Playboy's March Hare apparent, though not very, on our cover shares Prague digs with luscious Czech chick Olga Schoberova, whose myriad charms are further displayed in The Girls of Russia and the Iron Curtain Countries, a pictorial essay that is the living-end result of a special Playboy photographic mission to Moscow and other capitals of commissarland.
General Offices: Playboy Building, 232 E. Ohio Street, Chicago, Illinois 60611. Return postage must accompany all manuscripts, drawings and photographs submitted if they are to be returned and no responsibility can be assumed for unsolicited materials. Contents copyrighted (c) 1964 by HMH Publishing Co., Inc. Nothing may be reprinted in whole or in part without written permission from the publisher. Any similarity between the people and places in the fiction and semi-fiction in this magazine and any real people and places is purely coincidental. Credits: Cover: Model Olga Schoberova, design by Arthur Paul, photo by Herman Leonard; P. 3 photos by Jerry Yulsman, Desmond Russell; P. 35 photos by Yulsman; P. 71-77 photos by Marvin Koner (27), Jesse Alexander (2); P. 96-97 photo by Don Bronstein; P. 100 photo by Culver Pictures; P. 103 photo by Pompeo Posar: P. 105 left photo by Phil Stern, P. 111 photo by Posar, P. 113 lower left photo by Posar, P. 114 upper left photo by Lothar Winkler; P. 127 photos by William Read Woodfield, Mike Shea, Hal Adams, P. 128 photos by Adams (2), Bunny Yeager, P. 129 photos by Russ Meyer, Adams, Shea,
Playboy, March, 1964, Vol. 11, No. 3. Published monthly by HMH Publishing Company, Inc., Playboy Building, 232 E. Ohio St., Chicago, Illinois 60611. Subscriptions: In the U.S., its possessions, the Pan American Union and Canada, $17 for three years, $13 for two years, $7 for one year. Elsewhere add $3 per year for foreign postage. Allow 30 days for new subscriptions and renewals. Change of address: Send both old and new addresses to Playboy, 232 E. Ohio St., Chicago, Illinois 60611, and allow 30 days for change. Advertising: Howard W. Lederer, advertising director, Jules Kase, Eastern Advertising Manager, 405 Park Ave., New York, New York 10022, MU 8-3030; Branch Offices: Chicago, Playboy Building, 232 E. Ohio St., MI 2-1000, Joe Fall, Midwestern advertising manager; Detroit, Boulevard West Building, 2990 West Grand Boulevard, TR 5-7250, Joseph Guenther, Manager: Los Angeles, 8721 Beverly Blvd., OL 2-8790, Stanley L. Perkins, Manager; San Francisco, 111 Sutter St., YU 2-7994, Robert E. Stephens, Manager; Southeastern Representative, Pirnie & Brown, 3108 Piedmont Rd., N. E., Atlanta, GA. 30305, 233-6729.
In our incoming-mail basket the other day we spied a letter bearing a postage stamp that resembled nothing so much as a Norman Rockwell cover for The Saturday Evening Post: a heart-warming depiction of a grandfatherly postman, cherry-cheeked and cheerfully burdened with mailbag and umbrella, engaged in the swift completion of his appointed rounds, stayed neither by snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night – nor by the company of a look-mom-no-cavities urchin and his playful pup. Suspecting that the Curtis Publishing Company had gone into collusion with the Post Office Department in an offbeat ad campaign to hypo circulation, we investigated and learned that the stamp had indeed been limned by that illustrious illustrator of Americana, but that any similarity to a Post cover was purely coincidental. The painting had been commissioned to commemorate the 100th anniversary of home mail delivery and was, we were informed, the first U. S. stamp with a "humorous theme." Maybe they should have modified the quoted phrase with the word "intentionally," for those of us familiar with the celebrated three-cent 1948 "chicken commemorative," as it was called – celebrating the centenary of the American poultry industry with the full-length portrait of a plump hen – know differently.
