flag away over 
to the left? The magnesium flares were 
swaying lower, almost directly over him. 
Yes. It looked all right. Two more S 
turns and he would do a traverse schuss 
to itl 

Something landed with a tremendous 
crack amidst a fountain of snow to his 
right! Another to his left! They had a 
grenade thrower up front in the cable 
carl A bracket! Would the next one be 
dead on? Almost before the thoughr 
Bashed through his mind, there came a 
tremendous explosion just ahead of him 
and he was hurled forward and sideways 
in a Catherine wheel of sticks and skis. 

Bond got gingerly to his feet, gasping 
and spitting snow. One of his bindings 
had opened. His trembling fingers found 
the forward latch and banged it tight 
again. Another sharp crack, but wide by 
20 yards. He must get away from the line 
of fire from the blasted railway! Fever- 


ishly he thought, the left-hand fag! I 
must do the traverse now. He took a 
vague bearing across the precipitous 
slope and flung himself down it. 

It was tricky, undulating ground. The 
magnesium fares had sailed lower and 
there were ugly patches of black shadow, 
any of which might have been a small 
ravine. Bond had to check at all of them 
and each time the sharp Christie re- 
minded him of his legs and ankles. But 
he got across without a fall and pulled 
up at the flag, panting. He looked back. 
The gondola had stopped. They had 
telephone communication with the 
and bottom stations, but why had it 
stopped? As if in answer, blue flames 
fluttered gaily from the forward cabin. 
But Bond heard no bullets. The gondola 
would be swaying on its cable. But then, 
high up above him, from somewhere 
near the first flags on the shoulder, came 
more rapid fire, from two points, and the 
snow kicked up daintily around him. 
So the guides had finally got after him! 
His fall would have cost him minutes. 
How much lead had he got? Certainly 
less than 10 minutes. A bullet whanged 
into one of his skis and sang off down the 
mountain. Bond took a last gulp of 
breath and got going again, still left- 
handed, away from the cable railway, 
toward the next flag, a distant dot on the 
edge of the shadow thrown by the great 
Matterhorn-shaped peak of Piz Gloria, 
which knifed up into the spangled sky 
in dreadful majesty. 

It looked as if the run was going to 
take him dangerously close to the skirts 
of the peak. Something was nagging at 
his mind, a tiny memory. What was it? 
It was something unpleasant. Yes, by 
God! The last flag! It had been black. 
He was on the Black Run, the one closed 
because of avalanche danger! God! Well, 
he'd had it now. No time to try and get 
back on the Red Run. And, anyway, the 
Red had a long stretch close to the 
cables. He'd just have to chance it. And 
what a time to chance it, just after a 
heavy fall of new snow, and with all 
these detonations to loosen up the stuff! 
‘When there was danger of an avalanche, 
guides forbade even speech! Well, to 
hell with it! Bond zoomed on across the 
great unmarked slope, got to the next 
fag, spotted the next, away down the 
mountainside toward the treeline. Too 
steep to schuss! He would just have todo 
it in Ss. 

And then the bastards chose to fire 
off three more flares followed by a stream 
of miscellaneous rockets that burst pret- 
tily among the stars. Of coursel Bright 
ideal This was for the sake of watchers 
in the valley who might be inquisitive 
about the mysterious explosions high up. 
the mountain. They were having a party 
up there, celebrating something. What 
fun these rich folk had, to be sure! And 

(continued on page 136) 


in her latest 
flick, playboy's 
perennial favorite 
romps in the 
altogether 


THE 
NUDEST 
JAYNE 
MANSFIELD 


Above: Jayne Mansfield, temporarily clad in a roamy tawel, prepares to bare oll for 
the opening bubble-bath scene af her new film, Promises, Promises! Right: Jayne reveals 
оп arresting combination of body and soul os she glances wistfully at the still camera. 


NO CAPITAL IN THE WORLD is more cunning at playing peekaboo with the 
human body (female) than our own film capital. Hollywood's history is studded 
with near, but not quite total, exposures, and the actress who has courageously 
bared all has been rare, indeed. The recent wave of "nudie" movies, however, 
has injected a breath of flesh air upon the scene. Their unpretentious naked- 
ness and wide public acceptance have helped push bodices down and hem- 
lines up (to where they virtually vanish) in otherwise “straight” productions. 

It is therefore fitting and proper that the trail from “nudie” to “straight” 
films be blazed by none other than the undisputed champion of in-the- 
altogether brinkmanship, Miss Jayne Mansfield. Jayne now proudly heads the 
scant list of authentic Hollywood heroines whose feats of baring-do go be- 
yond the call of duty. 

How her rosebud smile has ripened to such a degree that it is all she wears 
is a story within a story. The title of the inner story is Promises, Promises!, 
а low-budget ($400,000) film scheduled for release this month by 20th 
Century-Fox. The setting is a round-the-world cruise ship, and the principal 
characters are Jayne and Tommy Noonan (four-years wed, childless and 
deeply concerned about their future together) and their married friends, 
Marie McDonald and Mickey Hargitay. (Noonan, incidentally, is best re- 
membered for a similar shipboard-romance role with Marilyn Monroe in 
Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.) The plot revolves dizzyingly about Noonan's 
desire for an heir and the ship doctor's suggestion that Noonan spike his 
wife's and his own champagne with a miracle fertility pill. The kicker is 
that Noonan is a professional gag writer, more interested in tickling Jayne's 


PHOTOGRAPHED ESPECIALLY FOR PLAYBOY BY BILL KOBRIN 


Above, left: Jayne listens attentively backstoge as her film husband, Tommy Noonan, cues her for an upcoming scene. 
Noonan plays the role of o TV-comedy writer more interested in making his wife laugh than in hearing her sigh. Above, 
center and right: Jayne's entourage makes the final "costume" touches prior to her nude romp before the comeros. 


120 


Above: Jayne's poignantly uttered opening line upon 
first facing the camera was: "I'm so embarrassed.” 


Above: Director King Donovan discusses Jayne's trying 
Thespian chores with her and a cameraman. The upcoming 
tub scene is unlike most others in that the scapsuds will 
evaporate—leaving Jayne cleanly exposed to the camera. 


risibilities than in titillating her sensibilities, and the 
fertility pill is nought but aspirin, a mind-over-matter 
gimmick concocted by the omniscient doctor. The pill, 
being a new kind of Mickey for Jayne, causes predicta- 
ble complications. McDonald and Hargitay interrupt 
Noonan’s staged tête-à-tête with Jayne and, after a 
mix.up of drinks, there is an unremembered mix-up of 
bodies, The denouement approaches vapidly as the 
ship’s doctor announces blessings for both ladies — just 
after McDonald has confided to Noonan that Hargitay 
is incurably sterile. This news concludes the essential 
action and leaves Noonan wondering, for the moment, 
whether he has hit a two-bagger, a singleton (if so, 
who's on first?), or struck out completely. 

Intriguing? We were intrigued enough to visit 
Jayne backstage to see how she handled her transition 
from ingenious modesty to ingenuous nudesty. Jayne 
appeared on the set for the opening bubble-bath scene, 
almost on time and decorously attired in a chic terry- 
cloth robe. In deference to her shyness, only a “skeleton” 
crew was allowed to remain — two cameramen, two 
still photographers, two directors, a press agent, about 
10 grips and prop men, Jayne’s personal hairdresser 
and her secretary (both male). After several coy looks at 
the peering assemblage, Jayne ad-libbed her first line, a 
memorable one: “I’m so embarrassed.” She then re- 
moved the robe, revealing only her and a brief pair of 
briefs . . . and promptly scampered offstage. Her sec- 
retary assured us it was only to reinforce herself with a 
glass of champagne. “Wow, what a trouper!" he need- 
lessly added. (text concluded on page 124) 


Above: Jayne is given instructions on how to play her sudsy scene. Above, right: Director Donovan cooxes her gently, 
assuring bashful Jayne that it's all in the interest of ort. Below, right: Jayne, fully convinced, finally makes the big plunge. 


121 


Above: The tub scene is completed. Jayne will soon pop through the bedroom door to beguile her oblivious husband with 
her obvious charms. He'll respond with a gag punch line ond the film's maritol-seduction derby will be on its merry way. 


LOSS : ЖУЗЕГЕ, iS 
Above, left: Joyne, still undraped їп a red kimono, prepares for the scene in which she will use her ample chorms to divert 


her husband from laughmcking to lovemaking. Above, ri o-star Noonan ond Jayne's personal hairdresser, Marc Briton, 
amuse Jayne with a between-scenes gag. Below: Jayne, in final preparations, is flanked by her secretory ond a studio hairdresser. 


LIS 


Below, left: Director Donovan explains that the bedroom scene is crucial. If, lying naked in bed, Jayne cannot incite her 
husband to action, there may be o serious flaw in the marriage. Belaw, right: Jayne practices her mast provocative move. 


Above and below: Alas, poor Jayne. As she writhes about seduc- 
tively, the best she can draw from Noonan are some funny lines. 


Below: Jayne, admitting defeat, stops gyrating and starts giggling. 
Right: Too late, Noonan discovers there's a live body in his bed. 


Jayne, fortified by internal bubbly, 
soon reappeared and, trouper that she 
is, bared all and sank slowly into the 
bubble bath. “What acting!" shouted 
the director as he stood precariously 
atop a canvas chair, 

Later, Jayne acted out a nude bed- 
room scene in which she strove val- 
iantly to make her listless husband 
show some life. Once more she ex- 
pressed extreme embarrassment at all 
this public nudity, and then confided 
to us, “I posed for these scenes for 
one reason only. They were necessary 
to the development of the story line.” 

Her explanation was superfluous, 
for any film buff would agree with 
Jayne that, “When a woman is trying 
to entice her husband into doing what 
is natural to marriage, she’s not going 
to hide her charms behind artificial 
barriers — like soapsuds or bed sheets.” 
(Evidently, audiences in many Ameri- 
can cities have much to learn about 
matrimony, for it appears unlikely 
that they will see Jayne au naturel — 
except in PLAYBOY. The film's pro- 
ducers, while just as concerned as 
Jayne about the story line, and while 
critical of the “double standard of the 
Production Code,” are nonetheless 
eager to reap the box-office bonanza 
that goes with its approval.) 

“One thing I want to stress,” said 
Jayne, concluding our interview, “is 
that this is the first time I've ever 
posed completely nude. It was art for 
art's sake — my theme for the future.” 

We like the theme. 


Opposite: Jayne's final pose for the still 
cameras—in case they missed something. 


THE RATE OF A PERSON'S DESCENT into senility can be gauged, it is said, by the degree to which he reminisces. If 
he harks back to The Good Old Days no more than a couple of dozen times a week, he is considered com- 
petent to function; if, however, he is a compulsive reminiscer, forever glorifying the past to the debasement of 
the present, he is patted on the head and fed soft foods. Certainly he is not taken seriously. Why should he be? 
Old coots are the same everywhere. Because they've survived the past, they love it, and because they're not at all 
certain they'll survive the present, they hate it. Of course, that would not be their explanation of the value 
judgment. To them, the world was indeed a better place when they were young. The girls were prettier then, 
the men were stronger, the games wilder, the grass greener, the sun warmer, the stairs less steep, and ohl if they 
could only go back. But they can't, and that's a blessing, because they would find their world as dark and 
frightening and confusing as the children of today find theirs. 

Jt would be a mistake, however, to ascribe all the maunderings of the compulsive reminiscer to senility. 
Occasionally his judgments are correct. When the coot tells you that the girls were prettier, you have only to 
remember the times you searched through old magazines and photograph albums and decided, at last, that there 
simply weren't any pretty girls before 1940; but when he tells you that they don't build cars in the U. S. Like They 
Used To, or houses, or toys, you'd better listen. He's right. Those things are gone, probably forever, and their 
shoddy replacements are all this generation will know. The Stutz Bearcat, the Duesenberg, the rumble-seated 
Auburn, the Hispano-Suiza sit in cold museums, each a silent reproach to those who dignity today's mobile 
fashion salons with the word car. The rock-solid houses, sunk to their knees in the earth, are likewise curiosities, 
considered impractical by those who make do with the crumbling pink echo chambers of this age. The lead 
soldiers have given way to plastic thermonuclear missiles, with convenient destructible cities included at slightly 
higher cost. 

These counterfeits of glories past are saddening. But there is one loss we've sustained that is more than that — 
it is tragic, for its counterfeit is unquestionably the shoddiest of all. 

I speak of the most important, most joyous time of a child’s life, any child, anywhere, from the beginning of 
civilization until recently: the time of the Holiday. 

The very word had magic, as it does not any longer. It had the thunder of fireworks in it; the smell of turkey; 
the feel of cold sweat forming in the armpits and coursing slowly down the sides; the kaleidoscopic picture of 
eviscerated pumpkins and horrified neighbors; of running hard in the lowering darkness, away from, toward, it 
didn't matter; of ghosts and explosions and Xs on the calendar ("Only 23 more days!") and impossible things 
like cars on roofs and tin cans sailing clear to the sun and that bike ("For the last time, по! You're too young 
for a bicycle and, besides, it’s much too expensive.”). You thought, holiday, and you thought of these things, but 
mostly you thought of the awful, delicious waiting. Life was little more than that: waiting for the next holiday, 
feeling the pressure build up inside until it threatened to burst your heart. At night, after the radio programs, 
after the Big Little books and comics, read by flashlight underneath the covers, you lay awake and planned what 
to ask for next Christmas, what insidious prank to perpetrate next Halloween, what ruse to employ in order to 
avoid sharing with the guys the cherry bombs next Fourth of July. Whoever tasted of that sweet pain will never 
forget, for no matter how wild the dream, it always came true, which is why the pain was sweet. Holidays were 
worth it, and more. They were life at its keenest edge, at its heavenly, lawless, joyful best. 

Now they are gone. Of course, the world that supported them is gone, too, but who is responsible for that? 
The kids? Did they ask anyone to take the holidays away? No; they were robbed, and we, the reminiscers, are the 
culprits, for we are the ones who are making the world of the present. And we ought to be ashamed. 

Having created the safe and sane Fourth, the lifetime aluminum Christmas tree and the trick-or-treat bag, 
we now sit about drinking martinis and sighing bitterly about The Kids Nowadays. The fact is, we have a right 
to sling the booze — but not on their account. The guilt is entirely ours. We are the They who commercialized 
the holidays, who cheapened them, who tamed them; and we are the They who have got to bring them back. 

Enter the ghosts: 

Halloween. Almost nonexistent now, a spiritless, jejune couple of hours one night a year, a shuffling parade 
of tots in dimestore costumes, each as frightening as Minnie Mouse, a ringing of doorbells, a bit of extortion, 
carefully observed from the shadows by curiously proud parents, a few nervous giggles, out at seven, in at nine, 
the end. And what did Halloween used to be? A time to howl, to rage, to scream, to raise the dead and stun the 
living, long into the dark October night and beyond; a time for rising hackles and goose flesh; a time for every 
block in every city and town to become its own Bald Mountain, as the kids were turned loose. God help the 
parents who asked to come along then: their bones would have been picked clean in a wink. And God help the 
neighbor who wouldn't let the guys get their football out of his yard, or the storekeeper who wouldn't allow any of 


REQUIEM FOR HOLIDAYS uia ву CHARLES BEAUMONT 


hail and farewell to the wonderful ghosts of those joyous fetes of yore 


PLAYBOY 


his regular customers to swipe a few 
jawbreakers, or the truant officer whose 
bloodhound's nose spoiled many a de- 
lightful afternoon of hooky. Above all, 
God help anyone who hadn't the fore- 
sight to nail down everything removable. 
The genies were out of the bottle and 
the world was theirs. 

Genies — or prisoners? For 364 days of 
the year we were that, obeying the rules, 
more or less; but on this day, we rioted. 
Incredibly, the jailers were good sports 
about it, too. I doubt that they could 
have been very happy about the commo- 
tion, but they bore up, and sometimes, 
when they caught you, a strange light 
would come into thcir eyes and they 
would tell you a few of the things they 
did when they were kids. And you grew 
a little, and learned a little, then. 

Still, you couldn't believe that past 
Halloweens were any better. What could 
be more fantastical than some of the 
feats of your generation? The ice wagon 
on the roof of the bandstand cupola — 
how did it get there? A backbreaking 
job for a dozen workmen with a crane, 
impossible for kids. But there it would 
be the next morning for the rising world 
to gaze at, all aghast. Perhaps the pyra- 
mids were so created, and the other won- 
ders, too. 

Of cours, we held the strenuous 
magic io a minimum—show your 
power, but don't abuse it; the rest was 
mischief. Why it didn't land the lot of 
us in actual jails is difficult to under- 
stand. A sample evening: 10 masked gob- 
lins creeping stealthily up the back 
stairs of an apartment building, silent as 
mortal sin, each with a garbage pail; up 
to the roof, over to the edge; the 10 
pails suspended for a lovely, giddy mo- 
ment, then released; another moment of 
silence, and the sweetest, most marvelous 
tin thunder ever heard. Lights going on, 
doors flying open, goblin feet pelting 
down the stairs, across the littered yard, 
and on to the next challenge. Over to 
the building where the Rich People live, 
the one with the foyer and the speaking 
tubes and the downstairs door buzzer. 
Press the little black button; wait. “Yes? 
Who is it?" Select the biggest light bulbs 
in the package. “Who is it, please?" 
Start dropping the bulbs onto the echo- 
ing tile floor. "Don't do it, Rocky, don't. 
kill me!” Pow! “I didn't squeal on уа!” 
Pow! “Somebody help mel" Pow! “Ya 
got mel" Pow, pou! And out, and on. 

It was a start, but nothing more: the 
evening was young. There were windows 
to be soaped, pins to be stuck in door- 
bells, nonexistent ropes to be stretched 
taut across busy thoroughfares and, later, 
young ones to be horrified with the most 
blood-chilling stories imaginable. 

The rule was, it was all right w 
frighten, to shock and to surprise, but 
never to damage. Though some of the 


128 boys got carried away and turned hooli- 


gan and hoodlum, breaking windows, 
slashing tires, annoying the sick and the 
elderly, they were in the minority and 
their activities were frowned upon by 
everyone. They broke the code, which 
was a rigid one. Most of us knew exactly 
how far we should go. We knew that the 
lunatic fringe could spoil things for the 
real pranksters, who had lots of devil- 
ment but little malice in their hearts. 

It is true that in years past there were 
jack-o-lanterns with corn-silk mustaches, 
and old sheets and hooded masks, but 
these things were for infants— today's 
only Halloween participants, if such they 
can be called. They didn't count. They 
had nothing to do with the celebration. 
‘Then, when a child reached the age of 
eight, he was turned out to run with the 
pack this one night of the year, without 
any admonition to be home early. And 
he was made to understand by his 
friends, if he didn’t understand already, 
that vileness was what went on among 
grownups, not among creatures of his 
own kind. That is why there was so lit- 
tle damage, and no real vengeance; just 
a letting off of built-up steam. 

And how much steam is let off by 
shuffling from door to door and mum- 
bling “Trick or treat,” with the treat 
guaranteed? It is all taken for granted 
now. Tell the toddlers that you choose 
to be tricked and they are thrown into 
confusion, retreating nervously to their 
fathers or mothers, eight steps away. 
And thus conformity has dulled the edge 
of even this tame sport, for the fact is, 
today's Halloweener doesn't know how 
to trick. And why should he waste his 
time thinking about it, anyway, when 
there are treats, specially prepared for 
the occasion by the candy manufacturers, 
waiting at the next house? 

A pox on us: we have bribed the chil- 
dren into submissiveness. It is we who 
have tricked them, and the trick is a 
dirty one. 

1t fills one with uneasiness and appre- 
hension to realize how debased this fine 
holiday is from what it has been through- 
out the centuries. The eve of “All Hal- 
lows,” or All Saints’ Day, is actually a 
Christian appropriation of an ancient 
pagan festival of autumn wherein games, 
pranks and ghostly tales predominated. 
It was considered, wisely, to be neces 
sary to thc human spirit. The Druids, an 
order of priests in Gaul and Britain, held 
their autumn feast at about the same 
time that the Romans celebrated the 
festival of Pomona, the goddess of fruit 
trees, and other sex-linked events, and 
the two customs were combined to be 
perpetuated as Halloween. Perhaps we 
inherited more from the Romans than 
from the Druids, for the Romans had 
an obsession with cruclty that ran 
through all their festivals, with mischief 
on the grand scale. The popular and 


accepted picture of luxurious banquets 
with harmless indulgences and pleasures 
is less than accurate. They raised a 
species of hell beside which our own 
October evenings were nothing more 
than Jawn parties. 

From the Druids we still have the prac- 
tice of lighting bonfires on the 31st, 
though we've forgotten the attendant 
superstitions, nor do we follow the habit. 
of feasting on nuts, apples and parsnips. 
"The date was known in Ireland as the 
Vigil of Saman, and on this night peas- 
ants assembled with sticks and clubs and. 
went from house to house collecting 
money, breadcake, butter, cheese and 
eggs for the feast. They may not have 
said “Trick or treat,” but their inten- 
tions were clear. In Scotland it was the 
custom for boys to push the pith from 
a stalk of cabbage, fill the cavity with 
tow, set the tow on fire, insert the stalk 
in the keyhole of the Grouch's house, 
and blow darts of flame more than a yard 
in length. If this did not adequately 
startle him, they would bombard his 
home with rotten cabbages. The custom 
of high jinks on October 31 came to 
America with every sect and nationality, 
each with a different heritage, and it was 
all coalesced into the celebration we 
knew and loved, the wild, wonderful 
night of release, and we have taken this 
centurieshonored holiday and turned it 
into a nursery game for diapered tots. 


The fate of the Fourth of July is no 
less sobering. 

What started out in 1776 as a unique 
and stirring day of commemoration, 
completely American in origin and ob- 
servance, has declined to just another 
day off the job, or out of school, a chance 
to watch a double-header in the after- 
noon and a few pyrotechnic displays in 
the evening. Absent from the scene are 
the pulse-quickening brass bands and 
parades, the flamboyant oratory un- 
flinchingly listened to by great crowds 
in the heat of the day, with the small 
boys and their firecrackers on the periph- 
ery; the first fried chicken of the year, 
the best ice cream that ever was (give 
the freezer 100 more strokes after the 
dash gets hard to turn), strawberry pop 
that cost a nickel for a quart bottle; and 
the daring mustached balloon ascension- 
ist who climbed into the basket, waved 
and was whisked off, up and away, by 
God, while the crowds stood agape. 

It was the time of thrills, of distant 
thunder, getting louder, of warm days 
getting warmer, until the glorious Fourth 
itself dawned scorching, and the thunder 
was now inside you. No ulcers then, no 
hypertension. Just the wonderful release 
of fireworks. With them you would make 
the loudest bangs ever heard, blast 
cranky pcople out of their doldrums, feel 
the independence that must have stirred 

(continued on page 178) 


Prized packages for patresfamilias and baccalaureates. Clockwise from noon: golf set with aluminum and vinyl cart, $45, 
nylon umbrella, $12.95, woods with persimmon heads, $13.95 each, chrome-plated irons, $10.95 each, all by Abercrombie & 
Fitch. Orvis Banty Set, bamboo fly and spinning rods in feltlined vinyl case, with silver name plate, by Abercrombie & Fitch, 
$215. Hanging basket chair of rattan, from Vandor Imports, $39.95. Binoculars, center focus, 20x60, by United Binocular, 
$99.50. Suede and wool-knit cardigan, by McGregor, $85. Coffeepot of tin-lined copper, tiltable wrought iron holder, warmer, 
from Abercrombie & Fitch, $59.95. TV/Zoom 8mm electric eye movie camera is battery operated, by Kalimar, $139.50. Water- 
ski jacket of foam neoprene, by Voit, $27.50. Chrome-plated rear-view mirror, by J. C. Whitney, $6.98. Petanque (French 
bowls game) has metal balls, jack, in wood box, by General Sportcraft, $50. Aluminum beach chair with nylon seat and back, 
by Hampden Specialty Products, $5.95. Mini Sterephone, with two-band transistor radio, stereo phonograph, battery powered, 
with ear plugs (not shown), by Hoffman Electronics, $79.95. Pigskin-covered chrome-finish English flask, holds 16 ounces, 
from Alfred Dunhill, $30, Croquet set for six, features metal mallets with rubber heads and grips, has aluminum stand (not 
shown) by General Sportcraft, $36. Canon 7 35mm camera has 50mm f:0.95 lens, by Bell & Howell, $500. CB-500 charcoal 
broiler, has stainless steel hood, ash drawer, 3 fire depths, by Columbus Iron Works, $59. Aluminum shooting stick with 
leather seat, from Alfred Dunhill, $20. English picnic hamper of willow with waterproof lining, has plastic dishes, stag-handled 
stainless service for six, food boxes, Thermos, by Abercrombie & Fitch, $185. TR 911 portable radio for AM, short wave, 
long wave, by Sony, $99.95. Velzy surfboard, of polyurethane and fiberglass, is %2”, by Bohemian Surf Equipment, $120. 


129 


Clockwise from noon: San Pan beechwood salad bowl, with mixing utensils, also holds hot foods, by Foreign Advisory 
Service, $27.50. Reclining lounge chair of wool and lacquered palisander wood, by Dux, $608. Game set in imported rosewood. 
case, by Alfred Dunhill, $425. Cocktail Set, has walnut tray, cheese knife, Femlin-crested cutting tile, glasses and pitcher, 
stirrer, by Playboy Products, $15. Tartan plaid robe of D & J Anderson cotton fabric, by Trylon Robe, $32.50. Baccarat/chemin 
de fer card "shoe" and paddle, by Abercrombie & Fitch, $63.50. Roman Kitchen, has alcohol burner, heat regulator, 
aluminum water pan, food pan, brass cover, in black matte, by Designs for R.A., $60; with charcoal grill (not shown), $70. 
Fireplace keg of pine, with brass banding, leather harness, bound in hemp, by Bernie Alpert, $38. Storage box in oak 
parquet, with either side or top opening, by Richards Morgenthau, $45. M2 Stereo Tape Cartridge System, plays up 
to 16 hours of зісгсо tape at 174 ips, holds 20 tape cartridges, by 3M Revere Camera, $450. Buffet table has cnd shelf, 
side tray, Formica lower shelf, 28% 16" heating area can heat to 265°, by Salton, $200; Espresso coffcc maker of polished 
chrome can brew six cups in two minutes, from Alfred Dunhill, $50. Eterna Power rechargeable battery-powered shaver, 
also works off house current, has adjustable head which cleans under running water, by Schick, $29.95. Pitcher from 
Sweden of stainless steel with teak trim, by Salm-Harley, $25. Duk 15 stereo tweeters, in walnut, have Ionovac cells by 
Dukane, $100 each. In center: English spiked stainless carving dish with stag-horn handles, by Goodwood Metal Craft, $57.50. 


Clockwise from 2 o'clock: illuminated globe, with semi-meridian calibrated in degrees and miles, 400-page atlas in hand-rubbed 
solid walnut base, by Replogle Globes, $45. Ice Magic ice-cube maker replaces ice cubes as they are used, by Whirlpool, 
$149.95. Cigar humidor in thuya walnut, holds about 50 cigars, by Alfred Dunhill, $185. Meerschaum filter pipe, by Medico, 
$15; in teak and matte finish pipe holder, by Sam Mann, $4.50. Angelus clock in brass also has compass, hygrometer, barometer, 
thermometer, by Alfred Dunhill, $275. Rapidial “memorizes” up to 290 phone numbers which can be dialed by twirling 
selector knob to desired party, pressing start bar, through local phone company, monthly charges $12 to $13.50 according to 
area. Executive Line aluminum and walnut desk accessories, ashtray, $15, desk calendar pad, $20, double pen holder with 
pens, $25, legal-size letter tray with cover, $35, all by Duk-It. Mobile cabinet in walnut has stainless steel base on casters, box 
drawers, file drawer, 2 slide-out shelves, by Marden Furniture, $547. Compact 250 electric typewriter, with features of larger 
models, by Smith-Corona, $250. Desk lamp in satin and black finish aluminum has swing arm, linen shade, by Ainsley Lamps, 
$40. Custom Sportsman 19inch portable TV with Super Son-R remote control that turns set on, off, changes channels, 
has 3 volume levels, by Admiral, $199.95. Perpetual calendar has month and day suspended by magnet, by Wilburt, $15. 
In center: leather chair, swivels 360° on aluminum base, by Knoll, $660. Velveteen smoking jacket with rayon linen collar, 
cuffs, by Alfred Dunhill, $37.50. Executary dictating unit, battery powered, features reusable magnetic tape, by IBM, $405. 


131 


PLAYBOY 


122 “It didn't work out.” 


THE COST OF THE CURE 


from the tales of Petronius 


THERE LIVED IN ROME two physicians alike 
in many respects — they were raised to- 
gether as children, studied under the 
same mentor and ultimately began 
practicing in the same locality. Also, each 
was known to be fond of drinking, rev- 
elry and a variety of amusements. 

They were dissimilar, however, in that 
the first, named Ravolinus, felt that he 
embodied the fullness of perfection and 
was wont to occupy his associates for 
endless hours with self-laudatory orations. 
Daily he would assail his listeners with 
verbal barrages describing the intricacies 
of each of his love affairs, his parties and 
medical prowess. And. were self- 
proclamation the only standard, he 
would truly be the greatest physician 
jn creativity. 

Meanwhile, the second, named Gulius, 
while as capable in every arca of ei 
deavor as Ravolinus, perhaps more so, 
rarely spoke to anyone except to ex- 
change routine pleasantries. This trait 
was often the subject of Ravolinus’ de- 
rision, but even these censorious com- 
ments of his friend did not disturb 
Gulius, for he felt that the judgment of 
other men was totally unimportant. 

At this particular time there was con- 
siderable discussion medical circles 
concerning the inability of men to per- 
form the act of love with such zeal as 
they might have in their younger days, 
and Ravolinus was quick to offer a theory 
There is no physical connection. 
said he, "with this phenomenon. For onc 
will always possess the powers he has 
once displayed. The reason certain men 
are unable is that they grow tired of 
their present companions. Were they to 
acquaint themselves with new persons, 
equally or more attractive, their powers 
would be regained.” 

And Gulius, in quiet speech as was his 
custom, replied: “This is untrue, my 
good friend, for I myself suffer from this 
very malady. And despite the extent of 
my experimentations, I have yet to find a 
woman capable of arousing my carlier 
zeal. 

Ravolinus became incensed. ou 
have no more right to practice medicine 
than a goat,” said he. "The truth of my 
theory should be apparent. You simply 
have not experimented to a great enough 
extent.” 

Then Gulius recited a list of those 
with whom he had supposedly experi- 
mented. Among these were the most 
beautiful in Rome, women whose price 
for a single night of pleasure often was 
greater than the worth of 10 horse 


“You must experiment further," said 
Ravolinus, but Gulius declined. Instead, 
he offered to wager his friend the price 
of 100 horses that there were no women 
remaining in Italy who could arouse his 
zeal. 

“If you are so thoroughly convinced 
of your theory," said Gulius, "you will 
not hesitate to accept this wager.” 

Ravolinus accepted, as a matter of 
pride, and immediately set out to prove 
his point. Being an individual of singu- 
larly narrow scope, however, he had not 
foreseen the cost to which he would 
have to extend himself in order to pro- 
cure women more desirable than those 


Ribald Classic 


named by Gulius. 

And as he produced each, Gulius 
would perform the act of love and tell 
Ravolinus that he still had not regained 
his former zeal. Since the terms of their 
wager were such, and since the code of 
the region called for fulfillment to the 
letter—a code which Ravolinus often 
preached during his many rantings — he 
found himself expending the amount of 
the bet several times over, until finall 
many years later, he realized that it 
would better serve his purpose to admit 
defeat rather than continue. 

Meanwhile, Gulius, not wishing to em- 
4, offered to surrender 
the amount of the wager and announced 
that the prolongation of the treatments 
had brought about the cure. And havin 
ced the multitude of pleasures 
provided by the women whom his bene- 
factor procured, he gladly turned over to 
Ravolinus the amount of the wager. For 
the circumstances, Gulius said to himself 
(but to по one else), certainly justified 
the cost of the cure. 

—Retold by Paul J. Gillette ЕВ 


133 


THE GREATEST TEEVEE JEEBIES EVER TOLD 


salire By SHEL SILVERSTEIN 


"Well I don't think it's very funny and 
neither does Claude." 


"Uh, Melvin, don't you think maybe we could find 
some place that's just a little more private?" 


"I can't understand it . . . ! Coffee is 10 cents, a jelly "Im not complaining about paying the blackmail, 
doughnut is 15 cents, tax is maybe 3 cents ...! but would you mind telling me how in the world you 
134 So how the hell do they get 31 cents?!” got that crazy camera angle?” 


more mad-lib dialog for video's venerable reruns 


“Gosh, J.B., all the rest of us thought it “For Pete's sake, Gladys — wait till 
wasa fresh, clever idea!” 1 button my fiy?” 


“Is agreed then. You'll turn Jewish.” “You know, it tastes as though someone had 
put saltpeter in this pie . . " 


“I think Гое got it straight now — first the ; 
anesthetic, then the incision and then the sutures . Zowie! "ES DT learn to kiss like that?! 
first the anesthetic, then the incision . 135 


PLAYBOY 


136 do wh 


HER MAJESTY'S SECRET SERVICE 


then Bond remembered. But of course! It 
was Christmas Eve! God rest ye merry 
gentlemen, let nothing you dismay! 
Bond's skis hissed an accompaniment as 
he zigzagged fast down the beautiful 
snow slope. White Christmas! Well, he'd 
certainly got himself that! 

But then, from high up above him, 
he heard that most dreaded of all sounds 


in the high Alps, that rending, booming 
crack! The Last Trump! Avalanche! 
The ground shook violently under 


Bond's skis and the swelling ramble 
came down to him like the noise of ex- 
press trains roaring through a hundred 


tunnels. God Almighty, now he really 
а 1 it! What was the rule? Point the 


skis straight downhill! Try and race it! 
Bond pointed his skis down toward the 
treeline, got down in his ugly crouch 
and shot, his skis screaming, into white 
space. 

Keep forward, you bastard! Get vour 
hands way in front of you! The wind of 
his speed was building up into a great 
wall in front of him, trying to knock him 
off balance. Behind him, the giant roar 
of the mountain seemed to be gaining 
Other, smaller cracks sounded high up 
among the crags. The whole bloody 
mountain was on the move! If he beat 
the gigantic mass of hurtling snow to 
the treeline, what comfort would he 
find there? Certainly no protectioi 
he deep in the wood. The avalanche 
would snap perhaps the first hundred 
yards of firs down like matchsticks. Bond 
used his brain and veered slightly left- 
handed. The opening, the glade cut for 
the Black Run, would surely be sony 
where below the last flag he had bee 
aiming for. If it wasn't, he was a di 
duck! 

Now the wild schuss was coming to an 
end. The trees were rushing toward him. 
Was there a break in the bloody black 
line of them? Yes! But more to the lelt. 
Bond veered, dropping his speed, grate- 
fully, but with his ears strained to gauge 
the range of the thunder behind and 
above h It couldn't be far from hi 
The shudder in the ground had greatly 
increased and a Tot of the stuff would 
also find the hole through the trees, 
funnel itself in and pursue him even 
down there! Yes! There was the fl 
Bond hurtled into a right-hand. Christie 
just as, to his left, he heard the first trees 
come crashing down with the noise of 
à hundred monster firecrackers bein; 
pulled — Christmas firecrackers! Bond 
flung himself straight down the wide 
white glide between the trees. But he 
could hear that he was losing! The 
crashing of the trees was coming closer. 
"The first froth of the white tide couldn't. 
be far behind his heels! What did one 
n the avalanche hit? There was 


а 


(continued from pa, 


only one rule. Get your hands to your 
boots and grip your ankles. Then, il 
you were buried, there was some hope 
of undoing your skis, being able, per- 
haps, to burrow your way to the surface 
—i[ you knew in your tomb where the 
surface lay! IE you couldn't go down 
like a ball, you would end up immov. 
able, a buried tangle of sticks and skis 
at all angles. Thank God the open 

at the end of the glade, the shimmer 
of the last, easily sloping fields before 
the finish, was showing up! The crack- 
i behind him was getting louder! 
igh would the wall of snow be? 
Fifty feet? A hundred? Bond reached 
the end of the glide and hurled himselt 
into another righthand Christie. It was 
his last hope, to get below the wide belt 
of trees and pray that the iche 


wouldn't mow down the lot of them. To 


stay in the path of the roari ter 
at his heels would be suicide 

The Christie came off, but Boud's 
right ski snarled a root or a sapling and. 
he [elt himself flying through space. He 
landed with a crash and lay gasping, all 


ш; moi 


the wind knocked out of him. Now he 


was done for! Not even enough strength 
to get his hands to his ankles! A tremen- 


dous buffet of wind hit him and a small 
snowstorm covered him. The ground 
shook wildly and a deep crashing roar 
filled his ears. And then it һай passed. 
him and given way to a slow, heavy 
tumble. Bond brushed the snow out of 
his еуез and got unsteadily to his feet, 
both skis loose, his goggles gone. Only a 
cket pitch aw 
snow, perhaps 20 feet high, was majesti- 
cally pouring out of the wood and down 
into the meadows. Its much her, 
tumbling snout, tossing huge crags of 
broken snow around it, was already a 
hundred yards ahead and still going 
fast. But, where Bond stood, it was now 
peaceful except for the 
machine-gun-fire crackling of the trees as 
they went down in the wood that had 
finally protected him. The crackling was 
geuing nearer! No time w hang about! 
But Bond took off one sodden glove and 
dug into his trouser pocket. If ever he 
needed a d it was now! He tilted the 
k down his throat, emptied it 

threw the bottle away. Happy 
istmas! he said to himself, and bent 
to his bindings. 

He got to his feet and, rather light- 
aded but with the wonderful glow of 
the Enzian in his stomach, started on the 
last mile of fi g schuss across the 
meadows to the right, away from the still 
hurtling river of snow. Blast! There was 
a fence across the bottom of the mead- 
ows! He would have to take the normal 
outlet for the runs beside the cable sta- 
tion. It looked all right. There was no 


sign of the gondola, but he could now 
hear the song of the cables Had the 
downcoming car reversed back up to Piz 
Gloria, assuming him to have been killed 
by the avalanche? There was а large 
black saloon car in the forecourt to the 
cable station, and lights on in the station 
but otherwise no sign of life. Well. it 
was his only way to get off the run and 
onto the road that was his objective. 
Bond schussed easily downward, resting 
his limbs, getting his breath ba 

The sharp crack of a heavy-caliber pit 
tol and the phut as the bullet hit the 
snow beside him pulled him together. He 
jinked sideways and glanced quickly up 
to the right, where the shot had come 
from. The gun blazed again. A man on 
skis was coming fast after him. One of 
the guides! Of course! He would have 
taken the Red Run. Had the other fol- 
lowed Bond on the Black? Bond hoped 
so. gave a deep sigh of anger and put on 
all the speed he could, crouching low and 
jinking occasionally to spoil the man’s 
aim. The single shots kept on coming. 
It was going to be a narrow shave who 
got to the end of the run first! 

Bond studied the finishing point u 
was now coming at him fast. There м 
a wide break in the fence to let the skiers 
through, 2 large parking place in front 
of the cable station and then the low em- 
bankment that protected the main line 
of the Rhätische Bahn up to Pontresina 
and the Bernina Pass. On the other side 
of the rails the railway embankment 
dropped into the road from Ponuesi 
to Samaden, the junction for St. Moritz, 
perhaps two miles down the valley. 

Another shot kicked up the snow in 
front of him. That was six that had gone. 
luck the man's pistol was 
empty. But that wouldn't help much. 
There was no stuffing left in Bond for 
шїн, 

Now a great blaze of light showed 
coming up the railway line, and, before 
it was hidden by the cable station, Bond 
identified an express and could just hear 
the thudding of its electrodiesels. By 
God, it would just about be passing the 
cable station as he wanted to get across 
the track! Could he make it— take a 
run at thc low embankment and clear it 
and the lines before the train got there? 
only hope! Bond dug in with 
s to get on extra speed. Hell! A 
man had got out of the black car and 
was crouching, aiming at him. Bond 
jinked and jinked again as fire bloomed 
from the man's hand. But now Bond w 
on top of him. He thrust hard with the 
rapier point of a ski stick and felt it go 
through clothing. The man gave a scream 
id went down. The guide, now only 
yards behind, yelled something. The 
great yellow eye of the diesel glared 
down the tracks, and Bond caught a side- 
ways glimpse of a huge red snow fan 

(continued on page 140) 


“Maybe with just a little more lipstick, or something?" 


HOW TO SAVE MONEY ON 
YOUR WIFE'S CLOTHING 
satire By SHEPHERD MEAD 


more secrets of being successful with women without really trying 


THE FARSEEING HUSBAND knows how 
important it is for his wife to be 
well-groomed at all times. The 
sloppy, poorly dressed wife creates 
a bad impression everywhere, and 
can even be harmful to a man's 
standing in the community and in 
his business relations. 

Remember that a dollar spent to 
make your wife lovely is a dollar in- 
vested not only in her future, but in 
your own. 

