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ENTERTAINMENT FOR MEN JUNE 1964 • 75 CENTS 


YBOY 


"INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY" 
— PROLONGING THE HUMAN 
LIFF SPAN BY FREDERIK POHL 
CONCLUSION OF A NEW 
JAMES BOND NOVEL 
BY JAN FLEMING PLUS 
A SPECIAL PICTORIAL ON 
MAMIE VAN DOREN 


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YULSMAN 


PLAYBILL If you detect a 


remarkable resem- 
blance between this issue's cover and 
that of last Junc, whereon we heralded 
the appearance of The Nudest Jayne 
Mansfeld, the similarity is not uninten- 
tional Last [unes much-appreciated 
and much-publicized issue turned out to 
be a runaway best seller, so when Tom- 
my Noonan, Miss Mansfield’s vis-à-vis in 
Promises, Promises! apprised us that he 
was tcaming up with onc of our favorite 
screen beauties, Mamie Van Doren 
(February 1964), for a similar epidermal 
celluloid epic, we made certain our pho- 
tographers were on hand during the 
proceedings. The visual results—no less 
enticing and unfettered than those of the 
Mansficld movie—are displayed in The 
Nudest Mamie Van Doren. 

‘The invitingly emancipated capital of 
Denmark is renowned as a swinging 
vacation town, as Playboy on the Town 
in Copenhagen—a ninc-pag ad- 
pictures portrait of that happy hamlet of 
unmelancholy Danes—amply demon- 
strates. Our lensman in Copenhagen, 
staff photographer Jerry Yulsman, has 
covered much of the globe for rrAvnov. 
Acapulco, Paris, Tokyo, London and the 
Virgin Islands are among the places that 
have been pictorially explored by Jerry's 
consummate camerawork. Across The 
Sound in Stockholm, the creative side 
of the Scandinavian temperament is 
examined and explicated at Iength in a 
Playboy Interview with Sweden's master- 
ful creator of brooding filmic dramas, 
Ingmar Bergman, who expounds upon 
the sensuality and symbolism that have 
ked his world-famous work: 

Our June fictive offering is abrim with 
tales adventurous, satiric and melan- 
choly. In Jackpot, Herbert Gold dusts 
off Dostoievsky's Grime and Punishment 
and gives it an antic American fillip. 
Jackpot came into being through what 
Herb lls his what 
would have happened if Raskolnikoy 


“curiosity as to 


SHEPHERD 


had been raised in California, and had 
had a girlfriend with a swimming pool.” 
This summer, Gold is forsaking his San 
Francisco pad to combine a stint at pla 
writing with a teaching assignment at 
Harvard. Another Californian, Prentiss 
Combs, whose poignantly gripping The 
Wind Devil graces these pages, spends 
his off-typewriter time as a social worker 
for the Kern County Welfare Ре 
ment. The duties of the bilingual Combs 
take him among the migratory Spanish- 
speaking families who n the area 
where his story is set. In this issue, too, is 
the climactic conclusion of Jan Fleming's 
Tatest James Bond adventure novel, You 
Only Live Twice (available in book- 
stores this August in a New Americ 
Library hard-cover cdition for $4.50). 
"Ihe title of Flemings trigger-taut 
novel is a natural segue into Frederik 
Pohl's engrossing Intimations of Immor- 
tality wherein the author probes the cur- 
t breakthroughs riers d 
man’s battle to prolong life and preserve 
youth, and makes some fact-based pre- 
dictions on future developments. Since 
informing our readers in April's Play- 
bill of Pohl’s unsuccessful attempt. to 
become coroner of New Jersey's Mon- 
mouth County, we have been told that 
he will try n 1965 (knowing the 
suff competition, we hope he doesn’t 
come in dcad last). Not onc to sit on his 
hands until election time, Fred edits a 
sci-fi magazine triumvirate (Galaxy, If 
and Worlds of Tomorrow), is working 
on a science-fiction novel, The Age of 
the Pussyfoot, has two histories in the 
works, one on the К.К.К., the other on 
the Great Depression, is a volunteer fire- 
man (River Plaza Hose Company No. 
1), sings in the Unitarian choir, and is 
raising a family of four Pohl-watche 
Humorist Jack Sharkey has his si 
set on problems somewhat less universal 
than immortality in What to Do Till the 
Sandman Gomes. Sharkey says he gets 
some of his best ideas in bed, bur the in- 
soluble and insufferable puzders put 


SILVERSTEIN 


GOLD 


forth in Sandman, he avers, are not 
among them. It’s Jack's sly way of re 
cruiting new members for his as-yet-un- 
зсогрогатей Insc cs. Anonymous. 

PLAYBOY'S lconine Shel Silverstein once 
more offers wise counsel to the young in 
Uncle Shelbys Scout Handbook. Shel 
figures this gives him one more shot 
at the tots who survived Uncle Shelby’s 
ABZ Book (August 1961). No tender- 
foot, Shel is expertly conversant with 
scout lore, boasts that he can carve a pl 
piece of wood out of an Indian head. 

Jn Hairy Gertz and the 47 Grappies, 
Jean Shepherd, the oracle of the night 
people, reconstructs in hilarious detail a 
simmering Indiana summer fishing expe- 
dition that helped turn a boy into a 
man. Shepherd, one of America's most 
engaging monologists (shown above in 
an apropos multiple exposure), is cur- 
rently combining acting and writing as- 
signments for a new film, The Unholy 
73, while continuing to hold nightly 
radio seances for night people. He's also 
on the air with a live S.R.O. nightclub 
act from Greenwich Village's The Lime- 
light, and in his very spare spare time 
works on a book, The Walking Butterfly. 

In Oh, Susannah! vtAvnov offers de- 
lightful British film actress Susannah 
York in a dishabilled romp from her lat- 
est movie, The Seventh Dawn. Those 
who recall how Susannah's beauty shone 
through her 18th Century costuming for 
the bawdy box-office smash, Tom Jones, 
will doubly appreciate our unobstructed 
pictorial on Miss York. 

Rounding out our jumbosized June 
package: another flock of former gate- 
fold girls in Playmates Revisited—1958; 
Fashion Director Robert L. Green's sar- 
torial note on a wardrobe of washable 
summer wearables; pretty Playmate 
Lori Winston; and Playboy's Gifts for 
Dads and Grads—a pictorial plenitude 
of June largess. All in all, a pleasant 
and profitable way to issue in the sum- 
mer solsti 


vol. 11, no. 6 — june, 1964 


PLAYBOY. 


Copenhogen 


Gifts Р. 


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тїгї PHOTOS BY PLAYBOY STUDIO (21), BOULE. 
VARD PHOTOGRAPHY (1); P. 124 PHOTOS BY JACK 
STAGER, GILL ORIDGES, P. 5 PHOTOS BY BUNNY 
YEAGER, RON VOGEL, C/SILLI; P. 125 PHOTOS AY 
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CONTENTS FOR THE MEN’S ENTERTAINMENT MAGAZINE 


PLAYBILL...... 1 
DEAR PLAYBOY. .-...... Е © = - 5 
PLAYBOY AFTER HOURS... da am 


THE PLAYBOY ADVISOR 41 
PLAYBOY'S INTERNATIONAL DATEBOOK —travel......................PATRICK CHASE 47 


THE PLAYBOY FORUM. E adea — — AD. 
PLAYBOY INTERVIEW: INGMAR BERGMAN—candid conversation... 61 
JACKPOT-— fiction Tom — сыо- HERBERT GOLD 70 
OH, SUSANNAH!—pictoriol —.. 2 depen s D 


INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY—article -FREDERIK POHL 79 
COPENHAGEN — playboy on the town ЕП 
PREMIUM PLAYMATE—playboy’s playmate of the month... 
PLAYBOY'S PARTY JOKES—humor. 


z . 92 


ани) 
IAN FLEMING 100 
ROBERT L GREEN 103 
SHEL SILVERSTEIN 104 
e. PRENTISS COMBS 109 
THE NUDEST MAMIE VAN DOREN—; z Ee Î 
HAIRY GERTZ AND THE 47 CRAPPIES—memoir JEAN SHEPHERD 117 
PLAYBOY'S GIFTS FOR DADS AND GRADS—gifts .... 118 


YOU ONLY LIVE TWICE—novel. 
THE WASHABLE WARDROBE—attire, ПЕНИ 
UNCLE SHELBY'S SCOUT HANDBOOK —«atire. 
THE WIND DEVIL—fiction..... А 


THE THIEVES OF LOVE—ribald «їезайс..........................................-—.5ОМАРЕУА 123 
s 124 
JACK SHARKEY 128 


PLAYMATES REVISITED —1958—pictorial........ г 
WHAT TO DO TILL THE SANDMAN COMES—humor 


HUGH м. HEFNER editor and publisher 
A. с. SPECTORSKY associate publisher and editorial director 
ARTHUR PAUL art director 


JACK T. KESSIE managing editor VINCENT T. TAJIRI picture editor 


SHELDON WAX senior cdilor; FRANK DE BLOIS, MURRAY FISHER, NAT LEHRMAN, DAVID 
SOLOMON associate editors; KOBERT L. GREEN fashion director; DAVID TAYLOR associate 
fashion editor; THOMAS Mario food & drink editor; PATRICK CHASE. trevel editor; 
J. PAUL ty consulting editor, business é finance; CHARLES BEAUMONT, RICHARD 
скн. AUL KRASSNER, KEN W. PURDY contributing editors; ARLENE ROUKAS сору 
chief; MICHAEL. LAURENCE, RAY WILLIAMS assistant edilors; BEV CHAMBERLAIN. а 
sociale picture editor; BONNIE вомк assistant picture editor; MARIO CASILLI, LARRY 
GORDON, J. MARRY O'ROURKE, POMPEO POSAR, JERRY YU sta] photographers; 

MALINOWSKI contributing photographer; ren GLASER models? stylist; KEW 
IN assoctale art direclor; RON BLUME, JOSEPH PAC assistant art directors 
FER KRADENVCH. art assistant; CYNTINA MADDOX assistant cartoon editor; yon: 
mastro production manage CANMANN assistant production manager. + 
HOWARD w. LEDERER advertising director; JULES KASE eastern advertising man- 
ager; JOSEPH FALL midwestern advertising manager; Josten GUENTHER Detroit 
advertising manager; NELSON FUTCH promotion director; DAN CZUBAR promotion 
art director; nemur torsen publicity manager; BENNY DUNN public relations 
manager; ANSON MOUNT college bureau; тико FREDERICK personnel director; JANET 
PILGRIM reader service; WALTER wow ART. subscription fulfillment manager; FIDO 
SELLERS special projects; ковект rREUSS business manager & circulation director. 


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DEAR PLAYBOY 


EJ лоокезѕ PLAYBOY MAGAZINE 


COVERING LETTERS 
Just a note to tell you how mag- 
i your March cover is. Such pho- 

tographic talent is indeed rare in this 

day and age, the era of the mediocre. 

Congratulations to your photographers 

for such a masterpicce, and congratula- 

tions to you for such good taste. 
Robert К. Tamaki 
Culver City, Califori 


"The creases in the sheet on which your 
lovely model is posing оп your March 
cover take the form of a rabbit, or, more 


Richard B. Conrad. 

Nanuet, New York 

The latest wrinkle in FLAYBOY covers 
was put there by design, Dich. 


AYN RAND 

Applause is in order for your March 
interview with Ayn Rand. I differed with 
her on some points, was surprised by her 
views on others, but found the whole 
quite challenging and of particular val- 
ue for comparison with, and cxamina- 
tion of, my own values. More such 


stimulating features, please! 
R. Bresnik 


Miss Ayn Rand is a cool breath of oxy- 
gen in a steaming jungle of confusion 
1 do contend. with her on one point in 
particular, however, but this does not 
lessen my regard for her. She docs not 
е to be negative, but she looks nega- 
tively at God, in Whom she states she 
does not believe. As Miss Rand said, 
cach of us needs a purpose to av 
chaos and to integrate all other concerns 
of an dual life. For Miss Rand, the 
purpose is Objectivism, for which she 
would dic. To many, God Himself, oth- 
erwise stated as the Creator, the Divine, 
the Supreme Being, etc, is supremely 
worthy of dying for. 

Miss Rand's writing is certainly con- 
troversial. But life and spirit is in rea- 
soned, disciplined controversy. Without 
it we have conformity, then slavery to 
whatever totalitarian power reigns at the 
moment. Without a visible quaver, Miss 
Rand steps forth and says what she 


+ 232 E OHIO ST, CHICAGO, ILLINOIS 60611 


ks. That takes an abundance of 
courage and confidence, two qualities we 
can use more of in the ion. 

Mrs. Sanford F. Nicol 
Devon, Pennsylvania 


thi 


1 just finished your provocative inter- 
view with Miss Rand and I couldn't 
help fecling relieved that everyone does 
not share her views concerning the fam 
ily and friendship. d s 
ndship, family life and hum 
tions are second 10 a man’s creative 
work. It is my belief that one would be 
meaningless without the other. Since the 
ning of time, man has lived 
group, in a family, trying to do his best 
at a vocation so that he might provide 


I correct in believing th and 
would have a man struggle and work in 
life merely for the sake of himself? I 
hope I am not alone in my beliefs con- 
cerning a society based on the happiness 
of the f 


Canoga Park, Californ 


The interview with Ayn Rand was the 
high point of a very good issue. Having 
been an admirer of Miss Rand and your 
magazine for several years, 1 was ex- 
tremely happy to see the wo together. 1 
hope that all of your readers will 
the time to read the interview. 


John S. Graha 


Le: 


ngton, Virginia 


Miss Rand was about 20, 
when she managed to escape from th 
Soviet Union. She had been born and 
schooled in Russia, attending the Un 
versity of Leningrad. It appears, ho 
ever, that only her body eluded the 
comm adise. Her mind remains 
prisoner of the Marsists, a captive of 

i m. One must 
t teachers did a 
nwashing her. Со 
hg со! 
es with the 
. Among them, some of 
which are mere heedless assumptions: 
Vorsatz über Alles (purpose above every 
thing); enthroned (like the 


admit that her Len 
thorough job of bra 


reason 


PLAYBOY, JUNE, 1864, VOL. 11, MO. 6. PUDLISHED MONTHLY яз нын PUBLISHING сомгану, INC 


232 с. 0%10 ST.. CHICAGO, ILLINOIS 60615. SUBSCRIPTIONS. 


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PLAYBOY 


When Goodyear 
track-tests 
cord angles... 


S pet - 
A.J. Foyt wins American Challenge 
Cup on Goodyear racing tires. 


Richard Petty wins '64 Daytona 500 on 
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Tns uá Pd aeo el А. 
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Goodyear racing research makes for better passenger 
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experience teaches this: As cord angle decreases, tire flex- 
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for the racing tire. .. more speed. 


The Smaller the Angle the Harsher the Ride. 
There's the rub. In general, as cord angle decreases, the 
tire becomes a much stiffer structural unit. It goes faster 
but rides harder. That's why cord angles must be “bal- 
anced" to give a fast, safe ride without bouncing the car 
off the road. 


What's the Racing Angle? Depends. Goodyear rac- 
ing tires run the gamut from sports car rubber to giant 
“hoops” for the Breedlove jet car. Cord angles range from 
5° up to 28°. The particular cord angle depends on factors 
such as: car type, weight and suspension. 


What's the “Street” Angle? “Street” tires take it 
easy. Since more comfort is required, the Goodyear pas- 
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much higher than its racing brothers. 


Racing Research Pays off on the Road. When 
Goodyear races . . . Goodyear learns. Working with low- 
angle racing tires, Goodyear has learned how to make 
passenger car tires safer for high speed turnpikes; more 
comfortable for rough city streets. Whether your driving is 
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nch rcvolutionarics, would she con- 
t Notre Dame again into a Temple of 
Reason?); the idolatry of labor; the cult 
of toil; the subjugation of friendship, 
family life, romantic love—indeed, all 
human relationships—to the ideal of 
work. 

Miss Rand's philosophy reads like 
thosc naive Soviet movics of the Stalin 
era: Love me, love my tractor. She says, 

‘The only man capable of experiencing 
a profound romantic love is the man 
driven by passion for his work. . . . One 
falls in love with the person who shares 
these values.” These words would have 

arned Joseph Stalin’s imprimatur 20 
years ago, just as Comrades Khrushchev 
and Gastro and Mao would approve of 
them today. Miss Rand may call her as- 
sumptions Objectivism if she likes, But 
they are in truth no more than the 
warmed-over hash of that ingenuous ra- 
tionalism and materialism that typified 
so much of I8th Century thinking, with 
a touch of Calvinism. Into this insipid 

out she has stirred а “black-and-white 
view of the world,” the concept of abso 
lute good versus absolute evil, and athe- 
ism. All of this sounds like an editorial 
in Pravda. 
William Richards 
Manhattan Beach, California 


Bravo to Ayn Rand and rrAvmov 
magazine for providing your March 
readers with the most profound inter- 
view ever to appear in а nationally 
distributed magazine. Miss Rand is cer- 
tainly the undisputed champion of 
individual rights, as she is the only 
original thinker on today’s intellectual 
and philosophical front. If we arc to 
avert an intellectual bankruptcy, it will 
be the direct result of her ideas. For she 
has filled todays moral and intellectual 
vacuum with ideas that have substance 
and meaning for every thinking individ- 
ual dedicated to reason. Miss Rand has 
given the new intellectuals of today the 
courage to stand upright and to fight for 
a world that cin and ought to be. 
Ruby Newman 
Chicago, Illinois 


The March interview with Miss Ayn 
Rand was very interesting, but it was 
so much Objectivism as Objectiona- 
blism. 
Robert С. Coale 
Ithaca, New York 


Your interview with Ayn Rand is a 
brilliant idea, a real intellectual achi 
ment. I know of no other magazine that 
would have the courage to defy the es- 
tablishment’s apostles of superstition 
and self-sacrifice and to report Ayn 
Rand’s ideas and the growth of Objec- 
tivism without distortion. You are to be 
congratulated. Between PrAYmoy maga- 
zine and Atlas Shrugged, America may 
yet become a land where men have a 


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PLAYBOY 


right to life, liberty, property and the 
pursuit of happiness. 
Edward L. Nash 
Chicago, Illinois 


I would likc to know why the Objec- 


ing been employed by the Nathaniel 
nden Institute (Ayn Rand's baby), I 
found the theory of Objectivism to be 
something entirely different in prac- 
ice. The mailing list of the Nath 
nden Institute i 
based on quantity rather than qual- 
yone who writes in, 
of whom cannot even spell the 
“Objectivism.” Obviously. these 
potential “customers” are of financial 
value to them, but somehow this does 
not seem to be consistent with 
Rand's conception of the id 
Furthermore. anyone who 
questioning the philosophy of Objectiv- 
ism, and does not appear to be in 
labeled an “unde- 
nd or si 
y may be. Also, these 
ewise arbitrated with the 
n hand.” Those who 


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of Ayn Rand 
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You аге to be congratulated for having 
the guts to print an interview with Ayn 
this day and age when anyone 


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‘The Red Lion’, ‘The Bald Faced 
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In this country, the preference runs 
much more to the name, or nick- 
name of a tavern’s proprietor: 
‘Hank's Place’, ‘Flo and Ed’s’, ‘Barr's 
Bar’, ‘Pat O’Toole’s’, ‘Tiny’s Tavern’, 
‘Big Nose George’s’. 


One thing’s sure: the other name outside a tavern—the 
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it’s the great light beer with gusto. 


Schlitz, the Beer that made Milwaukee Famous 
».. Simply because it tastes so good. 


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tellectual “ins” leaves himself wide open 
to subversive smears. This may be a 
reason for the conspicuous silence sur- 
rounding this woman and her philoso- 
phy. However, I think the main reason 
Tor this silence is that she hits home so 
irrefutably that it is more than the peo- 
ple whose basic premises she challenges 
can bear. 


ic Anda 
v York, New York 


The March interview with Ayn Rand 
was superb. Your lead-in summary was 
excellent, your interviewer's questions 
were, as always. astute and provocative, 
and Ayn Rand's replies were incisive, 
terse and mostly unpopular in my view. 
But my gray matter has been vigorously 
massaged, for which I thank you. 

К. 5. Babin 
dena, California 


Thank you for the Playboy Interview 
with Ayn Rand—an interview that ap- 
peus ко have been printed. verbatim— 
and for an unusually objective introduc- 

ion to it. Both were a pleasure to read. 
"The range—and, in general, the quality 
—ol the questions was uncommonly 
good. Rational men everywhere receive 
the just and lucid amplification and dis- 
semination of Miss Rand's ideas with 
gratitude and ation. To contem- 
plate the character and thought of hu- 
beings such as Ayn Rand is a 


are 
a 
My 
s not for 
"satisfied" that hunger, but for 
g taken part in helping to keep it 


Sylvia Bokor 
New York, New York 


What on carth possessed you to 
space and your implicit imprimatur to 
the absurd, flatulent and laughable 
"ideas" of Ayu Rand? Have you no 
self-respect? ou putting us on? "Pro- 
fessors debate her ideas in their class- 
rooms." They do? Not in the classrooms 
1 have known, or heard about. You have 
vulgarized beyond repair your ims 
intellectual respectability by referring to 
the pret : апа perverted 
prattle of this petit bourg ter 
seized by mi 
Philosophy, indeed. 
di 


in 
idual" is Miss Rand, according to 


though there is mot one single 
original idea in the noxious stew of 
dangerous nonsense she peddles to the 
feeble in mi k in spirit. Let her 
and her fellow charla k that part 
of the public they can get their claws on, 
but why in the name of all you claim to 
stand for abet these noisome folks in 
their pursuits? You are giving this exe- 
crable piffle millions of dollars’ worth of 
- publicity, Please stick to what you 
good at and keep away from things 


nd and w 


ns mi 


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you obviously are not equipped to 
evaluate. Give us pretty naked girls and 
good short stories, but spare us such 
lessons in "philosophy." My sole remain- 
ing hope for you is that you werc kid 


ding, but your interviewer actually 
seemed to have read the "works" of this 
monstrous crone. 
Dan Morgenstern 
New York, New York 


Your interview with Ayn Rand 
seemed awfully incongruous in the con- 
text of your March issue. The glowing 
picture you painted of the Iron Curtain 
society in the same issue will no doubt 
win you consideration for the Lenin 
Peace Prize and a kiss from the head 
butcher himself. Your book and movie 
reviewers took the usual extraordinary 
pains to flavor every other review with a 
dash of pacifism, and your On the Scene 
editor devoted the entire Scene to three 
bathetic individuals dedicated to the 
abolition of taste in art. It is certainly a 
compliment to Ayn Rand to expect an 
interview with her to provide intellec- 
tual balance against such unanimity of 
opinion to the contrary. 

Steve Smith 
San Diego, С: 


ifornia 


Congratulations and warmest thank: 
for the excellent interview with Ayn 
Rand in your March issue. Few other 
publications have ever been able to pre- 
sent this dynamic woman and her revo- 
lutionary ideas with such fairness and 
objectivity. Your editorial policy is truly 
unique in this respect. 
gratifying to see in print Miss 
Rand’s own answers to the most com- 
mon criticisms and challenges hurled at 
her philosophy—and to sec them in a 
vine with the circulation and pres 
of rLaynoy 

Just two questions. How does prAynov. 
reconcile its endorsement of. American 
free enterprise (which it shares with 
Miss Rand) with the March. cover and 
inside pages devoted to The Girls of 
Russia and the Iron. Curtain Countries? 
Even though there are beautiful girls in 
Communist countries, do you really 
want to glamorize life there as you have 
done? 


Trudy Gillet 
New York, New York 
Objectivity—like Leauty—knows no 
national or political boundaries, and re 


portage does not necessarily constitute 
endorsement. Among previous PLAYBOY 
interviewees whose conflicting and con- 
troversial ideas seemed worth presenting 
because of their impact on the con- 
temporary world were Malcolm X, Al- 
bert Schweitzer, Jimmy Hoffa, Bertrand 
Russell, Jean Genet—lo name a few. We 
see no inconsistency in this; rather, we 
think it demonstrates a consistent policy 
of probing—via the interview format— 
people and points of view that compel 


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intelligent interest, whether one 
with them or not. For further comment 
on “The Girls of Russia and the lvon 
Curtain Countries,” see below. 


IRON CURTAIN GALLS 
І wish to commend you on your 
March display of The Girls of Russia. 
This should do more to end the Gold 
War than any single effort of man or na- 
tion. To show Western man that the 
Russky gals have the same number of 
moving parts and are equal to the best 
of our own is a stroke of genius. 
Bob Donley 
Sechelt, British. Columbia. 


] consider the March issue a threat to 
National Security, and think PLAYBOY 
should be investigated by the FBI. Pre- 
senting those Поп Curtain beauties is 
an obvious attempt to get American men 
to defect. Eastern. Europe, anyone? 

John W. Hunt 
Lexington, Virginia 


The Girls of Russia and the tron Cur- 
tain Countries, without doubt, left most 


of your male readers gogplecyed. In 
your own words, “beauty knows no polit- 
ical boun id you ought to be 


ratulated for your graceful contri- 
bution to the thawing of the Cold War. 
George S. Coombs 

Victoria, British Columbia 


LAURELS FROM LABOR 
May I congratulate you for pul 
the down-to-cardh article оп laboraman- 
agement relations by J. Pau] Getty in 
your March. issue. 
indeed, heartening to see so many prop- 
aganda myths about labor unions ex- 
ploded by a businessman who can and 
does command the respect of his col- 
leagues. Aud it is even more refresh 
to see a magazine of you i 


prominence provide a factual 
a subject much abused and distorte 
many national and local comme 
publications. 
Don Harris, Public Relations 
Los Angeles County Federation 
of bor, AFL-CIO 


Los Angeles, California 
Would like to use J. Paul Getty’s ini- 
Just Plain Great. Being a 
mun who rings а timecard every day, 
and a union officer for five years of my 
twenty-fiveyear membership, I have 
never read or heard a better approach 
to Living with Labor than J. Paul Getty 
wrote for the March issue of PLAYBOY- 
Kenneth E. Schoville 
Beloit, Wisconsin 


I bave just read J. Paul Geuy’s article, 
Living with Labor, in the March issue of 
PLAYROY. It was highly hing to me, 
as a labor representative, 10 read. such 
progressive, intelligent and wholesome 


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views about labor management relations 
by someone of Mr. Getty’s stature in the 
American economy. I only wish that 
men of his caliber were seated opposite 
us in our bargaining sessions. 
К. E. Davidson, Grand Chic! Engineer 
Brotherhood of Locomotive Enginccers 
Cleveland, Ohio 


There is common sense in the Living 
with Labor article by J. Paul Getty; it is 
the only approach that will bear fruit 
and make it possible for labor and man- 
agement to live together if we are to 
continue this way of life. 

William L. McFetridge, Pres 
Chicago Flat Janitors Union 
Chicago, IHlinois 


VIDE VARGAS 
We must be on the same frequency— 
no sooner һай I dropped a note to you 
regarding the new organization that I 
am forming, "Image and Identification," 
than 1 thumbed through my justarrived 
March edition of Ptaynoy and lo and 
behold!—staring at me on page 118 was 
this scintillating, luscious damsel of hue 
tly sketched by Vargas. Your forc- 
sight has given my campaign for pictori- 
tion a booster shot, and this 
will be given the deserved 
publicity at our founding meeting. 
Kermit T. Mehlinger, MD. 
Chicago, Illinois 


I have a collection of about 30 Vargas 
reproductions gleaned from past issue 
To keep my apartment decor conserva 
tive, I picked only three favorites, which 
have been hanging in a row, gracing my 
wall for а year now. Your March 1964 
Vargas girl is now proudly standing at the 
top and center of this display. I have no- 
ticed, without approval or disapproval, 

production and gradual i 

nces of the American. Negro 
. television and magazines. 1 do 
not know if this is due to the efforts of 
integration groups or just due to the 
American people finally growing up. In 
any event, from now on, I approve. I 
closing. L find her to be one of the most 
stunning creations ever to come from 
Vargas’ palette. 


John S. Miller 
Henderson, Nevada 


I have read your magazine sporadical- 
ly for the past nine years, and just last 
month decided to become a subscriber. 
Mailing of my check preceded receipt of 
the March issue by one day. Най your 
subscription department. been a little 
more cllicient, J would have destroyed 
said check. Reason: Vargas’ Negro pin- 
up. 1 am willing to accept equal accom- 
modations and equ 
not willing to accept invasion of privacy 
in my own home. Had I desired Negro 
pinups, my subscription would have been 
mailed to Ebony instead of riaysoy. 


l liberties, but am 


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PLAYBOY 


24 


Any further attempts at this type of 
subtle indoctrination will result in im- 
mediate subscription cancellation. 
E. A. Kucharski 
Sarasota, Florida 
So long, Mr. Kucharski. 


JAMES BOND 
IS BACK C% 


on the ORIGINAL MOTION PICTURE 
SOUND TRACK of lan Flemings 


From 
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zu Love 


BRUCE POSTSCRIPT 

Having invesugated numerous aspects 
of, and the peculiarities surrounding, 
Lenny Bruce’s Los Angeles arrest [or 
the alleged “possession of narcotics” and 
the subsequent trials, I am conversant 
with numerous facts and other valid 
data conceming the case. 

You might be interested to know, for 
instance, that John L. White, the officer 
who arrested Lenny Bruce lor “Posses- 
sion of Narcotics,” has himself since 
been arraigned in Federal Court. White 
is now serving a five year sentence in 
Federal Prison after being found guilty 
of “Illegal Importation of Narcotics.” 

John E. Dolan, President 
Dolan-Whitney Detective Service 
Hartford, Connecticut 


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lions, P. G. Wodchouse's latest excursion 
into that zany world of wonderful mad- 
men and women he's created. Or is it 
discovered? I’m not certain which. I only 
know that no other writer can match its 
wit and its flavor, its intricately woven 
plots and counterplots, its breeze-fresh 
air of great good fun. Biffen, I think, 
ranks high among its denizens. But in 
the real world, wherein Wodehouse lives 
and works, he must rank among the very 
highest in the community of comic writ- 
ers, for one of the pleasures of picking 
up his work is th 
1 viction that оп 
master craftsman who will guide one on 
a predictably pleasurable journey. Up 
Wodehouse! Up Biffen! Up praysoy 

for giving us both. 
Cuthbert Eggleston 
Leeds, England 


апте ип 


OF LONDON 


SCRAMBLED EGGS 
What give? Howcum? For what 
ghoulish purpose? We refer, of course, to 
the March Gahan Wilson cartoon (if 
such it can be called) featuring the 
hanging man with an egg chained to his 
arm above a nest built in what was ap- 
parently his living room. To what does 
it refer, if anything? 
The Seacliff Trojans 
San Francisco State College 
San Francisco, California 


The rather gory Gahan Wilson car- 
toon in your March issue [page 167], de- 
picting a hanging man chained to his 
nest egg, was greeted here with much 
pproval. Thanks for the free advertis- 
The stumpy little figure probably 
wouldn't weigh enough by himself to 


AT FINE STORES EVERYWHERE 


provide a good tug on the noose. It's 
that nest egg manacled to his wrist that 
ht to the suicide. Of 
course, his motivation is clear. He should 
have eschewed the hemp and entrusted 
his hoard to a good bank. Then he 
could have devoted himself to high liv- 
ing, not high swinging. 

Bo Jansen 

Chase Manhattan Bank 

New York, New York 

Gahan Wilson's take-off on the Chase 

Manhatian Bank's advertising theme 


| 
| 
| 


was not PLAYBOY'S first; Phil Interlandi's 
cartoon, shown above with one of the 
original Ghase Manhattan ads, ran in 
August 1963. 


LYRICAL PRAISE 
While I can't give you the “pro,” I 

can give you the “Cahn” on February's 
Lady Luck and the Lyricist by Jack 
Sharkey, I found it terribly inventive (as 
did my collaborator James Van Heusen) 
and most entertaining! 

Sammy Cahn 

Los Angeles, California 


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Viceroy is scientifically made 

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Not too strong... not too light... 
Viceroy's got the taste that's right. 


26 [3 


PLAYBOY AFTER HOURS 


e hadn't realized just how insidi- 
YN м the casu uns ши 
against the single man on the sociocco- 
nomic and judicial 
until oder day when we w 
apprised via the mails of one 
high-handed example of governmental 
discrimination against the bachelor. The 
letter from United States Air Force 
Captain Leonard Wine (a singularly 
appropriate moniker, as we shall sec) 
was a study in irate frustration. It seems 
the captain had been given books on how 
to make wine and a winemaking kit for 
his birthday. Before putting them to use, 
he faithfully followed the prescribed pro- 
cedure and applied to the Treasury 
Department for permission to produce 
200 gallons of tax-free wine per year at 
home. Expecting nothing but the Gov- 
ernmenrs blessing for having followed 
the leuer of the law before he pressed a 
single grape, the 


governmental levels 


the 


ere 


more 


in received Inter- 
nal Revenue Service 1541 in its 
stead, Plowing through the bureau- 
cratic fine print, he was brought up short 
by Section 240.54] (b) which states that 
“wine produced bj a single person unless 
he is the head of a family" is not tax- 
exempt. End of Captain Wine's abortive 
Alrcady 


pt 


orm 


foray as an amateur vintner. 
bruised and bled by promarital income- 
tax (see our review of Frederic 
Nelson's new book, Bachelors Are People, 
Too, on page $8 of this issue), the bach- 
clor is not even permitted the solace of 
a little home-fermented vino in which to 
drown his singular sorrows. Why, we 
wondered, does the Government thus 
penalize the bachelor and the 
assure 
aily quota of 
on mother’s 
market allowance. The only reason we 


reward 


family man? Surely it can't be to 
that the kiddies 


t their 


sauce without having to rel 


could think of—and we don’t think much 
of it, because it's so very logical—is that 
some bachelor legislator assessed the mul 
tiple sorrows of the hard-pressed family 
provider, and figured he needed a cheer 
ing, tax-free 200 gallons of do-it-yourself 
wine per year in which to drown his woes. 
Meanwhile, there is that sterling char- 
acter Captain Wine, serving his country 
—an officer and, according to the same 
Government, a gentieman—who can't be 
trusted to use the fermented fruits of his 
own labor for home consumption, even 
though he's willing to swear to it. The 
situation is obviously intolerable. We 
suggest that bachelors rise up in a body 
and write to Washington, where the 
grapes of wrath are stored, demanding 
that every man, regardless of marital 
status, be given an equal opportunity to 
be his own little old wine maker. 


Human-interest story of the month, 
in The San Diego Union, begins: “Mrs. 
Hugh Lantz said it all when she said, 
"Sometimes when I'm spread-eagled on a 
rock 10,000 feet up, I wonder how he 
talked me into this...” 

The attention of those anxious to en- 
large the scope of their social activities is 
invited to the following bona fide organ- 
all of which actively solicit 
membership: The Divorced Men's Club 
of Los Angeles, whose $50 membership 
fee is refundable to anyone who subse- 
quently returns to his wife; The Educa- 
tional, Cultural, Social and Artist Club 
of Paris, dedicated to the “initiation of 
decadent man into the elementary prac 
tices of gymmastics, massage, dancing, 
dressing and hair styling”; The National 
Society for the Elevation and Propaga- 
tion of the Leck, which, for whom it 


izations, 


may concern, sponsors the Leek News 
Bureau in New York City; The Physi- 
ans Wine Appreciation Society, for 
doctors with a "medicinal interest in 
wines and spirits" Smokers 
of America, which vows “to preserve and 
promulgate stag dinners"; The National 
Indignation Society, which held а mam- 
moth gripe session not long ago for 250 
outraged members in Arlington, Virgin 
ia; and across the Potomac in the na- 
tion’s capital, ‘The What Good Are We 
Club, ostensibly for those of a more fa- 
alistic persuasion. 


It seemed we'd become privy to the 
success story of the year when our eye 
was grabbed by a publicity release from 
the Colgate-Palmolive Company hcad- 
lined: "COLGATE PROMOTES WATCHMAN 
TO GROUP PRODUCT MANAGER." Further 
reading, however, burst the Horatio Al- 
ger bubble. The lucky man turned out 
to be William S. Watchman, former sen- 
ior product manager. 


Sign of The Times, scrawled in pencil 
bencath a London subwaystation ad 
reading “Seventy-five Percent of All Top 
Clergy Take The Tünes"—"Yhe Other 
Twenty-five Percent Buy It.” 

Silly Question Department: Why not 
call: a platonic sibling relationship 
cestuous? . . . skill eplitude? . . , accept- 
cd members of society incasts? . . . 
Broadway bit players footliners? . . . an 

rresolute explorer trepid? . . . long 
johns underalls? . . . a hale fellow well 
met standonish? . . . a plutocrat uptrod- 
den, poverished and underdrawn at the 
bank? ... 
gruniled? . . . a cheerful soul upheart- 


someone who's contented 


27 


PLAYBOY 


28 


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the Classic Corbin manner with pleatless fronts. At 
the stores you would expect, or write: Corbin Ltd., 
Dept. YY, 385 Fifth Ave., New York 16, N. Y. 


e ‚ an unforgettably distinctive face 
descripi? . . . awkward self.consciousness 
chalance? . . . a sloppy dresser peccable 


or maculate? . . . the star of a show an 
overstudy? clear skies undercast? . . . 
and a clean joke on-color? 


Our congratulations to the Laramie, 
Wyoming, police department for its im- 
pressive success with the city's new radar 
speed trap, which has netted three vio- 
ators, at last count, since its recent in- 
stallation; a municipal court judge, a 
policewoman and а derk in the Motor 
Vehicles Bureau who issues and renews 
drivers’ licenses. 


We can only agree with the “Noted 
Fnglish Rider" who describes at lei 
in an equestrian column from the Van 
couver, British Columbia, Province, “how 
everything is done to keep the public 


unaware of the ability of a hore.” 


Age of Specialization Department: 
Sick comics will be pleased to learn that 
the following sign was spotted recently 
on a bulletin board in Manhattan's 
James Ewing Memorial Hospital: mie 
DOCTOR WILL BE IN ON THURSDAY. 


Our recommended list for sexy sum- 
mer includes the following 
titles, a small segment of the papers 
that were read by their authors at the 
nual meeting of the American 
ion for the Advancement of 
nce: An Analysis of Forces Devel- 
oped at the Feet of Turtles During 
Walking; Precocious Spermatogenesis in 
Intratesticular Homotransplants of Fetal 
Mouse Testes; Endociinological and On- 
logenetic Problems Posed by Hermaph- 
roditic Fishes; Growth of Juvenile Big 
Brown Bats; A Comparison of Pulmo- 
nary and Cutaneous Gas Exchange in 
Salamanders; Comparison of the Male 
Reproductive Cycles in Dwarf Craw- 
fishes; Reproductive Behavior of the 
Croaking Gourami; Role of Size in 
Courtship of the Orange Сһғотійс; Do 
Melanocytes in Hair Follicles Divide?; 
Quantitative Studies on the Radiosensi- 
tivity of Sea Urchin Spermatozoa; Sexual 
Dimorphism in the Snapping Turtle; 
Circadian Rhythms and the Phoio- 
periodic Control of Diapause in the 
Pink Bollworm; Coexistence and Com- 
petition in Populations of Similar Spe- 
cies of Whirligig Beetles; Cessation of 
Population Growth and the Sex Organs 
of Male Prairie Deer Mice; and lastly, 
one we can't wait to read: Is a Universal 
Nocturnal Expansion Falsifiable or Phys- 
ically Vacuous? 


Surplus steel fallout shelters, we learn 
from The Wall Street Journal, are being 


marketed by upbeat entrepreneurs as 


swimming-pool| cabanas. £n li h eather ® 
The world of letters (latrinc division) g 5 


has lost one of its most commodiously 
dedicated academicians with the passing 
of Dr. Pelham Н. Box, British collector 
of cloacal graffiti, who in his lifetime 
transcribed some 5000 primitivist pano- 
ramas from men'sroom walls around the 
globe. 


THEATER 


What Makes Sammy Run? Steve Law- 
rence. He is Sammy Glick, who claws his 
way from copy boy to movie mogul, and 
Lawrence makes the clawing and the 
climbing seem real. Furthermore, he is 
а good pop  singer—talented enough 
to be playing undiluted Glick (or 
better yet, Pal Joey), but the Schulberg 
book, cut past the bone by Budd and his 
brother Stuart, has lost its marrow. A 
few of the nasty old cracks are there (“If 
you want me to, ГИ miss him, 
my about his supposed best friend, Al 


ays Sam- 


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Thing), but the rest of Ervin Drake's E SE 


score is easily forgettable. Sadly, except MEM COMPANY, INC. 347 Fifth Avenue, New York 
for Lawrence, so is the cast. Robert A 

plays, or rather, poses as, Manheim, and 
love interest Sally Ann Howes is merely 
decoratiy But What Makes Sammy ` І N T H R O p 
Run? doesn't need decoration. It needs a 

cold heart and some warm bodies. At the Т 

54th Street, 152 West 54th Street. S нова 


The first time the curtain went up on ( 
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A product of International Shoa Co., St. Louis 


moments, several live characters, and a r 
cumulative effect that leaves one both 


overwhelmed and agonized. For its au- 
thor, 39-year-old German Protestant Rolf 
Hochhuth, it is an act more of conscience 
than of imagination, As one who was too 
young to participate in the War but old. 
cnough to have traumas, he asks not who 
is to blame for Hitler, but who could have 
stopped him. The answer is everybody, 
but especially the supreme moral force, 
the Deputy of Christ, the Pope himself. 
Pope Pius ХІІ is the author's symbol of 
the guilt borne by all men who—for 
whatever reason—found a modus vivendi 
with Hitler, but Hochhuth does not let 


D 


PLAYBOY 


30 


shampoo? 


Those women's shampoos give you 
a beauty treatment while they 
clean. But Fitch was made espe- 
cially for men. No fancy heauty 
treatment. Just the total cleaning 
action you want. 


Here’s why a man 
wants total cleaning action: 
a man's hair dressing attracts 
dust and dirt, retains per- 
spiration, excess scalp oils, 
loose dandruff. 

Fitch is the shampoo that’s 
made especially to clean a 
man’s hair and scalp. It has 
Penetrating Power in every 
drop... 100% effective clean- 
ing action. 

Apply Fitch to dry hair, be- 
fore showering. Then add 
water. You get a rich lather 
that cleans thoroughly. It 
penetrates and lifts away 
built-up accumulations. 
Leaves your hair and scalp 
feeling fresh and alive. Look- 
ing great! 

Pick up a bottle of Fitch. 
Use it regularly for a clean, 
healthy-looking head of hair. 


FITCH: 


THE MAN'S 
SHAMPOO, 


Separates the men fram the girls. 


GROVE LABORATORIES 
Div. of Bristol-Myers Co. 
Qi 


anyone off the hook. His personificati 
of evil is a Nazi overseer at. Auschwitz, 
who can boast. "Just two wecks ago 1 
piped Freud's sister up the chimney, 
and his gallery of the guilty includes 
churchmen, Germans, Italians, and Jews 
themselves. In Hochhuth’s original five- 
act version (Grove Press, $5.95), that. 
for six hours, the Nazis, including Eich- 
mann, and their horrors are cataloged 
with a sometimes melodramatic malevo- 
lence. In supplementary notes, the au- 
thor explains, with painful irony, how 
many of the most vile have continued to 
succeed after the War. For Broadway, 
producer-director Herman Shumlin and 
adapter Jerome Rothenberg have sliced 
the play in half; cleared the stage of 
nearly half the cast, almost all the scen- 
ery, and the worst clichés; and cut to the 
crux of Hochhuth’s argument—the inac- 
tion of the Pope and the awakening of 
a young priest, her Riccardo. The 
priest, played with great feeling and force 
by Jeremy Brett, learns details of Hitler's 
genocide and embarks on a crusade to 
move the Pope to move. He encounters 
opposition from a cardinal with more 
pressing temporal concern (We must 
watch out for those Russians), an elderly 
priest who can bargain for one man’s life 
but is disturbed at the thought of both 
ing the Pope with mass murder, 
lly from the Pope himself. In Hoch- 
huth's savage portrait (and as played by 
Fmlyn Williams), Pius is small-minded, 
overly diplomatic and, ultimately, cow- 
ardly, Dismissed as a hothead, Riccardo 
pins a Star of David to his breast, volun- 
teers for the gas chamber, and becomes a 
martyr and a true Deputy of Christ. 
Without the overdrawn Pope onstage at 
ll. The Deputy would probably have 
been even more meaningful, but as it 
stands, it is still a document of extreme 
urgency, an eternal indictment. At the 
Brooks Atkinson, 256 West 47th Street. 
From lesser Arthur Miller, the Lin- 
coln Center Repertory Theater went 
to lesser Eugene O'Neill, and on to least 
S. N. Behrman. The O'Neill, Моло 
Millions, is the only one of the first sca- 
son's three to profit from the new the- 
ide-open stage. Director José 
Quintero has Marco's minions scooting 
up and down aisles and across a mobile 
ge, which becomes by turns the canals 
of Venice, a ship at sea and the Grand 
Throne Room of the grand emperor 
Kublai Khan. But all the splash and 
panoply cannot obscure the fact that in 
his ambitious attempt to write a satire 
and an epic, O'N was short of the 
Marco. Goshing and guffawing as the 
clown of his father's traveling band of 
money hunters, Marco (Hal Holbrook) 
bounds off to Persia, where he beards 
ihe great Khan himself (David Wayne) 
and tries to convert him to the American 
way of life. This Marco is about as Ital- 
ian as Everett Dirksen. Khan khouldn't 


khare less. Their encounter, a clear-cut 
case of East not meeting West, has its mo. 
ments, as does a later set-to between 
Marco and the Khan's daughter, Zohra 
Lampert (she loves him, he loves him- 
self), but too much of the time the talk 
is bloated, the satire blunted. For two 
rcasons, Marco should be эссп anyway. 
From now on, this rarely produced $6- 
year-old play will be even more rarely 
produced, and you may not get another 
chance to catch and as Kh, David 
Wayne, after long years of whimsy, 
proves himself 10 be an actor of surpris- 
ing humor, force and dignity. Wayne has 
a minor role S. N. Bchrman's Bur for 
Whem Cherie, and is the only note of 
fun in an otherwise tiresome evening. 
He plays a foxy old one-shot novelist, 
who lives by his chits, cadging fellow- 
ships from the nonprofit, fund-giving 
Seymour Rosenthal Foundation. Behr- 
man has indulgent saved his few funny 
lines for his alter ego and left his heroes 
with nothing to do but plod. Seymour 
Rosenthal Robards, Jr) is a 
теск m g to atone for the 
sins of his money-grabbing father. Sey- 
mours  archbuddy, Charlie Taney 
(Ralph Mecker) is the power in front 
of the throne; he runs the foundation, 
feeding cash to artisans of his choice 
while Seymour cowers in the back room. 
"The play is not about who gets the cash 
(which could have been interesting). It 
is about who gets the girls: Salome 
Jens, a man-eating widow of a famous 
ight, and Faye Dunaway, her step- 
daughter, who is mostly after a fellow- 
ship for her alcoholic baby brother, who 
is busy having an affair with Stepmother 
Director Elia Kazan has unwisely ex- 
posed this contrived drawing-room com- 
сйу all over the arena stage—characters 
here, furniture there—so that it looks 
like a close-out at Macy's. That may be 
Ка, ultimate comment on this bar- 
-basement Behrman. At the ANTA 
lhington Square. 40 West 4th Street. 


RECORDINGS 


Soft and Swinging / The Musie of Jimmy Me- 
Hugh (Columbia), etched by the. 
tous André Previn leading his t 
orchestra, proves long-time composer 
McHugh to be a man of taste and d 
cernment, and Previn to be an apt inter- 
preter. Included in the session arc Fm in 
the Mood for Love, Don’t Blame Me, 1 
Can't. Believe that You're in Love with 
Me and Exactly Like You—any one of 
which would rate McHugh his pop-nu- 
sic laurcls. 


biqui. 


Ray Charles / Sweet and Sour Tears (ABC- 
Paramount) is gimmicked around a col 
lection of tunes with some form of 
weeping in their tides—Cry, Willow, 


Weep for Me, Guess РП Hang My Tears 
Out to Dry—and is right up the eminent 
blues shouter’s Tin-Pan Alley. One side 
was recorded in New York with a vocal 
choir, and the other on the West Coast. 
No mater the point of origin, the 
Charles offerings are filled with the high- 
ly charged emotions that characterize all 
of Ray's work. 


The Jeremy Steig Quartet / Flute Fever (Co- 
Tumbia) is a wild outing with flutist Stcig 
wielding his ax with a fury that belies its 
gentecl antecedents. With simpatico side 
men, pianist Denny Zeitlin, bassist Ben 
Tucker and drummer Ben Riley, Steig 
explodes across an impressive array of 
jazz classics Rollins’ Oleo, Monk’s Well 
You Needn't, Miles' So What—in near 
frenzied flurries of notes that give the im- 
pression the flute is not quite up to what 
Steig wants it to perform. 


For those whose primary acquaintance 
with Gary McFarland is as a chart 
man and conductor for outsize jazz 
aggregations, Point of Departure / The Gory 
MeFarlond Sextet (Impulse!) should be a 
revelation. Gary's vibes lead the way as 
trombonist Willie Dennis, tenor man 
Richie Ка (doubling on oboe), and 
a rhythm section composed of guitarist 
Jimmy Raney, bassist Steve Swallow and 
drummer Mel Lewis follow in hot pur 
suit The sextet confectis a cercbrally 
swinging set of goodies earmarked by 
McFarland’s very particular brand of in- 
trospective orchestrating. 


A flock of pleasantly executed tracks 
covers both sides of Georgie Avld Sextet / 
Here's to the Losers (Philips). The veteran 
tenor man breaks no new ground on the 
nine numbers included here, but in his 
own milieu, the romantic ballad, Auld 
has few peers 
given him by vibist Larry Bunker and a 
rhythm section marked by the standout 
bass work of Leroy Vinegar. 


Exemplary assistance is 


Sweet September/The Pete Jolly Trio and 
Friends (Аха) has pianist Jolly's usual 
helpers—bassist Chuck Berghofer and 
drummer Larry Bunker—spelled on the 
title tune and on Kiss Me Baby by gi 
vard Roberts and drummer Nick 
Jollys technique is one of 
glistening precision, with a right hand 
that dispenses single notes with a lucid 
economy. Whatever the company he 
keeps, Jolly is jolly good. 


ar- 


It seems a pity that the now-disbanded 
Lambert, Hendricks and Bavan vocal 
group should have had as its swan 
song Lambert, Hendricks and Bavan ot New- 
port '63 (Victor). It is an uninspired affair 
at best. If it were not for the presence of 
trumpeter Clark Terry and tenor man 
Coleman Hawkins, who weave some 


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Only the Caravelle lets you record or play 
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опе button. Concertone’s Caravelle is 
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why we say it’s incomparable. It has more 
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PLAYBOY 


32 


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silver instrumental threads among the 
vocal dross, this recording would have 
woefully little to recommend it. 

The Billy Mitchell Quintet / A Little Juicy 
(Smash) features the vigorously tasteful 
trumpet and Flügelhorn of Thad Jones, 
Mitchell's own tenor. and Kenny Bur- 
rell's guitar through a session of origi 
(mostly by Jones) plus the standard 
Stella by Starlight. It is funk at its most 
refulgent with Jones playing it, as they 
say, the way it is. 

The irrepressible Dan Sorkin is profes- 
sor meritorious on Dan Sorkin / Folk Sing- 
ing One (Mercury), a hilarious classroom- 
styled putdown of those who take their 
folk music a mite too seriously. The 
music and monologs are by Ernie Shel- 
don and Dick Powell, the director of the 
proceedings, and Chad Mitchell (on the 
theory, we imagine, that it takes one to 
onc); the musical segments are 
pe formed by a foursome masquerading, 

The Plucker Family. So as the 
Wm nny's answer to Кау Kayser, de- 
livers vocally illustrated lectures on the 
art of singi unintelligibly, how-tos 
on the interminable folk ballad intro- 
duction and the folkniks’ tools of their 
trade. Lest it be thought that Sorkin is a 
folk] hobe, we «п his еы of the 
it has 
еи ol a EOS ex 
cept that it hasn't started any Wars. 


know 


Julian Bream / Popular Classics for Spanish 
Guitar (Victor) reiterates Bream's pre- 
eminent position as опе of the few vir- 
tuosos of his instrument extant. Here, 
offering the works of Villa-Lobos, Al- 
béniz, Falla and several others, Mr. 
Bream proves himself once more to be an 
artist of infinite sensitivity. 


Bill Henderson with the Oscar Peterson Trio 
(MGM) is ап ama} that should have 
found its way to vinyl a Jong time ago. 
Bill and the Trio are Damon and Pythias 
from the opening bars of You Are My 
Sunshine. The tune is an impressive har- 
binger of things to come; Henderson 
d the boys take it at an extraordi- 
rily deliberate tempo, which has the 
effect of erasing every trace of country- 
stern influence. Other items on 
the agenda: Trio bassist Ray Brown's in- 
fectious Gravy Waltz, I Sec Your Face 
Before Me, The Folks Who Live on the 
Hill, and cight more gems deftly put in 
Bill's vocal bag. 


Put down Coltrane Live at Birdland (Im- 
pulse!) as one of Trane’s most impressive 
outings to date—particularly the tracks 
Afro-Blue, The Promise and Your Lady 
—on which John abandons his tenor 
in favor of the soprano sax, ап instru- 


ment to which he has added a new 
dimension. Pianist McCoy Tyner, bassist 
Jimmy Garrison and formidable drum- 
mer Elvin Jones (his work behind Trane 
on Your Lady borders on the incredible) 
are as one with their leader. Although 
only three out of the five numbers were 
recorded at Birdland, why quibble over 
minutiae? It’s a superlative LP. 


Going on the assumption that you 
can't win ‘ет all, we'll have to chalk up 
Ella Fitzgerald / These Are the Blues (Verve) 
10 the law of averages. The blues per se 
are not Miss Fitz forte, Perhaps it is be- 
cause her voice is just too truc, too ab. 
solutely self-assurcd, too lacking in the 
essential base of suffering. Whatever the 
reason, Ella misses the blues boat on this 
LP despite a repertoire that includes 
such evergreens as See See Rider, Trou 
ble in Mind, Cherry Red and St, Louis 
Blues. The only g grace of the re- 
cording is that, in revcaling a chink in 
Ella's vocal armor, it makes her a litle 
morc human. 


"Well, one artist's poison is another's 
mea as witness Me and the Blues/Joe Wil- 
fams (Victor). Joe is unequivocally at the 
peak of his vocal prowess as he takes olf 
on such i attractions as Rocksin My 
Bed, Kansas City, Hobo Flats and Early 
in the Morning. His bac no less 
prestigious with Thad Jones, Clark Terry 
and Ben Webster leading the instrumen: 
tal troops. 


Kirk in Copenhogen (Mercury) is an- 
other indication of just how felicitous 
the Danish climate is to the nurturing of 
fine jazz. Using a number of the local 
talents plus several American visitors, 
Roland is in rare form as he performs 
on tenor, manzello, stritch, flute, nose 
flute and ad if anyone can per- 
form on s 1k), singly and. in 
groups. The outing is comprised of four 
Kirk originals, оой Indigo 
and Vernon Duke's Cabin in the Sky. 
The electricity generated by Roland ob- 
viously needs no Continental converter. 

Thanks for Nothing / Rosemary Clooney (Re- 
prise) reminds us that Rosie is still a 
singer of considerable stature. Her rich, 
throaty delivery is displayed to excellent 
advantage on Blach Cofjee, The Man 
That Got Ашау, Careless Love and a 
long-time favorite of ours, Miss Otis Re- 
greis. Although we prefer Miss Clooney 
‘when she's vocalizing in a melancholy 
vein, her ebullient approach to 4 Good 
Man Is Hard to Find is hard to fault. 


Mingus Mingus Mingus Mingus Mingus (Im: 
pulse!) may be redundant, but it is the 
only thing about this recording that is. 
Herein the listener will find ba 
Mingus (putting in a. piano stint on oc 


casion) leading а large orchestra through ‘STRAIGHT BOURBON WHISKY - ВБ PROOF - OLD FICKORY DISTILLERS CO. PHILA 
seven of his compositions; his efforts are 


fixed with a fierce inventiveness that hits | | JE Sees all the nicest people drink 


the auditor with the force of a battering- t 
ram. Even on the funk-based Better Get Old Hickory 
Hit in Yo’ Soul, Mingus serves up no L 

simple slice of musical salvation. It is 
filled, as is the rest of the LP, with in- 
sightful nuances that raise the session far 
above the ordinary big-band bash. Min- 
gus cooks, all right, but the ingredients 
are tartly sophisticated. 


Moody's Mood . . . Pat Thomas (MGM) 
is the young lady's second LP. Her first, 
Desafinado, was a great success, but 
might have given the impression. that 
Pat had only onc string to her bow. This 
should delightfully dispel that notion. 
Baltimore Oriole, A Cottage for Sale, 
Try а Little Tenderness and The Near- 
ness of You ae among the items 
(arranged and conducted by Claus Ogcr- 
man and Lalo Schifrin, Bill Ver Planck 
and Sammy Lowe) upon which Pat lav- 
ishes a warm, rich voice and an innate 
jaz 


Herewith a flock of folk LPs: The Weav- 
ers/ Reunion at Carnegie Hall—1963 (Van- 
guard) is a fine keepsake of the group 
that has since called it a day. Their 
farewell concert has on hand W 
undergrads and alumni, all of whom 
join in making the sign-off an illustrious 
one. Nostalgia reigns as the group rc- 
prises Wimoweh, Irene and "Round the 
World. Another Carnegie Hall concert: 
We Shall Overcome / Pete Seeger (Columbia) 
has the Weavers’ most famous alum 
mixing a bag of socially topical ballads— 
the title song and the pop hit Little 
Boxes, among others wi t has be- 
come over the years stand ger 
"The Carnegie Hall audience obviously 
ate it up; we dig it, too. A more recent 
graduate from the Weavers can be 
heard in a well-rounded, almost eclectic 
folk session—rrein Time / Erik Darling (Van- 

s a fine tenor, his 6- and 
and banjo work is a plus 
n the total picture, and his choice 
of material ranging from the spiritual 
Hail John to Cole Porter's Miss Otis Re- 
grets (don't laugh: Porter also wrote 
folksy Don't Fence Me In) is absorb- 
ing. The folk aficionados’ new messiah 
continues his sermons on the mike on 17 JEWELS. 


The Times They Are A-Chongin'/Bob Dylon IT'S SHOCK-RESISTANT. 


(Columbia). Dylan applies his barefoot 3 i 
vocalise to ten of his own musical com- IT'S WATERPROOF". 
mandments, Included, too, as liner IT'S ONLY $13.95 
notes, are what Dylan calls “11 Oudined д ME 
Epitaphs" which at best are pretentiously IT'S ABOUT TIME 
primitive. At the other end of the folk SOMEBODY 
оке CONSIDERED 
ibe а : smoothies, 
B&T specialize in the Spanish-accented THE GIFT-GIVING 


idiom. Nearly half of the LP is in that WORKING GIRL! 
vein. The boys also hoe a lighthearted 


row—lom Lehrers riotous Fiesta in N А QUALITY PRODUCT OF HELB Ш S e NE. NYC. 


Guadalajara, for example—but are not "Матео рате crystal and стола ae intact. case шаге 


PLAYBOY 


34 


For Daddy’s Day 


there's no more 
thoughtful 


To remind the father in your life 
that you love him all year long, make 
him a member of the new Pipe-of- 
the-Month Club. On or immediately 
before Father's Day, he'll receive a 
beautifully packaged English style 
pipe; later a French Vieille Bruyere 
Select; followed by a Washington 
County Corncob; an Italian crafted 
pipe of Algerian Briar, and eight others. 
Twelve in all, a $40.00 retail value for 
only $25.00, no two alike. Beautifully 
packaged, bound to please the new 
pipe smoker or the veteran. 


If you prefer you can order just sis 
pipes for $15.00. For those who order 
immediately, a booklet “How to Get 
the Most Pleasure Out of a Pipe" 
will be included, free. 


Let him know that you care about 
his healthful pleasure, that you 
recognize his taste for elegance. 


To make sure he'll know by Father's 
Day, send your check and the coupon 
today. (If he's not happy, send. back 
the first pipe by June 30 and your 
money will be refunded.) 


PIPE-OF-THE-MONTH CLUB 
33640 Gratiot Ave., Mt, Clemens, Mich. 


Please enroll the gentleman named for 
D one year, 12 pipes for $25.00 
D half year, siz pipes for $15.00 

Name. 

Address. 

сте -State. 


Indicate ifs a gift from 


(Aly check is altüched.) 


averse to a little social commentary à la. 
Bob Dylan's Tomorrow Is a Long Time. 
Joan Baez in Concert / Part 2 (Vanguard) re- 
affirms Miss Baez as queen of the female 
folk singers. Her voice is a pure instru- 
ment and her repertoire is pristinely un- 
clichéd. One of the aural delights of this 
recording is Miss Baez’ perceptive treat- 
ment of the Black Orpheus classic 
Manha de Carnaval. In refreshing con- 
t to the delicate Baez vocal mecha- 
nism is the gutsy style of Judy Henske. 
Оп Judy Henske / High Flying Bird (Elektra), 
her husky, gullylow pipes produce an 
uninhibited sound of 
Miss Henske's treatments of the likes of 
Oh, You Engineer, Columbus Stockade 
4 Good Old Wagon axe definitely not 
for the lifted-pinkie set. As an added 
и; n we recommend our own Shel 
Silverstein’s very funny liner notes. More 
the Bacz image is Judy Collins #3 
(Elektra). Judy applies her warm, pre- 
cisely pitched voice to contemporary 
folk works in the main, rendering in 
handsome fashion the songs of Pete 
Seeger, Shel Silverste: Bob Dylan, 
Ewan MacColl, Bob Gibson and Woody 
Guthrie. Odetta, who has had some bad 
vinyl experiences in the past, is happily 
very much on the qui vive in Овена / One 
Groin of Sand (Vanguard). She is all emo- 
tion on Midnight Special, the title tune, 
Rambler-Gambler and Cool Water, and 
her intense feelings arc, for a change, 
transmitted to her audience with а 
burning intensity. 


MOVIES 


Gore Vidal had a witty hit on Broad- 
way with The Best Man, l the film 
at least as funny and a lot faster. This 
comedy of political conventiontime, 
U.S. ^., tells of behind-the- cs power 
plays between two candi for an 
named party's Presidential nominatioi 
One of them is what anti-intellectuals 
derisively refer to as an egghead (not 
Stevenson, you understand) and the oth- 
er is an opportunist Senator who has 
made his name as an investigator (not 
Nixon, of course). The latter gets hold of 
a blackmail item with which he hopes to 
scramble the egghead, and the egghcad's 
friends get a juicy jotting with which to 
stave it off. Considerable fencing is done, 
but in the end both are foiled, to some 
degree. Whether or not the blackmail 
business is believable, the real razzmatazz. 
n the convention hoopla, which is hu 
ed and busted by director Franklin 
Schaffner. Vidal's updated dialog lets a 
liule lightning loose on topical topics 
(Southern segregationist to candidat 
“You talk like a liberal, but I know a 
heart you п American”). He 
ny one and Cliff 
Robertson as the bulldozer, Margaret 
ighton and Edie Adams as the respec- 


tive wives, are rightly cast and com- 
petent. But—as on Broadway—the 
show is stolen by Lee Tracy as the 
hick” ex-President (not Harry Truman, 
naturally). 


Zulu is a lulu—a Technicolor, Tech- 
nirama torrent of action that really is, 
like they say in the movies, colossal! Set 
in South Africa in 1879, it's the old Lost 
Patrol yarn, with Britishers and Zulus 
instead of U. S. Cavalry and Sioux. Sioux 
what? Well, it’s carried off here with 
morc imagination, swecp and excitement. 
than amy similar saga. Its based on an 
actual incident—the Battle of Rorkce's 
Drift, when the Zulus, after massacring 
a troop of 1200 British soldiers, moved 

i—1000 strong—to attack a post held 
by eight officers and 97 men. The action 
lasted two days in history, lasts two 
hours and 18 minutes on film. Eleven 
Victoria Crosses were handed out for ac- 
tion at Rorke's Drift, and some kind of 
decoration should go to Cy Endficld who 
directed in the magnificent South Afri- 
can mountains, for the way he caught 
the subtle shades of sunlight and skin, 
the manner in which he formed the 
long battalions that flow over the hills 
nd through the grass, and his expert 
uterweaving of close action and power- 
mas. Stanley Baker, Endficld's 
ко the star, stolid and 
ch. The only tedium is from Jack 
Hawkins (the part, not the player) as а 
preacher of surrender, and his daughter 
Ulla Jacobsson. But let's not quibble. 
Zulu is a treat for eye, car and scalp. 

