“OH, sure, I chuck her in a trunk and saw her U. football team in Albuquerque. Voted No. 1in half!” barks Orson Welles flicking a thumb in Rita Hayworth’s direction. “Wanta see me do it?” A thousand hollers rise from the G.I. audience down front as the mirrors start chopping the lovely chassis in two. And what about the night the signals got mixed! She forgot the combination unlocking the trunk from the inside and was scrunched up in a tight ball for hours while the genius frantically raced around backstage trying to conjure up the keys! He had more luck with Vic Mature—hesto-prestoed him out of her life in two flips. But don’t talk matrimony to her. Her brown eyes snap. “Tell the world I’m not going to marry anybody.” For three very good reasons: Vic, bowing out of the picture; Orson sawing her in half; her ex, Ed Judson suing for a property settlement. Three insane specimens. As for the Redhead two years running, she says her beauty secret’s lots of milk and sleep—nine hours of it, in lace, in an eight-foot-so uare bed, boys. Uses tubs of suds, never touches powder, just eyeshadow and lipstick. Miraculous, the way she’s forever-nibbling on chocolate and never gaining an ounce. Probably dancing does it. At it every minute, she gets positively psychological on the subject. “Just let me waltz around the room with a guy, and I’ve got an inside track on him, whether he’s sweet or sour, bright or moronic.” But she’ll up his rating in a hurry if he calls her glamour girl—she loves it! “After all, a girl is—well, a girl. It’s nice to know you’re successful at it.” Reassuring, too, the 14-room house, the 6 closets cram-jammed with rainbowy dresses, the vault for furs and the drawers and drawers of unmentionables. Refuses rest of mankind! They mob her . . . the sailors to hoard silk. “I wore cotton once, and I can at San Diego; the Marines at Quantico, the Georgia again.” Cotton or lace, you’re plush to us, Rita!