Eight people were in Harrison's room. Quinn and Tim made it ten. They greeted Quinn with hellos but they had a cheer for Tim when he came through the door. He clearly had become a mainstay of these sessions. She marveled at his ability to make friends with almost anybody. And envied it.
"Tim, you're just in time." It was Judy Trachtenberg. Didn't she ever study? "Harrison here is going radical on us. He thinks chiropractors ought to be included in the tiering of care."
"Tiering?" Quinn said.
They quieted and looked at her.
"Tiers of eligibility," Tim told her. "You know. Alston mentions it every so often."
"Oh, right," Quinn said. Somewhere along the line Dr. Alston had turned tier into a verb: to tier. Last week he'd asked the class to assume a limited amount of medical resources, then directed them to create two sets of tiers: the first set listing levels of care in descending order of sophistication, the second set dividing the population into groups in descending order of their value to society. Quinn had found it a chilling exercise, but she'd considered it no more than that: an exercise in ethics. The bull session semed to be taking it seriously.
"What do you think?" Harrison said. Quinn wondered if anybody knew his first name. "Yes or no on the back crackers?"
"Definitely yes," Tim said. "Acupuncturists too. We've got to find a tier for every therapy if this is going to work."
Quinn waited for the zinger, the gag line that would turn around what he'd just said. But it never came.
"All right," Judy said. "Where to we lump them?"
"With the physical therapists," Tim said. "Take away all their mumbo-jumbo and look at what they do: physical therapy."
Quinn watched and listened in shock. "I thought you were against any kind of rationing," she said.
"I was," Tim said.
"Well, what happened?" Quinn realized that although she and Tim did a lot of talking, the future structure of healthcare delivery was not a topic of conversation. She had no idea he'd come around 180 degrees.
"That was before I realized the full scope of the problem. The day is coming when there won't be enough care to go around. And that means some people are going to have to make do with lower levels of care. Tiering is the only way to decide who gets what, Quinn. The only way."
She heard murmurs of agreement and saw heads nodding in agreement all around the room.
"What are you saying? Someone gets past a certain age and we throw them to the wolves?"
"Nothing so blunt as that," Harrison said. "Age should not be the sole criterion. Overall value to society should be considered. Of course, the older you are, the fewer years you have left—ipso facto, your chances of contributing much are reduced. Plenty of people of all ages contribute nothing. The homeless, the drunks, the addicts are the most obvious, but there are others, less obvious. People we never see, shut-ins who sit at home and do nothing. Should some couch potato on welfare get a coronary bypass while a hard-working mechanic who's the father of three has to go on working with chest pain? I don't think so."
"I don't think so either. But who's going to decide who gets stuck in which tier? Who's going to arbitrate human value?"
"You can bet we'll have something to say in it," Tim said. "Especially those of us who go into primary care. We'll be deciding who gets referred and who doesn't."
"But this tiering idea, this dividing people up and stacking them in order of how useful they are is so...cold." She turned to Tim. "What about compassion? Remember how we talked about finding a CPT code number for compassion?"
"Yeah," Tim said softly, his eyes suddenly distraught. "I remember. Trouble is, I don't know how I forgot."
Quinn didn't know what it was, but something in Tim's eyes unsettled her.
THIRTEEN
Quinn had a few moments so she wandered across the lab to where Dr. Emerson was reading a journal article. He looked up at her approach and smiled.
"Taking a break?" he said.
Quinn nodded. "My computer's tied up with some number crunching on that reuptake program. It'll be another ten minutes or so till it's done."
"Very good." He nodded and returned to his article.
"Uh, Dr. Emerson," Quinn said, not sure of how to broach this. She'd rehearsed her opening all last night and most of today, but still she felt awkward. "Can I ask you a strange question?"
"Sure," he said, still reading. "Go ahead. I've always liked strange questions."
"What's going on here?"
He looked up at her over the tops of his reading glasses.
"I'd think you'd know the answer to that by now. We're putting 9574 through—"
"No. Not here in your lab. I mean in the school. In The Ingraham. What's going on here?"
Dr. Emerson put the journal down and removed his reading glasses. He stared at her.
"I'm not quite sure I'm following you, Quinn."
She dropped into the seat opposite him. "I'm not sure I'm following me either. It's all so vague." She groped for the right words, the appropriate analogy, but came up empty. "It's just that everybody here at The Ingraham seems to think alike, seems to have the same point of view."
"That's not so unusual, really," Dr. Emerson said. "It happens at many academic institutions. Certain points of view gain favor with an influential segment of a department, take root, bloom, and draw other like-minded individuals. As this group gains influence and tenure, those who strongly disagree with its positions tend to drift away, while those who agree or are indifferent stay on. Look how the deconstructionists came to rule the English department at Yale. Or—"
"But I'm not talking about a department. I'm talking about a whole institution—students and faculty alike."
"The Ingraham? Maybe you'd better explain."
Quinn took a deep breath. How was she going to explain this in a sane and coherent manner when it all sounded pretty crazy to her?
"Everyone's starting to sound like Dr. Alston."