"In 1957 a girl of 15 with long legs and a tendency to pout threw up a job in Slough and decided to move to London." Will this girl from a converted railway carriage in the provincial village of Wraysbury find fame and fortune among the rich, titled and powerful men of mighty London? You bet. Such is the plot of Anatomy of a Scandal (Morrow, $3.95), which a troika of English journalists have hastily patched together from the newspaper clips of last year's Fleet Street circulation booster, the Profumo case. The authors have a colorful cast of characters to work with – leggy Christine, bearlike Captain Ivanov, suave Dr. Stephen Ward, impetuous John Profumo, and all their friends – but we have met them before on the front pages and are shown nothing new in this book-length rehash of their after-hours antics. The attempts at analysis are feeble: "In families with more than one son (Ward had two brothers and a sister), it often happens that one of them rebels." And the sallies into moral significance are simply silly; the fact that on the day Christine moved in with Dr. Ward the two-millionth copy of Lady Chatterley's Lover was sold is hardly an explanation of anything. The only interesting contribution is one the authors have cadged from an Austrian sociologist named Heinrich Blezinger. In a poll of British opinion, Dr. Blezinger found that nearly 80 percent of those interviewed thought that Profumo's greatest sin was lying to the House of Commons, while only 8 percent gave most importance to his lying with Christine. To go into Parliamentary life it may no longer be necessary to give up your mistress, only to declare her.
Sunday in New York is nothing but fluff, but when it's as laughable as this, fluff makes the world go round. Norman Krasna has crafted a crafty screenplay from his Broadway hit; Peter Tewksbury, a director new to us, has handled it with kidding gloves; and Jane Fonda, in the lead, reconfirms (as the airlines say) her place as the best American screen actress of her generation. She plays a 25-year-old virgin whose Albany boyfriend is put out because she won't; so she comes to Manhattan for advice from her brother (Cliff Robertson), a wolf in TWA-pilot's clothing. Her sudden visit upsets brother's Sunday matinee plans with Jo Morrow and leads him to a series of transcontinental contretemps. Jane meanwhile gets pinned, literally, to Rod Taylor on a Fifth Avenue bus. There follows a long day's journey into night at her brother's busy apartment, including the appearance of the Albany athlete, as the comedy whips back and froth. No real substance to it? Who wants a heavy soufflé?
Jimmy Witherspoon / Baby, Baby, Baby (Prestige) is the blues, man. Whether it's tinged with sophistication as in Ellington's Rocks in My Bed or just plain gully-low blues shouting as on Blues and Trouble, it's still basic indigo, a métier that "Spoon" practically owns. Instrumental accompaniment ranges from Flügelhorn to harmonica to tambourine – all apropos.
Courtroom dramas, like Punch-and-Judy shows, have their own special conventions. The verdict should always be in doubt, the crucial evidence should be served up last, and the opposing teams should slap each other around verbally as they lead up to two rousing summations. A Case of Libel breaks the rules and forfeits suspense, but still manages to shoot off some legal sparks. This is a paper-thinly disguised re-retelling (by Henry Denker) of Quentin Reynolds' libel suit against Westbrook Pegler – most recently celebrated by lawyer Louis Nizer in his best-selling My Life in Court. From the start it is obvious that the Reynolds character (a liberal ex-war correspondent called Dennis Corcoran) will sue the Pegler character (right-wing calumnist Boyd Bendix) for calling him, among other things, a "drunken, immoral, yellow-bellied degenerate," and that Nizer (called Robert Sloane) will counsel – and win. A Case of Libel is a primer case, but it holds attention because it obeys one law of courtship: There are slashing clashes between resolute, upstanding, tricky Sloane (Van Heflin) and calm, cunning, self-defeating Bendix (Larry Gates). When out of court, Libel plods instead of plots, but the play, like the case, is settled in court, and there some exciting exhibits are placed in evidence. At the Longacre, 220 West 48th Street.
My friends and I have had a slight disagreement over the frequency with which a normal male can achieve satisfaction in one night. I've heard cohorts boast of amazing physical powers, and I've often thought that perhaps I fall short. Try as I may, I can only experience seven orgasms, and then must quit because of physical exhaustion, even though my partner is willing and able to continue research. Should I take a body-building course? – L. N., San Francisco, California.
