CHAPTER  2

Professor Robbins

Professor ‘Nick’ Robbins is hoping to pamper his ego by being spotted in the company of a young, female visitor who more than satisfies his characterization of beauty. She is tall and slimly built. Early thirties, perhaps? He sees her short, intentionally messy hair as suggestive of Halle Berry. He has also taken quite a fancy to her wide chestnut eyes, and the absence of a wedding ring. 

This is a man who assumes all women are susceptible to the charms of his intellect and his striking good looks. No point in being coy about that. Nick certainly isn’t. He recognizes the value of his rugged square jaw and high cheekbones. He enjoys the complement of disbelief on those occasions that oblige him to admit when he was born. With sixty on his horizon, he is a prime example of the disconnect that can occur between biological and chronological ages. Gerontologists who research this phenomenon speak of telomere lengths, epigenetic clocks and nutritional interventions. Nick does not entertain these possibilities. Instead, he owes his youthful appearance to a high performance mutual fund. This has paid for smoothing out facial wrinkles with Botox. He covered up a receding hairline through follicular unit extraction. A hair transplant. So, he still boasts a full head of dark, wavy hair. His hairdresser touches up the low fade, every three weeks.

Nick’s physical attributes have helped him populate his laboratory with an all female staff. Who are all rather cute. Or rather, these are the conclusions drawn by most of his jealous male colleagues – and most of his colleagues are male. What is certain, however, is that Nick’s recruitment strategy is not a counterpoint to the gender bias that plagues the senior levels of the scientific profession. Although that assumption is the benefit of the doubt that he receives from his colleagues. He always graciously accepts their praises for promoting the scientific careers of women.

His typical response is, “Well, thank you.” And then, with as much sincerity as he can fake: “But really, I’m only trying to help talented scientists attain their goals.” He also knows he can fob off women with lower salaries.

If any of his colleagues see him with this particular woman – he certainly hopes so – they will deduce she is not a fellow academic. She is dressed too professionally, in a navy blue skirt suit and block-heel pumps. The assumption will probably be that she is a sales rep. Nick has not yet told anyone he has agreed to be interviewed by a journalist. He thinks he might, later, depending upon how much he can milk this encounter. 

The pair of them take an elevator ride to the third floor, and exit into a corridor leading to Nick’s lab space. He is walking quickly, which requires Lydia to make some effort to keep up. They pass a cold room, and then reach a doorway upon which a notice is posted: ‘Do not enter when red light is on.’ Nick pauses to point at the half open door that leads into a darkened room.

“This is my new confocal facility,” Nick proudly explains to his guest. “Super resolution laser microscopes. I talked the Dean into paying for them. Over two million dollars.”

Lydia recognizes the subtext: Robbins has the Dean in his pocket.

To reach Nick’s office from the corridor, the two of them walk to the back of his lab. Here, Lydia notes the gender imbalance among his six staff members. She thinks two of these women are Chinese, and the other four could all be Americans. She also notices something unusual about the women’s lab coats. They seem more flattering than those she was used to. Shorter, and tailored around the waist.

Nick does encourage his staff to charge flattering coats to his grant. They arrive disguised with a promise of increased comfort, from a tag-line that reads: they follow a women’s body through the curves. 

He opens a doorway and waves Lydia into his shrine with a flourish; an exaggerated sweep of the arm. As he follows her into the room, he closes the door. 

Inside his rectangular office, on the shorter left-hand wall, there is a large window that overlooks the sprawling campus that is MISTI: the Maryland Institute of Science, Technology and Innovation. In the foreground lies the East Quad. This is one of the outdoor spaces where the college has installed picnic tables. These will attract a lunchtime crowd during the warmer months. Like bees to pollen. Later in the day, honey will be on sale. In the form of student mating rituals. Some will have scheduled a free afternoon. Other students will have simply skipped a class. Nick will sometimes pause his workday to glance out of the window and check out the scenery, in the hope of being rewarded with some flaunting. Not today though. It’s a late January morning, and the outside temperature – some thirty miles north-west of downtown Baltimore – is struggling to rise above freezing point.