One of the best plays of the past ten 
years is Enid Bagnold’s internationally 
successful comedy-drama The Chalk Gar- 
den. The picture version is only about 
half as good, which єз it twice as 
good as most movies. It deals with a new 
governess who arrives at an old house in 
southern England, engaged by an an- 
cient aristocratic lady-type dragon to 
handle her 16-year-old handful of a 
granddaughter. Also on the premises is а 
quiet, competent houseman. The inter- 
play among them, done with dialog rich 
in perception and frequently quite fun- 
ny, generates internal drama even in 
this somewhat watcred-down, corners-cut 
production. Matters come to an unfore- 
seen head when an old judg 
flame of the dragon's—arrives for h 
ad in his rambling reminiscence drops a 
bomb about the mysterious governess. 
The film has something pointed and 
poignant to say about the differences be- 
tween love and s 
without mawkishness 
Kerr can be our governess any time; 
Hayley Mills as the flippant filly has 
spirit and spunk; Edith Evans, a grande 
dame, is a grand actress; and John Mills 
is a stout fella as the servant. Felix Ayl- 
mer, а face everyone knows but a name 
few remember, gives his usual jewel- 


like performance as the judge. Ronald 
Neame directed neatly, and the English 
gardens in color look veddy, veddy like 
English. gardens in color. 


Robin and the 7 Hoods has a lot of good- 
ies going for it: a clever basic gag 
and several basic ма Ет 
Dean Ma my Davis 
Bing Crosby. The Merry England men 
ment has been transposed to Chicago in 
the 1920s, and these particular hoods 
have traded gamboling for gambling. 
Robbo (Sinatra) is a gang chief; Martin 
and Davis are side-kicksters. Robbo gets 
a name for good deeds by accident- 
$50,000 worth of accident that puts him 
in touch with the staid head of an or 
phan asylum (der Bingle). Considerable 
Capers are cut, including a few cement ki 
monos and a police raid on Robbo's 
casino which, at the flick of a switch, 
converts into a revival hall. ‘The cracks 
crackle in David R. Schwartz’ script, and 
director Gordon Douglas has a nicely 
needling hand. Crosby sings (natch) a 
ballad with the orphan babes, and he, 
Frank and Dean have a treat of a trio 
about "class." Sammy Junior docs a nifty 
job of dancing out the shootup of it 
joint. What keeps the film from front 
running is that the gangsterasgood-guy 
gimmick has seen its best days; but even 
if the tale is an ancient one, there's а 
bunch of talent telling it. 


Ensign Pulver is a laterday sequel to 
Mister Roberts, beginning alter Mister 
Roberts is dead. And we do mean dead. 


The irony and humor that gave life to 
Thomas Heggen's novel and play about 
the wartime Navy have been milked 
mercilessly by 
Logan 


sciptwriters Joshua 
id Peter S. Feibleman. Result 
bility and boredom. Three of the 
acters have been retained: 
Pulver, the welterweight womanizer; the 
farfrom-dry Doc; the captious С 
A gaggle of rheumatic incidents has 
been hatched, including an item about a 
radioman whose baby has died that is 
supposed to tug the heart, but only 
burns it; and a sequence in which Pulver 
and ше Captain, cast adrift in а rubber 
raft, wash up on an island full of m: 
rooned Army nurses, with Pulver having 
to operate on the Captain via radioed 
instructions. In every way the cast mi 
ures down to the script. Robert Walk 
as Pulver, resembles his late father in 
everything but talent. Burl Ives (the Cap- 
tain) is а fat bad actor—or, if you pr 
fer, a bad fat actor. Waher Matthau 
(Doc) is a good actor waiting for a de- 
cent ран. Logan, who directed, had а 
considerable hand in the original Mister 
Roberts, but puts a considerable foot in 
the sequel. 


Night Must Fell. OK, but why must it 
flop? Emlyn Williams’ 20-year-old thrill 
er about a maniacal murderer could 


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easily have chilled us again. But in this 
iglish remake, Karel Reisz and Albert 
Finney, who co-produced, have empha- 
sized psych instead of scare; and since 
the play was built for fright, not for 
ud, the wei - 
We know from thc start (in this ver- 
sion) that Da hg young 
wa ish country hotel, is a 
kook with at least one notch on his 
knife. With the suspense unsprung, all 
we have left to watch is the way he 
works on Mrs. Bramson and her daugh- 
wheedling the wealthy old lady in 
wheelchair, bantering the young 
babe into bed; while the maid—who has 
u enlarging souvenir of Danny's former 
favors—looks on bitterly to the bitter 
end. as he proved in Saturday 
Night and Sunday Morning, is a master 
of directing techniques. Finney, as he 
keeps proving, has power and person- 
ality aplenty. But Reisz’ refinements and 
nney’s finesse are loaded here on a 
rickety vehicle that collapses under them. 


ny, the win 


Reisz, 


BOOKS 


You can’t say William Golding isn’t a 
game опе. In previous novels he 
ten into the skins of a pack of English 
schoolboys alter the Bomb; a group of 
Neanderthal survivors, faced with Ното 
sapiens; and a drowning man in the last, 
oversaturated two minutes of his life. In 
his new book, The Spire (Harcourt, Brace 
& World, $3.05) his subject is the 
dean of an unfinished me 1 English 
cathedral who attempts to build a spire 
on it. The towers foundations are al- 
most nonexistent; the cathedral, says the 
master builder, floats on mud. ‘The 
dean's fervor dri the master builder 
on, and the spire goss up until the 
stoncs of the frail tower below sing from. 
the strain, At one moment the mud be- 
th the cathedral starts to crawl. At 
which point the master builder begs off; 
work stops, and only begins again be- 
cause the master builder is held to the 
cathedral by an affair with the verger's 
wife. The dean spurs the workmen on 
with all his substitutes for faith. He neg- 
lects the running of the cathedral, is 
broken physically and ccclesiasti 
but is at the summit when the 
completed spire shakes and shudders 
through its first great autumn gale. Av 
moments the book takes a fierce hold, 
but for the most part Golding drives his 
novel as savagely as the dean drives the 
workmen. Rhetoric, said Yeats, is the will 
ng to do the work of the imagi 
tion, That the rhetoric of this novel 
by no means empty is a measure of the 
height at which Mr. Golding has gallant- 
ly aimed. The Spire is worth a hundred 


nea 


less aspiring, more successful books. 


It damns the man with [aint praise to 
call the late Raymond Chandler the 
finest of American mystery writers; he is 
much more. For the unconvinced there 
is ample evidence in The Raymond Chandler 
Omnibus (Knopf, $5.95), a collection of 
four of his best known novels: The Big 
Sleep: Farewell, My Lovely: The High 
Window; The Lady in the Lake. Chan- 
dler was a writer first, a writer of mys- 


teries only coincidentally, and in the 
sprints—in the glittering single line that 
tells all—he sull beats most of our so- 


he 
gave me a smile 1 could feel in my hip 
pocket." The dollar bill d ed i 
to the bellhop's coat “with id like 
caterpillars fighting.” She had a voice 
ged itself out of her throat 
like a sick man getting out of bed." Her 
hat "had been taken from its mother 
too young." There is a hardness of ton 
here, but it is perfectly suited to a cer- 
tain way of sceing the world—spccifically 
to the way of a private detective named 


called serious novelists going away. “S 


Philip Marlowe, honest and proud of it, 
but wise enough to be ironical about it. 
too. and never disgusted by anything so 


much as by phoniness. We need onty 
compare Marlowe with such simpleton 
successors as Mike Hammer to sce how 
consistently and humanly drawn a ch 
he is. ("1 don't care much about his 
Chandler once commented. 
"E think he might seduce a duchess, and 1 
am quite sure he would not spoil a vir- 
gin”) But if this makes publication of 
the Omnibus an event to be cherished. 
there is also a flaw of precisely the 
sort that would bring Marlowe himself 
to а boil. Mi m the collection are 
The Little Sister and The Long Good 
bye, very possibly Chandlers two best 
books. Yet the preface, by one 
Clark Powell, ventures that Chandi 
talent “fell fast and sputtered out" be 
fore he wrote cither of these. Can tastes 
differ that radically, or is а little sleuth 
ing called for on our part? Just a little. 
A different publisher holds the copy 
rights on the two missing titles. 

If your stockbroker’s jargon sometimes 
gets away from you, pick up a copy of 
The Investor's Dictionary (Simon & Schuster, 
$4.95) by Janet Low, the gal responsible 
for those Merrill Lynch, Pierce, Fenner 
X Smith question-and-answer ads you 
may have seen around. In unpresuming 
prose, the Noah Webster of Wall Street 
gives impeccable definitions of bulls and 
bears, puts and calls, rights and warrants, 
nd net, matched and lost, consol 
n and merger, discount and prem 
um, common and preferred and more 
than 400 other terms, from account to 
zero basis. This book won't guarantee а 
killing on your next plunge, but there's 


pri 


comfort in being able to talk knowledgc- 
ably about your lo (See page 105, 
take a bath) 


Candy (Putnam, $5), a savagely comic 
bonbon extraordinaire, has finally been 
allowed to visit her sexually liberated 
charms upon the home shores of her 
creators, novelist Terry Southern (av 
thor of Flash and Filigree and The Mag 


ic Christian and co-scenar of Dr 
Strangelove) amd  poetsatirist Mason 
Hoffenberg. Since 1958, when Candy was 


first published pseudonymously in France 
by Olympia Press under the title Lolli- 
pop. it has languished in anonymit 
Its comedic greatness was recognized 
only by the few hip literati who spotted 
Terry Southern as possibly the most ad- 
vanced satirist of his ge п. Broadly 
speaking, Candy's deliciously spooly tale 
is that of a sweet, beauteous blonde coed 
who, despite the oddest circum: 1- 
gres 10 Gogh à spiritua 
“Such at 


ай tiles flic eio erm propels 
her simultaneously into the vortex of 
the masculine arms race. She joyously 
seizes the sensual scepter and throws her 
back into a series of erotic adventures 
with such idols as: Professor Mephesto 
(on the great scholars consultation- 
room floor; her lobotomized Гай 
broth fond act of avuncular trib- 
ute under her fathers hospital bed); 
and the tanscendentally erectile 
"Cracker" Grindle, mystic and guru (in 
linncsota mine shaft). It would be 
ter school to reveal more 


orthodox quests to help the 
men of her life attain є 
that comment makes you 
run wild, you'll find that the authors 
imaginations have run far wilder, once 
you read the book. And since that imagi 
nation is bound to elicit cries of "pornog- 
raphy” from our ever-alert guardians of 
pubic morality, it might be well to point 
out, as does the respected English liter 
ary critic of Queen, Francis Wyndhar 
that "As a satire on pornography, it 
might be mistaken for pornography; but 
10 discuss Gandy as a pornographic book 
would be as crass and unfounded as 
log Gulliver's Travels as a ‘trav- 
el book.” The inspiration of Gandy, im- 
plicit in its tide, is Voltaire's Candide— 
a book that also outraged people in 
its day, but I don't think any sane per 
son today would maintain that it should 
not have been published. Candy is 
wonderful novel, a subtle and hilario 
satire on all kinds of things, but p 
larly on various attitudes toward sex— 
perhaps опе could say it is а satire on 
sex." When Nelson Algren (himself no 
satirical slouch) first read proofs of the 
book, he remarked, “Candy makes Hen 
ry Miller seem like Pearl Buck." And so 
does. If you have a sweet tooth for 


ual satori. 


10 с 


The others are 


not JeB 
rare scotch 


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~- - THE LEROY NEIMAN PORTFOLIO. 


Six of Neiman’s most representative works 
including the famous “Matador” and “Chantille,” 


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PLAYBOY PORTFOLIOS 


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Lisbon, 1949. Two strangers, war refu- 
gees, meet one night while staring long- 
ingly at a ship bound next day for 
America. One approaches the other and 
mysteriously gives him two tickets for 
the sailing, asking in exchange only that 
the man stay with him through the night 
and listen to the story he has to tell. 
This is the story unfolded during Ther 
Night in Lisbon (Harcourt. Brace & World, 
$4.95), the latest novel of Erich Maria 
Remarque. It is the story of one so- 


called “Mr. Schwarz" and his flight from 
Nazi Germany: his secret return after 
five years to see his wife; th с 


quaintance; а second flight together; 
a dangerous odyssey across Europe ii 
search of safety; their precarious love 
and their journey’s terrible end, which 
leaves him with neither the need nor the 
desire for the two coveted tickets to 
America. The novel is so full of strange. 
overtones. 


unanswered questions and 
pseudo profundi t one feels that 
Remarque has not quite been able to get 
across all that he wanted to say. And yet 
the tale has genuine suspense, color and 
power, and it tends, despite its embar- 
rassing moments. to linger after its odd 
and disturbing ending. 


s th 


*'Why did you never marry?’ . .. 
People who would not think of asking a 
man why he was a Presbyterian, or why 
he wore sleeve garters, think nothing of 
putting to a bachelor [this] question 
which I should think 
intimate and personal as опе could 
imagine" Frederic Nelson's annovance, 
in Bachelors Are People, Too (Public Affairs 
Press, $4.50), is a reasonable опе, 
reasonably amplified in this always enter- 
taining work. Nelson finds wry 
ment in the many social injustices and 
fiscal inequities perpetrated upon а ma 
simply because he chooses to remain 
single. (They range from being burdened 
with an inordinate tax bite to having to 
ward off aspersions of homosexuality.) 
While trying to show that there are good. 
and bad bachelors and benedicts, Mr. 
Nelson strays a bit afield at times, as in 
his chapter ou his personal friend Н. L. 
Mencken (who wed at 50), in which we 
learn far more about Mencken the man 
than Mencken bachelor. However, 
whether dallying over the love life of 
Adolf Hitler, certain British kings (no- 
ably Edward УШ, who left the throne 
for love), financier Ivar Krueger or man- 
kind in general, the author is always on 
target, supplying along the way a super- 
abundance of trenchant commentary on 


would be about 


muse- 


the 


woman, and how terribly little she knows 
about attracting the interest of man. Lest 
the author be thought merely embitiered 


by a life of bad luck with broads, it 


should be noted that he is most content 
edly married: his memory, however. is 
more than good enough to depict the 
ways in which the single male—and all 
males are single at some time—is Бае 
cred, slandered, tormented and complete 
ly misunderstood. Be that as it may, there 
is still a considerable portion of the male 
populace that would rather be harried 
than married. 


Why is it that a professional like Al 
Morgan gets sucked into writing a second 
“Hollywood novel”? There have been a 
few bell ringers: The Day of the Locust. 
The Last Tycoon, What Makes Sammy 
Run?. The Carpethaggers. As for the oth- 
ers: May they rest in peace. Morgan's To 
Sit on a Horse (Morrow, $3.95) should rest 
likewise, The book’s central figure is an 
Ed Wynn type, a great vaudeville clown 
gone to seed and senility, Only, he would 
like one last hurrah—a part in his pro 
ducerdirector son's first A movie, He 
wants to play Robert E. Lee handing 
over his sword at Appomattox. But the 
son would much rather see the old man 
in a rest home, and so would his Sarah 
Lawrence-bred wife. бо works 


poppe 


it his own way. He'll go ош doing a 


television. commercial—which, as th 
say in Hollywood, is a helluva way to 
dic. The final scenes are a mad rush into 
bathos. Too bad, because Morgan, as 
PLAYBOY readers can testify, is capable of 
better. 


The narratorhero of Len Deighton's 
brash, British, gimmickdaden. thriller, 
The Ірсгезз (Simon & Schuster, 53.95), 
is, in the recent Ambler style, on the be- 
spectacled, pudgy side. He moves from 
an intelligence department of the British 
War Office under a man called Ross to 
a civilian unit, directly responsible to 
the Cabinet, run by a man called Dalby. 
Their job you eventually surmise, is to 
butionhole a mysterious international 
operator called He had small piggy 
eyes, a large mustache and handmade 
shoes which I knew were size ten. He 
walked with a slight limp and habitually 
stroked his eyebrows with his index fin 
ger. 1 knew him as well as anyone, for I 
had seen film of him in a small, very pri- 
vate cinema in Charloue Street, every 
day for a month.” Mr. Deighton's style is 
perky, and he is knowledyeable—though 
often a bit cute about his knowledgeabil- 
ity, as when he drops a weighty footnote 
about the meaning of “hot line,” or sends 
the reader to an appendix for an extract 
from a manual on the handling of Smith 
& Wesson revolvers or the recipe for mak. 
ing a cocktail called, coyly, а manhattan 
project. His tale is convincingly up to 
date. The seedy corridors and offices of 
power are neatly rendered. The hush- 
hush unit relies to a great extent on its 
1.В.М. computer, and the enemy depends 


on a form of brainwashing to further 
their plot aga t The Free World. In 
fact, with the indication that there is 
such a plot, the book comes to have опе, 
too. In its last half things pick up speed, 
and the pace is made all tlie more dizzy- 
ing by the surrounding fog. The hero 
doesn't know whar's going on, who is on 
which side, or whether he is in the South 
Pacific, Hungary or a London suburb; 
since the book is written in the first per 
son, the reader is similarly bemused. The 


effect is, all told, pretty successful. I 
may not be quite up to Ian or Eric or 
Graham when it comes to Credibility, 
Suspense, Imagination, Something to S 
Humor, Sex, Style and Unputdownable 
ness—but he is easily the equal of Mickey. 


Murray Shumach’s The Face on the Cut- 
fing Room Floor (Morrow, 56.05) is a 
shrewd, anecdotal look at Hollywood 
40-усаг bout with the censors—an epic 
struggle between bosoms and boycotts. 
An old Hollywood hand for The New 
York Times, Shumach offers a Iot of in 
side stuff about filmdom's bizarre efforts 
to censor itself (through the Motion Pic- 
ture Production Code), its troubles with 
the Legion of Decency and other sym- 
bols of watchdoggedness and, above all, 
its unflinching cowardice. “The price of 
mass appeal," Shumach observes, “is con- 
formity to mass morality—and Holly- 
wood has more than met the price.” He 
is particularly political 
ich, he says, “was not 
fashioned out of patriotism, but out of 
fear of boycotts and other forms of eco- 
nomic reprisal. And when the black list 
is finally abandoned it will be for profit.” 
Shumach is concerned less with Holly- 
wood art than with Hollywood hypocrisy 
—its artistic and social pretensions. Juve- 
nile delinquency films, for example, are 
called “sociological studies" when they 
are really exercises in sadism; and Bible 


bitter about 


black listing, wl 


spectaculars pretend piety while selling 
pap. ("We decided,” said a producer 
about the Book of Ruth, “that the 
Bible version was weak ) He also 
takes aim at local bluenoses: the Chicago 
censor who ordered that а sequence 
showing the birth of a buffalo be deleted 
from Walt Disney's Vanishing Prairie; 
the Providence, Rhode Island, censor 
who admitted in court that he had scen 
but one movie—Baby Doli—in 13 years. 
Shumach also scores the publics readi- 
ness to jump to conclusions about the 
connection between movies and crime. 
He cites а newspaper story—a clipping 
of which is kept on file m the Holly- 
wood censors’ office—that tells of a youth 
who murdered his teenage date while 
necking in a c 
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THE PLAYBOY ADVISOR 


The girl Ym engaged to is a good deal 
brighter than 1 am, and I wonder if 
our marriage will fade in the stretch 
е of this marked difference. Please 
understand: I'm no dummy, having suc- 
cessfully negotiated college and landed 
a rewarding technical job. It's just that 
my fiancée bats in another league— 
she graduated Phi Bete from a top 
women's college and plans to go on for 
a masters and а Ph.D. We have a suc 
cessful relationship and, despite our 
differences, find a lot to talk about 
However, I'm a litle skeptical about 
the long run.—B. B, Woburn, Massa 
huscus. 

Since you have a successful relation. 
ship and do find a lot to talk about, the 
vast differences you cite may be just so 
much academic applesauce. You ob 

iously have a lot in common, or you 
never would have become enga and, 
we assume, your attraction to each other 
is more than just physical (or isn’t it?). 
Possibly you're underestimating your 
own abilities and overestimating your 
girl's. If you do have grave doubts even 
after prolonged soul-searching on the 
durability of your relationship, we would 
advise you to break your engagement 
and seek a less intellectually wellen- 
dowed chick with whom you will feel 
more at ease in the traditional male role. 


bec 


Wis you wear ап odd vest with a suit 
—H. D., Seattle, Washington. 

Yes. The most compatible odd vest is 
solid-gray docskin, which can be worn 
successfully with almost any dark suit ex- 
cept blue. If you wish to set off your 
blue serge with a vest, wear white doe- 
hin. 


Ms ihe South Seas I had a fantastic 
wine called kava. Can you tell me more 
about i?—M. H., Syracuse, New York. 

This potent Polynesian potable is 
not strictly a wine, since it's not fer- 
mented. It's made of the roots of a 
South Sea pepper plant, which are 
pounded, soaked in water and strained. 
(At one time the roots were chewed by 
virgins and then spat into coconut shells 


—а technique no longer followed, per- 
haps because of a lack of qualified per- 
sonnel.) Not generally available in the 
U.S., hava tastes like peppery soapsuds, 
tends to numb the mouth and throat, 
and if taken liberally will affect the legs 
but leave the mind clear. Apparently, it 
produces no unpleasant aftereffects. 


WI, firm recently began sending me 
regularly on business trips, and though 
Im pretty worldly wise, I must confess 
that hotel tipping protocol leaves me 
led. I'm alternately afraid I'm ap- 
pearing niggardly by giving too little, or 
foolish by giving too much. Can you tell 
me whats the proper gratuity for bell- 
boys, chambermaids, room-service wait- 
ers, 025. F., San Jose, California. 
The most important upping tip is to 
remember that you're paying for serv- 
ices rendered. For actions above and be- 
yond the call of duty, you should be 
prepared—and happy—to reward gen- 
crously. And for surly, slow оғ sloppy 
service, feel free to lighten up. Assuming 
the following tips 
are more than adequate: The chap who 
opens the door of your cab and sets 
your luggage on the sidewalk usually 
does no more than call the bellhop, and 
if so, no tip is required. But if he un- 
loads heavy and extensive baggage, or 
performs any other service, a commensu- 
rale lip is expected—at least a quart 
The bellhop who carries your luggage 
from cab to counter should also receive 
at least а quarter, more for extra trips 
or heavy bags. The standard tip for the 
bellhop who carries your luggage to your 


normal conditions, 


room is 50 cents for one suitcase, 25 cents 
for each additional one. For тоот seru- 
ice, no less than a quarter is а requisite 
for the smallest favor, and 15 percent is 
standard for a meal in your room, or 
other similar service. No need to tip the 
chambermaid if you're staying only а day 
or two, but [or longer visits leave her a 
couple of dollars or more, depending on 
the length of your stay. 


ve read a great deal about a new ro- 
tating combustion engine and wonder if 
you can tell me when it will be available 
to the buying public in stock autos— 
L.G.. Omaha, Nebraska. 

The revolutionary Wankel rotating 
combustion engine—in which gasoline 
combustion drives а rotor, rather than a 
reciprocating piston—is already avail- 
able, in the German-made NSU Spider, 
recently unveiled. in Frankfurt. The 
water-cooled, rear-mounted engine di. 
places only 500 cc, yet is rated at Gt hp 
at 5000 rpm. (Comparable rating with 
this displacement for a piston engine 
would be about 20 hp.) The car isn’t yet 
available in the U.S., 


but its importers 
expect it to arrive on these shores some- 
time in July. It’s currently selling in 
Great Britain for 53365 


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41 


PLAYBOY 


2 


Fm cumently going with a girl whose 
company 1 enjoy considerably. We have 
a good relationship going on all levels, 
except for onc thing: I can't get this 
girl to share a bed with me. She's per- 
fectly compliant—even  apgressive--on 
my living-room couch, or in a parked 
auto, or other places you'd hardly call 
romantic. But whenever ] mention the 
word "bed" she freezes. I'd like you to 
tell me how to get her bedded down, as 
I'm about ready for the chiropractor. 
A., Louisville, Kentucky. 

Your girl needs a rationalization for 
ewery sexual contact (“We were talking 
on the couch and just got carried 
away”). You might try to solve the prob- 
lem by discussing the matter with her in 
a good-natured way, pointing out that 
while her idiosyncrasy has little effect on 
her sex life. it may be seriously endanger 
ing her posture; or you can try 10 crash 
the barrier, by getting a convertible couch 
or calling on the persuasive powers of 
passion to lead her to your bower. In 
either case, after your initial feather- 
bedding, subsequent sojourns to the Sim- 
mons should be no problem. 


ata 


been planning to enroll this fall 
n all-male college, but now I'm not 
. Гуе heard that isolation at a 
noncoed institution might adversely af 
fect my hitherto robust sex life. Is this 
truc?—L. B., Brownsville, Tennessee. 

Hardly. With great biological foresight, 
the founders saw to it that virtually 
every men's college is near a similar 
institution for women. Even the most 
isolated college is close enough to civili- 
zation for weekend dates. However, if 
you feel you thrive under constant fe- 
male attention, you'd belier consider 
going coed. 


Ё.с help this auto-racing neophyte 
by expanding the following a 
tions for me: NASCAR, АНКА, USAC 
and A JS.—H. H., Houston, Texas. 

NASCAR is the National Association 
for Stock Car Ашо Racing—the organ- 
ization that sanctions most American. 
stock-car races. АНКА ts the American 
Hot Rod Association—no explanation 
needed. USAC is the United States Auto- 
Club—the organization that 
sanctions many professional rares, Indy 
among them. ACCUS is the Automobile 
Competition Committee for the United 
States, our representative with the FIA 
(Fédération Internationale de l'Automo- 
bile), the international governing body 
for motor sports. 


bbrevi 


mobile 


И. there any way to “reconditio 
tobacco that has become dried 


pipe 
ош? 


Someone told me the best th 
put it in a humidor with a slice of apple, 
somebody else said half a lemon; I 
tried both and all I got was tinderdry 
tobacco with fruit flavoring. The most 
recent advice was to put it in a fine sieve 
over a pot of be ig water and steam 
J did. It seemed to work, but the next 
morning the tobacco was bone dry again. 
Maybe I should explain: Fm not a 
cheap skate who won't go out and buy 
some fresh tobacco; it's just that I loaded 
up on a dozen two-ounce tins of assorted 
expensive tobaccos when I decided to 
switch to pipes and then didn't sv 
after all. Now I want to try again, and 
І just don't dig tossing out all that ex- 
pensive smoking mixture.—S. A, Ch 
cago, Illinois. 

Tobacco loses moisture easily, even 
in a virtually airtight can, a loss best 
countered while it's taking place, by 
keeping in the can a piece of clay, plas- 
ter of Paris, soapstone, or another por- 
ous, odorless substance. This humidifier 
should be moistened at regular intervals, 
and fastened to the lid so that it doesn't 
touch the tobacco. When, as in your case, 
the tobacco has actually dried out, mois- 
ture can often be restored by light spray 
ing of water with an atomizer. To keep 
the tobacco from becoming overmoist, 
spread it on a table and spray evenly, 
then mix and test for proper moisture 
content by grasping a fistful and com- 
pressing it for а few seconds. If the to- 
bacco falls in flakes from your open 
palm, it’s too dry. If it slays pressed in a 
tight, hard ball, it's too moist. When it 
remains as a loosely packed ball, it con- 
tains the ideal quantity of moisture, And 
as soon as you settle on a mixture, stop 
buying those two-ounce tins. They hold 
less moisture than their big brothers, lose 
it more quickly, and often don't provide 
room enough for the humidifier. 


79 to 


ch 


Wo a warm climate, is a vopical-weight 
black or midnightblue dinner jacket 
acceptable substitute for white?—M. K., 
Miami Beach, Florida. 


Yes. 
Р.с explain how monaural hi-fi re- 
cordings are electrically rechanneled for 
sterco.—C. N., Lexington, Kentucky. 


Rechanneling separates sound by 
means of am electronic filter network 
analogous to the cross-over apparatus in 
your speaker system; the lows are 
shunted into one channel, and the highs 
into another. Because this is a frequency- 
separaling process, rather than a phy ical 
separation of sound sources, rechanneled 
monaural records usually don’t convey 
the realism of true stereo. 


Assuming that one who is wholly or 
partly of Scottish descent is entitled tò 
wear a would you consider 
n poor taste to wear a Highland dress 
kilt here in the U. S2 In Europe, where 
conformity worship is less ingrained, 1 

wear my tartan without even dr 
ig a stare. And for evening wear, 1 
изшу that Highland dress is infinitely 
more comfortable than a dinner jacket 
and formal trousers—R. H., Los 
geles, California. 

The only person who should wear a 
Scottish hilt is a Scottish. national, а 
distinction for which we gather you don't 
qualify. This being the casc, we would 
consider it a zenith of bad taste for you 
to sport a kilt anywhere but to a family 
reunion or a costume ball. Dressed in this 
outfit, whether in the U.S. or in Europe, 
you're posing as something you are not. 


aw- 


For the past four months I've be 
dating a young man of whom T 
y fond. Our only disagreement 
is insistence that wc not usc 
our This 
not for religious reasons, but because 
he thinks the use of contraceptives takes 
something away from the sexual act. I 
live with my parents, who arc strictly 
religious; I do not wish to use female 
contraceptive devices, because my par- 
ents would be unnecessarily discom- 
forted if they discovered them. I'm sure 
I can convince my lover to do things my 
way, but now I'm beginning to think 


that perhaps he's right. May I have 
your opinion?—C. L., Brooklyn, New 
York. 


Though we appreciate your boy- 
friend's aesthetic sensibilities, his desire 
to throw caution to the winds is as fool- 
hardy as it is thoughtless. He is morally 
oblized by the nature of your relation- 
ship to take every safeguard 10 avoid the 
possibility of fathering an illegitimate 
child. You, in (итп, are obliged to sec 
that he does so. Regardless of the physical 
predilections of either party, your pre- 
marital relationship is justified only 
when both parties have assured them- 
selves that their actions will bring no 
harm to others—and “others” in (his 
case includes unwanted children as yet 
unconcciued. 
шс ف‎ 
All reasonable questions—from fash- 
ion, food and drink, hifi and sports cars 
to dating dilemmas, taste and etiquette 
will be personally answered if the 
writer includes a stamped, self-addressed 
lope. Send all letters to The Playboy 
sor, Playboy Building, 232 E. Ohio 
Street, Chicago, Illinois 60611. The most 
provocative, pertinent queries will be 
presented on these pages cack month. 


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PLAYBOY'S INTERNATIONAL DATEBOOK 


BY PATRICK CHASE 


A GOOD REASON why ever-increasing num- 
hers of travelers will be seeing the Соп- 
tinent by car this summer is the freedom 
this [reewheeling transportation gives 
them to do their own discovering, to fol- 
low the les-frequented. side roads, and 
to tailor their vacations to 
tastes 

From Paris, for example, a 50-mile run 
a virtually any direction leads through 
the rich countryside of the Ile-de-France 
to a memorable village like Ville-d’Av- 
ray, where Corot lived and painted, and 
where Parisians now come to fish and 
stroll and cat at the little waterside res- 
taurants around the ponds the artist 
loved. Balzac lived at Sevres nearby: S 
ley painted at. Moretsur.Loing; Manet 
at Meudon and Vlaminck at Chatou. 

Still rich. from these associations, life 
goes on in these small towns virtually 
unchanged—with weekly street. markets 

nd business meetings of two or three at 
cafés on the main square whi 
offer food worthy of larger renown. P 
of the fun of such casual drives is discov- 
ering the great food of France—which is 
not always the excl сє of res- 
taurants of 1 fame. Ас 
tually, when weighing the importance of 

mosphere and friendly hosting in the 
total work of art that is a meal, many a 
gourmet will argue for the superior val- 
ues of a small country place where the 
owner is his own chef. in whose compa- 

y you will enjoy a happy half hour 
over preliminary a peritils, settling upon 
just the right meal and the perfect w 
to go with it. If you drive to Rou 
park on the square where Joan of Arc 
achieved immortality and walk across to 
the Hótel de la Couronne, which claims 
to be the oldest inn in France. And 
don't depart Rouen without at least 
one meal at the Auberge St-Mado 
deep in the artists’ quarter оп an old 
brick street. Under ags, 
beside ancient stone walls, you'll dine 
off flowered Norman pottery, drink from 
applegreen goblets in this tiny inn 

‘s one of the . Or uy 
muscadet wine at the Auberge 
x Puits at Pont-Audemer, and with 
it savor Normandy duck smothered in 
fresh picked cherries, followed by a 
butter tart unlike anything you've ever 
asted—all this surrounded by one of 
France's most colorful collections of 
pewter and brass. 

Still lile known to most American 
travelers, although widely patronized by 
Europeans, thermal resorts offer substan- 
tially more than "the waters.” Places 
Bath in d, Baden-Baden 


lividus 


n Germany and Belgium's Spa (which 
lent its name the generic term for 
such resorts) still have the turn-of-the 
century flavor reflecting the era of their 
тешем. popularity. They now offer— 
besides scenic cl d delightful ar- 
mosphere—the modern concomitants to 
relaxation and enjoyment 
these is Vichy, in France, with its 12 
three-star hotels, opera, ballet, concerts, 
casino and, of course, the local specialty 
of expert massages and an endless flow of 
the natives pride and joy—Vichy water. 
Besides Vichy, France boasts other sp 
such as EnghiendesBains near Paris, 
Evian-les-Bains, Luchon, Vittel and Aix- 
Jes-Bains, where truly luxurious accom- 
modations and everything from casino 
gambling to dancing and opera, plus 
horse racing, swimming and golf are 
available. 

One tip on driving in Europe is to al- 
low yourself substantially more time 
than the mileage on your map would in- 
dicate. This is no slur upon the road 
conditions, but merely an indi n ol 
the many attractive little places just off 
the main routes, like the special litle 
inns with special little dishes some friend 
has told you you must try. In Spain, for 
insumce—notably at San Sebastián dur- 
ing Semafia Grande at the height of the 
August season—dining is accompanied 
by the major Spanish spectator sport: 
girl watching from calé terraces. And, 
while watching, you're absorbing sulted, 
pickled or fresh sardines by the score, as 
well as percebes, a sort of edible barna- 
cle, and callos, which are small squares 
of піре fried in oil, tomato, garlic and 
red pepper. This, of course, is between 
repasts of caldera Asturiana, a fish stew 
you'll alternate with sips of tart white 
Ribeiro wine. One place we recommend 
for this worthy activity is the Mome Ig- 
ueldo, just out of San Sebasti 
the 
funicular. 

If London is included in your Euro- 
pean itinerary, you'll undoubtedly want 
to visit some of the town’s flourishing 
private gambling, hostess and cabaret 
show clubs. Membership in these requires 
a 48-hour waiting period if applicatio 
arrival, but Datebook readers 
id this delay by sending five dol 
lars (a special 50-percent reduction) to 
Department P.L D., London Visitors 
Club, 35 Albemarle St, London W. 1. 
(Be sure to mention ruaysoy.) А mem 
bership card will be held for your arrival. 

For further information on any of the 
above, write to Playboy Reader Sen 
ice, 232 E. Ohio St., Chicago, Ш. D Y | 


n across 
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у. wh be re: 


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THE PLAYBOY FORUM 


an interchange of ideas between reader and editor 
on subjects raised by “the playboy philosophy" 


PSYCHOANALYTIC PRAISE 

We have truly been admiring your se- 
ries of editorials and want to congratu- 
lite you on your forthrightness and 
That such а discussion is possi- 
Il in one of the major America 
culation magazines is really 
ing, and that it seems to be sup- 
ported by the feelings of such a large 
segment of the public is apt to give one 
hope in a sometimes almost hopeless- 
seeming situation. 

We really cannot overemphasize how 
much we have been enjoying these arti- 
cles and how much hope and courage 
they have given us for the future. Frank- 
ly, and without exaggeration, we 
cerely feel that your magazine is today 
probably the greatest single liberalizing 
influence in American public life, and 
not just with regard to sexual reform, 

in à much more general way, includ- 
ics and economics as well. 

Dis. Eberhard and Phyllis Kronhausen 

Marbella, Spain 

Such praise is certainly most welcome 
from the psychoanalytic team that has 
personally done so much for greater 
mental health ond a saner altitude on 
sex, and whose book “Pornography and 
the Law” offers the clearest definition to 
date of the distinctions between erotic 
realism and pornography, making it a 
source book of such significance in the 
fight against censorship that it has been 
frequently quoted as a major authority 
not only by counsel, but by the courts 
themselves in some of the most im- 
portant decisions in recent censorship 
history. 


ENCYCLOPEDIC SUPPORT 

I wish to commend The Playboy Phi- 
losophy for having dared to air some of 
the more liberal views on the so-called 
“forbidden topics.” The articles on cen- 


sorship and contemporary sexual mo- 
ташу were particularly well handled. 
The views expressed were not just 


“wild opinions of a biased individu- 
al" as some of the recent letters to the 
editor implied. Instead, they impressed 
me as being very carefully thought out, 
well supported, and written with a defi- 
nite sense of responsibility. They reflect, 
to а large extent, the views of many of 
our leading psychologists, doctors of 
medicine, and some of our more pro- 
gressive For example, I 
quote from the chapter "Sex Reform 


theologians. 


Movement” in The Encyclopedia of Sex- 
ual Behavior: 


The Judaco-Christian system, with 
its prohibitions and sex-negations, is 
both artificial and eccentric. WI 
is called “sexual morality” is in di- 
rect conflict with reason and healthy 
life. 
Or, some spot quotes from another 
chapter, “Chastity and Virginity: The 
Case Against": 


It is no more meritorious to re- 
main chaste than go for a week 
without eating . . . to have re- 
mained chaste for a lifetime is to 
have been a self-deluded victim liv- 
ng a wasted life . . . the chaste 
individual is not a valuable or 
desirable member of society. 


Larry L. Norris 
Caldwell, Idaho 


BESTIALITY? 
You failed to rebut an accusation 
made by two "moralists" in the January 


Forum who said that human sexuality 
exists primarily [or reproductive pur- 
poses. It is a biological fact that only 
men and monkeys have sexual desire at 
times when it is impossible for them to 
reproduce; all lower animals correlate 
sexual desire with ovulation. One must 
therefore conclude that having sexual re- 
lations for reproduction alone is bestial, 
not vice versa. 


N. Papania, Ph.D. 
Clinical Psychologist. 
Casper, Wyoming 


ONE WOMAN'S VIEW 

One of the most frequent criticisms of 
PLAYBOY is that you do not treat women 
with respect. As a woman, may 1 present 
another point of view? You do not com- 
mit the blasphemy of neatly categorizing 
my sex, and I for one wish that your crit 
ics would follow your example. 

I would strongly resent а man wanting 
to marry me solely out of physical desire. 
I would wish him to have had inter- 
course with others, and with me, before 
mariage. On the other hand, I would 
strongly resent a man who was only con. 
scious of my intellectual existence. A full 
relationship involves all of a human 
being, and all areas of consciousness. 

Sex is a profound act, a sharing of a 
moment of existence; but it is not nec 
sarily a sharing of souls. Scx should be 


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49 


PLAYBOY 


50 


thought of in terms of pleasure and of 
iving pleasure to someone else. Sexual 
ion may actually prevent one person 
from realizing anothers personality 
sufficiently to fall in love. With a truly 
healthy attitude, onc would want to give 
pleasure not just to one, but to many. 
(Name withheld by request) 
Berkeley, California 


MARRIAGE AND ADULTERY 

So far I have been able to give the 
Philosophy a warmhearted acceptance, 
but Hefners comments on adultery in 
the February issue left me cold. He said 
that marriage should not be simply а 
contract to have . Since it entails 
serious respon s, such as raising 
children. 

I did not marry for sex alone, nor did 
I marry only to share serious responsi- 
bi s. I married for love, which scems 
to be a word you've forgotten about. in 
this section. If my husband were to share 
the most intimate part of our love with 
someone else, I would be deeply hurt. 
Adultery breaks up marriages because it 
hurts people, and, when society permits 
this, nations fall. I don't see how Hefner 
can say adultery can ever be good. 

Mrs. Chris Wiedler 
Portland, Oregon 

You seem to have misunderstood what 
Hefner had to say on sex, marriage and 
adullery in the February installment of 
“The Playboy Philosophy.” He definite- 
ly believes thal marriage should be 
predicated upon love and upon mutual 
respect; he also belicucs that when two 
people етет willingly into marriage, 
they accept certain responsibilities for 
each other and for the children they 
bring into the world. If Hefner did not 
have more to say on the subject of love 
їп the February issue, it was only be- 
cause it has little to do with the question 
he was discussing—our irrational. and 
suppressive sex laws. 

As for adultery, Hefner has never en- 
dorsed marital infidelity. He considers 
it, however, а resull rather than a cause 
of unhappy marriage. He also believes 
that in а mature marriage relationship, 
where real love, compassion, understand- 
ing and respect exist, sexual fidelity is 
relegated to the position of secondary 
importance that it deserves. 

Simone de Beauvoir, an authoress of 
probity and courage, has made two tell- 
ing statements concerning adultery (in 
her book “The Second Sex"); we com- 
mend them to you and reproduce them 
herewith: 

“A man can make an excellent hus- 
band and yet be inconstant: his sexual 
episodes do not in fact prevent him from 
carrying on the enterprise of a joint life 
їп amity with his wife; this amity will 
even be the purer, the less ambivalent, if 
she docs not represent а chain.” 

“What makes adultery degrading is 
the compromise of character made nec- 


essary by hypocrisy and caution; an 
agreement based on liberty and sincerity 
would do away with one of the defects 
of marriage.” 

The real point at issue, in the Feb- 
ruary and April installments of Hefners 
editorial series, is whether such personal 
moral questions should be under the 
jurisdiction and legislative control of. 
the government in a free society. We 
definitely feel that they should not. 


SEX STATUTES 

The April Philosophy was the most 
enlightening discourse in the series. It 
produced a true insight into the ridicu- 
lous condition of our criminal codes 
governing sexual relations. 

The entire editorial series has been a 
tremendous achievement. It is inspiring 
to realize that there is at least one publi 
cation in our society that is not afraid to 
appeal to the intellectual, and refuses to 
cater to the whims of prudish simpletons 
who wish 10 do away with whatever does 
not personally suit them. 

Joseph P. Dion 
San Diego State College 
San Diego, California 


There are so many foolish and obso- 
lete laws operative today that one can't 
avoid breaking them. It has been es 
mated that the average urban citizen 
violates enough of these laws every day 
to warrant imprisonment for five years 
and fines of nearly $3000. A Michigan 
State statute makes it illegal for anyone 
under 21 to smoke or use tobacco in 
public places. In Montgomery, Alabama, 
ics ist the law to sit on garbage 
cans. Getting Closer to the subject of the 
April installment of The Playboy Philos- 
ophy, a kiss lasting more than five min- 
utes is against the law in Iowa. 

T completely support your crusade for 
the s of the individual. It is unfor- 
tunate indeed that a person's sexual be- 
havior is the subject of governmental 
control in what is supposed to be a free 
society. Let us hope that your editorial 
series will influence lawmakers into re- 
vamping the codes governing not just 
sexual activity, but social conduct as a 
whole. 


Jon W. Hoag III 
Georgetown College 
Georgetown, Kentucky 
The rank welter of foolish and obso- 
lete laws has provided many columns of 
delighted newspapers, 
supplements and magazines for years. 
Merely listing some о] them without 
comment is good for a laugh. Bul the 
laughter dies suddenly when the ludi- 
crous laws are invoked to punish private, 
personal acts. And our amusement must 
be tempered by the knowledge that ev- 
ery law that is foolish, reprehensible or 
obsolete—and is seldom invoked and 
frequently violated—generates contempt 
for and violation of all laws. 


amusement in 


WHAT TO DO NOW 

After reading the April Philosophy 1 
decided to write this letter. I imagine 
that I am an average young housewife. 
Being neither highly sophisticated nor 
especially naive, 1 have learned а good 
deal from Hefner's series, but I have onc 
question. What does he hope to accom- 
plish? He speaks so often of people 
being inhibited or guiltridden in their 
attitudes toward sex. But what is he 
doing to help the situation? I know how 
my religion stands on these issues. But 
until now I never suspected that 1 was а 
criminal and subject to severe punish- 
ment in my state for what I always 
thought was my own personal business. 

So now that Hefner has made me real- 
ize that I am a fugitive from justice, 
what is he or what is anyone going to do 
about it? Feel guilty, perhaps? 

Carole Miller 
Trenton, New Jersey 
Change the laws, perhaps? 


SEX AND FREE ENTERPRISE 
Since there have been so many efforts 
to create the opposite impression, it is 
very gratifying to find in The Playboy 
Philosophy a clear recognition of the 
compatibility of the free-enterprise eco- 
nomic system with a prosexual outlook. 
Generally speaking, those who are 

genuinely interested in individual free- 
dom are willing to extend that freedom 
into every area—so that responsible sex- 
ual freedom goes hand in hand with eco- 
nomic and political freedom. Similarly, 
those who wish to impose rigid controls 
in one “a—such as the cconomic—i 
very likely, whatever they may say to the 
contrary, to favor imposition of rigid 
controls in all areas. 
nted with a fair number 
of the leading contemporary advocates 
of responsible sexual freedom based 
upon rational, scientific knowledge and 
principles, and it has been no surprise to 
me to find that most of these men are 
firm believers in the free-enterprise sys- 
tem and in the general freedom of the 
individual, as opposed to the regimen- 
tation of the individual that is the nec- 
essary consequence (eventually, 
immediately) of collectivism, bu 
су, and the too-powerful state. 

R. E. L. Masters, Director 

The Julian Press Library 

of Sex Research 
New York, New York 


ENLIGHTENED SELF-INTEREST 

In reference to Hefner's discussion of 
sex and the sexual ethics of our society, I 
would like to submit a quote from Ayn 
Rand's Atlas Shrugged: "А man's sexual 
choice is the result and. the sum of hi 
fundamental convictions. Tell me what 
a man finds sexually attractive and I 
tell you his entire philosophy of 
Show me the woman he sleeps with 
Ш tell you his valuation of 


- He will always be attracted. to the 
woman who reflects his deepest vision of 
himself, the woman whose surrender 
permits him to experience—or to 
a sense of self-esteem. . . . There is no 
conflict between the stai ds of his 
mind and the desires of his body. . . . 
Observe the ugly mess which most men 
make of their sex lives—and observe the 
mess of contradictions which they hold 
as their moral philosophy. One proceeds 
from the other. Love is our response to 
our highest values—and can be nothing 
else. Let a man corrupt his values and his 
view of existence, Jet him profess that 
love is пог self-enjoyment but self-deni- 
al, that virtue consists, not of pride, but 
of pity or pain or weakness or sacrifice, 
that the noblest love is born, not of ad- 
miration, but of charity, not in response 
to values, but in response to flaws—and 
he will have cut himself in two. .. . 
"Then he will scream that his body has 
vicious desires of its own which his mind 
cannot conquer, that sex is sin, that true 
love is a pure emotion of the spirit. And 
then he will wonder why love brings 
him nothing but boredom, and sex— 
nothing but shame. . . . Only the man 
who extols the purity of a love devoid of 
desire, is capable of the depravity of a 
desire devoid of love.” 

Miss Rand analyzes our puritan moral 
concepts, and formulates a morality 
based on the realistic appraisal of hu- 
man nature. PLAYBOY's concern with sex- 
ual morality points to one important 
ssue—the need to approach sexual mo- 
rality from the broader base of morality 
in general. To continue to hold moral 
convictions reflecting. traditional altru- 
ism, summed up in the motto that one 
is brothers keeper,” while at the 
same time attempting t 
ethics 
self-interest, sets up a соп 

Upon close investigat 


t 
a you will find 


plomacy 
toward altruism—as opposed to 
self-interest. Through this 

“do-gooders” are suppressing those who 

с determined to retain their rights— 
among which are the rights to refuse to 
help, to refuse to love, or to refuse to be 
altruistic. 

Mr. Hefner's philosophy has many un- 
developed implications which might ul- 
timately find him opposing more than 
just hypocritical sexual morality. If he 
follows his premises to a rational conclu- 
sion, J think he will also oppose anti 
trust laws, subsidies, tarifs, the Federal 
Communications Commission, Federal 
id to education, and even our public 
school system—for, after all, why should 
those who have no children pay for the 
education of others? 

What docs Mr. Hefner have 10 say 
about these issues? 

‘Tibor R. Machan 
Claremont, California 


Hefner's concept of sexual morality 
does indeed have its basis in a broader 
moral concept—a rational code for liv- 
ing which emphasizes the individual, 
motivated primarily by enlightened self- 
interest. This self-interest does not elim- 
inate a concern for one’s fellow men, 
however; quite the contrary, it demands 
such responsibility. In recognizing that 
all men are by nature self-serving—that 
the would-be altruist is as basely motivat- 
ed as the unreconstructed reactionary—it 
becomes necessary to establish controls, 
to assure individual freedom. 

By guarantecing the rights of the indi- 
vidual, the government assures us that 
the nation is not run by the majority 
alone. By protecting the rights and priv- 
ileges of every minority, the smallest 
minority—the individual — himself—is 
protected. Thus, in protecting the vights 
of others, we protect our own. 

In the December 1963 “Philosophy” 
Hefner made it clear that he considers 
competitive capitalism superior to any 
form of government-controlled economy 
—since competitive capitalism places the 
most emphasis on the individual. A com- 
petitive economy, emphasizing private 
enterprise and private property, is also 
more efficient than an economy con- 
trolled by the state, for competition and 
the profit motive both work to assure 
maximum efficiency. 

But without some measure of tegula- 
tion, a modern industrial economy 
would not long remain free, competitive, 
or efficient. Controls are required, nol 
to limit freedom of opportunity, but to 
assure its survival. Such controls might 
well include (to deal only with the 
subjects you mention) antitrust legis- 
lation, measures to prevent indiscrimi- 
mate use of the public air waves, a tariff 
structure to foster industry, and a farm- 
support program to ease the transition 
to industrialized agriculture. Whether, 
in actual practice, such legislation has 
always been effectively used 10 promote 
freedom of opportunity is, of course, 
another matter. 

In our view, freedom of opportunity 
is one of the fundamental rights of an 
individual in a free democracy. In a 
complex industrial society the chance to 
compete is predicated on adequate edu- 
cation. For this reason, we feel that there 
is a very real justification not only for 
free public schools, but, in cases where 
local support is inadequate to meet 
modern needs, for Federal support of 
them. Government intervention is justi- 
fied whenever it can be clearly shown 
that the end to be served is greater in- 
dividual freedom, and only then. 


FREE LOVE AND VD 

There is no denying that our sexual 
mores arc based largely on pathological 
urges. To advocate an undisciplined 
form of [ree love in a national magazine, 


however, is not only naive but irrespon- 
sible, especially in a magazine read 
largely by impressionable, callow young 
men. (I know rtAvmoY cultivates the 
illusi is printed for the “sophis- 
ticated urban male," but I'm sure your 


market ion knows other 
wi 


In the best of all possible worlds, 
where there is а foolproof form of birth 
control, and no venereal disease, the 
PLAYBOY sexual code might be a practical 
guide. Until that time, however, 1 sug- 
gest you drop in at the local pesthouse 
and ask to see a case of tertiary syphilis. 
Paul A. Eggerss 
Lincoln, Nebraska 

Hejner has never advocated “ап un- 
disciplined form of free love,” and he 
doesn't intend to, Though “the PLAYBOY 
sexual code,” which you criticize, has yet 
to be fully articulated, Hefner has made 
clear his belief that man is a rational 
being and responsible for his acts; the 
individual's personal sexual morality 
should reflect the knowledge of that 
vesponsibility. 

Regardless of one's sexual code, how- 
cuer, syphilis— primary, secondary or 
lestiary—is a disease, nol a moral issue. 
IL is transmitted by a microorganism, not 
a philosophy. And it is treated with an- 
tibiotics, not with suppressive sex laws 
The best way of combating venereal dis 
ease is through the wide dissemination 
of information on the subject—and the 
major obstacle to be overcome in any 
such health program is the guilt and 
shame our society associates with sex, 
the very attitudes against which Hefner 
has been editorializing in “The Playboy 
Philosophy: 

If information on sex were made more 
widely available, for example, you would 
be aware that “the best of all. possible 
worlds” you mention in your letter is 
already a reality: a foolproof form of 
birth control does exist and so docs a 
foolproof cure for syphilis. 

And may we add that your cynicism 
about this magazine's readership is equal- 
ly baseless. While any publication with 
a primary circulation of over two million 
must reach a widely diverse audience— 
and we consider the sanc atlitudes on 
sex and other subjects, spelled out in 
“The Playboy Philosophy,” at least as 
valuable to the young as to the old—in- 
dependent surveys confirm our descrip- 
tion of the average PLAYBOY reader as 
urban, 30 years of age, college-educated, 
upper-income, in a profesional ог 
executive position. 


TEENAGED SEX 

The Playboy Philosophy has turned 
out to be a stimulating series. Crusty old 
dogmas and taboos that curtail a healthy, 
rational attitude toward the intimacy 
of sexual relations require continuous 
examination and periodic overhaul. But 
PLAYBOY hesitates to grapple with a 


51 


PLAYBOY 


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problem that is inseparably linked to 
any discussion of sexual attitudes and 
activities. Specifically, I am referring to 
the problem of teenage sexuality. 

All thinking persons agree with your 
contention that sexual relations involv- 
ing consenting adults are solely a person- 
1 mauer. But when does опе become 
an adul? Mischievous nature saw to it 


that sexual maturity precedes mental 
and social maturity by 
years. The "natural" sex urges that you 


argue shouldn't be inhibited in adults 
re most compelling in the 13-0-19- 
year-old age group. 

ght girls in the current graduating 
class of my high school are pregnant. 
"They only a minuscule part of a 
problem that is neither minor nor t 
si The sex atitudes of American 

dolescents аге undergoi i 
ful transition. The old-fashioned st 
ard is crumbling, but replacing it is a 
Joose philosophy with little rational 
basis. 

Unfortunately for the American ado- 
lescent, he can't call on adult frame 
of reference to resolve his sexual quan- 
dary. Parental direction is woefully inad- 
equate, and Ann Landers’ syndicated 
scoldings lack the compassion needed 
to fill the void. 

YLaytoy has an excellent opportunity 
to broaden the focus of its series and en- 
hance the contributions it has already 
made, by considering the thorny prob- 
lem of adolescent sexual behavior. It is, 
after all, а part of the sexual revolu 
that prAvBoY is both recording and 
encouraging. 


xander Sander 
mento State College 
amento, California 
The nation’s teenagers will be the 
chief beneficiaries of the more positive, 
reasoned and reasonable sexual morality 
advocated in “The Playboy Philosophy.” 
Editor-Publisher Hefner intends to dis- 
cuss the subject of teenage sex in detail 
in a future installment of his editorial 
series. 


CONTRACEPTIVE AD 

I read with interest Hefner's state- 
ment that “modern birth-control devices 
and drugs are nowhere publicly adver- 
tised. .. .” I am enclosing an ad clipped 
from Redbook magazine for December 
1963, advertising a vaginal foam manu- 
factured by The EMKO Company. It 
Will be interesting to sec if this type of 
ig creates any problems for the 
pu though 1 imagine they 
thought of that before they printed it. 

Both my wife and 1 are avid readers 
of your magazine and disagree with 
enough of it to make the reading even 
more enjoyable, 


Charles Drew 
San Jose, Califo 

This EMKO ad represents a bold de- 
parture from the older technique of 


merchandising contraceptive devices “for 
female hygiene" without even hinting 
that they ате almost exclusively used [от 
purposes of birth control. The advertise- 
ment occupies two thirds of a page, 
headed with a call for “the right number 
of children.” The copy mentions that 
many “planning associations” recom- 
mend EMKO “for mothers who plan the 
number and spacing of their children.” 
The fact that such an advertisement 
was accepted for publication by a mag- 
azine as respected and as widely cir- 
culated as Redbook underscores the need 
for revision of our state laws dealing 
with birth control, since, according to 
the Planned Parenthood Federation, at 
least 32 states prohibit “giving informa- 
tion on, advertising or displaying" con- 
traceplive materials. According to a 
Redbook spokesman, the publishing of 
this advertisement has so far sparked 
none of these states to enforce their laws. 
Quite likely these laws ате unenforce- 
able, since they seem clear-cut violations 
of the Constitutional guarantees of a 
free press. Nevertheless, they should be 
repealed. As long as archaic, religiously 
inspired anticontraception laws remain 
on the books, publishers, manufacturers, 
advertisers, distributors and (in Gon- 
necticut) сисп consumers arc subject to 
arbitrary harassment at the hands of 
petty officialdom. 


HOMOSEXUALITY 

Hefner, by implication, brands 
people who disapprove of homosexu 
s mid-Victorians. He has been most de- 
scriptive in explaining the subject of sod- 
omy and has attempted to remove from 
this act the sense of guilt or shame which 
should accompany it. How glorious not 
to be bothered with a conscience! 

Homosexuality is somethi 
pitied, because the person who is tha 
way, as a rule, cannot help it. But to con- 
done and encourage it is 

Armand Reid 
Shreveport, Louisi 

You seem to have missed the point 
in Hefner's discussion of sodomy—which 
way to show that its legal definitions are 
so vague and so various that they en 
compass sexual acts ranging from pet- 
ting to necrophilia, and prohibit with- 
out distinction nonprocreative sexual 
acts, whether performed by homosexuals 
or a husband and wife. In addition, he 
pointed out that our severe social and 
legal prohibitions tend to perpetuate 
rather than diminish the homosexual 
clement that exists in every society, by 
establishing the homosexual as an out- 
cast and thus making more difficult his 
adjustment in а heterosexual world. 


In the April ins 


allment of The Play 
boy Philosophy, Hefner placed һо- 
mosexuality in a chart of what he called 
“sexual perversions.” As а homosexual, 1 
resent this. Sure, there are perverted ho- 


mosexuals, just as there are perverted 
heterosexuals; but to characterize ho- 
mosexuality in itself as a perversion 


shows Шат he knows little of the subject. 
Does his cloquent and forceful plea for 
Ireedom of sexual expression, with 
which I heartily agree, apply only to 
heterosexuals? If so, then I am complete- 
ly disillusioned with what I heretofore 
considered an excellent editorial series. 
(Name withheld by request) 
New York, New York 
Hefner never said that the chart pre- 
sented penalties for “sex perversions”: 
he said "sex offenses” and, from the 
standpoint of the laws he was discuss- 
ing, that’s exactly what they ате. The 
chart was compiled from state statutes, 
which manifestly do not reflect Hefner's 
opinion of what constitutes sexual per- 
version. Hefner himself expressed а 
preference for “the boy-girl variety of 
sex,” but was careful to add that he’s 
tolerant of those “whose sexual inclina- 
tions are different from our own—so 
long as their activily is limited to con- 
senting adults in private and does not 
involve either minors or the use of any 
kind of coercion.” 


As a homosexual, I have learned not 
to expect a great deal of tolerance from 
members of the heterosexual world to- 
ward myself and fellow homosexuals. For 
this reason and simply because of 
PLAYBOY'S basic theme, І was very sur- 
prised but also very pleased to read 
your statements about homosexuality 
n the April installment of The Play- 
boy Philosophy. Your attitude is 
gent and ope 
was more common in this country tod 
Perhaps through the insight suppl 
by eravsov and other publications of 
your caliber, along with our own strug- 
gles to show society die truth about ho- 
ty, we will someday be accept 


the respect due all men, we will have to 
conceal our true sexual inclinations and 
present ourselves as “normal.” Otherwise 
we have litle or по hope of leading lives 
unfettered by prejudice, contempt 
discrimination 

(Name withheld by request) 

New Orleans, Lou 


WE VS. 1 

1 am extremely interested in the con- 
woversy that is growing up around all 
of us who still claim the right to our 
own selfish pleasure. 

As a resident of Birmingham, I have 
observed with alarm the invisible, ever- 
present “we” slowly strangling the "I 
in our society. 


1 feel that censorship, as well as pleas 
for civil rights, is being used as a 
vehicle to realize the "we" goal. 


Perhaps this sounds a little simple, 
but the individual's right to set his own 


53 


PLAYBOY 


54 


course in every aspect of life cannot be 
denied by comp ns. 

Phil Hornbeak 

Birmingham, Alabama 

Having clearly established our cwn 

concern over any tendency to disassoci- 
ate collective interests from individual 
ones in society, we must point out that 
the "individual's right to set his own 
course” extends to all individuals and, 
therefore, that “complications” such as 
Jim Crow laws, racial discrimination and 
segregation cannot be countenanced in 
our democracy. 


ACADEMIC ACCOLADE 
Туе been following The Playboy Phi- 

losophy with great interest and want you 
to know that 1 sincerely appreciate the 
effort that has gone into its preparation. 
Keep up the good work; the point of 
view which you are carefully spelling 
out is a and much-needed con- 
tribution. 

Paul J. Woods, Ph.D. 

Associate Professor of Psychology 

Hollins College 

Hollins College, Virginia 


PHILOSOPHICAL BORE 

As а longtime reader and five-year 
subscriber to PLAYBOY, I am sending you 
this letter about one year late. 

I originally found in PLAYBOY every- 
thing I missed when the old Esquire 
turned into a “Gentlemen's Home Jour- 
nal.” I like your magazine, and almost 
everything you i h it. 
When Hefner ed The Playboy 
Philosophy, Y thought it would make in- 
ling for an issue or two, 
did. But 16 installments— 
Jl this, 
with Forum, is taking up 
e which could much better be devot- 
ed to the top-notch writi 
talent for which your n 
famous. 

No one has thoughts so disor 
or has so much to say, that it 
better. 
down on paper. After the fifth or sixth 
installment it became obvious that Hef- 
пег was merely protesting too much. 
The pearls he casts no longer shock, up- 
set or inte hey just bore, bore, 
bore. At this late 


azine is justly 


cess, judging from his verbosity. 
I wonder as I write this letter if you 
will have the nerve to publish it, to get 
an idea of how many other readers arc 
sick of the whole silly charade. Then 
maybe it will be dumped and replaced 
with real talent. 
G. William Fleming 
Westport, Connecticut 
The ever-increasing reader reaction to 
both “The Playboy Philosophy” and 
“The Playboy Forum’ indicate that 
your negative vote is a minority one: 


whether in agreement or disagreement 
with the various ideas expressed therein, 
most of our readers have been enthusias- 
tic in their reaction to this unprecedent- 
ed opportunity to read, and respond to, 
a fresh point of view on a variety of sub- 
jects of interest to contemporary society 
—a point of view that is closely aligned 
with the underlying doctrine of Ameri- 
can democracy, but that, nevertheless, 
previously has received too little aiten- 
tion in the pages of our popular press. 
No other article published by vLaywoy 
has produced as much mail as an average 
installment of Editor-Publisher Hefner's 
editorial series; nor has amy previous 
article in рїлүвоү ever produced so 
much reaction outside the magazine— 
in other publications, in conversations, 
debates and discussion groups. More- 
over, since the introduction of “Philos- 
ophy” in December 1962, viavvor's 
monthly circulation has increased by 
almost one million copies; as a result, 
we have been able significantly to in- 
crease both the quantity and quality of 
our editorial content, giving the reader 
who prefers to pass over both “Phi- 
losophy" and “Forum” a better buy 
with the rest of the magazine than he 
ever previously enjoyed 

Hefner apologizes 10 regular readers 
of “The Playboy Philosophy” for the rep- 
etition lo be found within parts of the 
senes: it is necessary, he feels, because 
the editortals are written in monthly in- 
stallments that, lo some extent, must be 
self-contained — supporting conclusions 
with pertinent ideas and evidence within 
the same issue. In addition, while follow- 
ing a general, pre-established outline, Hef- 
ner has permitted the editovials a certain 
organic life of their own—with new, in- 
ter-related installments growing natural- 
ly out of the continuing research that 
goes into the series, out of the current 
statements of other publications, out of 
the day-by-day occurrences in contem- 
porary society that seem relevant to the 
subjects under discussion, and oul of the 
responses from readers themselves lo 
previous parts of the “Philosophy.” 

