Pert and pretty playmate Teddi Smith, in her third Playboy cover appearance, subliminally suggests that our February issue will provide the perfect nightcap for a frosty winter's eve. With a valentine like Teddi, even the longest month would prove too short.
Playboy, February, 1965, Vol. 12, No. 2. 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, $20 for three years, $15 for two years, $8 for one year. Elsewhere add $4.60 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, Associate Advertising Manager, 405 Park Avenue, New York, N. Y. 10022, Mu 8-3030; Joseph Fall, Advertising Manager; Sherman Keats, Chicago Manager, 155 E. Ohio Street, Chicago, Ill. 60611, MI 2-1000. Detroit, Joseph Guenther, Manager, 2990 West Grand Boulevard, TR 5-7250; Los Angeles, Stanley L. Perkins, Manager, 721 Beverly Boulevard, OL 2-8790; San Francisco, Robert E. Stephens, Manager, 110 Sutter Street, YU 2-7994; Southeastern Representative, Pirnie & Brown, 3108 Piedmont Road, N.E., Atlanta, GA. 30305, 233-6729.
A noteworthy nut, you won't be surprised to learn, has sprung up in the fertile soil of Pasadena, California—that storied stronghold of kooks, cults and lacy little old ladies in tennis shoes. Calling himself the Gladstone Society, and flashing beautifully embossed stationery to prove it, this fun-bent filbert—who prefers to remain anonymous—has been sending out a series of square-seeming letters to a select group of puzzled Southern Californians. Postmarked Pasadena but bearing no return address, these messages dolefully announce that "your application for membership in the Society cannot be accepted." Shortly after this bewildering epistle has been consigned to the wastebasket, letter number two arrives, bringing an unexpected gleam of hope: "Your application is being considered for re-evaluation." After an agonizing wait of a week or more, the third missive arrives; it contains the joyous news that "your application has been accepted" and that one should present oneself at the next meeting— the time and place of which are "stated in Schedule A of the Society calendar." Needless to say, no Society calendar is enclosed. A span of time passes. Just when the recipient of this infuriating correspondence has succeeded in putting it out of his mind, a fourth letter arrives to put him out of his mind. It is the last, and possibly the best:
Getz Au Go Go (Verve) features Stan Getz' liquid tenor and Astrud Gilberto's minuscule but haunting voice, recorded "live" at Greenwich Village's swinging Café Au Go Go. Getz' quartet changes personnel on various pieces, but Gary Burton's vibes happily are heard throughout. Astrud warbles quietly on a half-dozen numbers including Corcovado, It Might As Well Be Spring and One Note Samba.
Kim Stanley went to England to make her second film and it's easy to see why: Her role is so right for her. Séance on a Wet Afternoon is about a slightly mad medium, married to a Milquetoast. She hatches a kidnaping plot, designed to publicize her powers. The husband plays along with the plan because he loves her, although he knows she's somewhat cuckoo. When the plot goes further than the medium foresaw, the husband wrecks it in a way that won't wreck her belief in herself; for she's not a fraud. Bryan (L-Shapcd Room) Forbes, who directed and wrote the screenplay from Mark McShane's novel, begins ponderously but picks up pace and point. When he concentrates on drama, instead of dramatizing his direction, Forbes is formidable—as in the kidnap and ransom sequences. Richard Attenborough, who coproduced, gives a poignant performance as the husband, and Nanette Newman is notable as the kidnaped child's ma. Miss Stanley looks a bit puffy in the close-ups and is a bit puffy in her acting style, but she indubitably has emotional power. She strikes a forcefully unhappy medium.
It's difficult to peg the exact moment when The Owl and the Pussycat reveals its true slim-witted nature, but it may be the second time Diana Sands calls the bookish Alan Alda a fink—which is about five minutes after the play has begun. The first cry of Fink! is funny. Diana, the whore next door, is battering at the door of Alan's bachelor digs, demanding admittance because he has had the landlord evict her. She yells "Fink!" at the top of her voice. To quiet her, he lets her in. She continues crying Fink! at the top of her voice, and each Fink! is less funny than the last. After a while, she beds down on his couch and demands that he read her to sleep. Behind her back, he fondles a bust of Shakespeare and says, "I'll put you to sleep with Shakespeare." She answers, "Shakespeare gives me a headache." By that time playwright Bill Manhoff and his two shopworn characters have given everybody a headache. The Owl and the Pussycat is a two-character, one-joke, one-tone show—and the tone is shrill. In the course of a long evening, relieved only intermittently by humor, the owl tries to educate the pussycat. She learns two words, enervating and impeccable, but is unable to use either in a sentence. The actress happens to be Negro, the actor white, but there is no mention of color, and none is needed. The integration is impeccable, but the play is enervating. At the ANTA, 245 West 52nd Street.
