Names make news. Last week these names made this news:

The most outspoken foe of deportation for White House squirrels (TIME, April 4, 1955), Oregon's animal-loving Democratic Senator Richard L Neuberger leaped to the defense of a herd of Texas goats. Outraged by a report that the goats are being plugged with high-powered rifles at Fort Sam Houston in order to give Army medics practice in treating battlefield casualties, Conservationist Neuberger demanded that Defense Secretary Charles E. Wilson investigate the tale and end any such inhumane target practice. At week's end, Wilson had made no reply to Neuberger, nor had the Pentagon made any move to deny that the goats are under fire, not only in Texas, but also at the Army Chemical Center in Maryland.

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Back home in Cumberland, Maine's cigar-chomping ex-Republican Governor Horace Hildreth, now U.S. Ambassador to Pakistan, amiably tried to bulldoze a baby elephant, flown to the U.S. as a gift from some of Hildreth's Pakistani admirers. If Amateur Mahout Hildreth can polish up by August, his pet may accompany him then to the G.O.P. National Convention in San Francisco as an alternate to an alternate delegate.

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Facing the House Un-American Activities Committee, Playwright Arthur (Death of a Salesman) Miller leaped hurdle after hurdle in a race to get a passport. No, he had never been under Communist Party discipline. Yes, he had indeed lent his name and support to many a Red-front group in the 1940s. No, he was no longer in "the mood" to support "a cause dominated by Communists." At only one hurdle did Pulitzerman Miller balk: providing the names of his former Red associates. "I will tell you anything about myself," said he frankly, "but I cannot take responsibility for another human being." At hearing's end, it looked as if Miller would get 1) his passport, 2) a contempt citation for clamming about his old friends. But he soon reduced the hearing to a subplot and grabbed the headlines by unclamming about a newer friend. To newsmen, Miller confided that he needs a passport by July 13, the day that Cinemactress Marilyn Monroe flies to London to begin work on The Sleeping Prince with Sir Laurence Olivier. Reason: "She will go as Mrs. Miller." Later in Manhattan the lovebirds billed and cooed for lensmen outside Marilyn's apartment house.

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Ever since famed Czech Distance Runner Emil Zatopek, 34, brashly told an Italian newsman last April that U.S. athletes are the "best in the world" and will win this summer's Olympics in Melbourne, he has not again run or prophesied on the sunnier side of the Iron Curtain. Last week the Czech Ministry of Sports announced that capitalist-praising Zatopek will not compete again until he recovers from a sprained ankle (a fortnight ago, Iron-Man Zatopek ran a poor fifth in a 5,000-meter race in Prague). The mystery, however, was not solved by one bad showing of the Communists' greatest Olympics record-smasher (in the 5,000-and 10,000-meter runs, and the 26-mile, 385-yd. marathon). Only Zatopek's presence and performance in the Olympics will disclose whether his ailment, as diagnosed by his Red mentors, is a sprained ankle or a sprained tongue.

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Finding some loose insulation around a ventilator outside a hearing room where a Senate Armed Services Subcommittee meets, two Pentagon sleuths, joined by a Capitol cop, set out on a spy hunt. Soon they clomped into the next-door office of New York's civil-righteous Democratic Senator Herbert Lehman, brushed past his secretary, poked around in the Senator's closet refrigerator in search of a listening device. Next day the Senate (notably excepting Indiana's dissenting Republican Homer Capehart) thundered its indignation for two hours.

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Carefully furthering his foaming reputation as the wild man of U.S. letters, Chicago's seamy-side Novelist Nelson (A Walk on the Wild Side) Algren avidly snapped at some old-bone subjects dangled before him in Manhattan by a World-Telegram and Sunman. Of his erstwhile great and good friend, French Authoress Simone de Beauvoir, who unwarily dedicated her latest existentialist idyl, The Mandarins, to Algren: "A good female novelist ought to have enough to write about without digging up her own private garden. For me, it was just a routine relationship, and she's blown it up." Of the present "pretty bad" state of U.S. fiction, as exemplified by the "elevation" of Marjorie Morningstar, the bestseller by Herman Wouk, to its high acclaim as top-notch literature: "I have nothing against Mr. Wouk. It's simply the matter of him being built up because he shows respect to so-called hallowed institutions . . . Good novelists better leave the hallowing of sacred institutions to people who get paid to hallow them! Now take Norman Vincent (The Power of Positive Thinking) Peale. His approach is 'How to Get Rich Through Prayer!' . . . The books which bring comfort alone are never good books." Of fickle U.S. literary critics, many of whom spat contemptuously (TIME, May 28) on Algren's uncomforting Wild Side: "They like to think virtue and social status go hand in hand."

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