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Curiosity Can Kill. In Los Angeles, and many other cities, "survival stores" have been doing a boom business selling shelter supplies. Shelter Equipment Corp., a Denver enterprise, is operated by Rolf M. Weber and John Scott, both German immigrants and veterans of the World War II air raids over Berlin and Hamburg. When their store opened officially last week, its shelves had already been swept clean by customers who had attended a two-hour preview the previous weekend. "The sandbags are a must," says Weber. "We are also recommending periscopes. Lots of Germans were killed when their curiosity got the better of them and they had to go out and see what was going on. That's the worst thing about being in a shelter—wondering what is happening outside."
Controversy still storms over one possible item of shelter equipment; guns (TIME, Aug. 18). Many of the million or more private shelters already prepared by individual citizens are stocked with weapons, and many of the diggers are prepared to use them, if necessary, on intruders who might try to join them. The Rev. L.C. McHugh, an editor of the Jesuit magazine America, recently stirred the coals of the argument by declaring that people who attempt to storm their neighbors' shelters are nothing more than "unjust aggressors" and should be "repelled with whatever means will effectively deter their assault." Last week Washington's Episcopal Bishop Angus Dun answered McHugh. "I do not see how any Christian conscience can condone a policy which puts supreme emphasis on saving your own skin without regard for the plight of your neighbor," he said. "Justice, mercy and brotherly love do not cease to operate, even in the final apocalypse." Most Christians would probably recall the Biblical parallel of the wise and foolish virgins—and draw their own inference.
As inevitably as fallout follows the bomb, so have come profiteers, pitchmen, manufacturers of products that prove ineffective. "Lifesaving kits" contain a salve supposed to cause radiation to ricochet harmlessly off the body; in fact, no salve, ointment or grease has the slightest value as a fallout protector (neither does any of several brands of "antiradiation pills"). Jerry-built shelters bear the slogan "CD-approved" or other meaningless legends; actually, the OCDM approved nothing, merely set the standard for shelters. A widely advertised "fallout suit," selling at the rate of 500 a week for $21.95 each, actually provides no more protection against radiation than a raincoat. A promoter recently approached W. Dan Bell, head of Denver's Better Business Bureau, with a man-sized plastic bag which, he said, provided complete protection against fallout. All the owner had to do was crawl inside and pull the Zipper. But how, asked Bell, could the bag's occupant breathe? That, said the promoter, was something he had not yet worked out. Similarly, a Boston entrepreneur advertised a handy "shelter" for only $4.50; it turned out to be a crowbar, for use in opening manhole covers.