Hefner plans to include, in forthcom- 
ing installments: (1) a summing up of 
the church-state implications in the leg- 
islating of sexual morality, with some 
conclusions on the proper relationship 
of government lo the sex behavior of the 
individual citizen in a fice society; (2) 
an analysis of the moral and legal impli- 
cations of birth control; (3) a similar 
analysis of abortion; (4) suggestions for a 
saner, healthier, more humane sexual 
morality for modern man; (5) a discus- 
sion of teenage sex and the effects of a 
more tational moral code upon the 
young; (6) a brief consideration of con- 
temporary sociely’s irrational attitudes 
on prostitution, sex in prison, capital 
punishment, drug addiction and legal- 
ized gambling, (7) an analysis of the 
relationship between a totalitarian so- 


ciety and sexual suppression and perver- 
sion; (8) the рілүвоү obscenity trial—a 
narrative detailing of our day in court 
and a discussion of the implications of 
this abortive attempt at censorship in 
Chicago; (9) “The Womanization of 
America” —a consideration of the chang- 
ing role of the jemale in socicty; (10) 
“The Asexual Society”—a discussion of 
the effect that the female's changing role 
is having upon both sexes; (11) a personal 
evaluation of vLAYnov's part in the estab- 
lishment of a new heterosexual society; 
(12) an answer to the critics of PLAYBOY 
and “The Playboy Philosophy"—in 
which the major critical comment will 
be quoted at length and, we trust, suc- 
cessfully rebutted; and, finally, (13) a 
look to the future—an optimistic pro- 
jection of the results of the Sexual Rev- 
olution, in which contemporary society 
is presently involucd. 


CINCINNATI CARBON COPIES 
‘The idea of skipping the March in- 
stallment of Hefner's Philosophy in fa- 
vor of yielding the space to a full-dress 
installment of Forum was excellent. It 
shocked me to scc those Cincinnati lct- 
ters. I had heard of "inspired" writein 
campaigns, of course, but to see the raw, 
conspiratorial work in cold type in 
сус opener. How people who consider 
themselves citizens of a democracy to 
which they pay lip service can simulta- 
neously act like authoritarian robots 
confounds my understanding. Your ex- 
posure of them was brilliant, since it 
democratically gave them the space to айг 
their so-called thoughts, and at the same 
time revealed their undemocratic plot- 
ting. This object lesson alone was worth 
the cost of the issue, since it gave concrete 
evidence of what Hefner's been saying. 
Karyl Klebsch 
Chicago, Illinois 
For further veactions—pro and con— 
to the flood of virtually identical letters 
we received from Cincinnati concerning 
Hefners commentary on Citizens jor 

Decent Literature, see below. 


CINCINNATI SCENE 

"The "Cincinnati Carbon Copics" in 
the March Forum were delightful! One 
сап easily imagine the scene: а liv 
room, in midafternoon, with a good 
turnout of faithful Citizens for Dec: 
ure crusaders. The hostess bu: 
sets out the candies, while the cha 
boldly thrusts а copy of PLAYBOY out at 
the group, then turns it face down on 
the table. “You should read what this 
filthy magazine says about our organiza 
tion!” No one attempts to pick up the 
magazine, or to read it. 

"We must defend ourselves—we'll 
write letters to the editor-pubi 
make him know that we won't sti 
by and allow the CDL to be libeled. 
Heres paper—do you all have pens? 
st, tell him that his 20-page article 
filled with false accusations, that the 


not affiliated with the Catholic 
Church, but has the support of Protes- 
tant and Jewish leaders as well, and that 
he is opening himself up for charges of 
libel. 

The next 20 minutes are filled with 
scribbling pens, clinking colfee cups and 


the inevitable buzzing, 1 don't recognize 
the names, but their faces are very 
familiar. 


Donald Skiff 
Cinci ti, Ohio 


CONCENTRATION CAMP? 

I'm certainly glad I don't live in Cin- 
cinnati. What a concentration camp that. 
must be. 


Nelson "Thomas 
Toronto, Ontario 
Don’t blame an entire city for the 
aclions of an atypical few. Sec the letter 
that follows—typical of many received 
from Cincinnati citizens, since publica- 
tion of the original “Cincinnati Carbon 
Copies” mail. 


CINCINNATI SUPPORT 

Sony, no threats of libel or mass in- 
timidation from Cincinnati this time. 
Your exposure of CDL was excellen 
We're not all square here i nati, 
and some of us are even able to compose 
our own letters Keep up your good 
work, for “philosophy” originally m 
(and still docs, I hope) the love of 


DAMNING EVIDENCE 
Jt is evident from their ow 
soned abuse that you 
in all your crit 
Decent Literature. What more damning 
evidence could there be than their own 


Their notsosubtle references to the 
possibility of your being sued for libel 
(coupled with the startling similarity of 
all the letters in both form and content) 
show that this letter writing is obviously 
an effort by the CDL. to exert pressure 
upon you and your excellent maga 


A comparison of this blatant attempt 
pressure with the words of one of the 
"Cincinnati Carbon Copies 

«e CDL is not a 1 


agency, and s 
obviously it ca 
reveals the depth of the hypocrisy of 
these self-appointed censors, 

I sincerely hope that Hefner continues 
to expose such groups in the future, and 
that he will continue to find in himself 
ithstand the flood of 
abuse which will surely be directed at 
him by those he uncovers. 

Geofirey G. Dellenbaugh 
Princeton Universi 
New Jersey 

The courage is there—fortified by the 
belief that most Americans favor a free 
society. 


FREE CHOICE 
In the interests of justice I want to 
bring to your attention an error you 


committed in your March Forum reply 
to the "Cincinnati Carbon Copies.” 
When J. Lang wrote that the CDL “ 
viously ... cannot be a censor, 


spoke the truth. Your attempt to prove 
him wrong was illogical: If CDL activi- 
Чез influence stores that sell your maga- 
zine, this does not constitute censorship 
(official suppression of literature, backed 
by force). Since we grant our citizens 
the right of choice, only force сап keep 


them from buying pLaynoy. 
Daniel H. Pell 
Oakland, California 


But what the news dealer is coerced 
into not selling, the citizen is not free to 
buy. When the GDL, or any similar cen- 
sor group, pressures the vendor into not 
handling a. particular book or magazine 
they happen to consider “objectionable” 
—through threat of economic boycott or 
other intimidation—it constitutes de. 
facto censorship. It is one thing for апу 
person or group to allempt to influence 
the reading habits of their neighbors 
through persuasion; it is quite another 
to usurp their neighbors’ free choice by 
making specific books and magazines 
unavailable, or more difficult to obtain. 
This is censorship of the worst sort: it is 
extralegal prior restraint, depriving 
both the publisher and reader о] the 
protection of their rights guaranteed by 
due process of law. 


WHO'S BEING LIBELED? 
It seems that, according to the pletho- 
ra of letters from “readers” of your mag- 
ati, you could “be sued 
for implying that the CDL is 
d, in some manner, with the 
hurch. Could you sct mc 
s 10 which organization is 
thought to have been libeled in this con- 
nection: the Church, or the CD! 
Lorin Wayne Browning 
East Lansing, Michigan 
It's difficult to say. It has been suggest- 
ed that the Catholicdominated CDL. 
prefers to effect an interdenominational 
appearance, so that their censorship ac- 
tivities will not reflect negatively upon 
the Church, as the censorial actions as- 
socialec with the openly Calholic МОРГ, 
have done in the past. It is usually mem- 
bers of the CDL who insist that their 
organization is noi associated with the 
Church; to our way of thinking, it is the 
Churck that should be voicing the dis- 
claimers, as the role of censor does not 
belit any religious organization in a free 
America and unfairly reflects upon the 
many liberal Catholics who sincerely 
believe in our democratic way of life. 


WHERE'S THE OPPOSITION? 

I support you in making asses of the 
Cincinnati parrots, but I noticed that 
you did not print any intelligent letters 


that disagreed with you, from Cincinnati 
or elsewhere. Can you honestly state that 
you did not receive any letters, from 
CDL leaders or others who had read the 
November rravsoy, presenting sound 
arguments in disagreement with your 
stand? 


Raymond L. Kobey 

Bu à 

Yes. The letters printed in “The Play- 

boy Forum" accuralely reflect the total 
mail received on each subject. 


CATHOLIC POLICY 

"The March Forum diatribe on Cathol- 
icism seemed intent, not only from your 
responses, but also from the general tone 
of the letters you selected for publica- 
tion, on convincing rLavnoy readers 
that the pronouncements of outfits like 
the CDL in some way represent state- 
ments of Catholic Church policy. Some 
of the devices you use are quite forceful 
Your reference to the establishment of 
the NODL [National Office for De- 
cent Literature] by the Catholic Bishops 
of the United States is particularly 
effective. 

Let me point out that all the mate 


1 


you have presented does not include а 
ngle ex-cithedra pronouncement of 
the Roman Catholic Church. Only such 


a pronouncement could be a statement 
of official Catholic Church policy, and so. 
we must mourn its absence їп your 
argument. 
Richard F. беш 
Brighton, Massachusetts 
We did not say that the CDL’s activi- 
ties represent official Church policy, and 
never inlended to imply it. Unfortu- 
nately, the Church is usually silent on 
the subject of censorship and seemingly 
does not care to notice the militant cen- 
sorship activity carried on by Gatholic 
clergy and lay leaders in numerous com- 
munities throughout the U.S. The 
Church still maintains its “Index of Pro- 
hibited Books,” despite the efforts of 
many liberal Catholics to have it abol- 
ished. (And lest vLaywoy be mistakenly 
considered anti-Catholic, it should be 
mentioned that Hefner has quoted 
extensively, in the “Philosophy.” the 
views of liberal Catholics, who strong- 
ly oppose censorship.) Officially, the 
NODL book list is used exclusively by 
Catholics to determine their own read- 
ing habits; in actual practice the МОРІ. 
list is still the favorite tool of the book 
burner and is used extensively by cen- 
sorship organizations like Citizens jor 
Decent Literature. To the non-Catholic 
observer, Church “policy” on censorship 
is not only what the Church says, but 
what it does, and what it permits the 
members of its clergy to say, and to do. 
We are no more opposed to Catholic 
censorship than to the censorship im- 
posed by any other religious or secular 
group. It is not the religion that offends 
us, bui the person, of whatever faith, 


55 


PLAYBOY 


56 


who fails to recognize that those with 
differing views of heaven and earth 
should be allowed the same freedom 
that he demands for himself. In recent 
years, a disproportionately large percent- 
аде of Catholics have placed themselves 
in the forefront of U. $. censorship activ- 
ity. This has established, in the minds of 
many non-Catholics, an association be- 
tween censorship and the Church. It is 
an identity about which a number of 
Catholic writers have expressed concern. 
We share their wish that the Church 
would officially reject the association, 
since too long a silence on the matter 
may seem to imply the opposite. In the 
meantime, most American Catholics, we 
feel certain, are just as devoted to the 
principles of democracy as the rest of 
our fellow citizens. See below. 


CATHOLIC PRAISE 
Гап a devout Catholic and I'm also a 
regular PLAYBOY reader. 1 want you to 
know how much I enjoy the magazine 
nd especially The Playboy Philosophy. 
1 particularly appreciate Hugh Hefner's 
editorial comment on censorship and the 
CDL. Being Catholic only makes me 
more concerned about such misguided 
religious zealots who cannot sce that 
they hurt themselves and our religion, as 
well as democracy, when they attempt to 
dictate what their fellow Americans can 
and cannot read. 
Charles Murphy 
New York, New York 


MONTESQUIEU ON MORALITY 
My heartiest commendations go to 
Mr. Hefner for his series Те Playboy 
Philosophy. His f critics from 
the Cincinnati: CDL should hearken to 
the words of Montesquieu: “We should 
never create by law what 
plished by morality.” 
Marshall Е. Schwartz 
Laurelton, New York 


be accom- 


DOOMED TO FAILURE 

There seems to be organized resistance 
ndividual freedom in the city of C 
nati threats being made by 
some people of this city who seem to say: 
"We know best. what is good for others." 

People who are so sure of themselves 
should be willing to let others be sure 
of themselves, how 
no such attitude, Their fear gives evi- 
dence that they understand only too 
well that their views will not stand up. 
under honest examination, so they resort 
to the methods of tyrants. 

I feel sorry, in my more reflective mo- 
ments, for such people, clinging desper- 
ately to an idea that is bound to fail. 

Charles R. Gill 
Nashville, Tennessce 


too. Censor groups 


UNNECESSARY CONTROVERSY? 
The Forum in your March issue 
has really sickened me. Have we, in 


this enlightened age, come to such petty 
squabbling over such petty issues? Did 
PLAYBOY really have to start all this ruck- 
us? And even if you did, why do you 
have to print all those ugly, hatedilled 
letters from both your attackers 

your defenders—to fan the fire? V 
the eruption of hate in Dallas las 
vember sufficient, or before that, the 
bombing in Birmingham? Can't PLAYBOY 
and the CDL kiss and make up? 

I am 26, male, unmarried, and а con- 
vert to Catholicism. I honestly don't care 
who Hefner sleeps with, or what the 
good people of Cincinnati ban 
cinnati. Who I sleep with is my bu: 
and one magazine is pretty much the 
same as all the rest, except that PLAYBOY 
has become a dragging bore since Hef- 
ner began devoting ай his time to his so- 
called Philosophy. 1 did enjoy the bit a 
month or so ago about U.S. зех laws— 
after all, they are pretty funny, no mat- 
ter from what angle you look at them 

What I started out to say is that I'm 
sorry you started this whole stinking 
mess, because it was all so very un- 
necessary. People are going to believe 
what they want to, despite Hefner or 
the CDL. Thats my pers 
and J add: To hell with 


both. 


you 
PLAYBOY costs 100 much these days any- 


way, and I wouldn't be reading it at all 
(though the jokes were great in the 
March issue), except that I can pick it 
up free at work. 
Dave Kin; 
New York, New Yor 
Freedom of speech and press are not, 
fo our way of thinking, “petty issues. 
And piaywoy didn't start “this whole 
stinking mess,” as you pul ilil was 
started by the officious would-be censors 
of CDL, who attempted to suppress our 
magazine. Moreover, outbursts of vio- 
lent hatred—such as the assassination of 
President Kennedy or the bombing of a 
chuich—do nol grow. from free discus- 
sion and uncensored opinion. Unreason- 
ing hatred is much more at home be- 
neath the cloak of bigotry that would 
also suppress free expression. 


CINCINNATI POSTSCRIPT 

About five years ago I attended St. 
Xavier's, а very good parochial school in 
Cincinnati. One dull afternoon our class 
schedule was interrupted by а visit from 
two top officials from the CDL—both 
Catholics, of course. One, a small, ro- 
bust, balding man, did all the talking. 
The topic was obscene literature, and 
PLAYBOY was the publication most fre- 
quently mentioned. He told us how he 
had personally been in PLvBov's offices, 
which he described as two rooms in a 
run-down tenement building where the 
models were photographed, nude. He 
announced that PLAYBOY would not last 
out the year, and that 
almost nothing. He described Hefner as 
a homosexual, trying to grow fat at the 


expense of depraved individuals who 
bought the magazine simply to view 
photographs of nude women. He went 
оп to relate how the CDL would soon 
close up a newsstand in downtown Cincy 
by gew nction from the Su- 
preme Court identally, the threat- 
ened newsstand has since moved to a 
much better location, reflecting obvious 
and it still displays PLAYBOY 


D. C. Carter 
Camp Lejeune, North Carolina 


MISPLACED CLUB? 

The Playboy Forum in your March is 
sue was very interesting, particularly the 
letters from Cincinnati attacking your 
comments about the CDL. These letters 


provide a good example of the provin- 
cial thinking of a large number of Cin- 
ci s, and makes me wonder why 


you ever decided to locate a Playboy 
Club here. 

But not all Cincinnatians, at least not 
this one, share the views of these censor- 
happy letter writers. I read your article 
on the CDL, and I was neither disgusted 
nor inclined to sue you for libel; in fact, 
I enjoyed it immensely and thought it 
was quite consistent with your high edi 
torial standards and your laudable desire 
to bring before the public eye the pres- 
ent evils of censorsh 


leuter so that the 
see that not all 
Cincinnatians are carbon copies. 

John W. Gettys 


Cincinnati, Ohio 
Ve decided to open a Playboy Club 
in Cincinnati because we were con- 


vinced, even. before your letter arrived, 
that “not all Cincinnatians are carbon 
copies.” That there are, in fact, à good 
many sophisticated, Pptaynoy-oriented 
urbanites living there. The Club is sched- 
uled to open late this summer. 


REACTION FORMATION 
Although I do not agree with all Hef- 
ner has written, his Philosophy has moti- 
vated me to explore the basis of my 
beliefs for the first time. This self-ana 
has changed some of my opinions, 
strengthened others and in some cases 
left me as confused as ever. I am grateful 
to Hefner for prompting me to exercise 
my intelligence and reason more fully 
On the subject of censorship and зех 
ual repression, you may be interested 
the following lines on “reaction form 
tion,” taken from a psychology textbook, 
by Dr. J. W. Kli 
An analyst might conclude . . . 
that an individual who has exerted 
much energy in an attempt to force 
a certain code of morality upon 


booksellers and libraries is really 
doing so 10 protect himself fron 
disastrous 


the 
that he has 
to read the very ma- 


realization 


in 


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CHICAGO (Special) Hugh М. 
Hefner, President of Playboy 
Clubs International, has an- 
nounced plans for the opening 
of six new Playboy Clubs, 
making a total of thirteen Clubs 
in operation by the year's end. 

A Los Angeles Playboy Club 
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58 


in this case would be termed “a 
reaction formation,” and the ego 
would be said to be rather perma- 
nently protected against the unac- 
ceptable id impulses because the 
formation causes a perva 
nge in personality structure. 

Reaction formation is akin to, or 

possibly a form of, repression, for 

the reaction formation could not be 

formed were the initial thoughts 

and feelings not repressed. 

James B. Hayes 
San Francisco, California 

The zeal and energy of the censorious 
reformer—typified by the painstaking 
perusal of reams of dreary and ill-writ- 
ten pornography and the tortuous track- 
ing down of obscenity—undoubtedly 
stem from a displaced sexuality; the self- 
delusion that the motive is entirely non- 
sexual, provides an excuse for the 
vicarious gratification thus obtained. 
Long before it was given a psychoana- 
lytical label, the reaction formation was 
understood and portrayed by authors 
and playwrights—as, for example, in 
Somerset Maugham’s powerful story 
“Miss Thompson,” which became the 
famous play “Rain.” 


GODLESS RELIGION 

In the February installment of his 
Philosophy, Hefner unwittingly supports 
unreasona igion by employing the 
traditi aguage of "secular" versus 
sacred." on of "theology" 
with “faih” reveals that he supports 
false presuppositions about religion: 
specifically: the idea that religion 
volves a belief in God. Even a curs 
study of the world’s great religions 


veals that many are avowedly atheistic 
(Jainism, Theravada Buddhism) and 
that others show only incidental interest 


in God. Religion consists in man's quest 
for the goal in life, and he may pursue 
this quest rationally. Humanism is also a 
religion. Hefner's attack on "religious 
faith” is misdirected, for by opposing rea- 
son to religious faith he re-enlorces pop- 
ular false > about religious faith 


m, Ph.D. 
Professor of Philosophy 
University of New Mexico 
Albuquerque, New Mexico 
While “Webster's Unabridged" defines 
religion almost exclusively їп terms of 
the service and worship of “God or a 
god,” and apparenily isn't much im- 
pressed with the notion of Humanism as 
a religion (“A contemporary cult or be- 
lief calling itself religious but substitut- 
ing faith in man for faith in God"), the 
entire matter is really a semantic quibble. 
For accepting your broader definition of 
the word in no way changes any of the 
points made thus far in “The Playboy 
Philosophy.” Hefner has clearly estab- 
lished that what he means when he refers 
to religion. is the Judaeo-Christian reli- 


gion, or some aspect thereof. He obvious- 
Ту recognizes that other religions exist the 
world over. but it is this particular re- 
ligious herilage—and its influence upon 
our contemporary sociely—with which 
he is concerned. 


CENSORSHIP CORRECTION 

Jn the March Playboy Forum you 
published erroncous information about 
the Long Beach Public Library, in a let 
ter from Richard L. Tevis which says: 
“The Last Temptation of Christ is 
banned from the public library in my 
home port of Long Beach, California." 

The facts are that The Last Tempta- 
tion of Christ is not banned from this li 
brary and has been available since its 
publication several yeurs ago. Eighteen 
copies of the book are available at our 
main library and branches. псе the 
freedom to read is basic in our democra- 
cy, and since this library has protected 
this right and recognizes the deep da 
gers inherent in book banning, 1 
concerned over this misstatement. 

Over a year ago, Long Beach was 
“pressured” to remove this book by a 
very vocal minority group which at- 
tempted the same thing in practically 
every Southern California city. To my 
knowledge, in no instance was this 


group successful. My profession has ас 
knowledged 


the responsibility of the 
y by taking a strong stand 
against book banning, recognizing that 
the freedom to read what one chooses 
is one of the fundamental bases of all 
our freedom. For this reason an error 
such as the one which has appeared in 
your magazine is serious. 

Blanche Collins 

City Librarian 

Long Beach, Califo 

We are happy to publish this correc- 

tion and happier still to learn of the re- 
buff the public libraries of Southern Cal- 
ifornia gave to the would-be censors in 
their communities. 


RIGHT TO SIN 
Because of its obvious parallel with 
many of the points you have been 
aking in The Playboy Philosophy, I 
thought you might be interested in this 
UPL news story, datclined Boulder, Col- 
orado, that appeared in the Tulsa Daily 
World under the headline “coLorano U 
CLUB FAVORS RIGHT TO 5 
The University of Colorado 
Conservation Club Thursday ap- 
proved a resolution condemning 
laws restricting voluntary sexual rc- 
lationships, prostitution, alcohol, 
gambling and narcotics. 
ve in force, 


реп 1 
English major from Aurora, Colo- 
тайо, club president. 

“We care a great deal about 


morality," he said. “We just feel 
there are better ways to do it. We 
don't think this is the proper func- 


Чоп of politically elected persons.” 

Weber said that moral codes 
should be determined by parents, or 
оп the campus by students. 

“We're not advocating sexi 
tionships, voluntary or otherw 
he said. “It's just that it ought to be 
left to their [students] discretion." 

The resolution also said that the 
club "expresses its disapproval of the 
following, in so far as they are pr 
examples of moral legislation: 

1. The prosecuti 
secu of Hugh Hefner, 
Publisher of praynoy mag: 
for ostensible publication of por- 
nography. 

“2. The town of LaFayette, Col- 
orado, for their recent and arbitrary 
imposition of a curfew. 

“8. Daniel Hoffman's [Denver 
manager of safety] endorsement. of 
а Bgirl control law. 

"4. The cabaret entertainer’s li- 
censing system of New York City, 
which gives the police power to pi 
vent an entertainer from working 
by denying a license. 

“5. Sunday blue laws 
forcement of the Sabbath. 


l rela 


and cn- 


Weber accused CU officials of 
ng a 1900 standard of 

morality 
Jean Thompson 


"Tulsa, Oklahoma 


THE WORST OBSCENITY 
When I first read your Philosophy, I 
as shocked. It was like reading my own 
mind. I am thankful that someone i 
our society has the guts and the opportu- 
nity to put these ideas before the public. 
In The Playboy Forum for December 
1963 appear a letter from R. U. 
McMahon, New Hartford, New York, 
which I think sums up your philosophy 
shell. It is so wonderfully writ- 
ten I think it should be used as the 
preface in pamphlet reprints of The 
Playboy Philosophy. It follows. 
As a condition of this life, I know 
that someday I must die а personal 
death. No other man may do this for 
me. Therefore, let no man presume 
ink for me, or tell me what L 
nterfere in апу area 
of my personal freedom. The worst 
obscenity of all is censorship itself. 
John Н. Dornstaudi 

Long Bcach, Califor 


“The Playboy Forum” offers the oppor- 
tunity for an extended dialog between 
readers and editors of this publication 
оп subjects and issues raised in our con 
linuing editorial series, “The Playboy 
Philosophy." Address all correspondence 
on either the “Philosophy” or the 
"Forum" to: The Playboy Forum, 
тлүвоу, 232 Е. Ohio Street, Chicago, 
Illinois 60611. 

8 


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“The House of 4711 


«wor тшен: INGMAR BERGMAN 


a candid conversation with sweden’s one-man new wave of cinematic sorcery 


In the months since Ingmar Bergman’s 
The Silence” world-premicred in Stock- 
holm, moviegoers in а dozen countries 
have been lining up around the block: 
some lo see the final third of the Swed- 
ish film maker's celebrated trilogy (fol- 
lowing “Through a Glass Darkly” and 
Vinter Light") on the quest for love as 
a salvation from emotional death; others 
to verify the judgment of some critics 
thal this anatomy of lust is the masier- 
work of Bergman's 20-year career. But 
most, quite unabashedly, have come to 
ogle the most explicitly erotic movie 
scenes on view this side of a stag smoker 
—even after the snipping of more than 
a minute's film for thg toned-down U. 
version, The film has precipitated a rain 
of abuse on its 15-year-old crealor—as а 
pornographer (by members of the Swed- 
ish parliament), purveyor of obscenity 
(from Lutheran. pulpits all over. Swe- 
den) and corrupter of youth and decency 
(via anonymous calls and letters). Out- 
raged at the outcry, Bergman was most 
offended by the accusation that he 
filmed the sex scenes merely to shock 
and titillate his audiences. "I'm an ar- 
list,” he told a reporter. “Once 1 had the 
idea for ‘The Silence’ in my mind, T 
had to make it—that’s all.” The son of 
ап Evangelical Lutheran parson who be- 
came the chaplain to Sweden's royal 
family, Bergman remembers his years 
at home “with bitterness," as a period 
of emotional sterility and rigid. mor- 
al rectitude from which he withdrew 
into the private world of fantasy. И was 


“What matters most of all in life is being 
able to make contact with another hu- 
man. If you сап take that first step toward 
communication, toward understanding, 
toward love, then you are saved." 


on his ninth birthday that he traded a 
set of tin soldiers for а toy that was to 
become the catalyst of his creativity: a 
battered magic laniern. A year later ће 
was building scenery, fashioning mari- 
onettes, working all the strings and 
speaking all the parts in his own puppet 
theater productions of Strindberg— 
foreshadowing his directorship of a 
youth-club theater during his years at 
Stockholm University, where he pro- 
duced їп 1940 an anti-Nazi version. of 
“Macbeth” which became a minor cause 
re—and scandalized his family. 

Fired with the zeal of social pro- 
test, Bergman quit school the next year, 
moved into the city’s bohemian quar- 
ter, began to dress and act accordingly — 
and to germinate plot lines for satiric 
and irreverent plays which he never got 
around to writing. He finally found 
steady employment as an assisiant stage 
manager, rose swiftly to become a direc- 
tor, and began to earn the reputation 
for dramatic genius, arrogance and. ir- 
resistibility to women (he’s been mar- 
ried Jour limes) that has become part 
and parcel of the Bergman legend. 
Trying his hand at writing a screenplay 
in 1914, he submitted the manuscript to 
Svensk Filmindustri, Sweden's largest 
movie company, which decided to film 
it, Appropriately entitled “Torment,” it 
set the tone and theme for а new career, 
and for the 25 films that followed. In the 
eight years since his “discovery” abroad. 
with the international release of “The 
Seventh Seal,” “Smiles of a Summer 


“Once you become successful, you feel 
freed from the imperatives of success. 
You stop worrying about striving and 
devote yourself to your work. Life be- 
comes easier. You like yourself better.” 


Night,” “Wild Strawberries,” “The Ma- 
gictan,” “Brink of Life” and “The Virgin 
Spring,” he has become the acknoa 
edged guru of the art-film avant-garde, 
and many critics have joined fellow pro- 
fessionals in hailing him as the world's 
fustvanking film maker. 

An exacting taskmaster, he does not 
brook the slightest deviation from the 
script in the course of shooting, nor 
countenance the presence of outsiders 
anywhere in the studio—especially jour- 
nalists, of whom he has never been fond, 
on or off the set. 

Tt was with some trepidation, there- 
fore, that we approached the mercurial 
moviemaher with our request for ап ex- 
clusive interview. But he replied with a 
cordial invitation to visit him in Stock- 
holm—which we accepted, arriving late 
last February, im the middle of the 
somber Nordic winter, for a week-long 
stay 

Our conversations took place in his 
small, sparsely furnished office backstage 
al the Royal Dramatic Theater in down- 
town Stockholm, where, as the newly ap- 
pointed manager of the national theater, 
he was devoting his directorial energies 
full time, on an extended sabbatical 
from film making, to staging the works 
of such theatrical iconoclasts as Brecht, 
Albee and Ionesco. Meeting with us for 
an hour or so each morning (“when I'm 
most alive,” he told us), he would arrive 
promptly at nine, dressed always, in- 
doors and out, in heavy flannel slacks, 


“I don't feel a director should make easy 
films, He should try to lead his audience 
a litile further in each film. But I think 
that making a film comprehensible is the 
most important duty of а moviemaker.” 


61 


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62 


polo shirt, wool cap and a tan wind- 
breaker wilh a dry cleaner’s tag still 
stapled to a cuff. Our interview began 
with a wry smile from our subject—and 
a disarming greeting in which he re- 
versed roles by asking the first question. 


BERGMAN: Well, are you depressed yet? 
PLAYBOY: Should we be? 

BERGMAN: Perhaps you haven't been 
here long enough. But the depression 
will come. I don’t know why anybody 
lives in Stockholm, so far away from ev- 
erything. When you fly up here from the 
south, it’s very odd. First there are houses 
and towns and villages: but farther on 
there ai t woods and forests and 
more woods and a lake, perhaps, and 
then still more woods with, just once in 
a while, a long way off, a house. And 
then, suddenly, Stockholm. Iv’s perverse 
to have a city way up here. And so here 
we sit, feeling lonely. We're such a huge 
country: yet we are so few, so thinly 
tered across it. The people here spend 
their lives isolated on thei 
isolated from one another 
homes. It’s terribly dificult for them, 
even when they come to the cities and 
live close to other people: it's no help, 
really. They don't know how to get in 
touch, to communicate. They stay shut 
off. And our winters don't help. 
PLAYBOY: How do you mean? 

BERGMAN: Well, we have light in the 
winter only from maybe eightthirty in 
morning till wo-thirty in the afier- 
noon. Up north, just а few hours from 
here, they have dar! Il day long. No 
daylight at all. I hate the winter. I hate 
Stockholm in the winter, When I wake 
up during the winter—I always get up at 
six, ever since 1 a child—I look at 
the wall opposite my window. November, 
December, there is no light at all. Then, 
in January, comes a tiny thread of light. 
Every morning 1 w. ne of light 
getting a little bigger. This is what sus- 
tains me through the black and terrible 
winter: seeing that line of light growing 
as we get closer to spring. 

PLAYBOY: If that's how you feel, why 
not leave Stockholm during the winter 
and work in the warmer climates of such 
film capitals as Rome or Hollywooc 
BERGMAN: New cities arouse too mi 
sensations in me. They give me too many 


impressions to expericnce at the same 
time; they all crowd in on me. Being in 
a new city overwhelms me, unsettles me. 


PLAYBOY: There've been reports that 
you feel what you've called “the great 
fear” whenever you leave Sweden. Is 
that why you've never made a film out- 
side the county? 

BERGMAN: Not really: 
little to do with making movies. After 
all, actors and studios are basically the 
same all over the world. What worries 
me about making a film in another 
country is the loss of artistic control. I 
might run into. When I make a film, I 


all that has very 


must control it from the be 
it opens in the movie house: 
in Sweden, I have my roots here, and 
I'm never frustrated. professionally here 
—at least not by producers. I've. been 
working with virtually the same people 
for nearly twenty years: they've watched 
me grow up. The technical demands of 
moviemaking are enslaving; but here 
everything runs smoothly in hum. 
terms: the cameraman, the operator, the 
head electrician. We all know and un 
derstand one another: I hardly need tell 
them what to do. This is ideal and it 
makes the creative task—always a 
difficult one— ‘The idea of making 
a film for an / n company is very 


aning until 
1 grew up 


tempting, for obvious reasons. But irs 
not ones first Hollywood film that’s so 


difficult—it’s the second. Work in апо. 
er country, with more modern equip- 
ment but with my same crew, with the 
ame relationship to my producers, with 
the same control over the film as I have 
here? І don't think that's very likely. 

PLAYBOY: You're said to be no less indis- 
posed to come into contact with outsiders 
even on your own sets in Stockholm. 
from which all visitors are barred. Why? 


BERGMAN: Do you know what mov 
m 


king is? Eight hours of hard work 
h day to get three minutes of film. 
And during those eight hours there are 
maybe only ten or twelve minutes, 
if you're lucky, of real creation. And 
maybe they don't come. "Then you 
have to pear yourself for another eight 
hours and pray you're going to get your 
good ten minutes this time. Everything 
nd everyone on a movie set must be at- 
umed to finding those minutes of real 
creativity. You've got to keep the actors 
and you » a kind of enchanted cir 
cle. An outside presence, even a com- 
pletely friendly one, is basically alien to 
the intimate process going on in front of 
him. Any time there's an outsider on the 
set, we run the risk that part of the ac 
tors’ absorption, or the technicians’, or 
mine, is going to be impinged upon. It 
es very little to destroy the delicate 


mood of total immersion in our work. 
We can’t risk losing those vital minutes 
The few 


of real er 
паде except 
PLAYBOY: You've been criticized not only 
for barring and even ejecting intrud- 
ers from your sets, but for outbursts of 
rage in which, reportedly, you've ripped 
phones off walls and thrown chains 
through glass control booths. Is there 
ny truth to these accounts? 
BERGMAN: Yes, there is—or 
When I was younger, much younger, 
like so many young men I was unsure 
of myself. But I was very ambitious. And 
when you're unsure, when you're in: 
cure and need to assert yourself, or think 
you do, you become aggressive in trying 
to get your own way. Well, that’s wh: 
happened to me—in a provincial theater 
where I was а new director. I couldn't 


times I've 


tion. 


ther, was. 


There’s no mortgage...no oatmeal... 
no mother-in-law behind that shirt. 
It'spure 100%fast cars, open skies, 
and we won't be home until dawn. 
He's marvelous. He thinks Van 
Heusen 417 is some sort of inalien- 


able right. Like rare roast beef and 
waffles on Sunday and five hundred 
pounds of ice in a martini pitcher. 
He's vain about that tapered fit. 
He's downright stubborn about that 
collar...the only button-down collar 


E + 


That is 
the most un-married shirt 
I ever saw in my life... 


with a perfect roll. But why does it 
make him look so un-married...? 


VAN HEUSEN 
4117 younger by design 


Van Heusen and Lady Van Heusen shins —Made by Phillips Van Heusen Corp. 


PLAYBOY 


behave that way now and hope to keep 
the respect of my actors and my techni- 
cians. When 1 know the importance of 
and D. ACRON” keeps it in shape every phe in a working day, шап 
realize the supreme necessity of estab- 
His Harris Shorts, in wonderful 65% Dacron polyester and 35% HARRIS lishing en of calm and security on 
combed cotton play it straight with lines that are lean and SLACKS the set, do you think I could, or would 
neat. The fabrics: merely febulous. Woven checks, plaids, and have any right to, indulge myself that 
madras patterns in a rainbow of hues from subtle deep shades to way? A director on a movie set is a litle 
exciting high-fashion tones. For the smoothest lines in town—that like the captain of a ship: he must be re- 
stay in shape thanks to Dacron — wear Harris Shorts and Slacks, spected in order to be obeyed. 1 haven't 
At the nicest stores everywhere. From $4.95. ® DuPont's Reg.T.M. — wesr euvenna sneer behaved that way at work since I was 
Ка maybe twenty-five or twenty-si 

Е PLAYBOY: Yet these stories of temper 
tantrums continue to circulate in print. 
BERGMAN: Of course they do. Such 
stunts as ripping out telephones and 
hurling ch 1 make the sort of 
copy that journalists love to give their 
editors and their readers. It's more color- 
ful to read about a violent temper than 
about someone instilling confidence in 
his actors by talking quictly to them. It's 
10 be expected that people will go on 
writing—and reading—this sort of non- 
sense about a man year after year. Do 
you begin to understand why I don't 
like to talk to the press? You know. 
people also say I don't like to see jour- 
nalists, that I refuse to talk to them any- 
morc. For once they are right. When I 
am nice to reporters, when I give them 
my time and I talk to them sincerely, 
they go off and print a lot of old gossip, 
or their editors throw it in, because they 
think those old stories are more enter- 
taining than the truth. Take that cover 
story done on me a few years аро by one 
of those American magazines of yours. 
PLAYBOY: Time magazine? 
BERGMAN: Yes, that’s it. My wife read 
it to me when it came out here, The 
man they described sounds like someone 
Id like to meet—perhaps а little 
difficult, not such а nice person, yet still 
an interesting fellow. But I didn't find 
myself He was nobody I know. 
PLAYBOY: It’s been reported that you've 
had no less difficulty recognizing some of 
your own films when you read what the 
aitics have to say about their merit and 
meaning. Is this true? 
BERGMAN: I've given up reading what's 
written either about me or about my 
films. It’s pointless to get annoyed. Most 
film critics know very little about how 
a film is made, have very little gen- 
eral film knowledge or culture. But we 
are beginning to get a new generation 
of film critics who a ncere and 
knowledgeable about the cinema. Like 
some of the young French crities—them 
1. I don't always agree with what 
have to say about my films, but 
st they're sincere. Sincerity 1 like, 
even when it's unfavorable to me. 
PLAYBOY: Well, your films have been 
unfavorably reviewed for, among other 
reasons, the private meanings and ob- 
scurity of many of their episode: 
much of their symbolism. Do you think 


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PLAYBOY 


66 


these accusations may have some validity? 
BERGMAN: Possibly, but 1 hope not— 
because 1 think that making a film com- 
prehensible to the audience is the most. 
important duty of any moviemaker. It's 
also the most difficult. Private films are 
relatively easy to make; but I don't feel 
a director should make easy films. He 
should try to lead his audience a little 
further in each succeeding film. It’s good 
for the public to work a little. But the 
director should never forget who it is 
he's making his film for. In any case, it's 
not as important that а person who sees 
опе of my films understands it here, in 
the head, as it is that he understands it 
here, in the heart. This is what matters. 
PLAYBOY: Whatever the nature of their 
understanding, а great many interna- 
critics concur in ranking you 
the world's film makers. 
How do you feel about this approbation? 
BERGMAN: Success abroad hay made my 
work much easier in Sweden, I don't have 
to fight so much on matters really exter- 
nal to actu ative work. Thanks to suc- 
cess, I've earned the right to be lelt to my 
work. But, of course, success is so transi. 
tory: it’s such а flimsy thing to be à la 
mode, Take Paris—a few years ago I was 
their favorite director. Then came An- 
tonioni. Who's the new one? Who knows? 
But you know, when these young men of 
the nouvelle vague first started making 
films, I was envious of them, envious of 
their having seen all the films at the сїпё- 
matheque {film library], of ‘their knowing 
П the techniques of moviemaking. Not 
anymore, On the technical side, I have 
become very sound. I have acquired con- 
fidence in myself. Now I can see other 
directors’ work and no longer feel jealous 
or afraid. I know I don't have to. 
PLAYBOY: Have their films influenced or 
nstructed you in the development of 
your own moviemaking style and skills? 
BERGMAN: I've had to learn cvery 
thing about movies by myself. For the 
theater I studied with a wonderful old 
man in Göteborg, where 1 spent four 
years. He was a hard, difficult man, but 
he knew the theater, and I learned from 
him. For the movies, however, there was 
no one. Before the War I was а school- 
boy. then during the War we got to sce 
no foreign films at all, and by the time it 
was over I was working hard to support 
a wile and three children, But fortu- 
nately I am by nature an autodidact, 
one who can teach himyelf{—though it’s 
uncomfortable thing to be at times. 
Self-taught people sometimes cling too 
much to the technical side, the sure 
side, and place technical perfection too 
high. L think what is important, most 
important, is having something to say. 
PLAYBOY: Do you feel that America’s New 
Wave di g lo say? 
Yes, I do. I have scen just 
nples of th only The 
Connection, Shadows and Pull My Dai- 
sy; I should like very much to sec more. 


"dors have somet 


r wor 


But from what I've seen, I like the 
American New Wave much more than 
the French. They are so much more en- 
thusiastic, idealistic, in a way—cruder, 


ich. film makers, but I think 
they have something to say, and that is 
good. That is important. I like them. 
PLAYBOY: Have you enjoyed the Rus- 
sian films you've seen? 

BERGMAN: Very much. I think something 
very good will be coming from them 
soon. І don't know why, but I [eel it. 
Did you see Childhood oj Ivan? There 
are extraordinary things in it. Some of 
it’s very bad, of course, but there is real 
talent and. power. 


PLAYBOY: How do you feel about the 
Italian. directors? 
BERGMAN: Fellini is wonderful He is 


everything I'm nor. I should like to be 
him. He is so baroque. His work is so 
generous, so warm, so easy, so unneurot- 
ic D liked La Dolce Vita very 1, 
particularly the scene with the father. 
That was good. And the end, with the 
nt fish. Visconti—t liked his first film, 
Terra Trema; his best, I think. I 
liked Antonioni's La Notte a great deal, 
too. 

PLAYBOY: Would you classify these 
among the best films you've ever scen? 
BERGMAN: No, right now | think I 
have three favorite contemporary films: 
he Lady with the Dog. Rashomon and 
Umberto D. Oh, yes, and a fourth: Mr. 
Hulot's Holiday. 1 love that one. 
PLAYBOY: Let's return to the subject 
of your own work, if we may. Where did 
you get the idea for your latest and most 
controversial film, The Silence? 
BERGMAN: From very big. fat old 
ight. Four years ago, when 
friend in a hospital here, 
1 noticed from his window a very old 
man, enormously alyzed, sit- 
ting in а chair under а wee in the park. 


As 1 watched, four jolly, good-natured 
lifted him 


nurses came marching out 
up, chair and 
into the hospital. The ima 
being carried away like a dummy ма 
in my mind, although I didn't г 
know exactly why. It all grew from that 
seed, like most of my films have grown 
rom some small incident, a feeling 
Tve had about something, an anecdote 
someone's told me, perhaps from а ges- 
ture or an expression on an actor's face. 
Ic sets off a very special sort of tension in 
me, immediately recognizable as such to 
me. On the deepest level, of course, the 
ideas for my films come out of the pres- 
sures of the spirit; and these pressures 
vary. But most of my films begin with a 
specific image or fecling around which 
my imagination begins slowly to build 

ate detail. I file each one away 
in my mind. Often I even write them 
down in note form. This w 
whole series of handy fi 
Of course, several years may go by before 


I get around to transforming these sen 
sations into anything as concrete as a 
scenario. But when a project begins to 
take shape, then I dig into one of my 
mental files for a scene, into another for 
a character. Sometimes the character I 
pull out doesn’t get on at all with the 
other ones in my script, so I have to send 
him back to his file and look clsewherc. 
My films grow like a snowball, ver, 
gradually from a single flake of snow. In 
the end, I often can't sce the original 
flake that started it all. 

PLAYBOY: In the case of The Silence, the 
"original flake"—that paralyzed old man 
—is certainly hard to discern in the cx- 
t scenes of intercourse and masturba- 
aroused such heated reactions, 
pro and con. What made you decide to 
depict sex so graphically on the screen? 
BERGMAN: For many years [ was timid 
and conventional in the expression of 
sex in my films. But the manifestation of 
sex is very important, and particularly to 
me, for above all, I don't want to ке 
merely intellectual films. 1 want audienc- 
es to feel, to sense my films. This to me 
is much more important than their un- 
derstanding them. There is much in 
common between a beautiful summer 
morning and the sexual act; but I feel 
Гуе found the cinematic means of ex- 
pressing only the first, and not the other, 
в yet. What interests me more, however. 
is the interior anatomy of love. This 


strikes me as far more meaningful th 
the depiction of sexual gratification. 


PLAYBOY: Do you agree with those 
who say that the American version of 
The Silence has been emasculated by the 
ision of almost two minutes of film 
the erotic scenes? 
BERGMAN: I'd rather not comment on 
thai 
PLAYBOY: АП right. But is it possible 
that this encounter with Ameri cen- 
sonhip regulations will induce you to 
exercise a certain degree of self-censor- 
ship in [umre films? 
BERGMAN: No. Never. 
PLAYBOY: How did you persuade ac- 
tresses Thulin and Lindblom to perform 
the actual acts depicted in the picture's 
controversial scenes? 
BERGMAN: The exact same way I have 
gotten them, with all my other actors, to 
perform in any scene in any of my other 
films. We simply discuss quictly and 
isily what they must do. Some people 
m I hypnotize my actors—that I use 
gic to bring the performances out of 
them that I get. What nonsense! All I do. 
is try to give them the one thing every 
onc wants, the one thing an actor must 
e: confidence in himself. That's all 
пу actor wants, you know. To feel sure 
enough of himself that he'll be able to 
give everything he’s capable of when the 
ector asks for it. So I surround my ac 
tors with of confidence and 
trust. E talk with them, often not about 
the scene we're working on at all, but 


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68 


just to make them feel secure and at 
ease. If that’s magic, then I am a sorcer- 
er. Then, too, working with the same 
people—technicians and actors—in our 
own private world for so many years to- 
ether has facilitated my task of creat 
the necessary mood of trust. 


PLAYBOY: How do you reconcile this 
atement with the following declara- 


tion, which you made five or six years 
ago in discussing your film-making meth- 
ods: "I'd prostitute my talents if it 
would further my cause, steal if there 
was no other way out, kill my friends or 
опе else if it would help my art”? 
BERGMAN: Let's I was prety de 
fensive when 1 I that. When one is 
iure of himself, when he's worried 
i ion, worried about being 

ive artist, he feels the need, as 1 


said before, 10 express himself very 
strongly, very assertively, in order to 
withstand amy potential criticism. Dui 


once you've finally become succ 
you feel freed from the 


Sul, 
peratives of 


success. You stop worrying about striv 
ing, 


ad can devote yourself to your 
Life becomes so much easier. You 
yourself better. I find d m be 


to learn that there is much I 
haven't seen. I feel a litle older—not 
much, but a little—and I like it. 

You know, I used to think that com- 
promise in lif in art, was unthink- 
able, that the worst thing a man could 
do was make compromises. But of course 
I did make compromises. We all do. We 
have to. We couldn't live otherwise. But 
for a long timc I wouldn't admit to my- 
self—although, of course, at the same 
time I knew it—that I, too, was à man 


who compromised. I thought I could be 
I 


above it all. I have 
have Jearned that what matters, reall 
being alive. You're alive; you can't stand. 
dead or hall-dead people, сап you? To 
me, what counts is being able to fecl. 
That's what Winter Light—the film of 
mine that people seem lo understand 
least—is trying to say. Now that you've 
been m Stockholm in midwinter for a 
few days, I think you begin to un- 
derstand, a liide, what this film is about. 
What do you make of it? 

PLAYBOY: We're more interested 
ing what you make of it. 

BERGMAN: Well, it was a difficult film, 
one of the hardest I've made so far. The 
audience has to work. It’s a progression 
from Through a Glass Darkly, and it in 
turn is carried forward to The Silence. 
‘The three stand together. My basi 
cern i g them was to dr 
the all-importance of communication, of 
the capacity for feeling. They are not 
concerned—as many critics have theo- 
rized—with God or His absence, but 
with the saving force of love. Most of the 
people in these three films are dead, 
completely dead. They don't know how 
to love or to feel апу emotions. They are 


learned that I can’ 


learn- 


lost because they can't reach anyone ont- 
е of themselves 
The man in Winter Light, the pa 
is nothing. He's nearly dead, you under- 
stand. He's almost completely cut olf 
from everyone. The central character is 
the woman. She doesn't believe in God, 
but she has strength: it's the women who 
are strong: She can love. She can save 
with her love. Her problem is that she 
doesn’t know how to express this love. 
She's ugly, clumsy. She smothers him, 
and he hates her for it and for her ugli- 
ness. But she finally learns how to love. 
Only at the end, when they're in the 
empty church for the three o'clock sery- 
ice that has become perfectly me; 
les for him, her prayer in a sense is 
answered: he responds to her love by 
going on with the service in that empty 
Country church. It’s his own first step 
toward feeling, toward learning how to 
love. We're saved not by God, but by 
love. That's the most we can hope for. 
PLAYBOY: How is this theme carried out 
in the other two films of the trilogy? 
BERGMAN: Each film, you see, has 
moment of contact, of human com 
cation: the line “Father spoke to me,” 
the end of Through a Glass Darkly; the 
pastor conducting the service in the 
empty church for Marta at the end of 
Winter Light: the little boy reading E 
ter's letter on the train at the end of The 
Silence. A tiny moment in each film— 
but the crucial one. What matters most 
of all in life is being able to make that 
contact with another human. Otherwise 
you are dead, like so many people today 
dead. But if you can take that first 
step toward communication, tow: 
derstanding, toward love, then no mat- 
ter how difficult the future m 
have no illus 
in the world, living can be hellishly 
difficult—then you are saved. This is all 
that really matters, isn't й? 
PLAYBOY: Many reviewers felt that this 
same message—that of salvation from 
solitude through love—was also the 
theme of your best-known and most 
commercially successful film, Wild 
Stawberries—in which the old physi- 
cian, as one critic wrote, "after a life of 
emotional detachment, learns the lesson 
of compassion, and is redeemed by this 
change of heart.” Are they right? 
BERGMAN: But he doesn't change. He 
can't. Th: just it. I don't believe that 
people can change, not really, not fun- 
damentally. Do you? They may have a 
moment of illumination, they may scc 
themselves, have awareness of what they 
are, but that is the most they can hope 
for. In Winter Light, the woman, the 
strong one—she can see. She has her 
moment of enes, but it won't 
change their lives. They will have a ter- 
rible life. I wouldn't make a film about 
what happens to them next for anythi 
in the world. They'll have to get along 
without me. 


PLAYBOY: Speaking of the character of 
n Winter Light, you've been 


Marta 
widely praised for your sympathetic de- 
piction of, and insight into, the feminine 
protagonists in your films, How is 
BERGMAN: You're going to ask how 
1 understand women so well. Women 
used to interest me as subjects because 
they were so ridiculously treated and 
shown in movies. I simply showed them 
5 they actually are—or at least closer to. 
what they are than the silly repre- 
sentations of them in the movies of the 
Thirties and Forties. Any reasonably 
realistic treatment looked great by com- 
parion with what was being dom 
In the past few years, however. I h 
begun to realize that women are es 
tially the same as men, that they both 
have the same problems. 1 don't think 
of there being women's problems or 
women's stories any more than I do of 
there being men’s problems or men's 
stories. They are all human. problems. 
It's people who interest me now. 
PLAYBOY: Will your next film be in any 
мау a continuation of the theme с 
orated in your recent trilogy? 
BERGMAN: No, my new film, and mı 
last for a while, is a comedy, an erotic 
comedy, a ghost story—and my 
1 color. 

PLAYBOY: What's it called? 
BERGMAN: All the Women. They may 
e it in America: the theme song is Yes, 
We Have No Bananas. It amuses me, 
anyway. I've already told one Swedish 
writer that I'm hoping it will start the 
Bergman Ballyhoo Era, Its not long 
since I finished the final cutting. You 
know, I don't at all mind editing or cut- 
ting my films. I don't have any of this 
love hate feeling that some directors have 
toward cutting their own work. David 
Lean told me once that he can't bear 
of cutting, that it literally makes 
ick. I don't feel that way at all. I'm 
completely unneurotic in that respect. 
PLAYBOY You said a moment ago that 
this will be your last film "for a while.” 
How long is a while? 
BERGMAN: Two years, probably. 1 want 
to immerse myself in my work as direc- 
tor at the Royal Dramatic Th 
Theater fascinates me for several rca- 
for onc thing, it’s so much Iess de- 
ling on you than m films. 
You're less at the mercy of equipment 
and the demand for so many minutes of 
footage every day. You aren't nearly so 
alone. It’s between you and the actors, 
and later on, the audience. It's wonder- 
ful—the sudden meeting of the 
expression and the audience's re 
Its all so direct and alive. A film, once 
completed, is inalterable; in the theater 
you can get a different response from 
every performance. "There's 
change, always the chance to improv 
1 don't think I could 


s 


WHAT SORT OF MAN READS PLAYBOY? 


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advertisers: PLAYBOY gets them going. (Source: Playboy and the Travel Market, Conway/Milliken Corp.) 


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clubs and the 
that featured s 


AL DOOLEY, graduate student in sociology at the University of California, and bored, sick of being bored, 
bored with being bored, had thought that his service in the Army would provide a nice, unpleasant 
i y slide of his life. Well, it didn't. He beat it without meaning to. 

Dejected, he informed his parents, who ran a travel agency in Santa Barbara, specializing in five- 
day tours to Acapulco. They were happy. They preferred their son in his Ivy ease and sloth. They 
preferred not to worry about the future, except for the slackening boom in Acapulco. 

Rejected, he then drove over to his girl Peggy's apartment on Dwight Way in Berkeley—his girl 
Peggy with her cable knit sweaters, her long smooth legs and thighs, her pert and perky healthy little 
a, and the job of curling on her 
ighties, 


face with no make-up at all if you don't count the eye sl adow, m 
eyelashes. She was a trifle vain about her blue-green eyes. She p 
sweaters, and such, She had a powder-blue TRA, too. Rejected and dejected, Al came drooping pad- 
ward. “You beat it?” coved Peggy through buttery lips. “You beat it? Ooh, goody. Let's celebrate. Let's 
make ош.” 

“First, don't you want to hear?” he asked. 

“Ooh у She folded her hands in her lap to indicate desire to hear. Legs in ski pants folded under 
rump on couch to indicate desire to hear. Desire to hear all over, and she fluttered her lashes. They 
caught the mild Berkeley sunlight through the slats. 

He had reported for the preinduction physical. It turned out that he had suffered a skull fracture 
at age eight, he had been mighty depressed about life. Missed school 
y). trouble using right leg, double vision. Then it passed. He 
in by age nine. But the Army doctors 


ked her clothes to match: 


as a boy, and for a whole yea 
(third-grade arithmetic was a bore, anywa 
attended school, used his right leg, saw single. He was blithe ар; 
had pried, prodded, knocked, tapped, squeezed, mumbled, listened, and shined lights at him. No de- 
cision. They mumbled some more, Then a psychiatrist had brought him cannily into a private office and 
tist, 


offered him a сіратсис and extended а whole bunch of shrewd questions: “Wanna be some kinda 
hey? Wanna live alone? Wanna grow a beard? Ever slecp with a man? Ever wanna?" 

Al had answered no to all these questions. The doctor, sucking furiously on his pipe, shook his head 
in the grip of metaphysical agony. His cheeks grew white, then red, then white again. Finally, through 
clenched teeth, his breath broke; the strain was relieved; the tobacco drew, There was a wet sizzle in 
the stem of the pipe. The doctor reared back, popeyed; reared forward. He speared a pencil, using in 
dex finger and opposable thumb. Like Cro-Magnon man, he had made a discovery. He wrote something 
on a yellow form and nodded to a corporal standing at the door. The corporal took Al's papers and, with 
a somewhat swaying tread, led him to the door. 

“Well, am I in?” Al asked. 

‘The corporal held his papers by two fingers and merely winced at the question. 

"It's important to me, Corporal. Am I in the Army now?” 

‘The corporal handed him a folder and said with fine contempt, “We don't want you.” 

May I ask why?” 

“Becauth we jutht don't. want you.” 

“But why?” Al sted. 

‘The corporal breathed lispingly. “Thinuth, you crumb. Clogged thinuth. Me with my adenoidth, 


they took me in, but you with your thinuth . . . 
“Ah, oh, ooh,” said Peggy, plucking at her sweater, “there was a shadow on the bone when they 


-JACKPOT 


it looked like a perfect heist to al — there was a nice little branch bank 
down on market street, and there was a nice little sexy crowd to melt into 


PLAYBOY 


72 


shined the light up your nose, I guess 
it was.” 

Peggy was undressing while she talked. 
She respected him. He was intelligent. 
His breath smelled pretty. Therefore she 
didn’t shove any one of her various per- 
fumed, cared-for parts at him until he 
finished discussing. This took some 
се on Peggy's side, because Al 
kative, coffee-drinking, theoriz- 
ing graduate student. And for her 
health’s sake, Peggy needed lots of lov- 
ing. She furnished her apartment near 
the Berkeley campus with a Buffet print, 
Montoya playing the guitar in stereo, 
and lots of athletic loving to supplement 
her skiing and tennis, She had been used 
to loving since the first summer after 
high school. Addicted to both mildly 
mentholated cigarettes and the prance 
and squeak of love, she preferred to get 
the cigarettes by the carton from the 
drugstore on the corner and the loving 
by the fireside from her honey bunch, 
Al. He was nice. Though he was long- 
winded, he was also long-winded, if you 
get what she meant by that. She liked 
him medically. "Mmm, honey, let’s make 
„” she whispered when she could for- 
bear no more. She touched his knee and 
blushed. But she kept her hand there. 
Still blushing, she stroked the inside of 
his thigh, but only a little. A girl mustn't 
be too forward with a really manly man 
like AL 

Alterward, walking down Telegraph 
Avenue, with the late strollers of the 
perpetual mild April of Berkeley clog- 
ging the street, Al tried counting the ca- 
ble-knit sweaters on boys and girls, tried 
counting the pretty girls, tried finding a 
shortlegged one, tried to find some 
variation in the succession of cspresso 
coffeehouse and bookshop and sports 
cars and sweet California pleasures. No! 
Not enough! he thought. To slip down- 
hill into my Ph.D. and teach sociology in 
some good Western school and marry a 
egy and look slim and elegant until 
Y'm 50, skiing and art movics and fathcr- 
ing longlegged California children 
and . . . Oh, no! he cried out, with 
exhausted, pleasured, Peggy-pleasured 
loins empty. 

He insisted that he go home that 
night; he wanted to think about things. 
The future lay before him. Peggy, her 
weadmill health insured once more, 
sleepily assented. She was cooperative. 
He cooperated with her and she would 
cooperate with him. Fair is fair. She only 
added, dropping down to sleep with her 
cas g the floor and her un- 
dics piled neatly on a d “Kiamec.” 

He kissed her. 

And now. back in the sweet cternal 
April of the Bay arca, he was trying to 
figure out what to do next. If he had 
been a Jew, he could have gone to fight 
in Israel, if there were a war in Israel. 
If he had been a Negro, he could have 
gone to register at some Southern uni- 


versity, if there were need of him. If he 
were an artist or a writer, he could go 
art or write. But what could а cleverto- 
veryclevergrade sociology student find 
to do that might make an exception of 
his ordinary life? Join the Peace Corps? 
Get rich? Commit a crime? 

the Peace Corps scemed a bit 
al to Al, who suffered from that 
1 which is one of the 
discases of the bored. Another of the dis- 
eases is melancholia. These led him to 
ask such questions as: “In a time of gen- 
eral disaster, why catch infectious hepa- 
titis in foreign climes? Why teach one 
Asian to read when a thousand illiterate 
ones are being conccived every minute? 
Why not get my jaundice at home?” 
Which only meant that the Peace Corps 
did not engage him. That settled the 


the poss But Al sensed that, once 
sex is taken care of, taken care of in Peg- 
Bys or some other Peggy's sincere Cali- 
fornia fashion, love is not an option to 
be chosen by an act of will. Ї may hap- 
pen along with the magic of a life that is 
exciting in other ways. No love in sight. 
OK. 

That left getting rich. Or committing 
a cime. Why not combine the two, 
«rime and riches? 

He would take off the summer to be- 
come a rich cı inal in San Francisco ог 
Berkeley. It was morc personal than 
being a draftce, anyway. The phrase 
“heist job" came fizzing through to his 
bemused spirit. He liked the sound of 
й. Heist, con, strong-arm—an energetic 
young maestro of psychopathic behav- 
ior! He would have money for special- 
ties in sex, travel, cars fun, Large 
doings! Aberrations! He could break 
out of the mold for a major splurge 
in exceptional life. For Al Dooley, de- 
pressed and cynical, this was the moral 
equivalent of the Peace Corps. He need- 
ed something to make the pot boil be- 
neath him. 

‘The student criminal Al Dooley, for- 
merly melancholic, took a hot shower 
before bed. He left the glass door of the 
stall ajar, so that it went drip drip drip. 
on the tile, but before he could get up. 
to dose it, he had fallen asleep. He was 
23 years old. He had not suffered very 
much in his span on earth. But he had a 
taste for meaning: he wanted to 
have meaning: he wanted to be different. 
ion breaks molds. 

How does a young man from a good 
school, with a father in travel in Santa 
Barbara, enter the life of crime? It’s not 
easy. Perhaps because of long association 
with students bi g for a Monsanto 
Chemical or Civil Service, Al thought of 
becoming a Mafia trainee or an appren- 
tice gangster in some small racket. But 
where were the advertisements to an- 
swer, the references to offer, the curricu- 


umes to prepare? Where 
was the trade journal called Safecracking 
Today? Where was the Prentice-Hall 
text on how you, too, can learn to pass 
counterfeit money in your spare time? It 
almost seemed as if they were deliberate- 
ly uying to make things hard for a 
young fellow seeking to make his way in 
the world. They favored their own. You 
had to have pull—like for appointments 
to West Point or the Naval Academy. 
No smiling and crewcut recruiters from 
The Black Hand visited the campus to 
talk with seniors and graduate students 
in the social sciences. 

The Bible says to do whatever you do 
with a full heart. With a full heart Al 
Dooley had been doing nothing. 

He moped, trying to find a di 
way in life. He needed something spe 
cial. He sought to leave the ruck of the 
easy and ordinary. 

Inevitably it occurred to Al to visit 
Milly Peck in her upstairs pad on Grant 
Street in San Francisco’s North Beach, 
but he hated to involve Milly in his 
problems. Still, she was as close to the 
criminal world as anyone hc knew. She 
had been his girl during his freshm: 
and sophomore years, and then had 
dropped out when she met a smalltime 
operator ed Poopie Cola in а 
coffeehouse. But to go to Milly would 
not be to make a dean break with his 
past, Al decided. It was a compromise. 
First, he would look around all by him- 
self. 

He took to hanging out in pool halls. 
but all he found there were admirers of 
Jackie Gleason and Paul Newman. No 
nice hustlers, no heist men, just а few 
creepy geezers, killing time, calling each 
other Oakland Fats and Slim-from-Rich. 
mond, 

Next he tried sleazy night clubs in the 
Tenderloin area of San Francisco- 
whores of both sexes, trying to take him 
for a ride, suggesting a hotel room or a 
Turkish bath. But without going 
through the unnerving sex round, Al 
saw no way toward satisfying illicit en- 
terprise through the people he met in 
the Winners, Gimpy's or the Whazzat- 
Bar. Anyway, they were mostly office 
boys, waitresses or relief clients in their 
ime lives, and about the worst thing 
they ever did was to make off with а box 
of paper clips or a tablecloth stamped 
NATIONAL LINEN SUPPLY. He saw a prom- 
ising type in a dime arcade on Market 
Street, looking at the sex films—three 
minutes of a girl all by herself for a 
c, for a quarter in color—and he 
said: “Psst, I'm looking for а job” 

An answer came back rapidly, request 
ing that he do to himself what the man 
watching the filmstrip was obviously 
doing all by his lonesome in this pop- 
corn-scented corner of the lonely arcade. 

“Hey, Louie! Here's a beauty!" shout- 
(continued overleaf) 


“You know, I think I'm actually learning quite 
a lot at my Mother's Knee, Mom." 


73 


PLAYBOY 


74 


ed а sailor with his eyes pasted to the 
machine. 