A couple of millenniums ago, a serious writer in financial straits must have said, "I'll grind out just this one potboiler for the mob and then I'll have enough drachmas to settle down and write the great Greek novel." In 1963, American writer Merle Miller succumbed to the same dream, with English subtitles, and began grinding out a pilot-film script for CBS Television. What followed is recounted with savage humor, bitter humor, sardonic humor and funny humor in Only You, Dick Daring! (Sloane). Miller, who gives fellow scriptwriter Evan Rhodes co-author credit, concedes that it takes two to swindle—in this case the network, which will own up to gang rape if it raises ratings, and Merle-baby, who cheerfully admits he lusted for his share of the loot. Miller is an Iowan who journeyed east some years ago "determined to remake New York City and the world in my own image and to write more and better novels than Balzac." New York and the world remain reasonably intact, but he did write several respectable books, among them That Winter and A Gay and Melancholy Sound. Then, broke, he ran into CBS, head on. The network was involved in a series about real people, specifically a county agent who helps farmers. Miller made a natural mistake—he forgot that, in TV, "real" means "unreal." He wrote about what county agents usually do, whereas CBS was hot for what they don't usually do (burn out fields, uproot trees, get lynched, and so on). They also had certain ideas about this dame, see ... In any event, Miller did 19 rewrites to oblige the back-room mentalities in the front office. Eventually, mercy killing was required for his disfigured, dismembered offspring. The rating chasers, who had second-guessed him all the way, proved conclusively that they wouldn't recognize a real person if they ran over him en route to cocktails. When all is said (and said very well in this book), an only slightly improbable fantasy remains. In it, County Agent 007 has made the CBS-TV schedule after all and Merle Miller is wearing that earnest look as he explains to a Hollywood interviewer: "What we're trying to do, you see, is to probe deeply into the lives of genuine people. The extraordinary medium of television ..."
After a normal courtship and engagement, my fiancée suddenly insisted that before the wedding I must get sterilized. I readily agreed and made arrangements to have a vasectomy. More recently, however, I have wondered about the motivation behind her ultimatum. Should I go ahead with the operation or send my fiancée to a psychiatrist?—J. J., Detroit, Michigan.
The best way to see a cosmopolitan city is with a resident who has entree to the exclusive places and events; but, alas, too often such a door opener and knowledgeable guide is not available. Fortunately, the problem's resolved in a delicately commercial way in New York City by Entree Unlimited, an unusual travel organization that specializes in opening doors to locked social fortresses, under the joint aegis of impeccably connected New York socialites Mrs. Steven Van Rensselaer Strong, Mrs. Robert J. Gurney and Gustavus Ober III. Although uncrashable charity balls and the like are the specialty of this house, they also secure invitations to black-tie soirees and weekends at posh country clubs in Westchester and Connecticut. Typical of their fees, here's what $90 bought recently for a couple of our friends: dinner and drinks at one of the city's smartest restaurants, then on to a top Broadway show (all of which they could have done on their own); but the pièce de résistance, which they could not have swung by themselves, was entree to a members-only discothèque for drinks and plenty of watusi, frug and ska. Of course, a chauffeur-driven limousine whisked our friends smoothly from one stop to the next. Customers are screened carefully, with social acceptability forming the basic criterion. This is reasonable, since the company's function depends on the continuing good will of some high-ranking people and places. Abroad, you'll find Si'l Vous Plait of Paris and Exclusive Service (All Needs) Ltd. of London serving a similar function.
