CHAPTER  10

It’s the end of the world. . . 

At the Maryland Institute of Science, Technology and Innovation, every scientist’s office door is equipped with a name-plate that, with the aid of a suction cup, can easily be swapped out. It is a low-tech but efficient visual trigger that academic tenure is an ethereal concept. The reality is that professorial positions are subject to a performance review every five years. Termination is a realistic penalty if research productivity or teaching competency fail to cut the mustard. 

The Chair of the Department of Cell Biology, Bryce Miller, is currently being evaluated by MISTI’s Dean. Bryce is not in the least concerned. His teaching responsibilities are a breeze, mainly because most of them are delegated to the professors who serve under him. That leaves Bryce with just one course each semester. This minor workload provides scope for some artful grade inflation. Not enough to raise overall GPAs to the point that administrators will notice, but sufficient to buy appreciation from his students – in the form of their largely favorable feedback in the end of semester evaluations. 

Naturally, some whining was inevitable: eight am lectures always began on time - even the day after the Superbowl! This same subset of students also grumbled that emails they send after the campus bar closes are not answered until the following day. And one smart-ass derided his lecturing style as distracting – “too much walking around, like a standup comic, but nothing he says is funny.” Bryce is at least grateful that students who are motivated to learn still outnumber those blaming how they are taught. 

As for his academic reputation, Bryce relishes being a high-flyer – in multiple contexts. Being one of the key players in his field guarantees invitations to present at all of the major conferences. He frequently gives seminars at other institutes, and he serves on multiple peer-review panels. Consequently, he enjoys privileged status on two of the major airlines. 

So, teaching performance? Check. Scientific prestige? Check.

There is another reason he is in an optimistic mood as he approaches the entrance to the inner sanctum of Rashad Sullivan. Bryce believes he has nurtured a solid relationship with the Dean during the last decade. Bryce enjoys privileged membership of his supervisor’s five pm club. He confidently raps on the office door that is invitingly ajar.

“Come in.” Rashad speaks with the deep base gravitas reminiscent of James Earl Jones. A voice that can convey warmth and kindness – or menace. Equally effective for mentoring (“Simba, being brave doesn't mean you go looking for trouble”) or for threatening (“No, I am your father”). 

His versatile stage voice is not his only asset for the public functions of fundraising, networking, and academic leadership. He is endorsed by publicity photos that convey youth, vitality and diversity. Despite approaching fifty-five, he has a full head of closely-cropped black hair. A horseshoe moustache flanks a congenial smile, a subliminal message that MISTI is friendly and welcoming, dedicated to the welfare of students and teachers alike. This is exactly what Bryce anticipates today.

Requests for a meeting in Rashad’s chambers have become regular invitations to a cozy ritual. There is an L-shaped sectional towards the right wall of the office. This is where his host awaits him, overlooked by a beverage center – an acacia veneer hutch with sliding glass doors, pulled open in preparation for another of their convivial one-on-ones. The cabinet is stocked with purchases underwritten by a shady discretionary fund.

Bryce stops in his tracks. It is the shock of discovering that outside his imagination there is a real universe where assumptions are shattered. The drinks cabinet is closed. This particular meeting is not being held in the lounge seating. Rashad is not smiling. He has a role within the academic chain of command – Trustees, Chancellor, Provost, Dean – that Bryce has not encountered previously. The disciplinarian. 

It becomes alarmingly obvious to Bryce that the Dean knows how to showcase authority. It is not merely that Rashad is taller – at six-three, he has a five inch advantage. In addition, Rashad has thrown iconic symbolism into the mix. He sits behind a mahogany office desk with heavy, drawer pedestals. His upright posture is supported by a high-backed leather chair with nailhead trim. He expands his body space with hands on the armrests, elbows extended. Eye contact is held longer than Bryce finds to be comfortable, eyebrows drawn together. He wears the dark Burberry suit and burgundy tie that Bryce has previously only associated with photoshoots, or formal events. But now. . .? Is it a novel frame of reference for dressed to kill? Is a steaming load about to be dumped? 

Rashad takes satisfaction from seeing the Chair of Cell Biology enter the office and abruptly pause, mid-swagger. It is obvious Bryce is not prepared for a confrontation. Instead, he brandishes an affable academic vibe: a plaid shirt, open at the collar, an olive-green wool blazer, and brown trousers. Rashad estimates Bryce would have been under ten in the seventies, when this style was originally fashionable. Is he fulfilling a lifetime dream, now that this outfit has recently been TikTok’d back into life? The finishing touch for this persona of bookish allure is a pair of Woody Allen glasses, rounded with thick black frames. Or maybe, Rashad thinks, Bryce’s optician has advised on drawing attention away from his puffy cheeks and prominent brow ridge. 