‘The man to whom Al had applied for 
a job repeated his invitation to the sail- 
or. He sought beauty, not fortune. The 
promising type was gloomily satisfied by 
color of a Me: 
ly wriggling out of a black girdle, still 
ring her pumps. 
ng up from the bottom of 

а not the way for a man 
of Al's ambitious intensity to emer a life 
of crime. Just as in so many other busi- 
nesses, he would have to use pull. He 
would go to see Milly Peck in her North 
Beach pad. He was tired of brooding 
over cheap whiskey and waiting to be 
spoken to by a weary second-story man 
in need of a sidekick to give him a 
boost, Even the water in these bars 
where he bided his time tasted of whis- 
key, bad whiskey, and the whiskey tasted 
of bad water, and finally people did talk 
to him, but only about the ball game, 
about Fidel Castro, or about the fine cl 
mate of the Bay area. Extreme measures 
were called for. Milly Peck. 

Milly, a small, intense girl with a fine 
miniature figure and long reddish hair 
and a bad complexion, had left school in 
her junior year to join forces with Peter 
^. (Poopic) Cola. Milly was the daughter 
of a Hillsboro stockbroker. She had gone 
to a finishing school and to the most ex- 
pensive dermatologist in n Francisco, 
Dermatology and French by the conver- 
sational method did not do for her, 
Even accompanying herself on the gui- 

as she sang The Blue-Tailed Fly did 
not put her hormones in lasting order 
But under the constant care of Poopie, 
her hickeys went away all by themselves. 
Her complexion was clearing up nicely. 
This made Al a little jealous, since she 
had suffered from skin trouble continu- 
ously during the two years of their going 
steady, but of course Al was young and 
inexperienced and Poopie had never 
been young. and never been inexpe- 
ienced. "He's so considerate, AL" she 
little folkway he learned." 

Maybe Milly just outgrew skin trou- 
bles. She was growing into her type—a 
small, graceful, slow-moving, long-haired 
d of a Grant Street pander and 
a peddler. He liked her to wear 
ats and her hair in a single braid. 
g for him. In return, he 
pants he bought at the 
Sword & Whip, Men's Sportwear, on 
Polk Street. He had once bought a leath- 
er bikini at the S & W, but when it 
shrank and locked on him at the bcach 
ng to be cut 
out, Poopie retreated to more conserva- 
tive garb. He only wore his flaring black- 
leather cape on chilly evenings. 

Poopie had gi imping for love 
of Milly, He had given up a wife and 
three children for love of Milly. He tru- 
ly loved Milly. He just liked to stay 
around their apartment above a pizzeria, 


occasionally beating her up to keep h 
hand in, cashing the stock from her 
small inheritance, getting to know each 
other. All this he did for love of Milly. 
For love of Poopic—but only when all 
the stock was sold Milly would hit the 
street under Poopie's guidance. Until 
then. Poopie was a sort of kept man, 
loafing in loafers, loving on the love 
at, wearing the cape, entertaining Mil 
ly in a way she had never been enter- 
tamed as an undergraduate at Mills 
College. Later he could be a man and 
really his keep, selling Milly's pelt 
in the clubs of Broadway. 

Poopie yawned in Al's face when Mil 
ly said. “Al Dooley, you remember, I 
told you all about him the ht you 
broke my front tooth, darling. 
Yeah. Hiya, sport 
‘Come on in, Al, ГИ put the tea on.” 
“Why thanks, Milly, I'd love it. Ви, 


was Poopie who made the tea. 
He rolled it in a little piece of paper, 
licked the cylinder, and passed it 
around. The [og had billowed through 
the Golden Gate, across "Twin Peaks 
across Russian and Nob Hills. and now 
even this cozy little apartment above the 
V-Day Pizzeria & Zen Colfecbar was er 
closed in a dense warm muff. ‘They sat 
cross-legged on the rugs Milly had 
brought down from the family house in 
Hillsboro and enjoyed the traditional 
Grant Street Tea Ceremony together. Al 
decided that Poopie wasn't so bad for a 
criminal type. He was a sadist and a par- 
asite and a cheap crook, but he was 
friendly. And that's what counts in this 


world of difficult contacts, where every 
man is an island entire of himself. Poop- 
ie passed the tea from hand to hand. 


He was nice. He was sociable. He made 
conversation. “Theres a funny thing 
about me," he said, "1 never did like a 
toothache. Funny. And a foot injection 
—I never did like a foot injection. And a 
guy who makes trouble neither. Im a 
funny guy that м He was thoughtful. 
He meditated his goals in life—no tooth- 
aches, foot injections or troublemakers. 
Al reminded himself not to have cavities 
and to dry carefully between his tocs. 

Ta get to know Poopie was to get to 
like him. He was the greatest little com- 
plexion-clearer-upper of all the petty 
thugs on Grant. He was sweet, though 
he did have that death’s-head grin. He 
was nice, despite his habit of wearing a 
sweater without a shirt underneath and 
his way of laughing in your face vithout 
telling why. He was a great guy, really 
swell, one of the best, Easy to see why 
Milly picked him when she wanted to let 
her father in Hillsboro know that he 
had somehow failed to communicate 
h her, really communicate, and der- 
matology and guitars and stock in her 
own time were mere materi 
pared to the love of a fine, upstanding, 
y little man. 


ism com- 


Al inhaled deeply, held it, gasped, and 
passed on the tea. He smiled at Poopic. 
Poopie frowned back. He had a slight 
head cold. infecting both Milly and Al, 
but that wasn't his fault. y 
Army docs had said, Al's sinus was sus- 
ceptible. 

Later, while a quiet little bossa nova 
long play filled the thoughtful silences, 
Al finally asked Poopies help in his 
quest for an introduction into the life of 
crime. 

“н. 

Poopie. 

“A heist team. Safecracking. Burglar- 
ing. you know." said Al. 

“Oh AI" Milly cried, slapping his 
wrist. “What would your parents say? 
Listen, you should know the trouble 1 
get in with my daddy over just living 
with Poopie, much less if I went to work 
for him. Parents are so square, honest. 
ks I'm going to peddle my ass 
—oops, sorry, Poopie doesn't like me to 
use that language—sell it to the john: 
Poopie wouldn't ask me to do a 
like that. would you, Poo] 
ber, you promi 
Poopie?" 

“Yah, І promised," he said. 

Milly smiled gratefully. "You sce, I 
told you. But of course if bubble comes 
to squeak and it's а question of taking 
good care of my honey bunch, well, 
there's nothing I wouldn't do for my 
very own Poopie. 

“Count on you,” said Poopie, sho 
his gum: 

“Daddy says I'm just going through 
the stage of parental rebellion, but I 
know better. It’s purely true love and 
economic. I'd do anything for Poopie. 
Tm twenty-one and it's time to Нус my 
own life. I wish Dad understood, he'd 
like him if he saw him the way 1 do, in 
his cape and all. Poopic's so nice, 1 
mean. 

Al interrupted this scene of connubial 


kindly. friendly, postnasal 


bliss. "Help me ош?" he asked nice 
Poopie 
"Naw," said Poopie with that fra 


ness for which Milly loved him. 
Just give me some advice, maybe?” 
Al asked. 

"Yes and no." said Poopie 
tactful deviousness for which Mill 
him. “What's in it for me, sport?” 

An appeal to responsibility for his fel- 
low man would be inappropriate, AI 
believed. And yet hatred of his fellow 
ed to ring the proper bell. 
jo ad doggedly. 
It was so hard to communicate. He got 
up to leave with a sense of having spent 
just one more pleasant evening in a life 
ol pleasant evenings. It was Sunday, the 
sky wis fogged in all over the Bay arca 
the kids back in Berkeley were having 
their last espresso of the weekend and 
getting ready to do a bit of studying aft- 
ег the days hard fun. But somehow 

(continued on page 138) 


h that 
loved 


Oh, Susannah! 


pictorial 
british beauty susannah york turns unfettered water sprite in her latest film 


vernight, British film actress Susannah York (snuggled above with William 
© Holden on the set of thcir new film, The Seventh Dawn) has 

novice to box-office draw. Until recently a student at the Royal Academy of Dra- 
matic Art, she made the most of her first professional opportunities—important 
parts in three TV shows—and parlayed them into stellar roles in Tunes of 
Glory, as Alec Guinness’ daughter: Freud, in which she played a pretty but 
hysterically paralyzed patient opposite Montgomery Clif 


sen from 


1d in Гот Jones, 
as the virtuous heroine who led Albert Finney a merry chase throughout the 
nd shared with him the abundant praise bestowed upon the film. 
in her early 20s, seductive Susannah scems assured of a bright future. 


Beautiful Susannah York, bonny heroine of the recent 


hen The Seventh Dawn is released by United Artists 

in July, Susannah's press reviews may rave as much | — " m — 
about her physical charms as her acting skills. She shares William Holden) in her newest film, "The Seventh Dawn, 
top billing with William Holden and Capucine in this on- @ рд TY MT | 
location movie of civil strife in Malaya. The sequence 
shown here occurs early in the script, when Susannah sheds 
her clothing for a brief dip. Holden fortuitously meets her 
and, from then on, the young girl and the older man strug- 
gle through a trouble-fraught romance. (Above, Holden re- 
cords the scene for his personal photo scrapbook.) "Ihe 
swimming tableau may never reach the screen in the United 
States, since the producers of The Seventh Dawn, in con- 
formity with present Hollywood practice, may have filmed 
it primarily for the foreign market and domestic publicity, 
and will excise it if censorship threatens the box olfice. How- 
ever, the mere shooting of the scene, with ап established star, ` 
exemplifies the current phenomenon of film nudity in this 
country, from low-budget nudies, to adult bed-and-bath 
farces (see page 110 of this issue, The Nudest Mamie Van 
Doren, for the most recent example of this genre) to major 
productions like The Seventh Dawn. 


PHOTOGRAPHY BY MAYNARD FRANK WOLFE 


a dramatization of the Communist- -loyalist struggles that occurred in ПТР PS пе early 1950s. 


PLAYBOY 


78 


AN 
А, 


LA Pu TA. 
Йол ARS 


тр Lus 
(Аита) 


“Miss Tutkin, I wish to compliment you on your quite- 
excellent, perceptive and well-documented paper concerning 
the physiological characteristics of the Mammalia." 


INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY 


scientific progress toward prolonging human life and predictions concerning its indefinite extension 
article BY FREDERIK POHL 


EACH OF Us WANTS what Ponce dc León wanted, and unless the road maps arc all wrong, we are well on 
the way to finding it. Consider yourself in the year 1984—20 years older, 20 years more worn in your р 
Yet most of you is still likely to be in pretty good shape. We do not wear out all at once, like the wi 
derful onc-hoss shay, but seriatim, like a hard-driven sports car. Well, replace the worn-out parts, You 
would not discard an XK-E because of a worn clutch; you would replace the clutch. By 1981, or some 
date in that approximate area, you will not put up with the wheeze of emphysema in your lungs, for all 
you need is a new set of lungs, or a graft of tissue in the old lungs, and magically the emphysema is gone. 
irline receding? Graft in new fol nulate the old, perhaps, with hormones, chemicals or 
some latter-day derivative of DNA. Wrinkles? Flabby muscles? These are chemical matters. We treat 
them with surgery now, if we treat them at all, but in a couple of decades chemistry should provide a 
way of rejuvenating the collagen and flushing out the calcium compounds that bring age. Want to get 
rid of fat? You would not put up with a b 
you will not have to put up with a metabo 


rts. 


ng mixture that left carbon deposits in your 


ate that deposits a spare tire of blubber around your waist. 
Your look can be young, your step can be sprightly. And your sexual powers? They need not stop at 
nts will rejuvenate old-organs of every sort, This т 
not even be necessary; for the basis of most failing ardor iot physical but psychic, and the (ег: 
that make you feel young and be young will remove the psychic obstacles to love. 

You have, in fact, reason to hope that you will retain or regain a very great part of your optimum 
years of strength and vigor till the day you die—and, as a matter of fact, very possibly after. For the mere 
process of dying may in 1984 be no longer very important, (continued overleaf) 


45—or 65—or 105, for that matter; tissue transpl 


PLAYBOY 


80 


Is this a fantastic science-fiction story? 

Science fiction has, of course, recur 
rendy dreamed on subjects like these. 
"There is no cataloging the number of 
stories that have dealt with reviving the 
dead, restoring youth, providing spare 
parts to replace worn-out organs. Edgar 
Rice Burroughs worked over the theme 
endlessly—Ras Thavas, his master Mar- 
con, who implanted old men 
young skulls and so gave them 
all but eternal life and vigor; his Bar- 
soomian supermen, the kaldanes, who 
were themselves mere crawling heads but 
had bred headless bodies to bear them 
about. Whenever a kaldane wanted to 
climb a mountain, fight a duel or make 
love, he attached head to one of the 
brute. bodies—thev were called rykors— 
and got at it. Robert Heinlein gave us 
Lazarus Long, to whom centuries were 
merely an incident. In Down Among the 
Dead Men, William Tenn told us of men 
who were cobbled together out of spare 
parts, identityless “blobs” who were use- 


" sets sold as chil 
"s toys for the future. It has, in fact, 
been a recurring theme in a dozen of my 
own stories—for example, The Reefs of 
Space, in which Jack Williamson and 1 
descr Body Bank” to which crimi- 
Is and social undesirables were com- 


mitted to serve as walking storehouses of 
re organs, subject to a resection of 


sp 
whatever limb or light some worthier 
izen might need to keep him going. 

"This is all science fiction, but it is not 
fantasy. (According to the rules of the 
game, the difference is that a science- 
fiction story might come true, but a fan- 


is all too fantastic, think of what is 
going on in medicine right now. 
"There is no fiction in the organ trans- 
plants that are being performed almost 
daily—or in the artificial organs that re- 
се or supplement natural ones, or in 
vaccines and antibiotics that take the 
fear out of ancient murderers like pneu- 
nd smallpox, or in the surgery 
that can build a new face on what is 
most а bare skull, burned to the bone. 
Not even the miracle of bringing the 
back to life is fiction anymore. Ley 
the Russian physicist, died in a 
mangling auto crash several years ago— 
died three more times in the hospital— 
and yet he now walks the strecis of Lenin- 
үс and well. 

We set 1984 as a date when you your- 
self might have your life lengthened and 
strengthened out of all recognition, but 
ї date might turn out to be a very 
1 guess. It may be much closer than 
as we shall sce. 
moment there arc 
world 


monia 


three 
Ac 


At this 
illion people a 


cording to mortality tables, about a bil- 
lion of these individuals will still be 
around in the year 2000 a.p. Five hun- 
dred million will survive a couple of 
decades beyond that; a few mill il 
make the centenarian mark, living to the 
year 2064 a..; and a tiny handful, per- 
haps 50 or so of those breathing today, 
have a statistical probability of viewing 
the dawn of the 22nd Century. 

That is what the tables say. But if 
there is one thing sure about 
tables, it is that they have be 
ly wrong in every projection made since 
the beginning of this century, and every 
error has been in the same directi 
always live longer than statistics allow. 

It is, in fact, a good betting probabi 
ty that some of us, and perhaps a great 
many of us, may never have to die at all. 
Indeed, there are those who would say 
that some of the two million—odd per- 
sons who at this moment are holding this 
issue of rLAYnox in their hands will be 
around to greet the spring а thou 
years from now—as healthy and happy 
as they are today, and maybe more so. 

‘There are three ways in which we 
make liars of the mortality tables. The 
first of them is the prolongation of life 
by removing some of the causes of death; 
and, of course, that battle is a lot more 
than half won right now. By the stand: 
ards of any age but our own, we are all 
presented at birth with half a century 
more of life expectancy than our ances- 
tors of a thousand years back. Barring 
war or accident, we're going to live a lot 
п we ever planned—longer 
than we had any reason to hope, and one 
hell of a lot longer than the world has 
any present way of making use of us. 

‘This isn’t something that may happen. 
It has happened already. The great bac- 
terial killers of all previous ages have 
one by one been brought under control. 
For some, like syphilis and strep infec 
tions, we have cures; for others, like 
ave preventive vaccines: 
most of the remainder we have legislated 
out of existence by removing the condi- 
tions that permitted them to occur, as 
we have controlled malaria by killing off 
mosquitoes. The viral infections are 
more stubborn, but they are also in re- 
treat; at least one virus has alre 


па 


m. 


longer t 


mopping up. It is, indeed, rather rare to 
find a death from "natural causes" these 
days unless the cause of d either 
something involving cancer or some- 
thing to do with the heart. And al- 
though the struggle against these two 
classes of killers is filled with blighted 
hopes, it is also marked with partial suc- 
cesses, and there are very few doctors 
who don't feel optimistic that both will 
yet succumb to control. Barring vio- 


in short, the thi 
the things ош 


ngs we die of are 
ncestors would have 
е long enough to 


Even when we can do nothing about 
the ailment itself, we can often enough 
keep it from being fatal. We don't cu 
bbetics rarely die of their 
d other therapies 
relevant. Quite а few 
"dead" Americans are walking around 
ight now, whose hearts had stopped, 
whose condition even a couple of years 
ago would have been the for the 
attending physician to put on his con- 


and a death certificate, but who now get 

round pretty well because a little tra 
sistorized gadget inside their chest wall 
keeps an “irreparable” heart beati 
Nobody fixed the heart—we don't know 
how. All we know how to do is put a 
pacemaker in i Less 
convenient, but still a is 
the ari l kidney. The heartlung ma- 
chine can keep some patients breath 
and technically “alive” about as long 
their next of kin want to go on paying 
the electric bill. Uncounted thousands of 
polio victims have had their breathing 
done for them while their own lungs 
were unable to perform the task. М; 
of them will never be able to breathe in 
any other way, but they still live, read. 
talk, think, work and procreate. 

Nor are we limited to mechanical ap- 
pliances. In Ecuador early this year, a 
man blew his hand off with a grenade, A 
new hand was grafted from a corpse. 
Kidneys have been transpl 
one body to another almost beyond 
counting—?44 of them to mid-1963, in 
England, France and the United States 
alone. Replacing damaged corneas with 
transplants from the dead is now almost 
as routine as an appendectomy. 

If a transplant donor is not available, 
sometimes the plastic surgeon can build 
Cw organ out of spare tissues from 
the victim's own body. In Belgium 
casualty was given a new penis—and this 
was not mere cosmetic surgery, for the 
Belgian married in 1950 and became a 


lanted from 


a 


father, although not only the entire 
penis but much of the rest of the gen 


a had been destroyed. 

Technical problems make many of 
these hopeful procedures difficult ог 
happenstance. Nerve tissue needs to be 
coaxed to regenerate; sometimes it 
doesn’t, and the transplant m. 
sory connection to the host. Sometimes a 
newly transplanted organ 
is attacked and destroyed by the 
disease that damaged its predecessor. 
‘The body itself is the worst enemy of the 
uansplants. It resists them and u 
destroy them with its immune respons 
just as it destroys invading microorg 
(continued on page 160) 


playboy 
ON 
` the 
TOWN 
iN 
COPENHAGEN 


F ALL THE PLEASURE cities of the world vy- 
Qi for the attention of the knowledgeable 
traveler, none has gained fame more swiftly as 
a metropolitan Lorelei luring the jet set than 
Copenhagen, a lusty 12th Gentury merchant 
port, which in less than 20 years has attained 
ation among Europe-bound voy- 


a unique repu 
agers for its high spirits, its gracious way of life, 
its remarkably tolerant attitudes, its omnipres- 
and, not least by any 


ent welcoming smilc 
means, its extraordinary breed of statuesque 
Nordic women. 

Copenhagen is a captivating admixture of 


baroque castles and ultramodern stecl-and-glass 


office buildings, of ancient fishing vessels and 
streamlined hydrofoils, of VW engine clatter and 


yements, 


the clacking of hoofs on cobblestone р; 
of closely knit family life and there's-no-tomor- 
row night life that lasts until tomorrow. It’s a 
сиу where the Royal Ballet coexists with a 
gaudily fluorescent nightclub strip and the 
horns of the Tivoli guard blend with the clank- 
ing of beer steins and the blaring of jukeboxes 

Copenhagen's ebullience has earned for the 


city the sobriquet “Paris of the North,” and for 


its citizens the tag (by British writer Evelyn 
Waugh) of the “most exhilarating people in Eu- 
rope.” American visitors return home aglow with 
descriptions of its multitudinous lures and its 
insouciant propensity for pleasure. Yet, for 
all its allure, it remains a peculiarly unspoiled 
metropolis; the quest for the dollar is non- 
existent, surly service is absent, indifference to 
visitors is unknown. Copenhagen genuinely en- 
joys foreigners; it refuses to take itself seriously 
and has an unusual knack for laughing at itself. 
Small wonder that it is a happy hunting ground 
for males in pursuit of pleasure. 

Situated on the coast of Sjaelland, just a 35- 
minute hydrofoil ride across The Sound from 
Sweden, the ancient capital was founded by 


At a shop where wooden dolls come in all sizes, 


live Danish doll digs carved cave man for gag pic. 


didly secluded invitation to some zesty natatorial high jinks. The straits here are 


With more Danes pushing pedals than accelera- 
tors, Copenhagen's streets invite coed cycling. 


to Elsinore, an unbroken stretch of deserted snow-white beach provides a splen- During the day, pedestrians hold sway on the 
almost narrow enough to tempt one to swim over to Sweden, three miles away. Strøget, Copenhagen's famous “walking street." 


Left top: An eating place for Danish mod- 
ems is Tokanten restaurant, where fare- 
minded Dansk distaffers abound. Left 
center: Smérrebréd-surrounded twosome 
sample some of Oskar Davidsen's 712 
open-faced sandwiches. Left bottom: The 
Vingarden, an ebullient jazzery, jumps with 
swinging Scands. Below: A stroll turns into 
a picnic at alfresco smørrebrød dispensary. 


warriorbishop Absalon and quickly be- 

came a Nordic commercial and fishing cen 

ter. Its greatest benefactor was King 

Christian 1V (1588-1648), the architect of 

crenelated skyline and its reputation 

as a city of castles. Today Gopenhagen, 

with a population of 1,300,000, is a thriv- 

ing center of world-girdling exports of 

ndustrial goods, contemporary arts and 

furniture, silver and stainless-steel 

„ toys, and an abundance 

of food, including the Danes’ justly fa 
mous hams, cheeses and herring. 

The capital is ап easygoing, exu- 
berant city whose denizens refuse to get 
overly exercised about much of anything 
—save perhaps for a spirited defense of 
their sensibly enlightened approach to 
sex or of the Danes’ social-welfare setup 
which is onc of the most advanced in 
western Europe; from nursery schools to 
old-people’s homes, it's all state-run. Life 
is pleasantly hyggelig (that peculiar Dan- 
ish concept that can be translated only as 

kind of world-isyour-oyster well-being). 
It also has its dominant steady rhythm 
pulsating (text continued on page 88) 


Facing page, top left: Stars and Stripes 
flies over dessert in Greenland Room of 
Seven Nations restaurant, where each of 
seven elegant rooms boasts a national 
cuisine that ranks among Europe's finest. 
Top right: Marienlyst, a plush resort hotel 
an hour away from Copenhagen, features 
the only gambling casino in Denmark 
Bottom: Montmartre is the hip jazz club 
in Copenhagen. Expatriate tenor тап 
Dexter Gordon is the main attractior 


(P у 


1 


Below: The 121-year-old Tivoli, with its fanciful Byzontine structures such as the Concert Hall (rear) ond Nimb restaurant {right 


foreground), is perhaps the world's most exciting amusement park. Its 20 walled acres in the center of Copenhagen boast dare 
devil rides, buoyant cabarets, с cornucopian number of restaurants, plus glittering showcases for plays, opera, concerts and ballet. 


EM om meu Ln 
CE cH ETHIC I 


Шаа 8 
й Tg imi Ш 

т Пп тт tit 
Е ШАШЫ. ч \ 
ie t чеш » 


АА уль ма 


"де, 
v 


Tivoli's rollicking rides include, below left: A galvanically paced Ferris wheel. Below right: A fine howdah-you-do as rainbow hued 
pachyderm gives girls the run-around. Right center: Bright lights ond balloons add to the festive Tivoli scene. Bottom left: Tivoli 
Dodge-em finds Sunday driver carrying cargo of delectable Danish pastry. Bottom right: A fun-filled lane off the main midway. 


BB 


with round-the-clock activity—" Have fun 
in Copenhagen and sleep in the neat 
country,” the tourist association advises, 
nd they speak the truth. 

The rcd tape preparatory to debark- 
ing in Denmark is minute. No visa is re 
quired, merely a valid passport. Pack 
the togs you'd take along to any coun- 
try of moderate climate (average Danish 
summer temperature: 70 to 90 degrees). 

Scandinavian Airlines Systera jets you 
over directly from Los Angeles, Chicago 
or New York (in seven-and-a-hall hours 
from the latter jumpoff point) and is 
the only directline service to Copen- 
hagen. It offers you en route an agreeable 
foretaste of things to come: warm smiles 
from Danish-modern stewardesses (who 
are good bets to be blondes, but are just. 
as tempting-looking as redheads or bru 
nettes), ample samplings of the cpi- 
curean pleasures ahead, and superb 

vice 

You'll hardly have time to savor your 
smørrebrød, quaff а Larsen cognac and 
say Hans Christian Andersen before 
you're winging over the verdant fields of 
Denmark, over grecn-coppered roofs and 
setting down at the end of the airport 
terminal finger. It would be a long hike 
into the terminal building, but the air- 
line has thoughtfully provided scooters 
for transportation. 

The customs people are the epitome 
of pleasantness, and soon you're heading 
for the city aboard your cab—a short, 
uneventful ride save for the helver-skelter 
blend of autos, scooters, motor bikes and 
bicycles that fuse into the crazy-quilt 
trafic pattern. The pace is breakneck 
and the traffic individualistic, "The 
thronging cyclists weave wildly in and 
out, seemingly doing their utmost to 
test the motorists теце 

The inner core of Copenhagen—of 
which City Hall Square is the nucleus— 
is a labyrinthine patchwork of meander 
ing, narrow streets. Fanning out from 
this core are wide, tree-lined boulevards 
cutting deep swaths through alternating 
neighborhoods of attractive modern 
homes with well-manicured gardens, and 
clusters of ancient dwellings. 

Because of the fairly seasonal tourist 
flow to Copenhagen, there's generally a 
shortage of rooms during the peak ре 
ried from (lext continued overleaf) 


Silhovetted by the fountain-diffused lights 
of Tivoli, our man in Copenhagen’ pays 
scont attention to the myriad entertain: 
ment attractions about him, concentrates 
оп improving international relations with 
o floxen-hoired Danish ambossadres: 


Sececesooceesoe 


" 


€ 


PLAYBOY 


90 


May to October, so the di 
for should have been res 
nce. (If your sojourn to Copenhagen 
has been a spur-of-the-moment inspira- 
tion and you find no room at the ir 
don't despair: call the National Travel 
Association and by some logistic sleight 


$ you've headed 
ed well in ad- 


of hand, it will come up with lodgings 
for you.) 
The most magnificent hostehry in 


d'Angleterre, a 209-year-old 
institution which matches in quiet ele- 
nce such estimable hotels as the George 
ris and Claridge’s in London, but 
whose asking price, by U. S. standards, is 
surprisingly low 
A fine double room runs from $16 
to $26 а day, a single for as little as $12, 
lc the royal suite is a steal (if you're 
a prince) for $50. Another prestigious 
idezvous is the Palace, which, in addi- 
n to first-class accommodations—sin- 
gle rooms from $5.50 to $12, and doubles 
with ms and нек bathrooms—boasts 
the city’s most lavish cabaret, a superb 
restaurant and an intime after-theater 
gathering place for dai 
X short walk from the Palace (and a 
shorter ride) stands the Royal, the glit- 


ап 
Though the exterior 
у, the service is gracious 
the view of the city is 


le nests of contemporary Danish de- 
sign. down to the ubiquitous Jacobsen 
“egg chair." Among the many other fea- 
tures of Denmark's only “skyscraper” is 
a dryair sauna where you can be pum- 
meled and pampered for trifling change. 
Single rooms run from $5.50 to $12, 
doubles from 59.50 to S28. 

Within a ten-minute run from the 
center of town is another trio of modern 
hotels rightly favored by discriminating 
travelers; the newest, Danhotel, which 
offers, needlessly, a TV in cach comfort- 
able room (singles: $7.50); the Øster- 
port (single rooms: $5.50). li 
throw from Hans 
prim 1 


ма shopping-and-enterta 
ment center, and, with its Old World 
elegance, attracts such notables as ex-king 
Ibn Saud (usually with а fivewoman 
traveling harem), Duke Ellington, Dizzy 
Gillespie and Jayne Mansfield. 
Tipping is hardly a problem. Hotels 
add a 10-percent service charge to keep 
your pad in shape and your shoes pol- 
ished. Service beyond the call of duty 
should be richly rewarded with a one- or 
two-krone piece (14 and 28 cents, re- 
spectively). Most restaurants automatic- 
ally include а 12.5-percent gratuity in 
the price of the fare, although the better 
epicurean temples will have the service 
charge lised separately. Your cabby 
will expect a 10-percent tip. Otherwi: 
you need know no more about the krone 


that 1 kr. equals 100 øre, 
that vou get about 7 kr. on the doll: 
and that 100 kr. is roughly $14. (The 
ge barrier, incidentally, is practi- 
ent. Of all countrics on the 
Denmark comes closest to 


Continent, 


using English as a second language) 
After you've paused in your hotel 


room long enough 10 refresh the outer 
nd inner man with a shower and a 
Hed boule of invigorating Danish 
beer, you'll be ready to set out on the 


d 


latory recon 
oli Gardens, a kaleidoscopic 
sure park which uniquely 
ighis and sounds of raul 
alfresco concerts, com- 
arte Pantomime Theater, 


20-acre ple: 
blends the 
roller coasters, 
media del?’ 
raucous dance halls and clanking beer 


steins—amid a Disneylandish mixture of 
Danish and Oriental architecture. Tivoli 
—open from May to September—is a 
colorful conglomeration of slot ma 
chines and excellent: restaurants, of 
multihued flower gardens and whirling 
carrousels, of open-air ballet progra 
and rock'n'roll jam sessions. In short, 
it's the home of hygge. 

You might choose to visit Tivoli on 
another day, and promenade instead 
along the ancient streets of the inner 
y, steeping yourself in the local color, 
while seeking to establish liaison with 
the distaff natives, For this dual purpose, 
Sugget, a narrow thoroughfare that 
snakes through the oldest section of 
town, is eminently well suited. Take a 
leisurely stroll past wineshops and side- 
walk calés, restaurants and dance halls, 
and browse in some of the smart shops 

nd observe many of the best-looking 
the Continent. ‘Tastefully 
garbed, with a proclivity for suede jack- 
cts, tight, short skirts апа looscfitti 
sweaters and blouses, with their blonde 
locks, high cheekbones, fair complexions 
and well-turned figures, the girls stroll 
along the Stróget. Chances are that 
smiling at a Danish girl will earn you a 
smile in return, but it's unwise to assume 
that this promising response is, ipso 
facto, an invitation to the dance. It often 
s, but more likely she is smiling because 
friendliness is second nature to the 
Danes. However, nothing ventured—in 


ims 


continuing your stroll, you reach 


Kongens Nytorv, a huge octagonal 
square, faced by the friezed facade of 


the Danish Royal Th 
quaint cafés, and an array of neon- 
emblazoned basement grogshop: 

The best of these is Hviids Vinstue, 
commonly known as “Smoky Joe 
230yearold cavernous cellar pub in 
which you'd do well to stop off for 
liquid. refreshment. This subierran 
grouo is peopled by writers, artists and 
assorted disciples who share a taste for 
strong dri 


er, a couple of 


Uncompromising martini drinkers— 
and fanciers of most other mixed drinks 
— will be better advised to seek out such 
Stateside-type lounges as those at the 
ace, Royal and d'Angleterre hotels. 

Among the next likely моро on 
your itinerary might be such atmospheric 
downstairs dispensaries as The Bear 
Cellar, The Little Apothecary, The 
Golden Lamb, The Umbrella and the 
Leather Breeches, all of which cater 
generously to a clientele that often in- 


dudes a freewheeling contingent of un- 
attached Danish womanhood, especially 


on F Saturday nights. 

Further foraging in the area will di: 
close such agreeably bohemian watering 
places as Galathea, where liquid assets 
are purveyed amid а clutter of Eskimo 
and East African objets d'art; Tokanten, 
а junkfilled den of collegiate revelry 
wherein уоште likely to find a Spanish 
flamenguista strumming Soleares, or а 
French boulevardier crooning abo 
love: and the Drop In, which features 
dim illumination and taped jazz. 

Dinner, for the Danes, n 
institution, a feast worthy of ample time 
and appropriate decorum. Hundreds of 
restaurants abound in Copenhagen, from 
the humblest eatery to Lucullan temples. 

OL native fare, perhaps the most tooth- 
some to foreign visitors is the Danish 
iced sandwiches, usu- 
ally of a pumpernickel or rye-bread base, 
heaped to mountainous heights with 
quantities of 5 . pátés, 
cold cuts. meats ingly or in 
appetizing combinations —and all washed 
down with chilled aquavit or frothy 
Danish beer. There is no place that the 
smørrebrød reaches gr 
perfection than at the 
Davidsen restaurant, which offers no less 
than 712 diflerent kinds of sandwiches. 

On a comparable culinary level is 
Fiskehusets, an unsurpassed temple oí 
digenous seafood delicacies with the im- 
modest, but nearly truthful claim: "If it 
swims—we've got it." Among its special- 
ties are chilled crayfish, and a succulent 
stewed cod laved in hollandaise sauce 
and inundated with sherry. 

Other than snérrebród and seafood, 
there are rel ‘ely few ive Danish 
delicacies, and many of the better res- 
turan lean heavily—and 
toward French cuisine, wh 
worthier exponent than Frase 
carte is fairly small, but 
memorable and, by U.S. standards, re- 
markably inexpensive. The spei 
the house—br 
páté de foie gras and served with 
agus au gratin, petits pois and wullle 
sauce—costs $2.25, 

No less 


асе Hotel's Viking restaurant across the 
square, where the is headed by 
boned minced qu h goose liver in 


(continued on page 156) 


“Oh, oh.. you'd better hide. Га know ту 
husband's knock anywhere... 1" 


insurance secretary lort winston is a delightful june dividend 


PREMIUM PLAYMATE 


PHOTOGRAPHY BY EDMUND LEJA 


"Гуе always been a daydreamer. At work, when 
I'm not typing letters or filing, | might be day- 
dreaming abaut one of my current projects, like 
redecorating my cpartment. Then, ot home, 
while my girlfriend and | take turns trying new 
hair styles on each other, we get to tolking 
‘about places like Long Beach, where I'd spend 
every weekend if | could, sailing, water skiing, 
snorkeling or just plain swimming—I'm always 
the first one in the water and the last ane out. 
Ive lived in Los Angeles oll my life, and by 
nov the Pacific is part of my bload." 


BECAUSE INSURAN 
monolithic sta 


COMPANIES evoke images of 
cal tables and multipage rate 
charts and contracts, we were especially pleased 
when we recently discovered one that offered a 
surprise dividend far more to our taste, Her 


lucky Los Angeles 
aptain in the L.A. 


fire department, 19-year-old Miss June attributes 
her healthy good looks to the beneficent rays of 
the golden California sun, in which she spends 
as much time as she can, preferably in sufficient 
seclusion to permit indolent, allover tanning. But 
she’s also an active sporswoman, with a strong 

nce for the water-borne life. As she puts 
1 love everything outdoorsy, especially 


MISS JUNE rıarsor’s pravmare or me MONTH 


"On Sundays, if [m no! out water skiing or 
soiling, 1 moy phone the girls in the apartment 
above mine and ask them down for o lote 
brunch. Sometimes we'll hove aur current dates 
over, ond stuff them with Mexican goadies or 
complicated triple-decker sandwiches. Every 
once in а While, | throw а slumber porty—it 
gives us girls the chance to tolk about Тарс A: 
the men we're dating, and the ones we'd like 
to date. And when Im alone, ond just relaxing, 
1 try їо solve an impossible problem: how to da 
ali the things 1 wont ta do, like soiling around 
the world, ond still not miss all the fun thot 
goes an right here. | fall asleep trying to figure 
it aut—but when | woke up there's too much 
happening to give it ony further thought.” 


In fac 
and spend the 
world’s most exotic ports of call." But that's only 
опе ambition of this girl. She also wants to be an 
artist, plans to take lessons which will discipline 
her freewheeling artistic cbullience. These and 
other dreams she discusses with her more tho 
ful dates—the kind of males she most admi 


ght- 
In 


ml 


erm 


[+з 
А ы 


SÉ 


er moods she likes to go 
preferably to hear the sounds of Maynard 
At home, Lori might treat а boyfriend 
an specialties ("Em quite a cocinera 
when it comes to chili and tortillas"), or, on 
dateless nights, curl up with an adventure novel 
veen prints of scenes. Need- 

‚һе сап make our urban scene any time. 


ight-clubbing with 


PLAY BOY’S PARTY JOKES 


In former times. people who committed adul- 
tery were stoned; today, it’s often the other 
way around. 


Nu 


EI 


Annoyed by the professor of anatomy who 
told racy stories during class, a group of coeds 
decided that the next time he started to tell 
ne they would all rise and Icave the room 
protest. The professor, however, got wind 
of their scheme just before class the following 
day, so he bided his time; then, halfway 
through the lecture, he began, “They say 
there is quite a shortage of prostitutes in 
France" 

The girls looked at one another 
started for the door. “Young ladies, 
professor, “the next plane doesn’t leave until 
tomorrow afternoon.” 


The room was small, misty and dim with 
pungent incense as the wrinkled gypsy woman 
looked up from her crystal at the gentleman 
seated before her. “I will answer any two 
questions you ask me,” said the gypsy, "for 
fifty dollars." 

“Isn't that price rather high?" asked the 


m 
Yes, it is,” said th 
your second question 


gypsy. "Now what is 


She was only the telegrapher's da 
she didit, didit, didit . . . 


ghter, but. 


lı had promised to be a sensational divorce 
сазе, with the wife accused of incredible es- 
capades, but thus far it had all proved rather 
disappointing, with nothing more than a few 
insinuations and vague generalities tossed 
back and forth. But this was the day when 
the wile was to take the witness stand for the 
first time, and the courtroom was filled to 
capacity. Testifying before her own lawyer, 
she projected ап image of sweet innocence, as 
she told a tale of wifely fidelity and sacrifice. 
At long last the wife's direct testimony came 
to an end, and the husband's attorney was 
given the opportunity to cross-examine. 

He first reestablished her name, relationship 
to the plaintiff, and other details of identifica- 
tion. Then he picked up a paper from the 
table, studied it a moment, turned to her and 
Кей, "Is it not true, Madam, that on the 
ight of June twelfth, in a driving rainstorm, 
you had sexual intercourse with a certain 
circus midget on the handle bars of a careening 


motorcycle that passed through the center of 
Libertyville at speeds in excess of sixty miles 
per hour?! 

The wife turned pale, but retained her re- 
markable self-control, and her voice w most 
serene in its innocence as she asked, “What 
was that date again?” 


There are more important things in life than 
money, but they won't go out with you if you 
don't have any. 


Ive heard you're very shy,” the young swain 
murmured reassuringly to his date, as they 
strolled through the moonlit park. “But you 
needn't worry about making conversation. I've 
devised simple code that eliminates the need 
for talk: If you nod your head, it means you 
want me to hold your hand, and if you smile, 
it means you'd like me to kiss you. Isn't that 
easy? What do you think of my plan?” 
She Jaughed in his face. 


nn‏ و 


Our Unabashed Dictionary defines Hollywood 
as a place where you can lie on the sand and 
look at the stars. Or vice versa. 


The house detective, hearing odd noises from 
the room of a female guest, knocked on the 
door and inquired sternly, "Are you entertain- 
ing in there?" 

“Just a minute,” came the reply, “and ГИ 
ask him.” 


Heard а good one lately? Send it on a postcard 
to Party Jokes Editor, pLaysoy, 232 E. Ohio St., 
Chicago, Ш. 60611, and earn $25 for each joke 
used. In case of duplicates, payment is made 
for first card received. Jokes cannot be returned. 


oF 


YOU ONLY 
LIVE TWICE 


at last the moment had come — and now 


it was death either for james bond or for blofeld 
Conclusion of a new novel By IAN FLEMING 


SYNOPSIS: To the inscrutable M, chief of Her Majesty’s 
Secret Service, it seemed obvious that Secret Agent 007, 
James Bond, had been going downhill fast—ever since the 
murder of his wife by Ernst Stavro Blofeld, mastermind 
of the international crime syndicate svecrre, and by Blofeld's 
mistress, the repugnant Irma Bunt. Yet, M reasoned, Bond 
deserved a final chance. And thus he was given an assign- 
ment in which his opportunities of success were rated as 
He was to obtain for 


no better than ten thousand to on 
Britain the 
the gift of decoding U. S. S. R. dispatches, Seni to Tokyo, 


ecrels of wAciG 44, a japanese calculator with 


Bond was told by Tiger Tanaka, chief of the Japanese 
Secret Service, that, indeed, he might share the loched 
secrets of MAGIC 44 in return for one favor performed for 
Japan: He must destroy the malignant Doctor Guntram 
Shatterhand, mysterious owner of an exotic park on the 
island of Kyushu, a garden of death where suicide-bent 
Japanese destroyed themselves with poisoned vegetation, 
snakes and spiders—or by heaving themselves into a lake 
stocked by Shatterhand with killer piranhas. 

Reluctantly Bond agreed to this mission—and submitted 
to a complete transformation of appearance at the instruc- 
tion of Tanaka. Gradually the facade of James Bond be- 
came, to the naked eye at least, that of Taro Todoroki, а 
deaf-and-dumb coal miner from Fukuoka. His skin was dyed 
a light brown, his hair oiled and cut into Japanese bangs, 
his eyebrows shaved to slant upward, and he was trained to 
behave as a mute peasant. AL a final briefing, he was shown 
а 


immediately as Blofeld and Irma Bunt. Now a final motive 


pictures of Shatterhand and his wife, whom he recogr 


for Bond had been established: revenge. 

The launching pad for Bond's invasion of Blofeld’s 
Castle of Death had been established on Kuro island, where 
he joined the family of Kissy S. 
daughter who dived for awabi shells in the straits. At 
length, finding Bond not only enigmatic, but also highly 
irresistible, Kissy agreed to swim with him 10 Blofeld's 
island and then to wait for him on Kuro until his bloody 
mission had been accomplished. 

Together they reached the grim redoubt of the master 
criminal and, as Kissy swam homeward, Bond hauled him- 


hi, a fisherman's exotic 


Bond Ict go and plummcted down toward peace, 
toward dreams and escape from pain. 


DANIEL SCHY 


PLAYBOY 


102 break. Work would prol 


self ashore, hid in a gardeners hut and 
later observed the suicides oj several 
Japanese. Then, turning his back on 
these horrors, he pulled a few sacks over 
his chilled frame for cover and fell into 
a shallow sleep, full of ghosts and 
demons and screams. 


THE DREAMED SCREAMS had merged into 
real ones when, four hours later, Bond 
awoke. There was silence in the hut. 
Bond got cautiously to his knees and put 
his cye to a wide crack in the rickety 
planking. A screaming man, from his 
ragged blue cotton uniform a Japanese 
peasant, was running across his line of 
vision along the edge of the lake. Four 
guards were alter him, laughing and 
calling as if it were a game of hide-and- 
scek. They were carrying long staves, 
and now one of them paused and hurled 
his stave accurately after the man so that 
it caught in his legs and brought him 


crashing to the ground. He scrambled to 


his knees and held supplicating hands 
out toward his pursuers. Still laughing, 
they gathered round him, stocky men in 
high rubber boots. their faces made 
terrifying by black maskos over their 
mouths, black-leather nosepicces and the 
same ugly black-leather soup-plate hats 
as the agent on the train had worn. 
They poked at the man with the ends of 
their staves, at the same time shouting 
harshly at him in voices that jeered. 
"Then, as if at an order, they bent down 
and, cach man scizing a leg or an arm, 
picked him ofi the ground, swung him 
once or twice and tossed him out into 
the lake. The ghastly ripple surged lor- 
ward and the man, now screaming again, 
beat at his face with his hands and 
floundered as if trying to make for the 
shore, but the screams rapidly became 
weaker and finally ccascd аз the head 
went down and the red stain spread 
wider and wider. 

Doubled up with laughter, the guards 
on the bank watched the show. Now, 
satisfied that the fun was over, they 
turned away and walked toward the hut, 
and Bond could sec the tears of their 
pleasure glistening on their cheek 

He got back under cover and heard 
their boisterous voices and laughter only 
yards away as they came into the hut 
and pulled out their rakes and barrows 
and dispersed to their jobs, and for some 
d could hear them calling to 
one another across the park. Then, from 
the direction of the castle, came the 
deep tolling of a bell, and the men fell 
silent. Bond glanced at the cheap Japa- 
nese wrist watch Tiger had provided. Tt 
was nine o'dock. Was this the beginning 
ol the official working day? Probably. 
The Japanese usually get to their work 
half an hour carly and leave half an 
hour late in order to gain face with their 
employer and show keenness and grati 
tude for their jobs. Later, Bond guessed, 
there would be an hours luncheon 
ably cease at 


six. So it would only be from six-thirty 
on that he would have thc grounds to 
himself. Meanwhile, he must listen and 
watch and find out more about the 
guards’ routines, of which he had pre- 
sumably witnessed the first—the smelling 
out and final dispatch of suicides who 
had changed their minds or turned faint- 
hearted during the night. Bond softly 
unzipped his container and took a bite 
at one of his three slabs of pemmican 
and a short draught from his water bot- 
tlc. God, for a cigarette! 

An hour later, Bond heard a brief 
shuffling of feet on the gravel path on 
the other side of the lake. He looked 
through the slit. The four guards had 
lined up and were standing rigidly at at- 
tention. Bond's heart beat a little faster, 
This would be for some form of inspec 
tion. Might Blofeld be doing his rounds, 
getting his reports of the nights bag? 

Bond suained his eyes to the right, 
toward the castle, but his view was 
obstructed by an expanse of white olean- 
ders. that innocent shrub with its 
attractive dusters of blossoms used as a 
deadly fish poison in many parts of the 
tropics. Dear, pretty bush! Bond 
thought. I must remember to keep clear 
of you tonight. 

And then, following the path on the 
other side of the lake, two stroll 
figures came into his line of vision and 
Bond clenched his fists with the thrill of 
seeing his prey. 

Blofeld, in his gleaming chain annor 
and grotesquely spiked and winged hel- 
met of steel, isor closed, was some- 
thing out of Wagner, or, because of the 
Oriental style of his armor, a Japanese 
kabuki play. His armored right hand 
rested easily on a long naked samurai 
sword while his left was hooked into the 
arm of his companion. a stumpy woman 
with the body and stride of a wardress. 
Her face was totally obscured by a hide- 
ous beekeeper's hat of darkgreen straw 
h a heavy pendent black veil reach- 
ing down over her shoulders. But there 
could be no doubt! Bond had seen that 
dumpy silhouette, now clothed in a plas- 
tic rainproof above tall rubber boots, 
too often his dreams. That was shel 
"i was Irma Bunt! 

Bond held his breath. If they came 
round the lake to his side, one tremen 
dous shove and the armored man would 
be floundering in the water! But could 
the piranhas get at him through chinks 
in the armor? Unlikely! And how would 
he, Bond, get away? №, that wouldn't 
be the answer. 

The two figures had almost reached 
the line of four men, and at this mo- 
ment the guards dropped to their knees 
in unison and bowed their foreheads 
down to the groi they quickly 
jumped up and stood again at attention, 

Blofeld raised his visor and addressed 
one of the men, who answered with del- 
erence. Bond noticed for the first time 
that this particular guard wore a belt 
round h дїї with a holstered auto- 


matic. Bond couldn't hear the languag 
they were speaking. It was impossible 
that Blofeld had learned Jap: 


man laughed and pointed toward the 
lake, where a collapsed balloon of blue 
clothing was jigging softly with the ac- 
tivities of the horde of feasting piranhas 


hin it. Blofeld nodded his approval 
and the men again went down on their 
knees. Blofeld raised a hand in brief ac- 
knowledgment, lowered his visor and the 
couple moved regally on. 

Bond watched carefully to see if the 
file of guards, when they got to their 
feet, registered any private expressions 
of scorn or hilarity once the master's 
back was turned. But there was no hint 
of disrespect. The men broke rank and 
hurried off about their tasks with disc 
plined seriousness. 

And now the two strolling figures 
were coming back into Bond's line of vi 
sion, but this time from the left. They 
had rounded the end of the lake and 
were on their way back, perhaps to visit 
other groups of guards and get their re- 
ports. Tiger had said there were at least 
20 guards and that the property covered 
500 acres. Five working parties of four 
guards cach? Blofeld's visor was up and 
he was talking to the woman. They were 
now only 20 yards away. They stopped 
at the edge of the lake and contemplat- 
ed, with relaxed curiosity, the still tur- 
bulent mass of fish round the floating 
doll of blue cloth. They were talking 
German. Bond strained his ears. 

Blofeld said, “The piranhas and the 
volcanic mud are useful housekeepers. 
They keep the place tidy." 

“The sea and the sharks are also usc- 
ful. 


“But often the sharks do not complete 
the job. That spy we put through the 
Question Room. He was almost intact 
when his body was found down th 
coast. The lake would have been a bet- 
ter place for him. We don't wane that 
policeman from Fukuoka coming here 
too often. He may have means of learn- 
ing from the peasants how many people 
are crossing the wall, That will be many 
more, nearly double the number the 
bulance comes for. If our figures go o 
increasing at this rate, there is going to 
be trouble. I see from the cuttings Kono 
translates for me that there are already 
mutterings in the papers about a public 
inquiry. 

"And what shall we do then, lieber 
Ernst?” 

“We shall obtain massive compensa- 
tion and move on. The same pattern can 
be repeated in other countries. Every 
where there are people who want to kill 
themselves. We may have to vary the at- 
tractions of the opportunities we offer 
them. Other people have not the pro- 
found love of horror and violence of the 
ly beautiful waterfall. 
handy bridge. A vertiginous drop. These 
(continued on page 108) 


m- 


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103 


By SHEL SILVERSTEIN 


HERE ARE Some POSSIBLE боор DEEDS - 
(D KELP А RKH OLD LADY CROSS THE STREET, 
Ô HELP someone FIND HIS CWTACT LENS. 


BEAT ОР A MASOCHIST. 
TEUL YOUR MOTHER SHE WAS RIGHT 


SQuASH A RED AUT..ORA BUCK AWT., E FORGET WHICH - 


WHISTZE AT АЫ UGLY OMAN. 

(D HELP TWO Bie MCE GUYS PEFEND THEMSELVES 
AGAINST A SMALL BULLY. 

Фо А BAG CONTAINING- 50,060 AUD DONATE 

{Т TO CHARITY 1 

Ф FINO A BAG Conus 50,000 AND DONTE 
Most oF LT To CHARITY ^ 

(© CKtcil PLEUMELIA AiO &o WTO А COMA 
SO THAT A FOOTBALLTERM CAN WIN OWE FOR YOU. 
FORGIVE A MAN соно HAS IUST KILLED YOUR 
FATHER IN A RIGGED DUEL. 

О SEP o THE GLASSES OF ANENRSIGHTED 
JUDGE WHO IS TUST ABOUT To SIEM THE 
PAPERS CONDEMNING AN INNOCENT MAN TO 
HIS DEATH! 


OREHE SEND 764 For EAH HERT 
BADGE To U-SHELBY, 128 борам $t, NY, 


Scout ile 


aS 


AND HERE WE HAVE OUR. 
UNCLE SHELBY SCOUT KNIFE / 


IT HAS Alo SCREWDRIVER OR 

WAILFILE OR CAN OPENER. 

Bul" IT DOES HAVE А BLADE THAT 
SHOOTS OUT OF THE HMDLE 
WHEN You PRESS THE LITTLE BUTTON. 

(507 THAT Kee / 


‘AN UNCLE SHELBY 
Must OBSERVE: 
(К) STARS 
4B) BIRDS 
(C) NJIMALS 
BUT NOW IT 1$ GETTING 
тоо DARK To OBSERVE 
STARS, BIRDS AUD ANIMALS . 
Now IT 15 NIGHTTIME 
AND EVERYBODY [s GETTING- 
UNDRESSED FOR BED. 


ela 
AND HERE IS YOUR UNIFORM, 
DISGUISED то Look Like AN OLD. 
ARMY BLANKET: UNIFORMS MAY 
Be PURCHASED Fok ошу 423.95 
AT Аш UNCLE SHELBY Scout SUPPLY 
STORES. THE US.  STAUDS FOR 
UNCLE SHelBy.! 


Fist ДЫ 


How To SET ^ BROKEN LEG- 


Т PAIN PERSISTS OR tS ONUS 
SWERE, SES YOUR DOCTOR. 


Knapsack 


HERE 15 YOUR KNAPSACK 
You CAN USE IT AS ДА 
A PILLOW WHEN, 
You TAKE YOUR " 
KNAP- HA-HA - 


WILL HOLD Two “265 

COMPLETE DUIFORMS OR NINE. 

CANS OF FOOD OR FORTY-THREE 
CoHIC Books... 


Ho 
Tus Wow y 
FooT AP 


4—5) 
You GET ATHLETE'S FooT- 
FROM NOT WASHING YOUR FEET 
OR CHANGING YOUR SockS. 
ТЕ you HAVE ATHLETES Foor 
EVERYOUE WILL KNOW THAT 
¥00 ARE А6000 ATHLETE! 


(wate заву холзме Goop pene) 


Handshake 


THIS 15 THE SECRET HANDSHAKE. 
XT оли. TDENTIFY you To OTHER 
UNCLE SHELBY SCOUTS. THEY. 
WILL BE. 
GLAD to 
HELP You. 


Tourniquet g~ 


LET USAID THE MAN WITH THE WOUNDED АВИ. 


Knots 


Вет FoF Fig at 


"AT 


UNCLE SHELBY SCOUTS 
LEARN To TIE KNOTS. 
WHAT SHALL WE DO WITH 
SOMEONE LHO Does NOT 
WANT To JD THE UNCLE 

‘SHELBY 


бешт. 


pako THE TOURNIQUET IS ALWAYS APPLIED ABOVE 
THE WOUND, So THAT THE BLEEDING Witt STOP 
€ how LET US AID THE MAN WITH THE WOUNDED 
CoLLARBouE / 


nak 


50, You HAVE 
ON THE LEG ВУ 
ро NOTCRY-AN 
SCOUT 15 BRAVE, 
TO Suck our. 
THAT BITTER /^ 


Polson? Se 
YOU DONT? Ok "POT A BAND-AID ON, 
AND GO TO THE MOVIES . 


СЕТ 


SEE THE TRAP. WHEN МЕ. RABBIT COMES АМР NIBBLES ON THE CARROT, 
ThE CAGE WILL FALL ON HIM AND HE WILL Be TRAPPED. BUT WHAT SHALL 
WE USE TO TRAP THE MAN-EATING LION? LIONS Do NOT LIKE CARROTS. 
..... MAYBE THE LITTLE BOY NEXT DOOR CAN HELP You...----- 5d 


AN UNCLE SHELBY 
SCOUT CAN SEND 
MESSAGES WITH FLAGS! 
SEE THE BUILDING ON 
FIRE DOWD тнє BLOCK? 
RON DOWUSTAIRS WITH 
YouR FLAGS AUD SED 
А MESSAGE FoR HELP 
AND YU WILL BE A 
MERO! 


orestry 


E THESE LEWES? 
O кы WHAT KIND OF LEAVES 
THEY ARE ? You DON'T? Well, THESE 
ARE SPECIAL ANTISUMBURM LEAVES. 
"JUST RUB THEM ON Урок HANDS AUD 
FACE AND BACK AND You WILL FORGET 
ALL ABOUT YoUR SUNBURN. 


Now we MUST Fine 
OUR CANTEEN FOR 
TRE BIG HIKE. HE 
SCOUTMASTER SAYS To 
FILL IT WITH WATER, 
BUT YOU САМ FILL 


Do you see THe SIGN © 
THE SIGN MEANS THAT THIS WATER 
15 CLEAN AND PURE AND REFRESW/NG; 
ТАКЕ A NICE BIG DRINK- TSW'T THAT GOOD - 


Now FILL UP yoUR CANTEEN 
FOR LATER ^ 


= = ~ 
CANOEMAN - 


/ > EAROEIST 
Ам ONCLE SHELBY SCOUT 15 АМ EXPERT -GANGER . 


HE CAN MAKE A CANOE BY HOLL OWING-OUT A BIRCH TREE. 
IF THERE ARE No BIRCH TREES HE CAN MAKE A CAVOE Ву 
HOLLOWING Our THE PIANO IN THE LIVING ROOM. 

LET US PADDLE ооң OWN САМОЕ. Now LET US STAUD UP ANP 

SEE IF WE CAN SEE THE SHORE. 


Hiking 


Bied [dentifiention 


CAN You IDENTIFY THAT BIRD? 

You CAN'T? THAT IS ВЄСАЈЕ 

НЕ IS UP Too HIGH. TILBET 

IF HE WERE LYING OTHE ÁGooD SCOUT STAYS 
GROUND RIGHT HERE, YoU FIT BY HIKING - HIKE 


Dow To THE STORE AND 
GET YOUR UNCLE SHELBYA 
SIXFACK AND А POUND OF SALAMI - 


CoULD IDENTIFY HIM- 
(0и stt SHELBY scour ALWAYS FINDS Away) 


Cocking 
|l 


ANO NOW UNCLE SHELBY 
ILL TEACH you How TO 
COOK ON AN OPEN CAMP 
FIRE. FIRST, You CLEAR 
A PLACE OW THE LING- 
ROOM FLOOR. WOW... 


Tra. Marking 


LET US MARK THE TRAIL, 

SOTHAT WE CAN FIND OUR WAY BACK 
WE WILL ТОВЫ LEFT AT THE OLD 
ELM TREE, 50 LET US CUT A NoÍCH IN 
THE OLD ELM TREE. Now we will 
GO NORTHEAST AT THE OAK STUMP, 
50 WE WILL CUT А NOTCH AU THE STUMP. 
ROWWE WALL TURN REHT AT THAT LITTLE 
OLD MAN SO... 


Now) YOU CAN WIN 
YOUR MERIT BADGE 
ВУ MAKING A FIRE WITH 
TWO STICKS ‘BUT Do NOT CHEAT- 
Do MOT OSE A CIGARETE LIGHTER, 
TART IS NOT WHET АСЕР ЕТТЕ LIGHTER IS FOR! 


Artificial Respiration 
سے‎ 


“THIS GIRL HAS JUST BEEN PULLED FROM THE RAGING RIVER - 
SHE HAS SWALLOWED MUCH WATER. SHE NEEDS ARTIFICIAL 
RESPIRATION IMMEDIATELY — You MUST APPLY PRESSURE 
TO THE SMALL OF HER BACK ~ Too BAD You HWE NEVER BEEN 


^ Ji UTE S 

SEE THE ELECTRICAL STORM? 
STORMS MENO THAT THE RAIN 
Gods ARE AUSRY. WHAT IS THE 
FIRST THING TD Do 1U А STORM? 


RUN To UAKLE SHELBYS HooSE INTRODUCED TO HER. ^P UNCLE SHELBY SCOUT NEVER 
App close ALLTHE WINDOWS, TOUCHES THE BACK OF A WOMAN HE HAS NEVER BEEN 
THAT IS А Соор ScouT/ PROPERLY INTRODUCED TO. Sb You NUST SUMMON THE 


KIW ROW AND TAKE SHELTER, 
UNDER THE FRIENDLY OAK TREE. 


ONIN МАМ WHO IS QUALIFIED TO FACE THIS EMERGENCY 


You MUST CNL UNCLE SHELBY HIMSELF // 


Suwinming Life Javing 


Ay UNCLE SHELBY ScouT 
15 AN EXPERT SWIMMER, 

HE CAN DO THE CRAWL, THE BACKSTROKE, 
Me BREASTSTROKE. AND THE S/DE STROKE « 
NEVER MIND The UNDERTOW LET US MC 
INTO THE WATER AND SWIM, SWIM, SWIM - 


Bur FIRST LET US EAT A- MICE-Bj, | Nc] 


SEE THE DROWNING MAN © I 
UNCLE SHELBY SCOUTS то THE RESCUE } 


BUT FIRST- WE MUST TAKE OFF OUR SHIRT AND FOLD IT FROPERLy— 
AN UNCLE SHELBY Scour [S ALWAYS NEAT, Uouw We MUST TAKE ОРЕ OUR 
TROUSERS ANID HANG-THELA FROM OUR UNCLE SHELBY OUTDOOR PANTS HANGER 
To MAKE THE OUTDOOR PANTS HANGER, MERELY CUT Two (2) four FocT ELM 
ae рган OFF THE BARK. PLACE THESE IN THE GROUND 
сэ APART- Kou) HURRY- PLACE A 
ACROSS THE TWO ELM BRANCHES awp расна, He pesi 


> 


PLAYBO 


108 


YOU ONLY LIVE TWICE 


might be alternatives. Brazil, or some- 
where else in South America, might pro- 
vide such a site. 

"But the figures 
smaller." 

“It is the concept that matters, liebe 

It is very difficult to invent some- 
ig that is entirely new in the history 
of the world. I have done that. If my 
bridge, my waterfall. yields a crop of 
only perhaps ten people a year, it is sim- 
ply a matter of statistics. The basic idea 
will be kept alive. 
That is so. You are indeed a genius, 
lieber Ernst. You have already estab- 
lished this place as a shrine to death 
forevermore. People read about such 
fantasics in the works of Poe, Lautréa- 
mont, De Sade, but no one has ever cre- 
ated such a fantasy in real life. It is as if 
one of the great fairy tales has come to 
life. A sort of Disneyland of Death. But 
of course,” she hastened to add, “on an 
altogether grander, more poetic scale.” 

“In due course I shall write the whole 
story down. Then perhaps the world will 
acknowledge the type of man who has 
been living among them. A man not 
only unhonored and unsung, but a man" 
—Blofeld’s voice rose almost to a scrcam 
“whom they hunt down and wish to 
shoot like a mad dog. А man who has to 
use all his wiles just to stay alivel Why, 
if I had not covered my tracks so well, 
there would be spies on their way even 
now to kill us both or to hand us over 
for official murder under their stupid 
laws! Ah well, liebe Irma," the voice was 
more rational, quieter, “we live in a 
world of fools in which true greatness is 
a sin. Come! It is time to review the 
other detachments.” 

They turned away and were about to 
continue along the lake when Blofeld 
suddenly stopped and pointed like a dog 
directly at Bond. “That hut among the 
bushes. The door is open! 1 have told 
the men a thousand times to keep such 
places locked. It is a perfect refuge for a 
spy or a fugitive. E will make sure.” 
ered. He huddled down, 
cks from the top of his bar- 
to give extra protection. The clank- 
ing steps approached, entered the hut. 
Bond could feel the man, only yards 
away, could feel his questing eyes and 
nostrils, There came а cling of metal 
and the wall of sacks shook at great 
thrusts from Blofeld's sword. Then the 
sword slashed down again and again and 
Bond winced and bit his lip as a ham- 
mer blow crashed across the center of his 
back. But then Blofeld seemed to be 
satisfied and the iron step 
Bond let out his breath in a quiet hiss. 
He heard Blofeld's voice say, “There is 
nothing, but remind me to reprimand 
Kono on our rounds tomorrow. The 
place must be cleared out and a proper 
lock fitted." Then the sound of the steps 
vanished in the direction of the oleander 


would be much 


(continued from page 102) 


clump, and Bond gave a groan and felt 
his back. But, though many of the sacks 
above him had been sliced through, his 
protection had been just deep enough 
and the skin across his spine wasn't 
broken. 

Bond got to his knees and rearranged 
the hideout, massaging his aching back 
ashe did so. Then he spat the dust from 
the sacking out of his mouth, took a 
swallow from the water bottle, assured 
himself through his slit that there was 
no movement outside and lay down and 
lct his mind wander back over every 
word that Blofeld had uttered. 

