"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 bad moment I thought you'd told her about my...other weirdness."
"Oh, God, I'd never do that!" Matt said.
Quinn knew when she was being put on. She stared at Matt with feigned shock.
"Sure you did. You said he's got a shoe fetish and his philosophy of life is somewhere to the left of 'Whoopee!'"
Matt laughed but Tim was on his feet, wagging his index finger at her.
"I know that line! I know it! It's from...A Thousand Clowns. Murray Burns discussing his sister. Right?"
"Incredible," Quinn said. Matt hadn't exaggerated. Tim Brown's memory was phenomenal.
"But how do you know that line?" Tim said.
"For a long time it was my favorite movie."
"Yeah, well, Jason Robards was great, but—"
"It just was."
Quinn didn't want to get into how as a teenager she'd fantasized about taking the place of Murray Burns' nephew—she'd have been Murray's niece—and being raised by such a lovable non-conformist. Her parents were such staid, stick-in-the-mud, normal people. For years she'd longed for a little kookiness in her home.
She glanced at her watch. It was 10:50. "I'd better be getting back."
"Right," Tim said. "I've heard you turn into a pumpkin if you're late."
"Really? Was that in the Time article too?"
"A curfew!" Matt said, sitting up on his bed. "Can you believe it? I haven't been here a full day yet and already this place is getting on my nerves. And have you seen all the video cameras around the campus?"
Tim pressed a finger to his lips. "Careful, my friend. The walls may have ears."
MONITORING
"You bet they have ears, wise ass," Louis Verran muttered as he switched to another set of pick-ups.
"Mattress sensors positive all over the place, boss," Kurt said from his console.
"All right," Verran said. "It's almost eleven. Nighty-night time. Let's get some slow waves going."
He flipped the power switch and gave the rheostat a clockwise turn on the slow-wave inducer. Getting them to sleep before midnight was always the trickiest part of entrance exam week. Most of these kids were uptight about the test tomorrow and wired on their own adrenalin. That was why all the coffee in the caf had been decaf—even the pots marked regular. Without a little help, too many would spend the night chewing their fingernails and tossing and turning on the unfamiliar mattresses. Big no-no. They had to sleep. All of them. For at least five full hours.