Bryce is coldly beckoned into a swivel chair on the opposite side of his desk. The seat’s pneumatic cylinder is set a little too high, and Rashad notes Bryce’s discomfort as he struggles to maintain poise while fighting the castors’ penchant for rolling along the polished wood floor. Bryce’s chair creaks ominously as he squirms, as if he were struggling to restrain a toddler on sugar. 

“Thanks for meeting with me this evening,” Rashad says, from the secure position of wheels that are stabilized by a non-slip mat. “I’d like to bring you up to speed on a new initiative that is under discussion. I see you’ve been departmental head for . . .” He glances down at a printed copy of Bryce’s biosketch, as if he is in disbelief at the inordinate length of Bryce’s tenure.  

“. . . almost ten years?” Rashad turns this conclusion into a question to make it sound like nine years too many. The message gets through. He recognizes Bryce’s nervous tic: a hand that sweeps untamed bangs off his forehead. Good. I need to pop his balloon.

It takes Bryce a few seconds of silence to realize he is expected to confirm the information that his boss is patently cognizant of. “Yes, that’s correct.”

The appointment to a deanship does not require any leadership training. It is their status as an academic that is considered more important than their administrative skills. The latter are expected to arise naturally, as if the attainment of managerial proficiency follows the principle of an Artesian well. It is through such incidental learning that Rashad became aware of the praise-to-reprimand stratagem: offer accolades multiple times before a single rebuke. But not today. He does not intend to be nice to Bryce. 

This is an occasion for the Dean to govern by intimidation, for which he awards himself eight out of ten. The maximum score will always evade him, because it was set by Dr. Maurice Hilleman: the late vaccinologist who developed more than forty animal- and human-vaccines. The very person who was lauded by Anthony Fauci as one of the twentieth century’s giants of science, medicine and public health. The disciplinarian who cowed his staff by displaying in his office models of shrunken heads of those workers he had fired.  

“The Provost has informed me that the Trustees are discussing the disadvantages of Departmental Chairs that have indefinite duration. They prefer a more dynamic culture, to encourage innovation, and avoid concentration of power by any one individual. As you know, many of our departments already rotate chairs every five years. They feel this policy would benefit Cell Biology too. I have been told to provide my feedback on this initiative by June fourteen.

“That’s in just over two weeks, okay?” Rashad adds, with an edge of disdain, as if he were somehow in command of superior chronological skills. 

Bryce is shocked by being blindsided. “This is fucking bullshit.” He immediately regrets the phraseology. And the shouting. The two of them are not mellowing on the sofa, sipping single malts, leveraging the vibe of social parity that permits casual exchange of expletives while discussing sport and politics. No, Bryce now realizes, this is not a conversation among equals. But he can still defend himself. The Dean has not yet made a final decision. 

“Rotating a chair might work for those departments that appoint internally. But I was recruited to lead Cell Biology after a national search. I did not relocate to MISTI simply to take up a temporary position. That’s not in my contract.”

Rashad has the greater familiarity with Institute policy documents, as well as the fine print of Bryce’s terms of employment, which authorizes punitive actions if ever there were reason to criticize his performance. Which there most certainly are. “There have been questions about your leadership. Mainly that there’s so little of it. Okay?”

All of this is most certainly not okay for Bryce. That irritating discourse marker is not being deployed by Rashad merely to frame a question. It is instead the manner by which he demands that Bryce must agree with him.

“They have questions about my leadership?” Bryce attempts to reinforce his outrage by leaning forward in his seat, momentarily forgetting the connection between action and reaction. His chair wheels backwards, prompting Bryce to jam his feet to the floor. The appearance of indulging in a hissy-fit further undermines his countenance. “Did you remind them that I am the one who rejuvenated the department? I turned it into one of the leading centers for Cell Biology research in the country. Wasn’t that why I was appointed?”

Of course it was. Ten years ago, Bryce had chaired his first departmental meeting with a firm hand. He had promised to install the highest of academic standards. Excellence was to be the new baseline. And to prove he meant business, he ensured the bar was set too high for two of his Group leaders. They had both been replaced with new recruits who had been willing to undertake a 24/7-style dedication to science.

In more recent years, with his department knocked into shape, Bryce accepts he has permitted himself a more hands-off approach. The art of delegation helps. When the Dean requests some strategic planning, Bryce scratches out a crude outline and then creates a subcommittee for the difficult task of making it all seem workable. His reliable administrative staff feed him the regularly required fiscal reports. He appointed one of his Group leaders to be the curriculum director. When he is at a conference and the MISTI Chairs are summonsed to Council meetings with the Dean and Provost, then Bryce nominates Robbins to substitute for him. There really is not a choice. The second-most senior professor in Cell Biology is the expected stand-in. 