Of course the man was mad. A year 
earlier, the usual quiet tones that Bond 
remembered so well would never have 
cracked into that lunatic, Hitler scream. 
And the coolness, the supreme confi- 
dence that had always lain behind his 
planning? Much of that seemed to have 
seeped away, perhaps, Bond hoped, part- 
ly because of the two great failures he, 
Bond, had done much to bring about 
in two of Blofeld's most grandiose con- 
spiracies, But one thing was clear—the 
hide-out was blown. "Tonight would 
have to bc thc night. Ah, well! Once 
again Bond ran over the hazy outline of 
his plan. If he could gain access to the 
castle, he felt pretty confident of finding 
a means to kill Blofeld. But he was also 
fairly cert: that he, himself, would die 
in the process. Dulce et decorum est . . . 
and all that jazz! But then he thought 
of Kissy, and he wasn't so sure about not 
fearing for himself. She had brought а 
sweetness back into his life that he 
thought had gone forever. 

Bond dropped off into an uneasy, 
watchful sleep that was once again pco- 
pled by things and creatures out of 
nightmareland. 


At six o'dock in the evening, the deep 
bell tolled briefly from the castle and 
dusk came like the slow drawing of a 
violet blind over the day. Crickets began 
to zing in a loud chorus and Gekkos 
chuckled in the shrubbery. The pink 
dragonflies disappeared and large 
horned toads appeared in quantities 
from their mudholes on the edge of the 
lake and, so far as Bond could sec 
through his spy hole, seemed to be 
catching gnats attracted by the shining 
pools of their eyes. Then the four guards 
reappeared, and there came the fragrant 
smell of a bonfire they had presumably 
lit to consume the refuse they had col- 
lected during the day. They went to the 
edge of the lake and raked in the tar 
tered scraps of blue clothing and, amidst 
delighted laughter, emptied long bones 
out of the fragments into the water. One 
of them ran off with the rags, presuma- 
bly to add them to the bonfire, and 
Bond got under cover as the others 
pushed their wheelbarrows up the slope 
d stowed them away in the hut, They 


stood chattering happily in the dusk un- 
til the fourth arrived and the: ithout 
noticing the slashed and disarrayed sacks 
in the shadows, they filed off in the di- 
rection of the castle. 

After an interval, Bond got up and 
stretched and shook the dust out of his 
hair and clothes. His back still ached, 
but his overwhelming sensation was the 
desperate urge for a cigarette. All right. 
It might be his last. He sat down and 
drank a little water and munched a large 
wedge of the highly flavored ретті 
then took another swig at the water bot- 
tle. He took out his single packet of 
Shinsei and lit up. holding the cigare 
between cupped hands and quickly 
blowing out the match. He dragged the 
smoke deep down into his lungs. It was 
bliss! Another drag and the prospect of 
the night seemed less daunting. It was 
surely going to be all right! He thought 
briefly of Kissy who would now be eat- 
ng her bean curd and fish and prepar- 
ing the night’s swim in her mind. A few 
hours more and she would be near him. 
But what would have happened in those 
few hours? Bond smoked the cigarette 
until it burned his fingers, then crushed. 
out the stub and pushed the dead frag- 
ments down through a crack in the floor. 
It was seven-thirty and already some of 
the insect noises of sundown had ceased. 
Bond went meticulously about his prep- 
arations. 

At nine o'clock he left the hideout. 
Again the moon blazed down and there 
was total silence except for the distant 
burping and bubbling of the fumaroles 
and the occasional sinister chuckle of a 
Gekko from the shrubbery. He took the 
same route as the night before, came 
through the same belt of trees and stood 
looking up at the great batwinged don- 
jon that towered up to the sky. He no- 
ticed for the first time that the warning 
balloon with its advertisement of danger 
was tethered to a pole on the corner of 
the balustrade surrounding what ap- 
peared to be the main floor—the third, 
or center, one of the five. Here, from 
several windows, yellow light shone 
faintly, and Bond guessed that this 
would be his target area. He let out a 
deep sigh and strode quietly off across 
the gravel and came without incident to 
the tiny entrance under the wooden 
bridge. 

The black ninja suit was as full of 
concealed pockets as a conjuror's tail 
coat. Bond took out a pencil flashlight 
and a small steel file and set to work on 
a link of the chain. Occasionally he 
paused to spit into the deepening groove 
to lessen the rasp of metal on metal, 
then there came the final crack of part- 
ing steel and, using the file as a lever, he 
bent the link open and quietly removed 
the padlock and chain from their stan 
chions. He pressed lightly and the door 
gave inward. He took out his flashlight 
and pushed farther, probing the dark- 

(continued on page 173) 


WHEN I WAS A KID on my father's ranch 
in California we used to chase wind 
devils. After the land had been plowed 
and harrowed, but before the cotton 
was up, the wind would raise towering 
whirlwinds and I used to chase them. 
И was half terror, half wild joy to be 
inside a wind devil. There was no 
breathing in there, mo he 
so overwhelming it was а 
g. You could only stand, deaf, 
gritblinded and battered while some 
part of you was sucked up into the 
wind, whirled out of you. When the 
wind devil passed, you could only stand 
dazed and silly, waiting for the whirled- 
way part of you to return from where 
it had been and you could become you 
agam. 

After that winter when I was 12 y 
old I never chased wind devils again. 
What happened to me that winter w 
like being inside the biggest wind dev 
in the world and 1 just lost my tas 
them. 

My father had only Mexican workers 
on his ranch, families up from Chihu: 
hua. They couldn't begin to pick until 
the morning dew had burned off the cot- 
ton, becau: would have been get- 
ting paid for picking dew. My father 
wasn’t a man to pay anybody for picking 
dew 

So, waiting for my father to yell that 
they could pick, they would build twig 
fires on the field borders and huddle 
against the cold, the men squatting at 
their fires, the women at others, Always 
separate fires, When the dew had burned 
off, my father would yell and the pickers 
would get up, wrap their cotton sacks 


around their shoulders and move out 
into the fields to pick cotton, 80 cents a 
hundred pounds, dry cotton, no rocks in 
the sack, and the straw boss, Gonzalo, 
saying a quiet word now and then to 
somebody who was careless about too 
es in the sack. 

s old, the boss’ kid, and 
ngual I really didn't know which 
language (continued on page 150) 


THE WIND DEVIL 


tt would be the biggest thing that 
ever happened—the champion was 
going to fight the bull again 


fiction By PRENTISS COMBS 


109 


in her new 
film, she 
makes like 
mansfield 


THE 
NUDEST 
MAMIE 

VAN DOREN 


Above: During an undress rehearsal of Mamie Von Doren's 
nudest film, Three Nuts in Search of a Bolt, producer-director- 
actor Tommy Noonan cues her for the upcoming bath scene. 


IF THE AGE of chivalry were live, producer-director- 
actor Tommy Noonan would have to be dubbed a 
Knight of the Bath. His production of Promises, 
Promises!, in which Jayne Mansfield bared all in a 
bubbly bath scene, literally cleaned up. Thanks to the 
tion created by pLaysoy's celebrated pictorial 
uncoverage a year ago this month, the film garnered 
more publicity than any other save Cleopatra and 
ranked high enough in box-office listings to encourage 


sei 


Noonan to take off in the same direction. This time 
he is pin-upping his hopes on lovely Mamie Van 
Doren, who takes off, in his new film, even more than 
she did in her February rrAvBov photo feature. The 
result called Three Nuts in Search of a Bolt 
(Noonan-McGlashan Productions—to be released this 
month), a zany comedy that mixes generous helpings 
of Freudian tomfoolery with ample proportions of 
Van Doren tub-nudery—an unbeatably psychobathic 
combination. 

The titular nuts are a trio of hard-shell neurotics, 


two male and the third an attractive blonde (called 


Saxie Symbol), who share a Hollywood mansion for 


he role of Saxie is somewhat 


sons of economy. 


Because the film will be of the low-budget variety, Mamie 
keeps costs down not only by appearing without costumes, but 
by eschewing the usual tubful of champogne in favor of beer. 
At right: A flesh соо! of make-up is applied prior to her bath. 


EI EE. j 
qu 
p" — 


Above: Mamie jumps өр as she discovers that the shaving cream, 
which was added їо form suds, is mentholated. Above right: 
‘Noonan keeps agitating lather with a porous spoon. Center: 
The stars share a little brew-ha-ha. Bottom: What appears to 
be a bathtub duet is actually a relaxing pause between takes 


thin dramatically—she’s a misanthropic stripteuse who 


exhibits her 


atred for men by exhibiting herself to them 
—but Mamie fleshes the part out skillfully. Deciding to 
cut costs on their psychoanalysis bills, the trio calls in a 
patsy (Fommy Noonan), indoctrinates 


respective neuros 


him with their 
and sends him off to a high-priced 
lady psychiatrist (Ziva Rodann). With predictable con- 
fusion, the shrink misunderstands that Noonan is telling 
the tales of three friends and concludes that he has an 
unprecedented triple personality. Immediately, she ar- 
ranges a closed-circuit televiewing of this rare specimen 
for her colleagues, but the scene is accidentally transferred 
to a national hookup by a technician blissfully absorbed 
in a PLAYBOY centerfold. A couchful of complications 
ensue until nebbish Noonan suddenly acquires backbone 
and gives each of his alter egos, in the end, a good, swift, 
ive kick. 

The bath tableau, photographed behind the scenes 
exclusively for PLAYBOY, occurs earlier. It is not entirely 
essential to the de 


lopment of the plot, but nonetheless 
gives Mamie excellent dramatic exposure: While Noonan 
sits in her bathroom, with his back turned, she attends 
to her ablutions with laving care and chattily unravels 
the complexities of her muddled psyche. Mamie’s bath, 
incidentally, is a combination of shaving cream (in- 
tended to form lather) and beer (intended to draw 
laughs). 

The film's farcicality was exceeded only by the buffoon- 


Far left: Feigning modesty for the still camera, Mamie hastily tosses 
on a little something—and misses. Noonan called this a "peek-a- 
boob gown." Left: Mamie is about fo leave her dressing room for 
sound stage, where prop men are putting a head on her bath. 


Above left: Before the cameras roll, Noonan jauntily hops into the hops with Mamie 
Above right: "Whatever you do," he whispers to Mamie, “don't writhe about seductively!” 


ery off camera. Very much aware of the publicity gamered by Jayne Mansfield 
through her PLAYBOY feature, Mamie told Noonan, “You made Jayne infamous 
by sitting on her bed. Think what you can do for me in a tub!” Noonan 
promptly hopped into the hops with his leading lady. References to Jayne 
were frequent in the banter during the shooting of the bath scene. After her 
last take, for example, Mamie jokingly inquired, “Did we get any shots that 
will get Hugh Hefner arrested?" 

Although we witnessed most of the beer-bath cinematography, we never 
did indulge a temptation to ask Mamie if, like Jayne, she would claim she 
posed in her first nudie movie for the sake of art, because it was obvious from 
what we'd seen that Three Nuts in Search of a Bolt is both ale and arty 


Above: After the scene is completed, Mamie banters with cameramen, offers gag toasts. 
Right: A final dip in the tub and then Mamie dashes off to a cool, refreshing shower. 


114 


PLAYBOY 


116 


"You'd better be careful — I'm not eighteen yet.” 


7 i i 
HAIRY GERTZ AND THE 


| 


peu | 
47 CRAPPIES one of life's yeastier experiences is to fish in that 


rich mulligatawny stew of dead toads, garter snakes and number-ten oil known as cedar lake 


memoir By JEAN SHEPHERD 
LIFE, WHEN YOU'RE a male kid, is what 
the grownups are doing. The adult 
world seems to be some kind of secret so- 
ciety that has its own passwords, hand- 
clasps and countersigns. The thing is to 
get in. But there's this invisible, impene- 
ble wall between you and all the 

nm bly swinging things 
t they seem to be involved in. Occa- 
sionally, inutterings of exotic secrets and 
incredible pleasures filter through. And 
so you bang against it, throw rocks at it, 
try to climb over it, burrow under it; 
but there it is. Impenctrable. Enigmatic. 

Girls, somchow, seem to be already 
with it, as though from birth they've got 
the word: Lolita -has no male counter- 
But the rest of us have to claw our 


way into life as best we can, never 
knowing when we'll be admitted. It 


happens to cach of us in different ways— 
and once it docs, there's no turning 
back. 

It happened to me at the age of 12 in 
northern Indiana—a remarkably barren 
terrain resembling in some ways the sur- 
face of the moon, encrusted with steel 
mills, oil refinerics and honky-tonk bars. 
1 was hung up on fishing at the time. 
Some kids got hung up on kite flying, 
others on pool playing. J became the 
greatest vicarious angler in the history of 
the Western world. 

‘There just wasn’t any actual fishing to 
be done around where I lived. So I 
would stand for hours in front of the 
goldfish tank at Woolworth's, landing 
fantails in my mind, after incredible 
struggles. And I would read Field and 
Stream, Outdoor Life and Sports Afield 
the way other kids read G-8 and His 


Battle Aces. Y would break out in a cold 
sweat reading about these guys portaging 
to Alaska and landing rare salmon; and 
about guys climbing the High Sierras to 
do mortal battle with golden trout; and 
about craggy, sinewy sportsmen who dis- 
cover untouched bass lakes where they 
have to beat off the pickerel with an oar, 
and the saber-toothed, raging 25-pound 
smallmouths chase them ashore and right 
up into the woods. 

After reading one of these fantasies, 
I would walk around in a re for 
hours, feeling the cork pistol grip of my 
imaginary trusty sixfoot split bamboo 
baitcasting rod in my right hand and 
hearing the high-pitched scream of my 
Pflueger Supreme reel st ing to hold 
a I7-pound great northern in check. 

1 became known around town as "the- 
kid-whois. (continued on page 168) 


(s | / 


PLAYBOY’S 
GIFTS 
FOR DADS 
AND GRADS 


Posh presents for paters and post- 
collegians. 1 (left to right): B-16 
thin dress wotch, with one-piece 
waterproof cose and 21-jewel 
movement, by Vontoge, $29.95. 
Varoflome Whirlwind lighter, with 
protective windshield, gold finish, 
by Ronson, $17.50. North Americon 
jode cuff links, by Dante, $15. 
Micronie Ruby Eight transistor 
rodio, 42 ounces, with chain ond 
fob, by Stondard, $39.95. 2 (left 
to right): Britannia 2-compartment 
metal flosk (holds a fifth in eoch 
side], in suede cose, by Abercrom- 
bie & Fitch, $50. Wolnut-and-brass 
letter scales, from Alfred Dunhill, 
$12. World-wide 3-bend AM/ 
short-wove 9-transistor portoble 
rodio with 4” x 8” speoker, tele- 
scoping ontenno for short-wave/ 
AM receptian, by Toshibo, $69.95. 
3 (left): Derby-vox battery-oper- 
oted one-yeor bross-finish alorm 
clock from Mark Cross, $52.25. 
Right: Adjustable 241/”-high spot- 
light lamp, bross with nickel-bur- 
nished illuminoting sphere mounted 
оп magnet, by Stiffel, $129. 4: 12- 
string guitor with 2-piece spruce 
top, Honduros mohogony bock 
and rim, by Gibson, $190. 1980 
2- ond 4track dual-speed stereo- 
phonic tope recorder with speaker 
ond amplifier outputs, 2 micro- 
phones, stereo and mono record/ 
ploybock, sound with sound, tape 
playbock with live voice, speed 
selection, volume and tone con- 
trols on eoch channel, digitol tape 
counter, built-in reel locks, auto- 
motic heod demagnetization and 
tope lifters, two VU recording 
meters, outomatic shutaff, by Wol- 
lensok, $379. 5: Book ends of 
the world ond celestial spheres 
rotate on wolnut boses, from Al- 
fred Dunhill, $25. Webster's New 
Collegiate Dictionory, thumb-in- 
dexed, G. & C. Merriam Co., $6.75. 
The Bedside Playboy, 500 poges of 
the best from патвот, Ployboy 
Press, $6. 6: Blonk-firing chrome- 
ploted bronze naval deck cannon, 
16” borrel, from Abercrombie & 
Fitch, $150. 7: Danish oak-and- 
leather saddle choir, by Borge 
Mogensen, $290. 8: Model F 
35mm сатего with speeds up to 
1/1000, #/1.9 lens, by Mirando, 
$189.95. Striped silk beoch set, 
by Bronzini, $40. Imported wool 
cordigan, by Oleg Cossini, $40. 


1: Lecther-trimmed hourglass, by 
Rigaud, $43.50. Inlaid wood chess- 
boord with bross divisions, 16 
bronze and 16 German-silver chess 
pieces, with walnut storage box, 
from America House, $600. 2: Ro- 
mon cain paperweight, from Ri- 
goud, $19.50. Library scissors ond 
letter opener in brushed aluminum 
ond walnut, from Alfred Dunhill, 
$20. Gold-filled pen and pencil, 
by Mark Cross, $19.25. 3: Citation 
B professional solid-stote BO-wolt 
sterea basic amplifier, frequency 
response 1 to 100,000 cps, by 
Harman-Kardon, $425, wired. It 
rests atap Empire Grenodier full- 
dispersion speoker, with dome 
tweeter, full-presence ceramic 
magnet wooler, by Empire, $180. 
LP: Mel Tormé Sings “Sunday in 
New York ond Other Songs 
About New York, Atlontic, $4.96 
(stereo). 4: Mustang convertible 
with optional white-wall fires, 
rocker ponels, windshield washers, 
simulated knackoff hubs, 260-cu.- 
in. V-B engine, by Ford, $2780.54 
(F.O.B. Detroit). 5: Poisley silk 
rabe, with black-faille shaw! col- 
lor and fully lined, by J. M. Wise, 
$60. Leather toilet cose with 
brushes ond comb, from Mork 
Crass, $200. Roundtrip first-class 
ticket between New York ond 
London, by BOAC, $816.60. 6: Tron- 
sistorized 15-wott stereo phono- 
graph with 2 dual speakers, 
Garrard changer, magnetic cor- 
tridge, AM/FM stereo tuner, all in 
eirplene-luggege cose, by Pilot 
Redio, $328. LPs: Hondel's Ode 
for the Birthday of Queen Anne 
and Three Coronotion Anthems, 
performed by Oriona Choir ond 
Orchestro, Alfred Deller canduct- 
ing, The Bach Guild, $5.95 
[stereo], ond Kenny Burrell's All 
Day Long, Prestige, $4.98 (stereo). 
7: Fully autamotic 16mm projector, 
regular ond slow-mation speeds, 
$160; remote-control unit, $14.95; 
51/4” x 644” Private Eye tabletop 
viewer, $24.95, all by Keystone. 
В: Yellow 2-ply Scottish coshmere 
sleeveless V-neck pullover, by 
Knize, $30. Ploybcy Putter with 
steel shalt, rubber-molded grip, 
Rabbit emblozed on solid bronze 
heod and blocklecther cover, by 
Playboy Products, $22. English 
shooting stick, by Rigaud, $37.50. 


1: Self-contained stereo unit in 
palisander rosewood cabinet 
mounted on oluminum undercor- 
rioge with costers, containing 
tronsistorized 90-wott stereo om- 
plifier, AM-FM-stereo tuner ond 
record chonger with twin spun- 
aluminum sound globes thot ro- 
tote freely outside the console in 
340-degree adjustoble arcs, by 
Cloirtone, $1600. 2: Coptoin 
Christensens rosewood chest, 
18" x 11” x 10”, with 6 decanters 
stopped by coin-lopped corks, 
from Abercrombie & Fitch, $135. 
3: Shoe Shine Center with electri- 
cally powered rollers, comes in a 
carrying cose with shoe rest on 
top ond compartments within for 
doubers ond polish, by Schick, 
$2495. 4: Sun Gun. Cordless 
Movie Light with vorioble beom, 
is self-contoined, bottery-powered, 
rechorgeoble, weighs 37/a pounds 
including botteries and recharger, 
by Sylvonio, $80. Pistol-grip 8mm 
zoom movie comera with (/18 
lens, by Corena, $279.50. Canonet 
35mm comero with {/1.9 lens, hos 
corrying cose ond flosh gun (not 
shown], by Bell & Howell, $140. 
5: Elliptipool hos 56” x 54” ellip- 
tical table, comes with folding legs, 
all occessories ond rules, by Goth- 
om, $99.95. 6: Smuggler 5-piece 
spin rod in portitioned bag, 
$3495; Monogrom fresh- and 
salt-woter reel, $24.95; split-willow 
15” creel with shoulder horness, 
$28.25; telescopic 3foot aluminum 
goff from Scotlond with stainless- 
steel hook, $23.50; white ash tresh- 
woter londing net with linen bog, 
$11.50; No-Alibi accessory kit, 
$1295, cll by Abercrombie & 
Fitch. Lontern with 500-foot, 360- 
degree beam, nonslip pistolgrip 
hondle, suction-cup onchors, by 
Mallory, $1955. 7 (left to right): 
Portoble 19” television with outo- 
matic timer thot turns set on ond 
off, by Sylvonio, $159.90. Antique 
English binnacle box for cigors, 
by Rigoud, $3750. Transistorized 
12-pound, 9” portable television, 
operoles on rechorgeoble bot- 
tery, 12-volt outo/boot system or 
AC, with built-in telescoping on- 
tenna, by Sony, $229.95. 8: Giont 
wrist-wotch woll decorolion with 
block-colf strap, 3 feet long, by 
Rigaud, $250. Leother vest faced 
with calfskin fur, by Bronzini, $75. 


1: Siamese teakwood water ski, 
custom-built ta weight and height 
specifications, with awner's name 
оп ski, by Rail Ski, $52.50. Seeflaot 
unsınkable fiberglass underwater 
viewing Баага, with rubber- 
padded viewing turret, from 
Abercrambie & Fitch, $89.95. 2: 
Supermatic Trophy 10-shat, .22 
long target pistol with 714” 
fluted barrel with high-luster finish, 
adjustable trigger pull, backlash 
arrester, magazine stabilizer, 
checkered-walnu! grip, by Hi 
Standard, $105. Taol Shop, hos 18 
items of Solingen steel, including 
hammer, pliers, saw, knife, screw- 
drivers, awl and punch, in hide 
case, by Mark Crass, $5250. 3: 
Set af 6 stainless-steel steak knives 
їп case, from Banniers, $26.50. 4: 
World Wide shockproof battery- 
operated electric clock, tells time 
all over world, by Elgin, $95. Pig- 
skin possport case with 9 pockets 
for tickets, checks, currency, from 
Mark Cross, $21. Gilded-bross 
cigarette lighter with black-calf 
cushioning and trigger-action re- 
lease, from Mark Cross, $37.50. 
5: Sweet-16 fiberglass speedboot 
with deep-V, gull-wing hull, has 
Starflite 90-5 outboord,- air- 
craft cable with boll-bearing 
pulleys, speedometer, tempered 
sofety-olass windshield, vinyl buck- 
et seats with lift-out life-preserver 
cushians, bow and stern lights, 
front floor mat, ski and fishing- 
rod staw racks; trailer has I-beam 
construction, tilt bed, winch with 
brakes, by Evinrude, $3430. 6: 
Transistorized 70-wolt stereo am- 
plifier, 35 watts per channel, with 
tape monitar, high-frequency fil- 
ler, speaker controls, os well os 
inputs for phona, tuner, tape, and 
outputs for speakers, record and 
heodphones, by KLH, $219.95; 
ailed-walnut cabinet, $19.95. 7: 
Marine borameter with salid-brass 
case, brass rings and spokes, fin- 
ished in statuary bronze, has 
mahogany base, by Abercrombie 
& Fitch, $155. Ship-to-shore short- 
wave 70-wott radio, by Heoth, 
$269.95, wired. 8: Enameled 
marine charcoal grill, stoys level 
at oll times, with detochable 
legs, from Abercrambie & Fitch, 
$3455. Silver-lined brass borbecue 
pon, walnut hondle, by Rigaud, $35. 


«oanu yuan] о poy mq р [T 

‘4240313 итоцѕ aq pjno2 pwd J wym 
“puvsd u221410[ о pa214d som 1v02 sry [, 
‘puny ќш ut 404414 4044 WW, 


Ribald Classic 


from Somadeva's Katha-sarit-sagara 


THE THIEVES OF LOVE 


її BAGHDAD there once lived Ali, a man. 
so fond of beautiful women that he all 
but lost his wits when one was mentioned 
and he could not have her. Being poor 
and fully cognizant that only wealth 
would enable him to meet the needs of 
his vigorous body and passionate spirit, 
he resolved to become wealthy so as to 
provide himself with that solace and pan- 
acea for which his flesh craved and his 
soul ycarned. Before he 30, therefore, 
by hard work and sacrifice, he had be- 
come a man of means, had built 2 fine 
house and had filled h some of 
arth’s fairest daughters. Men who knew 
how to judge such possessions swore that 
Ali's small harem of 60 damsels sur- 
assed, in quality, if not in quantity, the 
600 found in the palace of the caliph. 

Thus Ali lived in bliss and extreme 
felicity until a band of robbers appeared 
in Baghdad. These fiends were not con- 
tent to rob men of their gold and 
jewels, their Persian carpets and rare 
spices, their Arabian steeds and Abys- 
n camels, They sought—may Al 
ither them—a fairer commodity: the 
occupants of men's beds, their favorite 
concubines and even their wives. 

Ali strengthened his household guard 
of Nubian eunuchs and cautioned his 
damsels to cry out if strange men ap- 
peared. 

"Then one night as he lay in the arms 
of his ion, a damsel from 

Ar ited until time and 
nature decreed а second. encounter on 
the batlefiekl of Iove, he heard on the 
roof of his house the unmistakable sound 
of slippered fect. Looking up, he beheld 
the silhouettes of the robber band stark 
ist the full moon. Ali trembled with 
nd with fear. There were so 
many! Therefore, he spoke into the dam 
sel’s саг, saying: “Speak softly, but so 
that your words cin reach the robbers 
on the roof. Ask me how I gained my 
wealth, and when I refuse to tell you, 
press me and insist," 

"The Circassian, who was as wise as 


she was fair, raised her voice in an 
audible whisp: i, my lord and my 
love, whence came all this opulence? 
What business is so profi 

“Why ask?" quoth Ali. “You have the 
best of food and drink, you have gar- 
ments of the best fabrics, jewels, slaves 
—whatever the human heart desires. Let 
well enough alone and let us discuss the 
more pleasant matters we have before 
us tonight, your first in this house." 

But the damsel continued to press for 
knowledge, and at length Ali said: “I 
my wealth as a robber. 
said the damsel, “how can that 
be, since all men proclaim you honest?" 

"It is all due to а magic I learned in 
India," 
light nights, walking across the roofs of. 
the city with my helpers. When I find a 
rich house, I go to the skylight, say the 
magic words ‘Saulan, saulan.' seven times, 
embrace the shaft of moonlight that falls 
from roof to floor, and slide down upon 
it. Once I have robbed the house I return 
to the shaft of moonlight, repeat the 
charm and rise to the roof,’ 

‘The robbers on the roof heard it all, 
rubbed their hands and waited for sleep 
to overcome the lovers. Ali clasped the 
damsel in his arms and guided her skill- 
fully down the scented paths of paradise 
‘Then, pretending to snore, he waited. 
The robber chief, a powerful man, loos- 
ened his scimitar, said “Saulan, saulan" 
the seven times required, embraced the 
shaft of moonlight and stepped over the 
rim of the skylight. Loud was the crash 
of his fall and loud the cry of Ali who 
laped upon him and held his sword's 
blade threateningly against the robber's 
throat. The damsel ran to fetch the 
eunuch guardsmen, and the robber was 
dispatched with efficiency. 

Thereafter the house of Ali remained 
inviolate to the robbers, who feared fur- 
ther displays of his magic, and, hence, he 
returned to the bliss he had once known. 


—Retold by J. A. Gato 


" sid Ali, "I rob only on moon- , 


123 


playboy encores its fifth year’s gatefold girls 


CONTINUING OUR TENTH ANNIVERSARY YEAR program of reprising candidates for the December 
1964 Readers’ Choice pictorial, PLAYBOY presents the lucky 13 Playmates who gazed from our fold- 
outs in 1958. (PLAYBOY'S fifth year was marked by our first and only twin gatefold featuring the blonde 
beauty of Pat Sh plus the tiian-topped attractions of redhead Mara Corday.) January's 
abeth Ann Roberts underage appearance—she was still on the sunny side of 18—ceated 

a minor problem, but not in reader enthusiasm for the pert college freshman, whose modeling 
fce turned into tuition toward her M.D. Judy Tomerlin was a PLAYBOY receptionist and just six 
months removed from the foothills of Tennessee when she became our June Playmate and the 
prime focus of Photographing Your Own Playmate, a pictorial in that same issue. From 
sunny Miami came Joyce Nizzari, adding a decided glow to frosty December; September’s Teri 
an undergrad at Carnegie Tech when a fellow student submitted her picture as а pro- 

e found chess enthusiast Linné Ahlstrand in California and today she is a 

Bunny in the New York Playboy Club. Readers are invited to send us the names of their own ten 
favorites from the first ten ycars—and every girl who graced our gatefold during the first 
decade, from Marilyn Monroe (Miss December 1953) to Donna Michelle (Miss December 1963) is 
cligible. The ten most popular Playmates will appcar in a special December 1964 pictorial. 


ZAHRA NORBO, March 1958 FELICIA ATKINS, April 1958 


LARI LAINE, May 1958 


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MYRNA WEBER, August 1958 


MARA CORDAY, October 1958 PAT SHEEHAN, October 1958 
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CHERYL KUBERT, February 1958 LINNÉ AHLSTRAND, July 1958 


ELIZABETH ANN ROBERTS, January 1958 - JOAN STALEY, November 1958 


JUDY LEE TOMERLIN, Junc 1958 TERI HOPE, September 1958 


WHAT TO DO TILL THE SANDMAN COMES 


humor By JACK SHARKEY eye-opening enigmas designed to induce incurable insomnia 


asss» 
+ E 


en 


b 


LATELY, AT BFDTIME, I have started using my brain for think- 
ing, and I wish I hadn't. As soon as you decide to think, you 
have to select some subject to think upon, and once a sub- 
ject is on your mind, you find yourself asking questions 
about it, and when you run up short against unanswerable 
ones, your idyl with Morpheus has had it. 

I find, on searching textbooks, encyclopedias and other 
esoterica-laden tomes, that none of my questions have an- 
swers, or, at least, no answers that will satisfy me. There 
is nothing to be done about it. I will never slecp again, and 
that’s that. But I feel the least I can do is tell the world 
what is bugging me. That way, I'll know J have lots of 
company on these long sleepless nights 

Here, then, are the posers that are bothering me. If you 
can answer them, you are a better man than 1 am, which 
n't difficult, since you are so much more rested. Let us, 
erefore, assume that you are just on the verge of slumber 
- . your heavy eyelids droop warmly across your vision . . . 

breathing grows shallow and regular and then you 
nk 

(1) When you see your doctor about а rotten cold you 
can't seem to throw off, he suggests that you go to a hot, dry 
climate, such as Arizona's, where the cold will “dry up.” 
You tell him you cannot afford such a major step. He then 
countersuggests that you sit at home, head draped in a 
towel, and inhale warm, wet steam. Why? Will the steam 
dry up the cold? 

(2) If there is one secret unknown even to the FBI, it is 
the handclasps of various college fraternities. No one but a 
brother Pi Delta Whatsis can learn the secret shake. If you 
join the fraternity, you are sworn to eternal secrecy about 
the shake. Great саге has been used 10 produce shakes sc 
elaborate, so unlikely to occur by accident, that they will be 
a certified signal to any fellow frater that you are one of the 
bunch. Now, please tell me: With all this secrecy, how do 
the fraternities know that {heir handclasps are different 
from those of the other fraternities? 

(3) When people possess oversize diamonds, and wish them 
split neatly into smaller stones, they will let no one attempt 
it except an expert diamond splitter. What docs a mar 
practice on to become an expert diamond splitter? I mean, 
who's nutty enough to hand over the one a beginner uses 
his initial attempt? 

(4) The wings of planes are constructed with flat bottoms 
and gently curving tops, so that the air flowing over the 
wing will have to go faster than air flowing under it, thus 
i sing the air velocity over the wing and producing a 
lessening of pressure upon it, or what they call “lift,” and 
the plane can fly. So how does a plane fly upside down? 

(5) A court witness is sworn to tell “the truth. the whole 
truth, and nothing but the truth," under pain of perjury. So 
how come when the witness tries to add the miti 
tails of a statement, the lawyer can say, “Just answer Yes’ 
or No," and get away with it? 

(6) A girl puts on a tight knitted cashmere dress, dabs her 
car lobes and popliteals with a seductive perfume, arranges 
her hair in the latest fashion, carmines her lips to make 
them kissable, then goes for a walk around the block and a 
man whistles at her. How come she acts offended? 

(7) The man who ate the first oyster is, of course, not too 
sterious; as ugly as it looked, once he'd tried it, he knew 
he was onto a good thing. The (concluded on page 150) 


"Hell — уои know Harry’s Bar. Look, gue те 
here, and here's West 58th Street . . ." 


Modern filter here »(] 


1: .... Filter-Blend up front 


Changing їо a filter cigarette? Change to America's favorite. 
Join the big swing to Winston...the largest-selling filter cigarette! 


Winston tastes good...like a cigarette should! 


©1964 R. 2. Reynolds Tobacco Company, Winston-Salem, N. С. 


р E 


1 


Ум 


fiction By GERALD KERSH THE PERSON IN SOLFERINO PARK 
how does one shatter an image without destroying the romantic dream of its devotee? 


LADIES, OR GENTLEMEN, ARE BORN. They cannot be made. To be what is called a lady, you must have a certain refine- 
ment of sensibility which compels you to do unto others rather better than you hope they may do to you, Gentility 


is a quality of soul. It involves compassion for your fellow men: an inborn goodness. 

Now to my mind, although she is the greatest comic actress of our time, Bella Ba 
not in her character to turn up an hour late for 
you been waiting? That stuff you read about the 


ау is intrinsically a lady. It is 
appointment with a hypocritically nonchalant Oh dear, have 
artistic temperament" is nothing but a record of bad manners. 
So, gasping for breath, she said, "My friend, I am truly sorry. I am fifty-five minutes late. Time is life, Un- 


punctuality is a kind of murder. But, believe me, I have been practically done to death. It happened at the Hotel 


Impeccable Arrangement... 


THE 
PLAYBOY 
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The walnut-finished valet is topped with a 
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132 


mpled and beaten." 
y ers?" 1 asked. 

“By nothing of the sort. It would ap 
pear that a fellow who goes by the name 
of Hip-Hip Thomas was having a banana 
split in the coffee shop—a sort of 
plethoric, ov 
boy, much h 
ripe, who m 
spoiled succul 
articulate. Well, for the sike 
object I was jostled, hemmed in 
believe me or not—actually addresse 
by scarcely 
canvas trousers. So I owe 
pologies."" 
id, "Not a bit. Girls will be girls 
X crush knows no law. I dare say you 
have had your crushes on your girlhood 
heroes.” 

“The word ‘crush’ was not in use when 
1 was young. We did, however, whisper 
among ourselves of G.P.s. That was short 
for Grande Passion, when 1 was a school- 
girl. We managed our passions better 
then. My grandmother, for example, fell 
insanely in love with that great musician 
Liszt; she carried one of his cigar butts 
in a locket to the end of her days, but 
she would never have dreamed of ad- 
ng him unless they had been 
ally introduced, let alone in c 
trousers. Again, I had an aunt who 
swore that if she could not marry the 
he would not hav 
body. She kept her word, too; but you 
didn't catch her tearing butions off his 


own, downy peach of a 
ndled and deceptively un- 
mages even to sing lil 


fruit made half 
ol this 


у 


, "My ardors were alw 
of a refined and intellectual kind. At 
the age of thirteen I fell in love with 
that great French author Guy de M 
passant. Not that this would interest 
you. You only come to sce me to get 
stories out of my past; and the kind of 
person who reads the sort of stuf you 
write is not likely ever to have heard of 
Guy de Maupa although I am told 
high school girls are compelled to т 
The Necklace. I ask you! To he forced 
to read the great Guy de Maupassant as 
an exercise! In my day, some mothers 
of adolescent girls had to lock his books 
up in a cupboard for fear that we might 
get at them.” 

Disregarding the insult, I said, “Des 
lady, even if you had been interested 
that bore Racine, your personal interest 
would bring him to life for the who 
world. I don't say people would r 
him; but they would say, ‘If Bella Barl 
likes him, he must have something.’ " 

“Lie on, lie on! You soothe my nerves 
with your falschoods,” said she. “Let us 
have a glass of sherry.” 

“But excuse me; surely Guy de Mau 
passant died when you were no more 
than a baby,” 1 sa 


that to do with it?” she 
love for him was a thing of 
the soul.’ 
"Well, if it comes to that,” I d, 
nightn't a teenager's love for a rock 
roller be much the same kind of 


1, stiffly, “I do not sce the con- 


girl, belongs to the 
ti plied. “Sp у 
ig. is there any real difference be- 
up a photograph of Hip- 
Hip Thomas and hanging one of Liszt's 
r butts around your пес 

. But we were talking 
of one of the greatest storytellers of all 
time, Guy de M; nt. I was. taken 
Solferino Park, in 
in 1908." 
ou were only about fifteen years 
old, then, I imagine." 

"Yes. In. England and America, the 
tales of that great man were regarded as 
unfit for girls to read, for he wrote of 
Jove in a keen, cold, brut but he 
appeared in all the best ladies’ magazines 
in I must have read all his 
works before I wa teen, and I cannot 
remember that I was the worse for 
that. Only I developed what they call a 
"er on the man himself. I had to 
find out everything about him, good, 
bad and indifferent. Most of what 1 
learned. was either bad or indifferent. 
But, gazing in private at a little cabinet 
photograph of him which I had pur- 
chased, I sometimes said to it, ‘Ah, my 
poor Guy! If you had known me you 
would haye lived a less dissolute life; 
through my faith in you, you would 
have learned the meaning of true love!" 
By this I meant something vernal, 
flowerlike, romantic, del (c—some- 
thing rather like the affection that ex- 
isted between my dear parents—which, 
as 1 now realize, wouldn’t have suited 
Guy de Maupassant at all. 

“Indeed, over this matter I had one of 
my very few disagreements with that 
great theatrical impresario, my secret 
confidant and the nd of all the world, 
Jean de Luxe. He laughed at me, and 
said, ‘I knew Guy de М ant. He 
built like a little ox—thicl 
thick-chested and with crispy brown hai 
We used to call him The Melancha 
Bull. He wouldn't have liked your type. 
Spiritual lite girls bored him stiff. Re- 
member his stories as masterpieces, but 
put Guy out of your mind as a human 
being. He wasn't" 

Furious, І replied, ‘I will love him 
until I die!” 

“Jean de Luxe said, ‘Oh, just you wait 
and see. Anyway, poor Guy has been 
dead and buried these several years." 


‘Not in my heart!’ I cried. ‘I hate 


you 
we ‘Oh no you don't, he answered. 

“And I knew that I did not." 

Bel lay smiled ly and, deli- 
cately sipping her wine, went on: 

"Well, that spring my father took 
momma and me for one of those educa- 
tional holidays through Austri; 
many, Switzerland, Italy, F 
forth. Our staring red guidebooks were 
carefully bound in blue si 
away what they called that touristishness, 
which was supposed to look so vu 
n art galleries and cathedrals, and to be 
a terrible temptation to dishonest guides. 
I need scarcely tell you that the general 
format of a guidebook is better known 


than its coments by such characters, so 
that a silk binding merely titillates their 
appetite for plunder, 
quire the cameos and other junk we 
a glass goblets, 
а chairs, stained. 


‚ my parents could not per- 
suade me to t à proper interest in 
the cultural life, as represented by the 
Leaning Tower of Pisa, and all that. 
АП I wanted was to get to the ancient 
Norman city of Rouen. Why? Because 
there was a маше of my hero, Guy 
de Maupassant, there, and I had to put 
a little bunch of flowei t its foot. 1 
need scarcely tell you that I was not 
such a fool as to divulge my secret mo- 


PLAYBOY 


134 


tive: I simply insisted that I must go to 
Rouen, 

My mother whispered to my father, 
Joan of Arc was martyred at Rouen. 
Can it be that Bella wants to make a 
pilgrimage?” 

My father, pulling at the lobe of his 
ar as he always did when nonplused— 
bless him, was about half the 
My love, I don't know.” 
‚ as it were 
Rouen. This i 
sistence. Rouen, Rouen, Rouen! Do you 
by any chance contemplate making some 
sort of pilgrimage?” 

may bend the truth, but 
we never lie. I looked him in the eve and 
replied, “Yes. A sort of pilgrimage.” 

That floored him. He could only ask, 
“You haven't, by any chance, been hear- 
ing voices, have your 

I answered, “Yes, I have." I did not 
feel it necessary to explain that 1 had 
been hearing his voice, and momma's. 

“Just so, just so," said he; then, with 
а double M 

My old nurse Ilonka said that the best 
thing for noises in the head was a 
poultice of boiled onions in the ears; 


which, 


ing 


with which, duly applied, 1 was sent to 
bed, with a dose of hepatic salts for good 
measure. And that night poor father sent 
a long. explanatory telegram to good old 
Jean de Luxe, who was going to Paris 
on theatrical business, begging him to 
break his journey for a day at Rouen, 

We had a double suite at the Hotel 
William the Conqueror in that historic 
city, and there Jean de Luxe came, with 
the air of a producer and director, his 
beard perfumed with lilac, and his hat 
оп one side of his head. There was a 
spered conversation, the gist of 
which I could easily guess. Then Поп 
came to me and said in her sourest voice, 
You are going out to tea with M. Jean 
de Luxe. Dress, child!” 

“Are momma and poppa 
too?” 1 asked. 

“Your momma has a migraine, worry- 
ng about you, and your poppa has a 


whi 


coming, 


knot in his stomach, Get dressed.” 
I replied, lofüly, "I am already 
dressed.” 
Ilonka said, “A young lady should at 


least scrape the boiled onions out of her 
Bless her heart, she always kept 
damp rag to smother pride with! 


са 
some 


“Td like to see your income tax returns for 
the last five years.” 


So, curiously smelling like a lamb stew 
h lavender water—an evil combina- 
Чоп—1 went to tea with Jean de Luxe. 
He wi ing 
great snakewood walking stick, At Tast 
he said, “You're off your feed, 1 hi 

“I have not much appetite, U 
Jean," E answered. 

"Could 1 perhaps tempt you with a 
little pastry?" 

1 said, "I'm not hungry, really 

“Pity,” said he. “Arminio is one of the 
four great pastry cooks of Europe. He 
has the Italian technique, but learned his 
finer doughs in Vienna and his sponges 
in Pari He is the man who 
made a chocolate éclair so light that the 
dancer La Goulue could keep it in the 
air by waving a fan at it 

My mouth was watering painfully, but 
I still had strength of will enough to 
say, "А cup of weak tea, Uncle Jean. No 
mor 

“So be it,” he said. “Arminio was 
pastry cook to Napoleon the Third. But 
Arminio rank revolutionary. He 
was found guilty of conspiring against 
the Emperor. But the Empress Eugenie 
aid to her husband, "Louis, let us be 
is nothing more exquisite 
in the world than Arminio's Carbonari 
Tart. Arminio is international good will. 
You must pardon him!” The unhappy 
French Emperor, twirling his absurd 
mustaches—irresolute, as usual—said, 
"Madame, Arminio may conspire 
ws Monday and Tuesday, on. condition 
that he bake the Carbonari Tart for 
the rest of the week.’ . . . It is a confec- 
tion of apples, honey and cream, with— 
but what am I talking about? You are 
on a pilgrimage, you have no appetite. 
ıintly, “Perhaps just one of 
irs the lady kept in the air 


ominously silent, 


n artist 


with pe 
"Then Jean de Luxe turned on me, and 
said, "Vou little nuisance, hy rights 1 


should put you across my knee and wal- 
lop you red, white and black as the 
German flag! You are by nature a great 
artist, уез; but remember this—in the 
course of nature no one can achieve 
artistry, which signifies the triumph. of 
man versus beast. You have behaved 
selfishly. I am going to make an artist of 
you. ‘Selfish artist’ is a contradiction in 
terms, because you must belong to every- 
one except yourself. You little beast, you 
shall not have tea at Arminio's! 
I had never scen Jean de Luxe so 
exercised. “Where, th Y d. 


He said, “We are going to a florists 


shop. 
And so we did, He said, 
lady wants a bunch of verbena." 
“Why verbena?" i 
“It was Guy de Maupas 


“The young 


asked. 


nt's favorite 


flower. I have diagnosed what ails you. 
For the past twelve months you have 
been mooning over his picture. Come!" 

But they had no verbena, and Jean de 
Luxe settled for red roses—which I had 
to pay for—and then, carrying my nose- 


gay, I went arm in arm with him to 


He said to me, “About 
„ 1906 or thereabouts, they 
put up a statue of poor Guy. It was ob- 
served, then, that the park keeper looked 
exactly like him. Some correspondent of 
per wrote a piece about it. The 
man’s name who keeps the park is 
Cavalier. The resemblance between him 
and your hero is something extraord 
nan 
I said, with heat, “Uncle Jean, this 
means nothing. In a way, everybody 
Jooks a little like everybody else. A super- 
ficial resemblance between a nobody and 
а somebody is enough to bring out an 
imitation. Hence, I have seen Theodore 
Roosevelt sweeping the floor of a café; 
I have scen the King of England sell- 
ing fish: I have scen the Emperor 
Franz-Joseph—whiskers and all—hawk 
ing gardenias. Who wouldn't look like 
the Kaiser of Germany, given a sea-gull- 
shaped mustache? People do not create 
appearances; appearances create people! 
When I paused for breath, Jean de 
id, “Enough! It so happens that 
lier, the caretaker of Solferino Park 
was Guy de Maupa 
1 mean, Cavali 
de Maupassant.” 
I cried, “If this makes a resemblance, 
alf the world ought to have udders, 
nd moo! 


mother suckled Guy 


id he. 
"—Or my kitten should have horns,” 
“having been brought up on 


Less brilliance, young lad 


“You are too clever by half,” said 
Jean de Luxe. “Bring your flowers and 
make your pilgrimage. 

All the same, I felt that I had scored 
de Luxe, that kindest 
nds; this is no way to feel, young 
Pinching my silly face into a 
ind of composure, T walked with 
Solferino Park, looking—as I must now 
regretfully admit—not unlike one of 
those naughty young French girls who 
at the present time make fame writing 
nasty psychological novels. 

He said to me, “Wipe that silly smi 
off your face, you! Гуе seen it in and 
I'll sce it out. Behold the memo 

I drew a deep breath. Th 
memorial to my idol, Cuy de M 
sant. My bunch of roses quivered in my 
hand as I stepped forward. 


n to 


aupas- 


But then, standing by this bit of 
statuary in Solferino Park, upon whom 


did these eyes fall? As the sky above is 
my witness, there stood Guy de Ma 


sant himseli—shortcut, burly, crispy- 
haired. military of stature, with a huge 
chestnut mustache shaded by a pinch of 
reddish hair on the lower lip, and the 
supercilious air of a born aristocrat! He 
was dressed in a species of uniform, bu 
toned up to the throat. His elegant hands 
toyed with a bit of paper and some black 
tobacco, of which he made a sort of 
sausage—a cigarette—what time he 
scratched about with a sulphur match, 


hemming and hawing while he waited 
for the stick to catch, and fussing with 
his smoke. 


Jean de Luxe said, dry as an old leaf, 
“Meet Cavalier, the caretaker. 

“Enchanted!” cried the caretaker 
Cayalier, looking me up and down in 
such a manner that I felt as if I had 
been skinned : 

His brown were shiny and dead 
as chestnuts, quite soulless, and. every 
now and again he caressed his mustache 
with a cautious knuckle and smiled 
pinkly at me. He was perhaps the most 
repulsive man I ever saw, and T have 
seen my share. It was his utterly ersatz 
manner that did it. He was what they 
call snide. 


Now I saw a fresh aspect of kind Jean 
de Luxe—cool and weary, listening with 
i tience of a man who 
knows all the answers but is bound to 
let yourself dry, Cavalier's ciga- 
rette disintegrated. Offering him a cigar 
as if he proposed to stab him with it, 
Uncle Jean growled. “Smoke this, man, 
smoke this! .. . No, for God's sake don’t 
light it with a sulphur match, you fool! 
Here's a wax vesta - Your mother, І 
believe, was wet nu to the great Guy 
de Maupassant” 

“She м: said the caretaker Cavalier. 
“Oh yes, indeed!” 

“My little girl here i: 
of Guy de Maupa 

Grinning, the caretaker leaned back- 
ward, so that now his glance penetrated 
only to my bodice and took in part of 
my chemise. Jean de Luxe added, “You 
may address her as Miss Bella.” 

Cavalier, the ca id, "Yes, yes; 
all the girls loved us." His eyes were wise 
to my stockings. 

"Us?" asked Jean de Luxe. 

“We De Maupassants,” said the care- 
er, with a chuckle. 

n de Lus id, "Come off it, 


a great admirer 


ker, 


“Ah, spring!” 


135 


PLAYBOY 


136 


icr! People do not create appear- 
appearances create people.” 

id, "This I have heard before.” I 
giggled, 1 think. 

Jean de Luxe growled, “Shut up! 
was in no mood for joking. Then С: 
lier said, “I am sorry. I offended you 
with my tobacco, my soldicr's tobacco. 
But I can afford no better, Беса 
a working man. You are gentlefolk. Yet 
if 1 had my rights, perhaps I might smell 
sweet even to the nostrils of the likes of 
you! 
What rights 


He 


ic Lam 


sked Jean de Luxe. 

The careta id, with а theatrical 
sigh, “I am paid to look after Solferino 
Park, not to talk.” 

Jean de Luxe took out а bright gold 
napoleon, and balanced it on a fingertip. 
Fell us about your rights, and your 
wrongs.” 

“What wrongs 

t the coin. 
Where there are rights 
wrongs,” said Jean de Luxe. 

1 piped up: “Guy de Maupassant. 
Tell us about Guy de Maupassant” 

As for him.” said € icr, with a 
smile, “I can tell you everything. Every- 


" asked Ca 


т, squint. 


there arc 


ning the gold piece with a melodi 
ous, tingling sound, Jean de Luxe said, 
"Tell" 

"Then this person said, "Well, as you 
may have heard, Guys mother Laura 
was а Le Poittevin. Now the Le Poitte- 
vins were a good solid Norman family— 
merchants, you know, and. millionaires 
—but seeded out. 

“Bless 
cried J 
when а park keeper 
ned 

“Isn't it, though?" asked C 
ng affectionate gestures to his mus- 

as if it were a pet spaniel. “I will 

He was, as vou might say 
if iı 
might get jealou he was 
ogling the gold coin. He went on, “The 
De Maupassants were gentlefolk. Had 
a coronet on their note paper, et cetera. 
But they were penniless, of cours 

“And why "of course?" 1 den 


my h 


here's promotion 
"Hei lucky d 
ks in such а man- 


1 de Luxe. 


soothing that mustache of his—as 


of the w 


that your gentry should be wastrels— 
hunting, shooting, fishing, and all that— 
a dozen at table, and the w 
like water. Then, И you 
horse to catch a fox, or a 
just to bag a rabbit, how c 
money? Well, Laura le Poittevin broi 
her husband a very decent fortune, 
deed: and as soon as she was Madame 
de Maupassant, he settled down to enjoy 
he did not have a very gay time 
I think, what with one thing and 
another. But when little Guy was born, 


she was deliriously happy. You'd think 
he was the first child ever to come into 
the world! Ah, mother love, mother love 
—what nteresting institution you 
аге!” 

Jean de Luxe growled, 
it, man?" 
Yes sir, so I do,” said this person, 
with a smirk. “Now my momma, the wife 
of the farmer Cavalier, had been Laur 
le Poittevin's maid and companion, so 
that when they were married old 
Monsieur le Poittevin gave her a sub- 
stantial dowry in the shape of a good 
farm, As luck would have it, Guy de 
Maupassant and I were born on the 
me day. But whereas Madame Cavalier 
a veritable Percheron horse of a girl, 
Madame de Maupassant was very sickl 

"And yet—so much for Darwin!— 
lide Guy was firm and rosy as an 
pple, while Caval 
what peaked, sickly, as the saying goes. 
And this pleased. the 
farmer not at all. He would say, “ 
the rhyme апа r We've got 
a fine bit of land, and in twenty years’ 
time, if we're careful, we'll get hold of 


“Get on with 


м: 


s brat was son 


son ol 


nd 


Madame Pichegrue’s acres, too. And 
who's to work the land? You can't fool 
me. Our kid will never make a farmer." 


Momma would shout, ‘What does 
the man want? Our little sweetheart will 
fill out. Leave him be." 

"'Oh, ah: he'll fill out forms in a 
post office. He'll be a tailor, a cobbler” 

"Is the man out of his mind? Momma 
would cry. ‘What, are children fish— 
Throw that one back, it's too small? 

“Father would grumble, ‘It can't. be 
they're eating, since you're nursing. 
them both.’ 


wi 


т, shut up; you make me 
tired!’ 

“But Poppa, ha 
cated, cunning id 
man head, could not get it out. So one 
when Madame de Maupassant was 
in bed with a sore throat which she 
was afraid her precious little Guy might 
catch—for otherwise she hardly let her 
baby out of her sight—Poppa said, "Look 
here. Just for a joke. The De Maupassant 
pup is decked out in a small fortune's 
worth of silk bibs, petticoats, tuckcrs, 
ad all that truck. Our little 


ing got some compli- 
into his hard Nor- 


woolen shirt and. knitted 
boot. Now just for fun, mind you— 
itle De Maupassant in our kid's 


ad put ours into the other one’s 


finery. 
"Momma said, 


‘You're drunk.’ But he 

nsisted, and he had his way. He always 
did, the old mule! Momma dressed Guy 
in my clean but simple clothes, and got 
me up in Guy's highly fanciful wrap- 
pings. And just as she was admiring the 


effect, Laura de Maupassant came tiptoc 

nto the nursery, and snatched me up, 
covered me with kisses, burst into tears. 
and wailed, "Oh my little Guy, my lite 
Guy! Has it been pining for ity mummy, 
then? How pale he is! et cetera, ct 
cetera. 

“This put Momma Cavalier in a pre- 
dicament, for she was like an elder sister 
to Laura de Maupassant, and this un- 
lucky, nearsighted, hysterical lady was in 
a very delicate state of nerves. 
with a terrible indecision, she did noth 
ing at all. 

“Thus, saying no more about it, she 
took me home. Cavalier slapped her on 
the back and said, “That's the girl! Don't 
cry. Your brat isn’t fit for the hard 
world; they'll bring him up soft. But this 
‘un will make а farmer! And that's the 
way it turned out. Only the De Maupas- 
sants lost all their money, 
they thought was Guy took 
pushing. No stamina. Died young. And 
how do you like that for a story. sii 

Jean de Luxe looked at him in blank 
amazement, and gave him the gold na 
poleon. “Where the devil did you read 
that story?” he asked. 

The park keeper said, "What with the 
farm, the amy, and so forth, 1 never 
had time to learn to read or write.” 

"And Cavalier?" asked Jean de Luxe. 
Oh, he went wild over the Suez 
Canal, and Jost his shirt.” 

“Have 
Luxe, laughing. “You tell 
ecper looked surpri: 
nd why should I not tell 
story, sir? After all, I am Guy de Ma 
sant!" And he twi 

As we were 1 


, seized 


nd the boy 


to pen 


ied. He 
good 
pas 
led his silly mustache. 
ving Solferino Park, 


Unde Jean said, "Well, have you made 
your pilgrimage?” 
"Yes. 


"By the way, if it is not an indiscre- 
tion—whose photograph was that which 
you just dropped down the drain? 

I answered honestly, “To be perfectly 
frank, Uncle Jean, 1 D 

“Do you care?” 

“No.” 


do not know 


his 


n is nothing, the rt is 
the thing? 
fes, Uncle Jean." 

"Congratulations. You have become a 
woman." 

Then we all went to the circus, 
had the time of our lives. 


Bella Barla 1 so much 
like a dream, is it not: Der: 
haps I was too harsh with those silly 
young people. It is pleasant to he young 
d silly .. . Only they should not have 
called me "Mummy-o. 


“Well, just take this little plane off automatic control 
and put your hands back on the wheel!” 


PLAYBOY 


138 


JACKPOT ‘continued from page 74) 


fulfillment had not yet come to Al Doo- 
ley. He stood up shyly 10 say good night. 
“You leaving so soon, sport? Aw, gee.” 
“Well, gee, Poopie— 
But Poopie was just grinning, showing 
his gold teeth. Apparently he had 
planned to beat up Milly in front of Al 
as an educational method of showing 
her that he didn't approve of her colle- 
giate associations, she should have out- 
grown all that: but Al's abrupt decision 
to depart took him by surprise. 
soon?” he repeated. He clucked 
Nice talkin’ to you, sport.” 
Milly also stood up to зау goodbye, 
soodbye, AL" she said. "Come agai 
soon," 
Naturally Poopie flew 
You stand up when he | 
Nothing! And what you mean asking 
him to come a come again soon, 
she said"—he mimicked her shrilly, ap- 
pealing to justice at the tangle of wires 
the ng where there had once 
been a chandelier. "Come again soon! 
Come again soon! You puting me 
down to this college spook? Why you 
little—— 
And he slammed her across the room. 
Her head hit a bookshelf filled with her 
old textbooks [rom Mills College. Cush- 
ioned by soggy. wormout educational 
material, she dropped to a group of floor 


Mo a 


rage. 
aves, but me? 


d out, “Poopie, please, 
have a visitor." 


honey, w 
Before Al could move, Poopie was at 


her pping her face with his 
ope Ooh, Poopie.” she said in a 
wee voice, looking surprised, 

In an instant АЁ came fully alert. He 
would not pur up with this, even though 
it meant interference in the family life 
of the underworld, Although AI had a 
lot of respect for folkways, he leapt at 
Poopie and pulled him ой. He was sur- 
prised at how easy this was: Poopie was 
а very small and slender та 


man, w 


nal with a menacing heft. Instead, 
when Al yanked him to his feet by his 
leather sleeves, he found himself gasping 
into the limp face of a blinking, unhap- 
py little pimp. AL started to say some- 
thing when the cyclone struck. И v 
Milly protecting her guy. Shriliing and 
screaming, she le: Al; she scratched. 
and kicked: she was all over him, like a 
crazed she-panther in her den. 

Al dropped Poopie, He also slipped 
free of Milly's daws. He escaped down 
the stairway and into the foggy street 
with her shricks pursuing him: 
Poopie alone, vou brute 
boy! You monster! You 

M shut his ears to à con 


"Leave 
You college 


g series 


of pejorative remarks that culminated 
an allegation about his intimate rela- 
tionship to his mother. The accusation 
was plainly false, His mother lived far 
ay in Santa Barbara and was devoted 
to her husband, Al's father, even some- 
times working late with him in the agen- 
су, helping arrange tours to Acapulco. 

Al limped doy nt. He was happy 
to escape with his life. He was not wor 
ied about his reputation. Unfortunate- 
ly, he had lost a shoe in the battle w 
Poopie. or rather, in the assault by Mil- 
ly, and this preoccupied him. The street 
was damp and cold. One shoe is worse 
than none, it seemed. His quest of cer- 
tainty was hard on his bruised 
fect. Walking through the fog with one 
shoe on, one shoe lost, leads to bi 
thoughts. 

Fortunately, an Army and Navy su 
plus store—known locally as the Beat- 
піке Brooks Brothers—remained open 
late on Sundays and Al could buy a pair 
war surplus tennis shoes. 
good. The glue started to 
come unstuck from the soles before he 
had gotten a block farther on, but th 
would last until he reached home again. 
He felt like unstuck surplus merchandise 
himself. His luck was good, but not su. 
perb. He had also bought a package ol 
Navy surplus mints to take to bed with 
him. It was time for some serious think- 
ing. A man cannot expect others to solve 
his problems. He can raise the sugar le 
cl of his blood and do his own problem 
solving. Al and the melted-together 
mints would work together now. He 
pried them apart with his fingernails. 
To hell with Poopic and Milly. То hell 
with Peggy. 

Oh-oh. He finished the mints and still 
couldn't sleep. School and the Army and 
is mother and his father and finding a 
decent job and finding work he liked 
and Milly and Poopie and Peggy and 
West Berlin and Cuba and why Johnny 
can't read and suburban sprawl (which 
is destroying our great cities) and thc 
plight of oppressed peoples everywhere 
(including the human race) all got on 
his nerves, He tossed and turned. Ex- 
pecting to go into the Army, he had left 
some papers unwritten. This would be 
one of those night 

He sat up, blinked in the dark, and lit 
теце. He telephoned Peggy. She 
flew over directly in her powderblue 
‘Triumph. “I, too, 
thinking about you this evening, AL.” 

Thinking of each other helped them 
both to find sweet repose. Afterward he 
moved to the far side of the bed in order 
to symbolize the fact that he was alone 
in a world he never made. He had been 
made by it; by everything, including 
Peggy; by circumstances. He slept with a 
minty taste of Peggy clinging to his 
tongue. 

During an early-morning hour, when 


she prodaimed, “was 


Peggy sprang up to make breakfast. he 
awoke briclly to the buzz of the machine 
inding the hearts out of oranges, to 
the smell of de ted oranges, to the 
click of the fridge in which a glass of or- 
ange juice was being placed to chill— 
nice Peggy; then he stretched out, sighed, 
and fell asleep in. He d t of 
mintflavored money, chocolate dollars 
and the loncly responsibility of oudaw 
freedom. Crocker Anglo is the name of a 

а in Francisco. There are many 
hborhood branches of the Crocker- 
Anglo National Bank. 

Al opened his eyes. Peggy had brought 
him a tray. She was wearing the top of 
his pajamas. She had dimpled knees. 
Scrambled eggs, 
marmalade courtesy of your n 
he juice is in the fr 
like it after, not befor 
you've got something 
know 

"Crockei 

“Wha?” 

“You sce, you don't know all about 
Al. Crocker-Anglo, I said.” 

He was thinking: With a note. With a 
toy pistol. I could do that all by myself 
and not have to complicate things. Just 
dollars to fly free with, 

“You thinking of starting a Christmas 
Savings Account?” Peggy asked. "Ве 

se if it’s for me, just any old present 


п your tu 
thing about you, AL" 
nglo,” said AL. 


will do, AL It is the thought that counts, 
І always say. Where'd you get those 
scratches on your face? Answer yes or no. 
Hey. I can tell you're not listening, bad 
boy. You're dreaming, Al.” 


ШҮП he burst ош savagely, 
“thinking. 

‘IE you can think on an empty stom- 
ach, why can't you drink orange juice, 
Alp? AL!” 


Al spent the alone, thinking it 
over. There was a пісе litle branch 
bank down on Market Street It would 
be busy during lunch hour, and there 
would be a sexy litle crowd on the 
street to melt into. Al made a few pur- 
chases: СІ suntans in the ArmyJ 
store, dark glasses, a pair of rubber 
gloves in the Safeway, a toy pistol in the 
Woolworth’s. The clothes were to be 
thrown away later: the rubber gloves 
would beat the fingerprint problem. He 
had to dump one glove, since they were 
having а threefortwo offer on rubber 
gloves (for housewives with an extra 
hand?). He rented a coin typewriter in 
the public library for a half hour to 
write a very brief message to whom it 
might concern: 

L THIS BAG WITH BILLS о 
DENOMINATION. NO FUSS. TI 
15 LOADED. 1 AM NERVOUS, 
That was a mornin 


avy 


MEDIUM. 
PISTOL 


^s work. It’s not sa 


lay in your supplies. He then 
ros the Bay Bridge to 


Berkeley, like a sick dog heading home. 
He hadn't lied when he wrote that he 
was nervous. The part about the gun was 


a fib, but the part about his nervousness 
was all uue. He lay on the floor of his 
apartment to quiet his pounding heart. 
He flung himself down and just rested 
there in the cool dark, staring at the 
ceiling, with the shopping bag contain- 
ing his recent purchases flung to the 
floor beside him. He thought of getti 
some tranquilizers, but decided it would 
be cheating, and this moral decision 
made him smile. It tranquilized him, He 
would take another day to get ready 
The next morning he would spend 
hanging around the neighborhood of 
earning the patterns of streets 
s. He would not try to make 
scientific thing of it. He would just 
1 intelligent, hunchy, old-fashioned 
entrepiencur. He knew from the movies 
nd mystery novels that the clever, scien- 
tific criminals always made one fatal 
mistake, He would avoid that pitfall. He 
would make a lot of mistakes, per 
but enjoy good luck and happy insp 
Чоп. He would improvise, like a jazz 
musician. Не would swing. 

