I was in another city, in some sort of complicated spectator-participant dream. Some teenage girls were mixing themselves a drink on a school lawn. A teacher found them and took them to the principal, who was relieved when he found they hadn't been giving any hard liquor to their young baby brother; he was afraid someone immature might have been getting it. Then someone was trying to rent an apartment down the street. The chief of police wanted to keep him out, but if he were going to pay the rent, there was no way to do so. He wanted to start some sort of a sex magazine to appeal to (how could this be?) lower class Negroes and upper class whites. He was a sort of skinny foreign guy from the South, and he had recruited a bunch of young teenage girls to work for him. They would write stories and then he would end them -- he had written lots of science fiction and fantasy magazines and had all sorts of varied science background. So the girls were arriving and were finding rooms to rent next door to the office he had rented. I was one (at the same time it was also to be a novel or movie in itself -- what would happen to these 5 young girls in the big city, and how would each of them react to confronting life in the raw in N.Y.), and I was sort of this man's press secretary or something, and I went with him to a sort of conference where Pierre Salinger also was. My first assignment was to be to buy five weird types of cars, which were very different from ordinary cars in some way, for him to use the parts for something. We were also talking about the South, and this man considered himself an expert in some way because he had lived there for a while. I said I also considered myself something of an expert, trying partly to impress Pierre.