We were suddenly surprised to find ourselves passing a prewar English car, probably a Singer, which looked small even by English standards. Sandy was quite taken with its English number plate and we all waved and whistled as we went past. A tubby cigar-smoking American army sergeant waved back with mild interest. Sandy was telling me that the Pennsylvania Turnpike was probably the fastest road in the world with the fewest holdups, when we rounded a bend between the mountains to find a long line of cars ahead of us. We were stuck there for quite a while and took the opportunity to get out and stretch our legs by walking down the hill to the obstruction causing the holdup. A car had burnt out. "Imagine," said Sandy, using that tone of disgust a favourite uncle uses when his card trick has misfired, "Here we are, miles and miles away from New York, right out in the open country, and what do we find? A traffic jam!" Roger told me of the time he had been driving in Missouri with Harlan Ellison, who had that time just written a book whilst on basic training in the army. The book was "Rumble," and I'd bought a copy from Will Jenkins the previous evening, a dime's worth of brag winnings. Harlan, evidently, had been driving along the highway when he crossed the yellow line which is painted down the centre of the road to warn that it is illegal to cross into the next lane. Harlan had overtaken a car which turned out to be a police car. The occupants had hurriedly indicated that Harlan pull over to the side of the road. He did so and then whispered to Roger, who was sit- ting next to him, "I haven't got a license." Roger suggested that they should change places, which they did. This left Roger in the lurch, for a burly cop came up and stuck his head in the window, saying "Don't you know what that yellow line means?" Harlan nudged Roger and whispered, "Tell him that in Michigan they have white lines." Roger repeated the words parrot fashion and Harlan's party trick had worked. Eventually, the Pennsylvania Turnpike petered out and gave way to the Ohio Turnpike, which meant a further payment. By this time it was getting dark and though we passed through Youngstown, where I had been lead to believe John Koning would be waiting at the roadside, we didn't even see the side of the road. Bill Rickhardt told me of the time he had been stranded out in Youngstown with a crowd of friends. He'd phoned the Falascas for help and though it was in the early hours of the morning, Nick had driven out to help them back to civilization. And so we left the turnpike on the out- skirts of Cleveland and found Warwick Drive where I was introduced to Nick and Noreen Falasca. I'd hoard from various sources that they'd turn out to be two of the finest people I'd meet in the States and I was grateful that I had the opportunity of finding out for myself. Nick is somewhat excitable in his dialogue, illustrating this point or that by gesticulation, but this is no fault, for he has a fine head on his shoulders. Noreen is slim and fine featured, and has the enviable quality of being able to remain calm when considering a problem. Whereas at the time I felt that their person- alities complemented each other very well, it may have been that the reverse was true and that they actually conflicted. Since the terrific times I had with them in 1958, Nick and Noreen have been divorced, Noreen having since remarried, to New York's wildman Larry Shaw.