Word: hums
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Dates: during 1940-1949
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...obvious object of professional admiration: the U.S. Navy. But the other would stump most guessers. It is the unpaid, volunteer Civil Air Patrol. Men in ships, hardened by endless repetition to the inherent hazards of their own calling, still gape with honest admiration when they hear the sewing-machine hum of a low-powered CAP engine far from land and see a tiny landplane soaring overhead, patiently on the watch for the feather of a U-boat's periscope...
When the final lurch came and Vag stepped down from the train he heard the feminine hum before he saw what it came from. Watching his step as he climbed down, he pictured Smith, lined up, waiting. When he looked up he saw they were WAVES. Blue coats and white hats and all the same. They all pushed and surged past him, getting into the train, and he looked for his date. A healthy-looking blonde pushed through the blue waves and he said hello, tripping over one of the sailorettes on the way. Then they walked uptown...
...comforting hum of power was heard last night in the spacious quarters of the Crimson Network as the master technician threw the switch which pours Cambridge current into the powerful transmitters broadcasting nightly to the seven Houses. A continued blackout of the transmitting facilities caused well informed Network circles to voice dark hints of sabotage by the newly established station...
Direct Wires. All non-diplomatic Axis technicians and tourists were expelled by Zahir Shah's government just before the Japanese attack in the Pacific. But diplomats still have direct wires to Berlin, Rome and Tokyo which hum with valuable information from India. The Italian legation arranged the flight from India of rabble-rousing Subhas Chandra Bose. In Rome the Italians are hopefully sheltering exiled King Amanullah (TIME, Nov. 20, 1939). Under Minister Kobayashi Kikuo, a Japanese fifth column belatedly but industriously began operating in the 1930s...
...waved his arm in the dark room, impatiently stabbing for the light string. There wasn't a sound in the building, except for the contented hum of the refrigerator that posed in the blackness, two feet in front of him. His hand brushed the string. He grasped it and pulled; then painlessly extracted another beer from the refrigerator, pulled the string again and returned to the large, black leather couch in the sanctum. The night was hot and quiet and the beer cold and satisfying. A blue magnesium light on Plympton Street flickered white, then changed back to blue with...