iancaldwell&dustinthomason.theruleoffour-第2章

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l　deadlines　have　already　e　and　gone。　Charlie　identified　a　new　protein　interaction　in　certain　neuronal　signaling　pathways；　Gil　managed　something　on　the　ramifications　of　a　flat　tax。　I　pasted　mine　together　at　the　last　minute　between　applications　and　interviews；　and　I'm　sure　Frankenstein　scholarship　will　forever　be　the　same。
　The　senior　thesis　is　an　institution　that　almost　everyone　despises。　Alumni　talk　about　their　theses　wistfully；　as　if　they　can't　remember　anything　more　enjoyable　than　writing　one…hundred…page　research　papers　while　taking　classes　and　choosing　their　professional　futures。　In　reality；　a　senior　thesis　is　a　miserable；　spine…breaking　thing　to　write。　It's　an　introduction　to　adult　life；　a　sociology　professor　told　Charlie　and　me　once；　in　that　annoying　way　professors　have　of　lecturing　after　the　lecture　is　over：　it's　about　shouldering　something　so　big；　you　can't　get　out　from　under　it。　It's　called　responsibility；　he　said。　Try　it　on　for　size。　Never　mind　that　the　only　thing　he　was　trying　on　for　size　was　a　pretty　thesis　advisee　named　Kim　Silverman。　It　was　all　about　responsibility。　I'd　have　to　agree　with　what　Charlie　said　at　the　time。　If　Kim　Silverman　is　the　sort　of　thing　adults　can't　get　out　from　under；　then　sign　me　up。　Otherwise；　I'll　take　my　chances　being　young。
　Paul　is　the　last　of　us　to　finish　his　thesis；　and　there's　no　question　that　his　will　be　the　best　of　the　bunch。　In　fact；　his　may　be　the　best　of　our　entire　graduating　class；　in　the　history　department　or　any　other。　The　magic　of　Paul's　intelligence　is　that　he　has　more　patience　than　anyone　I've　ever　met；　and　with　it　he　simply　wears　problems　down。　To　count　a　hundred　million　stars；　he　told　me　once；　at　the　rate　of　one　per　second；　sounds　like　a　job　that　no　one　could　possibly　plete　in　a　lifetime。　In　reality；　it　would　only　take　three　years。　The　key　is　focus；　a　willingness　not　to　be　distracted。　And　that　is　Paul's　gift：　an　intuition　of　just　how　much　a　person　can　do　slowly。
　Maybe　that's　why　everyone　has　such　high　expectations　for　his　thesis…they　know　how　many　stars　he　could　count　in　three　years；　but　he's　been　working　on　his　thesis　for　almost　four。　While　the　average　student　es　up　with　a　research　topic　in　the　fall　of　senior　year　and　finishes　it　by　the　next　spring；　Paul　has　been　struggling　with　his　since　freshman　year。　Just　a　few　months　into　our　first　fall　semester；　he　decided　to　focus　on　a　rare　Renaissance　text　entitled　Hypnerotomachia　Poliphili；　a　labyrinthine　name　I　can　pronounce　only　because　my　father　spent　most　of　his　career　as　a　Renaissance　historian　studying　it。　Three　and　a　half　years　later；　and　barely　twenty…four　hours　from　his　deadline；　Paul　has　enough　material　to　make　even　the　most　discriminating　graduate　programs　salivate。
　The　problem　is；　he　thinks　I　ought　to　be　enjoying　the　fanfare　too。　We　worked　on　the　book　together　for　a　few　months　during　the　winter；　and　made　good　progress　as　a　team。　Only　then　did　I　understand　something　my　mother　used　to　say：　that　men　in　our　family　had　a　tendency　to　fall　for　certain　books　about　as　hard　as　they　fell　for　certain　women。　The　Hypnerotomachia　may　never　have　had　much　outward　charm；　but　it　has　an　ugly　woman's　wiles；　the　slow　addictive　tug　of　inner　mystery。　When　I　caught　myself　slipping　into　it　the　same　way　my　father　had；　I　managed　to　pull　myself　out　and　throw　in　the　towel　before　it　could　ruin　my　relationship　with　a　girlfriend　who　deserved　better。　Since　then；　things　between　Paul　and　me　haven't　been　the　same。　A　graduate　student　he　knows；　Bill　Stein；　has　helped　with　his　research　since　I　begged　off。　Now；　as　his　thesis　deadline　approaches；　Paul　has　bee　strangely　guarded。　He's　usually　much　more　forthing　about　his　work；　but　over　the　past　week　he's　withdrawn　not　only　from　me　but　from　Charlie　and　Gil　too；　refusing　to　speak　a　word　of　his　research　to　anyone。
