It's no secret that many of our major power companies are under attack for their inability to provide adequate current at peak periods. What's surprising is that, according to Robert Sherrill in Power Play, there's actually a surplus of energy sources in the U. S. The problem lies in establishing an effective distribution network throughout the country. Sherrill urges that monopolies on the raw materials of power should be more closely regulated and proposes solutions that would permanently end the threat of crippling blackouts. Another major social concern, as ecologists point out with apocalyptic dismay, is overpopulation. Yet, James Collier, in The Procreation Myth, offers his studied opinion that, as far as Homo sapiens is concerned, sex is--and should be--primarily for fun and not for reproduction. Collier's research will be used for a book he's writing that will provide, he says, "a brand-new approach to our understanding of the nature of sex and what it means to human beings." Britain's esteemed V. S. Pritchett, New Statesman director, literary critic and author of, among many works, Blind Love and Other Stories and the autobiographical A Cab at the Door, contributes this month's lead fiction, The Trip, recounting the unsettling experience of a prominent newspaper editor who's followed throughout Europe by a strange and inscrutable female admirer. A trip of a vastly different nature--via canoe down a turbulent river in the Deep South--was described by James Dickey in his best-selling first novel, Deliverance. To better understand the wild country that is so important in Dickey's work and, at the same time, to probe the poet's amazingly diverse intellect, Associate Editor Geoffrey Norman accompanied him on a similar white-water foray and wrote The Stuff of Poetry, which affirms that Dickey is, indeed, a rare combination of aesthete and athlete. Another rugged individual is screen legend John Wayne, the subject of our May Playboy Interview, whose movie heroics and publicly voiced beliefs have cast him as America's superpatriot. Contributing Editor Richard Warren Lewis spent time with the venerable Duke at his Newport Beach estate and also in his Batjac Production offices. Their resulting dialog reveals Wayne's frank, gut-instinct mentality that is nevertheless balanced by an undercurrent of deep humanity. There's little doubt that Wayne would speak disapprovingly of the revolutionary dropouts observed by Garry Wills in his trenchant narrative, World 42; Freaks 0. Wills, whose recently published book, Nixon Agonistes, has been critically applauded, is making his first contribution to Playboy. Another escapist group, at the opposite end of the socioeconomic spectrum from Wills's Canada commune dwellers, are the characters in T. K. Brown's disquieting tale, Haunts of the Very Rich, which concerns three couples at a hugely expensive secret resort who encounter an otherworldly series of disasters. It's illustrated by Chicago artist Seymour Rosofsky, making his eighth appearance in our pages. The unexcelled accommodations available in Japan are among the country's many attractions highlighted by Associate Travel Editor Reg Potterton in Land of the Risen Sun. A rising--and stiflingly hot--sun brings about an abrupt end to The Unforgettable Exhibition Game of the Giants Versus the Dodgers, Tropical Bush League, by Contributing Editor Jean Shepherd, which will be included in his novel The Secret Mission of the Blue-Assed Buzzard, to be published by Doubleday next year. Jean's 13-week television series, Jean Shepherd's America, began April 11 on the Public Broadcasting Service. Other staffers showing up this month include Associate Articles Editor--and private pilot--David Butler, whose "Slow Down, You Move Too Fast" reports on the ulcerous atmosphere in an airport flight-control tower, and Assistant Editor Lee Nolan, Associate Art Director Tom Staebler and Assistant Photo Editor Jeffrey Cohen, who collaborated on an enviable assignment that took them to the Bahamas, testing the latest under-water-diving equipment for the feature Scuba-Do! A vacationer whose journey was less pleasant than our editorial trio's is the protagonist in Brad Williams' One Good Turn. George Bradshaw makes his Playboy premiere in this issue with The Splen did Soufflé, which will become part of a book, The Random Egg, to be published in October by Harper & Row. Besides authoring several cookbooks, Bradshaw is a successful writer of short stories; his Practice to Deceive became the screenplay for How to Steal a Million. Additionally this month, you'll find: our special fashion preview, Turned Out for Tomorrow; Robert Bloch's eerie story of revenge, Animal Fair; The Swingers, cartoonist John Dempsey's look at the lighter side of group sex; and a 12-page pictorial salute to The Bunnies of New York, with whom you can spend--vicariously, at least--all your May days.