BUT BE THRIFTY 

Luckily, good grooming and care- 
less spending do not go hand in 
hand. Some of our bestgroomed 
matrons are ones who spent the 
least actual cash, though their in- 
vestments in taste and careful plan- 
ning can be large indeed. 

‘There are many ways lor the 
thoughtful husband to help his wife 
cut clothing expenses. 

Use the Model Wife, She can be 
the same character, real or fictitious, 
discussed in an earlier article. An 
occasional word or two about her 
can be inspiring. 


“By the way, pet, Joe's wife 
stopped in at the office today. 
What a knockout!" 


“Oh?” 

“She hasn't your basic good 
looks, Phocb— essentially a 
plain woman — (A bit of flat- 
tery is good here.) 

"It's just that she has a genius. 
for clothes. She was wearing 
this sui ^ 

"Expensive, I'll bet." 

"No, as a matter of fact, she 
ran it up herself. Bought a 30- 
cent pattern, and used the old 
auto-seat covers. Knocked it off 
in just a few weeks.” 


THE HAT PROBLEM 

"Though a woman's hat is utterly 
useless, performing mo function 
whatever in warming, protecting or 
shedding rain, many women have 
an emotional desire for new ones. 

The husband who resists this 
stoutly will be doing his wife a real 
service. We list a few tested methods. 

Admire Her Hair, A woman who 
has any hair at all believes it is 
beautiful. Knowing this is a valuable 
weapon in itself. 


"Glorious the way this light 
strikes your hair, pet.” 
“Oh, you like it, Davie?” 
"Flecks of pure gold in it.” 


137 


PLAYBOY 


138 


(No matter what the color of a 
woman's hair, she will always 
accept the fact that it has flecks of 
gold in it) 

“Oh, really?” 

“Take off that hat, will you?" 
ut it's a new hat, Davie!” 

“Ah, that’s better! Why is it that 
you always look so much lovelier 
with your hat off? Must be your 
beautiful hair, pet." 


Narrow the Field. It you aren't suc- 


zessful in eliminating the hat altogether, 
the next best thing is to reduce the 
number of variations. 


Always maintain that you prefer the 


small black hat, the smaller the beter. 
Scoff at all decorations. 


w do you like my hat, Davie?” 
ne, pet, really brings out the 
blue in your eyes. 

(Make the opening remarks with- 
out looking at the hat.) 

“You haven't even looked at it 
“Oh. Yes. Always liked that hat. 
“It’s a new hat, David." 
liked it better before you put 
the little doohickey on i 

“David, it's new, the whole hat.” 

“Really? Well, why don’t you just 
take the doohickey off anyway 

“Well, if I do, itll be just the 
same as the other one.” 


It may take a few years, but after a 


while she will begin to sce the hidden 
logic of this. 


If, on the other hand, you discover 


she has added an inexpensive decoration 
to an old hat, your course is clear. 


“I like that new skimmer, Phoeb, 
does a lot for you.” 


“It isn't new, Davie, I just put 
this little dime-store rhinestone on 
here, and — 

“Well, it looks new! By golly, 
somehow it does something to your 
whole face, Phoeb, gives it a kinda 
glow.” 


If necessary, start this yourself. Pick 
up a sprig of bittersweet, say. There is 
a good supply in most reception rooms. 


“For you, pet. Saw a nice little 
old lady selling it, and it just cried 
out for you! Remember that won- 
derful little black hat of yours?" 
“Davie, theyre practically all 
litle black hats!” 
“The one 1 like so much. Ther 
(Pick any one, at random.) “Just 
toss the bittersweet here, pin it, and 
— voilà. 
“Well, I don't know ——” 
"Really does something for you, 
Phoeb. Gives you a kinda glow.” 


The Woman-or-the-Hat Approach. Oc- 
casionally your wife, in spite of all 
your efforts, insists on a large and, she 
will think, dramatic hat. The unskilled 
husband objects violently. This is un- 
wise. The more you protest, the more 
she will want the hat. 

Take the opposite tack— praise it 
extravagantly, 

“You really like it, D; 

"Like it? Phoeb, 1 simply can't 
take my eyes off it. I guess it’s the 
most beautiful hat I’ve ever seen.” 

"Really? 

"Honest injun. It's such a really 
stunning hat that I wonder if ——" 
(Hesitate à moment and then shake 
your head slowly.) 

“What's the matter, Davie?” 


“You don’t often see a father-and-son 
relationship like that anymore!” 


“No, I think you could get away 
with it. Only a really beautiful face 
could compete with it, pet, and I 
think you're the gal.” 

“Oh?” 

“Maybe with a little more lip- 
stick, or something.” 


THE PROBLEM OF STYLE 


Unlike men, women do not wear out 
clothes. They throw them away while 
still quite sturdy because they are “out 
of style." 

"The woman who believes she is out. 
of style feels the same way a man feels 
without his trousers. This is purely a 
mental problem. Help your wife face it. 
She will be better adjusted, and your 
savings will be encouragi 

Avoid High Style. Very high style 
changes every month, with each new 
edition of the fashion magazines. Gentle 
humor is your best defense against it. 
This requires little thought, since the 
very latest thing will have one or more 
bulges, lumps, Hares, or other trick de- 
partures from the normal lines of the 
female fig 

Wait until your wife spots a walking 
exhibit of haute couture. 


“There, Da 
want, the 
"] see." 

(Look at a different woman.) 

"Isn't it beautiful?” 

“I do like it, Phoeb. Clean, sim- 
ple. Doesn't do her any harm, 
though, being next to that down 
getup. Look at the green job with 
the bulges.” 

“David, I mean the green one!” 

“Oh, really?” 


‚ that's just what I 


Delay, if You Can. The cheerful delay 
is also effective against high style. Put 
off the purchase a month or so and you 
can be sure she won't want it anymore. 


“Please, Davie, please?” 

"Yes, indeed, Phoeb, you must 
have it. The latest and best is none 
too good for my Phoebe!" 

“Thanks, David." 

“In fact, Vl go with you when 
you try it on, OK?" 

“Tomorrow 

“Fine. Oh, can’t € it tomor- 
row. Let's try for early next weck.” 

(Keep this up for just a few weeks, 
then remark:) 

“Oh, Phoeb, Joe's wife dropped 
into the office today. Had on one of 
those offthe-hip-bone jobs we were 
going to get you, 

(sore: “We шеге”) 

"Oh, those. She can have it, 
Davie. Didn't catch оп at all.” 


Use Flattery. Since most high styling 
is designed for wealthy but shapeless 
women, it is calculated to obscure the 
figure rather than reveal it. This will 
give you an excellent excuse to flatter 


your wife and to reduce spending. all 
at once. 

"Don't you think it's stunning, 
Davie?” 

“Well, ingenious anyway, Phoeb. 
Damn dever way to hide those fat 
hips. Mighty glad my purty stream- 
lined little gal doesn't need cheaters 
like that! Takes a figure like yours, 
Phoeb, to wear a little black dress! 

(The man who establishes carly 
the principle of the Little Black 
Dress can save himself the price of 
a sports car in the course of any 
marriage, even a short one.) 


HOW TO AVOID FUR COATS 
A quarter inch of light, inexpensive 
wlating material sandwiched between 
two layers of cloth is far warmer than 
the hair of any animal. However, it will 
do you no good to point this out to your 
wile. 


ery Woman Wants a Fur Coat. She 
will believe that a fur coat will bring 
her happiness. This is not true. Start 
her out with a bit skin and she will 
be unhappy until she has а muskrat. 
Get her a muskrat and she won't rest 
until she has a beaver. Buy the beaver 
and she will yearn for a mink. This goes 
on through mutation minks, sables, er- 
mines, and so on. Spend $20,000 for a 
silver-blue mink and she will spot one 
that is bluer. 

However, it will do you no good to 
point this out, either, Nor will it help 
to itemize the inital cost, the tax, and 
the considerable operating expenscs in 
the form of insurance, summer storage, 
glazing, repairs and the like. She will 
believe you are thinking of yourself. 

The Sable-or-Nothing Device. Always 
remember that nothing is too good for 
your wife. 

Make it clear that you want to buy 
her a fur coat—but only the best fur 
coat, 


“Davie, I was just thinking. It’s 
beginning to get cold now and, 
well, 1 just happened to walk by 
the fur —" 

"Did you?" (Rush in quickly. To 
delay at this stage may bring dis- 
aster.) “Reminds me that Joe's wife 
dropped by the office today. Had on 
one of those, uh, rat-skin coats, 

“You mean muskrat, Davie? 
That's just what I —' 

“Some kind of rat. Meant to look 
like mink. Ha, imagine wearing a 
fake mink! Not for my girl!” 

“But David, all I've got is this old 
tweed! 

“It's a real tweed, though, baby! 
Know what I want for you, Phoeb? 
Sable. Sable or nothing, baby. 

“But you've been saying that for 
six years!" 

"And I still mean it! Nothing's 
too good for you. Phoeb!" 


The Allergy. One of the miracles of 
modern medicine is the fact that we 
now have a number of interesting dis- 
eases that our forefathers were not even 
aware of. In fact, we are discovering 
new and fascinating illnesses almost as 
fast as we learn to cure the old ones. 

Some of the most intriguing of all 
the new discoveries are the allergies, 
among them the fur allergy. 

Develop one of these quickly, for it 
will be effective only if begun carly. 

Suppose, for example, that your wife 
buys a dress or cloth coat with a bit of 
fur on the collar. 


“Davie, how do you like the 
new — 

"Aaaaaah-choooo!" 
Well, God bless you 
'Ааааа-сһооо! Go away, Phocb, 
go away with that awful — aaaah- 
chooo! —fur collar! I can't be 


within h-chooo! — 10 feet of 
any kind of— aaaaaah-choooo! — 
fur!” 


She will return the offending garment 
and select only cloth coats. Get her a 
good one. 

Our Little Four-Footed Friends. Most 
women, bless them, are tenderhearted. 
Given the right facts, their impulses are 
often fine and generous. 


“Davie, isn’t it time we talked 
some more about a fur— 

“That reminds me, Phoeb. Had 
an interesting talk with a fur man 
today, down at the office. 

“Oh, Davie, you're sweet 

“He was explaining to me why 
some pelts have a sorta gnawed look 
in the corner. Little devils try to 
chew off their own feet. You know, 
the one thats caught in the trap." 

"Oh, David, stop!" 

"Probably doesn’t hurt 'em too 
much. Only stay in the traps a cou 
ple of days." 

"How cruel!" 

"Can't blame the trappers, really. 
It’s the women who buy the fur 
coats. Glad you're so sensible about 
that, Phocb." 


BE PROUD OF YOUR WIFE 

But remember, do not be niggardly. 
If your wife wants to buy a good, dura- 
ble dress with lasting classical lines, let 
her do so. The ragged, threadbare wife 
is evidence of a sclfsh husband. 

Be generous with your praise, too. 
If she has run up a trim house dress 
out of the old bedroom curtains, appre- 
ciate it. Women thrive on appreciation, 

Before you know it you will have a 
wile who is smart, well-dressed and self- 
assured. 

She will be a good investment, 


NEXT MONTH: "HOW To SELECT 
THE SECOND WIFE” 


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139 


PLAYBOY 


HER MAJESTY'S SECRET SERVICE (continued from page 136) 


below the headlight that was fountaining 
the new snow to right and left of the 
engine in two white wings Now! He 
flashed across the parking place, heading 
straight at the mound of the embank- 
ment and, as he hit, dug both his sticks 
in to get his skis off the ground, and 
hurled himself forward into the air. 
There was a brief glimpse of steel rails 
below, a tremendous thudding in his ears 
and a ferocious blast, only yards away, 
from the train’s siren. Then he crashed 
onto the icy road, tried to stop, failed 
and fetched up in an almighty skid 
against the hard snow wall on the other 
side. As he did so, there came a terrible 
scream from behind him, a loud splin- 
tering of wood and the screech of the 
train's brakes being applied. 

At the same time, the spray from the 
snow fan, that had now reached Bond, 
turned pink! 

Bond wiped some of it off his face and 
looked at it. His stomach turned. God! 
The man had tied to follow him, had 
been too late or had missed his jump, 
and had been caught by the murderous 
blades of the snow fan! Mincemeat! 
Bond dug a handful of snow off the bank 
and wiped it over his face and hair. He 
rubbed more of it down his sweater. He 
suddenly realized that people were pull- 
ing down the windows in the brilliantly 
lit train above him. Others had got down 
on the line. Bond pulled himself to- 
gether and punted off down the black 
ice of the road. Shouts followed him — 
the angry bawls of Swiss citizens, Bond 
edged his skis a little against the camber 
of the road and kept going. Ahead of 
him, down the black gulch of the road, 
in his mind’s eye, the huge red propeller 
whirred, sucking him into its steel whirl- 
pool. Bond, close to delirium, slithered 
on toward its bloody, beckoning vortex. 

Bond, a gray-faced, lunging automaton, 
somehow stayed upright on the two miles 
of treacherous Langlauf down the gentle 
slope to Samaden. Once a passing car, 
its snow chains clattering, forced him 
into the bank. He leaned against the 
comforting soft snow for a moment, the 
breath sobbing in his throat. Then he 
drove himself on again. He had got so 
far, done so well! Only a few more hun- 
dred yards to the lights of the darling, 
straggling little paradise of people and 
shelter! The slender campanile of the 
village church was floodlit and there was 
a great warm lake of light on the left of 
the twinkling group of houses, The 
strains of a waltz came over the still, 
frozen air. The skating rink! A Christmas 
Eve skaters’ ball. That was the place for 
him! Crowds! Gaicty! Confusion! Some- 
where to lose himself from the double 


140 hunt that would now be on — by SPECTRE 


and the Swiss police, the cops and the 
robbers hand in hand! 

Bond’s skis hit a pile of horse's dung 
from some merrymakers sleigh. He 
lurched drunkenly into the snow wall of 
the road and righted himself, cursing 
feebly. Come on! Pull yourself together! 
Look respectable! Well, you needn't look 
too respectable. After all, it’s Christmas 
Eve. Here were the first houses. The 
noise of accordion music, deliciously 
nostalgic, came from a Gasthaus with a 
beautiful iron sign over its door. Now 
there was a twisty, uphill bit—the road 
to St. Moritz. Bond shuffled up it, placing 
his sticks carefully. He ran a hand 
through his matted hair and pulled the 
sweat-soaked handkerchief down to his 
neck, tucking the ends into his shirt col- 
lar. The music lilted down toward him 
from the great pool of light over the 
skating rink. Bond pulled himself a little 
more upright. There were a lot of cars 
drawn up, skis stuck in mounds of snow, 
luges and toboggans, festoons of paper 
streamers, a big notice in three languages 
across the entrance: “Grand Christmas 
Eve Ball! Fancy Dres! Entrance 2 
Francs! Bring all your friends! Hooray!” 

Bond dug in his sticks and bent down 
to unlatch his skis. He fell over sideways. 
If only he could just lie there, go to sleep 
on the hard, trodden snow that felt like 
swansdown! He gave a small groan and 
heaved himself gingerly into a crouch. 
The bindings were frozen solid, caked, 
like his boots, with ice. He got one of his 
sticks and hacked feebly at the metal and 
tried again. At last the latches sprang 
and the thongs were oll. Where to put 
the bloody things, hide their brilliant 
red markings? He lugged them down 
the trodden path toward the entrance, 
gay with fairy lights, shoved the skis and 
the sticks under a big saloon car, and 
staggered on. The man at the ticket table 
was as drunk as Bond seemed. He looked 
up blearily: “Zwei Franken. Two francs. 
Deux francs." The routine incantation 
was slurred into one portmanteau word. 
Bond held onto the table, put down the 
coins and got his ticket. The man's eyes 
focused. “The fancy dress, the travestie, 
it is obligatoire.” He reached into a box 
by his side and threw a black-and-white 
domino mask on the table. “One franc.” 
He gave a lopsided smile. “Now you arc 
the gangster, the spy. Yes?" 

“Yeah, that's right.” Bond paid and 
put on the mask. He reluctantly let go 
of the table and wove through the en- 
trance. There were raised tiers of wooden 
benches round the big square rink, 
‘Thank God for a chance to sit down! 
There was an empty seat on the aisle in 
the bottom row at rink level. Bond 
stumbled down the wooden steps and fell 
into it. He righted himself, said “Sorry,” 


and put his head in his hands. The girl 
beside him, part of a group of harle- 
quins, Wild Westerners and pirates, drew 
her spangled skirt away, whispered some- 
thing to her neighbor. Bond didn’t care. 
‘They wouldn't throw him out on a night 
like this. Through the loud-speakers the 
violins sobbed into The Skaters’ Waltz. 
Above them the voice of the m.c. called, 
“Last dance, ladies and gentlemen. And 
then all out onto the rink and join hands 
for the grand finale. Only 10 minutes to 
go to midnight! Last dance, ladies and 
gentlemen. Last dance!” There was a 
rattle of applause. People laughed ex- 
citedly. 

God in Heaven! thought Bond feebly. 
Now this! Won't anybody leave me 
alone? He fell asleep. 

Hours later he felt his shoulder being 
shaken. “Onto the rink, sir. Please. All 
onto the rink for the grand finale. Only 
a minute to go.” A man in purple-and- 
gold uniform was standing beside him, 
looking down impatiently. 

“Go away,” said Bond dully. Then 
some inner voice told him not to make a 
Scene, not to be conspicuous. He strug- 
gled to his feet, made the few steps to 
the rink, somehow stood upright. His 
head lowered, like a wounded bull, he 
looked to left and right, saw a gap in 
the human chain round the rink and 
slid gingerly toward it. A hand was held 
out to him and he grasped it thankfully. 
On the other side, someone else was try- 
ing to get hold of his free hand. And 
then there came a diversion, From right 
across the rink, a girl in a short black 
skating skirt topped by a shocking-pink 
fur-lined parka sped like an arrow across 
the ice and came to a crash stop in front 
of Bond. Bond felt the ice particles hit 
his legs. He looked up. It was a face he 
recognized — those brilliant blue eyes, 
the look of authority now subdued 
beneath golden sunburn and a brilliant 
smile of excitement. Who in hell? 

"The girl slipped in beside him, seized. 
his right hand in her left, joined up on 
her right. “James—" it was a thrilling 
whisper—"oh, James. It’s me! Tracy! 
What's the matter with you? Where have 
you come from?" 

"Tracy said Bond dully. "Tracy. 
Hold on to me. I'm in bad shape. Tell 
you later." 

Then Auld Lang Syne began and 
everyone swung linked hands in unison 
to the music. 


Bond had no idea how he managed to 
stay upright. but at last it was over and 
everyone cheered and broke up into 
pairs and groups. 

Tracy got her arm under his. Bond 
pulled himself together. He said hoarsely, 
“Mix with the crowd, Tracy. Got to get 
away fiom here. People after me.” A 
sudden hope came to him. “Got your 
can" 


“Yes, darling. Everything'll be all right. 
Just hang on to me. Are people waiting 
for you outside?" 

"Could be. Watch out for a big black 
Mercedes. "There may be shooting. Better 
stay away from me. I can make it. 
Where's the car?” 

"Down the road to the right. But don't 
be silly. Here, I've got an idca. You get 
into this parka.” She ran the zipper 
down and stripped it off. “It'll be a 
tight fit. Here, put your arm into this 
sleeve. 

“But you'll get cold.” 

“Do as I tell you. I've got a sweater 
and plenty on underneath. Now the 
other arm. That's right." She pulled up 
the zipper. "Darling James, you look 
sweet.” 

The fur of the parka smelt of Guer- 
lain's “Ode.” It took Bond back to 
Royale. What a girl! The thought of her, 
of having an ally, of not being on his 
own, of being away from that bloody 
mountain, revived Bond. He held her 
hand and followed her through the 
crowd that was now streaming toward 
the exit. This was going to be a bad 
moment! Whether or not that cable car 
had come on down the mountain, by 
now Blofeld would have had time to 
get one down [ull of srecrre men. Bond 
had been seen from the train, would be 
known to have made for Samaden. By 


now they would have covered the rail- 
way station. They would expect him to 
try and hide in a crowd. Perhaps the 
drunken man at the entrance had re- 
membered him. If that saloon moved 
off and revealed the red-arrowed skis, 
it would be a cert. Bond let go of the 
girl's hand and slipped the shattered 
Rolex back over the knuckles of his right 
hand. He had gathered enough strength, 
mostly from the girl, to have one more 
bash at them! 

She looked at him. “What are you 
doing?” 

He took her hand again. “Nothing.” 

"They were getting near the exit. Bond 
peered through the slits in his mask. 
Yes, by God! Two of the thugs were 
standing beside the ticket man watching 
the throng with deadly concentration. 
On the far side of the road stood the 
black Mercedes, petrol vapor curling up 
from its exhaust. No escape. There was 
only bluff. Bond put his arm round 
Tracy's neck and whispered, "Ki 
all the way past the ticket table. They're 
there, but I think we can make it.” 

She flung an arm over his shoulder 
and drew him to her. “How did you 
know that that's what I've been waiting 
for?” Her lips crushed down sideways on 
his and, in a tide of laughing, singing 
people, they were through and on the 
strect. 


They turned, still linked, down the 
road, Yes! There was the darling little 
white сагі 

And then the horn on the Mercedes 
began sounding urgently. Bond's gait, 
or perhaps his old-fashioned ski trousers, 
had given him away to the man in the 
carl 

"Quick, darling!” said Bond urgently. 

The girl threw herself in under the 
wheel, pressed the starter and the car 
was moving as Bond scrambled in 
through the opposite door. Bond looked 
back. Through the rear window he 
could see the two men standing in the 
road. They would not shoot with so 
many witnesses about. Now they ran to 
the Mercedes, Thank God it was point- 
ing up the hill toward St. Moritz! And 
then Tracy had done a controlled skid 
round the S bend in the village and 
they were on the main road that Bond 
had staggered down half-an-hour before. 

It would be five minutes at least be- 
fore the Mercedes could turn and get 
after them. The girl was going like hell, 
but there was traffic on the road — tin- 
kling sleighs full of fur wrapped merry- 
makers on their way back to Pontresina, 
an occasional car, its snow chains rat- 
tling. She drove on her brakes and her 
horn, the same triple wind horn that 
sounded the high discord Bond remem- 
bered so well. Bond said, “You're an 


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angel, Tracy. But take it easy. We don't 
want to end up in the ditch.” 

"T he girl glanced sideways at him and 
laughed with pleasure. “That sounds as 
if you were feeling better. But I cannot 
see you. Now you can take off that silly 
mask and my parka. In a minute the 
heat will come on and you will be 
roasted. And I would like to see you as 
I remember you. But you are pleased 
with me?" 

Life was beginning to come back into 
Bond. It was so wonderful to be in this 
little car with this marvelous girl. The 
memory of the dreadful mountain, of 
all that he had been through, was reced- 
ing. Now there was hope again, after so 
much dread and despair. He could feel 
the tensions uncoiling his stomach. 
He said, “I'll tell you if I'm pleased 
when we get to Zürich. Can you make 
it? It’s a hell of a way to spend Christ- 
mas." He wound down the window and. 
threw the domino mask out, stripped off 
the parka and draped it over her shoul- 
ders. The big sign for the main road 
into the valley came up. He said, "Left 
here, Tracy. Filisur and then Coire.” 

She took the turning, in Bond's esti- 
mation, dangerously fast. She went into 
a skid that Bond swore was going to be 
uncontrolled. But, even on the black ice 
of the road, she got out of it and motored 
blithely on. Bond said, “For God's sake, 
Tracy! How in hell did you manage 
that? You haven't even got chains on.” 

She laughed, pleased at the awe in 
his voice. "Dunlop Rally studs on all 
the tires. "They're only supposed to be 
for rally drivers, but I managed to wan- 
gle a set out of them. Don't. worry. Just 
sit back and enjoy the drive.” 

There was something entirely new in 
the girl's voice, a lilt and happiness that 
had certainly not been there at Royale. 
Bond turned and looked at her carefully 
for the first time. Yes, she was somehow 
a new woman, radiating health and a 
id of inner glow. The tumbled fair 
hair glittered with vitality and the half- 
open, beautiful lips seemed always to 
be on the verge of a smile. 
tisfied?'" 

"You look absolutely wonderful. But 
now, for God's sake, tell me how you 
happened to be at Samaden. It was a 
bloody miracle. It saved my life. 

“All right. But then you tell. I've 
never seen a man look so dead on his 
feet. I couldn't believe my eyes. I thought 
you must be plastered.” She gave him 
a quick glance, "You still look pretty 
bad. Here — " she leaned forward to the 
dashboard — “ГЇЇ switch on the blower. 
Get you properly warmed up.” She 
paused. “Well, my bit of the story's 
quite simple, really. Papa rang me up 
one day from Marseilles to find out how 
I was. He asked if I had seen you and 
seemed very annoyed when he heard I 


142 hadn't. He practically ordered me to go 


and find you." She glanced at him. "He's 
quite taken with you, you know. Any- 
way, he said he had found out the address 
of 2 certain man you were looking for. 
He said he was sure that by now you 
would have found out that address, too. 
He said that, knowing you, 1 would find 
you somewhere close to this address. It 
was the Piz Gloria Club. He told me 
if I found you to tell you to watch your 
step, to look after yourself.” She laughed. 
“How right he was! Well, so I left Davos, 
which had really put me on my feet 
again, like you said it would, and I came 
up to Samaden the day before yesterday. 
The Seilbahn wasn't running yesterday, 
so I was going to come up today to look 
for you. It was all as simple as that. Now 
you tell.” 

‘They had been keeping Ep a good 
speed down the sloping, 
into the valley. Bond tur | to look 
through the rear window. He swore un- 
der his breath. Perhaps a mile behind, 
twin lights were coming after them. The 
girl said, "I know. I've bcen watchi 
the mirror. I'm afraid they're ga 
alittle, Must be a good driver who knows 
the road. Probably got snow chains. But 
I think I can hold them, Now go on. 
What have you been up to?” 

Bond gave her a garbled version. There 
was a big gangster up the mountain, liv- 
ing under a false name, He was wanted 
by the police in England. Bond was 
vaguely connected with the police, with 
the Ministry of Defense. (She snorted, 
"Don't try and fool me. 1 know you're 
in the Secret Service. Papa told me so." 
Bond said curtly, “Well, Papa’s talking 
through his hat" She laughed know- 
ingly.) Anyway, Bond continued, he had 
been sent out to make sure this was the 
man they wanted. He had found out 
that he was. But the man had become 
suspicious of Bond and Bond had had 
to get out quickly. He gave her a graphic 
account of the moonlit nightmare of the 
mountain, of the avalanche, of the man 
who had been killed by the train, of 
how he had got to Samaden, dead beat, 
and had tried to hide in the crowd on 
the skating rink. "And then,” he ended 
lamely, “you turned up like a beautiful 
angel on skates, and here we аге.” 

She thought the story over for a min- 
ute, Then she said calmly, “And now, 
my darling James, just tell me how many 
of them you killed. And tell me the 
truth.” 

"Why?" 

m just curious." 
You promise to keep this between 
you and me?" 

She said enigmatically, "Of course. 
Everything's between you and me from 
now on," 

"Well, there was the main guard at 
the so-called Club. That had to be done 
or Га be dead myself by now. Then, I 
supposc, one got caught by the avalanche. 


"Then, at the bottom, one of them shot 
at me and I had to spear him with my 
ski stick — self-defense, I don't know how 
badly he's hurt. And then there was the 
man killed by the train. He'd fired six 
shots at me. And, anyway, it was his own. 
fault. Let's say three and a half got 
themselves killed onc way or another." 

“How many are lel 

“What are you ge 

“I just want to know. Trust me.” 

“Well, I think there were about 15 
up there all told. So that leaves 11 and 
а half — plus the big man." 

"And there are three in the car behind? 
Would they kill us if they caught us?" 

"I'm afraid so. I haven't got any weap- 
ons. I'm sorry, Tracy, but I'm afraid you 
wouldn't have much chance either, being. 
a witness and a sort of accomplice of 
mine. These people think I'm pretty bad 
news for them." 

"And you are?" 

"Yes. From now on, I'm the worst." 

"Well, I've got pretty bad news for 
you. They're gaining on us and I've only 
got a couple of gallons left in the tank. 
We'll have to stop in Filisur. There 
won't be a garage open and it'll mean 
ing someone up. Can't hope to do 
under 10 minutes and they'll have 
us. You'll have to think up something 
clever." 

There was a ravine and an S tum 
over a bridge. They were coming out of 
the first curve over the bridge. Lights 
blazed at them from across the ravine. 
There was half a mile between the two 
cars, but the range across the ravine was 
perhaps only 300 yards. Bond wasn't 
surprised to see the familiar blue flames 
flutter from the front of the car. Chips 
of granite from the overhang splattered 
down on the bonnet of the car. Then 
they were into the second half of the 5 
bend and out of sight of their pursuers. 

Now came a stretch of reconstruction 
work where there had been a landslide. 
There were big warning notices: "Ach- 
tung! Baustelle! Vorsichtig Fahren!" The 
broken road hugged the mountainside on 
the right. On the left was rickety fencing 
and then a precipice falling hundreds of 
feet down into а gorge with an icefloed 
river. In the middle of the bad stretch, 
a huge red wooden arrow pointed right 
to a narrow track across a temporary 
bridge. Bond suddenly shouted “Stop!” 

Tracy pulled up, her front wheels on 
the bridge. Bond tore open the door. 
“Get on! Wait for me round the next 
corner, It’s the only chance. 

Good girl! She got going without a 
word. Bond ran back the few yards to 
the big red arrow. It was held in the 
forks of two upright poles Bond 
wrenched it off, swung it round so that 
it pointed to the left, toward the flimsy 
fence that closed off the yards of old 
road leading to the collapsed bridge. 
Bond tore at the fence, pulling the 


g at?” 


"Well, George, at least now we know why the guinea pigs who 
were receiving the injections stopped reproducing.” 


143 


PLAYBOY 


stakes out, flattening it. Glare showed. 
round the corner behind him. He leaped 
across the temporary road into the 
shadow of the mountain, flattened him- 
self against it, waited, holding his breath. 

"The Mercedes was coming faster than 
it should over the bumpy track, its chains 
clattering inside the mudguards. It made 
straight for the black opening to which 
the arrow now pointed. Bond caught a 
glimpse of white, strained faces and then 
the desperate scream of brakes as the 
driver saw the abyss in front of him. The 
car seemed almost to stop, but its front 
wheels must have been over the edge. 
It balanced for a moment on its iron 
belly and then slowly, slowly toppled 
and there was a first appalling crash as 
it hit the rubble beneath the old bridge. 
Then another crash and another. Bond 
ran forward past the lying arrow and 
looked down. Now the car was flying 
upside down through the air. It hit again 
and a fountain of sparks flashed from a 
rock ledge. Then, somersaulting, and 
with its lights somehow still blazing, it 
smashed on down into the gorge. It hit 
a last outcrop that knocked it sideways 
and, spinning laterally, but now with 
its lights out and only the glint of the 
moon on metal, it took the last great 
plunge into the {сейир river. A deep 
rumble echoed up from the gorge and 
there was the patter of rocks and stones 
following the wreckage. And then all 
was peaceful, moonlit silence. 

Bond let out his breath in a quiet 
hiss between his clenched teeth. Then, 
mechanically, he straightened things out 
again, put up the remains of the fence, 
lifted the arrow and put it back facing 
to the right. Then he wiped his sweating 
hands down the side of his trousers and 
walked unsteadily down the road and 
round the next corner. 

The little white car was there, pulled 
in to the side, with its lights out. Bond 
got in and slumped into his seat. Tracy 
said nothing but got the car going. The 
lights of Filisur appeared, warm and 
yellow in the valley below. She reached 
out a hand and held his tightly. “You've 
had enough for one day. Go to sleep. 
I'll get you to Zürich. Please do what 1 
E 

Bond said nothing. He pressed her 
hand weakly, leaned his head against the 
door jamb and was instantly asleep. 

He was out for the count. 


In the gray dawn, Zürich airport was 
depressing and almost deserted, but, 
blessedly, there was a Swissair Caravelle, 
delayed by fog at London airport, w: 
ing to take off for London. Bond parked 
y in the restaurant and, regretfully 
forsaking the smell of coffee and fried 
eggs, went and bought himself a ticket, 
had his passport stamped by a sleepy 
official (he had half-expected to be 


144 stopped, but wasn’t), and went to a 


telephone booth and shut himself in. 
He looked up Universal Export in the 
telephone book, and read underneath, 
as he had hoped, "Hauptvertreter Alex- 
ander Muir. Privat Wohnung" and the 
number. Bond glanced through the glass 
window at the dock in the departure 
hall. Six o'dock. Well, Muir would just 
have to take it. 

He rang the number and, after min- 
utes, a sleepy voice said. “Ja! Hier Muir.” 

Bond said, “Sorry, 410, but this is 007. 
Tm calling from the airport. This is 
bloody urgent so I'll have to take a 
chance on your line being bugged. Got 
a paper and pencil?" 

"The voice at the other end had grown 
brisker. "Hang on, 007. Yes, got it. Go 
ahead." 

"First of all, I've got some bad news. 
Your Number Two has had it. Almost 
for sure. Can't give you any details over 
this line, but I'm off to London in about. 
an hour—Swissair Flight 110—and 
Ill signal the dope back straightaway. 
Could you put that on the teleprinter? 
Right. Now, I'm guessing that in the 
next day or so a party of 10 girls, 
British, will be coming in here by heli- 
copter from the Engadine. Yellow Sud- 
jation Alouette. ГЇЇ be teleprin 
their names back from London sometime 
today. My bet is they'll be flying to Eng- 
land, probably on different flights and 
perhaps to Prestwick and Gatwick as well 
as London airport, if you've any planes 
using those airports. Anyway, I guess 
they'll be dispersed. Now, 1 think it may 
be very important to tell London their 
flight numbers and E.T.A. Rather a big 
job, but I'll get you authority in a few 
hours to use men from Berne and Geneva 
to lend a hand. Got it? Right. Now I'm 
pretty certain you're blown. Remember 
the old Operation Bedlam that's just 
been canceled? Well, i's him and he's 
got radio and he'll probably have guessed 
I'd be contacting you this morning. Just 
take a look out of the window and sce 
if there's any sign of watchers. He's 
certainly got his men in Zürich. 

"Christ, what a shambles!" The voice 
at the other end was tight with tension. 
"Hang on." There was a pause, Bond 
could visualize Muir, whom he didn't 
know except as a number, going over 
to the window, carefully drawing aside 
the curtain. Muir came back on the wire. 
"Looks damn like it. There's a black 
Porsche across the road. Two men in it. 
TIl get my friends in the Sécurité to 
chase them away." 

Bond said, "Be careful how you go 
about it. My guess is that our man has 
got a pretty good fix in with the police. 
Anyway, put all this on the telex to M. 
personally, would you? Ciphered, of 
course. And tell him if I get back in one 
piece I must see him today, with 501 
[the Chief Scientific Officer to the Service] 
and if possible with someone in the same 


line of business from the Ministry of 
Agriculture and Fisheries. Sounds daft, 
but there it is. It’s going to upsct their 
paper hats and Christmas pudding, but 
I can't help that. Can you manage all 
that? Good lad. Any questions?" 

"Sure I oughtn't to come out to the 
port and get some more about my 
Number Two? He was tailing one of 
Redland's men. Chap's been buying some 
pretty odd stuff from the local rep. of 
Badische Ani Number Two thought 
it seemed damned fishy. Didn't tell me 
what the stuff was. Just thought he'd 
better see where it was being delivered 
to.” 

“I thought it must be some kind of 
a spiel like that, No. You stay away from 
me. I'm hot as a pistol going to be 
hotter later in the day when they find 
a certain Mercedes at the bottom of a 
precipice. I'll get off the line now. Sorry 
to have wrecked your Christmas. ‘Bye 

Bond put down the receiver and went 
up to the restaurant. Tracy had been 
watching the door. Her face lit up when 
she saw him. He sat down very close to 
her and took her hand, a typical airport 
farewell couple. He ordered plenty of 
scrambled eggs and coffee. “It's all right, 
Tracy. I've fixed everything at my end. 
But now about you. That car of yours 
is going to be bad news. There'll be 
people who'll have seen you drive away 
with the Mercedes on your tail. There 
always are, even at midnight on Christ- 
mas Eve. And the big man on top of 
the mountain has got his men down here, 
too. You'd better finish your breakfast 
and get the hell on over the frontier. 
Which is the nearest?” 3 

"Schaffhausen or Konstanz, I suppose, 
but — " she pleaded — “James, do I have 
to leave you now? It's been so long 
waiting for you. And I have done well, 
"t I? Why do you want to puni 
me?" Tears, that would never have been 
there in the Royale days, sparkled in 
her eyes. She wiped them angrily away 
with the back of her hand. 

Bond suddenly thought, Hell! ГП 
never find another girl like this one. 
She's got everything I've ever looked for 
in a woman. She's beautiful, in bed and. 
out. She's adventurous, brave, resource- 
ful. She's exciting always. She seems to 
love me. She'd let me go on with my 
life. She's a lone girl, not cluttered up 
with friends, relations, belongings. Above 
all, she needs me. It'll be someone for 
me to look after. I’m fed up with all 
these untidy, casual affairs that leave me 
with a bad conscience. I wouldn't mind 
having children. I've got no social back- 
ground into which she would or wouldn't 
fit. We're two of a pair, really. Why not 
make it for always? 

Bond found his voice saying those 
words that he had never said in his life 
before, never expected to say. 


“Tracy. I love you. Will you marry 
me?” 

She turned very pale. She looked at 
him wonderingly. Her lips trembled. 
“You mean that 

“Yes, I mean it. With all my heart.” 

She took her hand away from his and 
put her face in her hands. When she 
removed them she was smiling. “I'm 
sorry, James. It's so much what I've been 
dreaming of. It came as a shock. But yes. 
Yes, of course I'll marry you. And I 
won't be silly about it. I won't make а 
scene. Just kiss me once and I'll be go- 
ing." She looked seriously at him, at 
every detail of his face. Then she leaned 
forward and they kissed. 

She got up briskly. “I suppose I've got 
to get used to doing what you say. TH 
drive to Munich. To the Vier Jahr- 
eszeiten. It's my favorite hotel in the 
world. I'll wait for you there. They know 
me. They'll take me in without any 
luggage. Everything’s at Samaden. I'll 
just have to send out for a toothbrush 
and stay in bed for two days until I can 
go out and get some things. You'll tele- 
phone me? Talk to me? When can we 
get married? І must tell Papa. He'll be 
terribly excited." 

"Let's get married in Munich. At the 
Consulate. I’ve got a kind of diplomatic 
immunity. I can get the papers through 
quickly. Then we can be married again 
in an English church, or Scottish rather. 
"Thats where I come from. 111 call you 
up tonight and tomorrow. I'll get to you 
just as soon as I can. I've got to finish 
this business first.” 

“You promise you won't get hurt? 

Bond smiled. “I wouldn't think of it. 
For once I'll run away if someone starts 
any shooting.” 

“All right then.” She looked at him 
carefully again. “It’s time you took off 
that red handkerchief. I suppose you 
realize it’s bitten to ribbons. Give it to 
me. I'll mend it.” 

Bond undid the red bandana from 
round his neck. It was a dark, sweat- 
soaked rag. And she was right. Two 
corners of it were in shreds. He must 
have got them between his teeth and 
chewed on them when the going was bad 
down the mountain. He couldn't re- 
member having done so. He gave it to 
her. 

She took it and, without looking back, 
walked straight out of the restaurant 
and down the stairs toward the exit. 

Bond sat down. His breakfast came 
and he began eating mechanically. What 
had he done? What in hell had he done? 
But the only answer was a feeling of 
tremendous warmth and relief and ex- 
citement. James and Tracy Bond! Com- 
mander and Mrs. Bond! How utterly, 
utterly extraordinary! 

The voice of the Tannoy said, “At- 
tention, please. Passengers on Swissair 
Flight Number 110 for London, please 


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assemble at Gate Number 2. Swissair 
Flight Number 110 for London. Passen- 
gers to Gate Number 2, please.” 

Bond stubbed out his cigarette, gave 
a quick glance round their trysting place 
to fix its banality in his mind, and 
walked to the door, leaving the fragments 
of his old life torn up amidst the debris 
of an airport breakfast. 

"The Caravelle hit the runway and there 
came the roar of jet deflection, and then 
they were trundling over the Tarmac 
in a light drizzle, Bond suddenly realized 
that he had no luggage, that he could go 
straight to Passport Control.and then out 
and back to his flat to change out of 
these ridiculous skiing clothes that stank 
of sweat. Would there be a car from the 
pool for him? There was, with Miss Mary 
Goodnight sitting beside the driver. 

“My God, Mary, this is the hell of a 
way to spend your Christmas! This is far 
beyond the line of duty, Anyway, get in 
the back and tell me why you're not stir- 
ring the plum pudding or going to 
church or something.” 

