After he ate, he washed the few dishes he’d made. He did that every day. His father was kind of a slob at home. He’d promised himself he’d do better when he had his own place. So far, he hadn’t made himself too big a liar. The major exception was the blizzard of papers on the dinette table. Even that was organized chaos. He kept telling himself it was, anyhow.

He looked at that blizzard differently now, though. Whale songs were still interesting, sure. But they didn’t seem so totally fascinating anymore, not next to centaurowls and spaceships. The only problem with that was, he didn’t have anything to do with centaurowls and spaceships at the moment. And that was nobody’s fault but his own.

At a quarter past six, he called Tim Ishihara’s apartment. A woman’s voice answered: “Hello?”

“Hi, Cheryl. It’s Jerry. Is the man home yet?”

“Jerry!” Tim’s wife exclaimed. “When did you get back in town?”

“This morning, hideously early. My carcass has no idea what time it’s supposed to be.”

“I’ve done that,” Cheryl Ishihara said. She raised her voice: “Tim! Jerry’s on the phone!”

After a moment, Jerry’s buddy came on the line. “Hey, man,” he said. “So they finally had enough of you, did they?”

Like a lot of friends, they insulted each other as naturally as they breathed. That crack, though, cut closer to the bone than Tim could know. Jerry needed a moment before he could say, “Damn right they did,” without sounding as if he meant it—which he did.

“Were you just along for protective coloration and money, or did you get something worthwhile done?” Tim asked.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Jerry said—one more truth spoken in jest. “Listen, any chance you can drive me down to Long Beach tomorrow so I can get my car back? Without it, I might as well be in jail.”

“Yeah, I can do that,” his friend said at once—Tim was a friend indeed. “What time you want me to get you?”

“Whatever’s easy for you. You’re doing me the favor.”

“Ten o’clock okay?”

“That’ll work. I owe you one, man.”

“No sweat. See you then. Listen, I gotta go. Cheryl’s waving lamb chops under my nose,” Tim said. Jerry thanked him again and hung up.

Then he called Anna. The first thing he said when she picked up the phone was, “How you doing, honey?”

“I’m dead,” she answered. “I made it through the day. I had enough coffee to keep me pissing like a racehorse, and I probably won’t sleep tonight the way I ought to. But I got through it. How about you?”