Page 65 first murmurings of San Francisco's Revolt Against the Freeways. It was becom- ing clear that every city motorway built to solve the problem of too much traffic carries the seed of another problem, the traffic it creates. Which necessitaLes another motorway and so on until the city itself is obliterated by concrete, dispersed in to crevices between roads and car parks. Los Angeles has yielded to the automobile, but not San Francisco. Even then there were plans for a mod- ern commuter railway system, and Page recently I saw on television a San Franciscan who threatened to blow up a projected new freeway. I nodded approvingly: that was my San Francisco. Back in Berkeley we met Bill Donaho and Dick and Pat Ellington and their little daughter Poopsie, a farewell gathering to see Ethel off on her long journey back home. We all went for dinner to a big eating place called Brennans, which unaccounLably was owned by a German and employed Chinese waiters. The food was very good and there were the usual lavish helpings, which no one was able to finish except Bill Donaho. Little Poopsie was hardly able to make any inroad at all into her dinner and I was delighted to see Bill relieve her of her almost untouched plate and finish it off. It's a great comfort for a visitor to the States to have Bill Donaho around. Not only does his vast size give you a sense of security, amply justified by his less obvious character and intelligence, but he relieves you of the nagging guilt you feel in restaurants at the waste of all that good food. With Bill around this problem is drastically reduced. On this occasion he polished off a couple of side dishes for me as well, enabling me to concentrate my flagging forces on my huge hunk of strawberry shortcake. It had turned out to be a very pleasant surprise. I have been ordering this dish with unquenchable optimism for the past thirty years at various laces in the world, and this was the first time I had ever found it made with fresh strawberries and real, fresh cream. Ethel had it too, and I don't think she could have wished for anything better for her last meal in California. As usual unquestionedly assuming command, Bill made sure we arrived at Oakland's bus station in good time. Bill checked in Ethel's luggage, I found out which gate the bus would be at, and then there was nothing to do but wait for the bus to come from San Francisco on its way to Salt Lake City and New York. It was, of course, late. We stood in a little group round Ethel, talking nervously and desultory. The Berkeley fans couldn't be their usual bright and cheerful selves, because this was a sad occasion, and they couldn't just keep saying sad farewells, and they all knew that when the bus did come in there would be a rush to get on and we couldn't hold Ethel back. So the conversation was spas- modic and interspersed with the usual objurgations to take care of herself and give their love to so and so in England and to try to persuade Atom to stand for Taff and so on. For myself I just kept thinking I'm responsible for all this. I wrote the article in Nebula which brought this little Scottish girl into fandom, and I started the TAFF thing, and now here she is in a California bus station among friends she had made across six thousand miles. Now she looked a little sad, and I could understand it. Her great holiday all over, she was leaving the sun and warmth of California for the long, anti-climatic journey back to winter in grimy London, no doubt worrying all the way as to whether she had made a good impression. The bus swept suddenly in and the queue pushed forward and the Berkeley fans said their hurried last goodbyes and I know there was only one thing for me to say. So as she swept pasL me in the queue I bent down and whispered "I'm proud of you Ethel." And I was though it wasn't until I saw the genuine sorrow and affection on faces around me as that brave little figure disappeared in the crowd that I realised just how much.