Near the center of the room there is a blue visitor’s chair, a discard that Nick had recovered from the Institute’s surplus warehouse. He invites Lydia to sit. She finds the seat is a little hard on the butt. There are armrests, but they are too small to offer much comfort. 

Nick moves behind his L-shaped desk. Across its shorter edge he has a view through the fireproof-glass door panel, back into his lab. On top of his desk are various props for his establishing scene, one meant to convey the never-ending demands upon a busy scientist. He moves to one side a stack of printouts of academic papers, which he will never find time to read. A used, biodegradable coffee cup – MISTI is stamped on its side – is swept into a trash can. Open on his desk are a grant application and two research papers that he is reviewing. They lie atop blue folders, which he now closes. Finally, a stray red marker is corralled into a wooden, pen and pencil cup that is embossed with Hangeul script. A gift from a Korean colleague. 

While Nick busies himself, Lydia establishes the degree to which the professor is an admirer of his own accomplishments. Opposite the doorway, on the long wall to her right, there is a gallery exhibit. One that goes well beyond conveying a sense of his own self-importance. Instead, the narcissism leaps off the walls to shake her by the shoulders. 

On prominent display are several glossy prints of front covers from a variety of journals. They advertise content that includes Robbins’ papers. These pictures all have wooden frames. She sees that he is a fan of cherry. Lydia also observes mounted copies of his Ph.D. certificate, his Bachelor of Science, and a photo of him accepting a commendation from a dignitary – maybe Baltimore’s mayor? One more frame contains a yellowed document. The top left-hand corner is stamped with a State Seal; she can’t make out which one. But she can tell it’s an entry for a 1980’s high-school science fair. It’s confirmation of his first prize for a home-built Morse code oscillator.

Nick is relaxing into an upholstered Steelcase, a little slouchily, long legs stretching under the table, splaying his Burberry slim jeans and Gucci loafers.  

Lydia starts the interview. “Doctor Robbins, thank you again for meeting with me.” 

Being awarded a Ph.D entitles an academic to be referred to as ‘Doctor’, but most dislike this honorific, especially in casual situations. He asks that Lydia call him Nick. 

He has never forgiven his parents for their choice of ‘Ambrose Nicholaos’. His middle name was invariably misspelled, and schoolboy mockery had pejoratively abridged his given name into ‘Namby!’  

On one occasion, he had confronted his mother on this topic. “What were you thinking?” 

“What can I say,” she had responded, with a dismissive shrug and her trademark cold, insensitive tone. This was his upbringing. The absence of sympathy. No need to be responsive to other people’s emotional needs. 

His mother had continued, “You were a child of the 60’s. At your christening, your father and I were high on Greek folklore and mushrooms.” 

He frequently recalls that it had taken more than his introduction of an inoffensive nickname to get grade-school peers off his back. That had to await puberty, a growth spurt, and an interest in flag football. It was on the playing field where the other boys first realized their best interests lay in avoiding physical contact. But the girls came to have the opposite opinion. So began his introduction into a life of promiscuity.

Lydia insists on a purely professional vibe. “Doctor Robbins, as you requested, I am not making an audio recording of this interview.” She adjusts her hold on a notebook, that is open at an empty page.

Nick does not respond. He is momentarily distracted by a shaft of early morning sunshine that breaks into the room behind his guest. It illuminates a Brownian dance of dust motes, a halo, suspended above her head. It is an ethereal moment. The subject for a painting by Carl Holsøe. Nick is inspired to offer Lydia a predatory smirk. A passing cloud takes out the sunshine. It adds to the chill in the air.

She crosses her legs and gives the hem of her skirt a sharp tug. The body language is wasted.

