To the Editors of the CRIMSON:

Mr. Heineman's reference to James Bond as stuffy is surely a classic case of the pot calling the gold brick black. Would he wheel a naked maiden around to catch a knife thrust meant for him? Would he, ensconced in the sack with a pajama topped blonde, refuse to meet his boss because "something big's just come up?" Would he grin patronizingly as a brutish adversary crushed a golf ball with one menacing hand? Or jump atop Pusey Galore after she'd bested him two judo falls out of three?

If Mr. Heineman really doesn't give a damn whether the whole town of Fort Knox is gassed to death, or whether Goldfinger does finally break the bank, then let him wrap himself in cellophane beside a sunny window, insert a thermometer in his mouth, and play with his Rhodes Scholarship, 007 is no parody of more movies, but of the very stuff that dreams are made of. And as long as Bond is flinging electric lights into bathtubs containing villains about to plug him with his own Smith & Wesson, as long as he's kneeing Chigro henchmen in the groin, as he's humiliating underworld moguls by day and shagging their molls at night, how ever can we deny him an occasional nip of Chatesuneuf du Pape '55? Bob J. K. MaeCarran '65