The Month of May affords a splendid chance to shake out those land legs and enjoy an aquatic vacation. The Caribbean – so close to the U. S. and offering economy in both money and time – is invitation to a jet-borne weekend or an unhurried itinerary of island hopping. The little-known British Virgin Islands (notably Virgin Gorda, Virgin Bank and Anegada's Horseshoe Cay), just a few miles northeast of the American Virgins, lure visitors with spectacular deep-sea fishing that includes blue marlin, tuna and sailfish. Other facets of water sporting are found on neighboring Virgin reefs, where the specialties are swimming, sailing and beachcombing. Confirmed scuba and snorkel buffs frolic from dawn to sunset in the cerulean surf surrounding the six-acre Virgin islet, Marina Cay, or they stay completely waterborne aboard the seventy-foot ketch, Pas de Loup, which makes a ten-day run from Grenada through a sparsely inhabited chain of diminutive islands. The $200 rate includes food, rum and unlimited use of skindiving gear off the exotic tropical reefs. Guests really get the feel of the sea, since they're expected to pitch in with the sailing of the vessel (one reason for the inexpensive tab). For those sea lovers who would rather be served than serve, a shorter, more luxurious run from Grenada to Barbados is available aboard the Carlotta, a 100-foot luxury schooner. The $175 tab includes food, liquor, cigarettes and aqualung equipment.
<p>Ayn Rand, an intense, angry young woman of 58, is among the most outspoken – and important – intellectual voices in America today. She is the author of what is perhaps the most fiercely damned and admired best seller of the decade: "Atlas Shrugged," which has sold 1,200,000 copies since its publication six years ago, and has become one of the most talked-about novels in the country.</p>
The Current YearsEarly in 1960 Hugh Hefner opened the first Playboy Club. It was an immediate success and he began making plans for similar key clubs in major cities throughout the United States and abroad, including a $4,000,000 Playboy Club for New York and a $10,000,000 Playboy Club-Hotel for Hollywood. Since Hef first started Playboy on a few hundred dollars in 1953 after quitting his $60-a-Week job with Esquire because they refused to give him a $5 raise, these new plans for expansion made it necessary to secure sizable long-term financing.
He walked out onto the terrace and took possession of his solitude again: the dunes, the ocean, the thousands of dead birds on the sand, a dinghy, the rusty shreds of a net, and occasionally a few new signs: the carcass of a stranded whale, footprints, a string of fishing smacks in the distance, out where the guano islands rose like white ghosts above the horizon toward a gray sky. The café stood on wooden stilts among the dunes; the Lima highway passed a few hundred yards away. A plank drawbridge led down to the beach; he pulled it up each night, ever since two convicts who had escaped from the Santa Cruz jail had clubbed him in his sleep: in the morning he had found them dead drunk in the bar. Now he leaned against the railing and smoked his first cigarette, staring at the birds that had fallen on the sand during the night: some were still quivering. No one had ever been able to explain why they left the islands to die here on this beach: they never went farther north, farther south, but right to this narrow strip of sand exactly three kilometers long. Perhaps it was a sacred burial place for them, something like Benares in India, where the faithful come to give up the ghost: the birds left their carcasses here before flying away forever. Or perhaps they simply flew straight from the guano islands, which were cold and barren rocks, whereas the sand was soft and warm when they felt their hour coming and their blood began to chill and they longed for warmth and had just enough strength left to attempt the crossing. There was always a scientific explanation for everything. Of course, a man can always take refuge in poetry, make friends with the ocean, listen to its voice, continue to believe in the mysteries of nature. A bit of a poet, a bit of a dreamer ... He had come to this beach in Peru, at the foot of the Andes, because it was time to give up: after having fought in Spain, in the French underground, in Cuba, at 47 he had learned his lesson at last and no longer expected anything from noble causes or from women: it was time to settle for a beautiful landscape. Landscapes seldom let you down. A bit of a poet, a bit of a ... Poetry, too, will soon be explained scientifically, studied as a simple secretion of the ductless glands. Science advances triumphantly upon humanity from all sides. A man comes here to run a café on the dunes of the Peruvian coast, with only the ocean for company, but there's an explanation for that, too: isn't the ocean the promise of a beyond, of an eternal life, a reassurance of survival, an ultimate consolation? Let's hope the human soul doesn't exist: that will be its only chance of not getting caught. Soon the scientists will be calculating its exact mass, density, its speed of ascent ... When you think of all the billions of souls that have mounted to heaven since the beginning of time, there's really something to think about: a tremendous source of energy – wasted: by building dams to trap the souls at the moment of their ascent, there would be enough power to light up the whole earth. Man will soon be entirely utilizable. Already his most magnificent dreams have been taken away from him and made into wars and prisons. Down on the sand, some birds were still standing: the newcomers. They faced toward the islands. The islands, out there, were covered with guano: a very profitable industry, and the guano a cormorant produces during its existence can keep a whole family alive over the same period of time. Having thus fulfilled their mission on earth, the birds came here to die. All things considered, he could say that he, too, had fulfilled his mission: the last time, in the Sierra Maestra, with Castro. The idealism a noble soul produces can keep a police state alive over the same period of time. A bit of a poet, a bit of a dreamer. Soon men would be going to the moon, and there would be no moon left. He flicked his cigarette into the sand. A great love can still take care of that, of course, he thought mockingly, with a strong wish to join the dead birds on the beach. Solitude came over him like that each morning, and almost always, the bad solitude: the one that crushes you instead of freeing you from others. He leaned over toward the pulley, lowered the plank and went in to shave, staring with astonishment at his face in the mirror, as he did every morning: "That's not what I wanted!" he wryly assured himself, like Kaiser Wilhelm after the defeat. With all that gray hair, these wrinkles, in a year or two, adolescence will be definitely over. Or will it? With idealists, you can never tell. The face was long, thin, with tired eyes and an ironic smile that did what it could. He no longer wrote to anyone, received no letters, knew no one: he had broken off with others, as a man always does when he vainly tries to break off with himself.