　〃So；　which　way　are　you　leaning；　Tom？〃　Gil　asks。
　Charlie　glances　up　from　the　fridge。　〃Yeah；〃　he　says；　〃we're　all　on　tenterhooks。〃
　Gil　and　I　groan。　Tenterhooks　is　one　of　the　words　Charlie　missed　on　his　midterm。　He　attributed　it　to　Moby…Dick　instead　of　Tobias　Smollett's　Adventures　of　Roderick　Random　on　the　grounds　that　it　sounded　more　like　a　kind　of　fishing　lure　than　a　word　for　suspense。　Now　he　won't　let　it　go。
　〃Get　over　it；〃　Gil　says。
　〃Name　me　one　doctor　who　knows　what　a　tenterhook　is；〃　Charlie　says。
　Before　either　of　us　can　answer；　a　rustling　sound　es　from　inside　the　bedroom　I　share　with　Paul。　Suddenly；　standing　before　us　at　the　door；　wearing　only　boxers　and　a　T…shirt；　is　Paul　himself。
　〃Just　one？〃　he　asks；　rubbing　his　eyes。　〃Tobias　Smollett。　He　was　a　surgeon。〃
　Charlie　glances　back　at　the　magnets。　〃Figures。〃
　Gil　chuckles；　but　says　nothing。
　〃We　thought　you　went　to　Ivy；〃　Charlie　says；　when　the　pause　bees　noticeable。
　Paul　shakes　his　head；　backtracking　into　his　room　to　pick　up　his　notebook。　His　straw…colored　hair　is　pressed　flat　on　one　side；　and　there　are　pillow　creases　on　his　face。　〃Not　enough　privacy；〃　he　says。　〃I've　been　working　in　my　bunk　again。　Fell　asleep。〃
　He's　hardly　gotten　a　wink　in　two　nights；　maybe　more。　Paul's　advisor；　Dr。　Vincent　Taft；　has　pressed　him　to　produce　more　and　more　documentation　every　week…and　unlike　most　advisors；　who　are　happy　to　let　seniors　hang　by　the　rope　of　their　own　expectations；　Taft　has　kept　a　hand　at　Paul's　back　from　the　start。
　〃So；　what　about　it；　Tom？〃　Gil　asks；　filling　the　silence。　〃What's　your　decision？〃
　I　glance　up　at　the　table。　He's　talking　about　the　letters　in　front　of　me；　which　I've　been　eyeing　between　each　sentence　in　my　book。　The　first　letter　is　from　the　University　of　Chicago；　offering　me　admission　to　a　doctoral　program　in　English。　Books　are　in　my　blood；　the　same　way　medical　school　is　in　Charlie's；　and　a　Ph。D。　from　Chicago　would　suit　me　just　fine。　I　did　have　to　scrap　for　the　acceptance　letter　a　little　more　than　I　wanted　to；　partly　because　my　grades　at　Princeton　have　been　middling；　but　mainly　because　I　don't　know　exactly　what　I　want　to　do　with　myself；　and　a　good　graduate　program　can　smell　indecision　like　a　dog　can　smell　fear。
　〃Take　the　money；〃　Gil　says；　never　taking　his　eyes　off　Audrey　Hepburn。
　Gil　is　a　banker's　son　from　Manhattan。　Princeton　has　never　been　a　destination　for　him；　just　a　window　seat　with　a　view；　a　stopover　on　the　way　to　Wall　Street。　He　is　a　caricature　of　himself　in　that　respect；　and　he　manages　a　smile　whenever　we　give　him　a　hard　time　about　it。　He'll　be　smiling　all　the　way　to　the　bank；　we　know；　even　Charlie；　who's　sure　to　make　a　small　fortune　as　a　doctor；　won't　hold　a　candle　to　the　kind　of　paychecks　Gil　will　see。
　〃Don't　listen　to　him；〃　Paul　says　from　the　other　side　of　the　room。　〃Follow　your　heart。〃
　I　look　up；　surprised　that　he's　aware　of　anything　but　his　thesis。
　〃Follow　the　money；〃　Gil　says；　standing　up　to　get　a　bottle　of　water　from　the　refrigerator。
　〃What'd　they　offer？〃　Charlie　asks；　ignoring　the　magnets　for　a　second。
　〃Forty…one；〃　Gil　guesses；　and　a　few　Elizabethan　words　tumble　from　the　fridge　as　he　closes　it。　〃Bonus　of　five。　Plus　options。〃
　Spring　semester　is　job　season；　and　1999　is　a　buyer's　market。　Forty…one　thousand　dollars　a　year　is　roughly　double　what　I　expected　to　be　earning　with　my　lowly　English　degree；　but　pared　to　some　of　the　deals　I've　seen　classmates　make；　you'd　think　it　was　barely　getting　by。
