The Select

'Oh, I don't...' Finally she caught it. She smiled. 'You're putting me on, aren't you! I must sound a little nuts, huh?'

'No. Just nervous. Like me.'

'You too? You don't show it.'

Next to Trish anyone would look calm, but she saw no need to point that out.

'I guess I have a different way of showing it.'

'So, aren't you going to study?'

'I don't think this is the kind of test you can study for. But you go ahead. I think I'll take a little walk.'

She strolled out into the hall and headed for Matt's down on the first floor. The hall was almost like an expensive hotel corridor, well lit, carpeted, and clean—no graffiti, no cigarette burns, no litter. She wondered at the size of the maintenance crew it took to keep things in this shape.

Tim and Matt had somehow finagled a room together. Quinn begrudgingly admitted to herself that she had warmed to Tim over dinner. She'd actually had fun laughing at his unsuccessful attempts to conjure up some white wine to go with the chicken francaise. She found him stretched out on the couch, reading a Cerebus comic—and still wearing his shades. Matt sat with his feet up on the table, listening to his Walkman. He looked up and waved.

Tim said, 'Ah, the Mighty Quinn. Welcome!' He plucked up a fold of a new sweatshirt he was wearing emblazoned with The Ingraham. 'How do I look?'

''Like a patient etherized upon a table.''

'Ah! A T.S. Eliot fan.'

'But what poem?'

''The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock'—first stanza.' He lifted his sunglasses and looked at her cross-eyed. 'You saw the comic book and thought you'd slip one by me, huh?'

'Not if it's a Cerebus, but isn't it hard to read with those things?'

'Very. Especially at night.'

'Then why wear them?'

Matt lowered the headphones to the back of his neck and answered for his roommate. 'Because as Andre Agassi says, 'Image...is everything.''

Quinn had her own idea about that: Image had nothing to do with it; Tim Brown was hiding behind those lenses.

'How'd you two manage to get assigned to the same room?' she asked, dropping into a chair.

Tim said, 'I traded with the guy who was originally here.'

'You sure there's isn't a rule against that?' Quinn said.

'I didn't see one,' Matt said, 'but I'll bet there's one somewhere.'

Tim put down his Cerebus and sat up. 'Hell of a lot of rules, don't you think?'

'Their ball, their gloves, and their playing field,' Matt said. 'So they call the shots.'

'Yeah,' Tim said, 'but what's this deal with you've got to sleep over in the dorm the night before the test? Where's that come from? If you don't like institutional food, or you'd rather stay in the Holiday Inn, why should they care?'

Quinn had been thinking about that. 'Maybe they want us all to start off tomorrow morning on equal footing. You know, same dinner, same amount of sleep on the same kind of mattress, same breakfast, that sort of thing. Another level of standardization for the test.'

Matt nodded. 'Maybe. Their booklet does say they've learned over the years that they get the best results from their applicants under these conditions.'

'Well, I don't know about you guys,' Tim said, 'but this kind of thing makes me feel like some sort of a lab rat.'

'Maybe the whole point,' Quin said, 'is seeing if you're willing to do things their way.'

'Obviously this place isn't for the wild and free spirits of the world,' Matt said.

'But the price is right,' Quinn said. The price is very right.

Tim shrugged. 'No arguing that.'

'What's not to like?' Quinn said. 'The place is like a resort. The dorm is like a Hyatt, the caf is like a fine restaurant, you've got a physical fitness center with a lap pool, a great game room, and a top-notch faculty—'

'Even a pub,' Tim said.

'Makes you wonder, though, doesn't it?' Matt said. 'I mean, what are they getting out of it?'

'Simple,' Quinn said. 'The cream of the crop.'

'Yeah...maybe.'

'TANSTAAFL,' Tim said, and pointed to Quinn with raised eyebrows.

She guessed it was her turn to identify a reference.

'Easy,' she said. 'It means There Ain't No Such Thing As A Free Lunch. From The Moon is a Harsh Mistress by Robert A. Heinlein.'

'Hey, very good,' Tim said, nodding and mock applauding. 'The lady knows SF too.'

Quinn was surprised to find herself enjoying in his approval. She shook it off and said, 'Who wouldn't want to go to medical school here?'

'Nobody,' Matt said, 'until you realize that you must spend all four years right within these wall.'

Quinn felt a flash of resentment. Easy to say when money was no object. But she knew Matt didn't deserve that. He was a sweet guy despite the silver spoon he'd teethed on.

'My point exactly,' Tim was saying. 'What's the big deal? Why must you spend all four years in their dorm?'

Quinn shrugged. 'I don't know. But they're very serious about it. I understand they make you sign a contract to live on campus all four years. You don't sign it, you don't register.'

'And if you quit, you pay,' Tim said.

Quinn was startled. She hadn't heard about that. 'Pay? Pay what?'

'All your back tuition, room, board, book and lab fees.'

'But that could be—'

'Lots,' Tim said. 'Upwards of thirty thou a year.'

'But if you get sick or hurt—'

'No. Only if you transfer to another medical school. If you get sick or hurt or change careers, it's goodbye and good luck. But if you want to graduate from another med school, watch out.'

Quinn figured Tim must have read every line of fine print in the booklet.

'What if you want to get married?'

'You wait,' Tim said.

'Or you marry a fellow Ingrahamite,' Matt laughed. 'But seriously, speaking as the son of a high-priced lawyer, let me assure you: contracts can be broken.'

'Not this one,' Tim said. 'Not yet, anyway. Some parents took The Ingraham to court a few years ago. Their kid wanted to transfer to Cornell after two years here. They spent years battling it, and lost. They had to pay.'

'Well, they won't have to worry about me,' Quinn said. 'If I get in, I'm staying.' And she meant it with all her heart.

But Tim's remark about no free lunch nagged at her.

Matt was staring at Tim. 'Where'd you learn so much about The Ingraham contract.'

'Time had an article on it awhile back.' Tim lifted his sunglasses and rubbed his right eye with his index finger. 'Let's see...it was the October 15th issue, page 12, lower right-hand corner.'

Quinn stared in amazement, then glanced at Matt for his reaction. He was grinning at her.

'He's kidding, isn't he?' she said to Matt.

'Didn't I tell you?'

Tim sat up. 'Tell her? Tell her what?'

'About your weird memory.'

Tim placed a hand over his heart and let out an exaggerated sigh. 'You had me worried there. For one very