She climbed into the back seat and he 
followed. She said, "You don't seem to 
know much about Christmas. You make 
plum puddings at least two months be- 
fore and let them sort of settle and ma- 
ture, And church isn’t till 11.” She 
glanced at him, “Actually, I came to see 
how you were. I gather you've been in 
trouble again. You certainly look pretty 
ghastly. Don’t you own a comb? And 
you haven’t shaved. You look like a pi 
rate. And —" she wrinkled her nose — 
"when did you last have a bath? 1 
wonder they let you out of the airport. 
You ought to be in quarantine.” 

Bond laughed. "Winter sports are 
very strenuous — all that snowballing and 
tobogganing. Matter of fact, I was at a 
Christmas Eve fancy-dress party last 
night. Kept me up till all hours.” 

“In those great clodhopping boots? I 
don't believe you.” 


“Well, sucks to you! It was on a skat- 
ing rink. But seriously, Mary, tell me the 
score. Why this V.I.P. treatment?” 

"M. You're to check with H.Q. first 
and then go down to lunch with him at 
Quarterdeck. Then, after lunch, he's hav- 
ing these men you wanted brought down 
for a conference. Everything top priority. 
So I thought I'd better stand by, too. As 
you're wrecking so many other people's 
Christmases, I thought I might as well 
throw mine on the slag heap with the 
others. Actually, if you want to know, I 
was only having lunch with an aunt. And 
I loathe turkey and plum pudding. Any- 
way, I just didn’t want to miss the fun 
and when the Duty Officer got on to me 
about an hour ago and told me there 
was a major flap, I asked him to tell the 
car to pick me up on the way to the 
airport.” 

Bond said seriously, “Well, you're a 
damned-good girl. As a matter of fact, 
it's going to be the hell of a rush getting 
down the bare bones of a report, And 
Ive got something for the lab to do. 
Will there be someone there?” 

"Of course there will. You know M 
insists on a skeleton staff in every Section, 
Christmas Day or not. But seriously, 
James. Have you been in trouble? You 
really do look awfu 

"Oh, somewhat. You'll get the photo 
as I dictate." "The car drew up outside 
Bond's flat. "Now be an angel and stir 
up May while I clean myself up and get 
out of these bloody clothes. Get her to 
brew me plenty of black coffee and to 
pour two jiggers of our best brandy into 
the pot. You ask May for what you like. 
She might even have some plum pud- 
ding. Now then, it's 9:30. Be a good girl 
and call the Duty Officer and say OK to 
M's orders and that we'll be along by 
10:30. And get him to ask the lab to 
stand by in half an hour.” Bond took his 
passport out of his hip pocket. "Then 
give this to the driver and ask him to 
get the hell over and give it to the Duty 


Officer personally. Tell the D.O.—" 
Bond turned down the corner of a page 
— "to tell the lab that the ink used is— 
ет — homemade. All it needs is exposure 
to heat. They'll understand. Got that? 
Good girl. Now come on and we'll get 
May going.” Bond went up the steps and 
Tang two shorts and a long on the bell. 

When Bond got to his desk a few min- 
utes after 10:30, feeling back to nine- 
tenths human, he found a folder on his 
desk with the red star in the top right 
corner that meant Top Secret. It con- 
tained his passport and a dozen copies 
of blown-up photostats of its page 21. 
The list of girls’ names was faint but 
legible. There was also a note marked 
“Personal.” Bond opened it. Hc laughed. 
It just said, “The ink showed traces of 
an excess of uric acid. This is often due 
to a superabundancy of alcohol in the 
blood stream. You have been warned!” 
There was no signature. So the Christmas 
spirit had permeated even into the sol- 
emn crevices of one of the most secret 
Sections in the building! Bond crumpled 
the paper and then, thinking of Mary 
Goodnight's susceptibilities, more pru- 
dently burned it with his lighter. 

She came in and sat down with her 
shorthand book. Bond said, "Now this 
is only a first draft, Mary, and it's got to 
be fast. So don't mind about mistakes. 
M'H understand. We've got about an 
hour and a half if I'm to get down to 
Windsor by lunchtime. Think you can 
manage it? All right then, here goes. 
"Top Secret. Personal to M. As instructed, 
on December 22nd I arrived at Zürich 
Central Airport at 1330 by Swissair to 
make first contact in connection with 
Operation "Corona". . .' ” 

"Now then.” M settled back. “What 
the devil have you been up to?” The 
gray eyes regarded Bond keenly. “Looks 
as if you haven’t been getting much 
sleep. Pretty gay, these winter sports 
places, they tell me." 

Bond smiled. He reached into his in- 
side pocket and took out the pinned 
sheets of paper. “This one provided 
plenty of miscellaneous entertainment, 
sir. Perhaps you'd like to have a look at 
my report first. "Fraid it's only a draft. 
There wasn’t much time. But I can fill in 
anything that isn’t clear.” 

M reached across for the papers, ad- 
justed his spectacles, and began reading. 

Soft rain scratched at the windows. A 
big log fell in the grate. The silence was 
soft and comfortable. Bond looked round 
the walls at M's treasured collection of 
naval prints. Everywhere there were 
mountainous seas, crashing cannon, belly- 
ing sails, tattered battle pennants — the 
fury of andent engagements, the mem- 
ories of ancient enemies, the French, the 
Dutch, the Spaniards, even the Ameri- 
cans. All gone, all friends now with one 


another. Not a sign of the enemies of 
today. Who was backing Blofeld, for 
stance, in the inscrutable conspiracy in 
which he was now certainly engaged? 
‘The Russians? The Chinese? Or was it 
an independent job, as Thunderball had 
been? And what was the conspiracy? 
What was the job for the protection of 
which six or seven of Blofeld's men had 
died within less than a week? Would M 
read anything into the evidence? Would 
the experts who were coming that after- 
noon? Bond lifted his left wrist. Remem- 
bered that he no longer had a watch. 
That he would certainly be allowed on 
expenses. He would get another one as 
soon as the shops opened after Boxing 
Day. Another Rolex? Probably. They 
were on the heavy side, but they worked. 
And at least you could see the time in 
the dark with those big phosphorus nu- 
merals, Somewhere in the hall, a clock 
struck the half-hour. 1:30. Twelve hours 
before, he must have just set up the trap 
that killed the three men in the Mer- 
cedes. Self-defense, but the hell of a way 
to celebrate Christmas! 

M threw the papers down on his desk. 
His pipe had gone out and he now 
slowly lit it again, He tossed the spent 
match accurately over his shoulder into 
the fire. He put his hands flat on the 
desk and said — and there an un- 
usual kindness in his voice — "Well, you 
were pretty lucky to get out of that one, 
James. Didn't know you could ski 

“1 only just managed to stay upright, 
sir. Wouldn't like to try it again. 

“No. And I see you say you can't come 
to any conclusions about what Blofeld is 


"s right, sir. Haven't got a clue.” 

“Well, nor have I. I just don't under- 
stand any part of it. Perhaps the profes- 
sors'll help us out this afternoon. You're 
absolutely sure of him, are you? He 
certainly seems to have done a good 
job on his face and stomach. Better 
set him up on the Identicast when 
you get back this evening. We'll have a 
look at him and get the views of the 
medical gentry.” 

“I think it must be him, sir. I was 
really getting the authentic smell of him 
on the last day — yesterday, that is. It 
scems a long time ago alread; 

“You were lucky to run into this girl. 
Who is she? Some old flame of yours?” 
M's mouth turned down at the corners. 

“More or less, sir. She came into my 
report on the first news we got that Blo- 
feld was in Switzerland. Daughter of this 
man Draco, head of the Union Corse. 
Her mother was an English governess.” 

“Hm. Interesting breeding. Now then. 
Time for lunch. I told Hammond we 
weren't to be disturbed." M got up and 
pressed the bell by the fireplace. “ 'Fraid 
we've got to go through the turkey-and- 
plum-pudding routine. Mrs. Hammond's 
been brooding over her pots and pans 


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Hammond appeared at the door, and 
Bond followed M through and into the 
small dining room beyond the hall whose 
walls glittered with M's hobby, the evo- 
lution of the naval cutlass. They sat 
down. M said, with mock ferocity, to 
Hammond, “All right, Chief Petty Of- 
cer Hammond. Do your worst.” And 
then, with real vehemence, "What in 
hell are those things doing here” He 
pointed at the center of the table. 

“Crackers, sir,” said Hammond stolidly. 
"Mrs. Hammond thought that sceing as 
you have company . . ." 

"Throw them out. Cive 'em to the 
school children. I'll go so far with Mrs. 
Hammond, but I'm damned if I'm going 
to have my dining room turned into a 
nursery 

Hammond smiled. He said, "Aye, ayc, 
sir," gathered up the shimmering crack- 
ers and departed. 

Bond was aching for a drink. He got 
a small glass of very old marsala and 
most of a bottle of very bad Algerian 
wine. 

At last the plum pudding arrived, flam- 
ing traditionally. Mrs. Hammond had 
implanted several cheap silver gewgaws 
in it and M nearly broke a tooth on the 
miniature horseshoe. Bond got the bache- 
lor's bution. He thought of Tracy. It 
should have been the ring! 

It was three o'clock A car's wheels 
scrunched on the gravel outside. Dusk 
was already creeping into the room. M 
got up and switched on the lights and 
Bond arranged two more chairs up 
against the desk М said, "Iharll be 
501. You'll have come across him. Head 
of the Scientific Research Section. And 
a man called Franklin from the Ministry 
of Agriculture. 501 says he's the top on 
his subject — Pest Control. Don't know 
why Ag. and Fish. chose to send him in 
particular, but the Minister told me 
they've got a bit of trouble on their 
hands, wouldn't tell even me what it is, 
and they think you may have run into 
something pretty big. We'll let them 
have a look at your report and see what 
they make of it. All right?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

The door opened and the two men 
came in. 

Number 501 of the Secret Service, 
whose name, Bond remembered, was 
Leathers, was a big-boned, rangy man 
with the stoop and thick spectacles of 
the stage scientist. He had a pleasant, 
vague smile and no deference, only 
politeness, toward М. He was appropri- 
ately dressed in shaggy tweeds and his 
knitted woolen tie didn’t cover his collar 
stud. The other man was small and brisk 
and keen-looking, with darting, amused 
eyes. As became a senior representative 
of a Ministry who had received his orders 


14g from his Minister in person and who 


knew nothing of Secret Services, he had 
put on a neat dark-blue pin stripe and 
a suff white collar. His black shoes 
gleamed efficiently. So did the leather of 
his fat brief case. His greeting was re- 
served, neutral, He wasn't quite sure 
where he was or what this was all about. 
He was going to smell his way carefully 
in this business, be wary of what he said 
and how far he committed his Ministry. 
Of such, Bond reflected, is "Govern- 
ment." 

When the appropriate greetings and 
apologies for disturbed Christmases had 
been made, and they were in their chairs, 
M said, “Mr. Franklin, if you'll forgive 
my saying so, everything you are going 
to see and hear in this room is subject to 
the Official Secrets Act. You will no 
doubt be in possession of many secret 
matters affecting your own Ministry. I 
would be grateful if you would respect 
those of the Ministry of Defense. May 1 
ask you to discuss what you are about to 
only with your Minister pcr- 


klin made a litle bow of 
acquiescence. “My Minister has already 
instructed me accordingly. My particu- 
Jay duties in the Ministry have accus- 
tomed me to handling Top Secret 
matters. You need have no reservations 
in what you tell me. Now then —" the 
amused cyes rested on each of the other 
three in turn — "perhaps you can tell 
me what this is all about. 1 know practi- 
cally nothing except that a man on top. 
of an Alp is making efforts to improve 
our agriculture and livestock. Very de- 
cent of him. So why are we treating him 
as if he had stolen atomic secrets?” 

“He did once, as a matter of faa,” 
said M dryly. “I think the best course 
would be for you and Mr. Leathers to 
read the report of my representative 
here. It contains code numbers and 
other obscure references which need not 
concern you. The story tells itself with- 
out them." M handed Bond's report to 
501. “Most of this will be new to you 
also. Perhaps you would like to read a 
page at a time and then pass them on to 
Mr. Franklin." 

A long silence fell in the room. Bond 
looked at his fingernails and listened to 
the rain on the windowpanes and the 
soft noises of the fire. M sat hunched 
up, apparently in a doze. Across the 
table the sheets of paper rustled slowly. 
Bond lit a cigarette. The rasp of his 
Ronson caused M's eyes to open lazily 
and then close again. 501 passed across 
the last page and sat back. Franklin fin- 
ished his reading, shuffled the pages to- 
gether and stacked them neatly in front 
of him. He looked at Bond and smiled. 
“You're lucky to be here 

Bond smiled back but said nothing. 

M turned to 501. “Well?” 

501 took off his thick spectacles and 
polished them on a none-too-clean hand- 


kerchief. “I don't get the object of th 
exercise, sir. It seems perfectly above 
board — praiseworthy, in fact, if we 


didn't know what we do know about 
Blofeld. Technically, what he has done 


ng the one that’s left the place, 
table subjects for deep hypnosis. 
These are all simple girls from the coun- 
try. It is significant that the one called 
Ruby had failed her G.C.E. twice. They 
scem to suffer, and there's no reason to 
believe that they don't, from certain 
fairly common forms of allergy. We 


don't know the origins of their allergies 
and these are immaterial. They are 
probably psychosomatic— the adverse 


reaction to birds is a very common one, 
as is the one brought on by cattle. The 
reactions to crops and plants are less 
common. Blofeld appears to be attempt- 
ing cures of these allergies by hypnosis, 
and not only cures, but a pronounced 
affinity with the cause of the allergy in 
place of the previous repulsion. In the 
case of Ruby, for instance, she is told, 
in the words of the report, to ‘love’ 
chickens, to wish to ‘improve their breed" 
and so forth. The mechanical means of 
the cure are, in practice, simple. In the 
twilight stage, on the edge of sleep — 
the sharp ringing of the bell would 
waken those who were already asleep — 
the use of the metronome exactly on the 
pulse beat, and the distant wh 
noise, are both common hypnotic aids. 
The singsong. authoritative murmur is 
the usual voice of the hypnotist. We 
have no knowledge of what lectures 
these girls attended or what reading they 
did, but we can assume that these were 

y additional means to influence 
d in the path desired by Blofeld. 
Now, there is plenty of medical evidence 
for the efficacy of hypnosis. There are 
well-authenticated cases of the successful 
treatment by these means of such stub- 
born disabilities as warts, certain types 
of asthma, bed-wetting, stammering, and 
even alcoholism, drug-taking and homo- 
sexual tendencies. Although the British 
Medical Association frowns officially on. 
the practitioners of hypnosis, you would 
be surprised, sir, to know how many doc- 
tors themselves, as a last resort, particu- 
larly in cases of alcoholism, have private 
treatment from qualified hypnotists. But 
this is by the way. All I can contribute 
to this discussion is that Blofeld's ideas 
are not new and that they can be com- 
pletely efficacious.” 

M nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Leathers. 
Now would you like to be unscientific 
and hazard any wild guesses that would 
contribute in any way to what you have 
told us?" M smiled briefly. “You will not 
be quoted, I can assure you.” 

501 ran a worried hand through his 
hair. “Well, sir, it may be nonsense, but 
a train of thought came to me as I read 
the report. This is a very expensive 


setup of Blofeld’s. Whether his inten- 
tions are benign or malignant, and I 
must say that I think we can accept them 
as being malignant, who is paying for 
all this? How did he fall upon this par- 
ticular field of research and find the fi- 
nance for it? Well, sir, this may sound 
fanciful, looking for burglars under the 
bed, so to speak, but the leaders in thi 
field, ever since Pavlov and his salivating 
dogs, have been the Russians. If you re- 
call, sir, at the time of the first human 
orbiting of the earth by the Russians, I 
put in a report on the physiology of the 
astronaut Yuri Gagarin. I drew attention 
1o the simple nature of this man, his 
equable temperament when faced with 
his hysterical welcome in London. This 
equability never failed him and, if you 
will remember, we kept him under 
creet observation throughout his visit 
and on his subsequent tours abroad, at 
ihe request of the Atomic Energy au- 
thorities. That bland, smiling face, sir, 
those wide-apart, innocent eyes, the ex- 
иеше psychological simplicity of the 
man, all added up, as I said in my re- 
port, to the perfect subject for hypnosis, 
and I hazarded the guess that, in the 
extremely complicated movements re- 
quired of him in his space capsule, 
Gagarin was operating throughout in a 
state of deep hypnosis. All right, sir —" 
501 made a throwaway gesture of his 
hand — “my conclusions were officially 


regarded as fanciful. But, since you ask, 
I now repeat them, and I throw out the 
suggestion that the Power behind Blo- 
feld all this may well be the Rus- 
sians.” He turned to Bond. "Was there 
any sign of Russian inspiration or guid- 
ance at this Gloria place? Any Russians 
anywhere in the offing’ 

“Well, there was this man, Captain 
Boris. I never saw him, but he was cer- 
tainly a Russian. Otherwise, nothing I 
can think of except the three spectre 
men who I'd guess were ex-sMERsH, But 
they seemed definitely staff men, what 
the Americans would call ‘mechanics.’ ” 

501 shrugged. He said to M, "Well, 
Em afraid that’s all I can contribute, 
sir. But, if you come to the conclusion 
that this is dirty business, for my money, 
this Captain Boris was either the pay- 
master or supervisor of the scheme and 
Blofeld the independent operator. It 
would fit in with the free-lance character 
of the old srecrreE—an independent 
gang working for whoever was willing to 
pay them.” 

“Perhaps you've got something there, 
Mr. Leathe: said M reflectively. “But 
's the object of the exer- 
He turned to Franklin. "Well 
now, Mr. Franklin, what do you think 
of all this?” 

The man from Ag. and Fish. had lit 
a small, highly polished pipe. He kept 
it between his teeth and reached down 


for his brief case and took out some 
papers. From among them he extracted 
a black-and-white outline map of Britain 
and Eire and smoothed it down across 
the desk. The map was dotted with sym- 
bols, forests of them here, blank spaces 
there. He said, “This is a map showing 
the total agricultural and livestock re- 
sources of Britain and Eire, leaving out 
grassland and timber. Now, at my first 
sight of the report, I admit I was com- 
pletely confused. As Mr. Leathers said, 
these experiments seem perfectly harm- 
less — more than that, to use his word, 
praiseworthy. But—" Franklin smiled 
fou gentlemen are concerned with 
searching for the dark side of the moon. 
I adjusted my mind accordingly. The 
result was that I am filled with a very 
deep and terrible suspicion. Perhaps 
these black thoughts have entered my 
mind by a process of osmosis with the 
present company's way of looking at the 
world —" he looked deprecatingly at M. 
— "but 1 also have one piece of evidence 
which may be decisive. Excuse me, but 
there was one sheet of paper missing 
from the report — the list of the girls 
and their addresses. Is that available?" 
Bond took the photostat out of his 
inside pocket. “Sorry. I didn’t want to 
clutter up the report too much." He 
slipped it across the table to Franklin. 
Franklin ran his eyes down it. Then 
he said, and there was awe in his voice, 


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“I've got it! I do believe I've got it!" He 
sat back heavily in his chair as if he 
couldn't believe what he had seen. 

The three men watched him tenscly, 
believing him, because of what was writ- 
ten on his face— waiting for it. 

Franklin took a red pencil out of his 
breast pocket and leaned over the map. 
Glancing from time to time at the list, 
he made a series of red circles at seem- 
ingly unrelated points across Britain 
and Eire, but Bond noticed that they 
covered 11 of the areas where the forests 
of symbols were at their densest. As he 
made the circles he commented, “Aber- 
deen — Aberdeen Angus, Devon — Red 
Poll, Lancashire — poultry, Kent — fruit, 
Shannon — potatoes,” until 10 red circles 
stood out on the map. Finally he poised 
his pencil over East Anglia and made a 
big cross. He looked up, said “Turkeys,” 
and threw his pencil down. 

In the silence that followed, M said, 
rather testily, “Well, Mr. Franklin, what 
have you in mind?” 

Franklin reached over and pointed to 
the red circle he had made over East 
Anglia. “This was my first clue. The girl, 
Polly Tasker, who left this Gloria place 
over a month ago, came from somewhere 
round here where you'll see from the 
symbols that there’s the greatest concen- 
tration of turkey farmers She suffered 
from an allergy against turkeys. She came 
back inspired to improve the breed. 
Within a week of her return, we had the 
biggest outbreak of fowl pest affecting 
turkeys in the history of England. Fowl 
pest is a virus, by the way, highly infec- 
tious, with a mortality of 100 percent.” 

Leathers suddenly slapped his thigh. 
“By God, I think you've got it, Franklin! 
Go оп! 

“Now —” Franklin turned to Bond — 
“when this officer took a look into the 
laboratory up there he saw rack upon 
rack of test tubes containing what he 
describes as ‘a cloudy liquid. How 
would it be if those were viruses, fowl 
pest, anthrax, God knows what all? The 
report mentions that the laboratory was 
lit with a dim red light. That would be 
correct. s cultures suffer from ex- 
posure to bright light. And how would it 
be if before this Polly girl left she was 
given an aerosol spray of the right stuff 
and told that this was some kind of tur- 
key elixir —a tonic to make them grow 
fatter and healthier. Remember that 
stuff about ‘improving the breed’ in the 
hypnosis talk? And suppose she was told 
to go to the National Poultry Show at 
Olympia, perhaps even take a job for the 
meeting as a cleaner or something, and 
just casually spray this aerosol here and 
there among the prize birds. It wouldn't 
be bigger than one of those shaving-soap 
bombs. That'd be quite enough. She'd 
been told to keep it secret, that it was 
patent stuff, Perhaps even that she'd be 
given shares in the company if the tonic 


proved the success this man Blofeld 
Claimed it would. Ird be quite easy to 
do. She'd just wander round the cages— 
perhaps she was even given a special 
purse to carry the thing in—lean up 
against the wire and psst! the job would 
be done. Easy as falling off a log. All 
right, if you'll go along with me so far, 
she was probably told to do the job on 
one of the last two days of the show, so 
that the effects wouldn't be seen too 
soon. Then, at the end of the show, all 
the prize birds are dispersed back to 
their owners all over England. And that’s 
that! And—" he paused —"mark you, 
that was that. Three million birds dead 
and still dying all over the place, and a 
great chunk of foreign currency coughed 
up by the Treasury to replace them.” 

Leathers, his face red with excitement, 
butted in. He swept his hand over the 
map. “And the other girls! All from the 
danger spots. All from the areas of great- 
est concentration. Local shows taking 
place all the time — cattle. poultry, even 
potatoes — Colorado beetle for that crop, 
I suppose, swine fever for the pigs. 
Golly!" There was reverence in Leathers’ 
voice, “And it's so damned simple! All 
you'd need would be to keep the viruses 
at the right temperature for a while. 
They'd be instructed in that, the little 
darlings. And all the time they'd be sure 
they were being saints! Marvelous. I 
really must hand it to the man.” 

M said, “Am I right in thinking that 
you conclude that this man Blofeld is 
mounting Biological Warfare against 
this country?” He turned to Bond. He 
barked, “What do you think?” 

"I'm afraid it fits, sir. The whole way 
along the line. We know the man. It fits 
him. too. Right up his street. And it 
doesn't even matter who's paying him. 
He can pay himself, make a fortune. All 
he has to do is go a bear of sterling or 
Gilt-Edged. If Mr. Franklin's right, our 
currency'll literally go through the floor 
—and the country with it” 

M got to his feet. He said, “All right, 
gentlemen. Mr. Franklin, will you tell 
your Minister what you've heard? It'll be 
up to him to tell the P.M. and the Cabi- 
net as he thinks fit. I'll get on with the 
preventive measures, first of all through 
Sir Ronald Vallance of the C.I.D. We 
must pick up this Polly woman and gct 
the others as they come into the country. 
They'll be gently treated. It's not their 
fault. Then we'll have to think what to 
do with Mister Blofeld.” He turned to 
Bond. "Stay behind, would you?" 

Goodbyes were said and M rang for 
Hammond to see the other two out. He 
then rang again. “Tea, please, Ham- 
mond." He turned to Bond. "Or rather 
have a whiskey and soda?” 

“Whiskey, please, sir,” said Bond with 
infinite relief. 

“Rotgut,” commented M. He walked 
over to the window and looked out at 


the darkness and rain. 

Bond drew Franklin's map toward 
him and studied it. He reflected that he 
was learning quite a lot on this casc — 
about other people's businesses, other 
people's secrets, from the innards of the 
College of Arms to the innards of Ag. 
and Fish. Odd how this gigantic, many- 
branched tree had grown from one tiny 
seed in September — a girl calling banco 
in a casino and not having the money 
to pay. And what about Bond's letter of 
resignation? That looked pretty silly 
now. He was up to his ears, as deeply 
as ever in his life before, in his old pro- 
fession. And now a big mopping-up job 
would have to be done. And he would 
haye to do it, or at any rate lead it, 
organize it. And Bond knew exactly what 
he was going to put to M when the tea 
and whiskey came. Only he could do the 
deaning up. It was written in his stars! 

Hammond came in with the tray and 
withdrew. M came back to his desk, 
grufly told Bond to pour himself a 
whiskey, and himself took a vast cup, as 
big as a baby's chamber pot, of black 
tea without sugar or milk, and put it in 
front of him. 

At length he said moodily, “This is a 
dirty business, James. But I'm afraid it 
makes sense. Better do something about 
it, I suppose.” He reached for the red 
telephone with scrambler attachment 
that stood beside the black one on his 
desk and picked up the receiver. It was 
a direct line to that very private switch- 
board in Whitehall to which perhaps 50 
people in all Britain have acces. "Put 
me on to Sir Ronald Vallance, would 
you? Home number, I suppose." He 
reached out and took a deep gulp at his 
cup of tea and put the cup back on its 
saucer. Then, “That you, Vallance? M. 
here. Sorry to disturb your afternoon 
nap.” There was an audible explosion 
at the other end of the line! M smiled. 
"Reading a report on teenage prostitu- 
tion? I'm ashamed of you. On Christmas 
Day, too. Well, scramble, would you?” 
M pressed down the large black button 
on the side of the cradle. “Right? Now 
I'm afraid this is top priority. Remember 
Blofeld and the Thunderball case? Well, 
he's up to his tricks again. Too long to 
explain now. You'll get my side of the 
report in the morning. And Ag. and Fish. 
are mixed up in it. Yes, of all people. 
Man called Franklin is your contact. One 
of their top pest-control men. Only him 
and his Minister. So would your chaps 
report to him, copy to me? I'm only 
dealing with the foreign side. Your 
friend 007's got the ball. Yes, same chap. 
He can fill you in with any extra detail 
you may need on the foreign angles. 
Now, the point is this, Even though it's 
Christmas and all that, could your chaps 
try at once and lay their hands on a 
certain girl, Polly Tasker, aged about 25, 
who lives in East Anglia? Yes, I know 


it's a hell of a big area, but she'll prob- 
ably come from a respectable lower-mid- 
dle-class family connected with turkey 
farming. Certainly find the family in the 
telephone book. Can’t give you any de- 
scription, but she’s just been spending 
several weeks in Switzerland. Got back 
the last week in November. Don’t be 
ridiculous! Of course you can manage it. 
And when you find her, take her into 
custody for importing fowl pest into the 
country. Yes, thats right.” M spelled it 
out. “The stuff that’s been killing all 
our turkeys.” M muttered "Thank God!" 
away from the receiver. "No, I didn't 
say anything. Now, be kind to the girl. 
She didn't know what she was doing. 
And tell the parents it'll be all right. If 
you need a formal charge, you'll have to 
get one out of Franklin. Then tell 
Franklin when you've got her and he'll 
come down and ask her one or two 
simple questions. When he's got the an- 
swers, you can let her go. Right? But 
we've got to find that girl. You'll see why 
all right when you've read the report. 
Now then, next assignment. There are 
10 girls of much the same type as this 
Polly Tasker who'll probably be flying 
from Zurich to England and Eire any 
day from tomorrow on. Each one has got 
to be held by the Customs at the port or 
airport of entry. 007 has a list of their 
names and fairly good descriptions. My 
people in Zürich may or may not be able 
to give us warning of their arrival. Is 
that all right? Yes, 007 will bring the list 
to Scotland Yard this evening. No, I 


can't tell you what it's all about. Too 
long a story. But have you ever heard of 
Biological Warfare? That's right. An- 
thrax and so on. Well, this is it. Yes. 
Blofeld again. I know. That's what I'm 
just going to talk to 007 about. Well 
now, Vallance, have you got all that? 
Fine.” M listened. He smiled grimly. 
“And a Happy Christmas to you.” 

He put the receiver back and the 
scrambler button automatically clicked to 
orr, He looked across at Bond. He said, 
with a hint of weariness, “Well, that’s 
taken care of this end. Vallance said it 
was about time we had this fellow Blo- 
feld in the bag. I agree. And that’s our 
job. And I don’t for a moment think 
we're going to get any help from the 
Swiss. Even if we were to, they'd trample 
all over the case with their big boots for 
weeks before we saw any action. By that 
time the man would be in Peking or 
somewhere, cooking up something else.” 
M looked straight at Bond. “Any ideas? 

It had come, as Bond knew it would. 
He took a deep pull at his whiskey and 
put the glass carefully down. He began 
talking, urgently, persuasively, As he ex- 
pounded his plan, M's face sank deeper 
and deeper in gloom, and, when Bond 
concluded with “And that’s the only way 
І can see, sir. All I need is two weeks’ 
leave of absence. I could put in a letter 
of resignation if it would help" M 
turned in his chair and gazed deep into 
the dying flames of the log fire. 

Bond sat quietly, waiting for the ver- 
dict. He hoped it would be yes, but he 


“There are a few things about me you should know, 
Al. No, come to think of it, why don’t I let 
you find out for yourself later?" 


151 


PLAYBOY 


also hoped it would be no. That damned. 
mountain! He never wanted to see the 
bloody thing agai 

M turned back. The gray eyes were 
fierce. “All right, 007. Go ahead. I can't 
go to the Р.М. about it. He'd refuse. But 
for God's sake bring it off. I don't mind 
being sacked, but we don't want to get 
the Government mixed up in another 
U-2 fiasco. Right?” 

“I understand, si 
two weeks’ leave 

"Yes." 


And I can have the 


With the Walther PPK its leather 
holster warm against his stomach and his 
own name in his passport, James Bond 
looked out of the window at the English 
Channel sliding away beneath the belly 
of the Caravelle and felt more like his 
old, his pre-Sir Hilary Bray, sell. 

He glanced at the new Rolex on his 
wrist — the shops were still shut and he 
had had to blarncy it out of Q Branch — 
and guessed they would be on time, six 
P.M. at Marseilles. It had been the hell of 
a rush to get off. He had worked until 
late in the night at H.Q. and all that 
morning, setting up the Identicast of 
Blofeld, checking details with Ronnie 
Vallance, fixing up the private, the 
Munich side of his life, chattering on 
the teleprinter to Station Z, even re- 
membering to tell Mary Goodnight to 
get on to Sable Basilisk after the holiday 
and ask him to please do some kind of a 
job on the surnames of the 10 girls and 
please to have the family tree of Ruby 
Windsor embellished with gold capitals. 

Ac midnight he had called Tracy in 
Munich and heard her darling, excited 
voice. “I've got the toothbrush, James,” 
she had said, “and a pile of books. To- 
morrow I'm going to go up the Zug- 
spitze and sit in the sun so as to look 
pretty for you. Guess what I had for 
dinner tonight in my room! Krebs- 
schwünze mit Dilltunke. "That's crayfish 
tails with rice and a cream and dill sauce. 
And Rehrücken mit Sahne. That’s saddle 
of roebuck with a smitane sauce. I bet 
it was better than what you had." 

“J had two ham sandwiches with 
stacks of mustard and half a pint of 
Harper’s bourbon on the rocks. The 
bourbon was better than the ham. Now 


listen, Tracy, and stop blowing down the 


telephone. 

“J was only sighing with love.” 

“Well, you must have got a Force Five 
sigh. Now listen. I’m posting my birth 
certificate to you tomorrow with a cover- 
ing letter to the British Consul saying I 
want to get married to you as soon as 
possible. Look, you're going up to Force 
Ten! For God's sake pay attention. It'll 
take a few days, I'm afraid. They have to 
post the banns or something. He'll tell 
you all about it. Now, you must quickly 
get your birth certificate and give it to 


152 him, too. Oh, you have, have you?” Bond 


laughed. “So much the better. Then 
we're all set. I've got three days or so of 
work to do and I'm going down to see 
your father tomorrow and ask for your 
hand, both of them, and the feet and all 
the rest, in marriage. No, you're to stay 
where you are. Th men's talk. Will 
he be awake? I'm going to ring him up 
now. Good, Well, now you go off to 
sleep or you'll be too tired to say ‘Yes’ 
when the time comes.” 

"They had not wanted to let go of each 
other's voices, but finally the last good- 
night, the last kiss, had been exchanged, 
and Bond called the Marseilles number 
of Appareils Électriques Draco, and 
Marc-Ange's voice, almost as excited as 
Tracys, was on the line. Bond damp- 
ened down the raptures about the fian- 
gailles and said, “Now listen, Marc Ange. 
1 want you to give me a wedding 
present." 

"Anything, my dear James. Anything 
1 possess,” He laughed. "And perhaps 
certain things of which I could take 
possession. What is it you would like?” 

“ТП tell you tomorrow evening. I'm 
booked on the afternoon Air France to 
Marscilles. Will you have someone meet 
me? And its business, I'm afraid. So 
could you have your other directors 
present for a little mecting? We shall 
need all our brains. It is about our sales 
organization in Switzerland. Something 
drastic needs to be done about i 

“Aha!” There was full understanding 
in the voice. “Yes, it is indeed a bad 
spot on our sales map. 1 will certainly 
have my colleagues available. And I 
assure you, my dear James, that anything 
that can be done will be donc. And of 
course you will be met. T shall perhaps 
not be there in person — it is very cold 
out these winter evenings. But I shall see 
that you are properly looked after. Good- 
night, my dear fellow. Goodnight." 

"The line had gone dead. The old fox! 
Had he thought Bond might commit an 
indiscretion, or had he got fitted to his 
telephone a “bug-meter,” the delicate 
instrument that measures the resonance 
on the line and warns of listening in? 

The winter sun spread a last orange 
glow over the thick overcast, 10,000 feet 
Below the softly whistling plane, and 
switched itself off for the night. 

Bond dozed, reflecting that he must 
somehow, and pretty soon, find a way of 
catching up on his sleep. 

There was a stage-type Marseilles taxi 
driver to meet Bond — the archetype of 
all Mariuses, with the face of a pirate 
and the razor-sharp badinage of the 
lower French music halls. He was appar- 
endy known and enjoyed by everyone 
at the airport, and Bond was whisked 
through the formalities in a barrage of 
wisecracks about le milord anglais, which 
made Marius, for his name turned out 
in fact to be Marius, the center of attrac- 


tion and Bond merely his butt, the dim- 
witted English tourist. But, once in the 
taxi, Marius made curt, friendly apolo- 
gies over his shoulder. "I ask your pardon 
for my bad manners.” His French had 
suddenly purified itself of all patois. It 
also smelled like acetylene gas. “I was 
told to extract you from the airport with 
the least possible limelight directed upon 
you. I know all those flics and doua- 
niers They all know me. If I had not 
been myself, the cab driver they know 
as Marius if I had shown deference, 
eyes, inquisitive eyes, would have been 
upon you, mon Commandant. 1 did 
what I thought best. You forgive me?” 

"Of course [ do, Marius But you 
shouldn't have been so funny. You 
neady made me laugh. That would 
have been fatal.” 

“You understand our talk here?” 

"Enough of it." 

"Sol" There wasa pause. Then Marius 
said, "Alas, since Waterloo, one can 
never underestimate the English.” 

Bond said, seriously, “The same date 
applied to the French. It was a near 
thing.” This was getting too gallant. 
Bond said, "Now tell me, is the bouilla- 
baisse chez Guido always as good?" 

“It is passable,” said Marius. “But this 
is a dish that is dead, gone. There is no 
more true bouillabaisse, because there is 
no more fish in the Mediterranean. For 
the bouillabaisse, you must have the ras- 
casse, the tender flesh of the scorpion 
fish. Today they just use hunks of morue. 
"Ehe saffron and the garlic, they are al- 
ways the same. But you could eat pieces 
of a woman soaked in those and it 
would be good. Go to any of the little 
places down by the harbor. Eat the plat 
du jour and drink the vin du Cassis that 
they give you. It will fill your stomach 
as well as it fills the fishermen’s. The 
toilette will be filthy. What does that 
mater? You are a man. You can walk 
up the Canebière and do it at the 
Noailles for nothing after lunch.” 

They were now weaving expertly 
through the traffic down the famous 
Canebitre and Marius needed all his 
breath to insult the other drivers. Bond 
could smell the sea. The accordions were 
playing in the cafés. He remembered old 
times in this most criminal and tough 
of all French towns. He reflected that it 
was rather fun, this time, being on the 
side of the Devil. 

At the bottom of the Canebiére, where 
it crosses the Rue de Rome, Marius 
turned right and then left into the Ruc 
St. Ferréol, only a long stone's throw 
from the Quai des Belges and the Vieux 
Port. The lights from the harbor’s cn- 
trance briefly winked at them and then 
the taxi drew up at a hideous, but very 
new apartment house with a broad vit- 
rine on the ground floor, which an- 
jounced in furious neon “Appareils 
ctriques Draco.” The well-lit interior 


of the store contained what you would 
expect — television. sets, radios, Gramo- 
phones, electric irons, fans and so forth. 
Marius very quickly carried Bond's suit- 
case across the pavement and through 
the swing doors beside the vitrine. The 
close-carpeted hallway was more luxuri- 
ous than Bond had expected. A man 
came out of the porter's lodge beside the 
lift and wordlessly took the suitcase. 
Marius turned to Bond, gave him a 
smile and a wink and а bone-crushin 
handshake, said curtly, “A la prochain 
and hurried out. The porter stood be- 
side the open door of the lift. Bond 
noticed the bulge under his right arm 
d, out of curiosity, brushed against 
the man as hc entered the lift. Yes, aud. 
something big too, a real stopper. The 
man gave Bond a bored look, as much 
as to say, "Clever? Eh?" and pressed the 
top button. The porter's twin, or very 
nearly his twin — dark, chunky, brown- 
eyed, fit — was waiting at the top floor. 
He took Bond's suitcase and led the way 
down a corridor, close-carpeted and with 
wall brackets in good taste, He opened 
a door. It was an extremely comfortable 
bedroom with a bathroom leading off. 
Bond imagined that the big picture 
window, now curtained, would have a 
superb view of the harbor. The man 
put down the suitcase and said, "Mon- 
sicur Draco est immédiatement à votre 
disposition." 

Bond thought it time to make some 
show of independence. He said firmly, 
“Un moment, je vous en prie," and went 
into the bathroom and cleaned himself 
up — amused to notice that the soap was 
that most English of soaps, Pears Trans- 
parent, and that there was a bottle of 
Mr. Trumper’s “‘Eucris” beside the very 
masculine brush and comb by Kent. 
Матс-Апде was indeed making his Eng 
lish guest feel at home! 

Bond took his time, then went out 
and followed the man to the end door. 
‘The man opened it without knocking 
and closed it behind Bond. Marc-Ange, 
his creased walnut face split by his great 
golden-toothed smile, got up from his 
desk (Bond was getting tired of desks!), 
trotted across the broad room, threw 
his arms round Bond's neck and kissed 
him squarely on both cheeks. Bond sup- 
pressed his recoil and gave a reassuring 
pat to MarcAnge's broad back. Marc- 
Ange stood away and laughed. “All 
right! I swear never to do it again. It is 
once and forever. Yes? But it had to 
come out — from the Latin temperament, 
isn’t it? You forgive me? Good. Then 
come and take a drink —” he waved at 
a loaded sideboard — “and sit down and 
tell me what I can do for you. I swear 
not to talk about Teresa until you have 
finished with your business. But tell me 
—" the brown eyes pleaded —"it is all 
right between you? You have not 
changed your mind?" 


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153 


PLAYBOY 


Bond smiled. "Of course not, Marc- 
Ange. And everything is arranged. We 
will be married within the week. At the 
Consulate in Munich. I have two weeks" 
leave. Y thought we might spend the 
honeymoon in Kitbiihel. I love that 
place. So does she. You will come to the 
wedding?" 

"Come to the wedding!” Marc-Ange 
exploded. "You will have a time keeping 
me away from Kitzbühel. Now then —" 
he waved at the sideboard —"take your 
drink while I compose myself. I must 
stop being happy and be clever instead. 
My two best men, my organizers, if you 
like, are waiting. I wanted to have you 
for a moment to mysclf.” 

Bond poured himself a stiff Jack Dan- 
iel's sourmash bourbon on the rocks and 
added some water. He walked over to 
the desk and took the right-hand of the 
three chairs that had been arranged in a 
semicircle facing the “Capu.” “I wanted 
that, too, Marc-Ange. Because there are 
some things I must tell you which affect 
my country. I have been granted leave 
ll them to you, but they must re- 
as you put it, behind the Herkos 
Odonton —behind the hedge of your 
teeth. Is that all right?” 