Lydia tries to curb her displeasure at Robbins' creepiness. She pushes on with the interview. “I am assembling information and anecdotes for a biography of the late Professor Standish. I am here because I discovered that you were one of his colleagues. You have both given presentations at the same conferences. The two of you were also co-organizers of a symposium in France. . .”

Nick has no qualms about interrupting. After all, it is a woman who was speaking. “Yeah, that was some meeting. We held it in an 18th century abbey in the Moselle Valley. Amazing place. The French food and wine were fantastic.”  

Jeez, Lydia is thinking. This is hard work. She cuts in with Robbins’ weapon: talking louder than the opposition. “About Standish. My angle is human interest. I want to understand how his academic life played out at a personal level. His struggles and his successes. Particularly with regards to the controversy over the Spinnit Pharmaceuticals drug, SP-650.”

Robbins’ response comes as a surprise to Lydia. It is something new that she can use. “I was the one who pointed Standish towards that area of research.” He is also thinking: It’s not as if Standish is in much of a position to argue.

“This was in 2016,” Nick continues, without explaining why he wants to date-stamp his apparent accomplishment. 

“Standish and I were in Japan, at a conference on kinases and pseudokinases. He talked to me about his interest in studying the significance of kinases to pancreatic cancer. It was around the time when the concept of ‘non-oncogenic addiction’ was gaining more traction. Perhaps I should explain this to you?

Lydia hears the patronizing tone. She is not one to play dead ants when confronted by a man with a superiority complex. 

“Excuse me!” Her voice is sharp and disparaging. She could be admonishing a small child for showcasing a large, freshly extracted booger. 

She continues. “I believe I told you over the phone I have Ph.D. I’m experienced in biochemistry and cell biology. I’ve also studied Standish’s papers. I am familiar with his work on pseudokinases: proteins that look like enzymes but don’t catalyze biological reactions?

“And I know about non-oncogenic addiction: genes that a cancer relies upon to grow and spread, even though those genes don’t cause cancer themselves.” 

Standish does not know how to back down. He takes a more upright position in his chair, and opens his right palm into a ‘wait’ signal. As if he were a cop halting traffic. He expels a harrumph.  And then the condescending delivery continues: “What you don’t realize is. . .” 

Lydia holds back her indignation only because Robbins continues with “. . . Standish screwed me over.” She very much wants to hear more about this accusation.

“At this conference I told Standish that we were writing up a short paper describing our cloning of a novel pseudokinase. I explained that our work on this had been only a small, side project. We had no plans to follow it up.

“We had studied its distribution through the human body. We’d found it to be abundant in the pancreas. I told Standish he should investigate if our protein could be important in pancreatic cancer. He certainly bought into my idea. And eventually, that was what led him to work with SP-650.”

The miffed professor embellishes his tale of woe. “I never received any recognition for my idea. Even though I had provided him with confidential information. I should have at least been a co-author on a paper. I think you should mention in your biography the importance of my contribution to Standish’s work. You can reference it as a personal communication.” 

Lydia isn’t outwardly responding to this demand. But she is pondering some questions. Is this an example she can use of Standish being guilty of hijacking another scientist’s unpublished results? Or is Robbins overstating the value of his contribution? This limited exchange of information – which in any case he published soon afterwards – was that really worthy of being rewarded with co-authorship on a research paper?

Nick’s thoughts are more prosaic. He merely assumes Lydia’s lack of an immediate response signals agreement to his request. So now he diverts into more travel bragging, because he stubbornly anticipates his visitor might still be impressionable. He asks if she has ever visited Japan. Of course she hasn’t. Lydia starts to shake her head but he is already pouring forth. 

“A wonderful county. You should go, sometime.

“That conference was held at a high-end resort near Osaka. Heated pools surrounded by palm trees; spas with customized treatment packages. That kind of thing.”

“I was one of about a dozen Western speakers. The other participants were all Japanese. Mainly local group leaders and postdocs. There were also a handful of scientists from the pharmaceutical company that had sponsored the conference.”