Playboy, May, 1971, Volume 18, Number 5. Published Monthly by Playboy, Playboy Building, 919 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago, Illinois 60611. Subscriptions: In the United States, its possessions and Canada, $24 for three years, $18 for two years, $10 for one year. Elsewhere add $2 per year for foreign postage. Allow 30 days for new subscriptions and renewals. Change of Address: Send both old and new addresses to Playboy, Playboy Building, 919 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago, Illinois 60611, and allow 30 days for change. Marketing: Nelson Futch, Promotion Director; Lee Gottlieb, Director of Public Relations. Advertising: Howard W. Lederer, Advertising Director; Jules Kase, Joseph Guenther, Associate Advertising Managers, 405 Park Avenue, New York, New York 10022; Sherman Keats, Chicago Manager, 919 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago, Illinois 60611; Detroit, Robert A. Mc Kenzie, Manager, 2990 West Grand Boulevard; Los Angeles, Stanley L. Perkins, Manager, 8721 Beverly Boulevard; San Francisco, Robert E. Stephens, Manager, 110 Sutter Street; Southeastern Representative, Pirnie & Brown, 3108 Piedmont Road, N.E., Atlanta, Georgia 30305.
A few months ago, several ambitious West Coast pot peddlers, imbued with an abiding faith in capitalist economics, introduced packaged filter-tip marijuana cigarettes with the catchy name GrassMaster--and predicted that their ambitious endeavor would ultimately legalize marijuana by fait accompli. Despite their claim that 5000 cartons of GrassMasters were distributed among 320 illicit drug sellers in the San Francisco area, they seem only to have unloaded a few hundred sample packages of rather low-grade joints cranked out on Laredo rollers by the underground equivalent of elves. One of the flip-top pot promoters is an astute entrepreneur who calls himself Felix the Cat. Delivering GrassMaster samples (slogan: "GM for Progress") to local rock station KSAN-FM, Felix issued the following claims: that he represented a consortium of eight professional dealers that turns a ton of pot a month in the Bay Area; that the GrassMaster scheme has the financial backing of some "liberal businessmen"; that GrassMasters would be on the market in as many as 30 U.S. cities by the end of this year; that a secret but fully automated joint factory was being built in Mexico; that Felix the Cat delivery vans would one day rumble through the streets of every large city, illegally but unmolested, like beer trucks in the waning days of Prohibition. This, Mr. Cat assured various interviewers, was how Repeal came about in 1933: as a result of massive lawbreaking and fantastic profit potential. And in a trice, Felix was gone: either to London or the Bahamas, either on business or on the lam, depending on the source. Said one unamused San Francisco narcotics agent, "Yeah, we've got a pack. Maybe the only pack. It's just that Berkeley bunch again." But in the hearts of heads there's a spark of hope that where there's smoke, there's dope. Rolling Stone links Felix to the importation of "6000 cartons of the Vietnamese brand Park Lane"--professionally packaged reefers with filter tips (cotton in the mouthpiece) that supposedly reached the U. S. last fall and, according to the Philadelphia Evening Bulletin, have been selling briskly on the Philly pot market.
The Cubist Epoch, fresh from its opening at the cosponsoring Los Angeles County Museum of Art, has arrived at New York's Metropolitan Museum of Art, where it will remain through June seventh. Through the past three decades, there have been uncounted exhibits of cubist paintings and sculpture, but the sponsors of this show say this is the first attempt to define cubism historically--from its beginnings as a nonverbal dialog between Pablo Picasso and Georges Braque to its lightning spread through Europe and to the U.S. and Russia. This is cubism's half-century retrospective. It takes a strong will and a stronger pair of legs and eyes to get through it all in an afternoon; the casual visitor will find more cubified still lifes, landscapes and portraits than he ever dreamed of. But for the curious and dogged there are lessons to be learned.