Marc-Ange lifted his right hand and 
crossed his heart, slowly, deliberately, 
with his forefinger. His face was now 
deadly serious, almost cruelly implacable. 
He leaned forward and rested his fore- 
arms on the desk. “Continue.” 

Bond told him the whole story, not 
even omitting his passage with Ruby. 
He had developed much loye, and total 
respect, for this man. He couldn't say 
why. It was partly animal magnetism and 
partly that MarcAnge had so opened 
his heart to Bond, so completely trusted 
him with his own innermost secrets, 

Marc-Ange's face remained impassive 
throughout. Only his quick, animal eyes 
flickered continually across Bond's face. 
When Bond had finished, Marc-Ange sat 


back. He reached for a blue packet of 
Gauloises, fixed one in the corner of 
his mouth and talked through the blue 
clouds of smoke that puffed continuously 
out through his lips, as if somewhere 
inside him there was a small steam en- 
gine. “Yes, it is indeed a dirty business. 
It must be finished with, destroyed, and 
the man, 100. My dear James—” the 
voice was somber — "I am a criminal, a 
great criminal Y run houses, chains of 
prostitutes, I smuggle, I sell protection, 
whenever I can, I steal from the very 
rich. I break many laws and 1 have often 
had to kill in the process. Perhaps one 
day, perhaps very soon, I shall reform. 
But it is difficult to step down from 
being Capu of the Union. Withont the 
protection of my men, my life would not 
be worth much. However, we shall see. 
But this Blofeld, he is too bad, too 
gusting. You have come to ask the Union 
to make war on him, to destroy him. You 
need not answer. I know it is so. This is 
something that cannot be done officially. 
Your Chief is correct. You would get no- 
where with the Swiss. You wish me and 
my men to do the job." He smiled sud- 
denly. "That is the wedding present you 
talked of. Yes?" 

“That's right, Marc-Ange. But ГП do 
my bit ТЇЇ be there, too. I want this 
man for myself.” 

MarcAnge looked at him thought- 
fully. “That I do not like. And you know 
why I do not like it.” He said mildly, 
“You are a bloody fool, James. You are 
already lucky to be alive.” He shrugged. 
“But I am wasting my breath. You started 
on a long road after this man. And you 
want to come to the end of it. Is that 
right?” 

“That's right. I don't want somconc 
else to shoot my fox.” 

"OK, OK. We bring in the others, 
yes? They will not need to know the 
reason why. My orders are my orders. 
But we all need to know low we are to 


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af, aa 


bring this about. I have some ideas. I 
think it can be done and swiftly done. 
But it must also be well-done, cleanly 
done. ‘There must be no untidiness about 
this thing.” 

MarcAnge picked up his telephone 
and spoke into it. A minute later the 
door opened and two men came in and, 
with hardly a glance at Bond, took the 
other two chairs. 

Marc-Ange nodded at the one next to 
Bond, a great ox of a man with the 
splayed ears and broken nose of a boxer 
or wrestler. “This is Ché-Ché — Ché-Ché 
Je Persuadeur. And —" Marc-Ange smiled 
grimly —"he is very adept at persuading.” 

Bond got a glimpse of two hard yellow- 
brown eyes that looked at him quickly, 
reluctantly, and then went back to the 
Capu. “Plaisir.” 

“And this is Toussaint, otherwise 
known as ‘Le Рош” He is our expert 
with le plastique. We shall need plenty 
of plastique.” 

“We shall indeed,” said Bond, “with 
pretty quick time-pencils.” 

Toussaint leaned forward to show him- 
self. He was thin and gray-skinned, with 
an almost fine Phoenician profile pitted 
with smallpox. Bond guessed that he was 
on heroin, but not as a mainliner. He 
gave Bond a brief, conspiratorial smile. 
"Plaisir He sat back. 

"And this—" MarcAnge gestured at 
Bond — "is my friend. My absolute friend. 
He is simply ‘Le Commandant.’ And 
now to business.” He had been speaking: 
in French, but he now broke into rapid 
Corsican which, apart from a few Italian 
and French roots, was incomprchensible 
to Bond. At one point he drew a large- 
scale map of Switzerland out of a drawer 
of his desk, spread it out, searched with 
his finger and pointed to a spot in the 
center of the Engadine. The two men 
craned forward, examined the map care- 
fully and then sat back, Ché-Ché said 
something which contained the word 
Strasbourg and MarcAnge nodded en- 
thu; He turned to Bond and 
handed him a large shect of paper and a 
pencil. “Be a good chap and get to work 
on this, would you? A map of the Gloria 
buildings, with approximate sizes and 
distances from each other. Later we will 
do a complete maquette in Plasticine so 
that there is no confusion. Every man 
will have his job to do —" he smiled — 
“like the commandos in the war. Yes" 

Bond bent to his task while the others 
talked. The telephone rang. Marc-Ange 
picked it up. He jotted down a few 
words and rang off. He turned to Bond, 
his eyes momentarily suspicious. “It is a 
telegram for me from London signed 
Universal. It says, THE BIRDS HAVE AS- 
SEMBLED IN THE TOWN AND ALL FLY TO- 
Morrow, What is this, my friend?” 

Bond kicked himself for his forgetful- 
ness. “I'm sorry, Marc-Ange. 1 meant to 
tell you you might get a signal like that. 


It means that the girls are in Zürich and 
are flying to England tomorrow. It is 
very good news. It was important to have 
them out of the way." 

“Ah, good! Very good indeed! That is 
fine news. And you were quite right not 
to have the telegram addressed to you. 
You are not supposed to be here or to 
know me at all. It is better so.” He fired 
some more Corsican at the two men. 
"They nodded their understanding. 

After that, the meeting soon broke up. 
Marc-Ange examined Bond's hai 
and passed it over to Toussa 
glanced at the sketch and folded 
it were a valuable share certificate. With 
short bows in Bond's direction, the two 
men left the room. 

MarcAnge sat back with a sigh of 
satisfaction. “It goes well,” he said. “The 
whole team will receive good danger 
money. And they love a good rough 
fight. And they are pleased that 1 am 
coming to lead them.” He laughed slyly. 
“They are less certain of you, my dear 
James. They say you will get in the way. 
I had to tell them that you could out- 
shoot and outfight the lot of them. When 
I say something like that, they have to 
believe me. I have never let them down 
yet. I hope I am right?” 

“Please don't try me,” said Bond. “I've 
never taken on a Corsican and I don’t 
want to start now.” 

MarcAnge was delighted. "You might 
win with guns. But not in close combat. 
"They are pigs, my men. Great pigs. The 
greatest. 1 am taking five of the best. 
With you and me that is seven. How 
many did you say there are on the 
mountain?” 

“About eight. And the Big One.” 

“Ah yes, the Big One,” said Marc-Ange 
reflectively. “That is one that must not 
get away.” He got up. “And now, my 
friend, I have ordered dinner, a good 
dinner, to be served us up here. And 
then we will go to bed stinking of garlic 
and, perhaps, just a little bit drunk. 
Yes?” 

From his heart Bond said, "I can't 
think of anything better.” 


The next day, after lunch, Bond made 
his way by plane and train to the Hotel 
Maison Rouge at Strasbourg, his breath 
bearing him close company like some 
noisome, captive pet. 

He was totally exhilarated by his hours 
with Marc-Ange in Marseilles and by the 
prospects before him—the job that was 
to be done and, at the end of it, Tracy. 

The morning had been an endless 
series of conferences round the model of 
Piz Gloria and its buildings that had 
been put up in the night. Bond was 
vastly impressed by the authority and 
incisiveness of Marc-Ange as he dealt 
with each problem, each contingency, 
from the obtaining of a helicopter down 
to the pensions that would be paid to 


the families of the dead. Marc-Ange 
hadn't liked the helicopter business. He 
had explained to Bond, “You see, my 
friend, there is only one source for this 
machine, the O,A.S., the French secret 
army of the right wing. It happens that 
they are under an obligation to me, a 
heavy one, and that is the way I would 
have it. I naturally have my men in the 
О.А.5. and I happen to know that the 
O.A.S. has a military helicopter, stolen 
from the French Army, hidden away at 
a chateau on the Rhine not far from 
Strasbourg. The chateau belongs to some 
crazy fascist count. He is one of those 
Frenchmen who cannot live without con- 
spiring against something. So now he has 
put all his money and property behind 
this General Salan. His chateau is re- 
mote. He poses as an inventor. His farm 
people are not surprised that there is 
some kind of flying machine kept in an 
isolated barn with mechanics to tend it — 
O.A.S. mcchanics bien entendu. And 
now, early this morning, I have spoken 
on my radio to the right man and I have 
the machine on loan for 24 hours with 
the best pilot in their secret air force. He 
is already on his way to the place to make 
his preparations, fuel and so on. But it is 
unfortunate. Before, these. people were 
in my debt. Now I am in theirs" He 
shrugged. “What matter? I will soon have 
them under my thumb again. Half the 
police and Customs officers in France are 
Corsicans. It is an important laissez- 
passer for the Union Corse. You under- 
stand?" 


Inside the barn it was almost like a 
film set. Lights blazed down on the un- 
gainly shape of the Army helicopter and 
from somewhere came the cough of a 
small generator. The place seemed to be 
full of people. Bond recognized the 
faces of the Union men. The others 


were, he assumed, the local mechanics. 
Two men on ladders were busily en- 
gaged painting red crosses on white 
backgrounds on the black-painted fuse- 
lage of the machine, and the paint of 
the recognition letters, FL-BGS, presum- 
ably civilian and false, still glittered 
wetly. Bond was introduced to the pilot, 
a bright-eyed, fair-haired young man іп 
overalls called Georges. “You will be 
sitting beside him," explained Marc 
Ange. "He is a good navigator, but he 
doesnt know the last stretch up the 
valley and he has never heard of Piz 
Gloria. You had better go over the maps 
with him after some food. The general 
route is BaseZürich." He laughed 
cheerfully. He said in French, “We are 
going to have some interesting conversa- 
tion with the Swiss Air Defenses, isn't 
it, Georges?" 

Georges didn't smile. He said briefly, 
"I think we can fool them," and went 
about his business. 

Bond accepted a foot of garlic sausage, 
a hunk of bread and a bottle of the “Pis- 
de-Chat," and sat on an upturned pack- 
ing case while MarcAnge went back to 
supervising the loading of the “stores” 
— Schmeisser submachine guns and six- 
inch-square packets in red oildoth. 

In due course, Marc-Ange lined up his 
team, including Bond, and carried out a 
quick inspection of sidearms, which, in 
the case of the Union men, included 
well-used flick knives. The men, as well 
as Marc-Ange, were clothed in brand- 
new ski dothes of gray cloth. Marc-Ange 
handed to all of them armlets in black 
doth bearing the neatly stitched words 
“Bundesalpenpolizei.” When MarcAnge 
gave Bond his, he commented, “There 
is no such force as the ‘Federal Police of 
the Alps’ But I doubt if our sercrar 
friends will know that. At least the 


PLAYBOY 


156 


arm bands will make an important first 
impression.” 

MarcAnge looked at his watch. He 
turned and called out in French, “Two 
forty-five. All ready? Then let us roll!” 

Almost at once they were over the 
Rhine and Basle lay ahead under a 
thick canopy of chimney smoke. They 
reached 2000 feet and the pilot held 
it, skirting the town to the north. 
Now there came a crackle of static over 
Bond's earphones and Swiss Air Control, 
in thick Schwyzertütsch, asked them po- 
litely to identify themselves. The pilot 
made no reply and the question was 
repeated with more urgency. The pilot 
said in French, “I don't understand you.” 
‘There was a pause, then a French v 
in queried them. The pilot said, 
epeat yourself more dearly.” The 
voice did so. The pilot said, “Helicopter 
of the Red Cross flying blood plasma to 
Italy.” The radio went dead. Bond could 
imagine the scene in the control room 
somewhere down below — the arguing 
voices, the doubtful faces. Another voice, 
with more authority to it, spoke in 
French. "What is your destination?” 
“Wait,” said the pilot. “I have it here. 
A moment, please.” After minutes he 
said, “Swiss Air Control?” “Yes, yes.” 
GS reporting. My destination is 
Ospedale Santa Monica at Bellinzona." 
The radio again went dead, only to 
come to life five minutes later. "FL-BGS, 
FL-BGS." “Yes,” said the pilot. “We 
have no record of your ideni 
symbol. Please explain." "Your rcgi 
tion manual must be out of date. "The 
aircraft was commissioned only one 


month ago." Another long pause. Now. 
Zürich lay ahead and the silver boomer- 
ang of the Zürichersee. Now Zürich air- 
port came on the air. They must have 
been listening to Swiss Air Control. “FL- 
BGS, FL-BGS." "Yes, yes. What is it 

“You have infringed the Civil 
сз Channel. Land and report to 
ng Control. I repeat. Land and re- 
port" The pilot became indignant. 
“What do you mean, ‘land and report? 
Have you no comprehension of human 
suffering? This is a mercy flight carrying 
blood plasma of a rare category. It is 
to save the life of an illustrious Italian 
scientist at Bellinzona, Have you no 
hearts down there? You tcll me to ‘land 
and report’ when a life is at stake? Do 
you wish to be responsible for murder?” 
This Gallic outburst gave them peace un- 
til they had passed the Ziirichersee. Bond 
chuckled. He gave a thumbs-up sign to 
the pilot. But then Federal Air Control 
at Berne came on the air and a deep, 
resonant voice said, “FL-BGS, FL-BGS, 
Who gave you clearance? I repeat. Who 
gave you clearance for your flight?” “You 
did.” Bond smiled into his mouthpiece. 
‘The Big Lie! There was nothing like it. 
Now the Alps were ahead of them — 
those blasted Alps, looking beautiful and 
dangerous in the evening sun. Soon they 
would be in the shelter of the valleys, 
off the radar screens. But records had 
been hastily checked in Berne and the 
somber voice came over to them again. 
The voice must have realized that the 
long debate would have been heard at 
every airport and by most pilots flying 
over Switzerland that evening. It was 
extremely polite, but firm. "FL-BGS, we 


"It's not so surprising when you consider that 
most accidents occur in the home.” 


have no record at Federal Air Control of 
your proposed flight. I regret, but you 
are transgressing Swiss air space. Unless 
you can give further authority for your 
flight, kindly return to Zürich and re- 
port to Flying Control.” 

The helicopter rocked. There was a 
flash of silv ind a Dassault Mirage with. 
Swiss markings flashed by not 100 
yards away, turned, leaving a trail of 
black vapor from the slow burning of 
its fuel at this low altitude, and headed 
straight back at them, swerving off to 
port only at the last moment. The heli- 
copter gave another lurch. The pilot 
spoke angrily into his mouthpiece. Fed- 
eral Air Control. This is FL-BGS. For 
further information contact Interna- 
Red Cross at Geneva. I am just 
a pilot. I am not a rond de cuir, a chair- 
borne flier. If you have lost the papers, 
that js not my fault. 1 repeat, check with 
Geneva. And, in the meantime, kindly 
call off the whole of the Swiss Air Force 
which is at present trying to make my 
passengers aitsick." The voice came back, 
but now more faintly, because of tj 
mountains. “Who are your passengers?” 
The pilot played his trump card. “Rep- 
resentatives of the world’s press. They 
have been listening to all this nonsense 
coming from the home of the famous 
International Red Cross. I wish you 
happy reading of your newspapers at 
breakfast time tomorrow, gentlemen. 
And now, a little peace, yes? And please 
record in your logbooks that I am not, 
repeat, not, the Soviet Air Force invad- 
ing Switzerland." 

There was silence. The Dassault Mi- 
rage had disappeared. They were climb- 
ing up the valley and were already past 
Davos. The gold-tipped needles of the 
glittering mountains seemed to be clos- 
ing in on them from right and left. 
Ahead were the great peaks. Bond looked 
at his watch, Barely another 10 minutes 
to go. 

He turned and glanced down the 
hatch. The faces of Marc-Ange and of 
the others looked up at him, tense and 
livid under the setting sun that poured 
in through the windows, their eyes 
glinting redly. 

Bond held up his thumb encourag- 
ingly. He spread out his 10 fingers in 
their thin leather gloves. 

MarcAnge nodded. There was a shift- 
ing of the bodies in their seats. Bond 
turned back and gazed ahead, looking 
for the soaring peak that he loathed 
and feared. 


Yes! There was the bloody place! Now 
only the peak was golden. The plateau 
and the buildings were in indigo shad- 
‘ow, soon to be lit by the full moon. 

Bond pointed. The helicopter wasn't 
liking the altitude. At 10,000 feet, its 
rotors were finding it hard to get a grip 
in the thin air and the pilot was strug- 


gling to keep it at maximum revs. As he 
turned to port, in toward the face of 
the mountain, his radio crackled sharply 
and a harsh voice in German and 
then in French, “Landing forbidden. 
This is private property. I repeat, land- 
ing forbidden!” The pilot reached up 
to the cockpit roof and switched off the 
io. He had studied his landing point 
on the plateau on the mock-up. He got 
to it, hovered and gently came down. 
‘The helicopter bounced once on its 
rubber floats and settled. Already there 
was a group of men waiting for them. 
Eight men. Bond recognized some of 
them. "They all had their hands in their 
pockets or in their wind jackets. "The 
engine coughed to a stop and the rotors 
swung round fly in neutral and 
halted. Bond heard the bang of the door 
being opened behind him and the rattle 
of the men piling down the ladder. The 
two groups lined up facing each other. 
MarcAnge said, with authority, “This 
is the Federal Police Alpine Patrol. 
‘There was trouble up here on Chri 
Eve. We have come to investi 

Fritz, the “headwaiter,’ 
“The local police have 
here. They have made their report. All 
is in order. Please leave at once. What 
is the Federal Police Alpine Patrol? I 
have never heard of it.” 

The pilot nudged Bond and pointed 
over to the left, to the building th: 
housed the Count and the laboratories. 
A man, clumsy in bobsleigh helmet and 
padding, was running down the path 
toward the cable station. He would be 
out of sight of the men on the ground, 
Bond said "Blast" and scrambled out 
of his seat and into the cabin. He leaned 
out of the door and shouted, “The Big 
One. He's getting away!” 

As Bond jumped, one of the srrcTRE 
men shouted, “Der Englander. Der 
Spion! And then, as Bond started run- 
ning away to the right, weaving and 
dodging, all hell broke loose. There came 
the boom of heavy automatics as the 
SPECTRE team got off their first rounds, 
J bullets, tracer, flashed past Bond 
with the noise of hummingbirds’ wings. 
Then came the answering roar of the 
Schmeissers and Bond was left alone. 

Now he was round the corner of the 
cub, and, 100 yards down the slope, 
the man in the crash helmet had 
torn open the door of the "garage" for 
the bobsleighs in the foundations of the 
cable station. He emerged carrying a 
one-man skeleton bob. Holding it in 
front of him as a shield, he fired a 
burst from a heavy automatic at Bond 
and again the hummingbirds whirred 
past. Bond knelt and, steadying his gun 
with two hands, fired three rounds with 
his Walther, but the man was now run- 
ning the few yards to the glistening ice 
mouth of the Gloria express bob run. 
Bond got a glimpse of the profile under 


the moon. Yes, it was Blofeld all right! 
Even as Bond ran on down the slope, 
the man had flung himself down on his 
skeleton and had disappeared as if swal- 
lowed up by the glistening landscape. 
Bond got to the "garage" Damn, they 
were all sixmen or two-men models! 
No, there was one skeleton at the back! 
Bond hauled it out. No time to see if 
the runners were straight, the stccring 
arm shifting easily! He ran to the start 
and hurled himself under the protecting 
chain in a mad forward dive that landed 
him half on and half off his skeleton. 
He straightened himself and shifted his 
body well forward on the flimsy little 
aluminum platform and gripped the 
steering arm, keeping his elbows well 
in to his sides. He was already going 
like hell down the dark blue gutter! He 
tried braking with the toes of both his 
boots. Damned little difference! What 
came first on the blasted runz There was 
this lateral straight across the shoulder 
of the mountain, then a big banked 
curve. He was into it now! Bond kept 
his right shoulder down and inched right 
on the steering arm. Even so, he went 
perilously near the top edge of the 
bank before he dived down into the 
dark gully again. What came next on 
that metal map? Why in hell hadn't 
he studied it more carefully? He got 
his answer! It looked like a straight, but 
the shadows camouflaged a sharp dip. 
Bond left the ground and flew. The 
crash of his landing almost knocked the 
wind out of his body. He frantically dug 
his toes into the ice, managed to get 
down from perhaps 50 mph to 40. Well, 
well! So that was "Dead Man's Leap." 
What in hell was the next bit of murder? 
“Whiz-Bang Straight"! And by God it 
151—200 yards when he must have 
bcen doing around 70. He remembered 
that on the finishing straight of the 
Cresta the stars got up to over 80. No 
doubt something like that was still to 
come! But now, flashing toward him, 
in silver and black, came an 8 bend — 
attling S." ‘Ihe toes of Bond's boots 
slid maddeningly on the black ice. Un- 
der his nose he could sce the parallel 
tracks of Blofeld's runners and, between 
them, the grooves of his toe spikes. The 
old fox! As soon as he heard the heli- 
copter, he must have got himself fixed 
for his only escape route. But at this 
speed Bond must surely be catching up 
with him! For God's sake Jook out! Here 
comes the S! There was nothing he could 
do about it. He swayed his body as best 
he could, felt the searing crash of one 
elbow against one wall, was hurled across 
into the opposite one and was then 
spewed out into the straight again. God 
Almighty, but it hurt! He could feel 
the cold wind on both elbows. The cloth 
had gone! Then so had the skin! Bond 
clenched his teeth, And he was only 
halfway down, if that! But then, ahcad, 


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187 


PLAYBOY 


158 


flashing through a patch of moonlight, 
was the other body, Blofeld! Bond took 
a chance, heaved himself up on one 
hand and reached down for his gun. The 
wind tried to tear him off the bob, but 
he had the gun. He opened his mouth 
wide and gripped the gun between his 
teeth, flexed the ice-caked leather on 
his right hand. ‘Then he got the gun in 
his right hand, lifted his toes off the ice 
and went like hell. But now the man had 
disappeared into the shadows and a giant 
bank reared up ahead. This would be 
"Hell's Delight"! Oh well, if he could 
make this, there would be another 
straight and he could begin shooting. 
Bond dug his toes in, got a glimpse of 
an ice wall ahead and to the left, and in 
a flash was climbing it, straight up! God, 
in a split second he would be over the 
edge! Bond hammered in his right boot 
and lurched his body to the right, tearing 
at the steering arm. Reluctantly the 
sliver of aluminum answered and Bond, 
inches from the top of the wall, found 
himself swooping down into blackness 
and then out again onto a moonlit 
straight. Only 50 yards ahcad was the 
flying figure, with chips of ice fountain- 
ing up from the braking spikes on his 
boots. Bond held his breath and got off 
two shots. He thought they were good 
ones, but now the man had gone into 
shadow again. But Bond was gaining, 
gaining. His lips drew back from his 
teeth in an almost animal snarl. You 
bastard! You're a dead duck! You can't 
stop or fire back. I'm coming after you 
like lightning! Soon I shall only be ten, 
five yards behind you. ‘Then you'll have 
had itl 

But the shadows concealed another 
hazard, long transverse waves in the ice — 
“The Boneshaker”! Bond crashed from 
one to the next, felt his boots being 
almost torn from his feet as he tried to 
brake, nearly lost his gun, felt his stom- 


“Cigars, cigarettes... 


ach flatten against his spine with each 
shattering impact, felt his rib cage 
almost cracking. But then it was over 
and Bond sucked in air through his 
clenched teeth. Now for a length of 
straight! But what was that ahead on the 
track? It was something black, something 
the size of a big lemon that was bouncing 
along gaily like a child’s rubber ball. 
Had Blofeld, now only about 30 yards 
ahead, dropped something, a bit of his 
equipment? Had he? The realization 
came to Bond in a surge of terror that 
almost made him vomit. He ground 
his toes into the ice. No effect! He was 
gaining on the gaily bouncing thing. 
Flashing down on it. On the grenade! 

Bond, sick in the stomach, lifted his 
toes and let himself go. What setting had 
Blofeld put on it? How long had he held 
it with the pin out? The only hope was 
to pray to God and race it! 

The next thing Bond knew was that 
the whole track had blown up in his face 
and that he and his skeleton bob were 
flying through the air. He landed in soft 
snow, with the skeleton on top of him 
and passed out like a light. 

Later, Bond was to estimate that he 
lay there only a matter of minutes. It 
was a tremendous explosion from the 
mountain above him that brought him 
staggering to his feet, up to his belly in 
snow. He looked vaguely up to where it 
had come from. It must have been the 
dub building going up, because now 
there was the glare of flames and a tower 
of smoke that rose toward the moon. 
‘There came the echoing crack of an- 
other explosion and Blofeld’s block dis- 
integrated, great chunks of it crashing 
down the mountainside, turning them- 
selves into giant snowballs that bounded 
off down toward the treeline. By God, 
they'll start another avalanche! thought 
Bond vaguely. Then he realized that it 
didn’t matter this time, he was away to 


Mints 
VER 


the right, almost underneath the cable 
railway. And now the station went up. 
and Bond stared fascinated as the great 
wires, their tension released, came hissing 
and snaking down the mountain toward 
him. There was nothing he could do 
about it but stand and watch. If they cut 
him down, they cut him down. But they 
lashed past in the snow, wrapped them- 
selves briefly round the tall pylon above 
the treeline, tore it away in a metallic 
crackling, and disappeared over the edge 
of the shoulder. 

Bond laughed weakly with pleasure 
and began feeling himself for damage. 
His torn elbows he already knew about, 
but his forehead hurt like hell. He felt 
it gingerly, then scooped up a handful 
of snow and held it against the wound. 
The blood showed black in the moon- 
light. He ached all over, but there didn't 
seem to be anything broken. He bent 
dazedly to the twisted remains of the 
skeleton. The steering arm had gone, had 
probably saved his head, and both run- 
ners were bent. There were a lot of rat- 
Чез from the rivets, but perhaps the 
damned thing would run. It had bloody 
well got to! There was no other way for 
Bond to get down the mountain! His 
gun? Gone to hell, of course. Wearily 
Bond heaved himself over the wall of 
the track and slid carefully down, clutch- 
ing the remains of his skeleton. As soon 
as he got to the bottom of the gutter, 
everything began to slip downward, but 
he managed to haul himself onto the 
bob and get shakily going. In fact, 
the bent runners were a blessing and the 
bob scraped slowly down, leaving great 
furrows in the ice. There were more 
turns, more hazards, but, at a bare 10 
miles an hour, they were child's play and 
soon Bond was through the treeline and 
into “Paradise Alley,” the finishing 
straight, where he slowly came to a halt. 
He left the skeleton where it stopped 
and scrambled over the low ice wall. 
Here the snow was beaten hard by spec- 
tators’ feet and he stumbled slowly along, 
nursing his aches and occasionally dab- 
bing at his head with handfuls of snow. 
What would he find at the bottom, by 
the cable station? If it was Blofcld, Bond 
would be a dead duck! But there were 
no lights on in the station into which 
the cables now trailed limply along the 
ground. By God, that had been an ex- 
pensive bang! But what of Marc-Ange 
and his merry men, and the helicopter? 

As if to answer him, he heard the clat- 
ter of its engine high up in the moun- 
tains and in a moment the ungainly 
black shape crossed the moon and dis- 
appeared down the valley. Bond smiled 
to himself. They were going to have a 
tough time arguing themselves across 
Swiss air space this time! But Marc-Ange 
had thought out an alternative route 
over Germany. That would also not be 
fun. They would have to argue the toss 


with NATO! Well if a Marseillais 
couldn't blarney his way across 200 miles, 
nobody could! 

And now, up the road from Samaden 
that Bond knew so well, came the iron 
heehaw warning of the local fire engine. 
"The blinking red light on its cabin roof 
was perhaps a mile away. Bond, carefully 
approaching the corner of the darkened 
cable station, prepared his story. He 
crept up to the wall of the building and 
Jooked round. Nobody! No trace except 
fresh tire marks outside the entrance 
door. Blofeld must have telephoned his 
man down here before he started and 
used him and his car for the getaway. 
Which way had he gone? Bond walked 
out onto the road. The tracks turned 
left. Blofeld would be at the Bernina 
Pass or over it by now, on his way down 
into Italy and away. It might still have 
been possible to have him held at the 
frontier by alerting the fire brigade, 
whose lights now held Bond in their 
beam. No! That would be idiotic. How 
had Bond got this knowledge unless he 
himself had been up at Piz Gloria that 
night? No, he must just play the part of 
the stupidest tourist in the Engadine! 

The shining red vehicle pulled up in 
front of the cable station and the warn- 
ing Klaxons ran down with an iron groan. 
Men jumped to the ground. Some went 
into the station while others stood gazing 
up at the Piz Gloria, where a dull red 
glow still showed. A man in a peaked 
cap, presumably the captain of the team, 
came up to Bond and saluted. He fired 
off a torrent of Schwyzertiitsch. Bond 
shook his head. The man tried French, 
Bond again showed incomprehension. 
Another man with fragmentary English 
was called over. “What is it that is hap- 
pening?" he asked. 

Bond shook his head dazedly. "I don't 
know. J was walking down from Pontre- 
sina to Samaden. 1 came on a day excur- 
sion from Zürich and missed my bus. I 
was going to take a train from Samaden. 
Then I saw these explosions up the 
mountain —" he waved vaguely — “and 
I walked up there past the station to see 
better, and the next thing I knew was a 
bang on the head and being dragged 
along the path.” He indicated his bleed- 
ing head and the raw elbows that pro- 
truded from his torn sleeves. “Jt must 
have been the broken cable. It must have 
hit me and dragged me with it. Have you 
got a Red Cross outfit with you?" 

"Yes, yes." The man called over to the 
group, and one of his colleagues, wearing 
a Red Cross brassard on his arm, fetched. 
his black box from the vehicle and came 
over. He clucked his tongue over Bond's 
injuries and, while his interrogator told 
Bond's story to the Captain, bade Bond 
follow him into the toilette in the sta- 
tion. There, by the light of a torch, he 
washed Bond’s wounds, applied quanti- 
ties of iodine that stung like hell and 


then strapped wide strips of Elastoplast 
over the damage. Bond looked at his face 
in the mirror. He laughed. Hell of a 
bridegroom he was going to makel The 
Red Cross man cluck-clucked in sym- 
pathy, produced a flask of brandy out of 
his box and offered it to Bond. Bond 
gratefully took a long swig. The inter- 
preter came in. “There is nothing we 
can do here. It will need a helicopter 
from the mountain rescue team. We 
must go back to Samaden and report. 
You wish to come?” 

“I certainly do,” said Bond enthusias- 
tically, and, with many politenesses and 
no question of why he should attempt 
the icy walk to Samaden in the dark 
instead of taking a taxi, he was borne 
comfortably to Samaden and dropped 
off, with the warmest gestures of good 
will and sympathy, at the railway station. 


By a rattling Personenzug to Coirc and 
then by express to Zürich, Bond got to 
the door of the flat of Head of Station Z 
in the Bahnhofstrasse at two in the morn- 
ing. He had had some sleep in the train 
but he was almost out on his feet, and 
his whole body felt as if it had been 
beaten with wooden truncheons. He 
leaned wearily against the bell ticketed 
“Muir” until a tousled man in pajamas 
came and opened the door and held it on 
“Um Gottes Willen! Was ist 
he inquired angrily. The 
English accent came through. Bond said, 
"Its me that's los. It’s 007 again, I'm 
afraid.” 

“Good God, man, come in, come 
in!" Muir opened the door and looked 
quickly up and down the empty street. 
"Anyone after you?" 

“Shouldn't think so," said Bond thickly, 
coming gratefully into the warmth of the 
entrance hall. Head of Z closed the door 
and locked it. He turned and looked at 
Bond. "Christ, old boy, what in hell's 
been happening to you? You look as if 
you'd been through a mangle. Here, 
come in and have a drink." He led the 
way into a comfortable sitting room. He 
gestured at the sideboard. "Help your- 
self. I'll just tell Phyllis not to worry— 
unless you'd like her to have a look at 
the damage. She's quite a hand at that 
sort of thing.” 

“No, it's all right, thanks. А drink'll 
fix me. Nice and warm in here. I never 
want to see a patch of snow again as 
long as I live.” 

Muir went out and Bond heard a 
quick confabulation across the passage. 
Muir came back. “Phyllis is fixing the 
spare room. She'll put some fresh dress- 
ings and stuff out in the bathroom. Now 
then —" he poured himself a thin whis- 
key and soda to keep Bond company and 
sat down opposite him — “tell me what 
you can." 

Bond said, "I'm terribly sorry, but I 
can't tell you much. The same business 


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as the other day. Next chapter. I promise 
you'd do better to know nothing about 
it. I wouldn't have come here, only I've 
got to get a signal off to M, personal, 
"Triple X cipher to be deaphered by 
recipient only. Would you be a good 
chap and put it on the printer?" 

“Of course.” Muir looked at his watch. 
“Two-thirty a-m. Hell of a time to wake 
the old man up. But that's your busi- 
ness. Here, come into the cockpit, so to 
speak." He walked across to the book 
lined wall, took out a book and fiddled. 
‘There was a click and a small door 
swung open. "Mind your head," said 
Muir. "Old disused lavatory. Just the 
right size. Gets a bit stuffy when there's 
a lot of traffic coming or going, but that 
can't be helped. We can afford to leave 
the door open." He bent down to a safe 
on the floor, worked the combination 
and brought out what looked like a port- 
able typewriter. He set it on the shelf 
next to the bulky teleprinter, sit down 
and clacked off the prefix and routing 
nstructions, winding a small handle at 
the side of the machine at the end of 
each word. “OK. Fire away!” 

Bond leaned up against the wall. He 
had toyed with various formulas on his 
journey down to Samaden. It had to 
be something that would get through 
accurately to M and yet keep Muir in 
the dark, keep his hands clean. Bond 
said, "All right. Make it this, would you? 
REDOUBT PROPERLY FIXED STOP DETAILS 
LACKING AS EYE WENT SOLO AFTER THE 
OWNER WHO GREATLY REGRET GOT AWAY 
AND PROBABLY ITALICIZED BY NOW STOP 
FORWARDING FULL REPORT FROM STATION M 
THEN GRATEFULLY ACCEPTING TEN DAYS 
LEAVE SIGNED 007." 

Muir repeated the signal and then 
began putting it, in the five-figure groups 
that had come off the Triple X machine, 
onto the teleprinter, 

Bond watched the message go, the end 
of another chapter of his duties, as Marc- 
Ange had put it, "On Her Majesty's 
Secret Service." What would Her Majesty 
think of this string of crimes committed 
in her name? God, it was stuffy in the 
little room! Bond felt the cold sweat 
break out on his forehead. He put his 
hand up to his face, muttered something 
i itly about "that bloody moun- 
and gracefully crumpled to the 


floor. 


Tracy gazed at him wide-eyed when 
she met him outside Passport Control at 
Munich airport, but she waited until 
they were inside the litte Lancia before 
she burst into tears. “What have they 
been doing to you?” she said through her 
sobs. “What have they been doing to you 
now?” 

Bond took her in his arms. "It's all 
right, Tracy. I promise you. These are 
only cuts and bruises, like a bad ski fall. 


160 Now don't be a goose. They could hap- 


pen to anyone.” He smoothed back her 
hair and took out his handkerchief and 
labbed at her eyes. 

She took the handkerchief from him 
and laughed through her tears. "Now 
you've ruined my cye-black. And I put 
it on so carefully for you.” She took out 
her pocket mirror and carefully wiped 
away the smudges. She said, “It's so silly. 
But I knew you were up to no good. As 
soon as you said you were going off for a 
few days to dean up something instead 
of coming to me, I knew you were going 
to get into more trouble. And now Marc- 
Ange has telephoned and asked me if 
Ive scen you. He was very mysterious 
and sounded worried. And when I said I 
hadn't, he just rang off. And now there's 
this story in the papers about Piz Gloria. 
And you were so guarded on the tele- 
phone this morning. And from Zürich. I 
knew it all tied up." She put back her 
mirror and pressed the self-starter. “АП 
right. 1 won't ask questions. And I'm 
sorry 1 cried." She added fiercely, “But 
you arc such an idiot! You don't scem to 
think it matters to anyone. The way you 
go on playing Red Indians. It's so—so 
selfish.” 

Bond reached out and pressed her 
hand on the wheel. He hated “scenes.” 
But it was true what she said. He hadn't 
thought of her, only of the job. It never 
crossed his mind that anybody really 
cared about him. A shake of the head 
from his friends when he went, a few 
careful lines in the obituary columns of 
the Times, a momentary pang in a few 
girls’ hearts. But now, in three days' 
time, he would no longer be alone. He 
would be a half of two people. There 
wouldn't only be May and Mary Good- 
night who would tut-tut ovcr him when 
he came back from some job as a hospi- 
tal case. Now, if he got himself killed, 
there would be Tracy who would, at any 
rate, partially die with him, 

The little car wove expertly through 
the traffic. Bond said, "I'm sorry, Tracy. 
It was something that had to be done. 
You know how it is. I just couldn't back 
out of it. I really wouldn't have been 
happy here, like I am now, if I'd shirked 
it. You do see that, don’t you?" 

She reached out and touched his cheek, 
"I wouldn't love you if you weren't a 
pirate. I expect it's in the blood. I'll get 
used to it. Don't change. I don't want to 
draw your teeth like women do with 
their men. I want to live with you, not 
with somebody else. But don't mind if I 
howl like a dog every now and then. Or, 
rather, like a bitch. It's only love." She 
gave him a fleeting smile. "Die Welt, 
with the story in it, is behind the seat 
on the floor.” 

Bond laughed at her mind reading. 
"Damn you, Tracy." He reached for the 
paper. He had been aching to see what 
it said, how much had come out. 

There it was, down the central gutter 


between the first lead, inevitably on 
Berlin, and the second, equally inevita- 
bly, on the mirade of the latest German 
export figures. All it said, "from our 
correspondent,” date-lined St. Moritz, 
Was “MYSTERIOUS EXPLOSIONS ON PIZ 
GLORIA. Cable Railway to Millionaires’ 
Resort Destroyed.” And then a few lines 
repeating the content of the headings and 
saying that the police would investigate 
by helicopter at first light in the morn- 
ing. The next headline caught Bond's 
eye: “IN ENGLAND, POLIO SCARE.” And 
then, datelined the day before from 
London, a brief Reuter dispatch: “The 
nine girls held at various British airports 
on suspicion of having had contact with 
a possible polio carrier at Zürich airport, 
also an English girl, are still being held 
in quarantine. A Ministry of Health rep- 
resentative said that this was purely a 
routine precaution. A tenth girl, the 
origin of the scare, a Miss Violet O'Neil 
is under observation at Shannon Hospi- 
tal. She is a native of Eire." 

Bond smiled to himself. When they 
were pushed, the British could do this 
sort of thing supremely well. How much 
coordination had this brief report re- 
quired? To begin with, M. Then the 
C.LD., M.L5, Ag. and Fish, Н.М. Cus- 
toms, Passport Control, the Ministry of 
Health and the Government of Eire. All 
had contributed, and with tremendous 
speed and efficiency, And the end prod- 
uct, put out to the world, had been 
through the Press Association to Reuter’s. 
Bond tossed the paper over his shoulder 
and watched the kaiser yellow buildings 
of what had once been one of the most 
beautiful towns in Europe, now slowly 
being rebuilt in the same old kaiser 
yellow, file by in their postwar drabness. 
So the case was closcd, the assignment 
over! 

But still the Big One had got awayl 
They got to the hotel at about three 
o'dock. There was a message for Tracy 
to call Marc-Ange at the Maison Rouge 
in Strasbourg. They went up to her room 
and got through, Tracy said, “Here he 
is, Papa, and almost in one picce.” She 
handed the receiver to Bond. 

MarcAnge said, "Did you get him?" 

"No, damn it. He's in Italy now. At 
least I think he is. That was the way he 
went. How did you get on? It looked fine. 
from down below.” 

“Satisfactory. All accounted for.” 

“Gone?” 

“Yes. Gone for good. There was no 
trace of your man from Zürich. I lost 
two. Our friend had left a surprise in his 
filing cabinet. That accounted for Che- 
Ché. Another one wasn't quick enough. 
"That is all. The trip back was entertain- 
ing. I will give you the details tomorrow. 
1 shall travel tonight in my sleeping car. 
You know?" 

“Yes, By the way, what about the girl- 
friend, Irma?” 


“There was no sign of her. Just as well. 
It would have been difficult to send her 
away like the others.” 

"Yes. Well, thanks, MarcAnge. And 
the news from England is also good. See 
you tomorrow." 

Bond put down the receiver. Tracy 
had discrectly retired to the bathroom 
and locked the door. She now called, 
"Can 1 come out?" 

“Two minutes, darling.” Bond got on 
to Station M. His call was expected. He 
arranged to visit the Head of Station, a 
man he knew slightly, called Lieutenant 
Commander Savage, in an hour's time. 
He released Tracy and they made plans 
for the evening, then he went along to 
his room. 