For Lydia, the conversation is well off-piste. She wants him back on the trail. She tempts him by rubbing salt into his umbrage that Standish exploited his work. “I’ve looked through the list of papers that Standish has published. I’ve seen that you never appear as a coauthor.”

She notices the corners of Nick’s mouth droop into a scowl. She baits him some more.

“But,” Lydia continues, “it’s also clear that Standish collaborated with many other laboratories. I don’t see how he could accomplish that, without being fair and cooperative. Isn’t that how Science works? I had assumed Standish was a very popular guy.” 

Nick bites. “Not everyone rode the Standish bandwagon. He could be loud and aggressive when he’d had a few. That’s when he lost his inside voice. He would speak as if his audience were stationed at the back of an airplane hangar.

“There was one evening, at that Osaka meeting, where we were bussed to a sushi restaurant. This was at a time when the Japanese Government was still trying to justify that whale hunting was necessary for data collection on wildlife management.

“A couple of the Japanese participants encouraged us to sample whale meat. There weren’t many takers. I did try some. After all, it was too late to save the donor. But it was terrible. Smelt like uncooked fish. The fatty parts had the texture of bubble wrap. However, Standish declared to all that it was delicious. He shouted out: ‘kudos to Japan’s scientific research!’

“Then he carried his exaggerated enthusiasm into the next course, a plate of exotic sushi. ‘Yum! Send me more of these endangered species.’ He didn’t make new friends that night.”

Nick continues to grind his ax. “Standish could also make life difficult for those who upset him.” 

“How do you mean?” Lydia enquires, encouragingly. 

"Well, Roger Spinnit is the most obvious example. Standish really had it in for him. Whenever Spinnit finished giving a talk, Standish would lead the charge to the floor microphone for the Q&A. Now, Standish was a very smart guy. He was renowned for asking incisive questions at conferences. But with Spinnit, it went further. He always found a way to belittle Spinnit’s conclusions: ‘You’ve over-overinterpreted the data. You have not performed the correct control’. It seemed obvious to me there was an agenda to destroy Spinnit’s credibility.

“I’ve heard Spinnit complain that his research papers were only rejected for publication when Standish was one of the referees. Same with unsuccessful grant applications: ‘Standish must have spiked it.’”

Lydia knows from her time in academia that it is normal behavior among scientists to attribute misfortunes to an enemy in the field. They can’t accept that they haven’t optimized a grant proposal’s potential to cure cancer, or fix diabetes, or hold off cognitive decline. As for writing papers, they have full confidence in their own mastery of hyperbole, their ability to sell novelty. A paradigm shift! Their only problem is always with the referees, their bias, and their need for retribution. But refereeing is performed anonymously, so there rarely exists any proof that one’s nemesis is actually responsible.

This is why Lydia wants to ask if there is any evidence supporting Spinnit’s complaints. But she is interrupted by the office phone. 

Nick makes a meal of half-looking at the phone display, in a manner that conveys his expectation that caller ID will inform him this can be ignored. Until he realizes the incoming is from his Departmental Head’s cell. I thought he was in Buenos Aires. Got to be important if he’s calling rather than emailing.

“I have to take this,” says Nick. No apology is required. If you are Nick.

Lydia is forced to listen to one side of a brief conversation.

“Hi, Bryce. What’s up?

“Yes, I know you are in Argentina.

“Sorry to hear that. But detecting a mechanical problem is better than flying in a damaged aircraft.” Lydia knows Nick only came up with this joviality in order to impress her. A conspiratorial smile in her direction is the tell. 

“When have they rebooked you?

“OK. No problem. Yes, I agree. The Dean will need to see our department is represented at tomorrow’s budget meeting. Happy to be your stand-in. Have Gladys email me the agenda. 

