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smooth smile, while his eyes remained aquainted with the sensation at the last border of getting caught. The man on the corner of the snake streets walked by the blue shoes of West Hollywood had been cool. He was operating the most unusual service station Prankster had ever seen; and they had driven out of that territory, which had appeared more crippled with obvious madness than the beach. Prankster's eyes peered out the window down into the canyon seeing, briefly a coveted Southern California stream. But his neck did not turn, so to keep the vibration of the humans within the car precisely on free-for- ward movement. They had avoided arrest through accident, and other such diseases of the main city streets, the freeway, and lastly, the Pacific Coast highway. Now, the others appeared carefree; as if the winding road had transcended them, and a magic carpeted car into a zone beyond the repercussions of carelessness. But to Prankster, the slightest motion outside the consintration of (this is still a deal) could spoil the act of "making it" down to the last line of reserved strain before enterance into delirious paranoia. Davenport took the spoon away from his nose, and in moments it was handed back over to him from the