"And kill two billion people," I added with wry humor.
When I hung up, I had my mind made up. I was going to look up an old Princeton schoolmate, Nevil Oxford, now a famous newscaster for the Federal Broadcasting Company.
Nevil was sipping coffee from a paper cup as he bent over the news bulletins on the clattering teletypes when I entered his office in the F.B.C. Building. After a preliminary exchange of the usual alumni gossip I got down to cases and told him about Chetzisky.
"And you really believe he could do it, Arnold?"
"I do. Most certainly."
Nevil's face hadn't much color in it now. "Come on," he said, "Let's go downstairs; I need a drink."
Over scotch and sodas I hammered away at him, trying to get him to break the Chetzisky story on his eleven o'clock broadcast.
"I can't, Arnold. We've been asked to lay off the sensational stuff. Besides, it would start a panic. Remember what happened a month ago when some jaded announcer pulled the gag about the Russians being in the outskirts of the city."
"But, Nev, it isn't a case of Orson Welles tom-foolery; it's a life and death necessity of stirring the government to action through public opinion."