There was а good chance of bi 
caught. There good chance to get 
ay. He would try his best chance. 


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Before he left the next morning, the 
telephone rang and it was Milly Peck. 
Her low sweet voice was whispering lit- 
Пе apologies to Al for what she called 
“the unpleasantries” of the other eve- 
ning. She didn’t know what got into her. 
She realized that Al just wanted to pro- 
tect her from that awful Poopic. She had 
behaved foolishly—ungratefully. She was 
coming back to herself, she promised 
him. This was a phase of rebellion. But 
Poopie had gone too far now. She would 
hot put up with й. There were teeth 
marks on her cheek. The shoulder isn’t 
so bad, but the cheeks! Poopie was 
cruel. 

Al murmured that he certainly wished 
her well in all things, and that she get 
bit less where it showed. 

He had been ready to rob a bank be- 
fore Milly called to apologize. But after- 
ward, he was absolutely determined to 
rob a bank. Anything—gunshot, police 
sirens, torture by sadistic insurance in- 
vestigators—anything to get that racket 
out of hi 


ars, They had а nice conver- 
sation and said goodbye. Al decided: 
Poor Milly, actually she's a bright girl 
She's just looking for an exceptional w. 
in life, her way. And I'm doing it in 
mine. Poopie happens to be her Peace 
Corps 

He drove back across the Bay Bridge 
and took another look at the Crocker- 
Anglo Bank on Market near Grant. 
Just up Grant in North Beach was 
Milly’s apartment, but he put her out 
of his mind after he thought: We're 
both finding our exceptions on Grant 
Street. Then he poked unobtrusively 
around the bank, noting sleepy guards— 
retired and slow policemen—boy tell 
ers with Continental pants and girl 
tellers with bechive hairdos and spin- 
ster tellers with lusterless nylon faces. 
On the bank's Muzak there was Muzak, 
“L love Parrris in the springtime,” 
played by the massed Lobotavani strings. 
It looked easy, so 

Why wait? 

He bad put his equipment in thc 
trunk of his car. He drove out by the 
Bay, under the Embarcadero Free 
and in the cool beneath the elevated 
highway, he parked, dove into the trunk, 
and came up with rubber gloves, GI 
Clothes, toy pistol and mote Не 
scrunched down in the back seat to 
change his clothes. Fortunately, a long 
life as a teenager, necking im automo- 
biles, had trained him for this back-tor- 
menting exercise. Al be nimble, Al be 
quick, he thought. Al will now get in his 
lick. 

He dove up from the floor of his 
Chevy with a new soul. No, it was the 
old soul, but now equipped with GI sur- 
plus clothes, dimestore sunglasses, toy 
pistol, rubber gloves, cloth sack and 
typewritten note, and that meant а new 
soul. He had new intentions and there 


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was action ahead. He drove with brisk 
ed the саг in a no- 
parking zone near the bank. A new soul 
in action. If he received a ticket, he 
would pay it. They would not connect 
the ticket with the bank—not if he was 
getting away—and if he didn't get av 
well, the parking ticket wouldn't be 
much to add to what would be on his 
back already. He sat the car that 
‘pregnant’ moment just before noon, 
when the counters and diners and res- 
urants of the neighborhood were be- 
ginning to fill up with those in a hurry 
for their lunch. He waited for the noon 
whistle, The first jet of carly escapees 
from offices was emerging from the 
mouths of buildings. They were running 
about and lining up for lunch, They 
would not have to wait. Later eaters 
would have to wait. If you don't have 
much money, you often have to stand 
behind the stool in a diner and wait. 
You feed like an animal. You're caught 


mped, his hands 
ng in the rubber gloves, thinking. 
Then abruptly he peeled the gloves off 
and let them drop to the floor of the саг. 
He would just not touch 
gloves were unneces 


Al grinned. This was not one of those 
perfect heist jobs. This was an impro- 
visation. 


And it bey 
provisation. 

Just after the screech of the noon 
whistle, he sauntered into the bank, past 
a sleepy guard cleaning his ear with one 
finger, past a host of women shoppers 
and bill payers, up to a window. There 
was a Link little lady on a stool there, 
watching life through the bars. He 
handed her the note. Her eyes turned 
black; the spreading iris took over. He 
hissed at her: “Don't press that button. 
ГИ shoot. 

“I know,” she said softly, with a sexy 
hoarseness. “I know, I know, oh I know.” 
And the hands below that frantic face 
were deftly filling a bag with wrapped 
currency. It was as if the hands belonged 
to an efficient machine. The face was 
perishing. 

“Enough,” he said after a few seconds, 

"Don't shoot me.” The hands went on 
packing stacks of money into the bag. 
“I said hand it over quick 
"I know, L know, oh I know,” she said. 
He took the bag under his arm and 
mbled toward the door, waiting for the 
scrcam. There was stecl pounding in 
neutral gear in his knees. He planned to 
break into the crowd at the first sound. 
Not a murmur, But just as he passed the 
door and into the pushing crowd of Mar- 
ket Street, the scream finally came, pierc- 
ing the air. He leapt like a dancer into 
the crowd. One shrick, and then prob- 
ably she fainted. He glanced over his 
shoulder and saw no stir in the crowd be- 


neatly, like a perfect im- 


hind him. He held his pace to a medium- 
rapid wa 
Not even а 

Into the car. 

It started nicely. He drove leisurely up 
nt Street. A pink glint of rubber 
glove shone up from the floor mat at 
him in the reflected sunlight. A few. 
blocks awav, he finally heard the police 
sirens on Market Street. He dropped h 
s out the window and heard the 
der tires. 

How sweet to improvise, he thought. 

How nice to break loose. 

And then his body just fell apart and 
he had to pull over to the curb and fight 
to keep from soiling himself. He strug- 
gled, groaning; he left the bag of money 
on the scat of the unlocked car; he ran 
nto a Chinese restaurant and used the 
men’s room. He came out gasping. but 
lightened and joyous. Tt was an airy sen- 
n of being freed. He had vomited, 
defecated, uri nd now felt light 
as ай, light a He was liberated at 
last. He fcit as if he would never need to 
soil himself with food again. He could 
live on air. He could live on adrenaline, 
self-created. He floated in an adrenaline 
high toward his car, perfectly confident 
that the money would still be there, and 
it was. His luck, the luck of a happy im- 
proviser, held firm, 

He had not yet even peeked into the 
bag. But there was enough moncy inside 
—50-dollar bills, 100-dollar bills, stacked 
and wrapped—to buy him a long space 
of power and freedom. 

He diove straight up Telegraph. Hill 
and parked beneath Coit Tower, the 
smooth gray phallus said by San Francis- 
co legend to honor Lucy Coit's passion 
for firemen. And there, in a parked car 
at the top of the city, with the cool 
yellow-gray sky above him, and the town 
with its lesser hills below, and the Ba 
spread out around him, he at last looked 

nto the cloth sack. Very light and calm, 
he counted. He had expected a few 


thousand dollars. But there must have 
been some kind of delivery from the 
treasury. Someone had forgotten the 
routine. Someone had neglected to put 
away the fresh cash, That teller must 
his expression 
ов. There was 
over $16,000 in crisp new bills of high 
denomination, every one of them newly 
minted and smeli e metal. wrapped 
in crisp paper, crackling and cager to 
speed their way into the universe. 

А! took this news rather calmly. 

Then he looked again. The bills were 
new and untouched and the serial num- 
bers were perfectly consecutive. At the 
bank they would have an exact record of 
the serial numbers. These bills shone as 
if they could burn their way into the 
brains of anyone who looked at them. 
They were almost as identifiable 
they had been painted with fluor 
mustacli on the Presidential heroes 
memorialized by fiscal engravers. 

Al took this news less calmly. 

"The money suddenly scemed useless 
to him. He felt that his luck at impro- 
ion had run out. He stuffed the bills 
back in the sack and stared out ss his 
steering wheel, like any visitor enjoying 
the view of San Francisco on a fine day. 
It was not yet one р.м. A few people 
with bag lunches were sitting on the 
parapets. When he heard the sirens, and 
Saw motorcycles swinging like moths in a 
mote of light up Lombard Street, he was 
sure that the bad luck had begun to 
ate toward him as if he were the hub 
of a wheel. But it was only a fire, Al was 
OK. Up on his hill beneath Lucy Coit's 
tower, he waved abstractedly at the po 
licemen following the trucks below. He 
hoped they got the fire in time. 

A gid with a motor scooter came up 
to him and said: “I love a fire—anything 
—cxcitement, pops! Say, whats that, 
your lunch in that sack? You like to look 
at the city while you cat your lunch?" 


141 


PLAYBOY 


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Al supposed that she would like to 
share his sandwich while they enjoyed 
the view together, but this was not one of 
his sociable times. She shrugged and 
jogged her Vespa over toward the tele- 
scopes that looked out at the bleak rock 
of Alcatraz on its island in the Bay. She 
put a dime in the slot and the telescope 
unlocked. Now she looked at Alcatraz. 

Al put his hands on the sack of mon- 
cy. The little bundles protruded sharply. 
It was like carrying a body around with 
him. They were as useless as a corpse in 
that bag, and as dangerous. With this 
sack on his hands, he didn't need a tel- 
escope to sce Alcatraz sharp and clear in 
the midday sun. 


The sun, the air and the view also 
sharpened Al's thoughts. The sociable 
girl on the Vespa shared a container of 
Cottage cheese with a young man in a 
Citron 9CV (two plastic spoons and 
some welded sculpture on the back seat), 
and Al had another little improvisation. 
Milly. He would chat with her about the 
unusable, overclean, consecutively num- 
bered dollars of high denomination. She 
could help him find a remedy for the 
disease called Consecutive Numbering, 


Marked Bills. He took the precaution of 


telephoning. Her voice w 
Poopie was not home, He had gone to 
Las Vegas for two days. "On business,” 
she said. “Do.” 

By the word do, she meant do come 
up. He did. 

It had been two hours since he robbed 


He was a bigger person than Poopie 
тту way. He wondered if the change 
in him was visible, He wondered if Milly 
would sce that he was a different man, а 
cool, desperate and accomplished man. 
And she did sce somethi 
She saw that he had the shakes and 
she put some brandy in his coffee. 
"Mmm, hot, good." he said, holding h 
hands around the mug. "Ah, good." 
She made a maternal grimace of pleas- 
ure. "You had a hard morning?" she 
asked. She had changed since Al had 
known her at school. Poopie had 
changed her. In addition to pinching, 
g, kicking, and sometimes blacken- 
ing her eyes, he had softened her. Per- 
haps the pounding had softened her. She 
was sorry for Poopie. He brought out 
the m al in little Milly Peck. And 
the maternal which Poopie Cola had 
brought out in Milly Peck now appealed 
to Al Dooley. ‘Though he hated to admit 
it, he had never felt so close to a girl be- 


fore; exhausted physically and emotion- 
ally, frightened, bewildered, isolated 


from the ordinary by ап act of wildness, 
rich with new dollars in exact serial or- 
der, he wanted someone to take care of 
him. Milly. He needed Milly. He needed 
Milly's help. He also wanted her to rock 
him and protect him. 


Sensing something of this, Milly spoke 
soothing words and refilled his mug with 
coffee and brandy, “You know that shoe 
you lost the night you jumped Poopic?” 
she asked him. “And I had to protect 
him because you are so big and strong. 
AI? AP You know? How big and strong 
and brutal you are? But nice? Well, I re- 
turned it to you. The shoe, I did. I knew 
you'd need it, so I returned it to you. 
Didn't you receive it? 1 threw it out in 
the street after you, but 1 guess you 
didn't notice, what with the fog and all. 
Сее, and 1 wanted to return it to you. 

stubbed my toe later." Al success- 
fuly banished the whimper of com- 
plaint in his voice. He cleared his throat. 
“That was а bad scene, Milly.” 

"Gee, well I do know how a fellow 
needs his both shoes, Al. So I returned it 
to you.” 

"OK. It's the 


ntention that counts.” 
heart, "cause 
I certainly didn’t want you to go with- 
out shoes, even if you did pile into Poop- 
ie like a wild man or something, ooh, 
Al, I never knew you were such a wild 
man, so impulsively instinctual and all.” 
Al hunched over the coffee mug, warm- 
ing his hands. Milly gazed proudly at 
him and this, to Al, did more than the 
brandy to restore his sense of digni 
and hope. She continued fondly 
how come you didn't pick it up? 
meant the shoe.) “I saw it in the gutter 
the next day. Gee, Al, it looked like a 
person, all sad and beatup from the 
cars and the wet and all. It just made me 
want to ary and take care of it, Al. But 1 
left it there because you know about 
Poopie, he's so jealous, he loves me so. 
"That poor, sad, lonely shoe. 1 covered it 
with a newspaper." 

Al choked а little. 

у.” Milly asked, “now that Poop 
gone for a few days 

revival of a х 
Oh. Oh, Al. Oh, you had something else 
in mind.” 

She was on the right track. 

“Oh, but let's talk.” said Milly. “Get- 
ting to know you is the important thing, 
not technique. A girl needs security. A 
girl needs the sense that а man really 
cares. Now take your technical types, 
you know, the lovers who practice all 
that nasty stuff. ooh, you know, the 
things I like, for instance” 

It was agreeable to Al to discuss mat- 
ters. He had had his little problems with 
love, but he had a particular problem 


with bills of large denomination. He 
sought advice, comfort and contacts 


from Milly. He would listen for a while, 
let his hands stop. their trembling and 
the heat in his forehead go down, a 
then he would explain everything to 
In the meantime, as she talked, she 
might talk herself into enlisting on his 
side. 
The 


d 


afternoon passed. Milly had 


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143 


PLAYBOY 


144 


Drought her grandfather's clock, which 
stood on the floor, out of her parents’ 
house in Hillsboro. It ticked away the 
hour. The golden pendulum swung 
back and forth. Milly spoke of her hopes 
and dreams, her need to fulfil herself, 
her fondness for Al. When she saw him 
grow listless over the cold coffee, she 
Kept him alive with an injection of fond- 
ness, He had a place in her heart, He 
had a special place. She knew that he 
was intended for great things. 

Al cleared his throat and raised his 
nd. He wanted to speak. The late sun 
streaming through the window half- 
way up Telegraph Hill on Grant Street 
in North Beach. Business in Las Vegas 
had called Poopic away for a few days. 
AI desired Milly and also needed her 
help. Now seemed to be his chance. and 
it was: his chance to talk about Poopie. 
"Look at my teeth marks,” she said. 
Here. Неге. And here." 

Al looked. "I want to tdl you what 
ppened to me today," he began. 
"And here, too. Ooh, it still stings 


when I just touch i 

“I's not exacdy what happened to 
me," Al said, “it’s something 1 did." 

"Ooh, Al, maybe? Maybe you would? 
Maybe you'd rub oil in my Рооріс- 
bites?” 

Al sighed and decided that maybe, 
with a loving. maternal and gentle type 

‘I like Milly, you should take you 
cues from her and not uy to tell her 
how and whether you robbed a bank un- 
til she was ready to listen. 

“Ooh, goody!” cried Milly when she 
saw that AL would consent to rub sooth- 
ing lanolin in the bites. In an instant 
she had her clothes of and was lying on 
her belly on a fluffy couon rug. Rays of 
sunlight striped her sleek, small, slightly 
bitten back. Al knelt by her side with 
the itch and grime of bank robbing still 
clinging to his body, but a bottle of 
feminine lotion in his hand, “There, 
she s Around there, too. 
re, It's got vitam 


D added. Yes. Y 
He cupped his hands and rubbed lo- 


“Mother never speaks of that particular orgy.” 


tion even where she was not bitten. She 
did not mention it, but her voice grew 
husky and she smiled and wrinkled her 
nose at him. 

With a voice growing husky, she in 
formed him that she was just looking lor 
the courage to leave Poopie. He was 
nice. but mc He was sweet, but nasty. 
He b her and took all her money 
sometimes hinted that she should 
work for him. Despite all his virtues, she 
was beginning to tire of him. “Ye 
you do that so good,” she 
More,” 

She also told 
Then 


him more. 
id, “Ooh, Al, what are you 
Al, but мете just friend 


Ooh. 


the su 
s were eased, the itch. 
1d Milly took a bath. 


down 
es were eased, Al а 
“Poopie wouldn't like it if he knew we 


took a bath together in our tub—his,” 
she remarked, АТ helped her clean the 
tub, As he bent to wipe it, she swatted 
him on the behi h a knotted towel. 
Ouch! 

She smiled maternally. "That's a 
arned from Poopie," she s; 
finally, relaxed, clea 
Rice Krispies with honey, nut 
bananas, wheat germ and for 
milk—Milly knew that good health pro- 


nd wi 


Tile 


Milly was 


he was relaxed. She understood. He told 


her. 
She listened in silence as he explained 
about his boredom with Pegg nd his 


studies, about the Army, about h 
for meaning, about thi 
ness in hi er, about hi 
ceptional action, and abour 


quest 
useless 


sense of 


need lor е 
the 


k. 
And then about the problem with the 


s: new, consecutive serial numbers, 
ad he was afraid to pass them, Could 
Milly, without going to Poopie—some- 
how Poopic did not inspire his trusi— 
ke contact with someone to w 
might scll the money at a dis 
get out. clean? 
jstened to this story 
brooding. Ap 


nce, 
ently there were depths 
in Al, though he didn't bite. AI had sur- 
prised her at last. And now he needed 
her; the maternal in her was aroused. 
She could help him. 
her for help. Milly searched de 
his сусь, abstractedly scratching an old 
nd on her L 
Al watched in silence as her thoughts 
ced about the pretty little head. with 
its thick undone coil of reddish hair, At 
last she spoke: “Any better at it th 
am, Al? 

“What? 

“That Peggy of yours—she any bet 
"I ole Milly? you know? at 
"Cause you say yes and ГИ scratch your 
eyes out, I will." 


wot € buttoc 


Advt. for Falstaff Brewing Corp. of San Jose, Calif., who cherishes the view that it takes A Heap О” Livin’ (and Splendid Beer) to make a house a home. 


PLAYBOY 


146 


"In bed he just lies there.” 


AI sighed. She had spoken like а true- 
blue American girl in his time of trou- 
ble. She had rallied round him all right. 
He stood up to go. “Just don't say any- 
thing,” he said. He was suddenly bone 
red. “ГИ figure out something.” 

"Ooh, Al, ‘cause I'm a girl, you know? 
I care for you an awful lot, that's why T 
get so jealous.” She followed him to the 
door. “Listen, I'm thinking, AL Here, 
listen.” She forced his head to her bos- 
om. He stumbled and she caught him. 
"Hear me thinking?” He sprung his 
neck and rubbed it to get the circulation 
going. She went on: “Now I'm just going 
to worry over your problem, Al. I'm 
going to consider it our problem, how's 
about that? Just "cause you were kind to 
me about Poopie and his bites and all. 
You were good to me, Al. You were. You 


He explained that he would give her 
one of the new crisp bills, but he was 
afraid of passing them and being traced. 

“Ooh, that's all right, Al,” she said. "I 
did what I did—you know, doncha? ooh, 
doncha?—only because you love me and. 
you rub my bites so good and I wanted. 
to. That bastard Рооріе. Bye now.” 

But she did look longingly at the bag 
as he toted it out toward the car, con- 
cealed in à Macy's shopping bag which 
Milly had lent him. He promised to re- 
turn it soon. 

She stopped him halfway down the 
irway by running into his arms. "Dar- 
ing," she cried, “I know I'm a little 
dick. I just want to tell you something— 
you trust me.” A tear trickled [rom her 
сус and made its way down her healthy 
rounded cheek. “Look, I'm crying. Al 
"t tell you. 


trusts me’ 

But she began to sob, тап back, locked 
the door. 

He looked up at the window from the 
street. There she was, all at once radiant, 
smiling and waving and blowing kisses. 
She stood waving as he walked the few 
steps down the hill to his car. Sudde 


in the San Francisco night, with a chill 
fog blowing over the town through the 
Golden Gate, he felt a movement of 
dread in his chest. But Milly was still 


Ligue. 
g love, 


After robbing 
he had a right to rest 

He drove home to Berkeley, tumbled 
mo bed, and slept the sleep of the 
fulfilled and of the exhausted. 


But Milly needed to fulfill herself, 
too. While Milly cast about for ways to 
fulfill herself. Al rested, Al could rob a 
bank, but Milly could not. It wasn't fair. 

Al slept for the beuer part of two 
days, just dead in sleep, occasionally w 
ing for a few minutes, staggering to the 
s of milk and а 
ns, and then back to bed 
Once, practically sleep- 


refrigerator for a g 
handful of 
and down ag: 


walking, he brushed his teeth. During 
his few minutes awake, he hoped that 
Milly had figured out who might buy 
those numbered dollars from him at a 
discount. Soon perhaps he would be 
awakened by a call from Milly. With his 
knuckle he cleaned a mashed raisin from 
between his teeth and flopped down 
again. Tired he was now because he had 
worked before. Sleep he would now, and 
be awake when it was n песеѕѕаг 

The mild Berkeley sun turned twice 
over his apartment. The telephone rang: 
Peggy called; he mumbled inconse- 
quently and stumbled back into the 
sack. It was as if he had fought a long 
battle and the power circuits of life апа 
death had been shorted. He slept. 

Deep in a dream of freedom and soar- 
ing in the air—he was a bird, he was an 
eagle with a man’s head, he carried off 
his prey in his beak—a harsh ring filled 
his studio room. He struggled up from 
sleep to answer the telephone; it would 
be Milly, it would be Milly v 
he blinked open his eyes and 
Milly. It was the door. They were buzz- 
ing and pounding at his door. Before he 
could blink himself enough awake to an- 
swer, a shoulder splintered the door, 
four cops came pound sh, with 
pistols drawn. Behind them, protected 
by them, lounged a civilian figure in 
wide-wale Continental corduroy pants, 
loafers without socks and a tan Ban-Lon 
shirt. This smiling, lounging person 
pointed his pinkie finger at AAI par- 
ticularly remembered that he used the 
рїп 
“Yeah, th 

“You willing to swe: 
the cops asked, 

“Just look around. You won't need me 
to swe "said Poopic. He turned grace- 
fully on his toes, almost like a ballet 
master. “There,” he said, pointing to a 
bag which still sat on the chair before 
Al's desk, It was resting on a paperback 
edition of Wolfgang Kohlers study of 
apes and a book called The Place of 
Value in a World of Fact. *"Them's nice 
pajamas, Al-boy,” he said. “Stripes look 
good on you." 

Al felt very calm, His long sleep had 
revived him, filled the nerves with fluid, 
He felt unsurprised and calm, though a 
Tittle disappointed in Milly. He would 
really have preferred to be rich and free 
and powerful and successful rather than 
under arrest for bank robbery. Well, a 
young graduate student can't hope to 
have everything all at once. He might a 
t at the bottom with a good 
prison term, It teaches humility, 
also sewing and license-plate making. 

Don't make trouble, son,” said onc of 
the cops. “You be nice and we'll let you 
dress." 

They even Iet him wash h 
were sweet cops. 

Then they drove him with the siren 
working through the streets of. Berkeley 


face. They 


to the police station. He was important 
enough to make all the strolling stu- 
dents on the streets turn and watch, 
He was crowded in between two cops, 
and his shoulders felt cramped in the 
back seat. Another cop drove; Poopie 
slouched contentedly in the front scat. 
Still another cop followed them on his 
motorcycle. I'm like the prime minister 
of a new African nation, Al thought. 
They're showing me the campus. They’ 
treating me so good. TIl give up being 
one of the emergent unaligned states; 
TH be a gallant ally with missile bases. 
Whoops, thought Al: mind wander 
a bit. 
"The cop to Al's left considered him- 
If а student. He tried to suck in his 
and preferred to be described as a 
social worker in uniform.” He took ex- 
tension courses in criminology at San 
ancisco State. As part of a paper he 
writing, he questioned Al on the way 
to the station. “Why did you do it? What 
did you hope to gain? Didn't you realize 
how antisocial conduct gets you no place 
less you got good connections?” 
While he kept the sociology 
tion, he gripped the barrel of his pi 
so that he could use the butt if Al tried 
ny funny business. Since he ran a little 
at the mouth, he also told Al what had 
happened to him: “Your friend Milly 
made him a little jealous. Our friend 
Poopie there. Then she told him about 
your problem. She made him promise to 
keep the secret, but Poopic broke his 


called Poopie up front, “I 
broke the promise. Now can I just get at 
him 


a sec 
"He's in the 
friend, the sociolo; 


Al's 


"Broke his promise. There's the reward, 
you know? And the jealousy.” 
"That made it fair. After all, Al was a 


1 who broke the law and the: 


understand. 

"Oh I do," said Al. 

“The code of the underworld and all 
that jazz," said the educated cop. 

Al came partly alert. Through nar- 

rowed eyes he asked his one true friend 
in that sirening police car; “But the 
code! No squealing, isn’t it? 
‘The cop took that under advisement. 
"Hmm," he said, "you got a point 
there." After all, he didn't have his 
master's yet. He wasn't a real fast thi 
er yet. "Well, you're a nonprofessional. 
he decided at last. “They don't like that. 
Amendment to the bylaws of the code, 
buster.” 

‘The local police were not accustomed 
to intelligent young graduate students in 
sociology who robbed banks. Therefore, 
they treated. Al with spe 
tion. Instead of flinging him into a urine- 
stinking cell with no top for the toilet 


considera 


147 


PLAYBOY 


148 


and a curse for company, they flung 
him into a urincstinking cell with no 
top for the toilet and a command not to 
commit suicide for company. They took 
away shoelaces and belt. His thoughts 
they left him. They left him alone. 

He found that he disliked Poopie 
more than ever. 

About Milly, he felt resentful. He 
should not have trusted her good nature. 
She had too much of it. Her cup ran 
over, but all he got was the runover. 
Poopie got the cup. 

Peggy, snug in college, came to mind 
s a true friend. He longed for Peggy— 
comfortable Peggy with all her cashmere 
and steady affection. He bawled a mo- 
ment with self-pity, and then resolved to 
face the future. The future would be 
something to occupy the idle hours, He 
wasn't really a psychopath—he felt sorry 
for himsell. 
ving been slept out, he sat awake, 
ng into the blue aisle light and lis- 
tening to the drunks moaning in adj 
cent cells. A cop lounging under the 
bulb and flicking his cigarette butt 
against the wall. Cabbage smell тот 
someplace. Hopelessness of men who 
were not hopeless just for the experience. 
Al understood, with grave and loncly 
clarity, that he was in trouble. 


H: 


During the next few months Al was in 
a kind of nervous state, sort of jumpy. 
His mother pointed out to his father and 
his father pointed out to the court-ap- 
pointed psychiatrist: It's only natural 
that our boy Al be a little nervous, you 
Know, not crazy, just jumpy. just not 
guilty by virtue of insanity, since he had 
been betraved by his close friend Milly 
and his other close friend Peggy small 
comfort to him because she was writing a 
term paper and those bills were so new 
nd dean and consecutively numbered 
and Poopie strutted around as if he had 
won the London-San Francisco interna- 
tional tiddlywinks match. “Does like T 
say, that girl,” Poopie bragged, proud of 
his lady Milly, though he did splinter her. 
guitar and beat her up a bit after she 
confessed that she had been weak in the 
flesh with AI. Poopie was saddled with an 
outmoded moral code. He didn't realize 
that, after all, he had been away for a 
whole weekend. 

Also. 

Also there were lots of other complica- 
tions. Dr. Bessie Frisch, who had his own 
problems, fiddled with the hearing aid 
tached to his horn-rimmed glasses 
while he listened to everybody. The 
hearing aid led both to his cars and to a 
miniature transistor tape recorder built 
into the Phi Beta Kappa key dangling 
from a chain acerlocked. with his vest 
buttons. Dr. B Frisch had bcen 
teased so much about his first name as a 
child—he was named after his mother's 
favorite sister, and had worn bangs un- 
Ш he was 14—thit һе was given his 


choice by fate at the age of 20: Become a 
psychiatrist or remain nervous, jumpy. 
Well, it was more profitable to take up 


psychiatry. He took it up. 
Now, handling other people's prob- 
lems, he oftentimes became nervous, 


jumpy. Also he suffered from swollen 
glands. But he was shrewd. Shrewdly he 
asked Al: “Do you think you developed 
a criminal mentality out of protest, hm? 
against the name АР” 

“Hm?” Al asked cagily 

“Tt must be short for Alice, I presume, 
hm?" asked Dr. B. Frisch. (He was called 
“Bee” by his close friends, who sought to 
avoid embarrassment whenever they 
could.) 

It turned out that Al was short for Al- 
Ian. Dr. Bee Frisch decided to try anoth- 
er tack. He interviewed Peggy, Milly, 
Poopie, the police officers, including the 
talkative onc who went to extension 
courses, and the bony little lady who 
had been teller in the bank, Recently 
she had left that job to work at the no- 
tions counter of a Woolworth’s. She re- 
ported on Al's behavior when he had 
been robbing the bank: “He looked like 
a fine young man, well brought up, in- 
tel dera. Only he 

fle nervous, jumpy. 1 would 
ry insanity, Doc.” 


‘No, пу 
“Temporary 
would say.” 

Since he was nearsighted, Bessie failed 
to note that the bony little ex-teller 
wore a heavy tan. She had just returned. 
from an all-expenscs paid trip to Acapul- 
co, courtesy of Al's father. 

Well, the wheels of justice ground 
away with their inexorable daner. No 
power on earth could stop the march of 
American social work. Most people, with 
the single exception of Poopie, agreed 
it would be a shame if such a finc 


the lady. 


insanity, Thats what 1 


young man, adventurous, farsighted, 
ambitious and nervous, should be put 
away among a lot of criminals, men de- 


bank robbers, 
types who were 
t à bad influence on him. 

Poopie, on the other hand, argued for 
the gas chamber. He believed that strong 
punishment was а deterr to crime. 
He had friends in the John Birch Socie- 
ty who advised him on sociological mat- 
ters, When asked if he was a member 
himself, he put forth an objection. "I 
ain't gonna tell you,” hc said. 

Later, after the investigation, there 
was a short legal hearing which settled 
the matter for Al. The judge in his robes 
pounded for silence, All interested р: 
ties were questioned, Al explained that 
he had really meant to go on a freedom 
ride or join the Peace Corps, but he just 
hadn't thought of it i c. He had 
vanted to do something exceptional, No 
one had invited him to be an astronaut. 
He would have liked to 


and outer space. No one had shown 1 
how to float a new electronics stock. He 
would have liked to abscond to Brazil. 
Later on he would have returned home 
to face the music. That's the kind of enm- 
bezzler he would have been. It kind of 
irritated Al. He had wanted to break out 
of his routine. He, too. could be an ex- 
ceptional man. He had wanted to get 
rich quick. The judge interrupted: 
“That's enough out of you, Accused 

His defending lawyer, who had an 
М.А. in psychology and a Ph.D. in so- 
ciology in addition to his legal training, 
leapt to his feet in protest: "Your Hon 
or! In this modern world of today! 
"The misunderstood. youth of a troubled 
urban culture!" 

“Objection sustained,” said the judge. 

Milly, wearing a black veil, lifted the 
Jace with one finger in order to shoot Al 
apologetic, heavily shadowed look. It 
shot soggily all the way across the court- 
room to where Al waited in the witness 
chair while his lawyer engaged the judge 
in a duel of wits. 

Objection!" cried Al's lawyer. 

“L already said sustained!" cried the 
judge. 

At last Al's lawyer was satisfied. He 
could not demand ject apology 
from the presiding judge. He pinched 
the bridge of his nose where it had been 
pinched by his gold pince-nez glasses 
"Step down,” he said kindly to Al, and 
offered him an arm, 

Milly kept on shooting look after look 
at Al as he ked unaided to his chair, 
Al's uouble had matured Milly. She was 
grateful to him. Рооріс had discovered 
the undiscovered depths in her, thanks 


to Al. She didn’t really care so much 
about the guitar. When AI settled him- 


self in his oaken courtroom chair, she 
lowered her veil and the looks of apolo- 
gy subsided. Also Poopie's ire was being 
"ulated. He sure did make demands 


However, Poopie was in good humor. 
He enjoyed getting on the side of law 
and order when the opportunity pre 
sented itself, He was still g, with 
just a little bit of ire, when Al's lawyer 
called him to the witness stand. Poopie 
declared: “I just asked her and she tole 
me. Does like I say, that chick." Then he 
had a surprise deposition to make. “But 
seems to li'l ole me like Al never 
tended for to make a bank heist. He wa 
driven out of his skull, you know, he 
flipped . . ." He caught Al's father's eye. 
“Er, your Honor, I would say he was 
nervous and jumpy because he didn't 
feel so good." 

Poopie also had a nice tan. 

‘Then Peggy mounted the stand as а 
character witness. "I was mean to him, 
like, for ins I did everything hc 
told me to, your Honor. A man needs 
some resistance, age to his 
manliness this our culture of modern 


some chall 


rootlessness. Did I forget anything? I 
feel so nervous and jumpy up here.” 

And АГУ parents also were invited to 
speak at considerable length. It turned 
ош that AI had always been foursquare 
behind thc American Constitution and 
carefully selected numbers from The 
Top Ten Bill of Rights, in favor of a 
1 line in Berlin, and spent many а 
ate hour with accompanying night 
t the thought that the Commu- 
nists might someday succeed in their de- 
sign to take over the Sovereign State of 
California and use it as a base of opera- 
tions against the fallout shelters in Ari 
zona and Nevada, His worries about the 
future of America made him kind of — 

“I know," said the severe but k 
judge. "АП of us here in these cha 
believe in tempering justice with a bit of 
largess, do we not? Don't we? But ГЇЇ 
make the decisions around here. So 
much talk makes me jumpy,” he de 
dared, looking about him nervously. It 
was al not a trial, but still 
а fellow can't be too careful. He toyed 
with a small set of copper cuff links 
which he had just brought back from his 
recent vacation in Acapulco. 

Dr. Bessie Frisch tamped out his pipe 
arized his 


and testified briefly е sumn 
report. "Good. good." d to the 
judge, “As it emerged in my examina 


Чоп, the name ‘Al,’ for this particular 


patient, scems to recall femi 
nance over his childish parataxic Оса 
pal frustrations. Now if we take the 
ame seriously, “Alice, say, or ‘Alberta’ 
. . . Somewhat jumpy, even nervous," 
he concluded. 

The verdict followed inexorably. Al 
was found Not Guilty by Virtue of 
Jumpiness, He was put on psychiatric 
ation, ordered to consult with a 
ulified physician (Dr. Frisch suggested 
a referral), and told to eat lots of whe: 
germ and celery in order to help calm 
his nervous feelings. A young man 
should watch the physical as well as the 
psychiatric parts of his character. Coun 
seling the patient against violence, the 
Kindly old judge stated, "An ounce of 
wheat germ is worth a pound of karate.” 

Peggy flew into his arms. "I'm so 
proud!" she cricd. "Of you! You're so 
interesting, Al. 

"Aw," he said, "all I did was rob a 
bank and get betrayed by my moll be- 
use she was neurasthenically bound to 
a crooked, double-crossing pimp, was all 
I did." 

“1 don’t care,” said Peggy through her 
soft, buttery 
ed reversion to a girl not worthy of 
you. I have found a purpose in life 
caring for you. You're unusual, AL" 
Thats nice of you, Peggy.” 

And you know what? Your nice dad- 


s. "I forgive your Irus- 


dy says he will send us to Acapulco for 
our honeymoon if we promise to be 
good. Let's be good, Al. 

Al realized, as the future washed over 
him, that at last he was on the right 
пась. Married, settling down, he could 
quickly get off probation, write a disser- 

n on the criminal mind and find a 
hing in a quiet litle college. A 
record as a bank robber would mark him 
off as a Tittle different from other young 
instructors in sociology. In a world which 
admired slight distinctions, an occasion- 
ally dreamy, melancholic character, this 
could only work to his advantage. “We'll 
have adventures together,” Peggy prom- 
ised him, “Life will be our adventure.” 

And, of course, if he got bored with 
Peggy or the job in a small college, he 
now knew how to vary the routine. He 
might take off after Poopie in a typical 
underworld act of revenge. He had that 

surance. He could break the monoto- 
ny. The murder of a stool pigeon by a 
handsome young sociology professor 
would lead to a bigger job in a better 
university, still more forgiveness by wife 
and family, and a sense of pride that Al 
Dooley could bring some variety into 
the steady hum of American life. Не had 
found his own іше way to hit the 


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143 


PLAYBOY 


150 


SANDMAN 
(continued from page 128) 

part that bugs me is: How did he happen 
to have the oyster? 1 mean, it involved 
his paddling out into the deeps, diving 
down many shark-filled fathoms, sceing 
this craggy oval self-cemented to a rock, 
holding his breath manfully while he 
tore it free, taking it back to shore, then 
ng, pounding and prizing until it 
finally gaped wide, and therein er 
countering an oddment of gray-white 
sliminess, a really hideous sight alte 
all that work. So he thinks, "Yummy, 
ТІ pop this into my mouth!”? And if he 
didn't know what was in the muscle- 
clamped undersea shell, why'd he go 
get it? And don't say it was washed 
hore. Anyone who eats an oyster 
washed ashore wouldn't ever try an 
other, because they only release thei 
hold on the undersea rocks when they 
are dead, and—sorry, I can't think 
about this one anymore 

(8) The origin of snake charming is 
not hard to figure out. Reason balks at 


the thought of some early Hindu going 
over ,to the first cobra he met and at- 
tempting to lure it with flute songs; I 
mean, no one would be that nuts. What 
must have happened is that a flute 


player, amusing himself in the noonday 
sun, saw a cobra rise up from the 
hot dust at his feet, and saw that it was 
с, but instead sway 
so long as 
So what happened 
And 


not going to stri 
rhythmically to the tune 
he kept playing. 
when he stopped? if he didn't 
stop, how did he get 10 train others 
in this esoteric occupation? And which 
of his friends was idiot enough to find 
a cobra of his own and try it? 

(9) Walking under a ladder, scientists 
say, cannot really bring bad luck. They 
know because they have tried it, and 
have not had bad luck. How do they 
know they are not having bad luck with. 
their experiment? 

Апа now, 
Lotsa luck. 


time for dreamland. 


WIND DEVIL 


(continued from page 109) 
was being spoken to me. At that age 
І accepted the wonder of the life Т 
had in the same way I drank water 
or breathed air. On those mornings I 
would move from fire to fire, squatting 
easily with the men, listening to that 
easy Chihuahua Spanish, accepted at 
every fire, part of it all 

But one morning Emeterio Alvarez 
varied the story of how he passed th 
black bull three times in a real bull ring 
when he was young down in Chihuahua 
and everything began to change. We'd 
heard the story a hundred umes, so 
many times it had become a ritual and I 
guess you shouldn't fool around with a 
ritual. Anyway, that foggy morning, 
стегіо added something to this story and 
things began to shape up into a wind 
devil that was going to catch me. 

Emeterio didn't look like a bullfighter. 
He was small and stringy with a thi 
black mustache that was too big for his 
sad face. He had five daughters he 
watched over like a small Minorca cock, 
convinced that each of them was waiting 
for a chance to slip out and disgrace his 
name. He was one of those people on 
whom all clothing seems a little big. 

As а Kid, Emeterio had caught the bull 
fever, just like all of us kids on the 

nch had caught it [rom him. You 
could play at it grimly, taking turns with 
other kids running at each other with 
chair legs or dummy horns, caping dogs 
and goats or anything clse that moved. 

When Emeterio was a kid, the thing 
had gotten too big for him. One day, us- 
his shirt for a cape, Emeterio had 
берс down into the ring of some vil- 
lage and had passed a real bull three 
times before the local police hauled him. 
way to jail. He never spoke of the jail 
or how long his sentence was. It was not 


animal, he would say, always 
n the same words, “was a perfect. bull. 
Big, ¡Hijo! a male locomotive of a bull, 
k with horns . . . jy!” He would 
stretch out both arms, curved, the wrisis 
broken in, the tense fingertips quivering 
menace. He would hold that, then drop 
his arms, shake his head and whoosh 
through his big mustache. 

“L could have passed that bull all day 
with its night.” 

All of us would know there was still 
one line to come, the mustache lifting 
away from the teeth, the eyes moist in 
pride. 

"The guardia, he said 
Great style: 

He would squecze his stringy biceps 
where the policeman had held him that 
long-ago wonderful day and the story 
would be finished. But we would wait 
silently for a while, paying respect with 
tha ng silence to a man among us 
who had passed а male locomotive of a 
black bull three times in a real bull ring. 


I had style. 


The dew was late to burn off that 
morning, and the fog lay thick and 
down-spiriting. People moved in closer 
to the fires and took heat on their hands 
and rubbed it on their 
nearly always had some wine in him be 
fore he told his story, but that morning 
he was drinking sour wine, the sour wine 
of sadness that warm-blooded human 
drinks through his pores when he finds 
himself in a foggy, cold and alien place. 

But that morning, when Emeterio was 
through, when the respectful silence lay 
as heavily as [og after the last line, he 
did something different and everything 


began to change. 
He got up. folded his cotton sack 
precisely and began to pass that black 


bull, standing with his stomach tucked 
in, his back very straight, his chin out- 
thrust and his eyes proud and stern. He 
passed that bull close, you could tell, 
using veronicas, a whole series of but- 
terfly cape swirls, passing him tight like 
all bulls are passed when they are bulls 
running in the ring of the mind. 
Everybody stirred and watched him. 
We weren't watching a ragged little man 
whirli, cotton sack beside a cotton 
g on the expen- 
sive shade side of the ring watch 
of lights passing a perfect. 
black bull, using a deep rose mule 
seeing it all as clear] 
body yelled ;Ok 
up on the x 


семей sound, ed to 
the jOle!s and brought the bull by so 
near that the hair rubbed off on his suit 


him 


of lights. He passed 
called to him, mak 
sound, bringing the black bull around 
ht, skidding, dominating him com- 
pletely. 

And my father came wall 
the field, tall and red-faced 
lutely foreign, yelling that 
pick cotton. 

Emeterio stood in that attitude a 
Dullfighter assumes when the bull is at 
the very end of the cape, its horns just 
emerging from under the cloth, the pu- 


abso- 
was time to 


rity of the pass depend 
that pose for just precisely the correct 


; on holding 


number of instants, fect close together, 
torso twisting, tiansmuting time, motion 
and violence into sculpture. 

In that pose Emeterio became con- 
scious of my father yelling. He heard 
him, still held the pose for an instant, 
id then cracked the sculpture of him- 
self to look down at his spread muleta. 
‘The crack in the statue spread in all di- 
rections. In seconds Emeterio was only a 
litle man dressed in clothes that would 
lways be too big for him, holding a 
ched cotton sack. He dropped thc 
sack and looked around him, seeing 
where he was. 

“Ay, Dios,” he said softly. “Ay, Dios." 

"Lets pick coton!" my father hol- 
Jered, murdering the Spanish in that in- 


dividual way he had, all flat аз and r's, 
trying to sound like a boss, but a good, 
friendly boss. 

Emeterio stooped and picked up his 
cotton sack, folded it around his shoul- 
ders and began to walk away from the 
field. My father yelled at him. When 
he'd hollered twice, Emeterio turned 
around. 

"I'm sad,” he said. “I'm sad today.” 

My father’s face got redder. He never 
could understand that sadness could be 
so real and crushing that it could disable 
a man. He could understand а man not 
working because of a snake bite, pneu- 
monia or a broken leg, but the excuse of 
sadness just made h 

“Let's pick cotton 

"I'm too sad,” Emeterio repeated. 

My father walked up to him and stood 
about two feet tiller than Emeterio, 

“Maybe you don't want to work here 
anymore,” he said. 

"Patrón, Ym too sad today." 

"You are sick.” my father said loudly, 
trying to force it, Emeterio was a good 
worker iles from 
anywhere and Emeterio didn't have a 

You are sick,” my father said. 

Emeterio risked one look at him, then 
we all watched his pride go down, a big 
bitter ball requiring two visible and au 
ble swallows. 

"Fm sick" Emeterio said when Һе 
knew the ball was down. 

“АП right," my father said. “You wait 
in the car. LH take you back to the 
camp." 

“L go by foot, 
gan to walk feet dr 

Casimiro Gomez grunted and w: 
out of the crowd, his paunch carried 
proudly out in Iront of him. 

“Lam too sad to work tod: 
he said in that singsong way he had, 
and he didn't wait around for an argu- 
ment, He just went out to the road and 
marched along behind Emeterio, his 
paunch showing how mad he was. 

Casimiro was a [at one, but nobody 
ever called him Gordo. Most of us kids 
called him Don Casimiro in respect, and 
lor the reason that Casimiro was the 
owner of 2000 goats, Those goats made 
it posible for hun to walk away that 
day 

Fifteen years before, he had left his 
village in Chihuahua and, in the charge 
oL a cousin, had left three female goats 
and а young buck. Those goats, for the 
t few years, hadn't bothered him. But 
by the time he had become a permanent 
worker on our ranch, the goats had pos- 
sessed him entirely. One day he had cal- 
culated the increase from those goats, 
allowing a ble incidence of twins 
nd triplets, but being businesslike and 
allowing losses for death, theft and. bar- 
ren females. But even so, in the mind of 
Don Casimiro, in my mind, and in the 
minds of everybody in the cump, those 


io said and be- 


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152 him 


four goats had grown into a herd of 
2000. When his herd reached that num- 
ber it became too big for him and Casi- 
miro perm herd to remain at 
fine and staggering number. Just 
graze for them was a huge prob- 
nd he walked around with the 
ng importance proper to a man 
who owns that many goats. Manuel 
Teaza was a little rabbit of а man from 
the same village as Casimiro and there 
were enough goats to permit. Manuel 
lcaza to begin to walk around with the 
с air of harried importance and to 
pproach Don Casimiro with the trou 
bled face of a man of consequence, 
squatting to draw maps in the dust, 
pointing out a particular hill which 
loomed green in his memory 

My father didn't say anything to 
ro that morning when he walked 
but his face got pretty mean and. 
he swore and then yelled at the rest of 
them. Gonzalo, the straw boss, went to 
nd by the scales while the rest of them 
went to pick. He tried to withdraw hi 
self from the situation, but couldn't. He 
was the straw boss and profoundly em- 


way 


barrassed. 
“Those , apologizing. 
"very cmol 
І was eml ‚ too. 1 went out 


into the field and began to pick cotton. 
but nothing felt right and I left. I netted 
carp all day and didn't come back to the 
wailer until nearly dusk. When I came 
back I saw that the trailer was complete- 
ly ringed by rocks and clods the pickers 
had hidden in their sacks to make my fa 
ther pay for the weight of them. I began 
to gather up the clods to get them away 
from the trailer before my father came. 

"No" б id to me, and I got 
the same tingly feeling you get when 
you're uying to get up the nerve 10 run 
into a really big wind devil. 1 just kept 
on picking up clods and throwing them, 
hurrying. Gonzalo came over and put a 
big hand on my shoulder. 

"Why?" T asked him. "Why?" But be- 
fore he could answer me, my father drove 
up in his square-backed Essex with the 
trailer hitch to haul the trailer to the 
gin. He walked around the trailer figur 
ing how many dollars’ worth of clods 
he'd paid to have picked th: 
looked at Gonzalo, his big eyebrows 
down close over his eyes. Gonzalo looked 
and swallowed. My 


onzalo 
“A day of emotionation.” 

My father j acked up the Essex to 
the trailer and hitched it. It was dusk by 
then and Gonzalo and the pickers be; 
to stream down the road toward the 
camp. I always rode to the gin with my 
father, but that day I didn't want to. I 
began to walk after the pickers. 

“Get my father said, and 1 
got in the Essex and sat as far away from 
1 could. 


d weakly. 


in here," 


What was the matter out there 
today?" he asked, and my toes and 
fingers began to itch like they always did 
when he talked to me. 

“I don't know.” I scratched my fingers. 
“Emotionated,” I said. 
You've been hanging around the 
camp too much,” my father said, stying T 
wasn't on his side or something and 


meterio was sad," I told him care- 
"because you called him to pick 
while hc pissing the bull." 
Hell" my father said. 
Casimiro owns all those goa 
said. 

"Hell" my father said. 

He was saying Hell about some pretty 
basic beliefs and it scared me, but it 
made me mad, too. 

“1 suppose Hil nchez didn’t ger 
shot in the y Pancho Villa, either, 
I said. “And I suppose Rosa Gutierrez 
didn't sing over the radio once in Los 
ngeles.” 

There were lots of other things T 
could have brought up. Almost every 
family had something. One had a map 
to a lost gold mine down in Sonora. Ar 
other had owned a grocery store once. 
Another family had a cousin who was a 
cook in the house of one of the biggest 
generals in. Mexico. 

But I just brought up Hilario Sanchez 
and Rosa Gutierrez because those ме 
two things I was dead sure of. I knew 
Rosa Gutierrez had sung over the radio 
once in Los Angeles. She just had that 
Jook about her. 

Hilario Sanchez 
test and nicest men I've ever known 
and sometimes | secretly imagined he 
was really my father, because he was so 
nice to his own kids. Hilario had a with- 
ered arm and the story was that in some 
revolution he had been captured. by 
Pancho Villa. Hilario had refused to di- 
vulge i that Villa wanted. 
They had tied Hilario to a post and, 
while V; ate and drank, every once in 
a while he would pick up his pistol and 
shoot Hilario in the arm, After 
Hilario would only shake his head. Не 
endured four shots through the arm at 
the biceps without crying out, just shak- 
ing his head afu ach shot. After the 
fourth shot, Villa had gotten up and cut 
the ropes himself, «ed Hil. 
had given him a drink from his own 
bottle. 

"Macho," Pancho Villa had said. “Ma- 
chote,” saying that Hilario Sanchez wa 
a lot of male animal, among many other 
respectful things. 

"Hell" my father said about 
Gutierrez and Hilario Sanchez, 

It made me feel like I ought to say 
something doubtful about how my fe 
ther had won second place in the bronc 
riding at the Salinas rodeo in 1926. But 


one of the ger 


formation 


io and 


Rosa 


I wasn't that mad. 

“You've been hanging around the 
camp too much," my father said. 

Te was ише that I spent a lot of time 
in the camp. It consisted of 50 or so wag- 
onhouses that were really big cook wag 
ons left over from roundup days, tents 
tenthouses and sheds, arranged with lit- 
Че mong them. I liked the 
nights in the camp best with somebody 


playing a guitar and singing in that 
high, sad way they all sang and smelling 
wood smoke and corn meal and hearing 


low laugh off somewhere and the pat- 
Patpat sound women make when they're 
making tortillas. 1 spent a lot of time 
there, eating most of my meals at one 
place or another. 

Our house was near the camp, but 
never of it, a big, rambling place with 
verandas around all sides, lacing out 
onto a huge court or patio. This court 
was а bare field with a round concrete 
horse trough in the middle of it. We 
held baseball games in the court on Sun- 
days, playing a fly ball into the horse 
tough as а home run. We always kept 
the horse trough stocked with carp we 
netted out of the ditches to take the 
mud taste out of them, Everybody, dur- 
ing the summer, hung gutted carp from 
clotheslines and all of us used to always 
be chewing on dried carp. 

For three days after that morning, 
Emeterio Alvarez was too sad to work. I 
drifted by his tenthouse a few 
looked in. Each time he would just be 
lying on his cot, looking up at the tent 
roof. I coughed once, standing outside, 
and he made a single shooing motion 
with one hand. I wanted to say some 
thing to him, but nothing 1 could figure 
out made much sense, 

At dusk оп the fourth d. 
the house. He t 
put it across his stomach. He w 
polite and went into the office with my 
father, and when he came out he looked 
different. I gave him time to get back to 
camp and then ran there myself. 

It didu't take long to lind out. It was 
the biggest thing that had ever hap- 
pened in our camp. Emeterio had bound 
himself, his wife and five dau 
work for my father at half pay until he 
had paid off steer he had bought from 
my father, He was going to put on a 
bullfight right in the middle of the base- 
ball field. 

I ran back to the house and into the 
office. 

"You going to let him?" I asked. 

"You don't need a license to be a 
damn fool,” he said. It was one of his 
vorite expressions and covered an a 
y variety of situ 

Next Sunday, Emeterio got together 
bunch of Mod- 
LT truck and went out to Deep Wells 
where my father had a few steers on 


tions. 


men and borrowed a 


Ci: 


woe ean” 


-the British are coming... 


„tish . 


xc» Rcx 
DS 


Briss 


“The British are coming. 


PLAYBOY 


154 


range. I guess they had a terrible time 
cutting that steer out and cornering il 
open country and getting it up onto the 
truck. They were tired and dirty and 
skinned up when they got back to camp 
nd unloaded the steer. When it was on 
the ground, the steer acted like it wa 
home, snufling around, mot acting 
fierce. I commented on this to Gonzalo. 

"A torero," he told me a little coldly, 
“has his way of handling difficult bulls. 

"This is a steer," I said. 

“Necessity is the great teacher," Gon- 
zalo said. "Get three shotgun shells from 
your fathers office. Gunpowder will 
bring back his spirit" 

I was relieved. Once we had fed a 
mixture of gunpowder and tequila to a 
banty rooster and it had become a com- 
plete terror. That night I took five shot- 
gun shells from the box in the office and 
the next morning 1 took them to Eme- 
terio, holding the shells 

"Let me be alter ned. 
This meant that if the steer disabled 
him, then I would take over. It would 
have been a pretty good bargain, but I 
knew he wouldn't do it. He shook his 
head and I held onto the shells. 

Sword handler?” I asked, coming 
down several notches, and, alter а while 
he held out his hand for the shells. 

Becoming sword handler for the bull- 
fight made me feel kind of responsible 
in a way. The next morning I went out 
with а gunny sack and waved it in front 
of the steer’s nose and grunted at it 
to infuriate it. It came closer, slobber- 
ing and snufiling, seeing if there w 
anything to eat in the sack. Emeterio 
ng out, He'd changed a lot 
1 bought that steer. He walked 


since he 
around with his mustache bristling and 
seemed to fill out his clothes more. 


he ordered. 
n to know the cape." 

He seems pretty tame,” 1 said, "after 
five shotgun shells of gunpowd 

“I haven't give him the powder yet, 
he said. “The morning of the spectacle is 
the time.” I was relieved again, remem- 
bering what the gunpowder 
that banty rooster. 

It's funny, but it seems like you can 
go along for years and it’s like someone 
hasn't noticed you yet, like you weren't 
worth bothering with. Then, one day 
you get noticed and things start happen 
ing. 

Before Emeterio could put on his big 
bullfight there came a letter from Ojo 
Azul, Chihuahua, for Casimiro Gomez, 
the owner of 2000 goats. I met the mail 
man u nd there was this letter 
for Don Casimiro. 1 found him squatting 
with Manuel Icaza drawing maps in the 
dust. 

"A deuer" 1 told him, "from Ojo 
Azul One Jesus 

He looked up at me, not be 


зоте. 


Fifteen years of silence and then this 
letter. 

“The cousin,” he said. 
the goats.” 

He took the letter, turned it over sev- 
eral times, smelled the glue, lifted a cor- 
ner of the stamp and frowned. 

“Look,” he said, "I am an alphabetic.” 

n delicate way of saying he 
couldn't read. 

Manuel Icaza studied the map in the 
dust. 

“Equal,” he said after a while. Casi- 
miro surrendered the letter to me. І 
opened it and read. 

‘The Aunt Leovigilda had died, such a 
hard blow, and her son, Leonidas, able 
and with some facility of. numbers, want- 
ed to emigrate to the United States of 
lifornia, well, would the Uncle Casi- 
miro find him employment. 

I read it all, letting my voice fall with 
finality after the signature. They didn't 
look up. After a long time Casimiro 
drew а deep breath, "And of the 

See ae 
“Zero,” I told him. 
of the goats, 


"The cousin of 


he said. 
nuel [caza's 


angry. 
hundred percent zero of the 


I said, getting it over with 

Casimiro didn't look up. After a 
while, Manuel Icaza leaned over and 
spat into the map in the dust. He got up 
suddenly, violently, and left, looking 
from side to side as if searching for a 
betrayer. 

I didn't know what to say. 

"Look, Don Ca o," I said. "I feel 
" In Spanish thars the way you say 
you're sorry. You say you feel it and I 
did. After a while I laid the letter down 
beside him and left. 

It would have been one of the biggest 
things that had ever happened in the 
camp, a man suddenly being wiped out 
like that, but the fever of the bullfight 
watered dor the scandal of it. But it 
changed things, anyway. From now on 
Don Casimiro would be Panzon or Gor- 
do, The Fat One or Big Belly. Never 
again Don imiro. With charity, 
maybe just plain Casimiro. But goats 
would always be an impolite thing to 
speak of in his presence. 

We worked all day Saturd 
the bull ring. We lugged i 
ates and bedsprings and car doors and 
pieces of board and anything else that 
could be propped up. It turned out to 
be a pretty small ring and really it 
looked like a junk pile out there in the 
middle of the baseball field. My father 
came out onto the veranda and motioned 
for Gonzalo to come over, 

“Have them clean that mess up after," 
he ordered. 

On Sunday I ate lunch with Emeterio 
and his wife and five daughters. Neither 
Emeterio nor 1 could eat much and the 


y making 
old corral 


women were pretty quiet. Every once i 
a while the wife would look scared and 
grab Emeteri m and he would look. 
at her sternly. It was pretty emotional. 
Alter lunch Emeterio shooed his women 
out of the tent and began to dress. 
He had borrowed Joe Flores’ black 
wedding suit. That suit was too big for 
Joe Flores and Joe Flores was a lot big- 
ger than Emeterio. It hung on him and 
he took some twine and tied the legs 
tight around the ankles. When he stood 
up the pants legs ballooned down over 
the twine and he looked like he was 
wearing black knickers. He had on a 


white shirt, the collar of it so big that his. 
de the 


neck looked thin and corded 
rim of it. He h; 
cuffs of the coat came cl down 
ids and he rolled them 
the lining. He had on old ten- 
nis shoes and they looked out of place, 
but still, he looked pretty fine. 

The best 1 could do was an old cow 
boy vest, and when Emeterio was dressed 
I picked up the sword. It was a steel 
finger off yrake. I stuck the 
hayrake finger under my arm and stood 
. He picked up his cape 
ped it over his arm. It was а cot 
ton sack painted red. 

“The gunpowder?” T asked, and he 

told me he had given it to the steer at 
dawn. 
March," he said. and walked out of 
the tenthouse, his arm folded 
against his chest, his knees lifting high. I 
was right behind him, walking the same 
way. When we got near the bull ring the 
people began to clap and it was good to 
hear it. 

Until I saw my father. He was up оп 
the veranda of the house with one foot 
on the veranda тай. He was smiling. 1 
didn't mind the smile, but what worried 
me was that I could see that he had put 
on his old cowboy boots, the ones that 
hurt his fect so bad. I stayed just inside 
the bull ring and Emeterio marched out 
to the middle, bowed and spread the 
pe. 

“I dedicate this bull to the people,” he 
said. 

The men began uying to push the 
steer out into the ring and 
to go. Emeterio waited, act 
couldn't see what a terrible time they 
were haying with the steer, trying to 
push it between the bedsprings and са 
doors. But finally they boosted it in. The 
steer trotted a couple of steps, looked. 
around and then began snufliing at its 
front feet, blowing dust. 


Emeterio set himself, gripped the cape 


and began saying Huh, huh, toro, torito, 
deep in his throat and to shake the cape 
and scrape his tennis shocs in the dust. 
Everybody very quiet, watching. 
And in the quiet I heard my fathei 
Hell" my father s 
"That steer acted lii 


t hadn't had five 


shotgun shells of gunpowder at all. It 
didn't pay any attention to Emeterio. It 
just walked over slowly and began to try 
to cat one of the women's skirts. She 
screamed and yanked the skirt away and 
the steer backed up, a little startled. And 
Emeterio rushed it, hollering. He just 

anaged to toss a corner of the cape 
ad. I hollered ;Ole! Nobody 
else did. ‘The steer groaned and began to 
yun around and Emeterio began to chase 
d the sweat 


to run down his face. Every 


time he'd get dose to it, the stecr would 
whirl and go the other way. One of Em- 
cterio’s pants legs came loose from its 
binding, dragging in the dust, tripping 
him, and he stopped to fix it. 

My father came into the ring, step- 
ping tall over a bedstead. He was smil- 
ing. Emeterio straightened up and began 
saying No, no, no. My father, still smil- 
ing, headed the steer, feinted it once and 
then grabbed it and began to bulldog it, 
leaning on it, twisting its head, and all 
the time Emeterio kept saying No, no, 
no. The steer toppled over. 

There was absolute silence. Then my 
father did something I just couldn't be- 
lieve. He worked himself around and 
held up onc апп to the crowd, like he'd 
done something really brave and was 
ready to hear their applause. There 
a't a sound. He kept holding up his 
arm, smiling, and then he looked around 
for me and found me and pointed his 
arm at me, asking me to clap or some 
th 


Т guess that's what he wanted. Any- 
way, I just couldn't. It was like being 
caught in the middle of the biggest wind 
devil in the world, like the whole world 
was a wind devil, really, going around 
and around. My father kept looking at 
me in that asking way and I, well, I just 
couldn't. He let his arm down and he 
and the steer got up. 

Emeterio began to make a low sus- 
ed noise in his throat. I looked at 
nd saw his face. He ran toward me 
and I was seeing a full-grown man cry- 
ing. He grabbed ihe hayrake finger away 
from me and ran back to stand in front 
of the steer. He profiled and drove in 
over the steer's head. The finger of the 
hayrake zinged and went flying. The 
steer shook himself, 

"You quit mistreat 
her si 

“It's my bull,” Emeterio said, still 
суі 

“You don't Һаус to pay me for the 
steer,” my father told him. He always 
said he treated his Mexicans right. 

Emeterio looked up at him and 
opened his mouth and the veins stood 
out in his neck and his eyes bulged, but 
he didn't make any sound. 

“Better clean this mess up," my father 
said, and walked away, tall in his cowboy 
boots. We were all still standing there 


ng that steer,” my 


when the screen door slammed bchind 
him. 

Emeterio began to walk around like 
he'd suddenly gone blind. He blun- 
dered inst a car door and then а 
bedspring and all of a sudden it came to 
me that all he wanted, that what he was 
trying to do, was just to get out of 
there. I took his arm and he swung 
around and threw my arm and looked at 
me like he hated me. 

"Gringo." he said to mc. 

I was his sword handler and he said 
that to me. 


That night I walked out into the 
camp. 

l stood outside the wagon house 
where Rosa Gutierrez lived, the one who 
had sung over the radio once in Los An- 
geles. I stood in the dark that was so 
dense I could breathe it. I could see her 

n there, singing to one of her kids, rock- 
ing back and forth. 

“Hell,” I said so softly she couldn't 
hear me. 

Over by Emeterio's tenthouse 1 could 
see his daughters around the door. I 
went close enough so 1 could say some- 
thing to them, but then I didn't. 

I didn't look for Hilario Sanchez, he 
of the withered arm where Pancho Villa 
had shot him. I'd looked into his wagon- 
house plenty of nights and 1 knew he'd 
be sitting there with a couple of his kids 
on his lap, playing with them, 
them, holding them. 1 sure didn't want 
to sce that. Not that night. 

I saw a cigarette glow and veered 


through the night toward it. Casimiro 
Gomez, the fat one, dragged on his ciga- 
rette and Y saw his face. Mexicans say 
Adios to each other when they meet 
each other and don't want to talk. It 
means Hello and Goodbye, kind of, 

dios," 1 told Casimiro and he said 
Adios into the place where I'd just been. 

I walked out of the sounds and smells 

nd faint fires and stood all alone in the 
middle of the baseball field and looked 
back at the camp. Somebody hit a single 
sad chord on a guitar and it sounded 
like it came from a million miles aw 

Over at the house I could sce the light 
in the office where my father was work- 
ing. I stood out there in the night be- 
tween the camp and the house and felt 
just exactly like a wind devil had just 
cast me out and 1 was waiting for the 
whirle y part of me to come back 
and let me be me again. 

