Reece said, "Go to hell, Nelson," and stalked off through the startled music department.

"Hey, wait!" Bob turned to Nelson. "Go after him. He's sore cause you invited me. You two had plans. Go on, catch him. I'll just stay here and"You come on." Nelson gripped his arm hard. "He can go screw himself. He ought to grow up. Come on. We'll have a good time."

Nelson's house in the foothills was a big redwood lodge, set far back and half hidden in a yard overgrown with shrubs and ivy, old sycamores and cedars. The livingroom was large and dim, hushed and cool, with walls of redwood panels, hand-hewn beams under a shadowy pitched roof, and a great stone fireplace with black iron firedogs. There were filled bookshelves and a big dark 19th century portrait against one wall. The furniture was Victorian but light and not ugly, upholstered in soft rich reds and blues. Low marbletop tables stood in front of the two couches, on them shallow sea-shells for ashtrays. "My room is back here."

Nelson led him through the dining room where the carved Chinese teak table and chairs were massive. On one wall windows from floor to ceiling looked into a fernand moss-grown patio with a dark pond into which water slowly dripped from a bronze water lily. Nelson opened a door at the end of the dining room and gently pushed Bob ahead of him.

"This is where I hang out," he smiled. "Sit down."

"Bob stumbled to a wicker barrel chair and sat down. "This is your room? You sleep here?"

"Oh, no," Nelson laughed. "I sleep upstairs. This is just-" He shrugged. "My room."

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"Oh." Bob stared at the knotty pine panelling, the heavy woven grass carpet on the floor, the big sombrero tacked upside down against the ceiling. In a corner stood a couch with a fresh slip cover and cushions, in front of it a cobbler's bench with a couple of Esquires on it, some paperback books, a leather cigarette box and two brass bowls for ashtrays. Over the couch, wide windows looked out on a deep, wild, overgrown backyard where shaggy eucalybtus trees towered. Beyond, he glimpsed a tall redwood fence, a gate, the glint of blue water in a swimming pool.

Nelson opened the doors of a builtin wardrobe. Inside a light went on revealing amplifiers, turntable, tape recorder deck. Below, shelves were loaded with lp albums.

"Are all those yours?" Bob watched Nelson turn knobs and switches.

"What, these?" Nelson crouched in front of them. "Yup. That's how I keep myself broke. Oh, say-" He stood up again. "How about something wet-Coke, Seven-up, beer?"

"Well, gosh, I don't want you to-well, Coke, I guess." "Coming right up." Nelson smiled and left.

Bob stared at the foldout color photos of young women taking off their clothes which Nelson had clipped out of Playboy and tacked to the walls. Under one was a hand-lettered sign: What the hell are you looking up here for? Bob lowered his eyes.

"Why don't you sit on the couch?" Nelson came in with a tray of bottles and glasses. "Those chairs aren't very comfortable." He set down the tray on the cobbler's bench, took ice cubes out of a spun metal bowl, dropped them into glasses, and poured out two Cokes. He handed one to Bob, who moved obediently

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