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up a long, slow grade withhuge pines lining the sides. Up ahead, pools of light formed mirages on the blacktop.
    â€œYes, sir,” the old man said, “pretty country up here.”
    â€œIt is,” Mark agreed.
    â€œI always enjoy it. I come up here all the time.”
    â€œWhere you from?”
    â€œMission Beach, down in San Diego.”
    â€œThat’s a long ways,” Mark said.
    â€œI’m always on the road, one time or another.”
    â€œYou pick up many hitchhikers?”
    â€œAlways do,” the old man said. “Last summer I picked up a fellow from Harvard. Spent six weeks together.”
    â€œNo kidding,” Mark said.
    â€œNice fellow. Just graduated. Went all the way to Canada with me. You ever been up there? Most of it’s still virgin country, you know.”
    â€œThat’s what I understand,” Mark said.
    â€œYou boys drink beer?”
    They crested the grade and started around a curve. The right front wheel went off the pavement.
    â€œJesus,” Bill said.
    The old man let off the gas and slowed the truck. The curves fed into one another and then they were going down a long, sloping straight and then onto a long, white concrete bridge. Far below was a creek, brown-green between its banks.
    â€œSure,” Mark said. “That’s really pretty down there.”
    â€œIt is,” the old man answered. “Not good for much, though. Too many people use it.”
    â€œYeah, I suppose so,” Mark said.
    â€œYou’ve got to pack back into the mountains to get real country.”
    â€œI guess that’s so,” said Mark. “I’d like to do that. So would Bill.”
    â€œBy myself,” Bill said.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œBy myself,” Bill repeated.
    â€œHey,” Mark said, “I thought you were asleep. Sorry, man.”
    â€œNo,” Bill said.
    â€œYou boys got sleeping bags? You’d need sleeping bags to do that.”
    â€œNo, not this trip,” Mark said. “We’ve been visiting friends down in Berkeley. We didn’t expect to have to sleep out.”
    â€œCouldn’t go back in the mountains without good bags.”
    They went along another curve, the road well shadowed by the trees, only a narrow swath of blue sky over them.
    â€œYou boys ever been to San Francisco?”
    â€œSure,” Mark said. “How about it, Bill?”
    â€œEver go into bars there?”
    â€œWe’re not old enough to drink,” Bill said.
    â€œThere’s one place there you should see,” the old man said, “just one big room.”
    â€œWhat for?” Mark asked.
    â€œCouples,” the old man said, “ten couples every night. All’s they have in there is one light and a rug, a nice thick rug, nothing else . . .”
    â€œNothing else?”
    â€œ. . . just one tiny light on, way down at the end, and a few cushions. No chairs, no tables, nothing . . .”
    â€œWow,” Mark said, “what happens?”
    â€œYou name it.”
    â€œYou mean balling?”
    â€œEverything,” the old man said, “sucking, fucking, switching . . .”
    â€œI see,” Mark said.
    â€œDoors open at ten and stay open till there’s ten couples then they close till six in the morning. No one can get in or get out until six.”
    â€œWhat’s it cost?”
    â€œTen bucks a person.”
    â€œTwo hundred bucks a night,” Mark said.
    â€œEvery night,” said the old man.
    â€œThat’s a lot of dough.”
    â€œIt’s a lot of fun.”
    â€œI bet,” Mark said. “I bet it is.”
    â€œYou boys have to stop?”
    Bill looked away from him. Coming toward them on the right was a clearing in the trees and a service station.
    â€œNot me,” Bill said.
    â€œSure,” Mark said. “I could stand to wash up.”
    â€œI’ve got to,” said the old man. He pumped the brakes and turned the