Is his hands-off now Robbin’s hands-on? Bryce curses himself for not appreciating his chairmanship could be endangered by Robbins gravitating into the Dean’s orbit. It is not so much writing on the wall that Bryce realizes he has missed - it is more like big-ass Bansky graffiti: a warning sign from two years ago. In the form of a state-of-the-art, cell-imaging facility. He had submitted the proposal in the expectation it would be installed in his own lab. The Dean had fully supported the funding request as it passed up through the chain of command. But when the approval came back down, Rashad had demanded that the latest super resolution laser microscopes be under the auspices of the group in Cell Biology that would use it the most, that is, Robbins’. 

Bryce tries to extract confirmation from the Dean. “Has Robbins said something?”

“You should thank Nick for looking out for your staff,” Rashad counters, baritones resonating again. “They have been turning to him to get assistance with their projects.”

Another shocking surprise! Bryce has assumed his postdocs value his style of mentorship. When he first interviews them, he explains his philosophy: independent thinkers do not emerge from didactic instruction. He tells them this was how he was trained, and look how well it has served him! 

He has been honest with them. He does not assist in the early drafting of his staff’s manuscripts. His role only comes at the end stage – to hype up the significance of the study. His advice on the design and analysis of their experiments is delivered only during the three hours each week that are devoted to lab meetings. These begin at seven am every Friday morning, either on campus, or by Zoom if he is traveling. If at other times his staff wish to request assistance, they would first have to navigate a long corridor and an elevator ride from the lab to his office, and then they would find the door closed, and a notice to contact his secretary to make appointments. This leaves him more time in seclusion to write grant applications to fund his group’s research. That, he tells his recruits, is what he considers to be the focus of his lab leadership.

He has always assumed that his staff enjoy their freedom to take projects wherever they feel is  fruitful. Yes, there is risk they will pursue multiple, diverse directions, and lose track of the most important goals. But he learned that mistake the hard way, and so should they. There are many that found success. More of his postdocs have graduated into faculty appointments than any other labs in his department. Those that flounder, Bryce believes, have appreciated learning they should find an alternate and more suitable career path. So, when did they start complaining to Robbins?

Again, Rashad does not dwell on any particular infraction. It is the wide range of them that is more important to convey. “The Trustees have also raised economic concerns. Okay? The cost of maintaining your mouse colonies is approaching two hundred thousand dollars a year.”

Bryce is sure he can defend this investment. His group has designed several strains of genetically-modified that are much in demand; cryopreserved embryos are readily shipped around the world. He can argue that his lab enhances MISTI’s status as a center of scientific excellence. 

In reality, Bryce places more value on his own reputation. Sharing of such a resource is worthy of inclusion in a list of acknowledgments that the recipient group will typically place where no-one will read it: in tiny font at the end of a paper. Perhaps just after a call-out to colleagues who supposedly improved the quality of the study prior to it being submitted: “we thank Drs. Compliant and Obliging for their incisive comments during the preparation of this manuscript.” 

That is simply not good enough for Bryce. He insists his name be added to the list of coauthors emblazoned on the manuscript’s title page. A different attitude is taken by scientific authorities and academic journals, which trumpet the philosophy of Open Science: freely sharing resources to maximize societal benefit. But enforcement of this utopia is lax. 

Bryce knows there are some that consider his bibliography unfairly piggybacks on the work of other labs. But many accept that he is entitled to be well-rewarded for the money, time and effort his group has invested in manipulating the mouse genome.

“My grants pay for most of our mouse work.” Bryce is also confident he can counter the fiscal impact of his animal models. “MISTI’s own subsidies are relatively minor.” 

“The point is not who pays. Okay? It’s the total amount spent. Anti-vivisection groups have got hold of the institute’s animal budget. The students have protested.” Rashad points towards his office’s picture window that overlooks the lawn and fountain in the Administrative Quad. “I’ve seen them.”

“A protest?” Bryce makes no effort to disguise his contempt. He assumes that Rashad is referring to the dozen or so who had gathered outside the administrative building, one drizzly day last semester. Their photograph had been posted on the landing page on the students’ digital newspaper, the MISTI Mews. They had unenthusiastically chanted just one slogan for less than an hour: White Mice Matter. “It was more of a technical disagreement than a protest,” Bryce contends. “We’re a Science and Technology campus. Our students are far too busy with course work and practical classes. They don’t hold real demonstrations.”