It still hadn't come back when I stood 
beside my father's desk. I le: 
and put my palm on one of the spikes 
that stabbed the bills. ] pushed, seeing 
how much pain I could stand. I pulled 
d looked at my palm. 1 
n drawn blood. 

“I think ГЇЇ join the Navy when I get 
old enough,” I told my father. “See the 
world. 

He didn't even look up from his 
ledger. 

"You don't necd a license to be a 
damn fool,” my father said. 


ned over 


“Youll never catch any waves with that rig, buddy.” 


155 


PLAYBOY 


156 


COPENHAGEN continued from page 90) 


cognac sauce. The oddly named 7 Sma 
Hjem (Small Homes) is a multiroomed. 
elegantly intime restaurant which oc- 
cupies a series of interconnected town- 
houses, each furnished and accoutered 
in a different style; downstairs is а tim- 
bered bar popular with young couples in 
search of hot libation and warm asocia- 
tion. The menu is comparable to that of 
the Seven Nations, a similarly conceived 
spa echoing the decor of as many coun- 
tries, including a Greenland Room and 
an Alaska Bar. The fare—different in 
each room—includes such exotica as 
pickled salmon, corned duck and Green- 
land reindeer 

A few doors away is the Coq d'Or, 
famous for Canard à l'Orange, and 
plump Bombay chicken with a curry 
sauce that has pleased the palates of 
gourmets from India to Ind 

At least one of your evenings 
healthy appetite—should be reserved for 
a feast at the Botanique, a picturesque 
88year-old establishment which excels in 
such varied repasts as a meal-in-itself on- 
ion soup, steak Diana and a sautéed ten- 
derloin flambéed in cognac. The decor 
is charmingly Provencal, the service im- 


na. 


and a 


peccable and the rich Danish patisserie 
is created. by the former pastry chef at 
Buckingham Palace. 

For culinary outdoorsmen, the roof 
restaurant of the Codan Hotel, next 
door to Amalienborg Castle, is а splen- 
did preserve of abundant wildgame 
dishes ranging from woodcock to rei 
deer steak. Only the prices arc tamc: 
from S? to $5. 

During the summer, addition to 
having such marvelous outdoor restau- 
rants as Divan I in Tivoli at his dispos- 
al, the visitor will be charmed by the 
beautifully canopied courtyard of the 
old Hafnia Hotel, where the diner is 
invited to select his seafood for the 
evening from a huge central basin aswim. 
1 schools of finny fellow 
Oriental comestibles may be sampled 


in imperial style at the tiny Nanking 
restaurant, specializing in Cantonese 
fare fit for a mandarin—all at coolie 


prices: a dollar a meal. 

Royally inclined tastes vill be extray- 
agantly indulged at the restaurant of 
the Richmond Hotel, which caters ban- 
quets for the royal court when for 
dignitaries come to sup and sip with the 


“They'll never be happy. She's a comparison shopper.” 


ng and queen. Fit for the princeliest of 
palates is the capon grilled with pimien- 
to and chopped fowl liver, served in co- 
gnac and garnished with pate de foie gras. 

Another lordly table prestigieuse is 
Restaurant Escoffier, which thrives 
mightily on the reputation of its name- 
sake and on the quality of a first-chair 
international menu, no item on which 
costs more than $1.75. 

Having indulged your 
indinations, you'll be ready to swing 
into the city’s pulsatingly diversified 
night life—which will be cornucopian 
with opportunities to establish сопа 
with agreeable female companions. Gi 
are plentiful in Copenhagen bars 
night clubs, frequendy unattached and 
nearly always approachable (provided 
you're not daunted by the sight of a 
panatela perched between the lips of 
more than a few). 

Copenhagen has no cabaret hostesses 
who will share the pleasure of your 
company on a perhour basis. It doesn't 
need them—for the likelihood of caich- 
ing the eye and fancy of a Danish girl, 
for a reasonably well-polished American 
tor, is almost too good to be uue. 
The reason for the quantity and com- 
plaisance of this feminine embarra: 
ment of riches is fourfold: the inbred 
Scandinavian taste for pleasure, un- 
precedented social freedom for women, 
their almost defiant determination to 
make the most of it, and the apparent 
indifference of many sh women to- 
d Danish men. Thus, the urbane 
American male with pleasant manne 
and earnest intentions stands a beter 
than-even chance against his less-adven- 
turous Danish counterpart. 

Love, the physical variety, is a publicly 
private affair in Copenhagen, unself- 
consciously evidenced almost everywhere, 


tronomical 


day and night—in buses, on park 
benches, in the candlelit seclusion of 
timbered taverns, on crowded North 


Shore beaches. For sex is looked upon 
with favor and frankness by the Danes. 
ny public schools, pupils are 
taught the practical aspects, if not the 
pleasures, of sex—which most of them 
learn for themselves soon enough. It is 
discussed with unblinking candor, ac 
cepted with equani enjoyed with 
ng male may find 
self momentarily disarmed when his 
female companion bluntly accepts—or 
rejects—his invi be- 
fore it has bee 

You might start your 
peregrinations by taking in a perform- 
ance at the ABC Theater, which stages 
leggy revues with such corny, but titillat- 
ing titles as "S " and a bevy of 
demiclad chorines who engage en masse 
in the closest thing to le strip that you 
can find in Copenhagen at the moment 
—but it is definitely no FolicsBergére. 


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Another pair of unabashedly lowbrow 
but high-spirited emporiums in which to 
observe, and perhaps join, the nightly 
mating ritual are the Red Pimpernel, a 
cavernous beer-and-dance hall whose 
dimesized dance floor is so tightly 
packed that terpsichore is a matter of in- 
Cidental interest; and a blatantly mis- 
named bar called the Virgin C 
the female patron: 
a visitor with eae 


ity, you'll w 
10 move up in class to some of the town's 
more stylish night spots. There are 35 
with а бусла. closing time, euphe- 
mistically known as “night restaurami 
to indicate that they feat 
with drink, dance and dalli 
it feature of 
life: the Danes would consider it un- 
thinkable to seek nocturnal adventure 
without the firm assurance of sustenance 
en route. 

Jazz bulls, male and female, local and 
imported, flock for far-out sounds to the 
Club Montmartre, which boasts a large 
dicmele of unattached girls, a candle- 
light-shirtsleeve atmosphere, and the 
services of some of the finest U. S. jazz 
men: The bandstand has held such as 
Stan Getz. Gerry Mulligan and the 
brothers Adderley. Those in search of 
blue, uncool, old-fashioned jazz may 
profitably explore a pair of nearby 
sound stages—Vingarden, whose bar is a 
bohemia of whimsical trinkets, cast-iron 
memorabilia, medieval tools and Rube 
Goldherg—type creations, and the Cape 
Horn, a harbor dive that offers nco-Dixic 
and New Orleans blowers. The policy of 
both places is predicated on the nostal- 


gic proposition that tue jazz came to a 
end when King Oliver laid down 
his horn. 


Round 

i in for 
route to daybreak. Show 
pist and revelers settle down to 
us drinking and awd pub 
crawling. A pack of clubs arc available 
for purposes foremost 
them being the Atlantic а 
Adlon. With lament 
recently т 
its thriving upstairs carrousel bar with a 
swing of bowling y blow to 
the city's la 


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storied den with a Lillipu 
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mission is 20 cents, but it may take a bit 
of palm greasing to get you by the im- 
perious tyrant guarding the front gute. 
Table reservations are a prerequisite, 
for even on week nights the crowds ap- 
proach rush-hour proportions. But 
there’s one compensation: The bar is 
almost always awash with throngs of 
animated feminine fun seekers. The 
music is nonstop, one band spelling an- 
other, and so is the dancing. If you feel 
inclined to while away the hours in less 
hectic surroundings, the New Look bar 
at the Palace Hotel is the place to enjoy 
plush and quiet comfort while sipping. 

If you still find yourself at loose ends 
during the few remaining hours before 
morning, you'll be greeted with sym- 
pathetic hospitality—along with coffee, 
crullers and marmakide—at a 
known as the Society Bar, which opens 
its doors at the stroke of five. 

If you are not alone, however, the 
question eternal of where to share a pri- 
vate nightcap becomes the final order of 
the new day. Happily, your hotel room 
is often—but not always—considered 
quite acceptable by the liberal-minded 
Danes, unless the night derk can show 
prima-facie evidence—which few, if any, 
ever have—that the young lady is ac- 
companying you there for purposes of 
engaging in a business transaction. (The 
hotel desk clerk is positively affable, how- 
ever, about feminine visitors during the 
daylight hours.) In any event, vour com- 
panion will probably have volunteered 
her own quarters. 

Whatever your early-morning status, it 
is well to remember that during the 
Scandinavian summer the sun begins to 
show its face at 1:30 A.M, and the birds 
nsolently begin chirping an hour later. 
This unscemly display of carly.bird 


frivolity may seem incongruous at 
first, but you'll probably have too much 
on your mind at that hour to find it dis- 
concerting. 

The Danes are early risers despite 
their dedication to late-night pleasures, 
so if you want to make the most of your 
visit, you'd be well-advised to roll out of 
bed carly and into one of the city’s many 
public steam baths where a suffusing 
Steam-and-sun-lamp treatment, plus cold 
shower and massage will prime you for 
the day ahead. 

You might begin by renting a bicycle 
and setting out on а freewheeling city 
tour. If this notion sounds too athletic, 
you may elect to sightsce in a rented 
car down narrow, winding alleys lined 
with picturesque antique shops and 
Teaded-glass windows, past the thickset 
Round Tower and the bear-capped sen- 
ties guarding the frst family at 


Langelinie Promenade 
to the Glyptotek museum whose world- 
renowned collection of modern and а 
cient art is supported by the Carlsberg 
brewery. Or visit the Rosenborg Palace 


and the Chi sborg Palace, both aglow 
with the glittering wappings of state 


If you're interested in Danish arts and 
crafts—whether for browsing or buying 
visit to one of its great. purveyors 
will prove a rewarding experience. None 
is more illusuious than Illums Bolighu: 
a starkly modem downtown showcase 
for cleanly designed Danish palisander 
and rosewood furniture (teak is no 
longer in) hand-blocked linens and 
handsome silver, enamel and glassware. 
The prices are reasonable by American 
standards, though often high for the 
tives. No less exclusive an emporium for 
the discriminating shopper is Den Per- 


manente, a treasure house of choice 
home furnishings, flatware and jewelry 
of tastefully chaste design. 

Your next shopping stop-off should be 
Georg Jensen's silversmith shop, whose 


Fifth Avenue afhliste in N York 
has long since outgrown the original 
Copenhagen hammerandanvil work- 


shop, which offers a superb collection of 
jewelry, silverware and o 

"Fo sporting bloods, the offeri 
Copenhagen may scem a bit tame except 
for the fast-paced soccer games at Idract- 
sparken, where the Danes, ordinarily an 
rturbable breed, display uncharac- 
ic passion in rooting for their favor- 
ites, even to the hurling of bottles when 
the local eper is threatened by a 
brawny Swedish forward, or the umpire 
has called а foul against a hometown 
center half. 

As a cont 


t to the previous evening's 
strenuous inaugural—after а postgame 
potation at the nearest pub—you might 
consider (having wisely made reserva- 
ns beforehand) a visit to the theater 
or the ballet. The former, to be sure, 
may present a language handicap, but if 
you're accompanied by a fairly bilingual 
companion, you should be able to catch 
the gist of the highly stylized musicom- 
edy, Teenagerlove, am acid satire on 
today’s pop culture which is in its second 
t the Royal Theater. The wide 
oire and consummate artistry of 
the Ro ish Ballet, of course, re- 
quires no interpreter. 

In a lighter vein you might wish to 
audit the jazzand-poetry offerings at the 
minuscule Fiol Theater; or to sample 
the coffee and cake, and the multilingual 
folk songs summed and sung at thc 
Purple Door by a flock of high-spirited 
Scandin citybillies. 


Eie کے‎ 


ama 


a аа а 


EX MA BAILEYS HOMEMADE Pl 


"JUST OLD TIME GOOD FATIN’ ” 


TEE 


SE TNE ТУЛЕК 


“Chrissake — I'm doing the best I can!” 


Moviegoers may elect to screen the lat- 
est Bergman or Antonioni ориз at one 
of the city's fashionable artfilm houses— 
or perhaps to enjoy the experience of 
screening a candidly adult French or 
Swedish feature unexpurgated by the 
scissors of American censorship. You'll 
suller no serious loss skipping Danish 
films, which seem to consist mostly of 
threadbare drawing-room comedies and 
slapstic 

On an early afternoon you and a 
companion might explore the binter- 
lands of Copenhagen. Best bet 
rent a Simca or Volkswagen 
long the winding byways traversing 
sloping hills into the green- 
arpeted countryside, Well worth a 
is the Dyrehaven, a verdant deer park, 
just north of the city, surrou 

re ial lodge for ro: 
You'll also want to ех- 
plore still north to Kronborg 
tle ore, the greenspired, 
-girdled 16th Century rococo palace 
Hamlet, brooding moodily on the 
northeastern shore of Denmark 35 miles 
arted 


out 
the gently 


feature of Elsi is the M 
resort hotel whi 
bling casino in Denmark. 

On the way back, stop off at one of 
the many picturesque highway 
ting the lands wor the hearti- 
ic, best 
delicacies as 


crusted pork г 
ied by a foaming tan 


You may also want to enjoy the sun— 
and its worshipers—plus an afternoon 
dip, at the Klampenborg Beach, also 
known as Bellevue, on the North Shore, 
peopled by bikiniclad bathers frolick- 
ing in the paleblue water—and by 
young couples locked in warm embraces 
on the warm sand. 

There is much yet to sec—Tivoli at 
night, asparkle with lights and fireworks; 
Bakken, a noisy suburban fun fair of 
tent barkers, clowns, rides and boisterous 
Biersiuben; and Dragør, an idyllic old 
fishing community south of town. De- 
spite the tiny size of this country, it will 
seem as though there really aren't 
enough hours in the day and night to 
see and do everything 

But after you've w 
back to the Sta 
vn will ling 


gel your way 
the people of Köben- 
г longest in your thoughts. 
You'll appreciate their warm sincerity— 
nd the pleasant prospects of reviving 
newly made acquaintances in the future 
—when you've been treated to that time- 
honored Danish farewell: "Tak fordi 
De kom—kom snart igen”—Thanks for 
coming by; come back soon. 


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IMMORTALITY 


isms. It is usually possible to knock out 
the body's immune response with radia 
tion and drugs, bur this presents а nice 
problem in judgment. Too much, and 
the body cannot protect itself against in- 
fection and the patient dies. Too little, 
and the body destroys the transplant. 
(The Ecuadorian wore his new hand for 
only a week before it had to be taken off 
again.) 

Technical problems can be solved. 
There are new drugs such as Imuran, 
effective but selective their action. 
There are new environmental tech- 
niques, such as the germ-free kidney- 
transplant facilities at Michael Reese 
Hospital in Chicago. What is significant 
about the history of organ transplants 
is not that so many failed, but that so 


many succeeded. And because of these 
successes there is a large and growing list 
of “causes of death” for which we have 


found no cure—but which do not need 
to cause death anymore, because we can 
today provide substitute mechanisms, о! 
ganic or inor 

d in a few more decades, this sit- 
uation may prevail: Wear ош a part? 
Stick in a new one. Wear out a lot of 
parts? Cheaper to trade in on a whole 
new body. Where do the extra parts 
come from? Grow them. On breeder 
bodies, if that turns out to be a good 
cost-accounting way: comatose creations 


nic. 


with neither mind nor feeling, endlessly 
growing arms and cyes and kidneys 
that are rvested and marketed to 


(continued from page 80) 


“real” people. In productionline vats: 
Here's plant number seven, that's all 
left fect. Down the line there you can 
see the robot sowers planting cellular 
seeds for the gonad bank. 

Apart from life prolongation, the con- 
trol of cellul nd immunc 
responses has implications that 


side 
themselves are enormous. Control the 


bodys immune responses and you can 
control, if you like, its present mecha- 
nisms for tolerating transplants. What 
transplants arc лр Well, the metasta- 
ansplant. So is 
п ovum by а sperm, 

Conuol cell division by invoking the 

genetic code and you might be able to 
cdit and rearrange a flesh-and-blood 
body as easily as you could cdit a 
puter analog. 
"The point is that death is not a prime 
ause nor a fixed biological date, like 
the attainment of puberty. It is a con- 
sequence. It only happens when some- 
thing else has happened first. We die 
because we have contracted a disease, 
or вийетей some metabolic breakdown, or 
got in the way of a rifle bullet, or 
been thrown off a cliff. This stops the 
whole series of complex intei ns 
mong our cells and organs and what 
may be several thousand varieties of 
chemical substances, and we call that 
stoppage "death." 

But one by one we are whitiling away 
at each of these causes, and if we whittle 
them all away, will people still die? 

"Ehis brings us to the second of the 


com- 


“Sure beats walking!” 


three ways in which we can outwit the 
mortality tables: the control of the aging 
process. Men do grow old. They have al- 
ways done so—apparently they have al- 
ways been able to grow just about as old 
as anyone does today; the maximum age 
man can reach does not seem to have 
been much increased, if at all, by mod- 
ern science. There are pretty reliable re- 
ports of men living to age 140 or so in 
every age for the past 2000 years, and 
there are pretty reliable reports of men 
reaching the same age, and no more, to- 
day. A lot more of our people live to 
reach old age, of course. And our old- 
sters are undoubtedly a lot livelier, bei 
less crippled with gout, tumors, cataracts 
and the sequelae of a thousand infections 
and deficiencies. But senescence is mcas- 
ured in terms of calcification of the tis- 
sues, deposits in the arteries and such 
recherché items as the accumulation of 
phospholipides in the nerve cells, and all 
these things still happen no matter how 
much aureomycin is swallowed. 

When Gulliver went to the isle of 
Luggnagg he met a horrible race of 
ancients called Struldbrugs. They did 
live forever. But they got older, and 
went right on geuing older. It isn't 
likely that there would bc very many 
eager customers for the sort of immortal- 
ity that lets aging go on unchecked. No- 
body wants to be a Struldbrug. Indeed, 
many of us would fecl that death at the 
height of one's powers is a better deal 

п the prolonged geriatric twilight of 
the senior citizen. If we want anything 
more than a mere doubling of the life 
span, we are going to have to stop, or 
reverse, or at least slow down, the dc- 
generative processes we 
we can do that, we can h 
iams—or multicentenarians—with 
pink cheeks and riotous glands of a man 
of 25. 

If we want to keep from growing old, 
the first step is to discover just what 
"growing old” is. It turns out the answer 
ather simple. It is as though the hu- 
man body were a sort of superautomated 
sawmill, set to the task of ripping and 
planing so many thousand board feet of 
lumber. It does its task, it completes 
what it was set to do—but, being a living 
thing, it cannot stop, and gocs on to de- 
stroy itself. 

From the first moment of conception 
the human body is programed t go 
through a certain series of set phases. In 
embryo it changes from simple cell to 
free blastocyte, from implanted precur- 
sor of a fetus to a sort of primitive, help- 
less, half-formed reptile, grows limbs and 
eyes, folds nervous tissue into a brain, 
deposits calcium as bones and elabora 
hi and nails. en after 
process docs not stop. Deciduous teeth 
appear, dissolve their roots back into the 
blood stream, fall out and are replaced. 


Bones lengthen and thicken—not as а 
tree grows its trunk, by piling layer on 
layer, but as we enlarge a building. As 
the bone gets larger in its outside di- 
mensions, special bone-destroying cells 
called osteoclasts tunnel passages into it 
for new blood vessels and enlarge the 
hollows for marrow. In the first decade 
or so after birth the body prepares itself 
for puberty—the voice box thickens and 
the voice changes; breasts bud on a 
woman and a beard on a man. Even 
when the body is mature—call it the 205 
of a man's life—the programing is not 
over. There are horizons—set stages of 
development—remaining on the tape. 
What happens when we cease to grow 
and begin to grow old is that the cells 
have run out of instructions. They have 
nothing left to do but begin to destroy 
themselves—or, at best, to allow theni- 
selves to be destroyed. But surely this 
can be controlled. If nature forgot to 
leave. instructions, certainly we can find 
a way to fill the gap—return the osteo- 
clasts to their mining into age-fragile old 
bones, bring new blood and new resil- 
ience as the brittle old calcium is re- 
placed by new; dissolve back the roots of 
the second set of teeth and replace them 
with a third, а fourth, as many as we 


the hea: 
posits of fat; reactivate the glands. 

This is by no means a new idea, of 
course. In 1768 Lazzaro Spallanzani, 
observing that some frogs and lizards 
ack parts that had been 
lost, began to try to find out just how 
they did it in the hope that some way 
could be found to “obtain this advan- 
tage for ourselves.” The search has not 
stopped; it has, in fact, proliferated into 
a hundred lines of research, and some of 
them have produced solid achievement. 
At places like Johns Hopkins and Сог- 
nell, the Medical University of Budapest 
and the Institute of Industrial Hygiene 
Prague, scientists are taking apart 
nd putting back together some of the 
body's most age-susceptible substances, 
for example, collagen, the protein which, 
as it grows older, helps produce the old 
man’s aching joint and wrinkled skin. 
Folke Skoog at the University of W 
in and F.C. Steward at Cornell 
aged to persuade matter from 
nongrowing parts of vegetables to grow 
complete new plants. Other workers are 
now attempting to repeat the process 
with animals. The technique involves 
the application of various materials, 
some with names like 6-furfurylamino- 
purine and 2-benzthiazolyloxyacctic acid, 
some as old-shoe as coconut milk. It is a 
long way from the test tube and the un- 
aturally grown carrot to rejuvenating 
d causing а man 
to regrow a defective spleen—but these 
are way stations on the wail, all the 
same. 


collagen in the body а 


“Goodness, no, Miss Gorman, I think a little 
nonconformity is healthy.” 


Even if we can't yet restore youth to 
an aged body, it is worth while just to 
keep a body from becoming aged in the 
first place, which might well be an easier 
task. 

We already know, for sure, that aging 
is not a mere matter of years. We know 
this, first, because every doctor has seen 
a patient whose calendar age i: 
more but whose every measur 


age, i 
aging occurs more slowly th 
We know it, second, because there are 
those uncommon unfortunates, the pre- 
maturcly aged—the 12-ycar-olds who die 
of senile degenerative diseases, the 1 
in arms who grow beards, pipe shrilly, 
rheum at the eyes and expire—indicating 
that in some individuals aging is wildly 
accelerated. 

If the biological dock c: 
slow by accident, there 
found to make it run 
. А thousand ways 


pe: 


п run fast or 
way to be 
t or slow by de- 
ave been or are 
act of con. 


bei 


g tried — Bogomolets' ext 
nective tissue, Hans Selye's "caleiphy- 
xis," procaine therapy, hormones—and 


under certain conditions they seem at 
least sometimes to work. For example, in- 
ject a laboratory animal with pituitrin. 
Sometimes it will have no effect, but 
sometimes it will produce a greatly in 
creased life span. It turns out that it can 
be predicted in advance whether the in- 
jections will lengthen the animal's life, 
simply by taking note of its age at the 
ne of treatment, H the animal receives 
the injections before puberty, puberty is 
delayed and the animal lives longer. AE 


ter the animal is mature the pituitrin has 
no effect. 

Insects possess a secretion called "'juve- 
nile hormone” that somehow prevents 
the organism from developing into its 
adult form. Recently what seems to be 
the same hormone, or a close analog, has 
been found in n tissue—i 
fact, in human beings. Docs it serve the 
same function? If it docs, can we get shots 
and remain vi 1 our lengthy liv 

There is something to be said for the 
view that what we call “old age" is itself 
а discase, subject to the same sort of con- 
trols we use for other diseases. Curiously, 
it seems to be a disease that very seldom 
is fatal of itself. Last year the National 
Institute of Health spent $80,000,000 on 
research into api 
lines mentioned here and a great number 
of others. Perhaps one of these ux 
lead to the means to immortality. Perhaps 
not. But there is every reason to expect 
another on 
not this year, then next—most certainly 
some none-too-far future. The same 
processes that work on plants and lower 
animals can be made to work on men 
The same forces that build the cell i 
the first place can be made to repair 
later on. The only “why” to be answered 
is really this one: Why do the forces stop? 
When we know that, we will know how 
to keep them goin, 

Whatever that cause is—some enzyme 
reaction not yet charted, some failure of 
nutrition, some missing hormone or, 
most likely of all, a complex of many 
factors—when we find it we are almost 
home. 


mannı 


161 


PLAYBOY 


162 


And if none of these promises are 
fulfilled, in defiance of all precedent and 
logic, then there is still reason for hope. 
We may find immortality in an unex- 
pected place. 

1t may be that medicine and biology 
can't make us live forever. But medicine 
and biology arc not the only sciences 
whose explorations are rushing faster 
and faster into uncharted space. It is 
possible that chemistry might do the job. 
Or some new subspecies of physics. Or— 
why not?—electronics. 

And this brings us to the third way to 
beat the mortality tables, which we will 
define as the real thing. Previously we 
have talked about lengthening the life 
span and keeping from growing old. The 
kind of immortality we're talking about 
now is the kind in which you stay im- 
mortal—forever, or for as long as you 
yourself want—even if you happen to die 
once in a while. 

Before we can discuss true immortality 

tall, we need to decide just what it is we 
ing about. In other words, what 
р alive? And what do 
we mean by "alive"? 

In The Wizard of Oz, the Tin Wood- 
man was not always tin. He was first a 
flesh-and-blood fellow named Nick 
Chopper, but one day his ax slipped and 
cut off his leg and he had to get a tin leg 
to replace it. Then he lost his other leg; 
then, careless fellow, he successively am- 
putated both arms and his head and 

at of his torso, and as 
destroyed it was replaced 
n. Question: Is the T 
Woodman still Nick Chopper? 

The question isn't entirely fanciful. 
You may indeed lose some limbs or or- 
gans and have them replaced by prosthe- 
sis; you might even lose and replace 
quite a lot of them. Or you may simply 
breathe and excrete, and change 
elf that way. A few decades ago it 
believed that every atom of the body 
was replaced every seven years. Although 
that isn't literally true (collagen and the 
n’s bones migrate 
very slowly if at all), it might as well be 
true: you burn your fat and heal the 
cuts on your si nd your beard grows 

nd is ved and, all i I, there's not 
much left of the original physical “you” 

fter a decade or so. 

When we speak of immortality, then, 


we limit ourselves unnecessarily if we 
restrict ourselves to the eternal preserva- 
tion of our present body, i 
freckles. The essential 


your body. It is what we will call 
your personality, your memory, or your 
i пес to promise you in the 


way of a con. 
that it will be a satisfactory replacement 
for the body you now have, if not in- 
deed the body itself. And conside 
the alternatives, perhaps the level at 


id 


which it could be called 
need not be set too high. 

"There is nothing particularly difficult 
about preserving some sort of segment of 
your personality. It happens all thc 
time. We can do it crudely through book 
and Iegend—as Caesar and Christ are far 


“satisfactory” 


year, old what'shis-name. We с 
through motion pictures and tap 
as when we watch a very living Marilyn 


ог listen to the voices of 
JFK. 

This may not be a very enticing sort 
of immortality, its principal effect 
is on others and it cannot be said to do 
much for you. 

We can do better tha 


crypt or movie film, 


n book, cairn, 
and its worth 


looking to see how well we really can do 


tir-sized computer—one, 
say, capable of a high 
tion storage, retries 
and man of decision making; 
of operations, in short, a thousand times 
more complex than today's 7094 Mark 
IL At the. present. exponential 
progress, that would make it perhaps а 
1974 model. Let us suppose further that 
we fill the computer's storage banks with 
a great deal of you. We read it Moby 
Dick and Treasure Island and we teach 
it the words of Nuts to the Bastard King 
of England and Gaudeamus Igitur. We 
the flavor of a vodka gimlet and 
tty girl's 
neck, the feel of the clutch in a Sting 
Ray and the sounds of Mozart and 
Monk. We teach it, in short, everything 
you know, and we go on to set its in- 
structions—to program it—to associate 
among all these things, so that a whit of 
powder smoke brings back the n 
of frosted ficlds and а good dog pointing 
a bird. We order it to dim and blu 
aris of its memory—so that it can have 
a fact “on the tip of its tongue,” and 
maybe come out with it and maybe not 
—and instruct it further, when no stim- 
ulus presents itself, to hunt more or less 
at random among its stored memori 
‘To go imo reverie, in other words. 

To think, 

(Do not object that no computer can 
do all of these things. No computer pre: 
ently in being but we're talking 
bout the 1974 model. The question of 
st what a computer can do in comp: 
son with the human brain is very much 
up for grabs right now. The biggest 
computer contains about a million stor- 
зе cells; the human brain, about ten 
billion neurons. If you accept this as а 
measure of the difference in complexity 
between them, then you must say that 
one brain equals 10,000 computers. 
However, that’s only a part of the pic 


ate of 


mory 


ture. The neuron operates in about а 
indth of a second, the storage cells 
te in a millionth of a second—an. 
way of putting it is to say that a 
given number of computer cells cin do 
as much worl thousand times as 
many neurons. This reduces the ratio 
to one brain equals ten computers—but 
this, too, is a gros over ation. 
‘There is reason to believe that опе neu 
ron can store more than one "bit" of 
information; but there is also reason to 
believe that it stores these "bits" rather. 
ating them in more 
one place; in any event, we appear 
only a fraction of the brain's stor- 
age capacity. The kind of computer we 
specified is a thousand times more com- 
plex than any present model; that’s as 
good а gucss as any.) 
ing done all this, we have some- 
thing that’s pretty durable. This stored 
tessence of you can be made as per- 
nent as a magnetic charge can be 
made to sustain its sign in a storage ring, 
which—with proper regenerating tech- 
niques—is a good healthy number of 
millenniums. 

So you, or something like you, can 
talk back to your descendants for the 
next 50 gencrations or so. Granting that 
it, whatever “it” is, is virtually immortal, 
you say then, all the same, what is "it"? 

Let's answer the question pragmatical- 
ly, defining “it” in terms of what “it” 
can do. "It" can, for example, give the 
same responses to a stimulus you would 
g It" can answer a question in 
the terms you would use, make your 
errors, misspell the word "rhythm" as 
you always misspell it or forget, as you 
forget, the dave of your best girl's birth- 
day. “Iv” can like puns, and make them. 
“It” can be prejudiced a 
ed men, and insult them. "It" can even 
finish the novel you started in your sen- 
ior year (computers already have writ- 
ten music after being taught to “be” 
composers—and the music sounded like 
something those composers would have 
composed), or answer a letter from that 
girl in San Francisco in terms that she 
would find perfectly acceptable. 

Hooked up to a teletype, with the 
computer itself concealed from v 
"it" could indeed carry on the same sort. 
of Western Union correspondence you 
yourself carry on with your branch office 
in Texas. Given a large enough library 
ped recordings of your voice—ci- 
ther to edit and play back, or to analyze 
and reconstitute—“it" could carry on a 
telephone conversation, not only with 
your words but in your voice. 

And the person on the far end of the 
telephone line would have no way of 
knowing whether it was you or your 
stored personality in a computer that 
was talkin 


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164 


But lets say that none of the fore- 
going plans appeal to you. Let’s say that 
you don’t want to be a collection of 
magnetic impulses in an 1.В.М. machine, 
couldn't care less about whether your 
children might have their lives pro- 
longed, don't relish the prospect of 
merely deferring the process of growing 
old. Let us say, in short, that you want 
action. You want to retain your own 
body and you want to retain it until 
you get good and ready to part with it, 
and you want to start now. 

Well, we have something for you, too. 
A man named R. C. W. Ettinger last 
year privately published a book called 
Prospects of Immoriality (an enlarged 
version will soon be published by Double- 
day) setting forth a plan that does 
not require you to wait a single min- 
ше. Ettinger not only sets forth as a 
possibility, but advises as a smart pra 
cal matter, that you start working on im- 
mortality right now—today. And the 
kind of immortality he offers is in your 


own body, and it lasts forever. 

Ettinger does, it is true, point out that 
there are certain problems not yet set- 
ded. The present techniques are quite 
crude; better ones are sure to be devel- 
oped. Nevertheless, they have the very 
great advantage of existing at present. 
You don't have to wait for anything new 
to come out of the laboratories. If you 
happen to break your neck tomorrow 
(assuming you have made the necessary 
arrangements), you can greet the cessa- 
n of heartbeat with cquanimity, aware 
before you know it you'll be up and 
about again, as good as ever and maybe a 
little better. Because Ettinger's brand of 
Fountain of Youth doesn’t have to be ad- 
ministered until you're already dead any- 
how, so you really haven’t got agreat 
deal to lose. 

If this sounds like the wildest science 
fiction yet, be warned that some impres- 
sive names in biology and medicine are 
prepared to go along with what he says, 
and in fact the basic idea is so clearly 


“Better let me do the talking!” 


reasonable that you can make your own 
judgment on whether it will work. 

Ettinger puts forth only two major 
premises—one a fact, and the other a 
first-rate gambling bet. 

Number one, the fact: At the temper- 
ature of liquid helium, no perceptible 
chemical activity whatsoever takes place 
human” time. That is, any subst 
—it can be a human body as well as any- 
thing else—can be stored at this temper- 
ature for as long as you like without 
undergoing any measurable decay. By 
“as long as you like” Ettinger means not 
merely years or centuries, but periods of 
a million years or more. By “any meas- 
urable decay” һе means that far less 
would happen in a thousand years un 
der those conditions than now happens 
in the few seconds that may intervene 
between a drowned swimmers being 
pulled out of the water and the applica- 
tion of artificial respiration that brings 
him back to life, as good as new. 

Number two, the good gambling bet: 
As the chemists, biologists and doctors 
have spent the last century inventing 
cures, treatments and transplants for the 
majority of known diseases and losses of 
function, it is quite probable that they 
will go on doing so. So that at some time 
in the future, perhaps a hundred years 
from now, perhaps five hundred, but 
surely within the almost limitless time in 
which a body can be perfectly preserved 
at the liquid-helium temperature, sub- 
stantially every possible present cause of 
death will be reparable or treatable. 
And by “every,” Ettinger means death 
by senility, death by disease of all kinds 
and death by accident. 

Putting these two propositions togeth- 
er, Ettinger's conclusion is that any pru- 
dent man, including you, should make 
arrangements now so that at the instant 
of his death his whole body is frozen as 
rapidly as possible down to the tempera- 
ture of liquid helium and kept that way 
until science has (a) found the cure for 
whatever killed him and (b) worked out 
ways to repair any damage caused by the 
freezing itself. 

Of course, freezing damage and even 
some decay damage will also ultimately 
turn out to be reversible. That is why 
Ettinger says you don’t have to wait un- 
til ideal freezing equipment may be 
built into every hospital and police sta- 
tion. The beuer the equipment, the less 
damage, and therefore the surer you are 
of coming out of it and the shorter the 
time you'll have to spend at —270 de- 
grees centigrade, waiting for medical 
science to be able to fix you up. On the 
other hand, with any luck at all, even 
severe damage may mean only that the 
waiting time will be a few decades or 
centuries longer—and you won't be 
aware of the passage of time anyway. 

It is hard to gainsay Ettinger' basic 


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165 


PLAYBOY 


DR. 
PERKINS 
EAR 
NOSE 


AND 


THROAT 


PAO 


propositions. For it is nor merely а ques- 
tion of John Doe, cancer victim, at age 
35 being tucked away in the Deepfreeze 
and then a century later being brought 
out and repaired to live the rest of his 
normal Ше. For what then happens to 
John Doe? Thirty years later he has a 
stroke, Back to the Deepfreeze. Fifty 
more years pass, and the repair of the 
small vessels of the brain becomes feasi- 
ble and he is wheeled out once more. A 
few decades after that he "dies" again, of 
le dege causes, and maybe 
time he has a good deal longer to 
tit. But the favorable time factor is 
still working for him. 

И the thing works at all, it works 
indefinitely. And unless John Doe con- 
sciously decides, along about the year 


4000 A.D, that enough is really enough 
and please don't bother next time, it 
hard to sec any point at which he will 


ly, permanently dic. 

Naturally, freezing is not the only way 
in which a man can go into storage unti 
his problem is curable—whatever his 
problem may be. We can learn to hiber- 
nate, like the hamsters, or estivate like 
the fish. It is at present a theoretical pos- 
sibility in advanced studies in physi 
that sometimes, under certain quite re- 
mote circumstances, time itself сап be 
made to stand st or run backward; 
and if so, it is also a possibility that a 
“stasis, chine” built 
which the patient can step and remain, 
locked in an interminable instant of 
time, until he's ready for rebuilding. 

There is indeed one perfectly good 
way of stopping time for yourself, or at 
least of slowing it down as much as you 
dike. It isn't recommended, if only be- 
cause it is totally impractical in terms of 
both moncy and matéricl Anybody fa- 
miliar with relativistic physics can tell 
you how to do it, but nobody can pro- 
vide you with what you need to do it. 

One of Einstein's predi that 
has since been borne out by observation 
and experiment, is that a body traveling 
at high speed will experience the rate of 
change we call “time” more slowly th 
a body at rest. The astronauts wl 
cled the carth at 18,000 miles 
are a few seconds younger than those 
of us born at the same time. 

Jf they had gone a great deal faster 
30 or 40 thousand times as fast— 
they would have aged still morc slowly, 
until at something just below the speed 
of 186,000 miles per second (the velocity 
of light) they would scem, relative to us, 
to age almost not at all. 

Of course, we have no rocker either 
available or in sight that can come any- 
where near that velocity, and if we did, it 
would cost a very large dollar—a lot more 
than, for example, World War IT. But the 
phenomenon itself is a fact. It is called 


can be into 


time dilatation, and the theoretical un- 
derstanding of it is quite clear. И you 
1 exactly one hour to live, and could 
nvoke the time-dilatation effect, you 
could stretch that one hour over a thou- 
sand earth-time years, 

There remains one rather odd and at 
present difficultto-understand problem 
of aging, to which none of the foregoing 


has any application at all. 
Something happens to old people 
that operates within the mind itself. 


Not the brain. Test a group of 20-year- 
olds and a group of 70-year-olds. Condi- 
tion them to certain reflexes; instruct 
them to do a task faster or slower than 
normal; measure, in short, their adap- 
tive capacity, and you will find that the 
older a person is, the less readily he can 
change, even when the physical mecha- 
nisms involved ате unimpaired. 

But "age," in this sense, is not really a 
matter of chronological years. For exam- 
ple, you can artificially age a 20-year-old 
in a weck in the specific environment of 
a test situation. Give him nonsense lists 
to memorize cach day for a week, for 
stance, and you will find that the week 
of repetitious memorizing has “aged” his 
learning ability. He cannot learn Sun- 
day's list as rapidly or as well as he 
learned last Tuesday's. 

It is this sort of aging that many per- 
sons intuit when they feel there has got 
to be some point at which a human 
being will die. Even if the biophysical 
organism remains shiny and new, the 
ghost within the cadaver will somehow 
grow old. 

Psychologists would say that under 
conditions of immortality or near im- 
mortality these phenomena would be- 
come far more serious. What makes а 
mun strive? The phenomenon of loss, 
say the psychologists (or some of them). 
Everything you do that is not under 
the control of the autonomic nervous 
system is motivated by loss, in this view. 
And if you lose "loss" because no one 
dies and nothing is irreplaceable, do you 
lose all motivation? 

Fortunately, short-term aspects of this 
haye turned up as practical problems all 
through human history, and so some 
modes of coping with them have been 
devised. It is possible to supply mo 
tion as needed, at least for most of the 
traditional threescore and ten. It is hard 
to memorize repetitious lists; but if you 


a- 


are motivated because your boss will fire 

you if you don't, you can perform vastly 

beuer and longer than you are likely to 
у test гооп 


in a univer Every combat 
soldier knows how vigorously he can be 
motivated by an enemy on the other side 
of a hedge. You might be the kind of fel- 
low who can’t normally keep awake past 
one A.M.—but the right girl can moti- 


vate you till dawn. 
The essential motivations we have de- 
scribed are survival pressure, fear of 
death, and. pleasure. Immortality all but. 
eliminates the first two, although they 
а to some extent be replaced by surro- 
(Gladiatorial games? Even if a 
ant whose skull has been bashed 
in can be brought back to life, it would 
hardly be a. pleasant experience or onc 
hy undertaken.) And to an extent 
Il always exist, if only as a rare 
chance, It is unlikely that the technology 
of 2061 a.D., or even of 20,000,064 A.D. 
nage caused by a 
plunge to the heart of a star 
Pleasure can be supplied readily, 
jety of attractive packages—as well as 
some not so attractive. A rather ghoulish 
package is, in fact, now available, as some 
work at McGill and elsewhere has shown. 


na 


"There exist in the anatomy of the brain 
pleasure cent 


that can be 
stimulated clectrically, usually by surgi- 
cally implanting a fine metallic probe in 
the septal arca. Put a little current 
through the probe, and you have cracked 
the sensory code for pleasure. The subject 
—usually a white rat, but the same effect 
has been observed in humans—tenses, 
freezes, shudders and looks for more. 
"The electronic jolt becomes as good a 
reward for effort as a carrot or candy. So 
equip his cage that he can. manipulate 
the switch that yields the current, and hc 
will do it, and do it again, and go on 
doing it until he falls down in collapse 
from hunger and fatigue—and rouse 
only to begin doing it арай 

This is pleasure almost as destructive 
as booze to a human alcoholic but, re 
member, the joy machine exists now in 
only a very crude form. In its more elab- 
orate form as ight be built a centu- 
ry or so from. now it is, in fact, 
those optional accessories we offered for 
you-in-the-computer: a subjectively real 
mechanical reproduction of апу sensa- 
tion you wish. 

For most of us, synthetics do not pos- 
sess immediate appeal—at least not until 
we try them out and find them as good 
as the natural product or better. We 
might like our motivations really “re 
Real motivations will be there. If you 
п spend a decade on the Great Barrier 
Reef and six months on the id Prix 
circuit, a year composing motets and a 
lifetime (our present lifetime) out past 
Mars; if you can tour the future centu- 
ries and sample the cultui 
ran—and have ample time for romance 
and mere loafing in between—there's 
motivation for a long, long time. 

While there is work and pleasure and 
novelty and creative effort, and you have 
the mind and body to respond, you will 
be motivated—to ends no one now can 
possibly imagine. 

[v] 


167 


PLAYBOY 


168 clement, someth 


HAIRY СЕКТА (continued from page 117) 


the-nuton-üishing." I even went to the 
extent of learning how to tie flies, 
though Td never been fly casting in 
my life, No one had ever even seen a 
fly in my neighborhood. I read books on 
the subject. And in my bedroom. while 
the other kids are making models 
of Curtiss Robins, I am busy tying silver 
doctors, royal coachmen and black gnats. 
‘They were terrible. I would try one out 
з the bathtub to see whether it made 
a ripple that might frighten off the wily 
пром. 

"Glonk." 

Down to the bottom like a rock went 
g dry Hy. I never could figure 
ness of dressing flies, but it 
didn't matter. 1 tied them on hardware- 
store catfish hooks instead of those little, 
thin, blue-steel barbs with the long shank 
they showed in the articles entitled “The 
у Tying.” 

rt of the mysterious, un- 
attainable adult world. And I wanted in. 

My old man was what you might call 
n Indiana once-in.a-while-fisherman- 
nd-beer-party-goer; they are the same 
thing in the shadow of the blast furnaces. 
1 didn't know then that there are people 
who fish and there are people who go 
fishing; theyre two entirely different 
creatures. My old man did not drive 1500 
miles to the Atlantic shore carrying 3000 
pounds of Abercrombie & Fitch. fishing 
tackle, to surf cast for stripers. He was 
the kind who would go fishing—once 
a month or so during the summer, when 
all of the guys down at the office would 
get the itch. The bowling season was 
nd somehow they had to bust out. 
a way of doing it—a way of 
lot of beer and yelling and 
telling dirty stories—and geuing away 
from the women. To me, it was а sacred 
They were going fishing. 

Anyway, he and these guys from the 
ollice would get together and go down to 
опе of the few lakes 
ed—but never to Lake Michigan, 
which was exactly one mile away. I don't 
know why; I guess it was too big and 
wesome. In any case, nobody ever 
really thought of fishing in it. At least 
nobody in my father’s mob, They went 
mostly to à picturesque mudhole known 
as Cedar Lake. 

1 will have to describe to you what a 
Jake in the summer in northern Indi 
is like. To begin with, heat, in Indiana, 
is something else again. It descends 
300-pound fat lady settling on a picnic 
bench in the middle of July. It can lit- 
erally be sliced into chunks and stored 
in the basement to use in winter: 
on cold days you just bring it out and 
turn it on. Indiana heat is not 
teorological phenomenon— 


near where we 


me- 
is a solid 
g you can grab by the 


handles. Almost every day in the summer 
the whole town is just shimmering in 
front of you, You'd Took across the street 
and skinny people would be all fat and 
gly like in the funhouse mirrors at 
y Island. The asphalt in the streets 


Con 
would bubble and hiss like a pot of 


steaming Ralston. 

That kind of heat and sun produces 
mirages. All it takes is good flat country, 
а nutty sun and insane heat and, by 
George, you're looking at Cleveland 200 
miles away. I remember many times 
standing out in center field on an oper 
ay im mid-August, the pr. 
stretching out endlessly in all directions, 
and way out past the swamp would be 
this kind of tenuous, shadowy, cloudlike 
thing shimmering just above the hori- 
zon. It would be the Chicago skyline, 
upside down, just hanging there in the 
sky. And after a while it would gradually 
disappear. 

So, naturally, fishing is different in In- 
diana. The muddy lakes, about May, 
when the sun stars beating down on 
them, would begin to simmer and bub- 
ble quietly around the edges. These 
lakes are not fed by springs or strcams. 1 
don't know what feeds them. Maybe 


seepage, Nothing but weeds and truck 
axles on the bottom; flat, low, muddy 
banks, surrounded by cottonwood trees, 
s, smelly marshes and old dumps. 


Way down at the end where the water is 
shallow and soupy are the old cars and 
the ashes, busted refrigerators, oil drums, 
old corsets and God knows what else 
At the other end of the lake is the 
roller rink. "There's а roller 
rink. You can hear that old electric or- 
gan going, playing Heartaches, and you 
can hear the sound of the roller skate 
“shhhbh ... shhhhhbhhhhhhhh . . 
shhhhhhhhhhhbhhhhhhhhh . . 
And the fistfights breaking out. The 
rollerxink nut 
rink nut was an 
the drivein-movie nut. He 
kind who was very big with stainless- 
steel diners, motels, horror films and 
frozen egg rolls. A close cousin to the 
motorcycle clod, he went ape for chic 
with purple You know the 
crowd. Crewcuts, low forcheads, rumbles, 
hollering, belching, drinking heer, roller 
skating on one foot, wearing blacksati 
jackets with sourit spe A. c. lettered in 
white on the back around a white- 
winged rollerskated foot. The kind u 
hangs the stuff in the back windows of 
their '53 Mercurys: а huge pair of foam- 
rubber dice, a skull and crossboncs, hul 
hula dolls, and football players—pro, of 
course—with heads that bob d 
down. The guys with ball fringe around 


мух а 


eyelids. 


up a 


the windows of their cars, with phony 
Venetian blinds in the back, and big 
white-rubber mudguards hanging down, 
with red reflectors. Or they'll take some 
old heap and line it with plastic imita- 
tion mink fur, pad the steering wheel 
with leopard skin and ostrich feather 

til it weighs 17 pounds and is as fat 
alami. A TV set, a bar and a folding 
re in the trunk, automati. 
ally operated and all lined with tasteful 
Sears, Roebuck ermine. You know the 
аска true American product. We 
turn them out like Campbell's Pork and 
Beans, 

Well, this is the system of aesthetics 
that brought the roller rink to Cedar 
Lake. Indiana, when | was a kid. 

About 150 yards from the roller rink 
was the Cedar Lake Evening in Paris 
Dance Hall. Festering and stcamy and 
thronged with yeasty refugees from the 
roller rink. These are the guys who 
can't skate. But they can do other things 
They're down there jostling back and 
forth in 400-percent humidity to the in 
comparable sounds of an Indiana dance 
hall band. Twelve nonunion cretinous 
musicians—Mickey Schwartz. Moonlight 
Serenaders—blowing Red Sails in the 
Sunset on Montgomery Ward altos 
The lighting is a tasteful combination of 
naked light bulbs, red and blue crepe 
paper, orange cellophane gels and, of 
course, an illuminated bass drum [ca- 
tic rendering of a H 
terfall, the water actually 
moving as it tumbles into а chartreuse 
ocean. 

In between the roller rink and the 
nce hall are 17 small shacks known as 
beer halls, which also sell night 
crawlers, And surrounding this tiny 
oasis of civilization, this bastion of bon- 
homie, is a gigantic sea of total darkness, 
solute pitch-black Stygian darkness, 
round this tiny island of toually dec 
dent, bucolic American merriment. The 
roller skates are hissing, the beer bottles 
are crashing, the chicks are squealir 
Mickey's reed men are bearing down 
hard on When the Swallows Come Back 
to Capistrano, and life is full. 

And in the middle of the lake, sew 
feet away, are over 17,000 fishermen, in 
wooden rowboats rented at a buck and a 
half an hour. It is two Ам. The temper- 
ature is 175, with humidity to match 
And the smell of decayed toads, the 
dumps at the far end of the lake, and an 
occasional soupçon of Standard Oil, 
whose refinery is а couple of miles away, 
is enough to put hair on the back of 
mud turtle, Seventeen thousand gu 
clumped together in the middle, fishing 
for the known 64 crappies in that lake. 

Crappies аге a special kind of Mid 
western fish, created by God for the е 
press purpose of surv 


4: 


They have never been known to fight, ог 
even faintly struggle. I guess when 


you're a crappie, you figure it's no use 
anyway. One thing is as bad as another. 
"They're just down there, in the soup. No 


one quite knows what they cat, if any- 
thing. but everybody's fishing for them. 
At two o'clock in the morning. 

Each boat contains a minimum of 
nine guys and fourteen cases of beer. 
And once in a while, in the darkness, is 
heard the sound of falling over 
backward into the slim 

"Oh! Ah! Help, help!” A pitcous 
cry in the darkness. Another voice: 

“Hey, for God's sake, Charlie's fallen 
in ag b the oar!” 

And then it slowly dics down. Charlie 
is hauled out of the goo and is lying on 
the bottom of the boat, urping up dead 
ds and Atlas Prager. Peace reigns 


likes is not the 
composed of 
op spewed 
‚ Phillips and the 

ny: 1? percent 
ent thick grucl 
garter snakes, de- 
crappies and a 
agma that holds 
is quite sure what 


The water in these 
you know 
ly 10 perc 
out by Shell, 
Grassell 
used. detergent 
composed of decay 
ceased toa 
kind of syrupy 
together. No or 


because everybody is afr 
what it really is Th 
look at it too close 


So this mélange lays there under the 
sun, and about August it is slowly sim- 
ig like a rich mulligatawny stew. Aj 
n the morning you can hear the 
ext to the boat in the darkness: 
Huump . . . Bluuuummp.” Big bub 
bles of some unclassified рак come up 
[rom the bottom and burst. The natives, 
in their superstitious way, believe that it 
is highly inflammable. They take no 


ddest thing of all is that on 
these lakes there are usually about 19 
summer cottages to the squire foot, 
cach equipped with a large motorboat 
The sound of а 40-horsepower 
going through a sea of number- 
has to be heard to be understood. 

"RRRRRAAAAAAAHHHHHHWNW- 
WWWWWWWRRRHRRRRRHR!* 

The prow is sort of parting the stuff, 
slowly stirring it into a sluggish, viscous 
wake. 

Natives actually swim in this water. OF 
course, it is impossible to swim near the 
shore. because the shore is one great big 
sex of mud that goes all the way down to 
the core of the carth, There are stories 
of whole towns being swallowed up and 
stored in the middle of the earth. So the 
native rows out to the middle of the lake 
and hurls himself off the back seat of his 
rowboat. 

"Glurp!" 

It is impossibli 
The spec 
make the Gre: 


n this water. 
Y n 
Salt Lake seem danger- 


nd surface tensi 


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ous for swimming. You don't sink. You 
just bounce a little and float there. You 
literally have to hit your head on the 
surface of these lakes to get under a few 
inches. Once you do, you come up 
streaming mosquito eggs, dead toads— 

n Indiana specialty—and all sorts of 
are the offshoots of various 
exotic merriments that occur outside the 
roller rink. 

The bottom of the lake is a solid car- 
pet of old beer cans. The beer cans are 
at least a thousand feet deep in certain 
places. 

And so 17,000 fishermen gather in onc 
knot, because it is rumored that here is 
where the deep hole is. All Indiana 
lakes have a deep hole, into which, as 
the myth goes, the fish retire in the hot 
weather. Which is always. 

Every month or so an announcement 
would be made by my old man, usually 
on a Friday night, after work. 


with Hairy Gertz and the crowd meant 
getting out of the house about three 
o'clock in the afternoon, roughly. Gertz 
was a key member of the party. He 
owned the Coleman lamp. It was part of 
the folklore that if you had a bright lan- 
tern in your boat the fish could not re- 
sist it. The idea was to hold the lantern 
out over the water and the fish would 
have to come over to see what was going 
оп. Of course, when the fish arrived, 
there would be your irresistible worm, 
and that would be it. 

Well, these Coleman lamps may not 
have drawn fish, but they worked great 
оп mosquitoes. One of the more yeasty 
experiences in life is to occupy a tiny 
rented rowboat with eight other guy 
kneedecp in beer cans, with a blinding 


Coleman lamp hanging out of the 
boat, at two AM. with the lamp hiss- 
ing like Fu Manchu about to strike 


nee” —and every 
mosquito in the Western Hemisphere 
descending on you in the middle of 
Cedar Luke. They love Coleman lamps. 
In the light they shed, the mosquitoes 
swarm like rain. l in the darkness all 
around there'd be other lights, in other 
boats, and once in a while a face would 
float above one. Everyone is coated with 
an inch alf of something called 
гопеПа, reputedly a mosquito repel- 
lent but actually a sort of mosquito salad 
dressing. 

"The water is absolutely flat. There has 
not been a breath of air since April. It is 
now August. The surface is one flat 
sheet of old used oil lying in the dark- 
ness, with the sounds of the roller rink 
floating out over i ng with the 
angry drone of the mosquitoes and 
mufiled swearing from the other boats, A 
fistfight breaks out at the Evening in 
Paris. The sound of sirens can be heard 
faintly in the Indiana blackness, It gets 
louder and then fades away. Tiny or- 
nge lights bob over the dance floor. 
"Raahhhhd sails in the sawwwwnnn- 
sehhhht . . .” It's the drummer who's 
singing. He figures someday Ted Weems 
will hear him. 

“. . . Haaaaahhhhhwwww brightlyyy 
they shiiiiiine . . ." There is nothing 
like a band vocalist in a rotten, strug- 
gling mickey band. When you've heard 
him over 2000 yards of soupy, oily water, 
filtered through 14 billion feeding mos- 
quitocs in the August heat, he is parti 
larly juicy and ripe. He is overloading 
the 10-watt Allied Radio Knight ап- 
plifier by at least 400 percent, the gain 
turned all the way up, his chrome-plated 
bullet-shaped crystal mike on the edge of 
feedback. 


ahhhhd sails in the sawwwwnnn- 
sehhhht . . ." 

It is the sound of the American night. 
And to a I2-ycar-old kid it is exciting 
beyond belief. 

Then my old man, out of the blue 
says to me, “You know, if you're gonna 
come along, you got to clean the fish. 

Gonna come along! My God! I 
wanted to go fishing more than anything 
else in the world, and my old man want- 
cd to drink beer more th nything 
else in the world, and so did Certz and 
the gang, and more than even that, they 
wanted to ger away from all the women. 
They wanted to get out on the lake and 
tell dirty stories and drink beer and get 
eaten by mosquitoes: just sit out there 
and sweat and be men. They wanted to 
get away from work, the car payme 
the lawn, the mill, and everything else. 

And so here I am, in the dark, in a 
rowboat, with the men. J am half-blind 
with sleepiness. I am used to going to 
bed at nine-thirty or ten o'clock, and 
here it is two, three o'clock in the morn- 
ing. Im squatting in the back end of the 
boat, with 87,000,000 mosquitoes swarm- 
ing over me, but I am fishing! I am out 
of my skull with fantastic excitement, 
hanging onto my pole. 

In those days, in Indiana, they fished 
with gigantic cane poles. They knew not 
from spinning. A cane pole is a long 
bamboo pole that’s maybe 12 or 15 feet 
in length, it weighs a ton, and tied to 
the end of it is about 30 feet of thick 
пе, roughly half the weight of the 
age clothesline, three big lead sink 
ers, а couple of crappie hooks, and a 
bobber. 

One of sport's most exciting moments 

is when three Indiana fishermen in the 
same boat simultaneously and without 
consulting one another decide to pull 
their lines out of the water and re- 
cast. In. total darkness. First the pole, 
ising like a huge whip: "Whoooocooooo- 
оооооооор." Then the lines, whirling 
overhead: "Wheecececceeceooooc0000." 
And then: "Oh! FOR CHRIST SAKE! 
WHAT THE HELL? "CLUNK! 
CLONK!" 

Sound of cane poles banging together, 
and Icad weights landing in the boat. 
And such brilliant swearing as you have 
never heard. Yelling, hollering, with 
somebody always getting a hook stuck in 
the back of his ear. And, of course, all in 
complete darkness, the Coleman lamp at 
the other end of the rowboat barely 
penctrating a circle of three or four fect. 

“Hey, for God's sake, Gertz, willya tell 
me when youre gonna pull your pole 
up!? Oh, Jesus Christ, look at this 
mess!” 

There is nothing worse than trying to 
untangle seven cane poles, 200 feet of 
зорду green line, just as the fish are 
starting (o bite in the other boats. Sound 
carries over water: 


"Shhhh. T got a bite!” 

The fishermen with the tangled lincs 
become frenzied. Fingernails are torn, 
hooks dig deeper imo thumbs, and kids 
huddle terrified out of range in the 
darkness 

You have been sittin 
and nothi just barely visi- 
ble in the dark water is one of the most 
beautiful sights known to man. It's not 


for 20 hours, 


tiny red-and-white 
h just the suggestion of a line 
hing into the black water. These are 
I bobbers for very tiny fish. 

y bobber so 
ness that 1 
am almost hypnotized. I have not had а 
bite—ever—but the excitement of bci 
th cnough for me, a kind of delir- 
ious joy that has nothing to do with sex 
or any of the more obvious pleasures. 
"To this day, when I hear some guy sing- 
ing in that special drummer's voice, it 
comes over me. It’s two o'clock in the 
па kid. Em tired. I'm 


And at the other end of the lake: 

"Raahhhhd sails in the. sawwwwnnn- 
sehhhht . . .” 

The roller rink drones on, and the 
mosquitoes are humming. The Coleman 
Jamp sputters, and we're all sitting to- 
gether in our little boat. 

Not really together, since I am a kid, 
and they are men, but at least I'm there. 
Gertz is stewed to the ears. He is down 
at the other end. He has this fantastic 
collection of rotten stories, and early in 
the evening my old man keeps saying: 

“There's a kid with us, you know.’ 

But by two in the mor tll of them 
have had cnough so th doesn't mat- 
They're telling stories, and I don’t 
саге. I'm just sitting there. clinging to my 
cane pole when, by God, I pet a nibble! 

I don't believe it. The bobber straight- 
ens up, jiggles, dips, and comes to rest 
in the gloom. I whispe 

“1 got a bite!” "The storytellers look 
up from their beer cans in the darkness. 

“Wha... 2 Hey, whazzat?"* 

“Shhhh! Be quiet! 

We sit in silence, everybody watching 
his bobber through the haze of insects. 
The drummer is singing in the dis- 
We hang suspended for long 
utes. Then suddenly all the bobb 
p and go under, The crappies are 
hitting! 

You never saw anything like it! We 
are pulling up fish as fast as we can get 
them oll the hooks. Crappies are flying 
into the boat, one after the other, and 
hopping around on the bottom in the 
darkness, amid the empty beer cans, 
Within 20 minutes we have landed 47 
fish. We are knee-deep in crappies. The 
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Well, the old man just goes wild. 
They are all yelling and screaming. and 
pulling the fish in—while all the other 
boats around us are being skunked. The 
fish have come out of their hole or what- 
ever it is that they're in at the bottom 
of the lake, the beer cans and the old 
tires, and have decided to eat. 

You can hear the rest of the boats 
pulling up anchors and rowing over, 
frantically. They are thumping against 
us. There's а big, solid phalanx of wood- 
єп boats around us. You could walk 
from one boat to the other for miles 
around. And still they are skunked. We 
are catching the fish! 

By three л.м. they've finally stopped 
biting, and an hour later we are back on 
land. I'm falling asleep in the rear seat 
between Gertz and Zudock. We're di 
ing home in the dawn, and the men are 
hollering, drink 
out on the road 

We are back at the house, and my fa- 

ther says to me as we are coming out of 
the garage with Gertz and the rest of 
them: 
And now Jean's gonna clean the fish. 
Let's go in the house and have some- 
thing to eat. Clean ‘em on the back 
porch, will ya, ki 

Into the house they go. The lights go 
on in the kitchen; they sit down and 
start eating sandwiches and making cof- 
fee. And Г am out on the back porch 
with 47 live, flopping crappies. 

They are well named. Fish that are 
taken out of muddy, rouen, lousy, stink- 
ng lakes are muddy, rouen, lousy, stin 
ing fish. Jt is as simple as that. And they 
are made out of some kind of hard 
rubber. 

I get my scout knife and go to work. 
Fifteen minutes and 21 старрісѕ later I 
am sick over the side of the porch. But 1 
do not stop. It is part of fishing. 

By now nine neighborhood cats and a 
raccoon have joined me on the porch, 
and we are ай working together. The 
August heat, now that we are away from 
the lake, is even hotter. The uproar in 
the kitchen is getting louder and louder. 
There is nothing like a motley collection 
of Indiana officeworkers who have just 
successfully defeated nature and have 
brought home the kill. Like cave men of 
old they celebrate around the campfire 
with song and drink. And belching. 

I have now finished the last crappie 
and am wrapping the clean fish in the 
editorial page of the Chicago Tribune. 
It has a very tough paper that doesn't 
leak. Especially the editorial page. 

The old man hollers out: “How you 
doing? Come on in and have a Nchi 

I enter the kitchen, blinded by that 
big yellow light bulb, weighted down 
with a load of five-and-a-half-inch crap 
pies, covered with fish scales and blood, 
and smelling like the far end of Cedar 
Lake. There are worms under my finger- 


nails from baiting hooks all night, and 
I am feeling at least nine feet tall. I 
spread the fish out on the sink, and old 
Hairy Gertz says 


“My God! Look at those speckled 


beautie: n expression he had picked 
up from Outdoor Lif 

The old man hands me a two-pound 
erwurst sandwich and a bottle of Nehi 


orange. Gertz is now rolling strongly. as 
are the other eight file clerks, all smelly, 


and mosquito-bitten, eyes red-rimmed 
from the Coleman lamp, covered with 
worms and with the drippings of at least 
15 beers apiece. Gertz hollers: 

“Ya know, lookin’ at those fish re- 
minds me of a story.” 

He is about to uncork his cruddiest 
joke of the night. They all 1 
over the white-enamel kitchen 
with the chipped edg the 

d the beer bottles, the rye bread and 
the mustard. And Gertz digs deep into 
his vast file of obscenity, 

“There was this guy one time who was 
sellin’ Fuller brushes door to door, and 
this dame comes to the door . . ." 

At first I am holding back, since I am. 
a kid. The old man say 

"Hold it down, Geri. You'll wake up. 
the wife and she'll raise hell.” 

He is referring to my mother. 

Gertz lowers his voice and they all 
scrunch their chairs forward amid a 
great cloud of cigar smoke. There is only 
one thing to do. I scrunch forward, too, 
and stick my head into the huddle, right 
next to the old m: into the circle of 
lecring, snickcring, fishy-smelling faces. 
Of course, 1 do not even remotely 
comprehend the gist of the story. But T 
know that it is rotten to the core. 