Breathes there a man with flesh so dead, who never to himself has said: What about a little wife swapping? Before he tries, he should read Group Sex (Wyden), by Gilbert D. Bartell, associate professor of anthropology at Northern Illinois University. Together with his wife, Bartell explored the swingers' world as a prospective swinging couple who, not unreasonably, wanted to look before they leaped into bed with strangers. The Bartells, who would rather write than switch, never actively participated because "it would have been repugnant to us to have sexual intercourse with people with whom we were not emotionally involved." The opposite principle applies to swingers, Bartell learned: Emotional involvement is what they fear above all. But Bartell does not allow his own moral outlook to color this report of the group-sex activities of 350 couples, almost all of them married. He describes who the swingers are, why they swing, how and where they get together and what happens when they do (from the awkward "mating dance," a throwback to high school dating days, to full-fledged orgies). In what the author calls "possibly the most intriguing finding of our study," it turns out that husbands frequently encourage their wives to perform together, that two out of three women admitted having had sexual relationships with other females and that nine out of ten women at large parties turn to Lesbian swinging--partly because their hard-drinking husbands have passed out. Bartell concludes that group sex reflects "the impersonalization as well as the depersonalization of human relationships in our culture."
Directors who yearn to ride a galloping new trend in American films may have been headed off at the pass by the phenomenal success of Love Story--a slick, studio-controlled Hollywood product that seems sure to go on earning pots of money; at the same time, alarmed observers predict that it will set cinema back 20 years. In the pages of Variety, influential movie executives are already rumbling that the era of the director as superstar is over. Strange words when one stops to consider that the trend was just getting started, at least on this side of the Atlantic.
From the folks who gave you L'Orangerie, an elegant and formal French restaurant in San Francisco, comes a new delight: The Marrakech, a Moroccan hideaway downstairs at 417 O'Farrell Street and a passionately recreated North African Happening--narrow passageways, fountain and pool, Moroccan-colored tiles, lacy carvings, rich North African rugs, low couches, hammered-brass trays. This is not one of those franchiselike Moroccan restaurants (glue edge A of Authentique Wood Arch against edge B), it lacks only the muffled screams of the souk to be in the casbah. The waiter comes in fez and babouches to squat by your side and explain the menu in English, French or Arabic, depending on your native language. A lovely girl helps you wash your hands (indigenous American touch here: She looks like a frocked Berkeley undergraduate and she washes your hands only in English). And now the food: Salade Marocaine--tomatoes, green peppers, eggplant, spiced with cumin, served with soft and delicious Moroccan bread. (It's not easy to eat with your hands but it's good training in employment of the opposable thumb.) Harira--a soup of tomatoes and lentils, chick-peas, saffron, lamb, coriander, onions and ginger. Bastelah--a pastry of eggs, almonds, pigeon or chicken, parsley, onions, honey, saffron and cinnamon, which vaguely recalls an effete-snob version of apple pie alamode. And this leads to the meat dishes: the usual kebabs unusually presented, plus such rarities as lamb and honey, hare and raisins, and a most special Couscous Fassi--in this case, a savory semolina with eggplant, zucchini, carrots, onions, chickpeas, green peppers and raisins, making the lamb in the dish almost irrelevant. Following the main course come pastries, fruits and mint tea. If you're not a Moslem and forbidden wine by your faith, you can order from L'Orangerie's wine list. Cocktails are also available. Miss Berkeley returns to rewash your hands at the end of the meal as you fall back surfeited with pleasure on your Moroccan pillows. The Marrakech is open from 6 P.M. to 11 P.M. Monday-Saturday. Closed Sundays. Reservations on weekdays are advised; on weekends they're imperative (776-6717). Forkless dining, informal dress.