Dr. Emerson burst out laughing. "Oh, I hope not! I truly hope not!"
"It's true. They're all starting to sound like his lectures. Why just last night—"
Dr. Emerson put one hand and her arm and raised the other to wave someone in from the hall.
"Arthur! Come in, Arthur. I want you to hear this."
Quinn turned and started at the sight of Dr. Alston strolling through the door and approaching them. What was Dr. Emerson doing? Was he trying to get her in more trouble with Dr. Alston?
"You remember Miss Cleary, don't you?"
"Ah, yes," Dr. Alston said, nodding to her. "The object of my wrath a few weeks ago. I do believe I overreacted. My apologies, Miss Cleary."
"I'm glad you apologized, Arthur," Dr. Emerson said. "Because Quinn here just paid you a compliment."
Dr. Alston smiled thinly as he looked down at her. "Did she now? And what did she say?"
Quinn fought the urge to tell him not to refer to her in the third person. She was here in the same room and quite able to answer for herself.
"She thinks you're a very persuasive lecturer."
The thin smile broadened. "Is that so?"
"Yes. She says the whole student body is beginning to sound like you."
Dr. Alston's gaze became penetrating. "May I infer from your perspective that you have somehow managed to remain immune to the sway of my rhetoric?"
Quinn swallowed. This wasn't going well at all.
"I think you argue your points very well, but I find it difficult to accept the concept of rationing medical care on the basis of social and economic worth."
"Given the inevitability of such rationing," he said, his manner cooling quickly, "what criteria do you propose?"
"I don't think I'm qualified to make decisions of that magnitude," Quinn said. "I don't know if anybody is. But I've read where it used to be widely held that global communism was inevitable, how it was only a matter of time before Marxism took over the world. And now the USSR is gone. I'm sure there are plenty of other 'inevitabi
lities' that have never become reality."
"I'm sure there are too, Miss Quinn," Dr. Alston said, nodding slowly as he stared at her. His gaze made her uncomfortable. "I'm glad we had this little talk. You've given me something to ponder."
He nodded goodbye to her and Dr. Emerson, then left.
Quinn shook off a chill and turned back to Dr. Emerson.
"Am I such a Pollyanna?" she said. "I mean, why do I seem to be the only one in The Ingraham who isn't falling into line behind Dr. Alston's bleak outlook?"
"Knowing Arthur," Dr. Emerson said, "I'm sure he's wondering the very same thing."
*
As Louis Verran approached Alston's office in the faculty building, he wondered what Dr. Tightass wanted. Whatever it was, he knew it couldn't be good. Not from the tone of voice he'd heard on the phone a few minutes ago.
Please come to my office immediately, Louis. I have made a fascinating discovery that I wish to share with you.
Right. Verran had little doubt that the fascinating discovery meant Alston had tripped over a glitch in security and was going to rub his nose in it. He just hoped he hadn't somehow heard about the lost bug.
Damn it! Where the hell was it? They'd swept the halls on both levels of the dorm but still hadn't found it.
Verran knew he wouldn't have a decent night's sleep until he'd found the damn thing.
He knocked on Alston's door.
"Come," came the reply from the other side.
Come? Gimme a fuckin' break!
He stepped into the office—dark, oak paneled, the largest in the building, befitting Alston's status as DME—and saw him behind his desk, leaning back in his chair, his fingers steepled before his mouth, looking like the proverbial cat with a bad case of canary breath.
Verran took one of the chairs without asking. He noted with satisfaction how Alston stiffened when he put his feet up on the desk.
"What's up, Doc?"
"One of the dorm SLI units is malfunctioning—and please take your shoes off my desk."
Verran dropped his feet to the floor to cover his relief. Alston hadn't heard about or found the bug.
"Yeah? Which room?"
"I don't know the number, but I know the student's name. You're capable of following up from there. But I didn't call you here merely for informational purposes. A simple phone call would have sufficed for that. The truth is, I'm more than a little disturbed by the fact that if I hadn't learned of this by sheer happenstance, she might have gone all semester without hearing the night music."
Verran had to admit this was no petty matter. A malfunctioning SLI undercut The Ingraham's very purpose. But Alston's notion didn't necessarily equate with an established fact.
"What makes you think it's not working? I doubt the student came up and told you."
Alston smiled. "In a way, she did. She told me she saw all her fellow students swinging their points of view toward mine on certain matters, and she couldn't understand why." He leaned forward. "Obviously her viewpoints are not changing. Ergo, she's not hearing the music. Conclusion: her SLI is malfunctioning. Can you dispute that?"
Vaguely uncomfortable now, Verran scratched his jaw. "No. It's logical."
"My question, Louis," Alston continued, "is why didn't you know about the malfunctioning unit?"
Verran shrugged. "All our SLI indicators are green. No signs of trouble anywhere. Every unit got its usual overhaul this summer. Everything checks out fine every night."
Alston furrowed his brow. "But something is obviously awry. I want you to check into it immediately."
Verran gritted his teeth. He didn't need Dr. Tightass to tell him that.
"Right. Who's the kid?"
"First year. You're supposed to be watching her closely already. Quinn Cleary."
