The Thanatos Syndrome

secret, since we’re all friends here. As a matter of fact, it is serendipitous that you should have dropped by, since I couldn’t call you—it seems the yahoos have cut my line. Number one: I’m going to be moving on. To a little piece of work at M.I.T., Tom,” he says in a sober yet cordial voice. “I’ve paid my dues here. But the time comes—The school will be in good hands—in fact, no doubt better off without me—like my friend Oppie at Los Alamos, I seem to arouse controversy. Number two,” he counts, leaning toward me across the table. “You’re in, Doctor. You’ve got your grant from Ford: $125,000 per. Not great, not adequate compensation for your contribution, but you’ll have time for your practice plus research access to Fedville—you can name it. They just want you aboard.”
    Ricky has left the Star Wars 4 game and is kneeling at the half-finished game of War, evening up the deck against his stomach and eyeing me impatiently.
    I do not reply. As all shrinks know, it is useful sometimes to say nothing if you want to find out something. In the silence that follows, it is Vergil with his sense of social propriety who feels the awkwardness most. His expression as he looks not quite at me is worried and irritable.
    â€œWe’ll finish the game later, Ricky,” I tell him. “I’ll tell you what let’s do.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œUncle Hugh, my car is parked by the front gate. Here are the keys. Why don’t you take these two boys out to the car and wait for us. We’ll be along in a minute.”
    â€œIs that your car out there?” says Van Dorn, looking up in surprise. “For heaven’s sake.”
    â€œBut why—” Mrs. Cheney begins.
    â€œBut—” says the uncle, next to Mrs. Cheney.
    â€œHe’s the best duck caller in the state,” I tell Ricky. “He’ll show you how to call ducks, won’t you, Uncle Hugh?”
    â€œSure, but—”
    â€œGet going.”
    â€œIt’s perfectly all right, boys,” says Van Dorn. “No sense in them sitting around listening to us old folks discussing the state of the world,” he explains to us. “Hold it, fellows. Let me give you a key to the front gate—I’m sure you understand my precautions, Tom.”
    â€œThey’re not going anywhere. Give it to me.”
    â€œSure thing!” He hands me a key. He watches fondly as the boys leave with the uncle. “Good boys, both of them. I’ll miss them. I’ll miss them all.”
    After the door closes, Van Dorn claps his hands again. “Tell you what, Tom,” he says, rising. “Why don’t you and I walk over to my study and have a tad of bourbon by way of celebration.”
    â€œNo thanks.”
    There is another silence. “Very well,” says Van Dorn presently, fetching his pipe from a pocket of his Norfolk jacket. “What’s your pleasure, Doctor? What can I do for you?”
    â€œI’m curious about that water, Van.” I nod toward the cooler. Both Van Dorn and Vergil look relieved. It is, I think, social relief. Not talking makes people uneasy.
    â€œThe water?”
    â€œDo you drink it, Van?”
    â€œNo, I’m not in training. But it’s no big deal.” With a flourish, Van Dorn takes a Styrofoam cup, fills it from the cooler, drains it off. “Want one, Tom?”
    I rise, go to the cooler, take a cup. Van Dorn watches me with a lively expression. I unclamp the hemostat, fill the cup not from the fountain but from the tube.
    I hear Van Dorn shuffle his feet, “You’re not going to drink that,” says Van Dorn with genuine alarm.
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œCome on, Tom. Knock it off. You know what the additive is—Christ, it’s no secret. And you’ve also seen what it does in minimal dosage—Ricky, for example. And his father does not object. But in micrograms, not molar. And as a matter of fact, I do drink a glass now and then. As a matter of fact, you could use a bit.”
    â€œDid Ellen drink any?”
    â€œNot to my knowledge. If she did,” says Van Dorn to Vergil for some reason, knocking out his pipe, “it was her choice. After all she’s one of our best volunteers and she may have seen me toss off a little cocktail.” Now he turns to me. “Ricky was flunking math before he came here. Interesting, don’t