Melting Pot (Stax) is the latest from Mr. Booker T. Jones and the MG's, the cream of Memphis-style rhythm-and-blues groups. It's a good, workmanlike performance but, curiously, lacks excitement. A background chorus does nice instrumental flashes on Kinda Easy Like, but the tune, like its title, is a cliché riff. The band gets out of its rut on Sunny Monday, which brings in an effective string section along with suggestions of Here Comes the Sun in Steve Cropper's guitar chords.
Centuries have encrusted A Midsummer Night's Dream with gossamer, cobwebs and layer upon layer of whimsy. Now comes Peter Brook to clean off the clutter and reveal the play afresh. It is as if the author's agent had just placed it with England's Royal Shakespeare Company and it had been given to the group's most inventive director. Brook merges characters, strips bare the foliage, puts Puck on a trapeze, turns fairy dust into twirling juggler's plates and trees into twisting sculptural coils, transforms the fairy forest into a circus--and yet does not distort the play. In fact, he treats it adoringly, with full feeling for words and nuances, although disregarding the stage directions and traditions (Bottom, for instance, wears not an ass's head but the red nose of a clown). Sally Jacobs' set is the starkest white--a high three-sided court. Actors and musicians, playing Richard Peaslee's zingy score, romp all over the stage within a stage. The lovers are dressed in vivid colors, the clowns in workman's homespun. This is one production in which there is no confusion of identities. The actors are not merely first-rate gymnasts, jugglers and aerialists but highfliers with language as well. They are well disciplined in the classics and it shows. A remarkable cast in a revolutionary production. At the Billy Rose, 208 West 41st Street.
I am 24 and my girl is 21. We have been dating for two years and are contemplating marriage. My girl wants to be a virgin when she walks down the aisle and I have tried to respect her wishes, though it hasn't been easy. Recently, her roommate has been spending weekends out of town and my girl has insisted that I stay with her, as she is afraid of being alone. The result is that I spend more and more evenings on her couch in sleepless anxiety and I don't think I can stand it much longer. Should I flat-out refuse to spend the night with her or should I press the sexual issue to the hilt, if you'll pardon the expression?--P. W., Seattle, Washington.
<p>For more than 41 years, the barrel-chested physique and laconic derring-do of John Wayne have been prototypical of gung-ho virility, Hollywood style. In more than 200 films--from "The Big Trail" in 1930 to the soon-to-be-released "Million Dollar Kidnapping"--Wayne has charged the beaches at Iwo Jima, beaten back the Indians at Fort Apache and bloodied his fists in the name of frontier justice so often--and with nary a defeat--that he has come to occupy a unique niche in American folklore. The older generation still remembers him as Singing Sandy, one of the screen's first crooning cowpokes; the McLuhan generation has grown up with him on "The Late Show." With Cooper and Gable and Tracy gone, the last of the legendary stars survives and flourishes as never before.</p>
Friday afternoon about four o'clock, the week's work done, time to kill: The editor disliked this characterless hour when everyone except his secretary had left the building. Into his briefcase he had slipped some notes for a short talk he was going to give in a cheap London hall, worn by two generations of protest against this injustice or that, before he left by the night plane for Copenhagen. There his real lecture tour would begin and turn into a short holiday. Like a bored card player, he sat shuffling his papers and resented that there was no one except his rude, hard-working secretary to give him a game.
Not since NOAH set off in the ark has man been so preoccupied with water. Ecologically, scientifically and recreationally, the oceans have increasingly become a focal point for our energies. And with good reason; the sea covers over 70 percent of the earth and its depths constitute the largest uncharted frontier this side of outer space. Over the centuries, diving devices have ranged from the primitive (hollow reeds) to the highly advanced (a closed-circuit rebreather system that allows the wearer to stay below up to six hours). It was in 1943 that Captain Jacques Cousteau, a French naval officer, jumped into the sea with his new invention, a scuba (self-contained underwater breathing apparatus) tank, strapped to his shoulders--and made a wave that swept across the world. Within a few years, thousands of swimmers had happily sunk below the surface to discover the diverse delights of the aqualung. More are joining them every day.