The Italians were building fine carriages around 1550, and they still are: Buy a gran turismo automobile today, one of the first rank, a 130-mile-an-hour car, a Ferrari, Corvette, Maserati, AC Cobra, Aston Martin, E-Jaguar, and you'll be buying a body either designed and made in Italy or massively influenced by the Italians. Buy a small car, a Japanese-made Datsun, a German BMW 1800. a British Sunbeam, and the story is the same. The much-admired lines of the Buick Riviera are clearly reflective of the best Italian practice. The Italians are few, in proportion to the weight they bring to bear on the automobile industry: a dozen designing companies, twice that many top-line creative men, a few thousand workers to put the drawings into wood and clay and metal, to shape and give being to "the Italian line."
While our sartorial safari through Europe this year offered fresh proof that (as in the days of Caesar's splendidly furbished phalanxes) all fashionable roads lead to the Eternal City, we were impressed by a burgeoning style center in one of ancient Rome's far-flung outposts – Madrid. There we came, saw and were conquered by a vital trend in men's attire: the Spanish counterpart of the Italian influence. From Madrid's proud and stately Calle de Alcalá to the colorful shops along Rome's scintillating Via Veneto, this dual fashion fountainhead pours forth a seemingly endless stream of striking suits, sweaters and car coats – some notable examples of which are shown here – magnificently tailored for wear by the finest Italian hands and their cousins-in-craft from Castile.
Some years ago, I sat at the bargaining table with a group of labor-union representatives who sought to negotiate a new contract with a company I owned. Union demands centered around an hourly wage increase which I knew the company could not afford to grant in full. I did, however, believe we could meet the demands half way, and felt that such an increase was justified.
Doctor Clifton Wefel, pillar of his community, bedrock of his church, generous giver to charity, physician and wife hater, jimmied the bedroom window of another pillar of the community, a richer one, Judge Snide, and climbed through.
Accustomed as we are to finding doctors' offices adorned with Winslow Homer prints and ancient copies of National Geographic, we were pleasantly surprised to discover one graced with the lissome presence of Miss Nancy Scott, whom we subsequently coaxed into gracing this month's gatefold as our March Playmate. This hazel-eyed medical technician was born, bred and now resides in the environs of Hollywood, but eschews starlethood, aspiring instead to a no-less-challenging career of interior decoration. A delightful decoration herself, 22-year-old Nancy is a graduate of Verdugo Hills High in suburban Los Angeles, whence she entered the medical métier via a UCLA training course. "Up to a point," Nancy told us perceptively, "medicine is an interesting field for a girl. I've already worked for several doctors, and plan to keep moving, since working for different men is a continuing education. The one drawback is that there's little opportunity for advancement – since I have no chance of ever being a doctor. That's why I hope to go into interior decorating." Nancy shares an apartment in Inglewood, a decorative flair, and an interest in things medical with her mother, a registered nurse. Both are furniture fanciers; one of Nancy's proudest possessions is an oak coffee table she recently restored and refinished, and which now graces her jade-accented Oriental bedroom. When not decorating, this 5'6" charmer likes to read Faulkner ("I think most of it eludes me") and Steinbeck ("He's easier"). In self-appraisal, Miss Scott says: "Though I'm sometimes busier than I'd like to be, I find time to enjoy paintings, men and Manhattan – Manhattan Beach, California, that is." Though Nancy has no immediate intention of leaving the Golden State, she hopes that someday Mr. Right will whisk her off to a new life far from Hollywood. Until then, Nancy is content with the Pacific Coast scene, and based upon her Playmate appearance, we'd say the Pacific Coast should be equally happy with Nancy.