His suitcase had been unpacked and 
there was a bowl of crocuses beside his 
bed. Bond smiled, picked up the bowl 
and placed it firmly on the window sill. 
Then he got out of his stinking ski 
clothes, had a quick shower, complicated 
by having to keep his dressings dry, 
changed into the warmer of the two dark- 
blue suits he had brought with him, sat 
down at the writing desk and jotted down 
the headings of what he would have to 
put on the teleprinter to M. Then he put 
his dark-blue raincoat and went down 
into the street and along to the Odeons 
Platz. 

(If he had not been thinking of other 
things, he might have noticed the woman 
on the other side of the street, a squat, 
toadlike figure in a frowsty dark-green 
loden cloak, who gave a start of surprise 
when she saw him sauntering along, 
hustled across the strcet through the 
traffic, and got on his tail. She was expert 
at what she was doing, and, when he 
went into the newish apartment house 
on the Odcons Platz, she didn't go near 
the door to verify the address, but waited 
on the far side of the square until he 
came out. Then she tailed him back to the 
Vier Jahreszeiten, took a taxi back to 
her flat and put in a long-distance call to 
the Metropole Hotel on Lake Como.) 

Bond went up to his room. On the 
writing desk an impressive array of dress. 
ings and medicaments had been laid out. 
He got on to Tracy and said, “What the 
hell is this? Have you got a passkey or 
something?" 

She laughed. “The maid on this floor 
has become a friend. She understands 
people who are in love. Which is more 
than you do. What do you mean by 
moving those flowers?” 

“They're lovely. I thought they looked 
prettier by the window and they will get 
some sun there, Now I'll make a deal. If 
you'll come along and change my dress- 
ings, I'll take you down and buy you a 
drink. Just one. And three for me. That's 
the right ratio between men and women. 
All right?’ 

“Wilco.” Her receiver went down. 


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161 


PLAYBOY 


It hurt like hell and Bond couldn't 
prevent the tears of pain from squeezing 
out of his eyes. She kissed them away. 
She looked pale at what she had seen. 
"You're sure you oughtn't to sce a 
doctor?” 

“I'm just seeing one. You did it beauti- 
fully. What worrics me is how we're 
going to make love. In the proper 
fashion, elbows are rather important for 
the man.” 

“Then we'll do it in an improper 
fashion. But not tonight, or tomorrow. 
Only when we're married. Till then ] am 
going to pretend Fm a virgin.” She 
looked at him seriously. “I wish I was, 
James. I am in a way, you know. People 
can make love without loving. 

“Drinks,” said Bond firmly. “We've 
got all the time in the world to talk 
about love.” 

“You are a pig,” she said indignantly. 
“We've got so much to talk about and all 
you think about is drink.” 

Bond laughed. He put an arm gingerly 
round her neck and kissed her long and 
passionately. He broke away. “There, 
that’s just the beginning of my conver- 
sation. We'll go on with the duller bits 
in the bar. Then we'll have a wonderful 
dinner in Walterspiel's and talk about 
rings and whether we'll sleep in twin 
beds or one, and whether I've got enough 
sheets and pillows for two, and other ex- 
citing things to do with being married. 

And it was in that way that the eve- 
ning passed and Bond's head reeled with 
all the practical feminine problems she 
raised, in high seriousness, but he was 
surprised to find that all this nest- 
building gave him a curious pleasure, a 
feeling that he had at last come to rest 
and that life would now be fuller, have 
more meaning, for having someone to 
share it with. Togetherness! What a 
curiously valid cliché it wasl 

The next day was occupied with 
hilarious meals with Marc-Ange, whose 
giant trailer had come during the night 
to take up most of the parking space 
behind the hotel, and with searching the 
antique shops for an engagement and a 
wedding ring. The latter was easy, the 
traditional plain gold band, but Tracy 
couldn’t make up her mind about the 
engagement ring and finally dispatched 
Bond to find something he liked himself 
while she had her last fitting for her 
“going-away” dress, Bond hired a taxi, 
and he and the taximan, who had been a 
Luftwaffe pilot during the war and was 
proud of it, tore round the town to- 
gether until, at an antique shop near 
the Nymphenburg Palace, Bond found 
what he wanted—a baroque ring in 
white gold with two diamond hands 
clasped. It was graceful and simple and 
the taximan was also in favor, so the 
deal was done and the two men went off 


162 to celebrate at the Franziskaner Keller, 


where they ate mounds of Weisswurst 
and drank four steins of beer each and 
swore they wouldn’t ever fight each other 
again. Then, happy with his last bachelor 
party, Bond returned tipsily to the hotel, 
avoided being embraced by the taximan 
and went straight up to Tracy's room 
and put the ring on her finger. 

She burst into tears, sobbing that it 
was the most beautiful ring in the world, 
but when he took her in his arms she 
began to giggle. “Oh, James, you are 
bad. You stink like a pig of beer and 
sausages. Where have you been?” 

When Bond told her, she laughed at 
the picture he painted of his last fling 
and then paraded happily up and down 
the room, making exaggeratedly gracious 
gestures with her hand to show off the 
ring and for the diamonds to catch the 
light. 

^I do." 

James Bond said the words at 10:30 in 
the morning of a crystal-clear New Year's 
Day in the British Consul General's 
drawing room. 

And he meant them. 

The Consul General had proved him- 
self, as British Consuls so often do, to be 
a man of efficiency and a man with a 
heart. It was a holiday for him and, as 
he confessed, he should have been re- 
covering from a New Year's Eve hang- 
over. And he had shaved many days off 
the formal period of notice, but that, he 
explained, he had occasionally, and im- 
properly, risked in his career if there 
were exceptional circumstances such as 
the imminent death of either party. “You 
both look healthy enough,” he had said 
when they first visited him together, "but 
that’s a nasty cut on your head, Com- 
mander Bond, and the Countess is per- 
haps looking a little pale. And I have 
taken the precaution of obtaining special 
dispensation from the Foreign Secretary, 
which I may say, to my surprise, was 
immediately forthcoming. So let's make 
it New Year's Day. And come to my 
home. My wife is hopelessly sentimental 
about these occasional jobs I have to do, 
and I know she’d love to meet you both.” 

"The papers were signed, and Head of 
Station M, who had agreed to act as 
Bond's best man and who was secretly 
longing to write a sensational note to the 
head of his London Section about all 
this, produced a handful of confetti and 
threw most of it over Marc-Ange, who 
had turned up in а olindre and a full 
suit of very French tails with, surpris- 
ingly, two rows of medals of which the 
last, to Bond's astonishment, was the 
Kings Medal for foreign resistance 
fighters. 

“1 will tell you all about it one day, 
my dear James,” he had said in answer 
to Bond’s admiring inquiry. “It was tre- 
mendous fun, I had myself what the 
Americans call a ball. And —" his voice 


sank to a whisper and he put one finger 
along his brown, sensitive nose— “I 
confess that I profited by the occasion to 
lay my hands on the secret funds of 
a certain section of the Abwehr. But 
Herkos Odonton, my dcar James! Herkos 
Odonton! Medals are so often just the 
badges of good luck. If I am a hero, it 
is for things for which no medals are 
awarded. And —" he drew lines with his 
fingers across his chest — "there is hardly 
room on the breast of this frac, which, 
by the way, is by courtesy of the excellent 
Galeries Barbés in Marseilles, for all that 
I am due under that heading.” 

The farewells were said and Bond sub- 
mitted himself, he swore for the last time, 
to Marc-Ange's embraces and they went 
down the steps to the waiting Lancia. 
Someone, Bond suspected the Consul's 
wife, had tied white ribbons from the 
corners of the windscreen to the grille of 
the radiator, and there was a small 
group of bystanders, passers-by, who had 
stopped, as they do all over the world, to 
sec who it was, what they looked like, 

‘The Consul General shook Bond by 
the hand. “I'm afraid we haven't man- 
aged to keep this as private as you'd 
have liked. À woman reporter came on 
from the Münchener Illustrierte this 
morning. Wouldn't say who she was. 
Gossip writer, 1 suppose. I had to give 
her the bare facts. She particularly 
wanted to know the time of the cere- 
mony, if you can call it that, so that they 
could send a cameraman along. At least 
you've been spared that. All still tight, I 
suppose. Well, so long and the best of 
luck." 

Tracy, who had elected to “go away" 
in a darkgray Tyroler outfit with the 
traditional dark-green trimmings and 
staghorn buttons, threw her saucy moun- 
taineer’s hat with its gay chamois beard 
cockade into the back seat, climbed in 
and pressed the starter. The engine 
purred and then roared softly as she went 
through the gears down the empty street. 
They both waved one hand out of a 
window and Bond, looking back, saw 
MarcAnge's cylindre whirling up into 
the ‘There was a small flutter of 
answering hands from the pavement and 
then they were round the comer and 
away. 

When they found the autobahn exit 
for Salzburg and Kufstein, Bond said, 
“Be an angel and pull in to the side, 
‘Tracy. I've got two things to do.” 

She pulled in onto the grass verge. 
The brown grass of winter showed 
through the thin snow. Bond reached for 
her and took her in his arms. He kissed 
her tenderly. “That’s the first thing, and 
I just wanted to say that I'll look after 
you, Tracy. Will you mind being looked 
after?” 

She held him away from her and 
looked at him. She smiled. Her eyes were 
introspective. “Thats what it means 


being Mr. and Mrs, doesn't it? "They 
don't say Mrs. and Mr. But you need 
looking aíter, too. Let's just look after 
each other." 

“All right. But I'd rather have my 
job than yours. Now, I simply must get 
out and take down those ribbons. I can't. 
stand looking like a coronation. D'you 
mind?" 

She laughed. "You like being anony- 
mous. I want everyone to cheer as we go 
by. I know you're going to have this car 
sprayed gray or black as soon as you get 
a chance. That's all right. But nothing's 
going to stop me wearing you like a flag 
from now on. Will you sometimes feel 
like wearing me like a flag?" 

“On all holidays and feast days." Bond 
got out and removed the ribbons. He 
looked up at the cloudless sky. The sun 
felt warm on his face. He said, “Do you 
think we'd be too cold if we took the 
roof down?” 

“No, let's. We can only see half the 
world with it up. And it's a lovely drive 
from here to Kitzbühel. We can always 
put it up again if we want to." 

Bond unscrewed the two butterfly nuts 
and folded the canvas top back behind 
the seats. He had a look up and down 
the autobahn. There was plenty of traf- 
fic. At the big Shell station on the round- 
about they had just passed, his eye was 
caught by a brightred open Maserati 
being tanked up. Fast job. And a typical 
sporty couple, a man and a woman in 
the driving seat — white dust coats and 
linen helmets buttoned under the chin. 
Big dark-green talc goggles that obscured 
most of the rest of the faces. Usual Ger- 
man speedster’s uniform. Too far away 
to see if they were good-looking enough 
for the car, but the silhouette of the 
woman wasn't promising. Bond got in 
beside Tracy and they set off again down 
the beautifully landscaped road. 

They didn't talk much. Tracy kept at 
about 80 and there was wind roar. That 
was the trouble about open cars. Bond 
glanced at his watch. 11:45. They 
would get to Kufstein at about one. 


"There was a splendid Gasthaus up the 
winding street toward the great castle. 
Here was a tiny lane of pleasure, full of 
the heart-plucking whine of zither music 
and the gentle melancholy of Tyrolean 
yodelers. It was here that the German 
tourist traditionally stopped after his 
day's outing into cheap Austria, just out- 
side the German frontier, for a last giant 
meal of Austrian food and wine. Bond 
put his mouth up close to Tracy's ear and 
told her about it and about the other 
attraction at Kufstein — the most imag- 
inative war memorial, for the 1914-18 
war, ever devised. Punctually at midday 
every day, the windows of the castle are 
thrown open and a voluntary is played on 
the great organ inside. It can be heard 
for kilometers down the valley between 
the giant mountain ranges for which Kuf- 
stein provides the gateway. “But we shall 
miss it. It's coming up for 12 now." 

“Never mind," said Tracy, "I'll make 
do with the zithers while you guzzle your 
beer and schnapps.” She turned in to the 
righthand fork leading to the underpass 
for Kufstein, and they were at once 
through Rosenheim and the great white 
peaks were immediately ahead. 

The traffic was much sparser now and 
there were kilometers where theirs was 
the only car on the road that arrowed. 
away between white meadows and larch 
copses, toward the glittering barrier 
where blood had been shed between war- 
ting armies for centuries. Bond glanced 
behind him. Miles away down the great 
highway was a speck of red. The 
Maserati? They certainly hadn't got 
much competitive spirit if they couldn't 
catch the Lancia at 80! No good having 
a car like that if you didn't drive it so as 
to lose all other traffic in your mirror. 
Perhaps he was doing them an injustice. 
Perhaps they too only wanted to motor 
quietly along and enjoy the day. 

Ten minutes later, Tracy said, “There's 
a red car coming up fast behind. Do you 
want me to lose him?” 

“No,” said Bond. “Let him go. We've 
got all the time in the world.” 


Now he could hear the rasping whine 
of the eight cylinders. He leaned over to 
the left and jerked a laconic thumb for- 
ward, waving the Maserati past. 

Тһе whine changed to a shattering 
roar. The windscreen of the Lancia dis- 
appeared as if hit by a monster fist. Bond 
caught a glimpse of a taut, snarling 
mouth under a syphilitic nose, the flash 
eliminator of some automatic gun being 
withdrawn, and then the red car was 
past and the Lancia was going like hell 
off the verge across a stretch of snow апа 
smashing a path through a young copse. 
Then Bond’s head crashed into the 
windscreen frame and he was out. 

When he came to, a man in the khaki 
uniform of the Autobahn Patrol was 
shaking him. The young face was stark 
with horror. “Was ist denn geschehen? 
Was ist denn geschehen?" 

Bond turned toward Tracy. She was 
lying forward with her face buried in the 
ruins of the steering wheel. Her pink 
scarf had come oft and the bell of golden 
hair hung down and hid her face. Bond 
put his arm round her shoulders, across 
which the dark patches had begun to 
fiower. 

He pressed her against him. He looked 
up at the young man and smiled his 
reassurance. 

“It's all right,” he said in a clear voice 
as if explaining something to a child. 
"It's quite all right. She's having а rest. 
Well be going on soon. There's no 
hurry. You see —" Bond's head sank 
down against hers and he whispered into 
her hair — "you sec, we've got all the 
time in the world.” 

The young patrolman took a last 
scared look at the motionless couple, 
hurried over to his motorcycle, picked up 
the hand microphone and began talking 
urgently to the rescue headquarters. 


This is the last installment of a three- 
part serialization of Ian Fleming’s new 
novel, “On Her Majesty's Secret Service.” 


PLAYBOY 


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(continued from page 111) 
herewith offer our own vest-pocket guide 
to social and sartorial groomsmanship for 
the rite-minded male. The several styles 
of masculine matrimon —each 
with its own particular proprieties— 
have all been designed and designated 
for certain hours, seasons, settings and 
ceremonies. For example, should the 
dreamy-eyed partner insist on a formal 
church wedding taking place before 
six P.M., the classically correct garb for the 
groom is an Oxford-gray or black cutaway 
coat, black-and-gray striped trousers, 
single- or double-breasted formal waist- 
coat in gray or black (white in summer), 
formal shirt with plain or pleated front 
and separate starched collar — either the 
preferred wing style with modestly pa 
terned black-and-white, gray or silvery 
silk ascot, or the turndown model with 
a comparably conservative four-in-hand 
necktie; plain-toed black calf Oxfords or 
slip-ons; garter-length black silk hose; 
suede or nylon gloves to match the vest; 
pearl stickpin; and gray silk topper. 
Either a tranquilizer or a stiff bracer 
before the ceremony is suggested to rein- 
force pre-nuptial euphoria. 

A formal wedding after dark, however, 
demands the prepossessing dignity of the 
full-dress suit: black or midnightblue 
tail coat; satin- or grosgrain-striped trou- 
sers to match the facing of the lapels; 
white bow tie and single- or double- 
breasted waistcoat in white piqué or 
bird's-eye — a small, diamond-weave fab- 
ric; formal shirt with plain or pleated 
starched front; plain-toed Oxfords or 
pumps in black patent leather or highly 
polished calfskin; white nylon, kid or 
capeskin gloves; all crowned by the im- 
peccable black silk topper. 

The sartorial drill for а semiformal 
affair (henceforth, for the groom, a single- 
entendre word) is equally elegant, if 
somewhat less ceremonious. A daytime 
coupling requires a short black sack coat 
or stroller jacket to stand in stylishly for 
the cutaway, and the black or gray-and- 
black striped formal trousers are teamed 
with a pearl-gray waistcoat, cotton br 
cloth formal shirt with medium-spread 
collar, and ultraconservative gray-black 
four-in-hand silk necktie. 

After-dark semiformal nuptials call for 
the black or blue-black dinner jacket 
with satin- or grosgr: ced lapels, 
tailored formal trousers, matching black 
bow tie and cummerbund or evening vest, 
soft-front formal shirt with pointed col- 
lar, black onyx or darkgray mother-of- 
pearl studs and cuff links. Formal hose, 
shoes and black Homburg or derby are 
specified for daytime or evening rit 
the white dinner jacket and natura 
toned Panama are alternates for warm- 
weather wear before or after sundown. 


Should the young eligible choose not 
to ban the banns, he should hearken 
to the following suggestion: avoid the 
stuffily formal wedlam and do as many 
modern urbanites are doing. Choose a 
gracious living room in a spacious city 
penthouse or the garden of a comfortably 
informal country home over that of nc 
plus ultra formal nuptials. In this relaxed 
setting, where he'll feel less of a stranger 
at his own fete, the etiquette of appro- 
priate attire is fashionably casual. The 
groom's garb is customarily an Ivy-cut 
black or navyblue single-breasted suit 
with subtly striped or patterned tie of 
gray or blue silk, broadcloth shirt with 
French cuffs and medium-spread collar, 
plain-toed black Oxfords and gray or 
black felt fedora. In the setting of a sum- 
mer wedding in exurbia, by contrast, the. 
dasic yachting outfit is considered 
regulation raiment: single-breasted navy 
blazer (with conventional, rather than 
metal, buttons), immaculate white flan- 
nels, shirt, shoes and socks, understated 
fourin-hand tie and straw fedora or 
jaunty boater with discreetly patterned 
band. For anyseason nuptials in milder 
climates, the single-breasted white tropi- 
cal-weight suit is sometimes substituted. 

Jt is patently untrue that the best man 
can be distinguished from the others only 
at nudist nuptials, Actually, the best man, 
as well as the ushers and the partners’ 
fathers, emulate the groom’s attire in 
every essential — yet they retain enough 
subtle differentiation in detailing to pre- 
vent the processional from resembling the 
tux-clad dance line in a vintage Warner 
Brothers musical. The best man and 
ushers, for example, ordinarily adorn 
their buttonholes with white carnations, 
while the groom takes his boutonniere 
from the center of the bride's bouquet. 
lt is also customary, if cutaways and 
stroller jackets are the order of the wed- 
ding day, for the ushers to be uniformly 
outfitted in the same style with a slightly 
contrasting fabric, uouser stripe or mode 
of neckwear. Male guests not in the wed- 
ding party have the option of attend- 
ing similarly attired; or in dark-blue, 
Oxford-gray or black business suits for 
a daytime ceremony; or in black din- 
ner jackets for a formal or semiformal 
evening ceremony. In cases where the 
wedding party disbands following an 
afternoon wedding and reconvenes later 
a reception beginning after six F.A, 
it's proper for everyone to change into 
appropriate evening clothes; if the re- 
ception gets underway immediately after 
the ceremony, however — even after the 
official onset of evening — no change is 
required. 

In order to allow adequate time for 
outfitting — and for the other logistics of 
preparation for even the simplest of cere- 
monies — the groom usually selects both 


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ushers and best man at least eight weeks 
before the wedding. Ushers are chosen for 
their demeanor and manner as well as for 
kinship and friendship. There should be 
enough of them to seat all the guests 
without undue delay; in any case, the 
number should be an cven one, equal 
both to the occasion and to the number 
of bridesmaids. Though their actual 
function at a home ceremony is little 
more than honorary, those called upon 
to usher at a church wedding will be 
expected to discharge their traditional 
duties with cordiality and dispatch. 
Armed with a list of guests to be seated 
in reserved pews, they should station 
themselves to the left of the door inside 
the church, ready to greet and seat each 
new arrival without bottlenecking. Un- 
recognized guests are asked their names 
and familial affiliation — friend of the 
groom or bride—so that they may be 
seated correctly, on the left for the bride, 
on the right for the groom. Each lady is 
escorted to her place. 

In ancient times the best man was 
prized mainly for his brawn and bravery 
in fending off the bride’s male relatives 
while the groom made off with his cap- 
tive conquest. Today, less muscle and 
more tact are required of him. Tradition- 
ally, he is the brother of the groom or 
bride — the eldest or next eldest if there 
are more than one. In the absence of any 
immediate male relative, one of the 
groom's closest friends should be asked 
to serve in this capacity. The best man 
should be a capable executive and coor- 
dinator, as he'll bc expected to procure 
ties and gloves for the ushers; supervise 
the wedding rehearsal; lay out the 
groom's wardrobe on the wedding day 
(with the marriage license in the groom's 
coat pocket); arrange for the arrival of 
the ushers at their stations in plenty of 
time; install the groom in the vesting 
room 30 minutes before the ceremony 
(so that the bride isn't subjected to the 
banal fate of the musical heroine who 
was left “waiting at the church”); have 
a flask of brandy at the ready; secrete 
the wedding ring safely in a vest pocket 
for handy access at the proper moment 
during the ceremony; and finally escort 
the maid or matron of honor in the 
recessional. 

Only one major matrimonial function, 
apart from his voluntary canter up the 
bridal path, is delegated to the groom. If 
he feels inclined to commemorate the 
culmination of his single years according 
to tradition, he will throw a bachelor 
party for his groomsmen two or three 
nights before the match is finally struck. 
This last celibation may be held either 
in his apartment or in the private dining 
room of a club or restaurant. Whether 
decorous or uproarious, the marry- 
making is climaxed by the presentation 


of gold or silver mementos from the 
groom, and finally by the traditional 
champagne toast to the bride — each 
man stands, drains his glass and cus- 
tomarily replaces it on the table. If the 
ceremonial urge to smash the stemware 
proves irresistible, however, many res- 
taurants will supply inexpensive glasses 
for the occasion. ‘The host pays for the 
breakage, as well as for the dinner itself. 

His total bill of rites will also include 
the engagement and wedding rings, the 
marriage license, the bride's bouquet, 
flowers for the church, gloves and. neck- 
ties for the ushers and the contribution 
to the clergyman. By way of comfort, he 
can remind himself that the entire cost 
of the wedding, the reception (if any), 
the bridal gown, the dowry and the 
trousscau is borne by the bride's parents. 
A boon for the bride—and by exten- 
sion, for the groom — is bestowed by the 
ushers before the ceremony, either as 
small individual remembrances or as one 
major gift from them all: something 
fitting and functional for their future 
home. The wedding guests should be no 
less thoughtful in their choice of gifts, 
which — conventionally, though not nec- 
essarily, silver ~ should be personalized 
without being intimate, original without 
being eccentric, decorative without being 
nonutilitarian, In bestowing their best 
wishes on the bride and groom in the 
receiving line, the guests necd not strive 
diligently for originality and aptness of 
thought, nor should they cause a traffic 
jam by indulging in loquacity en route. 
Simple “Congratulations” will do for 
the groom, and “Best wishes” for the 
bride. 

While felicitations are in progress, the 
best man — who does not join the others 
in the receiving line— dispatches the 
lastminute details preparatory to the 
couple's departure: parking their geta- 
way car near a convenient exit; loading 
their luggage in the trunk; and attempt- 
ing to safeguard both from prankster 
monkeyshines. He then returns indoors 
to propose the first toast to the bride 
and groom at the bridal table and to 
read congratulatory telegrams to the 
wedding party. And when the time ar- 
rives for the newlyweds to depart, he 
again valets as the groom changes into 
street clothes; presents him with car 
keys, plane tickets, traveler's checks, etc.; 
rounds up the parents to wave the 
couple on their way; and finally clears 
a path for the bride and groom. 

‘As you can see, we have skipped the 
ceremony itself. Its protocol is dictated 
by time and custom. Matrimony, like 
any one-way voyage, is carefully weighed 
before it is undertaken, but once ma- 
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passed, however mutually opposed they 
have been.” 

The result of this broad-based ap- 
proach has been the emergence of what 
can be termed eclectic specialists — per- 
formers who, after exploring many seg- 
ments of the folk heritage, have decided 
they can best fill their own needs from 
one or more particular styles. The New 
Lest City Ramblers, for example, have 
become expert in the repertoire and 
styles of such recording country bands 
of the 1920s as the Skillet Lickers, the 
Fruit Jar Drinkers, the Buckle-Busters 
and Dr. Smith’s Champion Horse-Hair 
Pullers. Until fairly recently, to most 
ethnicists among folklorists, these antic 
models were dismissed simply as carly 
illustrations of commercialized folk. But 
the New Lost City Ramblers — along 
with many of their contemporaries — 
have discovered that if a citybilly is to 
function on the belief that folk music 
is not static, he must widen his defini- 
tion of the folk music of the past as 
well as that of the present. 

John Cohen, a New Yorker who is one 
of the Ramblers, has pointed out how 
citybillies can contribute to making folk 
traditions more meaningful: "In our 
anderings through old-time music, we 
had the advantage of current musi- 

cal developments as a point of perspec- 
tive on the old music. In listening to 
the many diverse musical sounds of 
country music from the Twenties and 
‘Thirtics— we know which ideas lasted 
and developed into today's music, which 
styles were a carry-over from а still 
earlier period, which died out or disap- 
peared. From all these a clear sequence 
is emerging. More and more we find 
certain attitudes in today’s country musi- 
cians which will be considered ‘folk’ 20 
years from now, just as some of the com- 
mercial singers of 30 years ago are con- 
sidered ‘traditional’ toda 
Other city folk have looked for stimu- 
lation to such more recent strains of 
mountain music as the bluegrass bands, 
composed of such virtuosi as the Foggy 
Mountain Boys led by Lester Flatt and 
Earl Scruggs who specialize in swirling, 
polyphonic improvisations on unampli- 
fied string instruments. It was Earl 
Scruggs from Flint Hill, North Carolina, 
who revolutionized Southern banjo play- 
ing by developing a three-finger picking 
style — instead of the conventional two- 
finger, claw-hammer way of playing — 
which made possible a much swifter, 
smoother and more melodious banjo 
style. Now there are such city masters of 
the Scruggs technique as Bob Yellin, a 
product of New York's High School of 
Music and Art and City College. Yellin 
168 taught himself the Scruggs approach so 


PLAYBOY 


FOLK,FOLKUM (continued from page 98) 


well that he has twice won a purple 
ribbon on the home grounds of the sur- 
viving country musicians—the annual 
Old Time Fiddlers Convention in Union 
Grove, North Carolina. 

Yellin now records as a member of the 
Greenbriar Boys, a city-based bluegrass 
band which, like the New Lost City 
Ramblers, has formed its own style after 
a thorough absorption of the traditions 
of an initially alien territory and people. 
Yellin, it should also be noted as an 
index of the scope of some citybillies, is 
also a specialist in microwave electronics. 

The searching urban folk performers 
do not, incidentally, limit their quarry- 
ing to records and books. Some still go 
out into the field to corral the few re- 
maining aged informants in the South 
whose families have transmitted variants 
of British ballads and archaic dancing 
tunes for generations, There is also a 
growing move to invite the authentic 
folk to the city for occasional concerts 
sponsored by the new gencration of 
apprentices. Among such visitors in the 
past couple of years have been Horton 
Barker, a blind ballad singer from Chil- 
howie, Virginia, who is in his 70s, and 
Frank Proffitt, a venerable carpenter 
from Reese, North Carolina. In a few 
stances, a member of a rural singing 
family has settled up North, become a 
professional folk singer, and introduced 
city colleagues to a wealth of vintage 
material. A primary example is Kentucky- 
bom Jean Ritchie, an extraordinarily 
lucent animator of the Anglo-Saxon bal- 
lad traditi 

Occasionally a citybilly will pattern 
himself first after a single performer 
rather than a regional style. Jack Elliott 
(Elliott Charles Adnopoz) was born in 
Brooklyn 31 years ago. While still in his 
teens, Elliott attached himself to Woody 
Guthrie, hoboing around the country 
with the Oklahoman. Eventually, Elliott 
came to look, talk, walk and sound like 
Guthrie. In recent years, Elliott has 
found his own way of folk expression, 
ranging through twanging mountain 
songs, his own adaptations of Guthrie's 
talking blues, Negro material and British 
ballads with a wry assurance and the 
thrust of an unmistakable individualist. 

An intriguing project for further ex- 
pansion of the citybillies range of sources 
has been advanced by Alan Lomax in 
Sing Out, a bimonthly organ of the 
urban folk movement. “The truth is,” 
Lomax challenged his readers, “that the 
Southern mountains, though there is still 
much to be discovered there, have re- 
ceived a disproportionate amount of 
attention, The great and almost entirely 
unknown field in America is situated 
precisely in the areas where most of the 


young singerstudents live. That is, in 
the big cities of the United States—in 
the folk-song traditions of the many non- 
English-speaking minorities in this coun- 
try... . We know something about the 
folk musics of the Spanish people of 
the Southwest, the French of Canada, the 
Germans of Pennsylvania and the Yid- 
dish group of New York; but in spite of 
many folk festivals and some work by 
scholars, little is known about the mu 
cal traditions of millions of other Ame 
cans who come from Italian, Hungarian, 
Wend, Syrian and scores of other bacl 
grounds. . . . It remains for the young 
professional of this generation to tell 
the whole story of our folk culture. I can 
promise you that by collecting and mas- 
tering some neglected corner of the vast 
world of folk song, you will find the key 
to the whole field.” 

In any case, while eclectic specialists 
such as Bob Dylan, Jack Elliott, the New 
Lost City Ramblers and Joan Baez tke 
over the foreground of the most viable 
sections of the city folk movement, such 
earlier professional minstrels as Burl 
Ives and Josh White are now regarded 
by the citybillies as of only peripheral 
interest. mainly as an indication of the 
unformed tastes of urban folk audiences 
20 years ago. Ives spends most of his 
time now as an actor and appalls the 
coffeehouse hipsters by making such 
popular hits as A Little Bitty Tear. 
White has long been a prisoner of his 
own style, substituting rhetorical trick- 
ery for emotional substance. Moreover, 
as The Little Sandy Review caustically 
observes, “White may well be the only 
folk singer in America who hasn't 
learned a new song in the past decade.” 

White, as a matter of fact, was one of 
the first conscious “popularizers.” When 
ex-convict Huddie Ledbetter (Leadbelly) 
came north in the 1930s, he startled 
folklorists and the tiny nonspecialist 
audience for folk music by his raw 
power. And, as Alan Lomax has ob- 
served, more than any other singer, 
Leadbelly demonstrated to those who 
would listen “that America had living 
folk music— swamp primitive, angry, 
freighted with great sorrow and great 


joy.” 

But Leadbelly, Josh White was con- 
vinced, was far too unpolished for the 
then barely beginning nightclub circuit 
for folk performers. Accordingly, White 
smoothed out Negro folk material and 
in attracting a broader audience than 
Leadbelly, he became the forerunner of 
such latter-day experts in glossing folk 
songs zs Harry Belafonte and the King- 
ston Trio. “I wanted people to under- 
stand what I was singing,” White has 
explained. "Most city audiences just 
couldn't make out what Leadbelly was 
saying.” In the process, however, of care- 


“What are ‘morals’? Another one of your inventions?" 


PLAYBOY 


170 folk singer" is 


public, White became seduced by his 
audience as the Weavers, to a lesser 
extent, have been in recent years. “The 
trouble with the Weavers and the King- 
ston Trio," says Ewan MacColl, the 
brawny Scottish folk singer and collec 
tor, “is that they've mixed it all with 
molasses and it doesn't come out very 
tasty." 

Significantly, an increasing audience 
ists now in such rooms as Gerdes Folk 
City in New York, the Ash Grove in Los 
Angeles, the Second Fret in Philadel- 
ia and occasionally the Gate of Horn 
ago for folk music without mo- 
lasses. These listeners are becoming sub- 
ficiently grounded in comparative folk 
history and techniques to enjoy both 
ethnic performers such as blues singer 
Lightnin’ Hopkins and the more un- 
compromising of the citybillies The 
popularizers and the sleek folk "acts" 
meanwhile work the posh supper clubs 
such as the Blue Angel and the hungry i 
and so far have the majority of the col- 
lege-concert bookings. A few performers 
are able to straddle the differing camps. 
The Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem, 
for example, a roaringly irreverent quar- 
tet of Irish singers, have the natural 
showmanship to hold the chic audi 
but are also sufficiently authentic and 
unbowdlerized to retain the loyalty of 
the citybillies. 

There is yet another direction — mak- 
ing "art" music of folk songs — and the 
most accomplished craftsman in that 
vein is Richard DyerBennet. It is his 
credo that "the city-dweller who wishes 
to sing folk songs professionally has ac- 
cess to training in the arts of poetry and 
music and he should make use of all 
means to cultivate the conscious art of 
minstrelsy.” The objection to Dyer- 
Bennet among some citybillies is that in 
thus refining folk style, he diminishes 
the passion and immediacy of the orig- 
inal material. 

Up to a point, the citybillics do agree 
with Dycr-Bennet that “civilization has 
doomed the true folk singer who by defi- 
nition depends on direct oral tradition 
for his music. Fortunately, there is a 
vast treasury of the old songs in books 
and manuscripts and on recordings and 
this material will always be available to 
us.” 

Such city singers as Bob Dylan, Jack 
Elliott and the New Lost City Ramblers 
part sharply however, with Dyer- 
Bennct's implication that folk music is, 
therefore, no longer a living process, 
that it is an ossified artifact to be dis- 
sected by musicologists or rubbed to a 
high polish by such remarkably disci- 
plined artisans as himself. The “true 
ndeed disappearing, but 


the citybillies emphatically support such 
dissident scholars and folklorists as 
Charles Seeger, former president of the 
American Society for Comparative Mu- 
sicology, and the father of Pete, Peggy 
and Mike Seeger — the last being a mem- 
ber of the New Lost City Ramblers and 
illiant instrumentalist in the country 


ion, 
Vatch the concept labeled ‘the 
folk" says Charles Seeger. "Rather 


than say ‘the folk is dead’ and attempt 
to keep folk singing alive as something 
quaint, antique and precious, let us say 
‘the folk is changing—and its songs 
with it’... Better than to lament the 
loss of ancient gold will be to try to un- 
derstand its permutation into another 
metal which, though it might be baser, 
may still surprise us in the end by being 
nobler. 

Whether the ancient gold will indeed 
be transmuted into something nobler is 
usly open to question, but the 
ht of current evidence is shifting to 
the side of those performers and lis- 
teners who are convinced that even 
though the folk—in the traditional 
sense — are dying, folk music can con- 
tinue to live boisterously and change 
more unpredictably than ever before. 

Looking at the future of folk music 
from a worldwide perspective, the Brit- 
ish folklorist and singer A. L. Lloyd 
points out: "There is a crisis in folk 
song, a crisis reaching to every corner of 
the world where traditional music is to 
be found alive. The animal is changing 
its shape; its behavior is no longer easily 
predictable; the watching folklorist, at 
least in our part of the world, is filled 
with dubiety, perplexity, dismay. Even 
in regions where folk music seemed to 
have remained unchanged for centuries, 
suddenly innovation begins to have 
more prestige than tradition. The once 
‘classical’ balladry of the Appalachians 
is transformed by hillbilly and the rock. 
In the Balkans, the great spring ritual 
dances become a stage show rehearsed 
after factory hours. . . . The opening of 
a bus route to a Macedonian village may 
bring an entirely new musical style into 
the neighborhood. The sudden 
ability of unfamiliar instruments fac 
tory-made guitars in the Congo, alto 
saxophones in rural Westem Rumania 
— may lay the foundation for other new 
folk-music styles." 

And in this country, the citybillies 
multiply, choosing their guides from a 
wide spectrum of stylists — from Library 
of Congress informants to bluegrass 
bands at the Grand Ole Opry. As а few 
among them evolve into strikingly per- 
sonal performers, some try hard to with- 
stand the temptations to dilute their 
styles in order to make it big. “The 
public may demand this and that,” says 


avail 


Joan Baez, “but if you don't want to 
give in, you don’t have to.” 

Looking on, meanwhile, with increas- 
ingly keen interest are the new collec- 
tors, the functionaries of show business. 
A year ago, through Columbia, where 
he records, word of Bob Dylan came to 
the Music Corporation of America, then 
still a talent agency. A member of that 
organization's dark-suited, coolly profi- 
cient staff set up a Dylan audition for the 
Ed Sullivan show. Dylan, who d pre- 
viously turned down an evening's work 
at the Blue Angel because he felt alien 
in the room, was uneasy. All the way up. 
from Greenwich Village, where he lives, 
to the CBS-TV Production Center on 
West 57th Street, Dylan mumbled varia- 
tions on, “I don't like to push my music 
on anyone.” 

Dylan's discomfort increased as he 
passed the cop on the door at the CBS 
entrance. The guard eyed the rumpled, 
tieless youngster with evident distaste 
and suspicion, staring after him until 
the elevator door closed. In a huge re- 
hearsal hall, men sat and listened to 
Dylan talking the blues, harshly mou 
ing over lost wanderers, and singing 
gly of the seduction of Preity 
Pcggy-O. They were obviously bewil- 
dered by his raw, craggy style. 

"He's sure different," said one non- 
committally. “Yeah,” the other agreed 
with care. As Dylan prepared to leave, 
his escort from MCA conferred briefly 
with the Sullivan men. Dylan and the 
agent left the building, Dylan now star- 
ing as hard at the cop as the cop glared 


the agent told Dylan, 
hat they've never heard anyone like 
you before. They need time to decide 
what you are.” 

“Huh?” said Dylan. “I was right in 
front of them. They either like me or 
they don’t” 

“Irs not that simple," said the man 
from MCA. “They figure you're far out, 
but they don't know yet whether you're 
the kind of far out that sells.” 

“I guess they think I'm cute and 
funny," said Dylan, The man from 
MCA didn't answer. Dylan nodded 
goodbye and wandered down to 42nd 
Street to visit the flea circus and see the 
man from Borneo again. From there 
he proceeded to McGowan's Bar in the 
Village. “Well,” he told a friend after 
several drinks, “I've almost got myself 
revived, But I'm not going back up there 

gain. 

“They'll call you,” s 
“You w: 

“Maybe,” said Dylan. "But they ain't 
going to tell me what to sing." 

"Maybe not" the friend answered. 
“They may wait for you to start chang- 
ing by yourself. 

ü 


the friend. 


id 


QUEENS ONN NADER 


(continued from page 84) 

"And none taken!" said Timulty. 
"But, breathing the same air 10,000 
times makes the senses reel. So, as vou've 
noted, in that God-sent thr or four- 
second interv udience in its right 
mind beats it the hell out. And the best 
of the crowd is — 

“Doone,” | said, "Or Hoolihan. Your 
anthem sprinters!” 

They smiled at me. I smiled at them. 

We were all so proud of my intuition, 
that I bought them a round of Guinness. 

"Here's to" — E lifted my glass— “the 
Connemara Runners —i 

"Right!" 

“The Galway Cinema Ramblers? The 
Waterford Shoes?” 

"Don't forget the Dear Patriots, and 
the finest outofthecountry cam. 
them all, the Queen's Own Evaders,” 
said Timulty 

"Let me guess,” said 1. "With a name 
like that, the Evaders must be Irish liv- 
ing in London, who run extra fast so 
as not to be in the theater when God. 
Save the Queen is pl 

Licking the suds from our lips, we re- 
garded cach other with benevolence. 

“Now,” said Timulty, his voice husky 
with emotion, his eyes squinted off at the 

this very moment, 100 yards 
down the hill in the dark of the Grafton 
Street theater, seated in the fourth row 
cen 


he man's ceric.” Hoolihan tipped 
cap to me. 
Doone's there all right, seeing the 
ma Durbin fillum brought back by 
the asking. And in just 10 minutes the 
cinema will be letting the customers out. 
Now, if we should send Hoolihan here 
in for a speed and agility test, Doone 
would be quick to the challenge.” 

"He's not at the show just for the 
anthem sprint, is һе?” 

"Good grief, no. It's the Deanna Dur- 
bin songs. Doone plays piano here, for 
sustenance. But, у noting the 
entrance of his competitor Hoolihan, 
who will be conspicuous by his late 
arrival just across the aisle, well, Doone 
would know what was up. Saluting each 
other, they would listen to the dear 
music until Finis hove in sight. 

"Sure —" Hoolihan danced lightly on 
his tocs, flexing his clbows. “Let me at 
him, let me at him! 

Timulty peered close at me. "Sir, I 
observe your bewildered disbelief. How 

it, you ask, full-grown men have time 
for such as this? Well, time is the one 
thing the Irish have in oversupply. With 
no jobs at hand, what's minor in your 
country must be made to look major 

n ours. We have never secn the ele- 
t, but we've learned a bug under 


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PLAYBOY 


172 


a microscope is the greatest beast on 
earth. So, while it hasn't left the Isles, 
the anthem sprint's a high-blooded sport. 
Now, introductions are in order. Here's 
Fogarty, exit-watcher supreme!" 