“Anyway,” Bryce concludes, hoping to convey triumph in his voice. “Their sympathies were wrongly directed. My mouse strain is black.”

Rashad does not wish to share in the joke. He moves further down a mental list of bullet points. “Nick is singularly qualified to succeed you. The students all like him. . .”

Bryce decides to sit on the retort that a good-looking lecturer will typically receive higher ratings. That will only endorse Robbins’ qualifications to be the new Chair.

“. . . He is also an internationally recognized cancer researcher. And soon he will be the best-funded researcher in Cell Biology.”

“I don’t think so. I pull in more.” Bryce emphasizes his denial with a shake of his head. He knows for sure. He has his office track all grant income into his department. 

“Not for much longer. I must tell you something – and this is in confidence. I’ve been approached with the offer of a generous endowment to your department. More specifically, to Nick’s group. Thirty million dollars.” Rashad pauses for a quizzical how-can-that-be to drape across Bryce’s face.

“What?” This is a shockingly large sum. Bryce is rendered incapable of forming complete sentences. “Who?” 

“Charlotte Elizabeth Rutherford-Ashcroft.”

It is not a name that Bryce recognizes. It sounds to him like someone his wife is probably aware of, from her research on People.com. Maybe that website has nailed her as a peripheral member of the social circle of the British Royals. “You’ve met her?” he asks, incredulously. 

“Not in person. She seems to be somewhat of a recluse. I didn’t see anything about her on-line. But we had a nice chat by Zoom last week.”

Rashad’s computer monitor is equipped with an articulating arm. He swivels the screen so that Bryce can admire his expertise with the PrintScrn button. “I took this screenshot from her presentation.”

What Bryce observes is in conflict with his understanding that philanthropic prime time typically arrives only after several decades of saving, investing, and career progression. At an age when nothing sharpens the desire for a legacy more than a sudden sense of mortality. This is why the most significant of charitable donations are the purview of the sixty-and-over demographic. But Bryce judges Charlotte et al to be at least ten or fifteen years younger. Her face has an even complexion; there is no sign of droops or bags. Voluminous brown hair flows to a point half-way between shoulder and breast. A button-up white blouse is worn with a front tuck, highlighting a toned stomach. Mid-length shorts show off legs that suggest regular maintenance from lunges, squats and deadlifts. She appears to Bryce to be far too young to be so generous.

But what if this really is a genuine example of aging gracefully? This possibility brings to mind his nightly impatience with his wife’s bedtime routine. No matter how late they retire, lights-out must be delayed for drawers to open and close repeatedly while she rattles through her abundant stash of moisturizers, anti-wrinkling gels, emollients and serums. Or whatever Amazon delivered today, in response to her deep-diving into YouTube influencer videos. But in his eyes, time’s relentless march never loses any momentum. But the image on Rashad’s computer screen provides new information. If this woman really is much older than she appears, then in the right hands (well, on the right face), there must be beauty products that actually work? 

Looming behind Robbins’ would-be benefactress is a two-story, stone mansion. “Is this her house or a five-star resort?” Bryce asks. “Where is it?”

“She lives in Ritzy Heights,” Rashad explains, as he takes back the computer screen. “It’s a gated community on the Shenandoah River. One of Maryland’s most exclusive gated communities. Second only to Gibson Island, so I’m told.

“She wants to honor the memory of her late husband. He passed away two years ago from brain cancer. She wants to make a donation directly to a cancer researcher. To help recover from her grief. To give meaning to his passing.” 

It seems to Bryce that heights says less about local geography and is more a reference to the wealth of this neighborhood’s residents. He has also just observed her dazzling smile. “She seems pretty happy for a grieving widow. She must have been left with a good inheritance.” 

“That’s sexist - Okay!” reprimands Rashad, index finger wagging. “Mrs. Rutherford-Ashcroft is a breadwinner in her own right. She’s a hedge fund manager.”

The ferocity of this admonishment surprises Bryce. After years of accommodating Robbins’ mastery of the dark arts of chauvinism and prejudice, why has Rashad decided that now it’s time to take a stand? 

He fends off the rebuke with the slightest of shoulder shrugs. In the hope of conveying  indifference rather than mild atonement. Along the lines of: who gives a shit. He also thinks he can lob a monkey wrench or two. “I thought it wasn’t possible to donate to a single researcher. And won’t MISTI whittle down the donation by taking overheads?”

