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Santa Monica and the beach. He was thinking about money. Five years both inside and outside with body and mind; but not any part of the society. (wind comes in and sweeps the smog into tunnels that go out in a spinning knew to the sea or the desert.) "Good, give it to the fishermen and the Indians." Blankman was a shipbuilder, and from a dark race. He smiled at his ingratitude. He loved his family. (Maybe the yachtsmen and valley T.V.) He was thirty-five. He had no time for being erotic. He must make a good plan; a perminent one. He was thirty-five. Mexican colors rolled by his window, and the freeways concept of space-spun illusion on Los Angeles. Animal in his walking. The Monico Hotel Bar. Faces glaring off their own reflections on the long picture-window. A human aquarium. Muscle Beach. The one unpsychological activity; children with acrobats. Here, Animal at first glance seemed nervious. He was involved with the attractions. Around him were volly ball players. The way of their movements while standing in waiting for their teams to go back on the sand courts, indicated the procedure of business. In speaking to these men, Animal was measured. He