"Sosnowski!" I cried, "and you, too, Monsieur DuBois! Stop! Arretez! Don't do it any more! Ne faites-le plus!"
The situation continued to pingpong. Hanford to Paris to Hanford to Paris.
Sosnowski said (while Monsieur DuBois was ardently proposing to Elaine at the Sorbonne), "I sincerely wish to marry the girl, Bob."
"So do I, Ted," I answered him. "May the better man—"
"The best man," he snapped back. "Don't forget DuBois!"
I cut my microphone and said quickly to Herrmann, "George, get the chaplain and get the mayor to bring over whatever personnel and forms it takes to get a marriage license. And, move!"
And a Russian roared from the Siberia monitor something that sounded like "Mogoo ya zhenitsa s vashey dochery?", which, promptly interpreted by a linguist on the network, resulted in "May I marry your daughter?"
I didn't burn; I blazed. My daughter, indeed! So my hair is greying. Prematurely, that is. I'm only twenty-nine.
I was in control of UNACMEA at that moment. Full control. I was vested with UN power and that's Power these days, despite the snide remarks you hear from certain quarters.
"Look," I said to the whole wide world. "You will all—repeat all—immediately deactivate every AGS unit. This is a direct order of the UN."