Fogarty jumped forward, dark eyes 
piercing left and right. 

"Nolan and Clannery, aislesuperin- 
tendent. judges!" 

"The two men, called, linked arms and 
bowed. 

"Clancy, timekeeper. And general 
spectators: O'Neill, Bannion and the 
Kelly boys, count ‘em! Come on!" 

I felt as if a vast streetcleaning ma- 
chine, one of those brambled monsters 
all mustache and scouring brush, had 
seized me and now floated me out down 
the hill toward the multiplicity of little 
blinking lights where the cinema lured 
us on. 

"Now listen to the rules!" shouted 
Timulty, hustling beside me. "The essen- 
tial thing is theaters, of course!” 

"Of course!" I yelled back. 

“There be the liberal, free-thinking 
theaters with grand aisles, grand lobbies, 
exits, and even grander, more spacious, 
latrines. Some with so much porcelain, 
the echoes alone put you in shock. Then 
there's the parsimonious mousetrap cin- 
emas with aisles that squeeze the breath 
from you, seats that knock your knees, 
and doors best sidled out of on your way 
to the сьм15 in the sweetshop across 
the alley. Each theater is carefully as- 
sessed before, during and after a sprint, 
so a man is judged by whether the cr- 
pets are worn and trip him, and if 
there's men and women en masse, or 
mostly men or mostly women to fight 
his way through. The worst, of course, 
is children at the flypaper matinees. The 
temptation with kids is to lay into them 
as you'd harvest hay, tossing them like 
windrows to left and right. So we've 
stopped that. Now mostly it's nights, 
here at the Grafton!” 

The mob stopped. The twinkling 
marquee lights sparkled in our eyes and 
flushed our checks rosy. 

“The ideal cinema,” sighed Fogarty. 

“Because . 


aisles are not too wide nor too narrow, 
its exits well-placed, the door ges 
oiled; the crowds a proper mixture of 
sporting-bloods and folk who mind to 
leap aside should a sprinter, squandering 
his energy, come vaulting up the aisl 

I had a sudden thought. "Do you— 
handicap your runners?" 

"Strange you'd speak of that. Some- 
times by shifting exits, when the old 
are too well known. Or scat one chap 
in the sixth, another in the third row. 
And if a man turns terrible feverish 


swift, we add the greatest known handi- 


cap of all— 

“Drink . I wondered. 

"What else? Doone, being flect, is a 
two-handicap ma Timulty 
flourished a bottle. in. Make 
Doone take two swigs. Big ones.” 

Nolan ran. 

Timulty pointed. “While Hoolihan, 
here, having already wandered through 
all Four Provinces of the pub this night, 
is amply weighted. Even all!” 

“Go now, Hoolihan," said Fogarty. 
“Let our money be a light burden on 
you. Burst out that exit, five minutes 
from now, victorious and first!" 

“Synchronize watches!” said Clancy. 

“Synchronize my back-behind," said 
Timulty. “Which of us has more than 
dirty wrists to stare at? You alone, 
Clancy, have the time. Hoolihan, in- 
side!" 

Hoolihan shook hands with all, as if 
leaving to tour the world. Waving, he 
vanished in cinema dark. 

Nolan came running back out with 
an empty bottle. 
one's handicapped.” 

“Good! Now, Clannery, Nolan, check 
and be sure the sprinters sit opposite 
each other in the fourth row, caps on, 
coats half buttoned, scarves furled." 

Nolan and Clannery ducked in. 

“Two minutes!” announced Clancy. 
"In two minutes it's ——" 

"Post time," I said. 

“You're a dear lad," admitted Tim- 
ulty. 

Nolan and Clannery hotfooted out. 


“АП set! Right seats, everything!" 

“'Tis almost over! You сап tell. 
Toward the end of any fillum," confided 
Clannery, "the music has a way of get- 
ting out of hand." 

“It’s loud," agreed Nolan. “Full or- 
chestra and chorus behind the singing 
maid. I must come for the entirety, to- 
morrow. Lovely.” 

"Is it?" said everyone. "What's the 
tune?" 

"Ah, off with the tune!" shouted Tim- 
ulty. "One minute to go and you ask the 
tune? Lay the bets. Who's for Doone, 
who Hoolihan: 

In the multitudinous jabbering and 
passing about of paper and shillings, I 
held out four bob, 

“Doone,” I said. 

"Without having seen him?" 

"A dark horse," I whispered. 

^Well said! Clannery, Nolan, inside, 
watch sharp there's no jumping the 
FINIS.” 

In went Clannery and Nolan, happy 
as boy-dogs. 

“Make an aisle; Yank, you over here, 
with me!" 

The men rushed to form a rough 
aisle on each side of the two closed 
main-exit doors. 

"Fogarty, lay your ear to the door!" 

Fogarty did; his eyes widened. 

“The damn music's extra loud!” 

One of the Kelly boys nudged his 
brother, “It will be over soon, Who- 
cver's to die is dying this moment. Who- 
cver's to live is bending over him." 

“Louder still!” Fogarty, eyes shut, 
head pressed to the panel, t i 
hands as if to adjust a ra 
The grand ta-ta that comes just as 
FINIS or хо jumps on screen!” 

“They're off!” І murmured. 

“Stand back!” cried Timulty. 

We all stared at the door. 

"There's the anthem! Tenshun!” 

We all stood erect, still staring. 

“I hear feet running!” gasped Fogarty. 

“Whoever it is had a good start before 
the anthem —" 

The door burst wide. 

Hoolihan plunged into view, smiling 
such a smile as only breathless victors 
know. 

"Hoolihan!" cried the winners. 

“Doone!” groaned the losers. "Where's 
Doone?” 

For, while Hoolihan was first, his con 
petitor was nowhere in the soon dis- 
persed and vanished crowd. 

“The idiot didn't come out the wrong 
door —— 

Timulty ventured into the empty 
lobby. 

“Doone?” 

No answer. 

Someone flung the GENIS-room door 
wide. 

“Doone?” 

Not an echo. 


"N 
s 


bd 


Playboy Club News 


VOL. II, NO. 35 


©1963 PLAYBOY CLUBS INTERNATIONAL 
DISTINGUISHED CLUBS IN MAJOR CITIES 


SPECIALEDITION 


YOUR ONE PLAYBOY CLUB KEY 
ADMITS YOU TO ALL PLAYBOY CLUBS 


CELEBS SHARE IN FUN AT PLAYBOY CLUBS 


CHICAGO—“Don't look now, but isn't that Danny Kaye 
at the next table?" Many keyholders were asking this 
question in the Chicago Club recently. The answer was 


Danny Kayerevels with Chicago Bunnies during thegala party he hosted at 
the Club for members of his revue, which premiered at the Opera House. 


ADVANTAGES FOR KEYHOLDERS 
UNDER EXPENSE-ACCOUNT TAX RULES 


Keyholders who entertain for 
business purposes will find that 
attending the Playboy Club 
helps them meet the new ex- 
pensc-account rules, 


PLAYBOY CLUB LOCATIONS 


Clubs Open — New York at 5 E. 
59th St.; Chicago at 116 E. Walton 
St; St. Louis at 3914 Lindell Blvd. 
New Orleans at 727 Rue Iberville: 
Phoenix at 3033 N. Central; Miami. 
at 7701 Biscayne Blvd. 


Locations Set —Los Angeles at. 
8580 Sunset Blvd.; San Francisco 
at 736 Montgomery St.; Detroit at 
1014 Е, Jefferson Ave; Baltimore. 
at 28 Light St. 


Next in Line—Washington, 
Dallas, Boston, Pittsburgh. 


Mortimer Caplin, Internal 
Revenue Service Commissioner, 
recently issued a statement in 
an attempt to assure the busi- 
ness community that the rules 
are much like last year's. 

Caplin said that in establish- 
ments, such as the Playboy 


Club, where eating and drinking 
takes place in an atmosphere 
“conducive to a business discus- 
sion, business need not actually 
be discussed.” 

Keyholders may also enter- 
tain customers in Playboy Club 
showrooms as long as the enter- 
taining “is directly preceding or 
following a substantial and bona 
fide business discussion," ac- 
cording to Caplin, 

Wives and business associ- 
ates! wives may accompany key- 
holders, and the check is deduct- 
ible. The Club provides re- 
ceipt forms and a monthly state- 
ment which serve as records. 

Keyholders who wish to en- 
tertain customers in the Playboy 
Club but can't be present them- 
selves can lend their keys. Such 
entertaining is also deductible 
under conditions described by 
the Government. The price of 
a key is also deductible in part 
if the key is used for good-will 
entertainment, 


yes. For Danny was a frequent 
visitor during the Chicago 
break-in of his road show. Other 
renowned guests in the Club 
during the same week included 
Edie Adams, Joey Bishop, Senor 
Wences, Ricardo Montalban, 
Don Adams and violinists Na- 
than Milstein and Isaac Stern. 

A cavalcade of notables passes 
through Playboy portals in each 
of the six Club cities daily. This 
celebrity parade sampler by 
leading columnists suggests an- 
other reason (in addition to the 
fine food, liquor and stunning 
Bunnies) for you to apply for 
key privileges today. 

Frank Farrell, New York 
World-Telegram and Sun: Two 
of the New York Playboy Club's 
most frequent visitors are 
Franchot Tone and Betsy von 
Furstenberg. But Betsy hastens 
to explain to all and sundry that 
her neighbor Franchot is the 
only escort her husband (Guy 
Vincent) will permit her to date 
when he's out of town... 
Rhonda Fleming dined in the 
Club's new plush VIP Room 
before shoving off to Brazil to 
make a picture. 

Irv Kupcinet, Chicago Sun- 
Times: Among those who gath- 
ered at the Playboy in the wee 
hours to watch the twist contest 
were Jerry Lewis, Connie (На- 
waüan Eye) Stevens, Chuck 
Connors, Donna Reed and 
hubby Tony Owen, and Roger 
Moore. And Moore, who will star 
in a new series titled Saint, 
danced like a sinner to win the 
twist championship, 


Bob Goddard, St. Louis 
Globe-Democrat: Here are just 
a few of the big wheels who 
have been dropping in at the 
St. Louis Playboy Club: Astro- 
naut Scott Carpenter, who, 
being a temperate man, was not 
in orbit at the Club... Marie 
Wilson looking as svelte as a 
Bunny, and Margaret Whiting. 


Denise Darcel exchanges gree! 
ings with a New York Bunny WI 
Peggy Cass takes in the sights. 


Howard Jacobs, New Or- 
leans Times-Picayune: Heads 
were turned the other night 
when visiting Debra Paget 
strolled into the New Orleans 
Playboy Club with radiant Mary 
Healy and Peter Lind Haycs. 

Vic Wilmot, Arizona Re- 
public: Actor Bruce Cabot cheer- 
ing a win ticket at Turf Para- 
dise then hurrying over to the 
Phoenix Playboy to watch the 
Bunnies place and show. 


ese eee eee шшш eee Hy 


p Te Flixboy Clubs internationar 
Је PLAYBOY Magazine, 232 E. Ohio Street, Chicago 11, Illinois 1 
1 Gentlemen: 1 
J| Here is my application for Key Privileges lo the Playboy Club. Enclosed is my 
check for $. (Playboy Club keys are $50 within а 75-mile adius Ш 
[thine and in the state of Florida Keys are $25 outside these areas) under | 
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=== سا 


PLAYBOY 


174 


abe in the manger." hissed Timulty. 
"Can it be he's broken a leg and is 
fallen in there somewhere with the mor- 
tal agonies?" 

“That's il!" 

"The island of men changed gravities 
and heaved now toward and through 
the inner door, down the aisle, I jump- 
ing in the air twice to see over the mob's 
head. It was dim in the vast theater. 
Doone!” 

At last we were bunched together near 
the fourth row on the aisle, exclaiming 
at what we saw. 

Doone, still seated, his hands folded, 
his eyes shut. 

Dead? 

None of that. 

A tear, large, luminous and beautiful, 
fell on his cheek. His chin was wet. It 
was sure he had been crying for some 
minutes. 

The men peered into his face, circling, 
leaning. 

“Doone, are ya sick? What?" 

“Ah, God," cried Doone. He shook 
himself to find the strength, somewhere, 
to speak. 

“Ah, God,” he said at last, “she has 
the voice of an angel.” 
ngel!!2" 

“That one up there.” He nodded. 

We all turned to stare at the empty 
silver screen. 

"Is it Deanna Durbin .. . ?” 

Doone sobbed. “The dear dead voice 
of me grandmother ——” 

"Your grandma's underside!" 
claimed Timulty. "She'd no such voice as 
that!" 

"You mean to say," I interrupted, "it 
was just the Durbin girl kept you from 
the sprint” 

“Just!” Doone blew his nose and 


ex- 


dabbed his eyes. “Just! Why, it would 
be sacrilege to bound from a cinema 
after such a recital. You might as well 
jump across the altar at a wedding or 
waltz about at a funeral!" 

"You could've at least warned us it 
was no contest,” said Timulty. 

"How could J? It just crept over me 
in a divine sickness. That last bit she 
sang, The Lovely Isle of Innisfrec, was 
it not, Clannery?" 

"What else did she sing?" asked Fo- 
garty. 

"What else did she sing?" cried Tim- 
ulty. "He's just lost half of us our day's 
wages and you ask what else she sang! 
Get off!" 

“Sure, it's money runs the world,” 
Doone agreed, seated there, closing up 


his eyes, “but it is music holds down 
the friction. 

"What's going on below?" cried 
somcone, abovc. 


A man leaned from the balcony, puff- 
ing а cigarette. 

“What's all the rouse?” 

“The projectionist," whispered Tim- 
ulty. Aloud: "Hello, Phil, darling! It's 
only the team. We've a bit of a problem 
here, Phil, in ethics, not to say aesthetics. 
We wonder if, well, could you run the 
anthem over?” 

"Run it over?!” 

‘The winners milled about, гаты 

“A lovely idea." Doone smiled at 
self. 

"Tren id Timulty, ай guile. “Ап 
act of God incapacitated Doone —" 

“А lOrhrun flicker from the olden 
days caught him by the short hairs is 
all" said one of the Kellys. 

“All!” protested Doone. 

“I think I handicapped him too 


“Before you, I always felt dirty . . .” 


much,” said Nolan, thinking back. 
the fair thing is——" Timnli 
unperturbed, looked to heaven. "Ph 
dear boy, also is the last recl of the 
Deanna Durbin fillum still there?" 
"It ain't in the Lanz," said Phil, 
smoking steadily. 
“What a wit the boy has! Now, Phil, 
could you just thread it back through the 
ine and give us the rms again, 


"Is that what you all want?" asked 
Phil. 

The thought of another contest was 
100 good to be passed. Slowly, everyone 
nodded. 

“All right!” Phil shouted. “A shilling 
on Hoolihan!" 

"The winners laughed and hooted; they 
looked to win again. The losers turned 
on their man: “Do you hear the insult, 
Doone? Stay awake, man! When the girl 
sings, dammit, go deaf! 

“There's no audience!" said Timulty, 
glancing about, “and without them 
there’s no obstacles, no real contest!” 

"Why," Fogarty blinked around, "let's 
all of us be the audience.” 

" Beaming, everyone threw him- 
self into a seat. 

"Pardon," 1 said. 
outside, to judge.” 

Everyone stiffened, turned to look 
at me in surprise. 

"Ah?" said Timulty. “Well. Nolan, 
outside!” 

Nolan, cursing, trudged up the aisle. 

Phil stuck his head from the projec- 
tion booth above. 

“Are ya clods down there read: 

“If the girl is and the anthem 

"The lights went out. 

I found myself seated next in from 
Doone, who whispered fervently, “Poke 
me, lad, keep me alert to practicalities 
instead of ornamentation, eh?” 

"Shut up!" hissed someone. "There's 
the mystery." 

And there indeed it was, the mystery 
of song and art and life, if you will, the 
young girl singing on the time-haunted 
screen. 

“Ah, look, ain't she lovely?" Doone 
smiled ahead. “Do you hear?” 

“The bet, Doone,” І whispered. “We 
lean on you. Ready?" 

“All right,” he groused. “Let me stir 
my bones. Jesus save me!” 

“Whap” 

“I never thought to test. My right 
leg. It's dead it is!" 

“Asleep, you mean?" I asked, appalled. 

"Dead or asleep, I'm sunk! Lad, lad, 
you must run for me! Here's my cap 
and scarf!" 

“Your сар ——?" 

“When victory is yours, show thi 
and we'll tell how you ran to replace 
this fool leg of minel” 

He clapped the cap on, tied the scarf. 

"But wait!" I protested. 


“There's no one 


“You'll do brave. Just remember, it's 
FINIS and no sooner! Her song's almost. 
up. Are you tensed?” 

"God, am I!" I said. 

“Blind passions, they win, boy. Plunge 
straight. If you step on someone, don't 
look back. There! The song's done! He's 
kissing her —" 

“The rivis!" I cried. I leapt into the 
aisle. 

Iran up the aisle! I'm first, I thought. 
I'm ah 1 

I hit the door as the anthem began. 

I slammed through into the lobby — 
safe! 

I've wan! I thought, incredulous, with 
Юоопс cap and scarf the victory laurels 
upon and about me! Won! Won for the 
team! 

I turned to greet the loser, hand out. 

But the door had swung and remained 
shut. 

Only then did I hcar the shouts and 
yells inside. 

Good Lord! I thought, six men have, 
pretending to be the exiting crowd, 
somehow tripped, fallen across Hooli- 
һап way. Otherwise, why am I the first 
and only? There's a fierce combat in 
there this second, winners and losers 
locked in mortal wrestling attitudes, 
above and below the scats. 

"ve won! I wanted to yell, throwing 
wide the doors. Break it up! 

I stared into an abyss where nothing 
stirred. 

Nolan came to peer over my shoulder. 

“That's the Irish for you,” he nodded. 
"Even more than the race, it's the Muse 
they like.” 

For what were the voices yelling in 
the dark? 

"Run it over! Again! The last song! 


Whistles. Foot-stomps. Applause. 

"Don't no one move. I'm in heaven. 
Doone, how right you were!" 

Nolan passed me, going in to sit. 

I stood for a long moment looking 
down along all the rows where the te 
of anthem sprinters sat, none having 
stirred, wiping their eyes. 

“Phil, darling . . . ?” called Timulty, 
somewhere up front. 

"It's done!" said Phil. 
And this time,” added Timulty, 
“without the anthem.” 

Applause. 

The dim lights flashed off. The screen 
glowed like a great warm hearth. 

1 looked back out at the bright sane 
world of Grafton Street, the Four Proy- 
inces pub, the hotels, shops and night- 
wandering folk. I hesitated. 

Then, to the tunc of The Isle Some- 
where of Innisfree, I took off cap and 
scar, hid these laurels under a seat, 
and slowly, luxuriously, with all the 
time in the world, sat myself down . . . 


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176 


PLAYBOY PHILOSOPHY (continued from page 78) 


Orwell described how this censorship. 
of language could affect the concept of 
sex for a person living in this future 
society: "His sexual life, for example, was 
entirely regulated by the two Newspeak 
words sexcrime (sexual immorality) and 
goodsex (chastity). Sexcrime covered all 
sexual misdeeds whatever. It covered 
fornication, adultery, homosexuality, and 
other perversions, and, in addition, nor- 
mal intercourse practiced for its own 
sake. There was no need to enumerate 
them separately, since they were all 
equally culpable, and, in principle, all 
punishable by death. In the C vocabu- 
lary, which consisted of scientific and 
technical words, it might be necessary to 
give specialized names to certain sexual 
aberrations, but the ordinary citizen had 
no need of them. He knew what was 
meant by goodsex — that is to say, normal 
intercourse between man and wife, for 
the sole purpose of begetting children, 
and without physical pleasure on the part 
of the woman; all else was "sexerime. 

Orwell's 1984 is a work of fiction — a 
tale of horror that prophetically envi- 
sions the end results of totalitarianism. 
It seems far removed from present-day 
America, but it is actually closer in some 
respects than most of us may realize. Con- 
sider how limited are the socially accept- 
able words for sex. In addition to medical 
and technical terms, there are literally 
dozens of common English words to de- 
scribe the sexual parts of the human body 
and every form of sexual activity, but 
almost all of them are considered objec- 
tionable or obscene. It is virtually im- 
possible to describe a pleasurable sexual 
experience in personal conversation 
without having to resort to unromantic 
medical terms or, alternatively, to words 
with such obscene connotations that they 
permeate the telling with a prurience 
that may not have been present in the 
act itself. 

And don't we have the equivalent of 


Newspeak's goodsex and sexcrime in the 
U.S. today? Isn't "normal" intercourse 
within marriage the only sexual activity 
society considers acceptable and right; 
isn't any other sexual activity between a 
man and wife, as well as all sex between 
those not married, considered immoral 
and wrong? Many states have actually 
made any other sexual activity, between 
those married or unmarried, illegal. And 
when the state legislators wrote the laws 
concerning sexual activity other than 
“normal” intercourse, one might almost 
assume they were limited in their lan- 
guage to some colorful version of New- 
speak. so incapable were they of bringing 
themselves to specifically name or de- 
scribe the activity they wished to ban. 
Consider this statute from the Criminal 
Code of the State of Rhode Island, Chap- 
ter 10, Section 11-10-1: “Abominable 
and detestable crime against nature. — 
Every person who shall be convicted of 
the abominable and detestable crime 
against nature, either h mankind or 
with any beast, shall be imprisoned not 
exceeding twenty (20) years nor less 
than seven (7) years. 

A number of the states have similar 
statutes prohibiting any "crime against 
nature,” but the term is almost never 
defined, and those states that have at- 
tempted a definition do not always 
agree with one another. If we look for a 
reasonable definition within the phrase 
itself, a “crime against nature, with 
mankind or animal” might seem to refer, 
in the first instance, to going out h a 
neighbor and cutting down a Christmas 
trec in a state park or, in the second, 
shooting deer out of season, but we have 
reason to believe that isn't what the 
lawmakers had in mind. The colorful 
nature of the adjectives “abominable 
and detestable” leads us to suspect that 
what they were referring to probably 
has something to do with sex, since 
only sex comes in for such vague and 


emotion-tinged language in our laws. 
Whether Arizona's “infamous” crime 
against nature is the same as Rhode 
Island's “abominable and detestable” 
crime, were not sure, but in any case, 
it would probably be wise to do your 
Christmas-tree chopping somewhere else. 

Abominable, detestable, or just plain 
infamous, a “crime against nature” is 
usually a catchall to include any sexual 
activity other than intercourse of which 
the legislators, the courts and the law- 
enforcement officers do not approve 
And what is often not recognized, even 
by many of those practicing law, is that 
none of these statutes make any distinc- 
tion between the married and the un- 
married. 

We have commented before that our 
archaic religious teachings have pitted 
man’s body and spirit against one an- 
other, whereas common sense would 
suggest that God intended the body, 
mind and spirit of man to be in harmony. 

But the world of words reveals most 
clearly how, even without Newspeak, we 
have been taught that the spiritual, reli 
gious, Godly side of man is in oppo- 
sition to sex, the body and material 
accomplishments and pleasures. Consider 
these definitions in the Second Edition of 
Webster’s New International Dictionary: 

Spiritual is defined as pertaining to, 
or consisting of, the spirit; not material; 
of, or pertaining to, the moral feclings 
or states of the soul; pure, holy, divine; of 
or pertaining to sacred things of the 
church, or religious affairs; the opposite 
of spiritual is, according to Webster's, 
carnal. 

Carnal is defined as fleshly, bodily, 
sensual, sexual, animal, flest-devouring, 
bloodthirsty, unregenerate, worldly, ma- 
terial, temporal, secular; the antonym of 
carnal is listed as spiritual. 

"The opposite of intelligent is stupit 
the mind of man is seen only in qualita 
tive opposition to itself. How curious 
then that the opposite of spiritual should 
be carnal; with the spirit and body of 
man opposing one another. 

The definitions of these words are in 
our dictionaries, because centuries of 
common usage have put them there. 
What strange sort of religion have we 
evolved that places the Godly part of 
man in opposition to the whole of his 
physical being? In simple theological 
truth, are not Heaven and Hell oppo- 
sites, rather than Heaven and Earth? 
15 it not the Devil who is opposed to 
God, rather than man’s mortal flesh? 
The Devil can exist as ea: the mind 
of man as in his body; and there are 
times when he takes control of the spirit- 
ual side of man, as well. How else can 
the religious among us explain the In- 
quisition and the countless horrors per- 
petrated by organized rcligion down 
through history? 

But built into our very language are 


these man-made conflicts which torture 
and torment us and destroy the natural 
God-intended unity of mind, body and 
spirit. The whole man is not confronted 
with a choice among the threc—or be- 
tween any two of them. Perhaps in this 
lies the wellspring of his humanity. 

3. The censor impairs our mental 
health and well-being. By suppressing 
the frankly sexual speech and writing 
that embarrasses and disturbs him, the 
censor unwittingly eliminates an emo- 
tional outlet that, most authorities agree, 
is healthful for society. 

What is more, the censor so little 
understands the nature of the thing he 
is about that he usually attacks first the 
more positive aspects of our sexual litera- 
ture and art. The book, magazine or 
movie that equates sex with sin and suffer- 
ing is less apt to bring down the censor's 
wrath than one that makes sex scem 
pleasurable or appealing, for the former 
can be said to have a “moral.” That the 
seeming "moral" is in actuality an abnor- 
mal and quite unhealthy association be- 
tween sexual activity and ugliness, grief 
and guilt seems to matter not a bit to the 
censor, He is thus quite successful in 
projecting his own negative attitudes 
toward sex onto the rest of society. 

"The sexual content of the stories and 
articles in the family and women's maga- 
zines over the past 30 years has in- 
variably been of this negative variety, as 
was pointed out with such hilarious effec- 
tiveness in the now near-classic PLAYBOY 
article, The Pious Pornographers, by 
Ivor Williams (October 1957). 

And we are all familiar with the 
“Stella Dallas” syndrome with which 
Hollywood suffered throughout most of 
the Thirties and Forties, when Will Hays’ 
Production Code required all cinematic 
sexual intemperance to end in disaster: 
If the heroine allowed herself a night of 
sexual dalliance with the hero in the first 
recl, the movicgoing public knew that 
not only would the next scene be a teary- 
cyed discovery that she was pregnant (or 
better still, a cut directly to a scene in 
the maternity ward), but the rest of the 
picture would be one long series of 
heartbreaks and suffering, in which the 
hero conveniently became unavailable 
(death in the war or betrothal to another 
were usually preferred), the heroine was 
forced to give up the child ("It's for the 
baby's own good — you've got to think 
of him [her] now...") and the heroine 
became destitute, an alcoholic, threw 
herself under a train or died of pneu- 
monia (from walking in the rain without 
any coat, hat or galoshes) —or a clever 
combination of all four. 

It is not difficult to understand why 
the censor attacks sex that is depicted a 
happy and healthy and leaves sex that is 
sick, suffering and sin-ridden pretty much 
to itself. Why the censor is more apt to 
attack heterosexual sex than homosexual 


or other deviate sex might require a 
deeper probing of the censorial psyche, 
however. Perhaps it is simply that the 
average censor is too naive about the 
subject he has chosen as his specialty to 
recognize the often more subtle projec- 
tions of sexual perversion in the public 
print. 

Whatever the reasons, the censor goes 
his merry way blithely banning maga- 
zines that contain photographs of female 
nudes, while overlooking a number of 
the “health and strength,” *body-bi 
ing" and “muscle” magazines that are 
tailored to the tastes of the homosexual. 
"The censor expunges a movie's scenes of 
sexual love-play between a boy and girl, 
but passes by the scenes of violence 
with sado-masochistic overtones. For 
many years before Robert Harrison 
made his bundle with Confidential, 
through the public exposure of the pri- 
vate lives of celebrities, he published a 
series of so-called “girlie” magazines that 
conscientiously catered to fetishists (of- 
fering sexual stimulation to the pervert 
with photographs of models thought- 
fully posed in unusually high heels, 
boots, lace undergarments, long hair, 
rubber rainwear), sadists and masochists 
(with spanking, whips and scenes of tor- 
ture and gore) transvestites, Lesbians 
and male homosexuals (with pictures of 
women dressed as men and vice versa) 
and other deviates — all with relative im- 
punity, because his female models were 
never without their bras and panties. If 
they had been nude, you see, they might 
have appealed to the normal hetero- 
sexual instincts in man — and that’s what 
the prudes and censors are apparently 
against. And if the models happened to 
be attractive in both face and figure, fresh, 
healthy and well-scrubbed in appearance, 
and appealingly posed and photographed 
—then the citizenry should become really 
outraged, because such a picture not only 
appeals to the heterosexual side of man, 
it gives the sexual response a clean and 
wholesome quality that suggests sex may 
indeed be a thing of beauty and joy. 

"The censor fails to comprehend that 
sexual responsiveness can be conditioned 
to a variety of stimuli in human society 
just as Pavlov conditioned his dogs to sali- 
vate at the sound of a bell. If we remove 
the primary heterosexual sources of stim- 
ulation from society, or through practiced 
propagandizing make an individual feel 
guilty about his natural responsiveness 
to such stimulation, then he will affix his 
responses to something else — other men, 
perhaps, or perhaps a shoe or a bit of 
Jace underwear. Thi the kind of sick- 
ness that the unknowing censor can 
bring to society. This is what the Drs. 
Kronhausen meant when they wrote, 
"Alb clinical evidence indicates that 
guiltbased sexual inhibitions, restric- 
tions, and repressions result in perver- 
sions of the sexual impulse, general 


intellectual dulling, sado-masochistic in- 
clinations, unreasonable (paranoid) sus- 
Piciousness, and a long list of neurotic 
and psychotic defense reactions with un- 
mistakable sexual content or overtones.” 


PLAYBOY AND PORNOGRAPHY 


It should be clear to even the casual 
or occasional reader of PLAYBOY that our 
arguments for a more liberal, censor-free 
society are not, in any sense, a defense of 
this magazine or prompted by any com- 
mere self-interest. To the contrary, a 
freer, less taboo-ridden, less hypocritic 
society would probably have less interest 
in (and less need for) the rebel part of 
PLAYBOY's personality. (Though we do 
like to think that our overall editorial 
excellence would retain for us the major- 
ity of our present readers.) 

Our own more serious censorship con- 
cerns are now many years behind us and 
an casing of the censor's tight control 
would only bring to wider distribution 
and sale a host of bolder imitators of this 
publication that have long been a bane 
to our existence and a source of not a 
little embarrassment (for they make more 
dificult, the explanations — to those who 
do not read us and know us only by 
reputation — of what PLAYBOY is really 
all about and what sets it apart amongst 
present-day magazines in America). 

Nor would praynoy change very much 
in such a censor-free society. The maga- 
zine has never attempted to push to the 
outer boundaries of what was censorable 
or what could be considered objection- 
able by the more sophisticated part of 
our society. We have always chosen to 
set our own standards of taste and pro- 
priety, and to communicate with that 
number of other urban fellows whose 
view of life is similar to our own. 

Our interest in a society free of the 
shackles of censorship is as a citizen who 
believes he will be happier living in an 
America in which all men are allowed to 
exercise full freedom of speech, of press, 
of religion, and of association. It is the 
kind of America we believe in. It is the 
America our founding fathers meant us 
to have. We believe we should have it. 


Because of the considerable number of 
requests for copies of the earlier parts of 
“The Playboy Philosophy,” we have re- 
printed a limited number of the first 
seven installments and all seven may be 
had by sending a check or money order 
for $1 to РІАҮВОҮ, 232 E. Ohio SL, 
Chicago 11, Illinois. In the eighth part 
of “The Playboy Philosophy,” which 
appears next month, Editor-Publisher 
Hugh M. Hefner considers the gap that 
exists between sexual practices and Puri- 
tan taboos in America and what such a 
separation between behavior and sup- 
posed beliefs can mean to a society. 


177 


PLAYBOY 


178 


REQUIEM FOR HOLIDAYS 


the men of the Continental Army. And 
maybe you thought about those men as 
you lighted your 1(-inchers, because the 
sounds they made were the skirmishing 
of muskets. 

We have different sounds now, 
bigger bangs, but they provide no 
of tension. Thinki bout them sends 
a shudder down the spine, for they are 
sound and fury, signifying nothingness. 

Explosions were not presages of im- 
minent obliteration 
joyed them for thei 
and we enjoyed the creation of them. 
What smell is there now to match the 
heady, dense aroma of the burning punk 
you used to light your ladyfingers? What 
smell to suggest the excitements ahead? 

What excitements? the kids today will 
ask, for they don't know. And how docs 
one express the joy that was felt upon 
listening to the boom of a flashcracker 
dropped into a sewer, the echo it made 
all the way up and down the or 
watching and sniffing that acrid plume 
of smoke rising gently from the half- 
moon hole in the manhole cover? 

How do you describe the look on the 
face of the streetcar motorman when he 
ran over the torpedoes you set in his 
tracks? Surprised, vou say, annoyed, but 
patient, tolerant, full of memories of his 
own, how it used to be with him this 
ht... but it's no good. The look has 
disappeared. 

Oh, the Fourth of July was a fine day, 
you want to tell this gencration, a fine, 
wonderful, violent day. There was the 
smell of burnt gunpowder in the air 
always, and the only silence the short 
it between. explosions. 

“What did you do?” 

You lighted firecrackers underneath 
cans and you ran a few steps and turned 
and watched the cans fly up. 

You buried firecrackers up to their 
fuses in dirt and set them off. 


nd 


Well, you played with sonso-guns. 
"What are — 
Litle red wafers about the size of a 
penny. You stepped on them with your 
heel and then whirled yourself around 
and around while they snapped and 
hissed and banged in a fury, and the 
girls all held their ears. 

“Go on.” 

You held ladyfingers in your hand 
and, with great daring and arrogance. 
touched the punk to them; and they 
would begin to sizalc, but you wouldn't 
let go — 

"Didn't they go off in your fingers?" 

Yes, but they didn't hurt, if you knew 
how to hold them — loosely, at the very 
ends. 

You shot off rockets, of course. And 


(continued from page 128) 


hurled cherry bombs. 

"We've still got those!” 

No, you don't. Our cherry bombs were 
glittery red grenades that exploded on 
Contact with any unyielding surface, 
such as, say, a passing coal truck. But 
it was the firecrackers that we loved 
best. They came in all sizes, Linchers to 
chers, and you bought them in pack- 
cts at any dime store. First you ripped 
off the paper, which was an odd, crinkly 
wax-colored paper that came from 
usually. with funny di 
can children with Oriental eves, and 
then you started taking the ‘crackers 
apart. They had their long white fuses 
knotted together, and —— 

Weren't they dangerous?" 

Sure, but that was part of the fun. 

“They're against the law.” 

The history books say we won the 
American Revolution, but it appears that 
segments of the independence we 
fought for are being lost. We let them 
talk us out of sharing the risks of the 
Continental troops, and a bit of that 
glory, when we let them (us) outlaw 
firecrackers. True, there were accidents, 
juries, even deaths, but they did not 
come dose to the number we sce today — 
mostly incurred in automobiles going to 
and from the beaches, the picnic grounds 
and those parks where they have the fire- 
works displays. In the outlaw years, every 
with the meagerest smattering of 
ntelligence knew enough to leave a dud 
alone. Who didn't know enough to 
out of the way of the cascading b 
of Ror ndles? Everybody did. 

The dangers were not so much with 
the regular fireworks as with the home- 
made variety. For a few cents you could 
get horse capsules and a generous supply 
of potassium chlorate and red phos- 
phorus from the corner drugstore, and 
the pharmacist wouldn't bat an eye when 
you asked for it. You went home with 
your purchase then and packed your own 
torpedoes by mixing the ingredients and 
inserting them in the capsules. Wherever 
thrown, they would go off with a re- 
sounding blast — almost as good as cherry 
bombs. The only thing was, you had to 
be careful not to make any jerky move- 
ments or they would go off in your 
pockets, which sometimes happened. 
"Then there was potassium chlorate and 
sulphur. In the right combination, this 
mixture could be detonated with a brick, 
a stone or a hammer, and the resulting 


bang was often better than anything 
provided by the manufacturer: 
There were few homen ts, 


but there were plenty of n 
the matter of sending them off. Rain- 
spouts were preferred, and а six-foot 
drainpipe was a thing to treasure all year 
as the ideal Fourth-of-July launching 
pad. You could buy two rockets for as 


little asa few pennies or as much as three 
dollars. The expensive ones had shcll- 
bursts. It made you feel uneasy to sec 
your moncy going up in smoke, but when. 
you saw the magnificent star filled trail 
across the night sky, and the explosion of 
color at the apogee, you knew it was 
worth it. 

"That was a time when nobody thought 
boys were by nature obedient, cheerful 
or kind. Boys were considered, with per- 
fect reason, scamps, rascals, young devils. 
Their boundless energy was the dismay 
of their clders, who knew that it had to 
be spent somehow, or else it would im- 
plode. So everyone thought it completely 
natural that the kids should release their 
tensions with firecrackers, pinwheels and 
the whole catalog of noisemakers: not 
only natural but salubrious. Dad, who 
was always close with his money, could 
be counted on to lay in a big supply. 
You knew what you wanted, you told 
him what to get, but he invariably over- 
extended himself when you got him to 
the fireworks stand. The only real prob- 
lem then was to keep him from shooting 
them all off himself. 

You had the long, full day of explo- 
sions, and then you cravled into bed at 
night, dirty, exhausted, sometimes ban- 
nd you arose the 
next morning miraculously free of frus- 
trations, satisfied with yourself, ready, 
if not precisely willing. to cope with the 
gray unrealities The battle had been 
won, but the war was still in progress — 
you against peace and quiet — and there 
would always be this holid: 

What remains of the grand and glori- 
ous Fourth? Certainly none of the color, 
or very little of it: here and there an 
American flag, the occasional faraway 
thump of a smuggled ‘cracker, but mostly 
quiet streets, deserted cities, a few fam- 
ily picnics, perhaps a band concert or 
two, and a total absence of pageantry. 
The kids spend the day now 
beaches, or the commu: 
pools, or in front of their television sets, 
where they are every other day of sum- 
mer. The only difference is the lethargic 
half-hour or so they devote to the legal 
fireworks —a pale, hissing ghost of the 
assortments of yesterday—and the eve- 
ning trip to the park. There, if you have 
the stomach to fight the crowds, the 
strangers and the nostalgia, you can see 
—at a discreet distance — displays that 
might have been staged by Ziegfeld. 
They are as lovely as flower gardens, and 
approximately as exciting. That this is 
true is borne out by the fact that they 
get shorter and shorter every year, and 
less imaginative. There is the $500 dis- 
play, the $1000 display and maybe, if 
the town is large cnough, the $2000 
display, which generally lasts 30 minutes. 
The money for these nods toward the 
past is extracted from merchants and 
city treasurers, most of whom bewail the 


pointless expense. Judging from their 
public comments, one would assume that 
they regard the custom of shooting off 
fireworks on the Fourth as a ridiculous 
waste of time and cash. 

President John Adams once said, "I 
am apt to believe that [Independence 
Day] will be celebrated by succeeding 
generations as the grcat anniversary fes- 
пуа]. It ought to be commemorated as 
the day of deliverance, by solemn acts of 
devotion to God Almighty. It ought to 
be solemnized with pomp and parade, 
with shows, games, sports, guns, bells, 
bonfires and illuminations, from one 
end of this continent to the other, from 
this time forward for evermore.” That 
it is not so celebrated is no fault of that 
misunderstood patriot. The early Inde- 
pendence Days were occasions for shows, 
games, sports; for military music and 
fireworks; but in 1954 Coi 
an act prohibiting thc tra 
fireworks into any state where th 
is forbidden. which was almost all the 
states, and that was the end of the holi- 
day. Once again, Americans withdrew 
from the role of participants and became, 
asin so many othcr areas, spectators. But, 
as we see, soon there may be nothing for 
them to look at. 


Even so innocent a holiday as St. 
Valentine's Day has been subrogated by 


do-gooders who don't want to see any- 
body hurt, and by commercial interests. 
‘The day persists despite the fact that it 
is no holiday at all, nobody gets out of. 
school, nobody gets a day off work be- 
cause of it. Yet stores reportedly devote 
as much space to Valentine's Day cards 
as to any others. 

It was never much talked about. Boys 
pretended it n't exist, except perhaps 
as a scheme on the part of silly and de- 
tested girls to embarrass them. They 
winced and grimaced at the very mention 
of the occasion. Yet V; ne's Day ac 
counted for the first stirrings of exultant 
joy and suicidal pain that could not be 
nked to any past experience. Of course 
no boy would ever admit to anything but 
contempt for the practice of handing out 
the little heart-shaped cards, but each 
secretly hoped that he would get one, 
If he did, he would strike a sneering 
posture (after making sure that his 
friends were apprised of his fortune) 
and, more often than not, tear the idiot 
thing into a dozen pieces. If he did not, 
he would lie and say that he had. And 
that night he would go to bed blinking 
away the tears, more certain than ever 
of his outcast state. 