This installment in our editorial series is devoted to an edited transcript of the third of four religious round-table discussions in which we participated a few months ago with a priest, a minister and a rabbi, over radio station WINS in New York. This opportunity to exchange views with prominent representatives of each of America's three major religious faiths was a unique and stimulating experience. Because of the importance of organized religion to so many of the societal problems we have been considering in The Playboy Philosophy, we believe that a number of the opinions voiced in this interchange are pertinent and of special interest to our readers.
Our interviewer this month is the inimitable Jean Shepherd, whose nostalgically comic boyhood reminiscences and acerbic social commentary have earned him not only the applause of Playboy's readers, but also a loyal audience of three million for the free-form one-man radio talkathon which he wings weekly over New York's WOR from the stage of The Limelight in Greenwich Village. A nimble-witted and resourceful broadcast reporter who's tilted verbal lances with such formidable subjects as Malcolm X and Harry S. Truman, he debuts herein as an interviewer for the printed page. Shepherd writes of his subjects:
The Fog was in its third day. It was thickest close to the pavement, where automobile exhaust weighed it down. Benstead lighted a match and looked at his watch. Three-twenty in the afternoon, and black as midnight. From the light pattern he judged he must be near Trafalgar Square. He had been nearly an hour and a half walking from St. Thomas' Hospital, just across the Thames.
Kim Novak, an urban girl who spent most of her life in metropolitan Chicago, then fashionable Bel Air, now prefers the solitude of her turreted home on the rugged sea cliffs of California's Big Sur country, 250 miles from Hollywood. "It's the haven I've always wanted, " says Kim, and here she dresses as she pleases, eats and sleeps when she pleases, does what she pleases with whoever pleases her. Although she earns upwards of $500,000 per film, Kim would just as soon spend all her time in Big Sur, painting, writing music or just loafing. Frequently taunted by mass-media moralists because at 33 she's never been wed, Kim retorts that marriage is "unnatural," claims "a bachelor girl's morals should not be the subject of research projects and reports. " Her unflagging box-office appeal has long been acknowledged, but she's finally begun to earn professional recognition, as exemplified by director Billy Wilder's comment: "Kim is a much better actress than most people realize—including me—until they work with her." Her next two roles (following "Of Human Bondage") are hand-picked and juicy: In Wilder's "Kiss Me, Stupid, " she plays a round-heeled roadhouse waitress named Polly the Pistol, and in "The Amorous Adventures of Moll Flanders," she'll portray the first heroine-whore-with-heart-of-gold in the English novel.
Synopsis: Cautiously, awkwardly, he loaded the revolver, then turned off the light. The thought of death, which had once so frightened him, was now an intimate and simple affair. He was afraid, terribly afraid, of the monstrous pain the bullet might cause him; but to be afraid of the black, velvety sleep, of the even darkness, so much more acceptable and comprehensible than life's motley insomnia? Nonsense, how could one be afraid of that?
A stormy petrel now shares the ornithological hierarchy of jazz with Bird. The explosive Charles Mingus proved a dominant figure on the 1964 jazz scene. In the spring, he ventured forth for a tumultuously successful tour of Europe. His year—and his career—reached a climax at the Monterey, California, Festival in September. There, leading both a small combo and a big band, Mingus eclipsed Miles Davis, Thelonious Monk, Woody Herman and other guests to receive a standing ovation from the audience as musicians backstage cheered. Meanwhile, throughout 1964, new Mingus record releases achieved consistent acclaim. After two decades of ascent as virtuoso bassist, composer and demanding bandleader, Mingus by year's end had achieved large-scale recognition.
Our flashing-eyed February Playmate, Jessica St. George—a classically constructed (36-23-36) Californian of Greek ancestry—has had those eyes fixed firmly on a dancing career since early childhood. At an age when most girls had no greater ambition than the acquisition of Shirley Temple dolls, raven-tressed Jessica was spending long hours in pursuit of the terpsichorean muse. "As soon as I was old enough to tell my right foot from my left," she explains, "my father began teaching me Greek folk dances. By the time I reached eighth grade, I already had a number of years of ballet and tap lessons behind me. I've never had any doubts that it would be a dancer's life for me." Since her graduation from a San Fernando Valley high school last June, our pirouetting Playmate has stepped up the pace in her classical ballet and modern dance schooling ("Some days I put in so many hours at the practice bar that I come home with what my dad calls 'ballerina hangover' "). Jessica is also taking drama courses, just in case she's ever given the chance to combine acting with dancing—à la Rita Hayworth. On those evenings when 18-year-old Jessica isn't occupied with at-home practice ("My father's house rules are no entrechats or grands jetés after ten P.M.") or doing yoga exercises ("It's great for keeping the body limber"), she enjoys going out for a simple steak dinner à deux and a watusi or two with a guy who's "tall, dark and sincere." Jessica vows it has nothing to do with her Greek heritage, but we must admit we found just the slightest trace of chauvinism in the fact that her favorite movie star is George Chakiris and the woman she most admires is Helen of Troy. We also must admit that we find nothing trepidatious in this Greek baring gifts.
