Word: klaxoned
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When the shrieking Klaxon sounded general quarters, many of the Nimitz's 5,000 crewmen were asleep. Remembered one enlisted man: "They didn't say this wasn't a drill, but when the guy came over the p.a. system he was stuttering, and I knew then something was badly screwed up." Fire-fighting crews clambered across the deck and started laying down gallons of water and "purple K" foam, but to no immediate effect: the blaze had begun its own chain reaction...
...passed finally, and let out into their city. Eerily quiet. Horns are not allowed in Moscow, so the hum of traffic, as one would expect from a klaxon-less society, is occasionally punctuated by the shriek of rubber tires under stress. Not a teen-ager anywhere. They are in the summer camps, we are told. The city is spotless and newly painted - a kind of Disneyland gilt. The Misha bear, with his Olympic-rings belt, smiles at one from everywhere. He began to get to me after a while - largely because of the mascot's eyes: astonished above...
...pilots contend that the technology for such a system is at hand, and they cite one "black box" device used successfully by the McDonnell Douglas Corp. on the F4 Phantom jets it produces and tests near St. Louis. The airborne box sounds a Klaxon when a Phantom pilot is on a collision course with another plane and even tells him whether to go up, down, left or right. Simultaneous and opposite orders go to the other approaching pilot. But the device is expensive (up to $15,000 by one estimate...
...though. It's a very small incident but very peculiar. Last fall, one night about two o'clock in the morning, someone phoned in a bomb-threat to Eliot House. Every resident of the House piled out of his or her bed and into the courtyard, as those nightmarish klaxon-horns which double for fire-alarms resounded through the rooms. Everyone left, that is, except me. I became, that instant, the first non-drugged person in history to sleep through a bomb-threat, and those god-awful foghorns, one of which is in my own bedroom. What eventually woke...
Hello, Ethel. Most patrons of Manhattan's Roosevelt Hospital Gift Shop do a double take when the auburn-haired saleslady hands them their change. Pressed, she admits, "Yes, I'm Ethel Merman." Keeping her Klaxon mute, Ethel does not even hum as she bustles about the shop, straightening rows of candy bars and selling cookies. But, say admiring fellow workers, "she's definitely improved sales." Enlisting as a volunteer when her mother was hospitalized at Roosevelt eleven months ago, Ethel was first a patients' escort, then joined the gift shop. Now she comes in at least...