same thing, but
nobody did anything about it. The grim game of waiting, the tension,
could not go on forever. The fear of men for each other had been like
a progressive madness, a subtle and cumulative poison seeping into the
blood stream, and there was a limit to how much the patient could take,
a limit to human endurance.
The scene shifted back to the United States, back into the paneled
study again.
The gray-haired telecaster was at his desk, staring down at Times
Square. He began to speak again, when a young man came from the left of
the television screen and gave the man at the desk a note. He glanced
at it briefly and then looked grimly at the men on the street corner:
"I have a special bulletin here. Professor Albert Wholey, world-famous
authority on atomic fission, and one of the scientists who aided in the
preparation of the original Hiroshima bomb, committed suicide tonight.
He was seventy years oW
The telecaster paused for a moment. Then he nodded and smiled -- a wooden,
professional smile. You could see that his heart wasn't in it, that the
smile was merely a signature, a way of signing off.
"This is your telecaster, Arthur Morrow, speaking for the Downysoft
Corporation and bidding you all -- good night!"
The paneled study swung around on a turntable and disappeared, and the
commercial came onto the screen in colors. First there was a household
scene. A motherly-looking woman opened the door of a linen closet and took
a blue blanket from the top shelf. She examined the label and as she did,
the camera panned down to the label -- DOWNYSOFT! The woman nodded, smiled,
and shut the door.
An announcer crowed:
"Yes -- it's DOWNYSOFT -- DOWNYSOFT blankets!"
The camera followed the woman into a nursery. Tenderly she placed the
blanket on a tousle-haired child sleeping in a crib. Then she caressed
the blanket and smiled again.
The announcer said in an unctuous voice:
"For that soft and intimate touch -- it's DOWNYSOFT. DOWNYSOFT blankets
and DOWNYSOFT towels!"
The first scene whirled out of sight on the turntable, and a new
scene whirled in. This time it was the interior of an orchid-colored
bathroom. A tall, lissome blonde who looked like the third from the
left in a chorus line was standing in front of a glass-enclosed stall
shower. She was dressed in a bright orange silk robe, and from the way
it clung to her curvaceous body it was plain that she wore nothing else
underneath. She turned to a small towel shelf and took out two towels.
She hung them carefully on a rack, caressed them with her fingers,
and smiled. The camera panned down to a close-up of the labels again.
Then the blonde began to take off her robe in a kind of televised
strip tease. First there was a view of a smooth back, with the curved
suggestion of the girl's breasts barely showing. Then, just as she
dropped her robe, she opened the door of the stall shower and stepped
behind it. She stood there for a moment in a side view, every feature
of her body etched sharply in silhouette behind the translucent glass.
Then she reached up and turned on the shower.
The announcer crowed again:
"Yes! For that soft and intimate touch -- it's always -- DOWNYSOFT!
DOWNYSOFT blankets and DOWNYSOFT towels!"
The man on David's right spoke softly. "Soft and intimate touch is
right. Oh, brother!"
"Geez!" said his companion. "Geez, Joe! That blonde! How would you like
to have that little number?"
David felt a little sick in his stomach. He turned up his coat collar
and started to walk up Broadway, his feet echoing dismally on the empty
pavement, past the dull marquees, the empty boarded-up stores, the dead
neon signs. The wind whistled down the darkened canyon, and its cold
breath, too, smelled of the Fear.
At Columbus Circle, the traflfic lights, blinking sentinels on the
dark-shrouded, desolate streets, continued to operate
nobody did anything about it. The grim game of waiting, the tension,
could not go on forever. The fear of men for each other had been like
a progressive madness, a subtle and cumulative poison seeping into the
blood stream, and there was a limit to how much the patient could take,
a limit to human endurance.
The scene shifted back to the United States, back into the paneled
study again.
The gray-haired telecaster was at his desk, staring down at Times
Square. He began to speak again, when a young man came from the left of
the television screen and gave the man at the desk a note. He glanced
at it briefly and then looked grimly at the men on the street corner:
"I have a special bulletin here. Professor Albert Wholey, world-famous
authority on atomic fission, and one of the scientists who aided in the
preparation of the original Hiroshima bomb, committed suicide tonight.
He was seventy years oW
The telecaster paused for a moment. Then he nodded and smiled -- a wooden,
professional smile. You could see that his heart wasn't in it, that the
smile was merely a signature, a way of signing off.
"This is your telecaster, Arthur Morrow, speaking for the Downysoft
Corporation and bidding you all -- good night!"
The paneled study swung around on a turntable and disappeared, and the
commercial came onto the screen in colors. First there was a household
scene. A motherly-looking woman opened the door of a linen closet and took
a blue blanket from the top shelf. She examined the label and as she did,
the camera panned down to the label -- DOWNYSOFT! The woman nodded, smiled,
and shut the door.
An announcer crowed:
"Yes -- it's DOWNYSOFT -- DOWNYSOFT blankets!"
The camera followed the woman into a nursery. Tenderly she placed the
blanket on a tousle-haired child sleeping in a crib. Then she caressed
the blanket and smiled again.
The announcer said in an unctuous voice:
"For that soft and intimate touch -- it's DOWNYSOFT. DOWNYSOFT blankets
and DOWNYSOFT towels!"
The first scene whirled out of sight on the turntable, and a new
scene whirled in. This time it was the interior of an orchid-colored
bathroom. A tall, lissome blonde who looked like the third from the
left in a chorus line was standing in front of a glass-enclosed stall
shower. She was dressed in a bright orange silk robe, and from the way
it clung to her curvaceous body it was plain that she wore nothing else
underneath. She turned to a small towel shelf and took out two towels.
She hung them carefully on a rack, caressed them with her fingers,
and smiled. The camera panned down to a close-up of the labels again.
Then the blonde began to take off her robe in a kind of televised
strip tease. First there was a view of a smooth back, with the curved
suggestion of the girl's breasts barely showing. Then, just as she
dropped her robe, she opened the door of the stall shower and stepped
behind it. She stood there for a moment in a side view, every feature
of her body etched sharply in silhouette behind the translucent glass.
Then she reached up and turned on the shower.
The announcer crowed again:
"Yes! For that soft and intimate touch -- it's always -- DOWNYSOFT!
DOWNYSOFT blankets and DOWNYSOFT towels!"
The man on David's right spoke softly. "Soft and intimate touch is
right. Oh, brother!"
"Geez!" said his companion. "Geez, Joe! That blonde! How would you like
to have that little number?"
David felt a little sick in his stomach. He turned up his coat collar
and started to walk up Broadway, his feet echoing dismally on the empty
pavement, past the dull marquees, the empty boarded-up stores, the dead
neon signs. The wind whistled down the darkened canyon, and its cold
breath, too, smelled of the Fear.
At Columbus Circle, the traflfic lights, blinking sentinels on the
dark-shrouded, desolate streets, continued to operate
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