"I have to go. I am with an important guest.” (Cue emphasis on ‘important guest’, plus sly wink in Lydia’s direction).

He drops the phone into its cradle. “That was Bryce Miller, our head of department. Always traveling. I’m often having to step in and pick up the slack. His staff are complaining too; because he’s away so much, they don’t get enough help to plan experiments. He is too slow writing papers. He takes far too long to give them feedback on drafts.”  

And of course, Lydia concludes, you would be a much better choice to lead this department.

Nick continues. “Around here we have a joke about this situation.”

Lydia picks up on the ‘we’. The implication that dissatisfaction is shared by his colleagues.

“What’s the difference between Bryce and God? After all, both of them are said to be everywhere." 

Nick concludes with a smirk and a sarcastic chuckle. “But God is also here.” 

Lydia doesn’t need to pursue office politics. She returns to her line of questioning. “Is there any evidence that Standish had a mission to impede Spinnit’s career?"

“Not with rejecting grants. Or negative manuscript reviews. But that conference in the French abbey that we discussed earlier: when we were planning it, I proposed that Spinnit be a speaker. At that time, I was among those that thought SP-650 showed promise. But Standish would not hear of it. He was outraged. You’d have thought I had suggested inviting Elizabeth Holmes."

There is a pause while Nick waits to see if Lydia is understanding his witticism. 

“Yes, I do know the Holmes story” responds Lydia, dryly. “Sentenced to eleven years for fraud. To the tune of almost a billion dollars. She misled investors about Edison, the technology that was claimed to detect multiple disease markers from a single drop of blood.”

Apparently reassured, Nick continues. “Standish insisted Spinnit be excluded from the speaker list. He labeled both Spinnit, and his start-up company, as a complete scam. For emphasis, he would pronounce his name as two separate words: Spin. It.

“But this campaign completely backfired. Even though he wasn’t an invited speaker, Spinnit still attended the conference. He brought along his postdoc, who presented a poster that included some promising new data on SP-650 and its potential as a treatment for pancreatic cancer. Many at the conference were impressed. During bar talk, Standish was loud and critical about these latest results, but no-one was listening anymore. All Standish accomplished was to have himself labeled as the asshole.”

Lydia is writing feverishly. Nick picks up that she is underscoring her recent notes. He begins to ask himself if he might have succeeded in altering the tone of her biography. She couldn’t have known Standish had this mean streak. Then his thoughts are distracted by a timid knock on the office door. 

Lydia also turns her head towards the interruption. She sees a member of Robbin’s team - one of the Americans - has pulled the door ajar, just enough to poke her head through. Lydia guesses she is in her mid-twenties. She is short, and slightly built. Dark hair is tied into a ponytail, fully revealing a delicate face with a narrow nose and a soft jawline. It pains Lydia to see the nervousness this woman carries. Like she had been sent to the principal’s office over some infraction at school. Her eyebrows are drawn together. She is avoiding making eye contact with Robbins. He sighs loudly, taps his desk twice with the palm of his hand in frustration, and reluctantly beckons the unfortunate women further into his office. 

“I’m so sorry to disturb you, Nick.” Lydia now notices the young woman is swapping her weight from one foot to the other.

She continues. “My son’s preschool just phoned. He is sick. Throwing up. They want me to pick him up immediately.”   

Nick effuses the compassion and sympathy of a cold fish. “Can’t your husband do this?”

The woman’s apology is barely a whisper. “Greg is out of town this week.”

“Well, Susan,” Nick responds contemptuously, “I suppose you’ll have to do the pick-up. But what about today’s enzyme prep?”

Lydia can no longer contain herself. “Perhaps you could be a little more sympathetic?” 

Nick mistakenly thinks it will be appropriate to put Lydia on hold with a brief shot of anger, and then he returns his attention to Susan. Who is explaining that she has arranged for another of the lab staff to complete the final steps of the enzyme purification protocol.

