byCharles Crossley, President of American Jet-Propelled Ships, felt himself spread-eagled in his favorite living room chair. The voice on the televisor moaned. Europe. Crossley twitched. Secret atomic factories. Crossley jerked. Semi-dictatorships. Crossley sweated. Political pressures. War. Crossley writhed.
His wife shut the televisor off indignantly. “Nonsense!” She stared at her limp husband. “Tri-Union hasn’t any weapons, we haven’t any, neither has Russia, Britain or anyone else. That was all settled and f*******n ages ago. When was it? 1960?”
Crossley stroked his receding hairline, sighing. “They’re making atom bombs in secret,” he said. He littered the rug with cigar ash.
“Stop that!” cried his wife. “My nice rug!”
“The rug, oh, the confounded rug,” he said, and muttered away,