The stirrings were sexual, and in a 
peculiar, instinctive way, the boys knew 
it, even though they didn’t know what 
sexual was. It was the time of humilia- 


tion, when your body began to betray 
you, but you couldn't sce the connection. 
Every boy in puberty has known the un- 
speakable horror of having his imminent 
manhood stir and rise, like a disembod- 
ied thing over which he has no control, 
on the school bus, or a minute bc- 
fore the English teacher calls him up to 
the blackboard to diagram а sentence. 
And every boy has spoken silently to the 
abominable member, pleading with it, 
commanding it, entreating it, to no 
avail. Nothing ever worked. Neither 
thinking about “other things,” as some- 
one had advised, nor exerting physical 
pressure. It always remained at attention 
just long cnough to flood the boy's face 
with red as, with one hand plunged into 
his pocket, he attempted to look casual. 

Valentine's Day was the time for that 
trauma as no other time was, The boys 
avoided each other's eyes and blushed 
and the girls giggled. It was awful and, 
once you found out that you were not 
the only one so afflicted, it was wonderful. 

It may be that Valentine's Day was 
begun in honor of this awakening. While 
its origin has been lost in antiquity, it 
has been traced to the Roman Luper- 
calia, which were [casts held in February, 
to honor Pan and Juno. At that time it 
was the custom to place the names of 
young women in a box and to have these 


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PLAYBOY 


names drawn out by young men as 
chance directed. The girls became the 
men's “valentines” for an entire year, 
during which time gifts and favors were 
exchanged, with no limits imposed or 
expected. The Christian clergy, finding 
the practice less than pleasing, intro- 
duced a modification: they substituted 
the names of saints for those of girls. 
But they did not reckon with the nature 
of pubescent and postpubescent males. 
Within a very short time, the saints 
were returned to their perpetual abode 
and the girls brought out again. It was 
an altogether satisfactory arrangement, 
achieving the status of the holiday in 
France and England during the 16th 
Century. 

Actually, there were two St. Valentines, 
and neither was a specialist in affairs of 
the heart. The first was a Roman priest 
who stood steadfast to his faith during 
the Claudian persecutions and was, in 
consequence, beaten with clubs and then 
beheaded. What is left of him is pre- 
served in the church of St. Praxedes in 
Rome. The second St. Valentine was a 
Roman bishop and he fared no better, 
suffering decapitation a few years after 
the first. Either gentleman would no 
doubt be surprised to find himself a 
lover's saint. 

In the 17th Century it became the 
custom for a man to give a woman a 
present if he was challenged by her with 
the words “Good morrow, ‘tis St. Valen- 
tine's Day.” From Samuel Pepys we get 
the first record of what would become 
the modern valentine, also an insight 
into a charming, vanished custom. He 
writes (February 14, 1667): “This morn- 
ing came up to my wife's bedside little 
Will Mercer to be her valentine, and 
brought her name writ upon blue paper, 
in gold letters, done by himself and 
very pretty; and we were both well 
pleased with 

What has happened in the interval 
was, of course, inevitable. Valentine's 
Day has become a negligible and vanish- 
ing custom, reserved for that species 
known as the pre-teen. It slouches into 
the drugstore, grabs up a haphazard col- 
lection of cheap cards, some egregiously 
ental, some sa (known as 
“Un-Valentine cards"), all abominably 
rhymed ("This is the Time / For You 
to know / I love you so / My Valentine") 
and slouches over to the post office. A. 
few signatures, into the slot with the 
bundle, and out; the end. 

Old cootism? Senility? Perhaps, but 
only if the sexual awakening has been 
moved back to the ages of cight, nine 
and ten, which is possible but, to me, 
doubtful. At any rate, that is the age 
group to which Valentine's Day is pres- 
ently confined, and before long I expect 
the five-year-olds to claim it as their 


180 personal property. Which suggests to me 


that it has lost a bit of its original 
meaning. 

Christmas has lost all of its original 
meaning, fortunately. As we shall see, the 
celebration began as a sort of bacchanal, 
bearing even less resemblance to the 
holiday we remember than the present 
debacle, though of the two, I'm not so 
sure I don't prefer the former. It had, 
at least, the virtue of spontaneity. It had 
joy and excitement. And the lack of 
these qualities is what has ruined, or is 
ruining, Christmas. 

Expurgated reference works tell us 
that December 25 was already а festive 
day for the sun god Mithras and ap- 
pealed to Christians as an appropriate 
date to commemorate the birth of Jesus, 
“The Light of the World,” around 534 
Av. Some theologians, of course, deny 
this, claiming the day to be nothing 
more nor less than the date of Christ's 
birth. However, other historical scholars 
hold that the time of the winter solstice 
throughout recorded history was some- 
thing else entirely. The Romans’ Sat- 
urnalia began on December 17 and 
continucd for a weck with no limits im- 
posed, the point being total abandon- 
ment of inhibitions. Then there is the 
Feast of Fools, which was celebrated on 
Christmas Day until the time of Queen 
Klizabeth. "This occasion was replete 
with the slinging of excrement, displays 
of transvestitism and a general sexual 
license, with all social classes joining in. 
Shocking to the civilized modem, it was 
considered by its participants no more 
than another hı very orgiastic 
hence very cathartic, and not taken in 
the least seriously. Perhaps the favorite 
sport, cquivalent, say, to trimming the 
tree, was stripping down naked and go- 
ing about the streets in a manure cart, 
pelting people with dung. Presumably it 
was done in the same high spirit of good 
Tun as the snowballing of our own time. 
Everybody ducked, as they do today, and 
no one was offended, cither at what was 
hurled or by the lewd postures effected 
by the cart riders. History is filled with 
similar festivals on this most cherished 
holiday, and all partook similarly of the 
salutary effects of expressed hysteria, 
harmless violence and sexual activity. 

Let it not be thought that I am es- 
pousing a cause, as Freud once remarked 
at the conclusion of a lively chapter on 
perversion. I do not hanker for a return 
to those celebrations but, rath to an 
approximation of the joyful spirit out of 
which they sprang. 

We have a touch of it in the tradi- 
tional, and much despised, Christmas 
office party, but it is only a touch, and it 
is weakening every year. An example of 
this decline may be scen in the Holly- 
wood motion-picture studios. Ten years 
ago they all abandoned their We're-just- 
ordinary-folks pose and staged the wild- 


est, most orgiastic day-before-Christmas 
parties one could hope for. At Universal- 
International, the Writers’ Building, an 
otherwise grim edifice, somewhat remi- 
niscent of San Quentin, became a palace 
of joy, or sin, depending upon your view 
of these things. Weary, bitter, frightened 
scenarists could be observed hooting 
down the halls after the saine secretaries 
they'd worked with, and never noticed, 
for 364 days. Flinthearted producers 
offered seven-year contracts to girls who 
dreamed, but never really believed, that 
they would rise above their status as 
messengers. Actors told their directors 
what they really thought of them, and 
vice versa, whereupon they would ex- 
change blows and then, usually, fall 
‘weeping into each other's arms, the best 
of friends. It was midnight, and the 
masks came off, for a little while. A few 
days later, of course, they were back on 
again; but there was a difference. 

Now the masks stay on. At MGM last 
year, veteran studio employees were dis- 
шауей, as they had every right to be, by 
the following notice: 

TO ALL DEPARTMENTS: 


ANY EMPLOYEE WHO IS DISCOVERED TO 
BE IN THE POSSESSION OF ANY ALCO- 
HOLIC BEVERAGE WHATSOEVER SHALL 
BE SUBJECT TO DISMISSAL. THIS I$ A 
WORKING DAY. 


The day referred to was the day be- 
Tore Chrisunas. 

And what is the foundation of our 
Christmas hebephrenia, our fear of par- 
ties, our inability to express those areas 
of ourselves that, psychologists insist, 
demand expression? [s it that we have 
mistaken the point of civilization and 
assumed it to mean the suppression of 
all natural tendencies? 

I think so. I think that in this sophis- 
ticated age we have come to equate 
pleasure with sin and displeasure with 
virtue. It may be the heritage left us by 
the Puritan founders. To them, as we 
know, morality was a simple matter: the 
more difficult the task, the greater the 
benefit. Yet these good, gray Puritans 
did not originate the concept of the de- 
sirability of repressed emotions. It has 
been with us, to one degree or another, 
from the beginning; if it hadn't, there 
would have been no saturnalia, no 
orgies, no holidays, in the first place. 
‘They were instituted as corrective meas- 
ures, meant to take care of the necessary 
imbalance we had imposed upon nature. 
И anyone is to blame, it's the serpent. 

But 1 think we are taking the cure 
too far, making more of it than we have 
to. If we cannot follow Childe Harold's 
advice and “let joy be unconfined,” at 
least we can let it out into the sunlight 
а few times а year. By all means let us 
make use of our inhibitions most of the 
t is through them that we have 
achieved the better part of our glory; 


but let us, for God's sake, understand 
that the greatest glory, as well as the 
lowest bestiality, comes of breaking 
through these inhibitions. The whole of 
art, at its highest, has been created by 
men who have chafed at their restric- 
tions, burst free of them and felt ful- 
filled— or, as it so often happened, 
burdened with guilt. 

Guilt is the key, but we are applying 
it to the wrong door. Instead of fecling 
shame for what we did in our lost hol 
days, we should feel shame for not 
g the new generation the same 
privilege. They will die with regrets any. 
way, as people have done from the be- 
ining of time, but the regrets will be 
over the things they have not done, and 
that is the worst feeling of all. 

It is probably too late to prevent it 
from happening, but we could try. 

We could turn the kids loose on Hal- 
loween and tell them not to show their 
faces in the house till after midnight; 
we could bring back firecrackers and 
brass bands; we could keep the girl 
children out of brassieres until they're 
ready for them and let the boys dis- 
cover sex in their own time; and we 
could revive the institution of the un- 
restrained Christmas party. 

Maybe the result would be that the 
kids, and we, ourselves, would simply 
be embarrassed; that we would realize 
we were trying to bring back, not a past 
€ra, nor some grand traditions, but our 
youth. 

And maybe not. 

A first, relatively easy step would be 
to halt the decline of Christmas in its 
Classic form. Shake it loose from its cur- 
rent position as a status game and give 
it back to the kids. Forbid any Santa 
Claus to appear publidy before Decem- 
ber 15, remembering that children can 
accommodare. belief in the department 
store variety along with belief in the 
real Saint Nick, if they're given half a 
chance. Ban all parades until a week 
before The Day. Arrange for the tele- 
vision set to break around November 
30, with no hope of a repair job before 
January. Keep the presents well hidden 
and look annoyed when the children ask 
if you've been to the stores yet. Buy a 
gun and shoot to death the man who 
invented the aluminum Christmas tree. 
While you're at it, take 
responsible for the homose 
cards, the ads that urge you to give “the 
best gift of all— $moncyS;" the doll 
that wets her pants and. throws up, the 
sexless Visible Man, and the $50 Nu- 
dear Sub that "every kid on the block 
Ш have.” Then throw the gun at the 
fellow who initiated the practice of 
sending out “personalized” cards with 
printed signatures. 

Maybe if these things are done we'll 
be on the way to restoring the joy of 
holidays. 


If not, then we shall be left with 
Thanksgiving, for which no thanksgiv- 
ing is in order. It was always a day for 
grownups, offering the maximum of in- 
take and the minimum of outgo: a day 
of industry for the women and indol- 
ence for the men; of sniffing and peering 
at deceased fowl; of greeting relatives; 
and, late in the afternoon, of sitting 
down to the big table and, hungry or 
no, consuming at least two platefuls of 
turkey, dressing, cranberry sauce, mashed 
potatoes, carrots and peas combined 
with white sauce, Brussels sprouts, bis- 
cuits and pumpkin pie. ‘There may have 
been those who enjoyed the day, but 
they did not move in my set. To us it 
was a time of unspeakable boredom. We 
regarded school as only slightly less de- 
sirable, if for no other reason than that 
hating school was de rigueur. Jt was, 
however, an impersonal hatred; our 
parents weren't responsible; God, or the 
State, was. But we couldn't blame God 
or the State for Thanksgiving. There 
wasn't any law that forced us to bathe 
that morning, put on our newly cleaned 


and pressed Sunday best, shine our 
shoes, stay inside, chat with and play 
the piano for aunts and uncles and 
cousins we hadn't seen for a year and 
wouldn't recognize on the street, starve 
until four Pm., then stuff down a ton 
of food. most of which we didn't much 
like anyway. It was Mom and Dad who 
were responsible, and, since they seemed 
to be equally exhausted by the experi- 
ence, we wondered why they subjected 
themselves to it. And so, probably, did 
they. 

‘The answer is clear. The reason they 
subjected themselves to "Thanksgiving. 
and the reason it endures, is that it al- 
lows a onceyearly excess— gluttony — 
for which payment, in the coin of te- 
dium, can be made immediately before 
and after: sin and penance, all in the 
same 24-hour period. 

But let us not despair, "There's always 
St. Swithin's Day, Bastille Day, Guy 
Fawkes Day — and those durable modern 
synthetics, Mother's Day and Father's 
Day. But, note well, no Children's Day. 


“TU be glad to help. What are you trying to do?” 


181 


PLAYBOY 


182 


SKIN DEEP (coninued from page 92) 


ore and scare settlers away with stories 
of malignant life —why, we'll be able 
10 get this hunk of gravel for a song!" 

^We can't do that, Stark. What's the 
use of having men like us doing this 
work if we're going to grab all the best 
planets for ourselves?" 

“Oh,” groaned Stark, “don’t get ideal- 
istic on me. Don't tell me you're in this 
crumby job just for the fun of it." 

“Well . . . " The younger man 
searched for words. "Yes. Yes, in a way I 
am. Only I guess I wouldn't exactly call 
it fun. Exciting, maybe. And it's im 
portant work — that’s what counts.” 

“What counts, youngster—as you'll 
learn when you grow up and get the 
star dust out of your cyes— is money. 
You'll feel plenty ‘excited’ when you're 
wading waistdeep in money!" 

“Then, why are you working for the 
Bureau?” 

“Not for the paycheck, believe me. 
For a chance like this. We're the first 
to really see new planets, the first to 
find out which are valuable and which 
are garbage. Well, it's been a long time 
coming — thirty years! — but it's come at 
last and I'm not going to let it slip away. 
Understand?” 

“Sure. But count me out, Stark.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean my report is going to be as 
full as I can make it. Friendly spiders, 
radioactive ore, the works. Maybe that 


When 
PRESENTS 


makes me a dumb yokel, but I'm sorry. 
I happen to think this is an important 
job.” 

А Stark's voice roared over the helmet- 
phones. “I have to pass up the chance 
of a lifetime because of a harebrained 
kid——" 

His voice stopped abruptly. 

From a branch above them, a long 
black snake uncoiled leisurely and 
blinked at them with ruby eyes. 

Starks hand moved to his blaster as 
Croydon asked, “Is it friendly?” 

Stark felt the snake's malignancy roll 
over him in waves. He delved into its 
mind and felt the joy it took in the 
crushing power of its mighty body. But 
he conquered the terror in his voice and 
replied, “Sure. Like a kitten. It wants 
to be stroked, don’t you, Tabby?” 

Croydon laughed with relief and 
stroked the black, glittering length of 
the creature’s body. 

Stark walked backward, slowly, the 
frisky “spiders” making way for him. He 
watched the snake wrap itself around 
Croydon 

“Stark — is it all right? It's just a form 
of caress, isn't it?” 

“Just a hug. It loves you.” 

"Maybe it doesn't know its own 
strength. Maybe you ought to scare it 
away with your blaster." 

"No, it might get frightened and 


“I see myself as San Francisco's answer to Dick Gregory.” 


squeeze too hard." 

Croydon's voice rose suddenly in 
mortal fe "Blast it, Starkl'" 

“Sure. 

“Stark!” 

Croydon's scream rasped in the hel- 
met- Phones. Stark waited until his body 
hung limp and broken in the snake's 
coils. Then he blasted. The snake un- 
coiled, dropped Croydon, then slid to 
the ground and died beside him. 

Stark acted quickly. He dragged Croy- 
don's body toward the ship, ignoring 
the scampering “spiders” that swarmed 
playfully around his legs, sending warm 
waves of friendliness over him. 

He pulled the corpse into the ship 
and sealed the airlock. A few “spiders” 
followed him in and inspected the ship 
with childlike curiosity. 

Stark let them rub against his legs 
while he wrote on the clipboard: “Moon 
Ten infested with malignant life akin 
to Terran boa constrictor. John Croydon 
killed by same in line of duty. Soil hard, 
rocky, unsuitable for — ” 

The clipboard fell from his hand. He 
felt a sharp pain in his ankles. Looking 
down, he saw two of the "spiders" had 
cut through his suit and punctured his 
skin. He reached for his blaster, but 
hi ted. He could not kill them with- 
out blasting his own legs. 

Now horror shook him. Two more of 
the friendly creatures had jumped to 
his wrists, another to his throat. My 
blood, he realized: they're sucking my 
blood... 

He yelled. A wave of cheerful benev- 
olence answered him. He tried to brush 
them off, but they clung tenaciously, 
their furry bodies swelling with his 
blood. 

He grew dizzy and ranted. “But... I 
Probed their thoughts . . . they're benev- 
olent . .. they can't act like this . . . it’s 
not possible . .. " The line from the 
ancient play flashed through his mind 

. There are more things in heaven and 
earth... 

And he knew, too late, what form of 

disguise the friendly "spiders" used . 
a Probe-proof mental disguise . . , a mas- 
querade of doglike devotion ... a psy- 
chic smoke screen of good cheer that 
masked the bloodthirsty thoughts be- 
neath ... 

Stark's mind fogged and he sank 
weakly to the deck. Something was try- 
ing to struggle through to his conscious- 
ness . .. something that might have 
warned him had he only remembered it 
before . . . something from deep in his 
mind. Just before the end, it broke 
through. Another line from the same 
old play: 

One may smile .. . and smile ...and 
be a villain. 

Stark slid into a dark pool of loving- 
Kindness and death. 


HARRY, THE RAT 
(continued from page 82) 


drinking, he at last felt the keen blue 
blaze in his heart flamboyantly signaling 
ilie purity he had sought. He took off his 
sculls, tiptoed up the stairs and, with 
passion mixed with a sense of social 
work (he was a phys ed instructor), he 
slipped into Miss Braintree's room. 


Could it be happening at last? These 
suong arms holding her? This fine body 
smelling of the gymnasium and the 
Turkish bath crushing her beneath its 
sistent weight? This dark room with 
his dark shape—— How could it bc? 
Could it be? "Harry," she groaned ecstat- 
ically. “Oh my dearest 

“Who's this Harry?” came back a 
voice. "Don't talk so loud or you'll wake 
up my wife.” 

Her screams did. 


It became clear that Miss Braintree 
had to go. She left early on a cold, rainy 
morning without saying goodbye to 
Harry or to anybody. In her baggage 
was а purloined cameo of her love — a 
childhood cameo to be sure — but never- 
theless a memento of those glorious 
nights spent waiting for the moment 
that the door opened wide, the sherry 
was poured and the sweet wine taste 
decanted into her own true love's lips. 
Nothing else was real to her. Everything 
else was forgotten. 

Years later, her juices dry and living 
sadly, she would hear of Harry's exploits 
and smile to herself —"That beautiful 
rat. I taught him everything he knows. 
І hope he remembers me kindly. 


At an emergency meeting of the Harry 
Fund it was decided that it did not serve 
the purposes of that organization for its 
money to be diverted into a procuring 
fee for inconstant husbands. It was fur- 
ther decided best for Harry’s future that 
the Fund's trustees take over the man- 
agement of his education. Though his 
mother and father had patched up their 
differences they were in too much of a 
state of shock to argue with the decision. 
Harry was sent off to Europe in the 
ripening hands of his 19-year-old cousin, 
Gloria. It was hoped that he would re- 
ceive a classical education. 


Gloria was not beautiful actually, but 
she was terribly sexy. Everybody thought 
so. She was sexy in the way only girls in 
their teens, physically innocent and men- 
tally dirty, can be. No woman with real 
knowledge would have dared move with 
that scmipracticed invitational sway. It 
was strictly a way of walking for the 
young and once the sexline was crossed 
the young walked differently, too. Once 
carnal, twice shy. 

Gloria was uneasy about her feelings 


for her cousin Harry. She was, of course, 
feverishly in love with him: an emotion 
she found convenient to interpret as big- 
sisterly affection. Pigeonholed thusly, she 
could allow herself to sit by the side of 
his bed each night and stroke his hand, 
brush back his hair and whisper to him 
as he dozed, “I feel just like a sister to 
you. Just like a sister. 

But although she could control her 
feelings for Harry she was far less able 
to control her feelings against him. 
Aboard ship he was the one getting all 
the attention! He stole her sense of 
burgeoning beauty and there was noth- 
ing to do but hate him for it. And the 
tiring reverberations of her hate bounc- 
ing against her love brought forth a 
groan of futile anger. Why wasn't Harry 
as wound up with her as she was with 
him? 

To have admitted any of this would 
have meant adding a real sin to her 
extensive list of imagined ones. So she 
traded insight for bitchiness; and gained 
immeasurably by the exchange. She col- 
lared all the young men on board and 
proceeded to drive them mad with acci 
dental intimacies. Some she brought 
back to their cabin so that Harry, asleep. 
could be wakened by the laughter, the 
squeals, the outraged slaps and the re- 
yoked promises in the next stateroom. 
Gloria had few natural charms but her 
instincts were excellent. Her victims 
complained but submitted, using their 
wider range of experience to assure 
themselves that during their remaining 
five days at sea they would surely bring 
her around. She was, they thought, a 
young goofy kid and tomorrow would be 
another day. They accepted her provo- 
cation and waited patiently for their 
revenge. By the fourth day out no attrac- 
tive man under 30 was able to walk 
upright. 

It was an education for Harry. At first 
he tried to blot out the teasing in the 
next room and get back to sleep but 
soon he began to listen to it as a form of 
theatrical entertainment. It became a 
favorite play for him. Each night there 
was a minor change of cast (the male's 
role), but the lines were about the same 
and the situations were identical. 

‘Stop! That tickles,” Gloria would 


“It didn’t tickle on deck." 
“1 mean it.” 

"Sure you do." (Pause.) 

“Boy, you arc fres 

"Bet your life I am.” (Longer pause 
and sound of scuffling.) 

“Jeepers, you're clumsy.” 

"Yeah?" (Continued scuffling) 

“Do you want me to do it for you?” 

“Pll do it" 

“Jeepers, you really take a night and 
a day. It's only a simple hook.” 

"Yeah?" (Pause —heavy breathing) 
“1 don't want to anymore." 


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PLAYBOY 


184 


“What do you mean?” 

"It's not romantic now.” 

"What do you mean?" 

“I don't know. You make it seem like 
manual labor or something.” 

“What's the matter?” 

“Do you have to lean on me that 
way?" 

“C'mon.” 

“You're too persistent. I'm not in the 
mood anymore.” 

“Well for Christsakes get back in the 
mood.” 

“Quiet! My little cousin’s asleep in 
the next room.” 

“Listen, don’t try to give me what you 
give other guys!” 

“Are you so different from other 
‘guys?” 

"Em mel” 

“You're cute.” 

“Yeah?” (Pause.) 

“Not now, I told you." 

“When?” 

“I'm tired now.” 

“When?” 

“Г see.” 

“That's a promise now.” 

“ГЇЇ see.” 

“See you in the morning?” 

“ГЇЇ see." 

Harry was less interested in Gloria, 
who bored him (he could not understand 
what all the fuss was about), than he 
was in the obviously victimized men. 
He had never heard voices so uniformly 
strained, so defenseless, so pleading: 
even during their moments of outburst 
and accusation he could hear their in- 


timidated whine. It seemed so silly. It 
wasn’t a matter of what they wanted, 
it was that anyone could so much want 
anything outside himself that puzzled 
him. Ridiculous! 

During the early evening hours when 
Gloria left him alone to go vamping, 
Harry took to playing sexual conquest 
with himself in front of the mirror. 
He whined at himself with the men’s 
lines and rejected himself with Gloria's. 
Then he laughed like anything, He felt 
beyond the game and so quickly grew 
bored with it. He understood that the 
men wanted some kind of love and that 
Gloria teased them about getting it. But 
he couldn't see why anyone had to run 
after love that way. What good was it 
if you had to chase it or be made to feel 
silly by it? He felt he knew so much 
more than these grown men. "Don't be 
so dopey,” he wanted to say to them. 
“Don't go to them. Let them come to 
you!” 

Harry smiled with this superior knowl- 
edge all the rest of the way to Le Havre. 
Gloria was sure that it was she the smiles 
were aimed at, He was laughing at her! 
Bitterly she decided that there was no 
doubt about it: Her week of hard work 
was wasted. She was being patronized! 
Bitterly she reflected that there could 
be no further doubt about it: her 
cousin Harry was a little rat. Well, let 
him go to hell. She was going to Paris. 

“Paris,” she said to herself, “Paris.” 
And suddenly she realized that it meant. 
no more to her than if she had said 
“Bronx.” The scent of Paris had become 


“The conference has broken down, I’m afraid.” 


overipe; the scent of sex took on the 
smell of cheese. Gone were her intri- 
cately detailed fantasies: her invented 
seduction, her invented violence, her 
invented pain. Gone, also, was her in- 
vented guilt. She saw the senselessness of 
her chaste triumphs: what point was 
there in evading that final experience, 
knowing, as she now did, that there 
could be no pleasure in it? Since it 
couldn't be fun, why not try it? She 
stared at Harry's smile and smiled am- 
bitiously back. They would be landing 
soon and she would have to make plans. 
There could be no further doubt about 
it: let cousin Harry go to Paris; she was 
going to hell. 


It wasn't until four years later that 
Harry surrendered his virginity — just 
three years and 11 months past the day 
that Gloria abandoned hers. He was 
still touring the Continent with his 
cousin and quite content at being celi- 
bate even though 15, а thought unbea 
ble to most of his contemporaries. 
“That stuff is stupid," Harry instructed 
them. 

“Still and all,” said a friend, 
sure like to tear off a piece of that. 
he pointed to a particularly striking 
young lady striding handsomely down 
the Via Veneto. 

“It shouldn't be too difficult,” said 
Harry. “Just ask her. How do you know 
she won't say yes?” 

His two friends laughed nervously, 

“I mean it," insisted Harry. 

Their nervousness increased. 

i " said one. 
alled Harry. 

‘The woman turned with a half-smile 
to stare at the amusing children she 
knew were following her. If she found 
them charming she would buy them 
each a piece of candy. 

Harry smiled warmly. “My friends and 
I wondered if we could make love to 
you. All right?” 

“Of course,” the woman answered 
dazedly. Harry's friends ran. 


"Let's 


Hany returned to America at 17 and 
sat around the house. He was in the 
least interesting phase for a person whose 
single concern was self-indulgence; that 
phase where the child may or may not 
be father to the man and all one can 
do is stick around to find out. 

When he looked at the world he saw 
nothing that he wanted; when he looked 
at himself he saw that though everything 
was there, he still wanted more. He 
wanted a direction. 

“Harry, what would you like to do?” 
the Harry Fund asked him. 

“Who knows?” said Harry, annoyed 
at being asked to consider the question. 


Hard times had come upon the trus- 
tees of the Harry Fund. Emergency 


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PLAYBOY 


186 


expenses had depleted its coffers dan- 
gerously. The villain, it seemed, was his 
cousin Gloria, who had been subject to 
a recurring medical problem every six 
months or so for the last three years. 
The expense of transportation to Sweden 
and hospital costs had laid the family 
financially low. Harry was told that the 
best that now could be done for him 
was a few hundred every month. He 
would have to fend for himself. 

He began to feel as if a ruthless, nasty 
game were being forced upon him. He 
had no intention of accepting the sort 
of world he was being squeezed into. 
Rarcly did he show temper but now, for 
weeks on end, he was furious; and there 
was reason to be. He'd been cheated! 
The Harry Fund had promised him a 
career. Where was it? A direction — 
where was it? He had accepted them on 
good faith, let them serve and be loyal 
to him and now what was his thanks? 
Desertion. He didn't question that they 
loved him but there was efficient love 
and inept love. There was no doubt into 
which category theirs fell. He took the 


Fund's payment with an impatient 
gesture and went off to find a demoral- 
izing, ratinfested room in a dirty, cheap 
rooming house. Two could play at their 
game. 

"The rooming house of his dreams was 
in a factory district where plant mecha- 
nization had been so perfected that no 
skilled labor was needed at all. The un- 
skilled labor was largely recruited from. 
the South, from scctions rich with a Jack 
of skill. The migrants lived drearily 
in tenements and rooming houses which 
spawned grubbily around the several 
factories. Everybody had dreams of doing 
something else. It would have been a 
neighborhood ripe for crime if, after a 
day's work, somebody had enough energy 
to commit one. 

Harry was the only tenant in his room- 
ing house who didn't work in a factory. 
Regardless of how bad his affairs went 
he would not reduce himself to taking 
a job. Work he understood as a conven- 
ient timekilling device in which people 
indulged themselves to avoid concen- 
trating on the important thing: himself. 


“Quick, Morse, call my broker!” 


It riled Harry to know how much ac 
tivity took place in the course of a day 
that did not center on him. However, 
this would be an easy matter to set 
right. All he need do was acquaint him- 
self with his neighbors and allow them 
to create a supplemental Harry Fund. 
The idea brightened his day and that 
ht he stepped across the hall and 
knocked on the nearest door to begin 
making friends. 

He made only one friend. Her name 
was Rosalie Murchison from Macon — 
ог, as she said it (not as a name, 
but as a lyric) “RosalieMurchisonFrom- 
Macon?" It was RosalieMurchisonFrom- 
Macon? who breathlesly opened the 
nearest door across the hall the instant 
Harry knocked, for who could tell —he 
might have been a Hollywood agent. 

She was a temporary factory worker 
hopefully bound for glory in the film 
colony—if only she could get there. 
Beneath a splendid milky display of 
hair there spread in a variety of direc- 
tions a baby-beautiful movie star's face 
and a superwomanly movie star's figure; 
as if she were not born of a piece but 
put together in a composite of bests by 
the underweaned editors of a girlie 
magazine. She looked too much larger 
than life for men to run after. Instead 
they told dirty jokes about her and 
claimed to have taken her to bed; the 
more nervous the man, the more graphic 
the claim. But no one had touched her. 
She wouldn't allow it. She was afraid 
of what uncontrolled handling would 
do to her skin tone. 

RosalieMurchisonFromMacon? was de- 
terminately headed out to Hollywood to 
make the grand try. By careful saving 
and hard work she had put away $2500. 
In another six months she’d have 500 
more; enough for a one-way bus ticket 
and а year's expenses. It was this thought 
that kept her going. Each new day of i 
dignity heightened her removal by put- 
ting her that much doser to her dream 
— and made her scem cold and aloof for 
not hearing the remarks called after her 
by the wistful men on the line. Why 
should she when she wasn't even there? 
She was in the movies— protected. in 
the arms of Robert Mitchum, who was 
saying, “To hell with ‘em all, honey. 
You've got Burt Lancaster, Rock Hudson 
and me.” Г 

Her real Ше was in her room. It was 
tatooed with glossy grinning photos of 
movie faces: great women stars, great 
men stars and a wall full of anonymous 
almoststars who had appeared in but 
one picture, where they were invariably 
listed after the rcst of the cast following 
the words "And Introducing—" and 
were never after seen again. 

But which of the winking, grinning 
faces on her wall could compare witl: 
Harry? He stood in the hall, smil 
down at her, his words beating agains: 


her like bird's wings. 

“I know it's short notice but 1 am 
strapped, so whatever you can give me 
I'd appreciate. Every little bit helps.” 

And then, through the use of what 
power she knew not, he was with her 
in her room, talking pleasantly, accept- 
ing her as an equal — "Well, I don't see 
any need to apologize. I'd say that $25 
is a swell beginning. Really, don't worry 
about it.” 

“It’s enough? You sure now? You're 
not just being nice?” 

“Who lives upstairs? Maybe they have 
more,” he said, rising. 

She blocked the door. There was no 
telling who lived upstairs. 

“I have more! In the bank. Ever so 
much more. Honest to sweet Saturday 
night, you have got to believe mel" 

"I hate to be caught short,” said 
Harry. 

“Tomorrow. 
morrow.” 

How could he be unaware of the 
ground swells, unaware of the imbalance 
in the room, unaware that RosalicMur- 
chisonFromMacon?, who never doubted 
the splendor of her own appearance, 
now saw herself as fat and dubby and 
asked only to die for him? He needed 
money? He would have money! 

She took him to ner, she bought 
him gifts and clothes and tickets to 
the movies. They went to the movies 
endlessly and where the romance on the 
screen ended and the romance with Harry 
began blurred into meaninglessness. 
‘There was no difference, really. They 
were two heads 40 feet high, meeting in 
the center of a giant screen, kissing stere- 
ophonically and fading out to the next 
scene, which was the вате as the one just 
passed, repeated over and over. But it 
was a movie that never got anywhere. So 
RosalieMurchisonFromMacon?, with the 
dwindling bank balance, began stirring 
restlessly in her seat wondering when 
the plot would start moving. She felt 
caves opening within her and they re- 
mained unfilled. Her skin began to dry 
and crack. Her juices were being drained 
—Harry was doing this to her. 


I'll go to the bank to- 


"I can’t believe it's real. Can you? I 
can't. I really, really can't! Honest I 
can't,” she said, feeling Harry with her 
eyes closed because most times she dared 
not look at him. 

“What's real?” Harry asked, moving 
out of reach. There were times when he 
did not appreciate being touched. 

"You know what I mean," she said 
vaguely. 

“I need shoes,” 
his toes. 

“Funny, I was just thinking that very 
thing today,” she put in quickly. 

"I need shirts,” said Harry, rubbing a 
hand across his chest. 

“Surprise! Surprise!” She reached un- 


said Harry, fingering 


der the bed and handed Harry a pack- 
age. He stared dully through it. 

“Hey, how far is it in miles to New 
York?” he finally asked, his voice trailing 
off as if he were already there. 

“New York? You wondering about 
New York? Oh, it's far! Very far! Almost 
impossible to get to from here! You 
don't want to bother with New York.” 

She ran out and bought him six pairs 
of shoes. 


She could not sleep for feasting and, 
after feasting, she was hungrier still and 
the more she dicted on Harry the more 
the hollow bloomed inside. What was he 
doing to her? What wasn’t he doing? 
She didn’t know; she couldn’t figure it 
out. 

"What are you thinking about?" she 
asked him in bed late at night, as she 
could feel the tension curling like a 
spasm through his body. But he rarely 
answered. It was none of her business. 
He was thinking of himself. 


“We've seen all the movies,” he said 
to her one night as if she had been 
caught cheating. 

“Oh, sweet Jesus, no!” she cried in a 
panic, rummaging through the news- 
paper listings. But he was right. 

“We could stay home,” she suggested. 

"Sure," Harry mumbled. 

“We could play cards. I used to be 
very good at cards. Hearts. I bet I could 
trounce you at hearts!" 

Harry did not respond. 

"Ha. Ha. I was only fooling. I bet 
you'd trounce me at hearts. You'd 
trounce mc!" She bit her lip and 
frowned. Harry turned toward her and 
she quickly turned her frown into a 
smile, painfully cutting her lower lip by 
forgetting to remove her teeth from it. 

“Sugar!” she cursed. 

Harry did not hear her. He was work- 
ing out decisions. Maybe it was good that 
they had run out of movies. Now there 
was no excuse to delay any further what 
he had so long delayed. Somewhere there 
had to be some answer to move him 
down some path to lead him to some 
future.  RosalieMurchisonFromMacon? 
was nice but she wits beside the point. He 
treated her in the present as if she were 
already part of the past, as if she were a 
forgotten boiling kettle he'd come back 
to take off the stove while on his way to 
where he really wanted to go. 

She felt the way she did as a child 
trying desperately to get the attention of 
a grownup, crying “Watch this! Watch 
this!” and throwing her skirt up over her 
head. Her skirt was over her head all the 
time now and it was clear that Harry was 
no longer watching. It was driving 
RosalieMurchisonFromMacon? crazy. She 
loved him depressingly but her face 
was getting blowzy and she was looking 
overripe. Her posture had gone to hell 


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187 


PLAYBOY 


along with her skin tone and soon her 
savings would be gone too and she knew 
Harry would be gone the next moment, 
gone to somebody сїзє. There was a 
chorus line of factory women just waiting 
for him. And while she loved him to the 
point of losing herself she retained that 
last remnant of shrunken ego that al- 
lowed the dream of stardom to go wasted 
but pulled up short when it came to her 


"final survival. 


One day she came home with a check 
for $700 and an airline ticket to New 
York. It was the last of her savings. 
"Here," she said, handing him both 
check and ticket “Hey, New York! 
That's a swell idea," said Harry, and he 
immediately began packing. 


Harry flew away from RosalieMurchi- 
sonFromMacon? on the first plane out of 
town, He had time to think during his 
drive to the airport, or rather, not so 
much to think as to open his mind 
to the whistling, stomping, dancing 
truths that the gesture of RosalieMur- 
chisonFromMacon? had inspired. How 
foolish his search, how needless the wor- 
ries of the Harry Fund, of his parents, 
of his teachers. His direction was clear 
and had been clear from his earliest 
childhood, but the foggy sameness of his 
growing years had dimmed it. Insights 
ricocheted with heady celebration in the 
cabin of the plane. 

Sweet RosalieMurchisonFromMacon? 
had pointed his direction as if she were 
a laboratory experiment designed for 
that purpose. She had loved Harry. She 
had given him things. All of his life 
people had loved Harry, people had 
given him things. He reflected sadly on 
the formative years he was leaving be- 
hind and of the girl who, in a single act, 
had brought them into focus. He was 
sorry that, in all his excitement, he had. 
forgotten to step in to say goodbye. 

But he had no time to waste on sad 
thoughts. He let his mind settle pleas- 
antly on what he would do from now 
on; what he would do for the rest of his 
life. He would do what he had always 
done. He would be loved. 


Harry, the rat with women, entered 
maturity looking more beautiful 0 
ever; not beautiful in the normal way of 
men or women, nor even beau 
the way he had previously been in his 
youth, but rather, beautiful as nature is 
beautiful. Looking at Harry was like 
looking at a sunset or a mountain range 
or the New York City skyline. He made 
people want to stand there reverently 
and watch, be made them want to salute. 
Sightsecing buses could have made a 
fortune driving around him. 

He had filled his beauty as an animal 
fills its skin; all loose folds were taken 
up nov, all details completed. Where in 


ul in 


188 his growing days he had vibrated an 


excitement of change he now emitted 
calm: pure, uninvestigated, unrippled, 
uncaring calm. His beauty had scttled in 
him like a well-poured foundation. It 
was not skindeep but shone from be- 
neath layers and layers suggesting that 
were the outer shell removed the glow at 
the core would be blinding. 

He walked through the city and it 
purred and rolled over before him: the 
lights from windows only caught his face 
and left others in darkness, the sound of 
traffic softened to a 's call and the 
smelled of Indian summer. If Harry 
walked on one side of the street, as a 
sign of respect everyone else crossed over 
to the other. 

He was loved with the sense of off- 
balance urgency that is unique with 
the unrequited. The city ran up to him 
pleading, "Take me!" and, once taken, 
resented the takcr for his lack of com- 
mitment. It shuffled miserably around 
him caught in a love trap, having to give 
and not being given in return; reflecting 
bitterly that Harry didn’t really care, he 
was just taking advantage. 

And Harry moved within it, never 
noticing. His touch left no fingerprints; 
almost anything could be proved by it. 
Those outside him belonged to a world 
apart, a universe he cared nothing for: 
dull, without shape, without definition. 
‘Their only possible excuse for being 
was as instruments for his comfort: 
their arms to carry presents, their mouths 
to offer praises, their bodies to satisfy his 
own body. Their eyes he used as mirrors. 

can't decide what to do with my 
hair," he would say while staring into a 
lady's eyes. “I hate to trust it to anyone 
but myself." 

"Oh no, Harry, you mustn't” 


"Im the only one my hair really 
trusts." 


our hair would trust me, Harry." 
top that, 1 just combed it! But if I 
cut it myself 1 can't do a really good job 
on the back ——" 

et me try, Harry. Your hair, your 
beautiful hair 

“1 told you to quit that. Do you know 
anyone who really knows how to press 
shirts? 1 mean people say they can press 
shirts but they come out either too soft 
or too stiff.” 

“Let me try, Harry. Please let me. I'm 
very good at pressing sl 4 

"Sure, that's what you said about wash- 
ing socks. Say, can't you get brighter 
lights in this room? I hate to see shadows 
all over my body." 

He liked to present himself against 
various backgrounds: sec how he looked 
against a blonde, how a brunette com- 
plemented the color of his cyclashes, 
how a redhead set off the tone of his 
skin. He covered the spectrum and back, 
resting easily wherever he desired and 
accepting only those parts of the worlds 
offered him that he might suddenly have 


a yen for. He had only to point; then 
he would taste and move on. His smiles 
shot and killed. Hc huntcd with them 
carelessly and was well taken care of. 

