The waiter came along and Paul ordered a glass of beer. Paul was an
easy-going, sallow-faced little man. I vaguely remembered somebody
saying he was from Liverpool and in exports.
"What's in the newspaper?" he said, disinterestedly.
"Pogo and Albert are going to fight a duel," I told him, "and Lil Abner
is becoming a rock'n'roll singer."
He grunted.
"Oh," I said, "the intellectual type." I scanned the front page. "The
Russkies have put up another manned satellite."
"They have, eh? How big?"
"Several times bigger than anything we Americans have."
The beer came and looked good, so I ordered a glass too.