Sausage is one of the oldest and still one of the best devices for separating the gourmets from the gourmands. Hungry neophytes generally recognize sausage as something you wolf down with your eggs in the morning or nibble from a cocktail spear at night. But across the ages men who've searched the deeper reaches of the sausage cornucopia have come up with some of the world's greatest masterpieces of flavoring. It is a horn of plenty filled with hot Spanish chorizos, mellow Polish kielbasas, French garlic sausages, hard Hungarian salami, fat German Wursts, hot Virginia sausage meat – in fact, any chopped meat nestling inside a casing as well as some chopped meats outside their casings.
You like to waste your brains on pursuits of no conceivable practical value? You want something useless to think about during conferences and meetings? If so, here is a word quiz that will leave you ill-humored and no wiser than before. The teasers are arranged roughly in order of increasing difficulty. Mixed in are five trick problems, to add annoyance and outrage to your efforts. For those who insist on a scoring system, we offer the following–15 or more right: you're a word wizard, or a cheat. 8–14 right: credit yourself with notable mot manship. 7 or less right: don't burn your unabridgeds before you read them.
From his Simian ancestors, man has inherited an insatiable itch to meddle with his surroundings. There is a straight and unbroken line of evolution between a cageful of monkeys in the zoo, and the Atomic Energy Commission in the Pacific.
The Girls of Russia and the Iron Curtain Countries
If you are an enterprising young male, you may discover that the lands lying behind the relatively retractable Iron Curtain boast an uncommonly rich and assorted source of untapped femininity. From the vast Russian steppes to the rocky seacoast of Dalmatia, you will find, if you prove to be a persuasive and discerning voyager, the warmest of welcomes from a seemingly infinite variety of women whose only constants are a passionate fascination with all things American — regardless of East-West relations at the moment — and an admirably uncomplicated sense of their own femininity.
There once lived in ancient Greece a man of nasty nature who kept his beautiful wife locked up in his house against the risk of anyone's becoming too friendly with her. One day he had to depart on a mission to a far town. Before he left he sent for the eunuch Myrmex and said to him: "Slave! If any man so much as touches my wife with the tips of his fingers as he passes her in the street, I'll chain you up in a dungeon and starve you to death." The husband then set out on his trip with his mind at rest.
Synopsis:Last month, in Part V of his autobiography, Lenny Bruce described his narcotics arrest in Philadelphia, and the way in which this seemed to initiate a growing pattern of arrests and other harassments. The Philadelphia grand jury ignored his bill, thus refusing to indict him, but from then on Lenny was in trouble everywhere he went. He was arrested for obscenity in San Francisco, and acquitted. He flew to England and, having been refused admission without a hearing, was stripped and searched for narcotics upon his return to New York. He was arrested for obscenity in Chicago, and given his first conviction, in absentia, having been unable to return to Chicago under the terms of his bail on another narcotics charge, this one in Los Angeles. The story of that arrest, and the tribulations that followed, is told in this concluding installment, which portrays a man conscious of the fact that from now on, wherever he goes, whatever he does, he is forever under suspicion.
The average Filmgoer might well hesitate before buying ducats to movies about frustrated love, unsuccessful thievery, public executions, World War III or similar downbeat subjects when seeking diverting entertainment. But hip moviegoers look forward to such morose themes if the director's credit reads: Stanley Kubrick. At 35, he has already injected new life into a sagging U. S. cinema with Lolita, The Killing and Spartacus, while his latest release, Dr. Strangelove: or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb, as almost everybody should have heard by now, even finds fun in nuclear attack. Starring ubiquitous Peter Sellers in a triple role as the President of the United States, a German "nuclear wiseman" and an R.A.F. group captain, it handles hilariously the events contingent on an accidentally triggered atomic war by a psychotic Air Force general (Sterling Hayden) who blames the Russians for everything from fallout to fluoridation. Tackling touchy themes fails to faze Kubrick; his handling of the "unfilmable" Lolita won for it the approval of both the Production Code Administration and the Legion of Decency, and his Paths of Glory, rejected by every major studio and eventually filmed in Germany, copped the Grand Prix de la Critique in Brussels. Eschewing the posh home and sycophantic entourage of the stereotype Hollywood director, Kubrick lives simply, hopes to someday do a Civil War film based on Mathew Brady's photos.
