Van Alen pointed toward a rickety building on their right and said, "There's a hotel. Let's room up for the night." "Good enough," Kesley agreed. The proprietor of the hotel was a short man in his early fifties, chubby and prosperous-looking, with an oily stubble of beard darkening his face. His bald head gleamed; it had been newly waxed. "Hail, friends. In search of lodgings?" "Indeed we are," van Alen said. "My friend and I are tired, and can use some rest." The hotelman chuckled. "One room?" "Suitable," van Alen said. A thick eyebrow lifted. "Will you boys be needing a double bed?" "What the hell do you mean--" Kesley began hotly, but van Alen cut him off and said in a calm voice, "Twin beds will be fine, if you've got them." "Of course," the proprietor said. "Beg pardon." He reached behind him and fumbled on a board laden with keys, mumbling cheerfully to himself. Finally he decided on an appropriate room and unhooked the keys. "Three-fifty," he said. Van Alen placed four one-dollar pieces face upward on the desk. The hotelman looked at the coins, grinned, and scooped them up, putting a fifty-cent piece in their place. Van Alen ignored it, and after a moment the hotelman scooped that up as well. "Come this way, please." He showed them to a room on the third floor, which was the topmost. It was a boxy, green-walled room with a single naked fluorescent running along its ceiling. Kesley had vaguely hoped that the room would have floor-to-ceiling luminescence, as some of the oldest city hotels were reputed to have, but no such luck. This one had been built since the Blast; no fancy trimmings here. There were two beds, both without spreads. The part of the sheet that was visible at the top was gray and frayed, though apparently clean. A slatted screen stood folded between the beds. "Cozy, isn't it?" the proprietor asked. He seemed to be oozing filth. "It's one of our best doubles." "Glad to hear it," van Alen said. "We've traveled far. We're tired." "You'll rest well here," the hotelman said, and backed out the door. "A greasy customer," Kesley commented when he was gone. "No more so than usual," said van Alen. "They seem to be a breed. He means well, though." The Antarctican shrugged out of his cloak and draped it over a chair. Casually he unfolded the screen, dividing the room in half. "Economy calls for a single room," he explained. "But privacy is still a fine thing." Kesley shrugged. He had no intention of violating any of van Alen's personal crotchets. Approaching his own bed, he turned down the sheet, slipped off his clothing, and climbed in. He discovered he had no desire to sleep. After tossing restlessly for a while, he rolled over on his back and sat up. "Van Alen?" "What is it, Kesley?" "How big is Galveston?" "About a hundred thousand people," van Alen said. "It's a very big city." "Oh." After a pause: "Bet New York was much bigger, wasn't it?"