We waited until the last few days, then got busy. First we put snipe sheets on our own billboards, right across Frances' beautiful puss so that those eyes looked appealingly at you over the paster. "VOTE FOR McNYE" they read. Two nights later it was quarter cards, this time with his lovely picture: VOTE

FOR McNYE - A WOMAN'S PLACE IS IN THE HOME. We stuck them up on private property, too.

Tom and I drove around the next day admiring our handiwork. "It's beautiful," Tom said dreamily. "Jack, do you suppose there is any way we could get the Communist Party to endorse McNye?"

"I don't see how," I admitted, "but if it doesn't cost too much I've still got a couple of war bonds."

He shook his head. "It can't work, but it's a lovely thought."

We saved our double - whammie for the day before election. It was expensive - but wait. We hired some skid - row characters on Saturday, through connections Tom has, and specified that they must show up with two - day beards on Monday. We fed each one a sandwich loaded with garlic, gave him literature and instructions - ring the doorbell, blow his breath in the victim's face, and hand her a handbill, saying abruptly, "Here's how you vote, lady!" The handbill said, "VOTE FOR McNYE" and had his special picture. It had the rest of Tully's slate too, and some choice quotes of McNye's best double talk. Around the edge it said "100% American - lOO% American."

We pushed the stumblebums through an average of four precincts apiece, concentrating on the better neighborhoods.

That night there was an old - fashioned torchlight parade - Mrs. Holmes' show, and the wind - up of the proper campaign. It started off with an elephant and donkey (Heaven knows where she borrowed the elephant!) The elephant carried signs: I'M FOR FRANCES; the donkey, SO AM I. There was a kid's band, flambeaux carried by our weary volunteers, and a platoon of WAC and WAVE veterans marching ahead of the car that carried Frances. She looked scared and lovely.

Tom and I watched it, then got to work. No sleep that night - More pasters. Windshield size this time, 3"xlO", with glue on the printed side. I suppose half the cars in town have no garages, housing being what it is. We covered every block in the district before dawn, Tom driving and me on the right with a pail of water, a sponge, and stickers. He would pull alongside a car; I would slap a sticker on the windshield where it would stare the driver in the face - and have to be scraped off. They read: VOTE FOR McNYE - KEEP AMERICA PURE.

We figured it would help to remind people to vote. I voted myself when the polls opened, then fell into bed.

I pulled myself together in time to get to the party at the headquarters - an empty building we had borrowed for the last month of the campaign. I hadn't given a thought to poll watchers or an honest count - that was Mrs. Holmes' baby - but I didn't want to miss the returns.

One election party is like another - the same friendly drunks, the same silent huddle around the radio, the same taut feeling. I helped myself to some beer and potato chips and joined the huddle.

"Anything yet," I asked Mrs. Holmes. "Where's Frances?"

"Not yet. I made her lie down."

"Better get her out here. The candidate has to be seen. When people work for a pat on the back, you've got to give 'em the pat."

But Frances showed up about then, and went through the candidate routine - friendly, gracious, thanking people, etc. I began to think about running her for Congress.

Tom showed up, bleary - eyed, as the first returns came in. All McNye. Frances heard them and her smile slipped. Dr. Potter went over to her and said, "It's not important - the machine's precincts are usually first to report." She plastered her smile back on.

McNye piled up a big lead. Then our efforts began to show - Nelson was pulling up. By 10:30 it was neck and neck. After a while it began to look as if we had elected a councilman.

Around midnight McNye got on the air and conceded.

So I'm a councilman's field secretary now. I sit outside the rail when the council meets; when I scratch my right ear, Councilman Nelson votes "yes"; if I scratch my left ear, she votes "no" - usually.

Marry her? Me? Tom married her. They're building a house, one bedroom and two bathrooms. When they can get the fixtures, that is.

FOREWORD

When the USSR refused our proposals for controlling the A - bomb, I swore off "World - Saving." No more preaching. No more attempts to explain the mortal peril we were in. No, sir!

A year and a half later, late '47, I backslid. If it could not be done by straightforward exposition, perhaps it could be dramatized as fiction.

Again I fell flat on my face.

Fifteen years later there was a tremendous flap over Soviet medium - range missiles in Cuba. Then they were removed - or so we were told - and the flap died out. Why? Why both ways? For years we have had Soviet submarines on both coasts; are they armed with slingshots? Or powder puffs?

This story is more timely today, over thirty years later, than it was when it was written; the danger is enormously greater.

And again this warning will be ignored. But it won't take much of your time; it's a short - short, a mere 2200 words.

ON THE SLOPES OF VESUVIUS

"Paddy, shake hands with the guy who built the atom bomb," Professor Warner said to the bartender. "He and Einstein rigged it up in their own kitchen one evening."

"With the help of about four hundred other guys," amended the stranger, raising his voice slightly to cut through the rumble of the subway.

"Don't quibble over details. Paddy, this is Doctor Mansfield. Jerry, meet Paddy - Say, Paddy, what is your last name?"

"Francis X. Hughes," answered the barkeep as he wiped his hand and stuck it out. "I'm pleased to meet any friend of Professor Warner."

"I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Hughes."

"Call me Paddy, they all do. You really are one of the scientists who built the atom bomb?"

"I'm afraid so."

"May the Lord forgive you. Are you at N.Y.U., too?"

"No, I'm out at the new Brookhaven Laboratory."

"Oh, yes."

"You've been there?"

Hughes shook his head. "About the only place I go is home to Brooklyn. But I read the papers."

"Paddy's in a well - padded rut," explained Warner. "Paddy, what are you going to do when they blow up New York? It'll break up your routine."

He set their drinks before them and poured himself a short beer. "If that's all I've got to worry about I guess I'll die of old age and still in Thy rut, Professor."

Warner's face lost its cheerful expression for a moment; he stared at his drink as if it had suddenly become bitter. "I wish I had your optimism, Paddy, but I haven't. Sooner or later, we're in for it."

"You shouldn't joke about such things, Professor."

"I'm not joking."

"You can't be serious."

"I wish I weren't. Ask him. After all, he built the damned thing."

Hughes raised his brows at Mansfield who replied, "I'm forced to agree with Professor Warner. They will be able to do it - atom - bomb New York I mean. I know that; it's not a guess - it's a certainty. Being able to do it, I'm strongly of the opinion that they will do it."

"Who do you mean by 'they'?" demanded the bartender. "The Russians?"

"Not necessarily. It might be anybody who first worked up the power to smash us."

"Sure," said Warner. "Everybody wants to kick the fat boy. We're envied and hated. The only reason we haven't been smeared is that no one has had what it takes to do it - up to now, that is!"

"Just a minute, gentlemen - " put in Hughes. "I don't get it. You're talking about somebody - anybody - atom - bombing New York. How can they do it? Didn't we decide to hang on to the secret? Do you think some dirty spy has gotten away with it while we weren't watching?"