a tech named Carlos took three ampules of blood, gave him a shot (no reaction), then had him go into a toilet cubicle and pee in a cup. After that, Carlos and a scowling orderly named Winona escorted him down to D-Level. Winona was reputed to be one of the mean ones, and Luke made no attempt to talk to her. They took him to a large room containing an MRI tube that must have cost megabucks.
It almost has to be a government installation, George had said. If so, what would John and Josie Q. Public think about how their tax dollars were being spent? Luke guessed that in a country where people squalled about Big Brother even if faced with some piddling requirement like having to wear a motorcycle helmet or get a license to carry a concealed weapon, the answer would be “not much.”
A new tech was waiting for them, but before he and Carlos could insert Luke in the tube, Dr. Evans darted in, checked Luke’s arm around the site of his latest shot, and pronounced him “fine as paint.” Whatever that meant. He asked if Luke had experienced any more seizures or fainting spells.
“No.”
“What about the colored lights? Any recurrence of those? Perhaps while exercising, perhaps while looking at your laptop computer, perhaps while straining at stool? That means—”
“I know what it means. No.”
“Don’t lie to me, Luke.”
“I’m not.” Wondering if the MRI would detect some change in his brain activity and prove him a liar.
“Okay, good.” Not good, Luke thought. You’re disappointed. Which makes me happy.
Evans scribbled something on his clipboard. “Carry on, lady and gentlemen, carry on!” And he darted out again, like a white rabbit late for a very important date.
The MRI tech—DAVE, his tag said—asked Luke if he was claustrophobic. “You probably know what that means, too.”
“I’m not,” Luke said. “The only thing I’m phobic about is being locked up.”
Dave was an earnest-looking fellow, middle-aged, bespectacled, mostly bald. He looked like an accountant. Of course, so had Adolf Eichmann. “Just if you are . . . claustrophobic, I mean . . . I can give you a Valium. It’s allowed.”
“That’s all right.”
“You should have one, anyway,” Carlos said. “You’re gonna be in there a long time, on and off, and it makes the experience more pleasant. You might even sleep, although it’s pretty loud. Bumps and bangs, you know.”
Luke knew. He’d never actually been in an MRI tube, but he’d seen plenty of doctor shows. “I’ll pass.”
But after lunch (brought in by Gladys), he took the Valium, partly out of curiosity, mostly out of boredom. He’d had three stints in the MRI, and according to Dave, had three more to go. Luke didn’t bother asking what they were testing for, looking for, or hoping to find. The answer would have been some form of none of your beeswax. He wasn’t sure they knew themselves.
The Valium gave him a floaty, dreamy feeling, and during the last stint in the tube, he fell into a light doze in spite of the loud banging the machine made when it took its pictures. By the time Winona appeared to take him back to the residence level, the Valium had worn off and he just felt spaced out.
She reached into her pocket and brought out a handful of tokens. When she handed them to him, one fell to the floor and rolled.
“Pick that up, butterfingers.”
He picked it up.
“You’ve had a long day,” she said, and actually smiled. “Why don’t you go get yourself something to drink? Kick back. Relax. I recommend the Harveys Bristol Cream.”
She was middle-aged, plenty old enough to have a kid Luke’s age. Maybe two. Would she have made a similar recommendation to them? Gee, you had a tough day at school, why not kick back and have a wine cooler before tackling your homework? He thought of saying that, the worst she’d probably do was slap him, but . . .
“What good would it do?”
“Huh?” She was frowning at him. “What good would what do?”
“Anything,” he said. “Anything at all, Winnie.” He didn’t want Harveys Bristol Cream, or Twisted Tea, or even Stump Jump Grenache, a name John Keats might have been thinking of when he said something or other was “call’d as romantic as that westwards moon in yon waning ribbon of the night.”
“You want to watch that wise mouth, Luke.”
“I’ll work on that.”
He put the tokens in his pocket. He believed there were nine of them. He would give three to