Sex is "For" making Babies. Every schoolboy knows that. The idea is as ingrained in this society's consciousness as the concept of the cycle of the seasons or the inevitability of death. It is as obvious as moonrise and tide fall that sex is for reproduction. Nothing could be plainer. Man is propelled into the fevers of that splendid and ludicrous act by some basic drive wired into him by a beneficent Mother Nature bent on seeing that the species is preserved. Without the lovely fires of lust, there is no sex; without sex, there are no babies; without babies, there is no longer man. Indeed, so important is this bit of information that we call it the fact of life.
The most serious, immediate threat to the environment--and to the consumer's pocketbook--comes from the developing cooperation between the fuel industry and the electric-power industry. If they have their way, and there are signs that they will, then the most harmful source of air pollution will go uncontrolled, along with our most monopolistic markets. The situation has become so critical that some responsible observers are beginning to use such unkind words as conspiracy and collusion. Vermont Senator George D. Aiken, one of Congress' watchdogs of the energy industry, was not accused of hysteria when he warned that what's happening constitutes "a very serious threat to political democracy," because "when you control energy--and oil interests now control coal and are on their way to controlling nuclear fuel--then you control the nation." Of specific concern, he said, is the evidence that "there is some group determined to get control of electrical energy in this nation." That would be a natural target for any group interested in controlling all of the nation's power systems--or in chain-reaction profits--because, if Montana Senator Lee Metcalf knows what he's talking about, "Electric power is by far the nation's largest industry. It's growing rapidly because it has a monopoly on an essential product. The electric utilities took the lighting business away from the gas utilities half a century ago. They appear to be on their way toward domination of the heating area as well. They are going into the real-estate and housing business in a big way. They are intertwined with the banking and insurance industries and have extraordinary force in politics, the educational system and the press." The concentration of the industry is impressive. The 212 largest private electric companies (as distinguished from public outfits like TVA, the rural electric co-ops and the municipals) are said to constitute about one eight of all investment in U. S. industry.
In this era of modern cinema, the journey to movie stardom needn't have Hollywood as its destination, as 23-year-old Sarah Kennedy is pleasantly discovering. For her, it began when she dropped out of Oregon State University during her sophomore year, dissatisfied with life as a coed. Her basic unhappiness stemmed from the fact that, on campus, she was known primarily for her third-cousin relationship to the political Kennedys. Discouraged by this gilt-by-association and by only a fair academic record, Sarah impulsively decided to head east. She settled in Manhattan and was working as a receptionist in a film-production office when a client asked her to appear in a commercial for his company. She agreed, found that she liked the work and subsequently appeared in other TV spots, one of which was viewed by New York movie producer Merwin Bloch, whose attention was focused on Sarah rather than on the sponsor's product. At his invitation, she tested for, and landed, the lead in The Telephone Book, a randy spoof that opens with Sarah receiving an obscene phone call. Instead of finding it repulsive, Sarah is sensually aroused by her caller's voice and immediately sets out to learn his identity. Whether critics will regard The Telephone Book as meritorious or meretricious is still unknown, but for Sarah it means a starring role in her first picture--and a future that promises to make this Kennedy cousin-to-the-clan a public figure in her own right.
The six of them were the only passengers in a North American Sabreliner high over the unseen continent, running swiftly southward from New York. None of them knew where they would come to earth again. Purposely, they had not been told.
Soufflés are much maligned. "Difficult," "chancy," "maybe" are what you hear about them. Nonsense. They are easier to make than a common stew. There is only one inflexible rule about a soufflé: It must be eaten when ready. A soufflé will not wait upon people: People must wait upon a soufflé. You will benefit by reading the following paragraphs before you plunge into any of the recipes. They will give you some insight into why you are doing what you are doing--a very comfortable feeling for anyone who finds himself in a kitchen making his first soufflé.