Five years ago Jasper Johns was inconspicuously painting beer cans, targets, coffee jars and American flags in a lonely loft over a Lower Manhattan sandwich shop, just a grant-in-aid's throw from the pillared minarets of Wall Street. Today his pictures hang in museums and galleries in New York, Stockholm, Rome and Milan, and bring from $2500 to $15,000 in assorted currencies everywhere. He has moved uptown to an atelier overlooking the Palisades and has become, at 33, the grand old man of pop art – a semirebellious attempt by a group of young artists to celebrate the commonplace by pots-and-panning in on "the new American landscape." This postgraduate school of the avant-garde has been described by critics in terms ranging from "an art so sophisticated that its appreciation demands a high degree of historical awareness" to "a triumph of the inane"; but, whatever the merits of the movement, it is generally acknowledged that Johns' paintings have legitimate beauty. His flags, limned in various hues including white on white, and his targets, in reds, blues and yellows, have been defined as "singularly banal yet extraordinarily effective," forcing the viewer to focus on the canvas itself "to meet it as an immediate and direct painting experience." Of late, apparently surfeited with the soup-can school and daub-tired of neo-Dadaism, Johns – a wispy, South Carolina-born bachelor – has begun to deny that he is a pop artist at all. "I stopped painting flags when they changed the number of stars," he protests. And what is he painting right now? – huge road maps of the United States.
Unlike the Traditional dove, which coos sweetly for peace, folk singer Bob Dylan employs his highly praised musical talent to right social wrongs lustily and aggressively. The weapons he uses in his struggle for a better world are a firmly strummed guitar, a shrill harmonica, a talent for original composition, and a voice that has been characterized by HiFi/Stereo Review as "hoarse, wounded, affectingly ugly." Dylan's wide-eyed militancy and his youthful impatience with an imperfect universe are reflected in his songs, most of them dealing with subjects no less universal than war, peace, integration, life, love, death and the atom bomb. Yet, in spite of his own imperfections, Dylan's naked sincerity has made him the darling not only of the uncritical hootenanny set, but of the hipper admirers of Joan Baez, Pete Seeger and Woody Guthrie (Dylan's idol) as well. He has been described by informed critics as "bursting at the seams with talent" and "our finest contemporary folk-song writer." Born in Duluth 22 years ago, Dylan first conceived of himself as a "musical Chaplin tramp" at the age of ten and, after running away from home seven times ("I been caught and brought back all but once"), he settled in Greenwich Village in 1961, where he was acclaimed almost instantly by rabid Dylantantes. As Dylan adds polish to his gem-in-the-rough qualities, there's little doubt that he'll continue the highflying start propelled by his recent hit, Blowin' in the Wind.
Herewith, another installment in our Tenth Anniversary Year reprise of Playmates past. Come December, we will publish — in a Readers' Choice pictorial — the ten most popular Playboy dolls of the decade based upon reader reaction. Our second year of publication included a pair of important Playmate milestones: February 1955 marked the first Playboy appearance of the then-unknown Texas beauty, Jayne Mansfield; 1955 also witnessed the beginning of the "girl-next-door" concept in pin-up photography with a double helping of Playboy's circulation-stimulating Subscription Manager, Janet Pligrim, in July and December. There was, however, no Miss March: in 1955 the fledgling magazine had less than a dozen staffers and when we fell behind schedule, we simply skipped the March issue. Readers are invited to send in their personal preference in hit misses without waiting till the end of this retrospective Playmate parade; any Playmate from the first ten years (December 1953 through December 1963) is eligible. Choose your ten favorites and then compare them with the top ten to be featured in a special ten-page portfolio at the end of the year.
"You Only Live Twice"–Beginning a new James Bond Novel wherein British agent 007 is almost fired from her majesty's secret service and receives a desperate last-chance mission to the orient–by Ian Fleming