There are few things on this earth that put a ravenous edge on a man's appetite the way a bracing, frost-nipped day spent on ski slopes does. When the day's skiing is over, Valhalla seems near at hand as the mountain air becomes suffused with the man-made aromas of hot seafood chowder, strong coffee and steaming rum toddies.
Obviously, you are happy and love your job and love your company even more. Every ambitious young executive with a smidgen of perception soon learns that dedicated loyalty to one's mother company is a supreme, if unmentioned, requirement for remaining promotable in his company. But it is also true that most of these young executives are movable, and many are movable to the point of itchiness. Being free citizens of a free country, they should feel free to try to advance in the direction of their dreams, wherever this may take them. But the tribal nature of corporate thinking should impel them, in pursuing their wholly legitimate rights, to explore possible moves artfully.
There was a time not far back when a Frenchman dining at the Savoy in London was clearly recognizable as a son of Gaul. You didn't even have to hear him speak to know for sure. You could tell from the cut of his jacket and the vamp of his shoe that he could have been outfitted nowhere but in Paris. Today, however, clothing is truly international as style and fashion trends move back and forth across national boundaries like a Goldfinger gold smuggler. While sober economists have been tearing the European Common Market apart with heated debates over the price of French brandy and English textiles, tailors and designers on both sides of the Channel have been quietly stitching it back together again—sartorially, at any rate—with some uncommonly good-looking men's fashions that are as at home in a Paris salon as they are in a London club.
I only knew Wainscott for a brief six weeks during the War, but he is always cropping up in my mind. We joined the Royal Navy in the same rabble, and went for our training to a converted holiday camp on the east coast of England, a depressing place of chicken wire and crumbling plaster, where the wind blew mercilessly, and a few peeling billboards still said Hello Campers, Hello. Wainscott seemed cast officially for ridicule: He was round-shouldered, stooping, and giant-footed. His face drooped, and he mumbled and peered. Yet to everything that came his way, taunts included, he showed a mighty indifference; even to his uniform, which hung from him like a tarpaulin. He had no small talk. He never asked a question, and barely answered one. In the mail, all he ever got was an unintelligible weekly postcard, a move in the perpetual chess game he carried on with his grandfather in Mull. His main activity was knotting. Off duty, he sat on his bunk for hours behind his spectacles, knotting a ball of twine into torrents of experimental knots—Turk's-heads, Elizabethan fish-holds, Scottish cardigan knots. He also knotted belts and nets, and had designed, but not yet initiated, a knot shirt. To me, he was a true knotsman; because, ten minutes before lights-out, he would swiftly and masterfully untie his evening's experiments, wind up the twine with care, and go to sleep in his socks.
More than just her boundless supply of feminine charm and natural talent makes Playmate of the Year Donna Michelle—who is a versatile rhapsody of ballerina, pianist, student, sportswoman and actress—our most "gifted" gatefold eyeful to date. As the first beneficiary of a newly inaugurated Playboy program which will richly reward annual Playmate favorites, Donna, since her unanimous selection as Playmate of the Year in May 1964, has received gifts worth over $10,000. The largess includes a wardrobe, luggage set, motorcycle and sports car, all in Playmate Pink—a striking new color shade conceived by Playboy for girls like Donna, who have everything else, for their exclusive use in Playboy promotions. Playmate Pink adds a new brilliance to Donna's electrifying beauty, which has already been recognized not only by her selection as Playmate of the Year, but also by her election, by both readers and editors alike, as one of the top ten Playmates of Playboy's first decade. And whether she's striking a pose of sophisticated elegance in mink, or flashing a smile of pure girlish delight amid a cache of lovely gifts, we think readers will agree that Donna never looked better than she does in the pink. She had already earned performer's laurels as an accomplished pianist and première danseuse, but Donna's artistic career really took flight as a result of her Playmate appearance. Movie and TV offers began pouring in (she received a call from Otto Preminger the same week her Playmate photo hit the stands) and after auditioning for producer-director Arthur Penn, our Prima Donna landed her first film role. Her subsequent video and stage debuts indicate that Donna is on her way to adding acting success to her impressive catalog of accomplishments.
