Mirror, Mirror

For more than a year, North Dakota's nominally Republican Senator William Langer had been cranking up for a speech urging that German property seized by the U.S. during World War II be returned to its prewar owners. Last week Langer's moment arrived--just as the Senate, under the spur of Majority Leader Lyndon Johnson, was trying its hardest to get along with the debate on the natural-gas bill (TIME, Jan. 30). At mid-afternoon Langer arose, addressed the chair and mumbled: "I ask that my speech may be read by the clerk." Aware that Langer has eye trouble, Presiding Officer Strom Thurmond casually granted the unusual* request, then did a shocked double take. Langer's speech, he was told, was 93 pages long.

As a clerk began to read, Johnson raced over to Langer's desk, pleading that the request be withdrawn. The two argued for five minutes, Johnson pounding his fist on the desk, Langer waving his hands. To the galleries carried Langer's repeated phrase: "I don't give a damn." Finally Johnson gave up, stalked disgustedly from the chamber. The Senate emptied as though a smallpox sign had been posted, and Bill Langer sat back to listen--all alone. At one point Minnesota's Democratic Senator Hubert Humphrey walked in, saw what was going on, fled.

For more than two hours clerks alternated at reading. Bill Langer enjoyed himself hugely: once he stood up to interrupt his speech and stress a point he had made; often he nodded his head in admiration of his own oratory. He was, by every standard, the most unanimously appreciative audience he has ever had.

* The speeches of two blind Senators, Oklahoma's Thomas P. Gore (1907-21 and 1931-37) and Minnesota's Thomas D. Schall (1925-1935), were regularly delivered by reading clerks. A few other Senators, e.g., John C. Calhoun, have been granted the privilege when ill.

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