“It’s funny, isn’t it?” Hudson said. “You’re Mr. Science and I’m Mr. Words, but we both love Steinbeck.”

Ben raised his eyebrows. “I never really thought about it,” he said. Then he asked, “Are you here researching something about Steinbeck?”

Hudson looked up at him with an expression that surprised Ben. There was a look in his eyes that was almost feral, on guard, as if Ben had done something to make him suspicious. Then it was gone, as quickly as it had appeared, and Hudson was once again regarding pleasantly.

“Yes,” he said simply. “I’m working on a paper for grad school.”

That explained it. Ben understood all about grad school, about the endless writing and research, the quest for something to study that was unique, something not already claimed by someone else. He recalled his own horror at discovering, while working on his master’s, that he’d elected to pursue the same subject as an archrival, a situation that added even more pressure to an already-difficult situation but which ultimately had forced him to work harder and, as a result, produce the more original thesis. He knew now why Hudson had seemed wary. He knew, too, that further questions about the subject would make the other man uneasy.

“People often assume Doc and Ricketts are the same person,” he said, going back to the subject that had originally brought them together. “But they weren’t. Not really. I think Doc was an idealized version of Ricketts, maybe the man Steinbeck knew he wanted to be. Or maybe the man Steinbeck wanted him to be.”

“I’ve always thought that myself,” said Hudson. “I was hoping that being here would help me figure it out.”

“Maybe,” Ben said. “As you’ve already seen, though, even Monterey has turned into what it thinks people want it to be. It’s a sort of Dis-neyized Cannery Row. People don’t want to know about how they wiped out all the sardines, or how the original Japanese fishermen were pushed out by the white ones when they realized there was money to be made. The place has almost become a myth, filled with happy bums and heart-of-gold whores.”

“And Doc,” said Hudson.

“And Doc,” Ben echoed.

“All writing is a lie in some way,” Hudson said thoughtfully. “Like you said, maybe Steinbeck wrote about it the way he wanted to see it. Did you know he wrote his ex-wife out of the Sea of Cortez account?”

“No,” said Ben. “I’ve never heard that.”

“Took her right out,” Hudson said. “They fought the whole time she was there, and he didn’t want to write about her. He thought the story would read better if it was just him and the boys going on an adventure.”

“He’s probably right about that,” Ben said. “I can think of a few trips I’d rather remember without my wife in them.”