America smiled.
He smiled widely, often, and he always thought about the same thing.
As a nation, he had often found himself where he needed to be. The important events of history necessitated his presence, and he would awake in an unknown place, in new clothes, with the knowledge of what he was supposed to do, but no idea how he came to be there. He'd order 25 cm condoms, make friends with whales, or pretend their first alien encounter had in fact been a downed weather balloon, long ago having ceased asking why or to what purpose he did these incomprehensible things. At times he would take the place of great men, or stand beside them, somehow well trusted and informed, only to be forgotten in the next instant. He would pass through history in this manner, largely omitted from official records.
He sympathized with Billy Pilgrim; at the very least the comparison made him thankful that his life was chronological, for the most part.
The experience had been like any other and unlike any other.
For once, he awoke to find he was not a nation and he did not represent a people.
He was weightless.
For .3 seconds, he looked up at an Earth that outshone the stars.
He was in the middle of saying something, but lost his breath.
He was one man taking a small step on the moon.
He never told anyone of this experience, and the memory existed in some nameless, wordless part of his mind.
England asked why he was grinning like a moron and in response he only laughed, because the words had no meaning.