"Oh, shit!" Verran said. "Not 252 again."
Alston straightened. "Again? You've had trouble with Cleary before?"
Verran had to be careful here. He couldn't slip up and spill about almost getting caught—or about the missing bug.
"No, no. Not with her personally. Just her room. Her audio pick-up went on the fritz last month and I had to replace it."
"Did you now?" He paused and leaned back. "Strange, isn't it?"
"What?"
"That two electronic devices should malfunction in the same room within a matter of weeks—in a room with only a single occupant." His tones became pensive, almost distant. "And that occupant...a young woman that I was against admitting in the first place. Very strange. I wonder...is something going on here?"
"She doesn't have any jamming equipment, if that's what you're thinking." He grinned at Alston. "You're not going paranoid on me, are you, Doc?"
"Not at all, Louis. I realize that coincidences occur, but I'm always suspicious when they do. It's the scientist in me, I suppose."
"Well, the first thing we should do, Dr. Scientist," Verran said, rising, "is make sure you've got your facts straight. So far as I know, room 252's SLI is working perfectly."
"It had better not be, Louis," Alston said. "Or otherwise we've got ourselves a big problem. I do not want another problem, Louis. I had enough problems two years ago to last me a lifetime."
Verran nodded. This was one point on which he and Dr. Tightass were in complete agreement. That had been a nightmare.
"Amen, Doc." He turned toward the door. "I'll let you know as soon as I check it out."
"How are you going to work this?"
"I'll use the old exterminator ploy."
Alston nodded absently. "Odd, but lately it seems that every time there's trouble, this Cleary girl is involved. Why is that?"
"Beats me," Verran said as he stepped out into the hall.
"Am I going to regret letting her in?"
Verran closed the door and hoped Alston wouldn't regret it. Because if Alston regretted letting Cleary in, then inevitably Verran would come to regret it.
Of course, the one who'd wind up regretting it most would be the Cleary girl.
FOURTEEN
"Don't lock your door, Quinn," Tim said as he heard the clink of her key chain.
"Why not?"
"They're spraying today."
"Oh, that's right."
Tim watched her tuck the keys back in her pocket. She looked great in her slacks and sweater, except that the sweater was too long—it covered too much of her. He sighed as he watched her. Today was going to be an especially long day, for tonight was the night they were taking off for AC. A lot of quality time with Quinn—overnight time with her in his free room. He'd been indulging himself these past few weeks in some wild sexual fantasies—visions of those long, slim, dynamite legs wrapped tight around him—none of which, he knew, had the slightest chance of becoming reality, but still they managed to fuel his anticipation. He'd even picked up a pack of condoms, which he supposed was like buying a Pick-6 Lotto ticket—the chances of winning were six million to one, but that didn't stop you from thinking about what it would be like to be a multimillionaire.
He smiled. And as the lotto folks liked to say: You can't win it unless you're in it.
He stepped across the hall and took another look at the sign pinned to the bulletin board.
NOTICE
The exterminators will be performing their periodic
spraying of the dorm. The second floor is scheduled
first on Friday morning, November 18. All rooms must
be vacated between 8 a.m. and noon. Please leave
your room unlocked and remove all articles from your
floors before leaving for morning classes that day.
Louis Verran
Chief of Campus Security
Something about the notice bothered Tim but for the life of him he couldn't nail down just what it was.
"Seen any bugs around your room, Quinn?" he said.
"Not a one," she said as she left her door and came over to him. "And I don't want to."
"How about the other girls? Any of them mention being bothe
red by bugs?"
"Not that I recall. Why?"
"I don't know. Seems strange to start spraying on the second floor. I'd think if there was going to be an insect problem in the dorm it would start at ground level and work its way up."
"You're an expert on bugs now?"
"No. But if nobody's seen any—"
"Sounds like preventive medicine to me," Quinn said. "If you spray on a regular basis, you won't develop a problem. Not a bad idea, really. Besides, the stuff they're using is supposed to be colorless and odorless and non-toxic to humans once it dries." She tugged on his sleeve. "Come on. We'll be late for Path."
Tim took one last look at the notice. Maybe it was Louis Verran's name on the bottom that bothered him. He hadn't told Quinn about his little run-in with Verran in her room that night. She'd already been upset about her confrontation with Alston and he hadn't seen any purpose in bringing it up.
But something about Verran's demeanor that night had lingered with him like a bad aftertaste. Tim had had a vague impression then that the man was hiding something. He'd looked guilty. Over the following weeks Tim had written it off as a misread, but then this notice: the second floor was going to be empty, all the doors unlocked, with Louis Verran in charge.
Was something going on?
Nah.
He followed Quinn toward the stairs.
*
Louis Verran stood at the door to room 252 and glanced at his watch. 9:16. Plenty of time left. He stepped back into the suite and watched Elliot checking the SLI units in the headboards. All the works were exposed and he was running his check, his long fingers pulling, poking, and probing the tangled wires and circuit boards.
"How's it look?" Verran said.
"Perfect so far, chief. I'm about halfway through and haven't found a thing. I got a feeling I'm not going to."