When Young Eumolpus was in Asia Minor, he was billeted at a private home in Pergamum. His host's daughter, a fair-haired virgin named Cecilia, was a young woman of extraordinary beauty. Not surprisingly, Eumolpus was soon devising a strategy through which he hoped to become her lover without arousing her old father's suspicion. Whenever he dined with the old man and the conversation turned to copulation, Eumolpus pretended to be so scandalized, and protested so vigorously that his modesty was offended by the mere mention of such things, that the father took him to be a veritable saint. And in no time at all, on the pretext of preventing possible seducers from approaching Cecilia, Eumolpus was chaperoning the girl to market, supervising her studies, and acting as her moral advisor.
Our annual survey of the sonic scene opens on a semantic note. In the last 12 months, high fidelity's lexicon has been enriched by the term "modular"—a word worth some careful consideration by anyone planning to make a major investment in quality listening gear. According to current audio parlance, a "modular" is a series of components made by the same manufacturer specifically designed to operate together as a single sound system and served up as separate units within a uniform furniture design. Prepackaged players have been around for some time, but the new modular outfits stand out by reason of the heavy-duty innards and the sophisticated savvy of their engineering. While they are very definitely in the component class, they carry price tags generally pitched as low or lower than the aggregate cost of a component system.
In his recent comprehensive and scholarly book on folk music, But Seriously—Folk..., Matthew Freen says, "Show me 180 sweating, illiterate field hands on the bayous of Louisiana releasing their anger, frustrations and boredom in spontaneous songs and I'll show you 180 listeners."
You knew who they were, immediately, beyond any doubt. To the others—those in the movie and even those about you in the theater—the quartet of men riding into town might be decent, hard-working cowpokes, passing through on their way to honest employment elsewhere. But you knew better. There was a sulphurous tinge about them, a satanic aura that wafted pure evil back to the seat where you were scrooched down, hand poised over the half-empty box of popcorn, and you thrilled again at the shock of recognition. They didn't have to say anything, those four horsemen of the Apocalypse. You had only to look at their filthy clothes and beard-stubbled faces and dark, shifty eyes to be certain that they had come, like a terrible plague, to destroy this peaceful valley—that was, as soon as they got their orders from the boss.
Although he currently rates as the hottest director on Broadway, the first person to deflate the Nichols-for-genius boom will probably be Mike himself. The male half of the celebrated Nichols and May comedy team is already a bit edgy about his new-found renown. "I hope it stops with me soon," he recently said, but his wish is likely to go unfulfilled as long as his three humor triumphs, Barefoot in the Park, The Knack (off-Broadway) and Luv keep filling their respective theaters. The three-letter production is one of those rare plays that received unstinting praise from all six of the New York press' traditionally hard-nosed critics. Typical was Kerr of the Herald Tribune, who said the play was "the answer to a theatergoer's prayer." Mike has long been accustomed to critical, as well as popular, esteem. Ever since he encountered Elaine May on a Chicago platform of the Illinois Central railroad in 1954—and they picked each other up with an impromptu spy dialog—he and she have fractured audiences by employing skillful acting, improvised conversation and split-second timing (rather than socko gag lines), all honed to razor sharpness during their stint with the first cabaret theater, Chicago's experimental Compass group. After their highly acclaimed Broadway run of An Evening with Mike Nichols and Elaine May (1961), both performers decided to expend their primary energies in separate directions, although they continue to work together on television guest shots and as the unidentified voices for several regional beer commercials. In Mike's case, the director's chair was the direction he wanted, according to him, "Because I get to go home nights." According to a recent Life profile, however, his remarkable facility for amplifying—and slightly distorting—ordinary conversation into superb comedy is not only "his genius as a performer, but his talent as a director." Now 33, Mike is getting busier and busier. In the offing are another Broadway show (Neil Simon's The Odd Couple), two movies (The Public Eye and The Graduates), Chekhov (maybe) and, for the luv of Mike, who knows what else?