Gertz belts out the punch line: the 
crowd bellows and beats on the table. 
They begin uncapping more Blatz 

Secretly, suddenly, and for the first 
time, I realize that I am in. The Eskimo 
Pies and Nehi oranges are all behind 
me, and a whole new world is stretching 
out endlessly and wildly in all directions 
before me. I have gotten the call! 

Suddenly my mother is in the doorway 
in her Chinesered chenille bathrobe. 
"Ten minutes later I am in the sack, and 
out in the kitchen Gertz is telling anoth 
er one. The bottles are rattling, and the 
file clerks are hunkered around the fire 
celebrating their primal victory over 
the elements. 

Somewhere off in the dark the Monon 
Louisville Limited as it snakes 
through the Gibson Hump on its way to 
the outside world. The giant Indiana 
moths, at least five pounds apiece, 
banging against the window screens next 
to my bed. The cats are fighting in the 


are 


back yard. over cra 
scales are itching in my hair as I jo 


ly, ecstatically slide off into the great 
world beyond. 


YOU ONLY LIVE TWICE 


ness ahead with his thin beam, It wa 
well he did so. On the stone floor whi 

ust мер past the open door would 
aken him, lay a vawning mantrap. 


its rusty iron jaws, perhaps a yard across, 
waiting for him to step on the thin cov- 
ering of stra 

Bond winced 
heard the iron clang as the saw teeth bit 
into his leg below the knee. There would 


be other such booby taps—he must 
keep every sense on the aler 
Bond closed the door softly behind 


him, stepped round the wap and swept 
the beam of his torch ahead and around 
him, Nothing but velvety blackness. He 
a some vast underground. cellar 
where no doubt the food supplies for a 
small army had once been stored. A shad- 
ow swept across the thin beam ol light 
another and another, and there was 
ill squeaking from all around him. 
Bond didn't mind bats or believe the 
Victorian myth that they got caught in 
‘Their radar was too good. He 
crept slowly forward, watching only the 
rough stone flags ahead of him. He 
passed one or two bulky arched pillars, 
and now the great cellar seemed to nar 
row, because he could just see walls to 
right and left of him, and above him an 
arched, cobwebby ceiling. Yes, here were 
the stone steps leading upward! He 
climbed. them softly and counted 20 of 
them before he came to the entrance, а 
wide double door with no lock on his 
side. He pushed gently and could [cel 
and hear the resistance of a rickety: 
sounding lock. He took out a heavy j 
my and probed. Its sharp jaws notched 
round some sort of a crossbolt, and 
Bond levered hard. sideways until there 
came the te al and 


was 


(continued from page 108) 


the tinkle of nails or screws on stone. He 
pushed softly on the crack and, with а 
hideously loud report, the rest of the 
lock came aw: 1g 
open with a screcch of old hinges. Ве. 
yond was more darkness. Bond stepped 
through and listened, his torch doused. 
But he was still deep in the bowels of 
the castle and there was no sound, He 
switched on again, More stone stai 
leading up to a modem door of polished 
timber. He went up them and carefully 
turned the metal door handle. No lock 
this time! Не sofdy pushed the door 
open and found himself in а long stone 
corridor that sloped on upward. At the 
end was yet another modern door, and 
beneath it showed a thin strip of ligh 

Bond walked noiselessly up the in- 
cline and then held his breath and put 
his саг to the keyhole. Dead silence! He 
grasped the handle and inched the door 
open and then, satisfied, we 
nd closed the door behind him, leav 
it on the latch. He was in the 
of the castle. The big entrance door was 
on his left. and a well-used strip of red. 
агрес stretched away Irom it and across 
the 50 feet of hall into the shadows that 
were not reached. by the single large oil 
lamp over the enuance, The hall was 
not embellished in any way, save for the 
strip of carpet, and its ceiling was a maze 
of longitudinal and crossbeams inter- 
spersed with laticed. bamboo over the 
same rough plasterwork 
Is. There was st 
smell of cold stone 

Bond kept away from the carpet and 
hugged the shadows of the walls. He 
guessed that he was now on the main 
floor and that somewhere straight ahead 
was his quarry. He was wi 


is covered the 
1 the same castle 


wi 


citadel. So far so good! 


"The next door, obviously the entrance 
to one of the public rooms, had a 
latch to 


simple 
. Bond bent and put his eye to 


Another dimly lit interior. 
No sound! He eased up the latch, 
inched the door ajar, and then open. 


and went through. It was a second vast 
chamber, but this time one of baronial 
splendor—the main reception room, 
Bond guessed, where Blofeld would re- 
i n tall red curta 
edged with gold, fine set pieces of armor 
and weapons hung on the white plaster 
walls, and there was much heavy antique 
furniture nged in conventional 
groupings on a vast central carpet of 
royal blue. The rest of the floor was of 
highly polished boards, which reflected 
back the lights from two great oil Ian- 
terns that hung from the 
ceiling, similar to tha псе 
hall. but here with the main beams deco- 
rated in a zigzag motif of dark red. Bond, 
look 
the widely spaced curtain: 
softly from one refuge to the next. 
reached the small door at the end of the 
chamber that would, he guessed, lead to 
the private apartments 
He bent down to listen, but immedi 
tely leaped for cover behind the nearest 
curtains. Steps were approaching! Bond 
undid the thin chain from around his 
waist, wrapped it round his left fist and 
took the jimmy in his ht hand and 
waited, his eyes glued to а 
dusty-smelling material. 
The small door opened halfway to 
show the k of one of the guards. He 
wore a black belt with a holster. Would. 
this be Kono, the man who translated. 
for Blofeld? Hc had pr d somi 
job with the Germans during the war— 


arr 


“You say you love me. And yet, you never want 
to neck during the prime viewing hours...” 


173 


PLAYBOY 


174 


i, perhaps. What was he 
ppeared to be fiddling with 
tus behind the 


doing? He 
some piece of apy 
door, A light switch? No, there was no 
electric light. Apparently satisfied, the 
man backed out, bowed deeply to the in- 
terior and closed the door. He wore no 
masko and Bond caught a brief glimpse 
of a surly, slit-eyed brownish face as he 
passed Bond's place of concealment and 
walked on across the reception chamber. 
Bond heard the click of the far door and 
then there silence, He waited a good 
five minutes before gently shifting the 
curtain so that he could see down the 
room. He was alone. 

And now lor the last lap! 

Bond kept his weapons in his hands 
and crept back to the door. This time no 
sound came from behind it. But the 
guard had bowed. Oh well! Probably 
out of respect for the aura of the master. 
Bond quietly but firmly thrust the door 
open and leaped through, ready for the 
attacking sprint, 

A totally empty, totally fe: 
length of passageway yawned ai 
matics. It stretched perhaps 90 feet in 
front of him. It was dimly lit by а cen- 
tral oil lamp and its floor was of the 
usual highly polished boards. А “night- 
ingale floor"? No. The guard's footsteps 
had uttered no warning creaks. But from 
bchind the facing door at the end came 
the sound of music. It was Wagner, the 
Ride of the Valkyries, being played at 
medium pitch. Thank you, Blofeld! 
thought Bond. Most helpful cover! And 
he ciept softly forward down the center 
of the passage. 

When it came, there was absolutely no 
warning. One step across the exact half- 
way point of the flooring and, like a see- 
saw, the whole 20 feet of boards swiveled. 
noisclessly on some central axis and 
Bond, arms and legs flailing and hands 
scrabbling desperately for 2 grip, found 
himself hurtling down into a black void. 
The guard! The fiddling about behind 
the door! He had been adjusting the 
lever that set the trap, the traditional 
oubliette of ancient castes! And Bond. 
had forgotten! As his body plunged off 
the end of the inclined platform into 
space, an alarm bell, uigsered by the 
mechanism of the trap, br 
cally. Bond had a fractional impres: 
of the platform, relieved of his weight, 
swinging back into position above him, 
then he crashed shatteringly into uncon- 
sciousness. 

Bond swam reluctantly up through 
the dark tunnel toward the blinding pin- 
point of light. Why wouldn't someone 
stop hi g him? What had he done to 
deserve it He had got two awabis, Не 
could fecl them in his hands, sharp- 
edged and rough. That was as much as 
Kissy could expect of him. “Kissy,” he 
mumbled, “stop it! Stop it, Kissy!” 

The pinpoint of light expanded, be- 


came an expanse of straw-covered floor 
on which he was crouching while the 
open hand crashed sideways into his 
face, Pill! Рай! With cach slap the 

itting pain in his head exploded into 
a sand separate pain fragments. 
Bond the edge of the boat above 
him and desperately raised himself to 
grasp at it. He held up the awabis to 
show that he had done his duty. He 
opened his hands to drop them 
tub. Consciousness flooded back 
saw the two handfuls of straw dr 
the ground. But the blows had stopped. 
And now he could see, ind 
through a mist of pai 
face! Those slit eyes! Kono, the р 
And someone else was holding a torch 
for him. Then it all came back. No awa- 
bis! No Kissy! Something dreadful had 
happened! Everything had gone wrong! 
Shimatta! I have made a mistake! Tiger 
The clue clicked and total realization 
swept through Bond's mind. Careful, 
now. You're deaf and dumb. You're а 
Japanese miner from Fukuoka. Get the 
record straight. To hell with the pain in 
your head. Nothing's broken. Play it 
«ool Bond put his hands down to his 
sides. He realized for the first time that 
he was naked save for the brief V of 
the black-cotton ninja underpants. He 
bowed deeply and straightened himself, 
Kono, his hand at his open holster, fired 
furious Japanese at him, Bond licked at 
the blood that was trickling down his 
face and looked blank, stupid. Kono 
took out his small automatic, gestured. 
Bond bowed again, got to his feet and, 
with a brief glance round the straw- 
strewn oubliette into which he had fal- 
len, followed the unseen guard with the 
torch out of the cell. 

There were stairs and a corridor and 
a door. Kono stepped forward and 
knocked. 
And then Bond was standing in the 
middle of a small. pleasant, library-type 
room and the second guard was laying 
out on the floor Bond's ninja suit and 
the appallingly incriminating contents 
of his pockets. Blofeld, dressed in а mag- 
nificent black silk kimono across which a 
golden dragon sprawled, stood leaning 
inst the mantelpiece beneath which a 
Japanese brazier smoldered. It was he 
all right. The bland, high forehead, the 
pursed purple wound of a mouth, now 
shadowed by a heavy grayblack mus- 
tache that drooped at the corners, 0 
perhaps, to achieving mandarin 
proportions, the mane of white hair he 
had grown for the part of Monsieur le 
Comte de Bleuville, the black bullet 
holes of the eyes. And beside him, com- 
pleting the picture of a homely couple 
at case after dinner, sat Irma Bunt, in 
the full regalia of a high-class Japanese 
lady, the petit point of a single chrysan- 
themum lying in her lap w for 
those pudgy hands to take it up when 
the cause of this unseemly disturbance 


had been ascertained. The pufly, square 
face, the tight bun of mousy hair, the 
thin wardress mouth, the light-brown, 
almost yellow eyes! By God, thought 
Bond dully, here they arc! Within casy 
reach! They would both be dead by 
now but for his single criminal error. 
Might there still be some way of turning 
the tables? If only the pain in his head 
would stop throbbing 

Blofeld's tall sword stood against the 
wall. He picked it up and strode out 
into the room, He stood over the pile of 
Bond's possessions and picked them over 
with the tip of the sword. He hooked up 
the black suit. He said in German, “And 
what is this, Kono? 

The head guard replied in the same 
language. His voice was uneasy and his 
eye slits swiveled with a certain respect 
toward Bond and away again, "It is à 
ninja suit, Herr Doktor. These are pco- 
ple who practice the secret arts of nin- 
jutsu. Their secrets are very ancient and 
I know little of them. They are the art 
of moving by stealth, of being invisible. 
of killing without weapons. These peo- 
ple used to be much feared in Japan. 1 
s not aware that they still” existed. 
This man has undoubtedly been sent to 
assassinate you, my lord. But for the 
magic of the passage, he might well have 
succeeded.’ 

“And who is he?” Blofeld looked keen- 
ly at Bond. “He is tall for a Japanese.” 
The men from the mines are often 
tall men, my lord. He carries a paper 
saying that he is deaf and dumb. And 
other papers, which appear to be in or 
der, stating th miner from 
uoka ] do ve this. His 
Is, but they 
miner.” 

“I do not believe it cither, 
shall soon find out.” Blofeld turned to 
the woman. “What do you think, my 
dear? You have a good nose for such 
problems—the instincts of a woman. 

Irma Bunt rose and came and stood 
beside him. She looked piercingly at 
Bond and then walked slowly round 
him, keeping her distance. When she 
came to the left profile she said softly, 
with awe, "Der liebe Gott!” She went 
back to Blofeld. She said in a hoarse 
whisper, still staring, almost with horror, 
at Bond, “It not be! But it is! The 
scar down the right cheek! The profile! 
And the cyebrows have been shaved to 
give that upward tilt!” She turned to 
Blofeld. She said decisively, “This is the 
English agent. This is the man Bond, 
James Bond, the man whose wife you 
killed. The man who went under the 
name of Sir Hilary Bi " She added 
fiercely, "I swear it! You have got to be- 
lieve me, lieber Ernst!” 

Blofeld’s сусз had narrowed. “I see а 
in resemblance, But how has he got 
е2 Who sent 


But we 


се 
here? How has he found 
him?” 

Phe Jay 


ancse Geheimdienst. They 


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176 


will certainly have relations with the 
British Secret Service.” 

“I cannot believe it! If that was so, 
they would have come with warrants to 
est me. There are too тапу unknown 
factors in this business. We must procced 
with great circumspection and extract 
the whole truth from this man. We must 
once find out if he is deaf and dumb. 
That is the first мер. The Question 
Room should settle that. But first of all 
he must be softened up.” He turned to 
Kono. "Tell Kazama to get to work. 

There were now ten guards in the 
room. They stood lincd up against the 
wall behind Kono. They were all armed 


with their long staves. Kono fi 
der 


d an or- 
at one of them. The man left his 
п angle of the wall and came 
rd. He was a great, boxlike man 
with a totally bald, shining head like a 
ripe fruit and hands like hams. He took 
up his position in front of Bond, his legs 
straddled for balance and his lips drawn 
k in a snarling smile of broken black 
teeth, Then he swung his right hand 
sideways at Bond’s head and slapped 
| with tremendous force exactly оп 
the bruise of Bond’s fall. Bond’s head 
exploded with fire. Then the lelt hand 
im and Bond rocked sideways. 
ugh a mist of blood he could sce 
Blofeld and his woman. Blofeld 
merely interested, аз а scientist, but the 
woman's lips were parted and wet. 
Bond took ten blows and knew that 
he must act while he still had the pur- 
pose and the strength. The straddled 
Tegs offered the perfect target. So long as 
the man had not practiced the 
trick! Through a haze, Bond took aim 
and. as another giam blow was on its 
way, kicked upward with every ounce of 
force left to him. His foot slammed 


was 


sumo 


home, The man gave an animal scream 
and crashed to the ground, dasping 
h 


пзе and rolling from side to side in 
ony. The guards made a concerted 
rush forward, their staves lifted, and 
Kono had his gun out. Bond leaped for 
the protection of a tall chair, picked it 
up and hurled it at the snarling pack of 
guards. One of the legs caught a man in 
the teeth and there was the sound of 
splintering bone. The man went down 
clutching his face. 

“Halu” It was the Hitlerian scream 
Bond had heard before. The men stood 
stock stil and lowered their staves. 
“Kono. Remove those men.” Blofeld 
pointed down at the two casualties. “And 
punish Kazama for his incompetence. 
Get new teeth for the other one. And 
enough of this. The man will not ур 
with ordinary methods. If he can hear, 
he will not withstand the pressure of the 
Question Room. Take him there. The 
rest of the guards can wait in the au- 
dience chamber. Also! Marsch!” 

Kono fired olf orders to which the 
rds reacted at the double. Then Kono 


gestured to Bond with his gun, opened a 
small doorway beside the bookcase and 
pointed down a narrow stone passage. 
Now what? Bond licked the blood from 
the corners of his mouth, He was near 
the end of his tether, Pressure? He 
couldn't stand much more of й. And 
what was this Question Room? He men- 
ly shrugged. There might still be a 
chance to get at Blofeld’s throat. If only 
he could take that one with him! He 
went ahead down the passage, was deaf 
to the order from Kono to open the 
rough door at the end, had it opened for 
him by the guard while the pistol 
pressed into his spine, and walked for- 
ward into a bizarre room of roughly 
hewn stone that was very hot and stank 
disgustingly of sulphur. 

Blofeld and the woman entered, the 
door was closed and they took their 
places in two wooden armchairs beneath 
an oil Татр and a ge kitchen clock. 


whose only unusual fcatur that, at 
each quarter, the figures were under- 
lined in red. "The hands stood at just aft- 


er II and now, with a loud iron tick, the 
minute hand dropped one span. Kono 
gestured for Bond to advance the 12 
paces to the far end of the room where 
there was a raised stone pedestal seat 
with arms, It dripped with drying gray 
mud and there w: ume volcanic 
filth on the floor all round it. Above the 
stone scat, in the ceiling, there wa 
wide circular opening thro 
Bond could see a patch of dark sky and 
stars. Kono's rubber boots squelched aft- 
cr him and Bond was gestured to sit 
down on the stone throne. In the center 
of the seat there was а large round ho'c 
Bond did as he was told, his skin flinch- 
ing at the hot sticky surface of the mud. 
He rested his forearms wea 
stone arms of the throne and waited, his 
helly crawling with the knowledge of 
what this was all about. 

Blofeld spoke from the other end of 
the room, He spoke in English. He said, 


rily on the 


in a loud voice that boomed round the 
naked walls, “Commander Bond, or 
number 007 in the British Secret Service 


if you prefer it, this is the Question 
Room, a device of my invention that has 
the almost ble effect. of ng 
silent people talk. As you know. thi 
property is highly volcanic. You are now 
sitting directly above a geyser that 
throws mud, at a heat of around one 
thousand degrees centigrade, a distance 
of approximately one hundred feet into 
the air. Your body is now at an clevation 
of approximately fifty feet directly 
its soure а the whimsi 
canalize this geyser up а 
above which you now si 
known odic ge 
lar example is 
canically at с 
in every hour,” Blofeld looked behind 
him and turned back. “You will there 


nevi 


- This is wh 


fore observe that you have exactly elev- 
en minutes before the next eruption. If 
you cannot hear me, or the ur 
if you are 
dumb Japanese as you maintain, you 
will not move from that chair and, a 
the fifteenth minute past eleven, you 
will suffer a most dreadful death by th 
incineration of your lower body. If, on 
the other hand. you leave the seat before 
the death moment, you will have demon- 
strated that you can hear and understand 
and you will then be put to further 
tortures which will inevitably make 
you answer my questions. These ques- 
tions will seek to confirm your identity, 
how you come 1o be here, who sent you 
and with what purpose, and how man 
people are involved in the conspi 
You understand? You would not pref 
to give up this play-acting? Very well. 
On the off chance that your papers are 
perhaps partially correc, my chief guard 
will now briefly explain the purpose of 
this room in the Japanese language.” He 
turned to the guard. “Kono, sag’ ihm auf 
japanisch den Zweck dieses Zimme 
Kono had taken up his position by the 
door, He now harangued Bond in sharp 
Japanese sentences. Bond paid no аце 
tion. He concentrated on regai 
strength. He sat relaxed and 
chalandy round the room. 
membered the final "hell" at Beppu and 
he was looking for something. Ah ye 
There it was! A small wooden box 
the comer to the right of his throne. 
‘There was no keyhole to it, Inside th 
box would undoubtedly be the regulat- 
ing valve for the geyser. Gould that bi 
of knowledge be put to some use? Bond 
tucked and his tired 
brain for some kind of a plan. If only 
the agonizing pulse in his head would 
stop. He rested his elbows on his knees 
and gently lowered his bruised face into 
his hands. At least that guard would 
now be in even worse agony than he! 
Kono stopped talking. The dock ut- 
tered а deep iron tick. 
It ticked nine times 
looked up at the black-and-white clocl 
work face. 1t said 11:14. A deep, 
grumble sounded from deep down | 
neath him. It was followed by a hard 
bullet of very hot breath. Bond 
his feet and walked slowly 
the stinking stone vent until he reached 
the area of the floor that was not wet 
with mud. Then he turned and watched. 
The giumble had become a 
roar. The roar became a deep howl that 
swelled up into the room like an express 
out of a tunnel. The 
there was a mighty explosion and а sol- 
id jet of gray mud shot like a gleaming 
gray piston out of the hole Bond had 
just left, and exactly penetrated the wide 
aperture in the ceiling. The jet con 
ued, absolutely solid, for perhaps halt а 
second, and searing heat filled the room 


He h: 


racked 


way 


тоге. Bond 


wain coming 


so that Bond had to wipe the sweat from 
his forehead. Then the gray pillar col- 
lapsed back into the hole and mud pat- 
tered onto the roof of the place and 
splashed down into the room 
steaming gobbets. A deep bubb! 
burping came up the pipe and the room 
steamed. The stench of sulphur was sick- 
ening. In the total silence that followed. 
the tick of the clock to 11:16 was as loud 
as а gong stroke. 

Bond turned and faced the couple un- 
der the clock. He said cheerfully, “Well, 
Blofeld, you mad bastard. PH admit that 
your effects man down below knows his 
stuff. Now bring on the twelve she-devils 
and if they're all as beautiful as Fraulein 
Bunt, we'll get Noel Coward to put it to 
music and have it on Broadway by 
Christmas. How about it 

Blofeld turned to Irma Bunt. “Му 
dear girl, you were т is indeed the 
her. Remind me to buy you 
g of the excellent Mister 
у pearls. And now let us 
be finished with this man once and for 
It is beyond our bedtime. 
ndeed, lieber Ernst. But first he 


must spe: 


quickly done, We have already broken 
his first reserves. The second line of de- 
c will be routine. Come!” 

Back up the stone passage! Back into 
the library! Irma Bunt back to her petit 
point, Blofeld back to his stance by the 
mantelpiece, his hand resting lightly on 
the boss of his great sword. It was just as 
if they had returned after taking part in 
some gracious after-dinner entertain- 
ment: a > of billiards, а look at the 
stamp albums, a dull quarter of an hour 
with the home movies. Bond decided: 
To heil with the Fukuoka miner! There 
a writing desk next to the book- 
shelves. He pulled out its chair and sat 
down. There were cigarettes and match- 
es. He lit up and sat back, inhaling lux- 
uriously. Might as well make oneself 
comfortable before one went for The Big 
Sleep! He tapped his ash onto the carpet 
and crossed one knee over the other. 

Blofeld pointed to the pile of Bond's 
possessions on the floor. “Kono, 
those away. mine them later, 
And you can wait with the guards in the 
outer hall. Prepare the blowlamp and 
the electrical machine for further exam 
nation in case it should be necessary. 
He tumed to Bond. “And now—talk 
you will receive an honorable and qu 
death by the sword. Have no misgivings. 
Iam expert with it and it is razor sharp. 
If you do not talk, you will die slowly 
and horribly and you will talk just the 
same. You know from your profession 
that this is so. There is a degree of pro- 
longed suffering that no h 
withstand. Well?” 

Bond said easily, “Blofeld, you were 
never stupid. Many people in London 
and Tokyo know of my presence here 


was 


n can 


tonight. At this moment, you might ar- 
gue your way out of a capital charge. 
You have a lot of money and you could 
engage the best lawyers. But, if you kill 
me, you will certainly die.” 

ister Bond, you are not telling the 
truth. I know the ways of officialdom as 
Therefore I dismiss your 


story 


known, a small policemen 
would have been sent to arrest me. And 
they would have be: ied by a 


senior member of the CIA on whose 
‘wanten’ list | certainly feature. This is 
an American sphere of influence, You 


might have been allowed to intervi 


me subsequent to my arrest, but an Eng- 
lishm 


1 would not have featured in the 
1 police action. 
Who said this was police action? 
When, in England, I heard rumors 
about this place, I thought the whole 
project smelled of you. 1 obtained per- 
mission to come and have a look. But 
my whereabouts is known and retribu- 
tion will result if I do not return.” 
“That does not follow, Mister Bond. 
There will be no trace of your ever hav- 
ing seen me. no trace of your entry into 
the property. I happen to have certain 
information that fits in with your pres 
ence here. One of my agents recently 
reported that the head of the Japanese 
Secret Service, the Kéan-Chésa-Kyaku, 


a certain Tanaka, came down in this di- 
rection accompanied by a foreigner 
dressed as a Japanese. I now sec that 


your appearance tallies gents 
description.” 
“Where is this m 


question him. 


with my 


n? I would like to 


"Hc is not 

“Very conve! 

A red fire began to burn deep in the 
black pools of Blofeld's eyes. "You forget 
that it is not I who am being interro- 
gated, Mister Bond. It is you. Now, 1 
happen to know all about this Tanaka 
He is a totally ruthless man, and I will 
hazard a guess that fits the facts and 
that is made almost. into a certitude by 
your crude evasions. This man "Tanaka 


has already lost one senior agent whom 
he sent down here to investigate me. 
You were available, оп some business 


concerned with your 
and, for a coi 


profession perhaps, 
ation, or in exchange 
for a favor, you ed to come her 
kill me, thus tidying up 
which is causing some emba 
the Japanese government. 1 do not know 
or care when you learned that Doctor 
Guntram Shatterhand was, in fact, 
то Blofeld. You have your pr 
sons for wanting to kill me, and I 
have absolutely no doubt that you kept 
your knowledge to yourself and passed it 
on to no one for fear that the official ac- 
tion I have described would take thc 
place of your private plans Гог revenge." 
Blofeld paused. He said softly, "I have 
one of the greatest brains in the world, 
Mister Bond. Have you anything to say 
in reply? As the Americans say, ‘It had 
better be good. 
Bond wok another cigareue and lit 
it. He said composed stick to the 
truth, Blofeld, If anything happens to 
me, you, and probably the woman as an 
ll be dead by Christmas." 

er Bond. But I am so 
sure of my facts that 1 am now going to 
kill you with my own I 


te 


ands and dispose 177 


PLAYBOY 


178 ed his sinewy hands on its bos. Looki 


of your body without more ado. On 
reflection, I would rather do it myself 
than have it done slowly by the guards. 
You have been a thorn in my flesh for 
too long. The account I have to settle 
with you is a. personal one. Have you 
ever heard the Japanese expression *kir- 
isule gomen 
Bond groaned. "Spare me the Lafcadio 
Hearnia, Blofeld! 
“Ie dates from the time of the samurai. 
It means literally ‘killing and going 
away.’ If a low person hindered the 
samurai’s passage along the road or 
iled to show him proper respect, the 
samurai was within his rights to lop off 
the man’s head. I regard myself as а lat- 
terday samurai. My fine sword has not 
yet been blooded. Yours will be an ad- 
its teeth. on." He 
You agree, mein 


turned to I 
Liebchen? 

The square wardress face looked up 
from its petit point. "But of course, 
lieber Ernst. What you decide is always 
correct. But be careful. This animal is 
dangerous.” 

“You forget, mein Licbchen, Since last 
ry he has ceased to be an animal, 
simple stroke of surgery on the 
woman he loved, I reduced him to hu- 
man dimensions, 

"The dominant, horrific figure stood 
away from the mantelpiece and took up 
his sword. 

“Let me show you. 

Bond dropped his lighted cigarette 
and left it to smolder on the carpet. His 
whole body tensed. He said, "I suppose 
you know you're both mad as haters.” 

“So was Frederick the Great, so was 
Nietzsche, so was Van Gogh, We are in 
good, in illustrious company, Mister 
Bond. On the other hand, what are you? 
You аге a common thug, a blunt instru- 
ment wielded by dolts in high places. 
Having done what you are told to do, 
out of some mistaken idea of duty or pa 
triotism, you satisfy your brutish in- 
stincts with alcohol, nicotine and sex 
while waiting to be dispatched on the 
next misbegotten foray. Twice before, 
your Chief has sent you to do baule 
мег Bond, and, by a combi- 
nation of luck and brute force, you were 
successful in destroying two projects of 
my genius. You and your government 
would categorize these projects as crimes 
against humanity, and various authori 
ties still seck to bring me to book for 
them. But uy and summon such wits аз 
you possess, Mister Bond, and see them 
in a realistic light and in the higher 
alm of my own thi 
Blofeld a big man, perhaps six 
foot three, and powerfully built. He 
placed the tip of the samurai sword, 
which has almost the blade of the scim 
tar, between his straddled feet, and rest- 


with me, M 


ng.’ 


up at him from across the room, Bond 
id to admit that there was something 
larger than life in the looming, impe 
rious figure, in the hypnotically direct 
stare of the eyes, in the tall white brow, 
in the cruel downward twist of the thin 
lips. The square-cut, heavily draped ki- 
mono, designed to give the illusion of 
bulk to a race of smallish men, made 
something huge out of the towering 
figure, and the golden dragon cembro 
dery, so easily to be derided as a childish 
fantasy, crawled menacingly across the 
black silk and seemed to spit real fire 
from over the left breast. Blofeld had 
paused in his harangue. Waiting for him 
to continue, Bond took the measure of 
his enemy. He knew what would be 
coming—justification. It was always so. 
When they thought they had got you 
where they wanted you, when they knew 
they were decisively on top, before the 
knockout, even to an audience on the 
threshold of extinction, it was pleasant, 
reassuring to the executioner, to deliver 
his apologia—purge the sin he was about 
to commit. Blofeld, his hands relaxed on 
the boss of his sword, continued, The 
tone of his v 
sured, quietly expository. 

He said, “Now, Mister Bond, take Op- 
eration Thunderball, as your govern- 
ment dubbed it. This project involved 
the holding for ransom of the Western 
world by the acquisition by me of two 
atomic weapons. Where lies the crime in 
this, except in the Erewhon of interna- 
tional politics? Rich boys are playing 
with rich toys. A poor boy comes along 
and takes them and offers them back 
for money. If the poor boy had been 
successful, what a valuable by-product 
might have resulted for the whole world. 
These were dangerous toys which, in the 
poor boy's hands, or let us say, to discard 
the allegory, in the hands of a Gastro, 
could lead to the wanton extinction of 
mankind. By my action, I gave a dramat- 
ic example for all to sce. If I had been 
successful and the money had been 
nded over, might not the thre 
recurrence of my attempt have led to se- 
rious disarmament talks, to an abandon- 
ment of these dangerous toys that might 
so easily get into the wrong hands? You 
follow my reasoning? Then this recent 
matter of the bacteriological-warfare a 
ick on England. My dear Mister Bond. 
England is a sick nation by any stand- 
ards. By hastening the sickness to the 
brink of death, might Britain not have 
been forced out of her lethargy into the 
d of community effort we witnessed 
during the war? Cruel to be kind, Mister 
Bond. Where lies the great crime there? 
And now this matter of my socalled 
"Castle of Death.'" Blofeld paused and 
his eyes took on an inward look. He 
said, “I will make a confession to you, 
Mister Bond. 1 have come to suffer from 
a certain lassitude of mind which I am 


determined to combat. This comes in 
part from being a unique genius who is 
alone in the world, without honor— 
worse, misunderstood. No doubt much of 
the root cause of this accidie is physical 
—liver, kidneys, heart, the usual weak 
points of the middle-aged. But there has 
developed in me а certain mental Iame- 
ness, a disinterest in humanity and its 
future, an utter boredom with the affairs 
of mankind, So, not unlike the gourmet, 
with his jaded palate, I now seek only 
the highly spiced, the sharp impact on 
the taste buds, mental as well as physi- 
cal, the tickle that is truly exquisite. And 
so, Mister Bond, I came to devise this 
useful and essentially humane project— 
the offer of free death to those who seek 
release from the burden of being alive. 
By doing so, I have not only provided 
the common man with a solution to the 
problem of whether to be or not to be, I 
have also provided the Japanese govern- 
ment, though for the present the 
pear to be blind to my magnanimity, 
with a tidy, out-of-the-way chamel house 
which relieves them of a constant flow of 
messy occurrences involving the trains, 
the trams, the volcanoes and other un 
tactively public means of killing you 
self, You must admit that, far from 
being a crime, this is a public service 
unique in the history of the world,” 
“I saw one man being disgustingly 
murdered. yesterday. 
"Tidying up, Mister Bond. Tidying 
up. The man came here wishing to dic. 
What you saw done was only helping a 
weak man to his seat on the boat across 
the Styx. But I can sce that we have no 
contact. I cannot reach what serves you 
for a mind. For your part, you cannot 
see further than the simple gratification 
of your last cigarette. So enough of thi 
idle chatter, You have already kept us 
from our beds far too long. Do you want 
to be hacked about in a vulgar brawl, or 
will you offer your neck in the honora- 
ble fashion?” Blofeld took a step forward 
and raised his mighty sword in both 
hands and heid it above his head. The 
ht from the oil lamps shimmered on 
the blade and showed up the golden fili- 
gree engraving. 
Bond knew what 
known as soon as he had been led. k 
into the room and had seen the wound- 
са guard's stave still standing in the 
shadowed" angle of the wall. But there 
was a bell push near the woman. She 
would have to be dealt with first! Bond 
hurled himself to the left, seized the 
stave and leaped at the woman whose 
hand was already reaching upward. 
The stave thudded into the side of her 
head and she sprawled grotesquely for- 
ward off her chair and lay still. Blofeld's 
sword whistled down, inches from his 
shoulder. Bond twisted and lunged to 
his full extent, thrusting his stave for- 
ward in the groove of his left hand al- 
most as if it had been a billiard cue. The 


to do. He had 


tip caught Blofeld hard on the breast- 
bone and flung him against the wall, but 
he burded back and came inexorably 
forward, swishing his sword like a scythe. 
Bond aimed at his right arm, missed and 
had to retreat. He was concentrating on 
keeping his weapon as well as his body 
away from the whirling steel, or his stave 
would be cut like a matchstick, and its 
extra length was his only hope of vic 
tory. Blofeld suddenly lunged, expertly, 
his right knee bent forward. Bond feint- 


ed to the left, but he was inches too slow 
ind the tip of the sword flicked his left 
ribs, drawing blood. But before Blofeld 
could withdraw, Bond had slashed two- 
handed, sideways, at his legs. His stave 
met bone. Blofeld cursed, and made an 
ineffectual stab at Bond's weapon. Then 
he advanced again and Bond could only 
and feint in the middle of the 
ke quick short lunges to 


dodge 
room and 
keep the enemy at bay. But he was los 
ing ground in front of the whirling steel, 
ind now Bloleld, scenting victory, took 
lightning steps and thrust forward like a 
snake. Bond leaped sideways, saw his 
chance and gave a mighty sweep of his 
Blofeld on his right 


ave. Tt caught 
shoulder and drew 
main sword апп! Bond pressed forward 
lancing again and again with his weapon 
ind scoring several hits to the body, but 
one of Blofeld’s parries caught the stave 
and cut off that one vital foot of extra 


1 curse from him, His 


length as if it had been a candle end. 
Blofeld saw his advantage and began at 
tacking, making furious forward jabs 
that Bond could only parry by hitting at 
the flat of the sword to deflect it. But 
now the stave was slippery in the sweat 
of his hands and for the first time he 
felt the cold breath of defeat at his 
neck. And Blofeld seemed to smell it, 
for he suddenly executed one of his 
fast running lunges to get under Bond's 
guard. Bond gucssed the distance of the 
wall behind him and leaped backward 
against it. Even so, he felt the 
point fan across his stomach. But, hurled 
back by his impact with the wall, he 
counterlunged, swept the sword aside 
with his stave and, dropping his weapon, 
made a dive for Blofeld's neck and got 
both hands to it. For a moment the two 
sweating faces were almost up against 
each other. The boss of Blofeld's sword 
battered into Bond's side. Bond hardly 
felt the crashing blows. He pressed with 
his thumbs, and pressed and pressed and 
heard the sword clang to the floor and 
felt Blofeld’s fingers and nails tearing at 
his face, trying to reach his eyes, Bond 
whispered through his 
"Die, Blofeld! Die!" And suddenly thc 
tongue was out and the eyes rolled up- 
ward and the body slipped down to the 
ground. But Bond followed it and knelt, 
his hands cramped round the powerful 
neck, sceing nothing, hearing nothing, 


so, sword 


gritted teeth, 


in the terrible grip of blood lust. 

Bond slowly came to himself. The 
golden dragon's head on the black silk 
kimono spat flame at him. He unclasped 
his aching hands from round the neck 
and, not looking again at the purple 
face, got to his feet. He staggered. God, 
how his head hurt! What 


remained to 
be done? He tried to cast his mind back. 
He had had a clever idea. What was it? 
Oh yes, of course! He picked up Blo- 
1е145 sword and sleepwalked down the 
stone passage to the torture room. He 
lanced up at the clock, Five minutes to 
midnight. And there was the wooden 
box, mud-spauered, down beside the 
throne on which he bad sat, days, years 
before. He went to it and hacked it open 
with one stroke of the sword. Yes, there 
was the 1 wheel he had expected! He 
knelt down and twisted and twisted un- 


til it was finally closed. What would hap- 
pen now? The end of the world? Bond 
rin back up the passage. Now he 


get out, get away from this place! But 


must 


his line of retreat was closed by the 
guards! He tore aside a curtain and 
smashed the window open with his 


there was a balustraded 
terrace that seemed to run 


sword. Outside 
round this 
story of the castle. Bond looked around 
for something to cover his nakedness 
There was only Blofeld's sumptuous ki- 
mono. Coldly, Bond tore it off the 
corpse, put it on and tied the sash. The 


ё 
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179 


PLAYBOY 


“I really scared my husband this 
morning, Marge. I said, ‘I think it’s time we 


made a jew changes around here! 


interior of the kimono was cold, like a 
snake's skin. He looked down at Irma 
Bunt. She was breathing heavily with a 
drunken snore. Bond went to thc win- 
dow and dimbed out, minding his bar 
feet among the glass splinters 

But he had been wrong! The balus- 
trade was a brief one, closed at both 
ends. He stumbled from end to end of 
it, but there was no exit. He looked over 
the side. A sheer 100-foot drop to 
the gravel. A soft fluted whistle above 
him caught his ear. He looked up. Only 
a breath of wind in the moorings of that 
bloody balloon! But then a lunatic idea 
came to him, а flash back t one of the 
old Douglas Fairbanks films when the 
hero had swung across a wide hall by 
taking a Пу ip at the chandelier. 
‘This helium balloon was strong cnough 
to hold taut 50 feet of framed. cotton 
strip bearing the warning sign! Why 
shouldn't it be powerful enough to bear 
the weight of a man? 

Bond ran to the corner of the balus- 
trade to which the mooring line was at- 
tached. He tested it. It was taut as a 
wire! From somewhere behind him 
there came а great clamor in the castle. 
Had the woman awakened? Holding 
onto the straining rope, he climbed onto 
the railing, cut a foothold for himself in 
the coton banner and, grasping the 
mooring rope with his right hand, 
chopped downward below him with Blo- 
lekl's sword and threw himself into 
space. 

Ic worked! There was а 
bre 


light night 
nd he felt himself wafted gently 
way over the moonlit park, over the 
glittering, steaming lake, toward the sea. 
But he was rising, not falling! The heli- 


xe 


180 um sphere was not in the least worried 


p» 


by his weight! Then blue-and-yellow 
fire fluttered from the upper story of the 
castle and ап occa angry wasp 
zipped р nds and fcet 
were beginning to ache with the strain 
of holding on. Something hit him on the 
side of the head, the same side that was 
already sending out its throbbing mes- 
sage of pain. And that finished him. He 
knew it had! For now the whole blick 
silhouette of the castle swayed in the 
moonlight and seemed to jig upward 
and sideways and then slowly dissolve 
like an ice-cream cone in sunshine, The 
top story crumbled first, then the next, 
and the next, and then, after a moment, 
a huge jet of orange fire shot up from 
hell toward the moon and a buffet of 
hot wind, followed by an echoing crack 
of thunder, hit Bond and made his bal- 
loon sway violently. 

What was it all about? Bond didn't 
know or саге. The pain in his head was 
his whole universe. Punctured by а bul- 
let the balloon was fast losing height. 
Below. the sofüy swelling sea offered а 
bed. Bond let go with hands and feet 
ad plummeted down toward peace, to- 
ward the rippling feathers of some child- 
hood dream of softness and escape from 
pain. 


An item from the obituary column 
of The Times of London: 


M writes: 

As your readers will have learned 
from earlier issues, а senior officer of the 
Ministry of Defense, Commander James 
Bond, C.M.G., R.N.V.R., is missing, be- 
lieved killed, while on an official mission 
to Japan. It grieves me to have to report 
that hopes of his survival must now be 
abandoned. It therelore falls to my lot, 
as the head of the department he served 


so well, to give some account of this 
officer and of his outstanding services to 
his country. 

James Bond was born of a Scottish fa- 
ther, Andrew Bond of Glencoe, and a 
Swiss mother, Monique Delacroix, from 
the Canton de Vaud. His father being a 
foreign representative of the Vickers 
armaments firm, his early education, 
from which he inherited a first-class com- 
mand of French and German, was en- 
tirely abroad, When he was 11 years of 
age, both his parents were killed in 
а climbing accident in the Aiguilles 
Rouges above Chamonix, and the youth 
came under the guardianship of an aunt, 
since deceased, Miss Charmian Bond, and 
he went to live with her at the quaintly 
named hamlet of Pett Bottom near Can- 
terbury in Kent. There, in a small cot- 
tage hard by the attractive Duck Inn, his 
aunt, who must have been a most eru- 
dite and accomplished lady, completed 
his education for an English public 
school and, at the age of 12 or there 
abouts, he passed satisfactorily into Fton, 
for which college he had been entered at 
birth by his father. It must be admitted 
that his career at Eton was brief and 
undistinguished and, after only two 
halves, as a result, it pains me to record, 
of some alleged trouble with one of the 
boys’ maids, his aunt was requested to 
remove him. She managed to obtain his 
transfer to Fettes, his father’s old school. 
Here the atmosphere was somewhat Cal- 
nistic, and both academic and athletic 
ndards were rigorous. Nevertheless, 
inclined to be solitary by nature, 
he established some firm friendships 
among the traditionally famous athletic 
circles at the school. By the time he left, 
at the early age of 17, he had twice 
fought for the school as a lightweight 
and had, in addition, founded the first 
serious judo clas at an English public 
school By now it was 1911 and, by 
claiming an age of 19, and with the 
help of an old Vickers colleague of h 
father, he entered a branch of what was 
subsequently to become the Ministry of 
Defense. To serve the conlidential na- 
ture of his duties, he accorded the 
rank of lieutenant in the Special Branch 
of the R.N.V.R., and it is a measure of 
the satisfaction his services gave to his 
superiors that he ended the war with the 
rank of commander. It was about th 
lime that the writer became associated 
with certain aspects of the ministry's 
work, and it was with much gratifica 
that I accepted Commander Bond's post- 
war application to continue working for 
the ministry in which, at the time of his 
lamented disappearance, he had risen 


ion 


to the rank of Principal Оћсег in the 
Civil Service. 
The nature of Commander Bond's 


duties with the ministry, which were, 
rized by the appoint 
in 1954, must remain 
secret, but his cob 


incidentally, recog 
ment of CMG. 
confidential, nay, 


leagues at the ministry will allow that 
he performed them with outstanding 
bravery and distinction, although occa- 
sionally, through an impetuous strain in 
his nature, with a streak of the foolhardy 
that brought him in conflict with higher 
authority. But he possessed what almost 
amounted to "Ehe Nelson Touch” 

moments of the highest emergency, and 
he somehow contrived to escape more 
or less unscathed from the many adv 
turous paths down which his duties led 
him. The inevitable publicity, partic 
ularly in the foreign p accorded 
some of these ude him, 


ventures, n 
much against his will, something of a 
public figure, with the inevitable re- 
sult that а series of popular books came 
to be written around him by a personal 
friend and former colleague of James 
Bond. If the quality of these books, or 
their degree of veracity, had been any 
higher, the author would certainly have 
been prosecuted under the Official Se- 
crets Act. It is а measure of the disd: 
a which these fictions are held at the 
istry, that action has not yet—I em- 
phasize the qualification—been taken 
wainst the author and publisher of 
these high-lown and romanticized cari- 
catures of episodes in the career of an 
outstanding public servant. 

It only remains to conclude this brief 
in memoriam by assuring his friends 
that Commander Bond's last mission was 
one of supreme importance to the state. 
Ithough it now appears that, alas, he 
will not return from it, I have the au- 
thority of the highest quarters in the 
land to confirm that the mission proved 
100 percent successful. It is no exaggera- 
tion to pronounce unequivocally that, 
through the recent valorous efforts of 
this one man, the safety of the realm 
had received mighty reassurance. 

James Bond was married 
resa, only daughter of 
aco, of Marseilles. The ma 
ces that were re- 
ported in the press at the time. There 
was no issue of the marr nd James 


is happy and proud to serve Com- 
der Bond in a close capacity during 
the past three years at the Ministry of 
Defense. If, indeed, our fears for him are 
justified, may 1 suggest these simple 
words for his epitaph? Many of the ju 
ior stall here feel they represent his phi 
losophy: “1 shall not waste my days 
tying to prolong them. I shall use my 
time." 


When Kissy saw the figure, black- 
winged in its kimono, crash down into 
the sca, she sensed that it was her man, 
and she covered the 200 yards from the 
base of the wall as fast as she had ever 


swum in her life. The tremendous im- 
рас! with the water had at first knocked. 
all the wind out of Bond, but the will to 
live, so nearly extinguished by the sea 
ng pain in his head, was revived by the 
new but recognizable enemy of the sca 
and, when Kissy got to him, he was 


struggling to free himself from the 
kimono 
At first he thought she was Blofeld 


€ out at her. 
atly, “Kissy 


and he tried to st 
“It’s Kissy,” she said urg 
Suzuki! Don't you remember? 


He didn’t. He had по recollection of 
anything in the world but the face of his 
nemy and of the desperate urge to 
smash it. But his strength was going and 


finally, cursing feebly. he allowed her to 
manhandle him out of the kimono and 
paid heed to the voice that pleaded 
with him. 

“Now follow me, Taro-san. Wh 
get tired I will pull you with me. We 
all trained in such rescue work.” 

Bur, when she started off, Bond didn't 
follow her. Instead he swam feebly 
round and round like a wounded ani- 
mal, in ever-increasing cirdes. She al- 
most wept. What had happened to him? 
What had they done to him at the Castle 
of Death? Finally she stopped him and 
talked softly to him and he docilely 
lowed her to put her arms under his 
rmpits and, with his head cradled be- 
tween her breasts, she set off with the 
traditional backward leg stroki 

It was an amazing swim for a girl— 
half a mile with currents to contend 
with and only the moon and an occa- 
sional glance over her shoulder to give 
her a bea ‚ but she achieved it and 
ally hauled Bond out of the water in 
her little cove and collapsed on the flat 
stones beside him. 

She was awakened by a groan from 
Bond. He had been quietly sick and now 
sat with his head in his hands, lookin: 
blankly out to sea with the glazed eyes 
of a sleepwalker. When Kissy put an arm 
round his shoulders, he turned. vaguely 
toward her, “Who How did I 
get here? What is this place?" He exam- 
ined her more carefully. “You're very 
pretty.” 

Kissy looked at him keenly. She said, 
and a sudden plan of great glory blazed 
across her mind, “You cannot remember 
anythit You do not remember. who 
you are and where you came from?" 

Bond passed a hand across his fore- 
head, squeezed his eyes. “Nothing.” he 
said wearily. "Nothing except а man's 
face. I think he was dead. I think he was 
a bad man. What is your name? You 
must tell me everything.” 

"My name is Kissy Suzuki and you are 
my lover. Your name is Taro Todoroki, 
We live on this island and go fishing to- 
gether. It is a very good Не. But can you 
walk a little? I must take you to where 
you live and get you some food and a 


you 
3 


e you 


doctor to see you. You have а terrible 
wound on the side of your head and 
there is a cut on your ribs. You must 
have fallen while you were climbing the 
clilfs after sea gulls’ eggs.” She stood up 
and held out her hands. 

Bond took them and staggered to his 
feet. She held him by the hand and р 
dy guided him along the path toward the 
Suzuki house. But she passed it and went 
on and up to the grove of dwarf maples 
and camellia bushes, She led him behind 
the Shinto shrine and into the cave. It 
was large and the earth floor was dry. 
She said, “This is where you live. I live 
here with you. I had put away our bed 
things. I will go and fetch them and 
some food. Now lie down, my beloved, 
and rest and I will look after you. You 
are ill, but the doctor will make you well 
ain." 

Bond did as he was told and was i 
sleep, the pain-free side of hi 

dled on his arm. 

п off down the mount 


п, her 


Kissy 
heart singing. There was much to be 
done, much to be arranged, but now that 


she had her man back she 
ly determined to keep him. 

It was almost dawn and her parents 
were awake. She whispered to them cx- 
citedly as she went about w 
milk and putting together a bundle of 
futon, her father’s best kimono and a 
election of Bond's washing things— 
nothing to remind him of his past. Her 
ents were used to Пет whims and her 
independence, Her father merely com- 
mented mildly that it would be all right 
if the kannushi-san his blessi 


despera 


y some 


gave 


then, having washed the salt off hi 


1 dressed in her own 


aple brown ki 


mono. she scampered off up the hill to 
the cave. 
Later, the Shinto priest received her 


gravely. He almost seemed to be expect- 
ing her. He held up his hand and spoke 
to the К "Kissy-chan, Т 
The spawn of the 
Devil is dead. So is his wife. The Castle 
of Death has been totally destroyed 
These things were brought about as the 
Guardians foretold, by the man from 


across the sca. Where is he now?” 

“In the cave behind the shrine, kan- 
nushi-san. He is gravely wounded. I love 
him 


1 wish: to keep him and care for 
He remembers nothing of the past. 
I wish it to remain so, so that we may 
nd he may become a son of Kuro 


That will not be possible, my daugh- 
ter. In due course he will recover and 
go off across the world to where he came 
from. And there will be official inquiries 
for him from Fukuoka, pethaps even 
from Tokyo, for he is surcly a man of rc- 
nown in his own country.” 

“But kannushi-san, il you so instruct 
the elders of Kuro, they will show these 
people shiran-hao, they will say they 


181 


PLAYBOY 


182 you will К 


know nothing, that this man Todoroki 
left, swimming for the mainland, and 
has not been heard of since. Then the 
people will go away. All I want to do is 
to care for him and keep him for myself 
as long as I can. If the day comes when 
he wishes to leave, J will not hinder him. 
I will help him. He was happy here 
fishing with me and my David-bird. He 
told me so. When he recovers, I will sce 
that he continues to be happy. Should 
not Kuro cherish and honor this hero 
who was brought to us by the gods? 
Would not the Six Guardians wish to 
keep him for a while? And have I not 


The priest sat silent for a while 
with his cyes closed, Then he looked 
down at the pleading face at his feet. He 
smiled. T will do what is possible, Kissy- 
chan. And now bring the doctor to me 
and then take him up to the cave so that 
he can tend this man’s wounds. Then I 
will speak to the elders. But for many 
weeks you must be very discreet and the 
gaijin must not show himself, When all 
is quict again, he may move back into 
the house of your parents and allow 
himself to be seen.” 

The doctor knelt beside Bond in the 
cave and spread out on the ground a 
large map of the human head with the 
sections marked with figures and idco- 
grams. His gentle fingers probed Bond's 
wound for signs of fracture, while Kissy 
knelt beside him and held one of Bond's 
sweating hands in both of hers. The doc- 
tor bent forward and, lifting the eyelids 
one by one, gazed deeply into the glazed 
eyes through а large reading glass. On 
his instructions, Kissy ran for boiling 
water, and the doctor proceeded to clean 
the cut made by the bullet across the ter- 
rible swelling of the first wound caused 
by Bond's crash into the oubliette. Then 
he tapped sulpha dust into the wound 
and bound up the head neatly and ex- 
pertly, put surgical plaster over the cut 
across the ribs and stood up and took 
Kissy outside the cave. “He will live,” he 
said, “but it may be months, even years 
before he rej his memory. It is partic- 
ularly the temporal lobe of his brain 
where the memory is stored, that h 
been damaged. For this, much education 
will be necessary. You will endeavor ail 
the time to remind him about past 
things and places. Then isolated facts 
that he will recognize will turn into 
chains of association. He should un- 
doubtedly be taken to Fukuoka for an X 
у, but T think there is no fracture and 
in any case the kannushi-san has or- 
ned that he is to remain under your 
care and his presence on the island be 
kept secret. I shall of course observe the 
instructions of the honorable kannushi- 
san and only visit him by different 
routes and at night. But there is much 
ve to attend to, for he must 


not be moved in any way for at least a 

. Now listen carefully,” said the doc- 
nd he gave her minute instructions 
which covered every aspect of feeding 
and nursing and left her to carry them 


And so the days ran into wecks and 
the police came again and again from 
Fukuoka, and the official called Tanaka 
me from Tokyo and later a huge man 
who said he was from Australia arrived. 
and he was the most dificult of all for 
Kissy to shake off. But the face of shiran- 
kao remained of stone and the island of 
Kuro kept its secret, James Bond's body 
gradually mended and Kissy took him 
out for walks at night. They also went 
for an occasional swim in the cove, 
where they played with David and she 
told him all the history of the Ama and 
of Kuro and expertly parried all his 
questions about the world outside the 


Winter came, and the Ama l to 
stay ashore and turn their hands to 
mending nets and boats and working on 
1 holdings on the mountainside, 
and Bond came back into the house and 
made himself useful with carpentry and 
odd jobs and with learning Japanese 
from Kissy. The glazed look went from 
his eyes, but they remained remote and 
faraway and every night he was puzzled 
by dreams of a quite different world of 
white people and big cities and half- 
remembered faces. But Kissy assured him 


little stone-and-wood house 
less horizon of sea as his finite world. 
Kissy was careful to keep him away from 
the south coast of the island, and dread- 
ed the day when fishing would begin 
again at the end of May and he would 
see the great black wall across the straits 
and memory might come flooding back. 
The doctor was surprised by Bond's 
lack of progres 
the conclusion that Bond's amnesia was. 
total. But soon there was no cause for 
further visits because Bond's physical 


health and his apparently complete 
satisfaction with his lot showed that in 
every other respect he was totally 


recovered. 

Bur there was one thing that greatly 
distressed Kissy. From the first night in 
the cave she had shared Bond's futon 
and, when he was well and back in the 
house. she waited every night for him to 
make love to her. But, while he kissed 
her occasionally and often held her 
hand, his body seemed totally unaware 
of her however much she pressed herself 
against him and even caressed him with 
her hands. Had the wound made him 
impotent? She consulted the doctor, but 
he said there could be no connection, al. 
though it was just possible that he had 
forgotten how to perform the act of 
love. 


So one day Kissy Suzuki announced 
that she was going to take the weekly 
il boat to Fukuoka to do some shop- 
ping and, in the big city, she found her 
y to the local sex shop, called The 
Happy Shop, that is a feature of all self- 
respecting Japanese towns, and told her 
problem to the wicked-looking old gray- 
beard behind the innocent counter con- 
taining nothing more viciously alluring 
than conics and contraceptives. He asked 
her if she possessed 5000 yen, which is a 
lot of money, and when she said she did, 
he locked the street door and invited her 
to the back of the shop. 

The sex merchant bent down and 
pulled out from beneath a bench what 
looked like a small wire rabbit hutch. 
He put this on the bench and Kissy saw 
that it contained four large toads on a 
bed of moss. Next he produced a metal 
contraption that had the appearance of 
a hot plate with a small wire cage in the 
middle. He carefully lifted out one of 
the toads and placed it inside the cage so 
that it squatted on the metal surface. 
‘Then he hauled a large car battery onto 
the bench, put it alongside the “hot 
plate," and attached wires from one to 
the other. Then he spoke encouraging 
endearments to the toad and stood back. 

The toad began to shiver slightly, and 
the crosses in its dark-red eyes blazed 
grily at Kissy as if he knew it was all her 
fault. The sex merchant, his head bent 
Over the little cage, watched anxiously 
and then rubbed his hands with satisfac- 
tion as heavy beads of sweat broke out 
all over the toad's warty skin. He reached 
for an iron teaspoon and a small phial, 
gently raised the wire cage and very 
carefully scraped the sweat beads off 
s body and dripped the result 
into the phial. When he had finished, 
the phial contained about half a tea- 
spoon of clear liquid. He corked it up 
and handed it to Kissy, who held it with 
reyerence and great care as if it had 
been a fabulous jewel. Then the sex 
merchant disconnected the wires and 
put the toad, which seemed none the 
worse for its experience, back into its 
hutch and closed the top. 

He turned to Kissy and bowed. “When. 
this valuable product is desired by a 
sincere customer I always ask them 10 
witness the process of distillation. Othe: 
wise they might harbor the unworthy 
thought that the phial contained only 
water from the tap. But you have now 
seen that this preparation is the authen 
tic sweat of a toad. It is produced by giv- 
ing the toad a mild clectric shock. The 
toad sultered only temporary discomfort 
and it will be rewarded this evening 
with an extra portion of flies or crickets. 
And now," he went to а cupboard and 
took out a small pillbox, "here is powder 
of dried lizard. A combination of the 
two, inserted in your lover's food at the 
evening meal, should prove infallible. 


However, to excite his mind as well as 
his senses, for an extra thousand yen I 
can provide you with a most excellent 
pillow book.” 

“What is a pillow book?” 

The sex merchant went back to his 
cupboard and produced а cheaply 
bound and printed paper book w 
plain cover. Kissy opened it. Her hand 
went to her mouth and she blushed furi- 
ously. But then, being a careful girl who 
didn’t want to be cheated, she turned 
some more of the pages. They all con- 
tained outrageously pornographic close- 
thfully engraved, of 
the love act portrayed from every possi 


ha 


up pictures, most f 


ble aspect. “Very well," she whispered 
She handed back the hook. “Please wrap 
up everything carefully.” She took out 
her purse and began counting out the 
notes 

Out in the shop, the wicked-faced old 
п handed her the parcel and, bowing 
deeply, unlocked the door. Kissy gave a 


m 


urn and darted 


perfunctory bob in r 
out of the shop down the street as if she 
had just made a pact with the Devil. But 
by the time she went to catch the mail 
boat back to Kuro, she was hugging her- 
sell with excitement and pleasure and 
making up a story to explain away her 
acquisition of the book. 


Bond was waiting for her on the jetty 
It was the first day she had been away 


from him and he had missed her pain- 
fully. They talked happily as they 
walked hand in hand along the fore- 
shore among the nets and boats, and the 
people smiled to see them, but looked 
through them instead of greeting them, 
for had not the priest decreed that their 
gaijin hero did not officially exist? And 
the priest's edict was final 

Back at the house, Kissy went happily 
about preparing a highly spiced dish of 
sukiyaki, the national dish of beef stew. 
‘This was not only a treat, for they sel- 
dom ate meat, but Kissy didn't know if 
her love potions had any taste and it 
would be wise not to take any chances, 
When it 
hand, she poured the brown powder and 
the liquid into Bond's portion and 
stirred it well, Then she brought the 
dishes in to where the [amily awaited, 
squatting on the tatami before the low 
table. 

She watched surreptitiously as Bond 
devoured every scrap of his portion and 
wiped his plate clean with a pinch of 
rice and then, after warm compliments 
on her cooking, drank his tea and re- 
tired to their room. In the evenings, he 
usually sat mending nets or fishing lines 
belore going to bed. As she helped her 
mother wash up, she wondered if hc 
were doing so now! 

Kissy spent а long time doing her hair 
and making herself pretty before, her 
heart beating like a captured. bird, she 
joined him, 


E 


ly, with a trembling 


АТ 27, JOHN CALVIN is an account exec with a large Chicago advertisin; 
agency. John usually puts in a 10-hour day in a vested suit. But comes th 
weekend, it’s off with the three-button suit and the терр tie, on with th 
Cricketeer sportcoat and slacks, and out to Lake Michigan for a sail. Johi 
likes clothes with easy, natural lines. (He calls it the traditional look. Wı 
call it the Cricketeer look.) Now, if the young lady will kindly return John’ 
sportcoat, we'll heave anchor. CRICKETEEF 


Cricketeer Club Cloth Sportcoat about $35.00. Sportcoat and coordinate slacks about $ 
your favorite store, or write Cricketer, 1290 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York, 


0.00. / 


PLAYBOY 


184 


He looked up from the pillow book 
and laughed. “Kissy, where in God's 
name did you get this 

She giggled. "Oh that! I forgot to tell 
you. Some dreadful man tried to make 
up to me in one of the shops. He pressed 
that into my hand and made an assigna- 
tion for this evening. I agreed just to get 
rid of him. It is what we call a pillow 
book. Lovers use them. Aren't the pic- 
tures. exciting?" 

Bond threw off his kimono. He point- 
ed to the soft futon on the floor. He said 
fiercely, “Kissy, take off your clothes and 
lic down there. We'll start at page one.” 

Winter slid into spring and fishing be 
gan again, but now Kissy dived naked 
like the other girls and Bond and the 
bird dived with her and there were good 
days and bad days. But the sun shone 
steadily and the sea was blue and wild 


“Come on in. but you'll have ta excuse the 
place looks—I just cleaned. it.” 


irises covered the mountainside and cv- 
eryone made a great fuss as the sprin- 
kling of cherry trees burst into bloom, 
and Kissy wondered what moment to 
choose to tell Bond that she was going to 
have a baby and whether he would then 
propose marri: 

But one day, on the way down to the 
cove, Bond looked preoccupied and, 
when he asked her to wait before they 
put the boat out as he had something se- 
us to talk to her about. her heart 
leaped and she sat down beside him on a 
flat rock and put her arms round him 
and waited. 

Bond took a crumpled picce of paper 
out of his pocket and held it out to her, 
and she shivered with fear and knew 
what was coming. She took her arms 
from round him and looked at the pa- 
per. It was one of the rough squares of 
newspaper from the spike in the little 


way the 


lavatory. She always tore these squ 
herself and discarded any that соп 
words in English—just in case. 

Bond pointed. “Kissy. what is this 
word ‘Vladivostok’? What does it mean? 
It has some kind of a message for me. I 
connect it with a very big country. I be- 
lieve the country d Rusia, Am I 
right” 


у remembered her promise to the 
priest. She put her face in her hands. 
“Yes, Taro-san. That is so. 

Bond pressed his fists to his eyes and 
squeezed. “L have a feeling that I have 
had much to do with this Russia, that a 
lor of my past life was concerned with it, 
Could that be possible? I long so terribly 
to know where | came from before I 
came to Kuro, Will you help me, Kissy? 

Kisy took her hands from her 
and looked at him. She said quietly, 
Yes, I will help you, my beloved.” 

“Then I must go to this place Vladi- 
vostok, and perhaps it will awaken more 
memories and I can work my way back 
from there.” 

“If you say so, my love. The mail boat 
goes to Fukuoka tomorrow. I will put 
you on a train there and give you moncy 
and full directions. It is advertised that 
опе can go from the northen 
Hokkaido, to Sakhalin, which is on the 
Russian mainland. Then you no 
doubt make your way to Vladivostok. It 
is a great port to the south of Sakhalin. 
But you must take care, for the Russia 
are not friendly people. 

"Surely they would do no harm to a 
fisherman from Kuro? 

Kissy's heart choked her. She got up 
and walked slowly down to the bout. She 
pushed the boat down the pebbles into 
the water and waited, at her usual place 
in the stern, for him to get in and Lor his 
Knees to clasp hers as they always did 

James Bond took his place and un- 
shipped the oars, and the cormorant 
scrambled on board and perched impe- 
viously in the bow. Bond ed 
where the rest of the fleet lay on the 
horizon, and began to row. 
smiled 
shone on his and, so [ar a 
Bond was concerned, it was a be: 
day just like all the other days һай been 
—without a doud in the sky. 

But then, of course, he did 
that his m. 
compared wi gs 
to him of that single Russian word on 
the scrap of paper, his life on Kur 
love for Kissy Suzuki, were, in Tig 
phrase, of as little account as spa 
tears. 


island, 


mes 


t know 


h the bla 


This is the final installment of a three- 
part serialization of Ian Fleming's latest 
James Bond novel, “You Only Live 


Twice.” 
п 


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