“OK,” he says, grudgingly. Then, to Lydia, “I don’t appreciate you challenging my authority.”

A show of restraint is not in Lydia’s playbook. “Maybe what you don’t appreciate is how distressed she is. She seems intimidated by you.” 

“I know my staff. I won’t have you tell me how to behave.” This exchange is getting louder. 

“Someone needs to,” Lydia also ups the volume. “I really think you could show more understanding.” 

Susan is still hovering in the doorway. She knows she is caught in a growing storm, but she remains unsure if she actually has been granted permission to leave. 

Nick needs Susan out of the way. He screams at her. “Go!” 

Now Lydia is really pissed at Robbins. She recognizes that if she terminates this interview, she will waste some of her investment in the return airfare. There could be more revelations about Standish to come. She also dearly wants to know from Robbins what it was like to attend the symposium at which Standish was beaten to death, only hours before he was due to present his plenary lecture. 

But she just can’t spend another second in his company. She rises abruptly from her chair. “I’m leaving.” 

Robbins makes sure she will not change her mind. “Yeah. Good idea. Fuck off.” 

Lydia also has a motormouth. “Fuck you too. And here’s another award for you to stick on your stupid, shitty wall: Jerk of the Year!” 

Lydia struts angrily through the office door and into the lab. She sees that Susan is discarding her lab coat on a chair back. A Sharpie falls out of the coat’s top pocket, hits the floor, and rolls towards the feet of one of her lab-mates. Lydia can’t avoid thinking: Susan won’t see that marker again. 

Lydia turns towards the other women, all of whom have paused their work. They don’t want to miss any aspect of this takedown. For their benefit, as well as Robbins’, Lydia throws out a final insult. “I am so sorry you all have to work for this total asshole.” The building seems to shake as Robbins slams shut his office door. 

Susan and Lydia have reached the elevator together. Once inside, and the door is closed, Susan feels free to expresses her gratitude. “Thanks for standing up for me. We shy away from conflict. The postdocs have it worse. They toe the line because they need to leave with good reference letters.”

"You’re not a postdoc?”

“I’m the lab tech,” Susan explains. “I’ve worked here for almost three years. I filled the vacancy after the last tech quit. She left so that she could marry Robbins. She was part of the trade. The replacement of his first trophy wife with a younger model.

“I’ve been told that the Institute ran a half-hearted investigation into the circumstances. But Robbins is a star around here. He brings in huge grants. And the Institute appreciates their 50% cut.” 

Lydia is familiar with the overheads that research institutes take from incoming grants.

“The Dean did not want to lose Robbins. So, they blamed the tech. Robbins escaped with only a warning to ignore any future advances his female staff might make.

“We suspect the tech wasn’t worried about losing her job. The pay around here is rather sad. It was his bank balance that she cared about. More than the thirty year difference in their ages.” 

The elevator shudders to a halt and the door slides open. They exit into the front lobby. 

Lydia apologizes. “I hope my visit doesn’t have any repercussion for you and your lab mates. But if there are, please give me a call.”

She holds out a business card to Susan. The Gen-Zer stares at it with the degree of suspicion that might normally be reserved for an offer of a rusty razor blade. “Don’t you have a digital copy?”

Lydia explains that she doesn’t travel with such technology. Whenever she is working, she uses a burner phone. “To separate my business from my personal life,” she claims, even while knowing these words lack the conviction of someone who actually does enjoy a personal life.

Susan reluctantly accepts the card, and realizes it can fit neatly into her jeans pocket. Then, she hesitates. She is caught between competing obligations. She needs to rush to her son’s school, but she also knows she must take a moment to offer Lydia some advice. A quick glance around informs Susan their conversation cannot be overhead. She also lowers her voice. Her words tumble out.   

“I must warn you. Robbins has a bad temper. And he is vengeful. If he finds a way, he will come after you. Watch your back.” 

At that very moment, in his office, an enraged professor is Googling with malicious intent. 

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