TIPPY wears shabby old dressing gown, short.  He has no trousers on.  He is pressing his pants on an ironing board.

Each is silent and preoccupied, KEN makes a finishing touch with color brush, then turns his board down to a more vertical position and backs off, surveying his work.

KEN.  Take a squint at that, Tippy.

[TIPPY carefully turns iron on end and steps over to look at drawing.]

TIPPY.  H’m.  Very charming.  Very charming.  If Comrade Stalin could see that he would order one for each member of his harem.

KEN.  That’s a bum joke.  Not even Hearst has accused Stalin of irregularity in his private life.

TIPPY.  Sorry.  That comes of my not reading Hearst.

KEN.  What’s more, this drawing’s not intended for the Soviets.  It’s distinctly American.

TIPPY.  But Ken, they like it Americanskee.  They approve of the way we do our living, if not of the way we get it.

KEN.  They like our gadgets.  The plans I sent to Moscow were all American inside.  But the exteriors were different.

TIPPY. [Slaps him on shoulder and returns to pants pressing.] Well, keep at it, old man.  All things come to those who work while they wait.

KEN.  Work.  I just do this to keep from going nuts.

TIPPY.  O. K. Keep occupied.  American recovery may yet prove speedier than Soviet red tape.

KEN.  I’ve given up hope of hearing from Moscow.  It’s been five months ...

TIPPY.  Make allowances for bureaucracy, Ken.  They’re in such a hurry over there they haven’t time to do anything.

KEN. [Starts to remove drawing.] I don’t want Martin to see this.  He’d never forgive me if he knew I’d quit working on stuff for Russia.

TIPPY.  Hi, Ted!  Give a look on your fellow artist’s work.

[KEN stands aside, TED rises politely, keeping finger in place in book and looking at drawing briefly.]

TED. [Indifferently.] It’s very nice.

[He goes back to couch and his book, KEN removes drawing and rolls it up.  TIPPY finishes pants and cuts off iron, MARTIN’S voice heard in hall, singing.]

MARTIN.  Belaya armeya chornee barone
            Snova gotovyat nam tsarskee trone
            [MARTIN enters, marching and singing.]
            No ot tigee doe bretanskeye Morye
            [Stamps and accents each syllable.]
            Anneya krasnaya vsekh seelnaye.

TIPPY.  Jesus, Martin, why don’t you get Billy Rose to write a new song for the Red Army?

MARTIN.  As soon as Ken learns Krasnaya Armeya I’ll teach him the International.

TIPPY.  I can bellyache the Armeya better now than he can.

MARTIN.  Damned pity you won’t study Russian with us.  You have a natural gift for languages.