On his arrival in the city he took a 
suite at the Waldorf. The management 
didn't charge; they thought he gave the 
building class. 

“AN I ask is to be taken care of,” said 
Harry. 

“All we ask is to die for you,” an- 
swered the Waldorf. lt was the answer 
he received everywhere. 

He did not know how people knew 
about him. He accepted i one of the 
interesting sidelights of New York; the 
way a big city makes welcome its stran- 
gers. His mail slot bulged with business: 
telephone messages beseeching private 
interviews; party ations; letters from 
exclusive charities requesting his spon- 
sorship; dinner invitations; theater tick- 
ets compliments of Miss Blank I who 
bumped him in the elevator; ballet tick- 
ets compliments of Miss Blank П who 
gave him her seat in the bar; a yachting 
invitation from Miss Blank III who fol- 
lowed him down Lexington Avenue in a 
love letters offering everything, ask- 
ing nothing. 


He was a narcotic and women had to 
have him; and like a narcotic, once the 
effect wore off there followed a slicing 
emptiness and a nervous need for more. 
Women staggered punch-drunk through 
the city, meeting and drinking exces 
sively at luncheons, murmuring from 
table to table, “Harry’s a rat, Harry's a 
rat, Harry's a rat.” 

In the usual course of events Harry's 
casualness would probably not have 
earned him the reputation of being a 
rat with women: loving and leaving, 
while. officially frowned on, seldom 
evokes a final, definitive judgmer 
many women enjoy being left only sec- 
ond best to being loved. Harry was not 
a rat for what he did but for what he 
didn't do. He left whomever he touched 
feeling untouched, whomever he dis- 
honored feeling, regrettably, still hon- 
ored. He left no aftertaste; no mark on 
the pillow. He was like summer thirst. 
He was like Chinese food. Once he was 
gone, nothing had been there. 

He was never the flirt. A flirt is coi 
scious of the game. and Harry's game i 
volved only himself. For that reason 
there was no defense against him. As in 
myths or fairy tales, knights-errant (in 
this case, women) marched on horseback 
toward him bellowing the challenge: 
“Joust if you dare, Sir Harry!" Ti 
with rumors of his invincibility hosts of 
heavily armored ladies rose tall from be- 
hind their breasts, cornered him in his 
love nest and threw down their gaunt- 
lets— followed shortly by their armor, 
their defiance and their souls. And the 
more stories spread about his irresisti- 


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189 


PLAYBOY 


“Which way to the giant octopus?” 


bility, the more challenges received. 

One example was Georgette Wallen- 
der. 

She was small but looked large; she 
was pretty but looked formidable; she 
was softly built but looked indestruct- 
ible. She had cool eyes; the eyes of an 
appraiser, steady as two black buttons 
and operating like reverse mirrors: they 
could see out; no one could see in. Her 
interior was a well-stocked dungeon of 
reserve against a hostile world; her ex- 
terior was a symbol of the hardness in 
that very world she saw as hostile. 

In the company of other women she 
could act fairly open if not trusting, for 
despite the private claims of each they 
were all on record as being in it to- 
gether; NATO allies to the end. With 
men her openness clouded; an affair 
working warmly would suddenly chill. 
No one knew why. Love would tenta- 
tively begin and then, at a point just 
short of fruition, stop cold; not receding 
but vanishing quickly, embarrassed for 
having been where it wasn't wanted. 
From inside her wall she sent out signals 
of peace to the world: her womanliness, 
her composure, her silent promise that 
the game was more than worth the 
candle. Men picked up the signals 
like dropped handkerchiefs. The circle 
would form again: first hard, then soft, 
then gone. She would withdraw her 
hand, and softly say, "It's time, my dear, 
we had a serious conversation" and im- 
mediately afterward add to her bulging 
portfolio one more new friend: someone 
to lunch with once a month and be ad- 
vised by on the condition of the market. 

Georgette met Harry at a party to 
which she had gone in order to break off 
with her current lover, a gentleman over 
whom she was becoming fond. She pre- 
ferred to make her farewells at parties; 
in private they could become embarrass- 
ing. In addition, she deemed it only fair 
to the man to part with him in а crowd 
and afford him a chance of finding an- 
other girl to take home. She was expert 
at these occasions and performed less 
like a participant than a hostess; doing 
her utmost to make her guest feel as 
comfortable as possible in his new, un- 
familiar surroundings. Soothingly they 
had oozed from lovers to sweethearts to 
buddies. Their faces were aglow with 
mutual affection; Georgette's because 
she never felt so close to a man as when 
she broke off with him and the young 
man’s because he was convinced that he 
had somehow won a great victory by 
surrendering everything. Their hands 
slid lingeringly apart as they went their 
private ways: he to the bar to celebrate 
his mature handling of a difficult situa- 
tion and Georgette to another room 
where her eyes landed and fixed forever 
on Harry. 


“My name is Georgette Wallender,” 
she said. 

“I'm Harry," Harry said. 

"I want you to know you can never 
hurt me,” she said. 

She took his hand and wouldn't let go. 


Georgette had known of Harry for 
some time before they met—not by name 
but by feeling. He had been the back- 
ground music to her life, playing 
counter to her own theme: the rising 
crescendo heard in all the romantic 
novels of her childhood, in all the bad 
films and radio plays. Her shell opened 
and took him in. Then, still impreg- 
nable, it closed around him. 


“I love. I know I love 
Harry buried inside her. The Harry out- 
ide barely responded. 

‘Love is a vast prairie——" she 
frowned. "No, rather its a flower on 
that prairie— a desert flower, fragile 
and full at the same time. Alone. Ex- 
quisitely alone and yet rooted deeply in 
the nestling soil. No, it isn't" She 
frowned again and tricd to get more 
deeply into herself. “Love is a straight 
line going off into infinity: a series of 
vari-angled planes. No, that’s wrong. 
Love is architecture — no, it's richer 
than that. Love is — is candy. Sweet and 
deep. And sticky. Like toffee. No, that's 
shallow. Love is — wait a minute — I had 
it a second ago ——" 

“L think love is smooth and creamy," 
said Harry, thinking of himself. 

"E had it a second ago —— What the 
devil did I mean to say?" Georgette 
asked the Harry inside her. 

“I think love is like white bread,” said 
the outside Harry, beginning to feel 
hungry. 


Love became more real when she 
talked about it; and to go back and talk 
about it some more made it more real 
than real: an improvement on the orig- 
inal. She turned it into living theater at 
the luncheon table. Her now narrowing 
circle of women friends listened heavily; 
their pillbox hats rising to each climax 
like surfboards on a wave, their breath- 
ing so deep that in a room full of cigz- 
rette smoke their corner stood out with 
the clarity of an etching. 

“Be careful,” they warned. Georgette 
beamed. “You don’t know what love is,” 
she said carelessly. It was an accurate ap- 
praisal. 


Her friends, like herself, were highly 
successful businesswomen — diverse in 
interests but equal in rank: ambitious, 
socially conscious and quietly powerful. 
Their power had begun small but flour- 
ished as rumor of its potency was spread, 
first by themselves and later by others. 
‘The rumor was eventually accepted as 
the truth and so became true; their in- 


fluence was felt everywhere. 

‘They knew each other (in order of 
importance) by income, by rank, by 
name and by appearance—a closely 
meshed circle of accomplishment meet- 
ing often at Iunch, cocktails and dinner, 
pulling strings, managing lives and ex- 
changing inside stories; the married 
members escorted by their robust, 
cologne-smelling husbands, the single 
ones adorned with the currently vogueish 
ballad singer, actor, designer, photogra- 
pher or playwright — she: bold as brass, 
he: soft as dawn. 

"The group leader (and so recognized) 
was the syndicated gossip columnist and 
television panclist Belle Mankis, adored 
by her friends who called her “Our 
darling Belle," unadored by her enemies 
who called her, "Preying Mankis.” 

Whomever Belle saw fit to use as an 
intimate became part of the group. 

Naomi Peel, famed psychoanalyst, 
physical therapist and television panelist; 
author of the daily column of frank ad- 
vice, “God and Your Heart"; a dedicated 
foe of homosexuality and intermarriage; 
also known as “the psychiatrist to the 
stars.” 

India Anderbull, famed novelist and 
television panelist; winner of the Na- 
tional Book Award for The Weaklings, 
a novel of the husband in America; 
creator of the Emmy Award family tele- 
vision series “The Weaklings,” a more 
humorous treatment of the same subject. 
Arlene Moon, famed publicist and tel- 
evision panelist; best known for her un- 
publicized religious works; a dedicated 
foe of smut. 

Viola Strife, famed lawyer and televi- 
sion panelist; best known for her lucra- 
tive settlements in divorce litigation; a 
passionate advocate of legally strength- 
ening the marital vows. And Georgette, 
who, aside from her duties as a television 
panelist, edited Outré, the women's fash- 
ion magazine. 

To all of them and to Georgette, too, 
until she met Harry, men were a social 
convenience: things to date when they 
out with the girls at night. Mar- 
ge was condoned as either an early 
mistake, a career necessity or a financial 
arrangement. 


wei 


Women, they had long ago discovered, 
got along best with other women. As a 
group they lived for themselves as Harry 
lived for himself; and because of this 
they were freer of his allure than most 
women: not free enough to dismiss him 
but free enough to be able not to love 
him — though he did confuse them ter- 
ribly. Georgette's infatuation had blown 
a hole in their ranks. In Harry's pres- 
ence they felt defensive (a new feeling 
around men) and out of control (a new 
feeling around anybody). 

Power was the central force of their 


lives. It ushered them into night clubs, 191 


PLAYBOY 


theaters, fashionable restaurants. It paid 
their bills, it bought their tickets, it sent. 
them free books. They were courted by 
the needy and the publicity seekers and, 
after years of doling out harsh experi- 
ence, were given a group name: The 
Blue Belles. 

‘They were a male-morality-watchdog. 
society: giving speeches, writing papers, 
arguing on television and, as members 
of a private underground, doing more 
—much more. They acted as spotters of 
the rich and eligible: men of indiscrim- 
inate age with sufficient funds and repu- 
tation to benefit themselves or their 
colleagues. Once the mark was spotted 
an invisible circle was drawn around 
him. Only one of their own was per- 
mitted inside: to drink, to dine, to make 
love, to marry. Outsiders were frightened 
off. The total power of the middle level 
was directed at them: a call to the phone 
where an anonymous voice lay down the 
penalties of trespass—to be gossip- 
columned, publicrelationed and legal- 
actioned to death. Outsiders quickly 
learned the boundary lines of fun, and 
withdrew. 

They operated as the game wardens of 
society. Those women who would not 
scare were made examples of. The few 
men who challenged the circle were laid 
open to public attack and private harass- 
ment; called away from their tables at 
restaurants to hear the whispered tele- 
phone message, “Get rid of the bitch. Get 
rid of the bitch.” Or if subtlety were 
the evening’s plan, no message at all — 
only heavy breathing. 

It was a sorority game and the Blue 
Belles brought to it the spirit of the 
natural game player. Whether this game 
or any other, they relished the excite- 
ment of tit-for-tatmanship. Games were 
a way of life, a private language, a means 
of communication. Talk was cheap and 
unrewar games were the true reli- 
gion. They played them with rising cc- 
stasy and found joy in their celebration. 

They played "Botticell 
Questions" "Ghosts," 
“Fact or Fiction, 
fee Pot," “Capistrano,” “Minestrone,” 
“Arthur's Mother,” “Bride and Groom,” 
“Self-Destruction,” and many others — 
around the clock till the night was gone 
and early morning was over and no one 
could think of what to do next except 
go home. 

Belle Mankis hated that moment. 

“There must be at least one more 
game,” she insistently said as the guests 
shuffled into their coats and kissed good- 
bye. 

She called out names. 
“Augmenting?” 

“Yes, we played ‘Augmenting, 
her guests said tiredly. 

"Did we play ‘Arraignment’?” 

But they had played that, too; and 


id we play 


one of 


192 every other game as well. Her friends 


started to leave, Belle followed them de- 
spondently. "Wait!" she cried with in- 
spiration. 

We didn't play ‘Doctor'!” 
‘Doctor’ is a children's 
growled India Anderbull. 

But Belle made them play it. “How do 
you know it isn’t fun if you don't try?" 

As it turned out it was fun; more fun 
than almost anything. They added it to 
the top of the list. 

Harry was as much an irritant in 
games as he was in everything clse. Win- 
ning or losing seemed beside the point 
to him and he let the tension of the 
contest flag as he thought over his posi- 
tion carefully, often distracted by other 
thoughts and really not caring in the 
slightest, till the men disbanded into 
small drinking circles and the women, 
if they could, would have screamed. But 
they couldn’t with Harry. He watered 
their malice and made the act worse by 
being unaware of it. 

One night they played “‘Super-Truth,” 
a game in which each player had to re- 
veal a single unpleasant characteristic 
that he found in all the other players. 
Harry's turn came but he could think 
of nothing unpleasant to say about any- 
one. 

Even me?" teased Belle Mankis. 

I suppose I never paid attention," 
said Ty. 

"There must be some unpleasant char- 
acteristic in at least one of us," said 
Viola Strife. 

All the Blue Belles laughed. 

“I suppose I never bothered to no- 
tice,” said Harry. 

"Georgette!" cried Belle. "You cer- 
tainly must have noticed Georgette." 

Everyone applauded. Georgette smiled. 
and pretended to blush. 

More applause and shrieks of fun. 

"Oh, sure," said Harry. 

“Give us an unpleasant characteristic,” 
said Belle. 

And the Blue Belles leaned forward. 

Georgette smiled to herself, knowing 
that poor, bewildered, hopelessly-in-love 
Harry could have no answer. 

“For one thing," began Harry, "she's 
always around.’ 

The sound of raising eyebrows filled 
the room. Georgette’s expression did not 
change but over it there suddenly ap- 
peared a series of fine lines. 

Here was her first hint that Harry was 
not her slave. She had opened herself 
to this man, given him love, trusted and 
become dependent on him, bought him 
gifts, given him a place to live—and 
now: he was slipping away. 

If she confronted Harry with the 
truth she was sure he'd deny it, poor 
dear. He would have thrown himself at 
her feet and protested that his comment 
was merely a joke, a silly, misplaced 
party remark; but Georgette knew that 
though neither of them wanted to admit 


game," 


it, the sign was there. So it was senseless 
to reveal her insight to him. She was the 
stronger of the two and if a solution were 
to be found she would have to be the 
one who found it. One thing was clear 
from the beginning: she would not let 
him go. 

Having decided all this in a matter of 
moments, Georgette felt refreshed. Her 
depression lifted as do all depressions 
once a decision is arrived at. Their fu- 
ture was in her small, capable hands and 
with that knowledge she could afford to 
be patient. She would observe Harry and 
find a way of banishing his doubts. 

The new lines on her face softened but 
did not disappear. 

During the next weeks she watched 
him unsparingly. Whenever Harry looked 
up from his private interests he saw her 
damp, soft eyes, blind with understand 
ing. She was all over him; gentle, sweet, 
reassuring — as if they were no longer 
lovers. She asked Harry questions: she 
urged him to talk about himself, know- 
ing it was a way of keeping him inter- 
ested; she tried to draw out. But 
somehow the questions she asked were 
unending, with parts one, two, three; 
subtopics A, B, C and D; interspersed 
with pithy observations on life and love 
that might have told Harry, had he not 
been winding his watch, more about 
their own situation than she intended. 
One part of her heard but could not halt 
that cool, calm, wisdom-dropping voice 
taking off on its endless displa: 

"When I was a child I always stayed 
in the house. I always believed that if I 
went outside I would get hit. My parents 
encouraged me to go outside. My teach- 
ers encouraged me to go outside. Aunts 
and uncles whom I loved encouraged me 
to go outside. So I did. And I got hit. 
Experience doesn’t teach; it merely con- 
firms. 

“So, I withdrew from the outside world 
and decided never to be vulnerable 
again. But I learned that if one hides 
oneself from hurt one hides oncself 
from love. Harry, dear, we are really 
very much alike, you and I. We are 
practically the same person. Will you 
please stop winding your watch?” 

Georgette understood in detail the 
effect her insights would have upon 
Harry; they would cause guilt and his 
guilt would cause him to resent her and 
his resentment would force him to strike 
out in boyish rebellion. So she was not 
surprised to find that he had begun dat- 
ing other women. When Belle Mankis 
reported the news Georgette insisted that 
it was not yet time to discipline him; he 
would be allowed his fling and yet be 
made aware that, rebellious or not, his 
Georgette was always there. 

And she was. Whenever Harry took a 
new love to dine — there, alone at the 
table across the room, sat Georgette, a 
soft light playing on her wide-brimmed 


hat, her dark glasses and veil never quite 
concealing the understanding smile 
charging his way. For the first six weeks 
he thought it a coincidence. 

Late at night with Harry ensconced 
in his new apartment, Georgette, for 
whom no phone number was unlisted, 
would wake him, laugh warmly into the 
receiver and say, “Harry, you poor dear, 
you're really having quite a time for 
yourself, I just want you to know that 
I thin з all wonderful.” 

Occasionally, when Harry wasn't home, 
she'd be almost through with her mes- 
sage before realizing she had gotten the 
answering service. 

Harry’s new girl became upset. “That 
woman won't leave us alone! Not that I 
want to complain, Harry." 

Her name was Faith Maynard, a 
gentlefaced girl with large hands who 
worked as an interior decorator. Harry 
was first attracted to her when she con- 
vinced him that she could reproduce him 
in the form of an apartment. But while 
her execution was brilliant her concep- 
tion was shallow. From the begi 
Harry felt the apartment a disappoint- 
ment. He didn't know much about in- 
terior design but he knew whether it was 
him or not. The chairs were him, the 
rugs were him, but the curtains, the 
tables, the wall decorations and the Ger- 
man icons were definitely nobody's and 
the canopied bed with its welter of silk 
hangings could never be him; it was ob- 
viously her. It was just such unobtrusive 
insincerity that annoyed Harry the most. 
He moved in with her, expecting to 
move out immediately. 

“What woman won't leave us alone?” 
Harry said, listening to the sound of his 
own voice. He kept forgetting that he 
must have Faith add a tape recorder to 
the apartment. 

“You know who I mean! The woman 
who keeps calling!” 

"Oh, Georgette!" laughed Harry. “You 
mcan Gcorgcttc. I didn't know you knew 
her." 

“I don't.” 

“Then why do you mind her calling 
me? She's only a friend. She just thinks 
1 need looking after." 

"She's trying to get you back," brooded. 
Faith. 

"Do you really think so?” mused 
Harry. His respect for Georgette cata- 
pulted. 

Now that he took the time to think of 
it perhaps Faith was right: the meetings 
in restaurants, the phone calls, the flood 
of endcaring mementos; he had never 
bcen besicged like this. No other woman 
had the nerve. They had always let go 
of him easily, hoping he'd remember 
and return, fearing that if they threw 
the fit they wanted to, they would lose 
him forever. And so thcy turned into 
what Harry had always scen them a 
nanimate objects who had somehow 


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PLAYBOY 


learned the trick of animation. They 
walked, they talked, they offered love; 
and they accepted rejection with that. 
heart-warming, defenseless little smile 
guaranteed to break every heart except 
the heart aimed at. 

How thin and characterless Georgette 
made them seem. While admittedly a 
few had followed him down the street, 
pleading, and others had called him late 
at night, these were obvious acts of hys- 
teria—not a planned campaign, not a 
tenacious holding action like Georgette's. 
A curtain had lifted and Harry now saw 
that she dogged his every step from the 
moment he left her; and yet she did not 
cry — she did not scem on the defensive. 
It was as if walking backward were the 
most natural and agrecable of acts. How 
magnificent, he thought. In a vague way 
Harry was becoming interested. 

He had never known suspense in his 
dealings with women; there had never 
been any question about the outcome. 
But this strange woman refused to van- 
ish; it shifted the balance. Harry felt a 
new anticipation, a new fondness for 
her. He viewed her with growing sym- 
pathy as the underdog in a losing con- 
test, hopeful that despite the great odds 
against her she might surprise him and 
win. He did not sec himself as her op- 
ponent but as her claque. The next time 
she called and woke him he wished her 
luck, cheered her on and moved back in 
with her. 


Georgette felt like a giantess! Here 
he was, docilely in her arms again; Geor- 
вене triumph! She knew now that love 
had been a test not to weaken but to 
strengthen her. Harry, who was known 


as a rat with women, had crumbled. She 
had not begged, she had not demeaned; 
she had mastered. It would all be much 
easier now. She had proved to him who 
was the stable and the strong one; it 
would no longer be a struggle. He would 
bend to her will, listen and learn from 
her. 

Their separation allowed her to see 
him more dearly now: he was so much 
the boy; a spoiled, bewildered, self- 
indulgent, beautiful boy. She would take 
this boy and train him to be a man. 
Only then would she marry him. Her 
days of blind love were over; Harry had 
better rise to her or she might someday 
leave him. She dreaded the thought. 
What would Harry do if she left him? 
He had left her and it had made her 
strong. She feared it would be just the 
opposite with Harry. He would collapse 
—might even kill himself. She grew 
angry; she was a busy woman and wasn't. 
at all sure she had time for all this re- 
sponsibility. She thought of him as he 
cheerfully unpacked in the next room, 
pulling out drawers, clumsily 
banging into things. She smiled thinly 
at the immensity of the job that lay 
ahead; then she went inside to teach him 
how to put away his socks. 


“You know the trouble with you, 
Harry?” 

Harry looked up encouragingly. It 
was their second week back together, 
and now that Georgette was no longer 
talking about her own state of mind, 
but his, he found her much more fun. 

"You're withdrawn. You don't com- 
municate.” 

“What do you know!” said Harry. 

“It’s one of the big problems in so- 


ciety today — in the world as a matter of 
fact: the breakdown in communication.” 

‘I'd rather have a good time,” said 
Harry. 

“You poor dear, don’t you see that 
without communicating you can’t have 
a good time?” 

“Oh, I enjoy myself,” said Harry. 

“False enjoyment is not happiness, 
Harry. God put us on this earth to 
communicate; else why did he give us 
language?” 

“I use language. Listen, sometimes I 
never stop talking. 

“We don't use language anymore; we 
misuse it. Language is no longer a means 
of communication but a means of avoid- 
ing communication.” 

“You can't make the world over,” said 
Harry. 

Georgette placed his head between 
her hands and forced herself to stare 
into his eyes; they were miles away. 

“Communication isn't easy, Harry 
Believe me, I know that. But all 
ave left is to try. We communicate a 
little today. We communicate a little 
more tomorrow. And who knows, but 
someday soon — total communication.” 

She let her hands leave his face. His 
eyes had outdistanced her. 

“But you—what do you do, Harry?” 

His eyes came back. “Tell me!” 

“You go around in your own private 
world, Never communicating. Never 
making contact. That's why you can't 
be happy. You're afraid to leave your 
shell. Insecure and afraid! 

Harry began to look interested. Geor- 
gette ran on, sensing a breakthrough. 

"Don't you see, my dearest? Once 
you're able to make contact, a perma- 
nent contact with somebody, some 
special person, you will be happy. You'll 
have to be. Because you'll be fulfilled.” 

She let her fingers run through his 


di 


we 


h 


“You poor dear, not a word I said has 
penetrated, has it?" 

“Don't do that; I just combed it,” said 
Harry. 


He now had something new to thi 
about. Georgette was sketching in a dif- 
ferent world. He vaguely remembered 
some of her ideas; they had been covered 
in school, but they hadn't really regis- 
tered. A fresh hunger awakened in 
Harry; a new part of himself was lying 
there ~ waiting to be explored. He 
looked forward to Georgette’s Icctures. 
‘Talk to me.” 

"What am I going to do with you, 
Harry?” 

“Talk to me. Tell me about the break- 

down in communication.” 


‘Tell me about my not making 
contact.” 

I've told you. Dozens of times.” 
“Tell me again. 1 forgot.” 


“Harry, you don't listen." 

"Sure, I do. I listen to you. Tell me 
about the breakdown in communica- 
tion." He rested at her feet, looked in- 
nocently up and waited. 

‘The lines in Georgette's face deep- 
encd. Working with Harry was like 
building with papier-máché: each time 
she'd seem to have a construction going 
it would depart into formlessness. If he 
were trying to control her she would 
have known how to handle it; she still 
had no doubt who was the stronger in 
a contest of wills. But Harry gave her no 
chance to demonstrate; he refused to be 
thc opposition. Hc abdicated amiably, 
bending to her iron will though she had 
Әу begun to exercise it. Part of her 
pride in regaining him lay in the con- 
firmation of the strength she had always 
supposed was hidden within her: an 
underground soldier lying in wait for 
the command. But once that strength 
was unleashed it needed action; it 
needed further proof of its invincibility. 
And instead, what did the enemy give 
her? A form of surrender so good- 
natured, so allembracing that it made 
her own aggression seem trivial; almost 
passive. Like any other peacetime mili- 
tarist her inner soldier grumbled and 
grew confused. There are those old sol- 
diers who much prefer dying to fading 
away. 

‘The balance had tipped in his favor 
again; yet Georgette could not remember 
the moment of change. Her lectures had 
Jost their inspirational outer layer and 
had assumed a personal whine. She knew 
Harry was not seeing other women; 
there wasn’t time. Nevertheless she 
calicd Belle Mankis and asked her to 
check around. She knew he was becom- 
ing bored again. 


“Harry, please listen to me. Really it's 
getting serious, this breakdown in com- 
munication of yours. Honestly, you've 
got to learn to make contact. You'll 
never be happy until you do. I'm saying 
this because I want to help you. I wish 
I had somebody to tell me the things 
Im telling you. Please listen to me, 
Harry.” 


One day India Anderbull reported 
spotting Harry having cocktails at her 
sports dub with a well-known female 
tennis star. The Blue Belles called a 
meeting. Georgette sat through it not 
hearing a word, just shaking her head. 

“Harry's a Belle Mankis began. 

There followed a chorus of grumbled 
ayes. 

We let him off the hook once — for 
Gcorgeue's sake,” said India Anderbull, 
cirdling her small friend with a heavy 
arm. "I was against it! You all remember 
how I was against it!” 

“There's no point in reworking the 

past!” counseled Viola Strife. 


“You let one of those sons of bitches 
off the hook and they all get ideas,” said 
Naomi Peel. 

“We've been too easy,” said Arlene 
Moon. 

“Harry’s had it," said Belle Mankis. 

Five thumbs pointed down. “We'll 
make an example of him.” 

Then they ordered cocktails and talked 
about other things. 

The decision had been made and was 
irrevocable. 

“Let me talk to him once more,” 
Georgette pleaded, "I'll explain every- 
thing——" 

Georgette was clearly in a state of 
shock. They sent her to a rest home, 


Harry's telephone began to ring late at 

night. 

“Hello.” 

‘ou son of a bitch. You son of a 
bitch. You son of a hr" 

"Oh, hi Naomi! 

"Don't ‘Hi Naomi’ me, Harry! You're 
a dirty rat! Besides, I'm not Naomi," 

“Hey, I'm glad you called. Georgette 
has gone away somewhere and she forgot. 
to pay this month's rent and I don't 
know where in the world I'm going to 
get it.” 

There was a long sullen pause at the 
other end. 

“How much do you need?” the voice 
said. 

They were no more effective with 
Harry's women, Of what concern was a 
career when Harry could be there to 
comfort them? “Gee, I'm sorry you've 
been fired,” he told one beautiful lady 


after another; but only when their cash 
reserves dwindled did they discover that 
they had suffered two losses, not one. 


“You're dead in this town,” the four 
A.M. phone call told him. “Pack up and 
get out!” 

“Hi, Belle. Say, how come we never 
run into each other anymore?” greeted 


Harry. 


The situation had become impossible 
for the Blue Belles. Harry was more than 
just a goad to one of their members; he 
was a threat to the existence of the or- 
ganization. If he oudasted their on- 
slaught their reputation would be 
disastrously weakened. It was revolution- 
aries such as Harry who made it bad for 
entrenched systems everywhere. Were he 
to survive much longer who knew what 
rabbitspined millionaire would take 
courage from his example and defy their 
authority? The issue had become bigger 
than Harry. It had turned into a test 


case. 


ie Vasch. They wired 
are of Claridge's, London. The re- 
able arrived the next mornin 
y ENGAGED FULL TIME WRI 
ING MEMBER OF PARLIAMENT. HAVE THURS- 
DAYS FREE. WIRE IF SUFFICIENT. 

The Blue Belles cabled back that it 
would have to be. 
xcept for some hard lines around the 
jaw Eugenie Vasch was every bit as beau- 
tiful as Harry. She was, until a series of 
unfortunate scandals, regularly on the 
list of best-dressed women of the world, 
and this without her own fortune. Eu- 


i 
din d 


i 
A ieri ANS 


"Don't blame me, blame these damned soft-top cans!” 


195 


PLAYBOY 


196 


genie squandered money the moment it 
came within reach. Having it depressed 
her, and having men with it depressed 
her even more. She spent the money, 
broke the man and went off to adventure 
elsewhere. Men were as helpless with her 
as women with Harry. But Harry could 
also be loved by men; the Blue Belles 
aside, other women hated Eugenie. Her 
ery presence was an attack on their sex- 
uality, making them feel not like women 
at all but some interim sex. She was the 
complete female and yet success at it kept 
eluding her. She kept winding up in 
illegalities that damned her reputation 
and only allowed her to exist in her 
lovers’ private lives. Publicly they were 
forced to ignore her. She despised men 
—not as cowards or weaklings or help- 
less boys— but as men. She had purified 
the Blue Belles’ philosophy into an art. 
It was this art that she practiced in order 
to make a living: she was a free-lance 
castrater. 3 

In her past and for no profit she had 
reduced to impotence movie stars, diplo- 
mats, heads of state, heads of magazine 
chains, industrialists, sportsmen, philan- 
thropists, pacifists, literary lights — men 
who afterward bitterly cursed her be- 
trayal while wistfully chcrishing the 
flaccid remains of their lost love. 

But that had been for fun; now she 
was a businesswoman. Wives on the 
hunt for revenge against husbands who 
cheated them sexually or spiritually sum- 
moned Eugenie from across the world to 
cancel permanently their mates’ mascu- 
linity; to cripple them so that no woman 
would ever again desire to use them — 
except their wives. It was по trick to 
compel her victims to become infatuated; 
the trick was to entrap them before they 
could let go, and even more, to enlist 
them as willing conspirators to their own 
debasement. 

Her past romancers met for drinks and 
exchanged the same storics: 

"I don't know exactly what it was bur 
it seemed clear from the beginning that 
she was better than I was.” 

"Yes, exactly.” 

“And yet she didn’t seem to recognize 
it. Not only was I treated as an equal; 
but in many ways аз a superior.” 

“ОҒ course. Of course.” 

“1 became better than myself: brighter, 
wittier, more lucid. I began to feel re- 
leased. I began to feel that I knew so 
much more than I ever dared dream 
—— She'd look up at me with those 
enormous, trusting violet eyes — 

"Yellow; they were yellow. Cat's eyes.” 

“Violet, definitely violet.” 


"Yellow." 


“Definitely violet!” 

“Indeed? Well, she was certainly all 
things to all men, wouldn't you say?" 

“Well put. Extremely well put. At any 


rate those eyes—a moment's stare made 
me swell like a balloon; an encouraging 
comment made me feel like a king!” 
‘es, but didn't you feel like a hoax all 
the while?” 

“Exactly. As I grew larger in her eyes 
I felt that she was sure to find me out 
one of these days; that I would do or 
say the wrong thing and she'd suddenly 
see me for what I really was.” 

“Indeed.” 

very little ma 
h, really, not so little as all that.” 
meant in her eyes.” 

h, of course.” 

"I had heard about her; І knew what 
she was supposed to be.” 

“But that didn't hold you back.” 
accepted the rumors. | could see 
their grounds for va but a dubious 
validity; a hostile valid 
bom out of the incapal 
handle her." 

"And you could handle herz" 

“Not unless she wanted me to handle 
her, And that was the wonderful part 
of it: the sense that elevated me to the 
dass of giants! I saw in her eyes that, 
ridiculous as it may have seemed, / was 
the onc she had chosen to tame her." 

“Indeed.” 

“She would be different with me. Be- 
cause / was different.” 

“Indeed.” 

“So I fell in love. The problem with 
middle-aged love is that its seriousness 
rises in proportion to its lack of reality. 
If you think a woman has fallen in love 
with an inflated image of you, you'd 
much rather break your neck than not 
live up to it.” 

o you did live up to it?” 

“One does what one can. After several 
months I was like an exhausted channel 
swimmer. And yet she never seemed to 
notice. Each time J felt that I was about 
to sink back to my real level, her hand 
went out and pulled me up beside her. 
Well, after years of marriage, one is not 
used to this degree of support from a 
woman." 

“There must have been a reason.” 
es. And I concluded that the rea- 
son was that, whether I knew it or not, I 
was bettcr; I was different; І was what 
I never dared dream I was: a truly ro- 
mantic figure.” 
truly romantic figure.” 

“And that is when she began to 
change. 

“Ah, yes." 

“The remarks began.” 

“How well I remember. The remarks.” 
othing one could put his finger on." 


ty of others to 


nonetheless; indicating 
something definitely wrong. And it 
wasn't just the remarks. Her eyes, those 
eyes that always before had stared at me 
and only me, now began to wander. I 
couldn't seem to catch them. They'd be 


on me and suddenly they'd swing away. 
And stay away." 

“You mentioned it to her, of course." 

“Ours was an affair of great honesty. 
We told each other everything. I could 
no more keep the truth from her tha 
confide in my wife.” 

“And she denied everything.” 

“As a matter of fact she became rather 
ironic. She apologized for the deficiency 
of her eyes. She requested that I list for 
her all those remarks of which I did not 
approv 

“And you couldn't remember any." 

“Damnit, it's impossible to document a 
feeling. Y wanted to both prove and dis- 
prove my contentions. I felt like an abso- 
lute ass!” 

"Which she indicated." 

“No, she was sympathetic. She looked 
at me with great patience in her eyes. It 
seemed to negate everything I was say- 
ing. She denied everyth: She couldn't 
understand why I was acting so silly. My 
behavior was ridiculous and not at all 
like me. Or perhaps she was mistaken; 
perhaps it was exactly like me.” 

"Then, naturally, you denied every- 
y 

‘Of course. I said there'd been great 
strain at the department, Several govern- 
ments in danger of toppling. I wasn’t 
myself. Forgive те." 

“You're -mumbli ng. What was that 
Tasti 

“Forgive me.” 

“Ah, yes, forgive me.” 

"From then on we ncver scemed to 
meet at the same level. I kept insisting 
that something must be wrong. She kept 
denying it. And then I noticed she had 
stopped wearing my presents.” 
‘Somebody else's?" 

Possibly yours.” 

“Mm. Quite possible.” 

“And yet I could never get anything 
out of her. I was out of my mind with 
jealousy. I said to her if you want to end 
it let's end it! Just don't leave me hang- 
ing like this in mid-air!” 

“And her reply?’ 

“She turned angrily away and said she 
didn’t know what I talking about 
but if 1 insisted on acting so petulantly 


‘Ah, yes — petulantly.” 
— Then she was not going to sce me 
that evening: in any event she had made 
other plans. I told her that if she had 
made other plans she had made them be- 
fore I acted ‘petulant’ and therefore 1 
was correct in assuming that there was 
something wrong between us. She turned 
on me and I had never seen her stare at 
mc so coldly. And 1 will never forget the 
words she spoke to me," 

“I believe I can guess them.” 

“She looked at me as if I had a growth 
on my nose and said plainly and 
strongly. as if to a teenage street molester 
— ‘What's — bothering — you?” ” 


“Ah, yes, "What's — bothering — you? 

"I needn't tell you how brutal it was 
from that point on. She was busy; she 
was out; she couldn't be reached on the 
telephone; she didn't answer my wires. 
When I finally saw her she acted as if it 
were all in my mind, as if nothing had 
happened." 

“She was warm again?" 

“It was like old times. How could I 
have been so mistaken? My hopes were 
buoyed. I rejoiced. Talked madly. Made 
plans." 

“Then suddenly she had to get home 
early?" 

“You know it. There it all was. Every 
reborn joy of the evening lying gutted 
all over the dinner table. I said —" 

“ ‘But I have theater tickets. " 

“Yes, that’s what I said and she said 


* 4t was а lovely evening, don't spoil 


actly. And I asked, "When will I 
see you again?’ I no longer dared let her 
out of my sight without making a new 
and definite date. Otherwise, I'd never 
be able to catch her.” E 

"And she said, ‘Call me tomorrow. 
ГШ be in all morning. " 

“And she was gone." 

“And you called all morning." 
nd I ncver got an answer." 

“I weep for both of us." 

On the Thursday that Eugenie Vasch 
flew in from London to take care of some 
quick business Harry lay around wonder- 
ing what to do with himself. Georgette 
had quickened his desire for the exotic. 
He found his new women dull. When 
he spoke to them about philosophies of 
life they looked at him blankly or talked 
about motherhood. When he suggested 
that modern society was beset by a break- 
down in communication they mumbled 
something about monopoly and Bell 
Telephone. Georgette might have been a 
bore but there was a facet of her to 
which he'd responded: her concern with 
issues that did not exist for Harry. All 
that fuss she made about making con- 
tact as if there were a point in doing 
something just for the sake of it — like 
taking English in school when it was 
clear that one would ncver use it. Make 
contact — with whom? Learn to commu- 
nicate — with whom? People had always 
given him their attention. If he was less 
interesting than they, why weren't they 
devoting that time to themselves? Was it 
"communication" for Harry to pay atten- 
tion to others while, in exchange, they 
paid attention to him? It sounded like a 
bad bargain. He sensed that most peo- 
ple's lives were made up of inventing 


excuses for not getting what they wanted. 
Perhaps that was what this whole busi- 
ness of contact and communication was: 
the thinkers of the world were the losers. 

Nevertheless he was dissatisfied. He 
had no desire to be alone and less desire 
to be with others— what's more, he 
missed Georgette. He wished she'd re- 
turn with some new lectures. Perhaps 
that was what she was up to, he thought 
happily. She was in a school — taking 
courses — learning lectures to bring back 
to Harry! The idea cheered him consid- 
erably. He began to dress, having de- 
cided to put in an appearance at a party 
that in his previous mood he had in- 
tended to skip. The Blue Belles would 
be there, and if he were not seen enjoy- 


ing himself, they might forget to call 
Their nightly messages had become his 
one constant pleasure. 

"The moment Harry entered the big 
room Belle Mankis, Naomi Peel, Viola 
Strife, Arlene Moon and India Ander- 
bull closed in around him. “Harry, 
there's someone in the next room we 
know you'll want to meet!” 

Four days later Harry and Eugenie 
Vasch were married. 


This is the first of two parts of Jules 
Feiffer's first novel, “Harry, the Rat with 
Women.” The conclusion will appear 
next month, 


“I would like to get a pet of some kind upon which 
l can express my need to lavish love and affection.” 


197 


PLAYBOY 


198 


PLAYBOY 
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THOUGH MANY Otherwise aware chaps tend 
to regard Switzerland as a playground to 
be enjoyed exclusively by the winter set, 
the fact is that this patch of high-rising 
real estate is made to order for summer 
vacationing as well. Given the mobility 
that comes with the August sun, a man 
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wines — Dezaley, Epesses, St. Saphorin — 
which, being poor travelers, are little- 
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For a man with a taste for tastes, a 
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sclections: cheese fondue at the Café Res- 
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white wine or Dóle red at Geneva's 
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regional cuisine of the Zum Wilden 
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traditional foodstuffs of Zum Rüden 
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“THE PLAYBOY PANEL"'—PART | OF A DISTINGUISHED SYMPOSIUM IN 
WHICH 12 TOP SCIENCE FICTIONEERS. EXPLORE THE WORLD OF 1984 
AND BEYOND—WITH ISAAC ASIMOV, RAY BRADBURY, ROBERT A. 
HEINLEIN, ROD SERLING, THEODORE STURGEON, WILLIAM TENN, 


cupped Arosa, whose readily accessible 
attractions include Alpine golf links, a 
bathing beach on the Untersee, boating 
on the Obersee, and nighttime divertise- 
ments— gaming rooms and shows — at 
the freshly fabricated Kursaal-Casino. 

"To the south, in the Mediterranean, 
another spanking-new casino is now in 
operation on the island of Corfu. This 
stake house — Greece's first — is located 
in the Achillaeum Palace and comprises 
smartly appointed gambling arenas, res- 
taurants, and a night club. From thence, 
it's a short jaunt to the Greck mainland 
and August cultural exchanges at the 
drama festival staged in the ancient 
theater of Dodona in Epirus, and the 
Athens Festival, where one may high- 
browse amid drama, opera and ballet. 

For uncrowded dallying in the Medi- 
terranean, you might consider a trip to 
the island of Corsica, the gorse-covered 
birthplace of Napolcon. Corsica is great 
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hairpin turns). Though the hamlet of 
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plus night life, most Americans head- 
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in Seattle, the running of the Hamble- 
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For further information on any of the 
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