　I　pick　up　the　letter　from　Daedalus；　an　Internet　firm　in　Austin　that　claims　to　have　developed　the　world's　most　advanced　software　for　streamlining　the　corporate　back　office。　I　know　almost　nothing　about　the　pany；　let　alone　what　a　back　office　is；　but　a　friend　down　the　hall　suggested　I　interview　with　them；　and　as　rumors　circulated　about　high　starting　salaries　at　this　unknown　Texas　start…up；　I　went。　Daedalus；　following　the　general　trend；　didn't　care　that　I　knew　nothing　about　them　or　their　business。　If　I　could　just　solve　a　few　brainteasers　at　an　interview；　and　seem　reasonably　articulate　and　friendly　in　the　process；　the　job　was　mine。　Thus；　in　good　Caesarian　fashion；　I　could；　I　did；　and　it　was。
　〃Close；〃　I　say；　reading　from　the　letter。　〃Forty…three　thousand　a　year。　Signing　bonus　of　three　thousand。　Fifteen　hundred　options。〃
　〃And　a　partridge　in　a　pear　tree；〃　Paul　adds　from　across　the　room。　He's　the　only　one　acting　like　it's　dirtier　to　talk　about　money　than　it　is　to　touch　it。　〃Vanity　of　vanities。〃
　Charlie　is　shifting　the　magnets　again。　In　a　fulminating　baritone　he　imitates　the　preacher　at　his　church；　a　tiny　black　man　from　Georgia　who　just　finished　his　degree　at　the　Princeton　Theological　Seminary。　〃Vanity　of　vanities。　All　is　vanity。〃
　〃Be　honest　with　yourself；　Tom；〃　Paul　says　impatiently；　though　he　never　makes　eye　contact。　〃Any　pany　that　thinks　you　deserve　a　salary　like　that　isn't　going　to　be　around　for　long。　You　don't　even　know　what　they　do。〃　He　returns　to　his　notebook；　scribbling　away。　Like　most　prophets；　he　is　fated　to　be　ignored。
　Gil　keeps　his　focus　on　the　television；　but　Charlie　looks　up；　hearing　the　edge　in　Paul's　voice。　He　rubs　a　hand　along　the　stubble　on　his　chin；　then　says；　〃All　right；　everybody　stop。　I　think　it's　time　to　let　off　some　steam。〃
　For　the　first　time；　Gil　turns　away　from　the　movie。　He　must　hear　what　I　hear：　the　faint　emphasis　on　the　word　steam。
　〃Right　now？〃　I　ask。
　Gil　looks　at　his　watch；　taking　to　the　idea。　〃We'd　be　clear　for　about　half　an　hour；〃　he　says；　and　in　a　show　of　support　he　even　turns　off　the　television；　letting　Audrey　fizzle　into　the　tube。
　Charlie　flips　his　Fitzgerald　shut；　mischief　stirring。　The　broken　spine　springs　open　in　protest；　but　he　tosses　the　book　onto　the　couch。
　〃I'm　working；〃　Paul　objects。　〃I　need　to　finish　this。〃
　He　glances　at　me　oddly。
　〃What？〃　I　ask。
　But　Paul　remains　silent。
　〃What's　the　problem；　girls？〃　Charlie　says　impatiently。
　〃It's　still　snowing　out　there；〃　I　remind　everyone。
　The　first　snowstorm　of　the　year　came　howling　into　town　today；　just　when　spring　seemed　perched　on　the　tip　of　every　tree　branch。　Now　there　are　calls　for　a　foot　of　accumulation；　maybe　more。　The　Easter　weekend　festivities　on　campus；　which　this　year　include　a　Good　Friday　lecture　by　Paul's　thesis　advisor；　Vincent　Taft；　have　been　reorganized。　This　is　hardly　the　weather　for　what　Charlie　has　in　mind。
　〃You　don't　have　to　meet　Curry　until　8：30；　right？〃　Gil　asks　Paul；　trying　to　convince　him。　〃We'll　be　done　by　then。　You　can　work　more　tonight。〃
　Richard　Curry；　an　eccentric　former　friend　of　my　father's　and　Taft's；　has　been　a　mentor　of　Paul's　since　freshman　year。　He　has　put　Paul　in　touch　with　some　of　the　most　prominent　art　historians　in　the　world；　and　has　funded　much　of　Paul's　research　on　the　Hypnerotomachia。
　Paul　weighs　his　notebook　in　his　hand。　Just　looking　at　it；　the　fatigue　returns　to　his　eyes。
　Charlie　senses　that　he's　ing　around。　〃We'll　be　done　by　7：45；〃　he　says。
　〃What　are　the　teams？〃　Gil　asks。
　Charlie　thinks　it　over；　then　says；　〃Tom's　with　me。〃
　　
　The　game　we're　about　to　play　is　a　new　spin　on　an　old　favorite：　a　fast…paced　match　of　paintball　in　a　maze　of　steam　tunnels　below　campus。　Down　there；　rats　are　more　mon　than　lightbulbs；　the　temperature　hits　three　digits　in　the　dead　of　winter；　and　the　terrain　is　so　dangerous　that　even　the　campus　police　are　forbidden　to　give　chase。　Charlie　and　Gil　came　up　with　the　idea　during　an　exam　period　sophomore　year；　inspired　by　an　old　map　Gil　and　Paul　found　at　their　eating　club；　and　by　a　game　Gil's　father　us