As he alighted from a commercial airliner at El Toro Marine Air Station, Calif., the major's first words were, "I can hardly wait to see that baby of mine." The major was Charles Robb, just returned from a 13-month tour in Viet Nam and eager to join Wife Lynda Bird and six-month-old Lucinda Desha, whom he had never seen. Wearing an undecorated khaki uniform, Robb agreeably deflected newsmen's questions about his plans. "I've been ducking ambushes in Viet Nam for 13 months," he said, "and now you have to ambush me here." The surprise attacks are probably over; Robb will soon report to his new post in Washington, D.C., as a Marine officer recruiter.

. . .

It read like a scene from The Loves of Isadora. Vanessa Redgrave soared into London last week with her latest companion, Italian Star Franco Nero, and breezily admitted that they are expecting a child next September. "I doubt very much if we shall get married," said the star, adding, "I don't think marriage would make me a very nice person to live with" (her marriage to Director Tony Richardson ended in divorce in 1967). Well, then, will the prospective parents be sharing a household? "Oh, we don't live together," replied the doting mother of two. "I live in London with Tony's and my children."

. . .

"He's a fabulous young man, a very fine young man." Thus did Mrs. John Slocum, a Newport and Washington, D.C., socialite and a direct descendant of Rhode Island Founder Roger Williams, describe her future son-in-law, Adam Clayton Powell III, a direct descendant of the high-rolling Harlem Congressman. The bride-to-be is Daughter Beryl, 26, a Radcliffe grad and freelance writer whose paternal family tree is rooted in Mayflower timber (her career-diplomat father is descended from Miles Sta-dish). Beryl said that she and Adam, 22, a producer in WCBS-TV's news department in Manhattan, will be married this month at St. Mary's Chapel in the Washington Cathedral. If her assessment of her fiance is correct, young Adam is a different breed of cat from his flamboyant father. "Adam," said Beryl, "is very, very publicity-shy."

. . .

As the only Nazi prisoner left in West Berlin's forbidding Spandau Prison, Rudolf Hess marked his 75th birthday in grim solitude. There were no gifts, not even from his wife and son, whom he has refused to see during his 22-year incarceration at Spandau because, in his twisted mind, he believes it improper for them to see him in prison. So Hess spent a typical day, walking alone in the garden and feeding the few birds that alight there. Had history taken a different turn, he might have enjoyed the company of another birthday celebrator. Adolf Hitler would have been 80 last week.

. . .

Ever since the cast was thrust into the world's spotlight, the show has been plagued by such petty jealousies and pungent recriminations that it might better be called One NASA Family. The latest flap came with the space agency's announcement last week that Public Affairs Officer Paul Haney, the calm, canorous "Voice of Apollo," has been ordered to a lesser post in Washington after six years at Houston's Manned Spaceflight Center. The word was that some NASA officials thought that he had become too impressed with himself. Haney, who wanted to be on hand for the first lunar landing, was outraged: "This is like being kicked out of the game on the two-yard line after coming 98 yards down the field." With that, Haney sidelined himself by resigning from NASA.

. . .

Hello. Is this the Massachusetts Governor's office? I'd like to speak to Francis Sargent, please. This is the FBI. That's right. Federal. Bureau. Of. Investigation. Good evening, Governor. Awfully sorry to disturb you, but we're running a security check. The President has appointed an acquaintance of yours to make a study of Latin American affairs. Well, we wondered if you could vouch for this man's character. I mean, does he drink a lot, would you buy a used car from him--that sort of thing? After all, when it comes to national security, one can't be too careful. So anyway, Governor, do you think this person is a good risk? His name? Oh, yes. Nelson Rockefeller.

. . .

Managing a bright mien despite a strep throat, Tricia Nixon arrived in Norfolk, Va., last week to be crowned Queen of the annual Azalea Festival. Tiny Tricia (she's working at bringing her weight up to 100 Ibs.) went through an exhausting round of receptions and luncheons in a series of winsome minidresses, then gave the town fathers and mothers a mild shock by showing up for the coronation in her own gown instead of the one provided by the city. There to bestow the crown was her proud father, who stole a few hours away from the White House to fly down for the festival. Tricia also had something of a surprise in store for him: she revealed that her first official White House party will be a masked ball, because, "it hasn't been done before."

. . .

She bounces onto the stage, pastes on her pretty Barbie-doll smile, and ingenuously asks: "Is it sock-it-to-me time yet?" The answer, of course, is a pail of water in the chops, the staple gag of Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In that has made Judy Carne the soggiest show girl since Esther Williams. Now, after two years of the routine, Judy's enthusiasm has dampened. In London to film All the Right Noises, she allowed that next season might be her last with the bucket brigade. "I'm fed up with the sock-it-to-me tag," she said. "The other day I walked into a restaurant, and someone threw a hunk of bread at me and shouted, "I'll sock it to you, all right!' "

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