Word: gates
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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...background, Safran selected symbols of the strong, busy nation that Khrushchev would see when and if he had the patience and interest to look: tall Iowa corn; a white-painted New England church; buildings under construction in U.S. cities; an Army Redstone missile; a gate at Brown University in Providence, R.I.; a new U.S. automobile; the presence of the guiding spirit of Abraham Lincoln...
...bells and the aromatic incense of another age vanished like a mirage in the Kara Kum Desert. A Red flag flapped on the 203-foot-high summit of the Great Minaret, from which for centuries cruel khans and emirs had cast their enemies to their deaths. Over the main gate, in Russian and Uzbek, Maclean read the inscription: Town Soviet. Elsewhere he found decay and neglect. The miles of covered shops in Central Asia's most fabled bazaar had dwindled to a handful of grubby stalls, and only a few of the city's former 100 ornate mosques...
...desert settlement of Hammoudia, some 25 miles down the sand track from Reggan in the southwest French Sahara, is the front gate of a huge military reserve where 4,500 French technicians and troops work among the intricate gadgets of the Atomic Age. Near by are underground workshops, rows of air-conditioned huts, and an airstrip fit for jets. To the south is the emptiness of the Tanezrouft-the "thirst country" of the central Sahara -where France will most likely test its late starter in the atomic race: a model T bomb too big for their airplanes and too crude...
...comes whooping and whipping out of the starting gate, a pale-faced kid who fights for the lead right at the start so that no challenger will spoil his view of the pot of gold waiting at the finish line. His body high and forward, weight over the horse's withers, boots in two of the shortest stirrups in racing, he is a jockey in a hurry. He is strong enough to ride all afternoon, and he applies the measure of cold cash, not sentiment, to his work. Shrugs Jockey Bob Ussery (rhymes with fussery): "If I ride...
When the overdressed Pontiac convertible pulled up to the studio gate one morning last week, the guard waved it in without a moment's hesitation. Philippine water-buffalo horns, 30 inches wide, arced away from the radiator; door handles, gearshift and fender ornaments were all pearl-handled Colt six-shooters, and silver-plated rifles were mounted on the trunk lid. Chromed horse heads studded the I dashboard, and the bucket seats were up holstered in the soft white leather of unborn calf. The chunky, grey-thatched driver was dressed to match. Inside the lot, he braked to a stop...