"Hey there man, where you been? Weren't the Baters bad. Cosmic. Hey, man, you shoulda stuck around. Boogie and me went back stage…"

Despite San Fran Pee, the party had its compensations. The wine was as clear as acid: the acid mellow as wine. Some hours later San Fran Fee stumbled in on my new found friend, Melody, and I practising Tantric postures in the bath.

"Hey, man. Far out. I'm gonna cut this scene, man. We're going to this scene round the corner. Tequilla, jacuzzi, coke and hash. Nippleeze Man! Bring your friend..." As it seemed San Fran Pee might run on forever, I was forced to disengage, and bustle Pee from the bathroom.

"That man is too much," I commented, rejoining Melody.

"Far out," said Melody.

I spent weeks rolling in circles from scene to scene and thought to thought. Music? The meaning's in the rhythm and the melody, and the rhythm carries... is it feeling? Well, what does it talk to? The tempo of our movements, gestures, postures…"

I also wondered about Wheritzat, and about what one might do to save the world. Find the right song. Where does music come from? I found no answers.

I did my damnedest to avoid San Francisco, but at every scene I hit there cachugging along 'kappow' on next year's Harley chopper, or gazzooming up in daddy's Maserati, would be the ubiquitous San Fran Pee singing, "Cat Man Do, Daddy. Far out."

"Melody," I said one morning. "You know, babe, there are no real answers for me here on the Bay."

"Yeah man?" said Melody. "San Fran Pee has sure been getting to you."

We drove off to the mountains - spent seven idyllic days and nights in the wilderness - then drove on to Denver. Here I changed licence plates and sold the pink Lincoln to a Salvation Used Car Lot. The sale being in a sense the materialisation of Beamish's Roaratuni Expedition cheque, this event marked for me the start of my search for Waretsat. I kissed Melody goodbye, and hugged her, and flew off to Tokyo to buy an 80 watt Sony micro-mini-quadrasonic recorder, a replacement for my 200 watt Ampex pocket stereo which had begun to squeak. Cassette recorders kept bumming out on me, which may seem a minor irrelevancy, but the ramifications of this particular trivia proliferate to affect the fate of nations. Such is the fate of trivia.

Next I flew to Vancouver and made my way up into the Rockies to Granville Cougar's Mountain Farm, where Zakeri was staying. Zak was my yak. He wasn't really mine, and he wasn't strictly a yak. Zak's mother was a yak, and he was raised as a yak, but his father was a holy bull, a zebu.

Zak's father wandered where the spirit took him, and up into Nepal where he, and consorted with, met Zak's mother. In the spring, however, she was drawn back to the lands in the sky and returned to the Everest range. There, the following autumn, Zak was born, and spent many happy hours on the top of the world in the warm nurturing space neath his mother’s skirt.

What then was Zak? Yak bulls are commonly crossed in Ladakh with zebu cows to produce a beast known as a zo. But it was Zak's mother who was the yak, his father the zebu, so he was neither yak, zebu, nor zo. He looked like a yak, only he was a small yak, and white.