"I've been thinking seriously about an acting career ever since I was twelve," confesses 25-year-old Janice Pennington. "But I never admitted it because I was afraid people would consider me egotistical if I told them my ambitions." She believes that being raised in Southern California contributed to her precocious plans for stardom, which--except for one attempt to change them--have remained unaltered. Finishing high school, she left the Coast for New York--"to forget about becoming an actress. I told myself I simply couldn't make it in films." Trying for a career as a fashion mannequin, she eventually came under the auspices of Eileen Ford's prestigious modeling agency; but even after 18 successful months, her screen aspirations hadn't faded, so she headed home to get an agent and begin answering casting calls. After supporting herself during lean times with trips to nearby Las Vegas for jobs in casino song-and-dance troupes, she graduated to appearances as an extra on the Playboy After Dark show, to small speaking parts in episodes of several other television series and, finally, to a role as an operating-room nurse who assists--then resists--surgeon Elliott Gould in the movie I Love My Wife. And now--in what could be her big screen break--Janice is playing a columnist-interviewer in a satirical drama being filmed, without any prerelease publicity, by Orson Welles, about whom she speaks with a deferential admiration approaching reverence. "Everyone in the movie is like a child at his feet. Not that he coerces you into that kind of attitude but you naturally fall into it because he's so overpowering--mentally and physically." Should this be the stroke of good fortune that she's been working and waiting for, Janice wants to weigh future script offers with considerable caution. "I'm not in such a hurry that I'd play a role I didn't feel was right for me," she explains. There's one kind of part, however, that Janice would accept without a moment's hesitation. "I'd love to play someone slightly mad. I don't necessarily mean a villainess, just someone kind of flipped out. That would be fascinating and challenging." If she ever plays such a part, her portrayal will certainly belie the offscreen, at-home Janice, who calls herself "terribly normal" and enjoys such simple pastimes as cooking and sewing. She even remodeled her Sherman Oaks living room not long ago, plastering the walls and bricking the fireplace herself. This domestic know-how should serve Janice well in a role she hopes will be hers in the still-distant future. "I want to live near a forest and a river, away from smog, with a husband and children. I don't know where that is yet, but I'm certain that I want to be there." We have every confidence that, given her characteristic determination, Janice will find it. Whether she's destined to become a film star or a housewife--or both--she's got all the ambition and the assets for a winning performance.
In a pleasant Canadian schoolyard, children are washing cars to make money for their class project. Two Americans--call them Peter and Mickie--gun in on ancient motorcycles. How much to wash a bike? "Fifty cents." They confer, come up with 60 cents, try to bargain with the kids for a two-bike package deal. They are turned down. "What next?" Mickie asks. "Nothing," says Peter, "unless you want to rip off a kid to wash cars and dishes at the house."
Along the narrow and curving road that was the only means of access from the north to the old seaport of Puerto Perdido, Paul Devlan had driven most carefully. The road map showed the highway as a thin, red, unbroken line; but this was a gross exaggeration, as the road often disappeared in a mesa or along the beach. In the latter case, it had not been difficult to pick it up, for when the hard-packed beach ended in a bluff, the road started again, winding back up to another mesa. Here it again would disappear and he was forced to course the opposite end of the plateau, searching for it, much in the manner that a setter crisscrosses a field in search of birds. His motorcycle, however, made a hell of a lot more noise than any dog. Near dusk, he came down a hillside toward the water and this time, the road did not disappear in the hard-packed sand of the beach, choosing, instead, to straighten and run parallel to it. Gratefully, he increased his speed and soon he saw in the distance the muddy outline of the city of Puerto Perdido, where he planned to spend the night.