“She is a financial expert, okay? She knows a mechanism to direct her gift to a specific lab, while retaining her sixty percent tax deduction. She will pass it through a donor-advised fund, sponsored by a charitable arm of her employer. They will transfer it into one of MISTI’s affiliated non-profit entities, with the proviso that all the money be directed into Robbin’s lab.”

Bryce is still searching for the linchpin. “How did she decide Robbins is so deserving of her generosity?” 

“She looked at his page on the Cell Biology website. She was impressed. Not just by the number of his publications, but also the photo of the Baltimore Mayor honoring him with last-year’s Award for Excellence in Science.”

Bryce grimaces. This picture is not only posted on-line. A larger, framed version of that mayoral handshake hangs in Robbins’ boasty office. It is an irritant every time he is there. 

“Do you trust Robbins to maintain a purely professional relationship?” Bryce believes he has good reason to ask. He recalls working late in a near-deserted building to wrap up a grant application. It was during the Covid pandemic, when access to the institute had been restricted. Elevator access had been discouraged with yellow barrier tape. Bryce’s exit route had taken him down a stairwell, and along the corridor that passed Robbins’ lab – from where he had encountered the unmistakable broadcast of simultaneous orgasms. 

Robbins and his technician had both strongly denied their coupling. So, it was Bryce’s word against theirs. Not sufficient legal evidence for the Dean to give up the significant grant income and the valuable reputation of a leader in the kinase field. Robbins’ first wife had already left him, and the technician became an enthusiastic replacement; she also willingly quit MISTI. So, Rashad had acted politically. The sordid tale never advanced past his desk. 

Rashad dismisses Bryce’s concerns - to the tune of thirty million dollars. “Not a problem, provided any mutual benefits from this partnership are celebrated off campus.”

Among those of Bryce’s drinking colleagues in the Faculty club who had believed him, there circulated a theory that sex in a laboratory environment must be an extremely rare event, given the absence of mellow lighting, mood music, or even an uncluttered, soft surface. Maybe, it had been posited, this could be the first recorded success by a scientist since a 1991 Dutch experiment? The one where Doctor Ida Sabelis and her partner had squeezed into an NMR tube – and into each other – to capture images that would illuminate the anatomy and physiology of copulation. Thereby demonstrating that some scientists will take advantage of any opportunity – or any opening, as it were – in the insatiable quest to expand human knowledge. 

“Has Robbins met with this woman?” asks Bryce. 

“Not yet. She didn’t seem keen to visit the campus. I told you earlier that she avoids public appearances. But eventually she agreed that Memorial Day weekend will work, when the campus will be quiet. This coming Saturday. Are you available to meet with her, too?”

“I can’t, I’m flying to Europe on Friday evening.” Bryce speaks with as much regret as he can muster, guessing his absence will dig a deeper hole. It does. 

“Travelling again. . .?” Rashad asks, rhetorically. 

Bryce points out that he is the plenary speaker at this upcoming symposium, but even he thinks his explanation carries a defeatist tone. 

Rashad looks at his watch, despite his office being equipped with an oversized wall-clock. “An operational update with the Provost, for my sins.” Clearly, they are done.

“Thank you again for meeting me this evening. I’ll have my secretary set a follow-up. Early in the second week of June. So that I can let you to know my decision, before I submit it to the Provost. 

And remember – for now, this information stays between you and me.”

Bryce endures a disconsolate walk away from the Administrative Services building. All he can think about are the consequences of being replaced as Chair. None of them are reassuring. A decline in his prestige. Loss of control over discretionary funds. Elimination of the Chair’s salary bump. His teaching load will dramatically increase. Having to operate under Robbins. 

He pauses outside the Faculty Club. The late afternoon air is warm and still, so the windows to the bar are temptingly open. Inside, a group he knows from Organic Chemistry are celebrating. Maybe one of them has just discovered a new method for inserting a carbon-nitrogen bond into a molecule? They do seem to go into raptures whenever that happens. Whatever the reason for their excitement, he envies their clinking glasses to acknowledge the purchase of another round. Maybe some upbeat drinking company could take the edge off his acute distress? 

He hears a familiar refrain. Perhaps the bar is streaming a playlist from the eighties or nineties? Yes, it is REM. Michael Stipe ends a stream-of-consciousness monologue – the significance of which always escapes him – and the final chorus begins. Over and over. It’s the end of the world as we know it. 

The lyrics warn Bryce that the consequences of imminent demotion are well beyond being relieved by the two beers that would allow him to drive home legally. So instead, he heads to the carpark.

He anticipates that even after his wife finally rests her luminous and nourished face on the pillow beside him, a restless night’s sleep will follow. Alcohol would only make that worse. As will the earworm that he cannot shake.