In a small flat in lower Manhattan, right around the corner from McSorley's storied saloon, dwells one of the more turbulent writers of our day, LeRoi ("The King") Jones, like François Villon an emperor among the vagabonds. At McSorley's, seated amid the mute chorus of pensioners and panhandlers, he drinks ale warmed on the hob of a potbellied stove, gazes idly at the painting-festooned walls, and ponders the drama and poetry that have made him the most discussed—and admired—young Negro writer since James Baldwin. Like Baldwin, Jones is an angry man. The Negroes he creates are inevitably doomed, spiritually gelded, and hostile to the white race. They live in a hopeless limbo, even when they fruitlessly attempt to conform to the white man's morals and mores, yet they plod on relentlessly toward the end of some half-remembered rainbow. Best known of Jones' work is his one-act play Dutchman, the story of a brief tragic encounter between a sexy white girl and a bourgeois young Negro, a hyperconformist from his three-button jacket down to his cordovan bluchers. Thirty-year-old Jones, son of a postman, graduated from Howard University, has attended Columbia and the New School for Social Research (where he now teaches), has won a John Hay Whitney Fellowship and several other grants. Besides Dutchman, his writings include a half-dozen other plays, two books of poetry, Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note and The Dead Lecturer, and a great deal of commentary on the jazz scene. Of his work he says simply, "I write of the Negro." Yet beneath the surface picture he creates, there are other images that disquiet and sometimes horrify, and sometimes these uncover not only the neurosis of the white man in regard to the Negro, but the underlying neuroses of the American people. And beyond this pale lives the writer himself, strangely amiable and wearing a half smile as he pokes through the passages of hell. "My poetry is whatever I think I am," he says. "What I see I am touched by. All are poetry and nothing moves with any grace when pried from these things. There cannot be closet poetry unless the closet be as wide as God's eyes."
The vocal alchemy of France's Swingle Singers, which transforms such formidable works as Bach's Prelude for Organ Chorale No. 1 and Vivaldi's Fugue from L'Estro Armonico Op. 3, No. 11 into pop "Hot 100" chart makers, has been hosannaed by jazz buffs and classicists alike. Led by Ward Swingle—a 37-year-old Paris-based Alabaman who has long since discarded his Southern drawl in favor of a French accent—the Singers, in their two short years of existence, have copped two Grammies, an Académie du Disque award, a White House appearance and a brace of best-selling LPs—Bach's Greatest Hits and Going Baroque. The family tree of the scat-singing Swingles is tangled at best. Both Swingle and his lead soprano Christiane Legrand (sister of Michel) were in the Blue Stars (of Lullaby of Birdland fame) formed by another American expatriate, Blossom Dearie. Ward and Christiane next worked (along with Ward's fellow tenor Claude Germain) in the Double Six of Paris the Gallic equivalent of Lambert, Hendricks & Ross. While there Ward and those who were to become the Swingle Singers spent their off-hours in a cappella enjoyment of the intricacies of Bach. They soon discovered that Johann Sebastian was graciously lending himself to a beat. A bass and drum were added to accent the rhythm which was innately there, and at the insistence and through the persistence of Christiane, a very determined femme, Swingle and his seven fellow workers recorded their first album. The rest, so goes the chiché, is history. The Double Six splinter group found itself in business—full time. Swingle, who has paid his dues as a saxophonist in Ted Fiorito's band, as a piano accompanist for Zizi Jeanmaire, and as a musician in most of the Paris recording studios' orchestras, plans to have his group work its way chronologically through the classical repertoire, hopes one day to commission works for the Swingles. Meanwhile, Ward and his wards, who have just had a Mozart album dropped into the dealers' racks, are busy convincing the public that Swingle is the present tense of "swing."
"A Clowny Night in the Red-Eyed World"—An accident and its aftermath bring together a boy and girl who seek the communion of flesh and spirit that each so desperately needs—first-rate fiction by the author of "Eternal Fire"—Calder Willingham