The Thanatos Syndrome

Pointe Coupée across the river?”
    â€œHow would they go about that?”
    She shrugs. “Whenever a routine blood workup was ordered in a hospital, heavy sodium and chloride levels were checked as routinely as blood sugar or NPN.”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œSo I’m wondering if they still do it.”
    â€œI wouldn’t know. I haven’t ordered much lab work lately.”
    â€œLet’s find out.”
    â€œAll right.”
    â€œCome over here by me now.”
    â€œI’m by you. Is that a terminal?”
    â€œYes. Now then—” She consults a little book, punches keys on the keyboard, punches other keys on a small black box, humming a tune, musing and busy. She reminds me of a chatelaine, the ole miss of Pantherburn. Red lights begin to blink on the black box.
    The screen lights up with an arcane readout: LADPTPBH and a flashing question mark.
    â€œDo you know what that is?” she asks me.
    â€œLouisiana Department of Public Health?”
    â€œRight, I use ’em all the time. Now”—humming—“let me get the access and user codes.”
    â€œAren’t they closed now?”
    â€œThey don’t close, dummy. I’m not talking to people. I’m talking to their data bank.” She’s hitting more keys. The bank must be pleased, lights up with a merry flashing ACCESSED .
    â€œYou’re in?”
    â€œWe’re in. Now to ask the question. What’s the question?”
    â€œWe want the mean plasma level of heavy sodium of hospital admissions in Feliciana Parish, say, for this year.”
    â€œWell expressed, well—” she muses, hitting keys.
    The computer utters a sour bleat, flashes SNERROR.
    â€œWhat does that mean? That is, doesn’t know or won’t tell?”
    â€œIt means we asked a dumb question.”
    â€œI feel like I flunked a test.”
    â€œThat particular bank has a personality.”
    â€œLike Hal.”
    â€œNo no. It’s on our side. Hm. Tom, what did we do wrong?”
    â€œHow did you write heavy sodium?”
    â€œAs heavy sodium.”
    â€œTry Na-24.”
    â€œThat’s the atomic weight?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œSmart.” She hits keys. The thing is pleased, flashes a smiling ACCESS ACCESS ACCESS , then, as if it were thinking things over, waits a second and reads out: 6 mmg., meaning 6 micrograms. The symbol is really 6 µ but I figure this was not practical typographically. We gaze at it blinking. “Jesus,” I say.
    Lucy looks at me. “What does that mean?”
    â€œSix micrograms. That is very little, but any is too much. I suppose it means the mean value of heavy-sodium levels in all hospital blood workups, including positives and negatives.”
    â€œIs it too high?”
    â€œAny number would be too high.”
    â€œBut that’s very little, isn’t it?”
    â€œYes, but too much.” I feel a prickling under the collar of my new Bean shirt. I look at her musing. “What else can we ask?”
    â€œWe can ask any terminal any question. It’s just a matter of framing the question.”
    â€œWell?” She looks at me, hands on keyboard. She’s shifted now, from chatelaine to girl-Friday secretary, Della Street waiting for Perry to make up his mind.
    â€œWhat we need is a control.”
    â€œRight.” She waits, smiling.
    â€œLet’s do yours and mine. Have you had a complete physical lately?”
    â€œSure. I had to get one to get this job.”
    â€œYou got it at Fedville?”
    â€œRight. How about you?”
    â€œMe too.”
    â€œAt Fedville?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhen was that?”
    â€œWhen I was arrested by the feds.”
    â€œOf course. I wanted to come see you.”
    â€œIt was not a good time. Can you talk to Fedville now?”
    â€œSure. I’m on intimate terms with their mainframe. Let’s see. Yours would be about two years ago, right?”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œTwo years. What a waste.”
    â€œWaste of what?”
    â€œGive me your SS number.”
    I give it. “Can we get individual readings?”
    â€œWe can get anything we ask for. I have Class One clearance.”
    More black book, more punching out the big keyboard, little box, more queries, accesses, OKS. The thing doesn’t even pause to think it over this time. Back come the answers. I have the feeling the thing is sitting pleased, waiting