On hand for the Soviet Union's three "National Days" at the Brussels World's Fair, small, smooth President Kliment E. Voroshilov reeled out a party line of chatter while moving in and out of pavilions. Coming model-boyishly away from a U.S.-style voting machine, he said, "I voted for peace." Remotely controlled mechanical hands that struck a match were "symbolic," for "one day an inventor might put together a machine aimed at destruction, and might be tempted to try it. This we should stop in time." In the Hungarian pavilion, a panorama of Budapest called up Voroshilov's warmest memories: "What a beautiful city, what a beautiful country! But such foolish things have happened there. Some people have called it counterrevolution; some called it revolution. I think it was just foolishness. Perhaps it would have been possible not to give Imre Nagy such a harsh sentence, because he was just a fool."

After a fortnight's swing through the Soviet Union, the American Bar Association's President Charles S. Rhyne (TIME, May 5) described the impression Red justice had made on his delegation of U.S. lawyers. In the Soviet Union, said Rhyne, "among the most important questions put to every defendant in a criminal case is, 'Are you a member of the Communist Party?', and, though [the Russians] deny it, the Soviet legal system provides a different type of justice for Communists and non-Communists."

Soon to become an honored statesman at Madame Tussaud's wax museum in London, Ghana's Prime Minister Kwame Nkrumah was making top-of-his-head problems. Museum Hair Specialist Vera Bland not only had trouble getting Nkrumah-like hair ("It is in very short commercial supply"), but paled at the prospect of putting it on the wax head at 1,000 hairs per sq. in. But at least, said Bernard Tussaud, boss of the firm, "he hasn't any bumps on his head at all. He seems a good-tempered, benevolent kind of man."

With a front-lawn place kick, Amos Alonzo Stagg warmed up to watch a football game between two teams of Sacramento Valley high school allstars, who dedicated their contest to the grand old man of football on his 96th birthday. All set for his 68th coaching season (as advisory punting coach at California's Stockton College), the Yale '88 All-American and onetime coach of the University of Chicago, the College of the Pacific, and Susquehanna University found paydirt in the congratulatory mail. Among the notes from old quarterbacks, halfbacks and fullbacks were 10,690 greenbacks--insurance companies' acknowledgment that Stagg had outlived their soundest actuarial estimates.

"This Catalina is very nervous," said the tall Sicilian aviator in the scarlet bathrobe, "perhaps a little neurotic, you understand, but she is an artist." Catalina, better known as Caitlin Thomas, 43, widow of Welsh Poet Dylan Thomas, was touring the United Kingdom in a trailer with handsome Giuseppe Fazio, whom she met 18 months ago in a restaurant in Italy. Their first visit was to the village of Laugharne in Wales to see Dylan Thomas' mother.* "Do you know what they tell me in Laugharne?" said the incredulous Fazio. "They say if I am not out of town in three days, I will be dead. I asked them, 'How do you mean, dead?' They jerked their thumb and said, 'in the cemetery with Dylan.'

The U.S. Navy rocked to a clamorous NOW HEAR THIS. On the horn: Ruth Masters Rickover, doctor of international law (Columbia '32) and wife of Rear Admiral Hyman George Rickover, U.S.N. Her complaint: "The stupid windbags who run [the Navy] are really out to hurt my husband." Navy brass, said the admiral's wife, hooted at Rickover's dream of a nuclear submarine, but when the Nautilus turned out successfully, "they tried to shove my husband under a rug while everybody else stepped in to take the glory." Moreover, Rickover conceived the North Pole crossing (TIME, Aug. 18) "right here in our apartment," but when the feat was celebrated in the White House, the admiral was not invited, and Press Secretary James Hagerty said there was "no room." Then there was the matter of who's been smashing champagne bottles at the launchings of nuclear subs. By eight times passing her over as a candidate for the honor, the Navy, as Mrs. Rickover saw it, had thought up "one of the most elegant ways they could devise to hurt him." Wheels turned. Eight Representatives and 45 Senators introduced resolutions to give Rickover a special gold medal in recognition of his pioneering achievements, and to hint that the Navy would do well not to try to oust the prickly admiral by passing him over for promotion. The Navy apologized to Rickover for the White House snub, and said that as long ago as July 15 it decided to ask his wife to christen an atomic submarine one of these days. Wispy Admiral Rickover, never considered the most accommodating personality, allowed himself an ambiguous comment: "You can't control your wife."

* Who died a few days later, at 70.

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