Crossing the Mississippi amazed him. A river half a mile wide? The one they had in Los Angeles was dry eight or nine months a year, and encased in a concrete straitjacket so it wouldn’t make trouble. So much fresh water flowing freely or lying around in lakes and ponds freaked Jerry out.

He found a motel on the outskirts of Memphis, just off the I-40. The only way he could be sure what town he was in was by the phone book in the nightstand drawer. All the places where he’d stayed the past few days blurred together in his mind. Motels by the highway were America at its most homogenized.

The barbecued pork sandwich he got at the joint next to the motel, like the Mexican food in El Paso, showed restaurants varied from place to place. It was good, but the sauce wasn’t what he thought of as barbecue sauce. When he said so, the waitress answered, “Where you from? Not around here, not by how you talk.”

“San Francisco.” He lied without hesitation.

“California? Really?” She looked and sounded jealous. She was short and blond and pretty, which made him think of Anna. “What’re you doin’ here, then?”

“Passing through.” That was honest enough.

“I believe it. If you’re from there, you wouldn’t want to stay here, even if you like the barbecue. California? That’d be somethin’.” She studied him. “You stayin’ at Stanley’s place next door?”

He nodded. “That’s right.”

“Well, I’m off my shift in another hour, if you want to talk or somethin’.”

She didn’t mean talk. Jerry’d never run into a come-on so direct. Was she a pro, or just hoping some of that exotic California stardust would rub off on her? If he’d been single, he thought he would have found out. He was tempted anyway, tempted enough to wish he had less common sense. After a second, though, he held up his left hand so she couldn’t miss the ring. “I better not,” he said.

“Doesn’t worry plenty o’ guys any,” she said. When he just shrugged, she turned away. “You’ll never know what you’re missin’.” She put enough hip action into her walk to give him a hint.

Feeling squelched, he squelched back to the motel. Knowing he might have had company made the plain room seem even lonelier than it would have anyway. He took care of biological pressure the way he had on the Glomar Explorer, but Heinlein had been dead right in Time Enough for Love: that was lonely, too.