People, Sep. 6, 1954

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Names make news. Last week these names made this news:

A radiant little family group, Andrei Y. Vishinsky, 70, his wife Kapitolina and statuesque daughter Zinaida, flanked by three bodyguards, stepped off the liner Queen Mary in Manhattan, where Vishinsky will soon take up his cudgel again as chief Soviet delegate to the U.N. At first, Vishinsky claimed that he had no arrival speech prepared. But when newsmen cajoled him, he beamed and shyly drew out a little slip of paper. Sample: "I should like to express my hope that the American press, radio and other organizations will support the efforts of all honest men in their struggle for peace, international security and friendship." Growled the New York Daily News: "When Vishy smiles, watch out . . . A tipoff that [he] will be meaner, more dishonest and fouler-mouthed than ever before."

The entertainment world's most refreshing romance blew fair and warm as Cinemactress Debbie (Susan Slept Here) Reynolds, 22, floated off a plane from Hollywood at New York's International Airport and into the open arms and bashful buss of Crooner Eddie (I Need You Now) Fisher, 26. The combination of wholesome young love and two stirring success stories was a nation's delight. Daughter of a railroad carpenter, Debbie got into movies in 1948 when a talent scout spotted her wearing a holey bathing suit in a Burbank (Calif.) beauty contest (her family couldn't afford new clothes for her). She not only attained a ripe age (for Hollywood) without marrying anybody, but, so far as anyone knew, had never even been in love before. By all signs, neither had Bachelor Fisher, who had also come up the hard way, getting off to a singing start by warbling in the Philadelphia streets about the merits of his father's fresh vegetables. Quite properly, Debbie brought her mother east to meet Eddie's folks, and Mrs. Fisher came to the airport with Eddie to meet Debbie for the first time. Asked if she was in love with Fisher, Debbie piped appealingly: "I'd rather only answer that to Eddie."

In Manhattan, antenna-mustached "Nuclear Mystic" Salvador Dali, who is as artless about his publicity as he is about his surrealist painting, made his way back to the front pages by slapping a $7,000 suit on one of his clients. The client: Ann Eden Crowell Woodward, who had commissioned a Dali portrait of herself, and then declined to pay when it was completed. Snapped husband William Woodward Jr., who recently inherited the Belair racing stable of his banker-sportsman father: "It is a heck of an unpleasant picture, [depicting Ann] sort of against a rock with shells around . . . sort of slapped together in unpleasant, grey, grim colors . . . We wouldn't have had it if Dali paid us." At his summer home on Spain's Costa Brava, Dali simmered: "It pains me that they won't pay . . . This lady becomes more Daliesque than I. She is trying to obtain publicity at my expense."