For the past several years, the Grand Ballroom in Manhattan's Plaza Hotel has served as the initial stopoff for a multicity presentation of Playboy's Creative Menswear International Designer Collection--a black-tie fashion show and dinner dance presided over by our Fashion Director, Robert L. Green. "In today's world, fashion is art, and this collection may be viewed as the most comprehensive exhibition of contemporary creativity in (text concluded on page 184) turned out (continued from page 139) menswear," said Green, as he provided incisive commentary on the invitation-only offerings that had been submitted by 60 renowned designers. The audience of 400 personalities from the fashion, social, business and entertainment worlds, who had each paid $100 to dine, dance and view the clothes (all for the benefit of a menswear development fund at New York's Fashion Institute of Technology), found Green's sartorial critique almost as entertaining as the selections.
Language is a casualty of the 20th Century. All-purpose obscenity and mindless slang have become the favorite forms of verbal communication among the young; the bland terminology of bureaucracies has worked itself into the style of their elders; and political rhetoric, Nixonese, has never been drearier. A favorite cliché of the times is "those are only words, they don't mean anything." The keepers of the language, the poets, seem to be in hiding. There are those who insist that poetry isn't dead, that it is as strong as ever, that the Wordsworths of our time have been the Beatles and Bob Dylan. Such assertions prove only that precision in language is a dusty virtue; Dylan and the Beatles obviously have written songs. There may be something poetic in those songs, but what is the real measure? Who writes poems?
"This town's so big," according to the old saw, "they had to name it twice--New York, New York." Actually, in the 345 years since Peter Minuit traded $24 worth of trinkets to the Manhattan Indians in exchange for their island real estate, the city has been named and nicknamed many times--formally and informally, affectionately and derisively. Starting out as New Amsterdam, it became New York, New Orange, then New York again; more recently, it's been called Big Town, The Big Apple, Fun City. It's also been called ungovernable and uninhabitable. Befitting its stature as our largest metropolis, New York is also the nation's most controversial city. You either love it or you hate it.
Gloom, like a poisonous fog, hung in the golden rooms of the palace and all gaiety was gone. The lovely ladies in waiting wore their most somber dresses and went about their duties in silence; the clever poets kept their epigrams to themselves; the courtiers forgot their usual flattery and snarled at the servants instead; the officials of the kingdom put on their most dour faces; Septimus Pandarus, the grand chamberlain. sat in his study and drank a great deal of brandy. All of this because it was the queen's birthday.
The Message was slipped under the door of each guest's room early in the morning. It read: "Welcome congenial guest and honored Japan visitant! Announcing process emergency proper fire drilling the clock eleven." That was the English version. Most guests threw it away or kept it as one of the more intriguing examples of Japanese translation. At precisely 11 that morning, an anxious voice was heard over the guest-room speakers: "Emergency! Emergency! Fire in the main elevator shaft! Fire in seventh and eighth floors! Emergency! Firemen taking good care these fires. Evacuation commencing. Listen for further speaking."
Even on clear days at Chicago's O'Hare Airport, exhaust smog smudges the ends of the runways as they appear from the control tower, so that planes seem to wiggle down onto the concrete like bottom-settling fish. The 747s are at their most exotic in this oily haze: Landing gear like great stainless-steel ventral fins dangle from the bellies of the big planes, make contact, and then, bending back, seem to draw the tonnage above them down onto themselves. It's a display of delicate, rushing ponderosity that might conceivably fail to thrill some men--perhaps those who, as boys, could keep themselves from turning to watch a passing train.
The power lines you see stretching off at angles to the roads you drive, looping across the countryside, their sagging folds supported by huge steel towers evenly spaced through right of ways cut out of farmland and woods, carry millions of watts of electricity--but not enough, it seems. And demands on the cumbersome system that sends current through these slender conduits will double in ten years. Present technology will be inadequate for two reasons: the finite quantity of resources (coal, water, U-235) and the technological inefficiencies that are built into the production processes--wastefulness that turns up as pollution. The scientific problem is basic enough: Find a means of converting an available energy source into usable electrical power without discharging even more heat or soot into the sorely abused environment.
Albert Speer, Controversial Author of the Best-selling Inside the Third Reich, Discusses his Role as Hitler's closest confidant and the Nazis' second-in-command in an Extraordinary, Exclusive Playboy Interview