CHAPTER 3

Traci Weber

Traci carries a grudge towards against chairs in lecture theaters, for good reason. Their discomfort is a wink-and-a-nod to her fidgetiness. She used to be a hair twirler too, until she shortened it to a cheek-length bob cut. These days, she soothes her restlessness by stretching her legs between presentations. To avoid creating a disturbance, she is wearing black ballet flats (so she won’t click-clack across a solid floor, and at five feet five, she does not need the additional height). 

Reserving a seat at one end of the back row assists her walkabouts. This had been accomplished through a nod to her German heritage. She had written her name in Sharpie script on the front cover of her conference program, which she had placed on the appropriate chair before breakfast. Like commandeering a pool chair with a towel.

She would rather she was not in her mid-fifties (slowing metabolic rate; reduced muscle mass; decreased blood circulation). These physiological changes are allies of the building’s air conditioning. Her stretch jeans, and the blue blazer that covers a striped, button-down shirt, are no match for the onslaught of chilled air. To avoid hypothermia, she leaves the room before the last lecture’s Q&A. In the plus column, an early exit puts her in pole position for the race to the bar. A happy hour (free beverages!) is in progress, wedged between the afternoon session and the evening meal. Or rather, a happy thirty minutes, since the conference overran its schedule. As Traci is served a generous pour of Chardonnay, she hears voices of agitation among those who  remain behind her, in a slowly shuffling line.

The bar is situated to one side of a sunken courtyard surfaced with faux medieval, cobblestone pavers. Fluted, gray planters compete for space with patio sets: recycled plastic fashioned into chairs and rectangular, slatted tables. Most of the attendees ignore the seating, and gather into small circles. Because the immediate mobility makes it easier to sneak away from one standing group so as to join another that is higher up the scientific hierarchy. It is disruptive to excuse oneself from the more structured social bond forged by a table conversation.

However, Traci takes a seat at one of the empty tables; she wants a couple of moments to be alone with her thoughts. It is late February in South Texas, so the planters are colored with tulips, crocus and, to Traci's delight, dark purple petunias. Faint whiffs of honey come and go in the light air. The late afternoon sunshine is also soothing. The concrete floor is helping too. It is radiating the heat it captured earlier in the day. She removes her jacket and folds it over the chairback. 

Gunn University, situated about half way between Corpus Christi and the town of Alice, is hosting this conference. It has been given a snappy, Tolstoyan title. Kinases: War and Peace. The metaphor has been well appreciated by the attendees. The war is the pathology resulting from kinase dysregulation. The peace is the successful, post-therapeutic condition. Every speaker at this meeting has justified a grant application by writing that kinases represent one of the most successfully exploited drug targets for cancer therapy. The list of speakers purposely resembles that selected for the ill-fated meeting in San Diego last September. Except for Roger Spinnit. He was not on the invitation list.

That previous conference in California had been abandoned on its final morning, after Chuck’s body had been discovered by a designer-dog walker at dawn. A Dalmatian-Corgi crossbreed had sniffed out the remains in the bushy perimeter of the conference hotel grounds. Traci wonders if it is the shock of this event that has prevented Science from moving on. So far, this symposium has not provided any new data, nor an original hypothesis. 

She misses Chuck Standish. The two of them had worked together on a couple of projects. They had become close colleagues, frequently sitting together during meal breaks, or gathering in the same group during late-night drinking.

This hastily arranged memorial conference would have been emotional enough for Traci, without Karen having added to her inner turmoil. Her sister has arranged to visit in a couple of weeks. By herself. To get a break from swim season, supposedly. For too many of the previous winter’s weekends, Karen had maintained, she and her husband had endured long hours of boredom perched on uncomfortable bleachers in the chlorinated atmosphere of an indoor pool. “It’s been a long season, and Summer League starts in March,” Karen had complained during last week's phone call. “The kids didn’t want to miss any training before the upcoming Championship Meet, but I certainly need time off.” Traci knows Karen’s motives are not so neatly wrapped. It’s a cover story. She's going to want us to talk about Mom. This is going to be a tough row to hoe. 

Her neck is tensing. She pushes back her shoulders and, remembering her sister's advice, she takes three slow, deep breaths. For good measure, she knocks back two large mouthfuls of her wine. A state of relative calm gradually returns. 

Traci takes solace from today's meeting having started with an uplifting discussion about an offer from GigantoPharm. This information had leaked out the previous December, but this was the first time a company representative had publicly sought feedback from the American kinase community. The conference's input had generally been positive: appreciation for the proposal to modify the statutes of the GigantoPharm Cancer Prize, so that a posthumous award could be permitted. Beginning with the next commendation in January 2025.

 
She believes that the pharmaceutical giant is playing politics. A positive reaction from this meeting's attendees is, she thinks, meant to influence the opinions of those from academia who serve as members of the Prize Committee. With a two million dollar research award at stake, it was important there be no dissenters. It has become an open secret that Chuck Standish is the intended beneficiary. She is happy about this. It would serve as an appropriate epitaph.

To ensure the award supports Chuck's field of research, it is anticipated that the funds will go to whomever the Committee decides are one or maybe two of Chuck's most productive colleagues. Naturally, everyone who had worked with Chuck openly praises this idea for the kudos it would bring to the kinase community in general. Those same scientists had paid less attention to the subsequent talks. They were in the audience, but with laptops open, as they modified their upcoming presentations to emphasize their own unique contributions to Standish's successes.  

As Traci takes another sip from her glass, she casts her eyes across a jarring mixture of architectural styles. The lecture theater with the overworked air conditioner is situated on the north side of the courtyard. The biochemistry department lies to the east. Both buildings are faced with limestone and decorated with Gothic elements: columns, door moldings, window tracery, gargoyles and parapets. The more recent construction to the east – where dinner will be served shortly – has the shape of a rectangular prism. It is encased by tinted glass walls. The flat roof is topped with an array of steel fins, painted burnt orange, that abseil down the two narrower sides of the building. Traci guesses these are in place to help cool the building, rather than to deliberately imitate the construction of a giant power transformer.

The edifice beyond the southern perimeter of the courtyard, that guards the main campus entrance, is a campanile. This 310 feet, freestanding clock tower is the tallest such construction in America. Its first three floors are occupied by the Gunn library, which Traci had toured yesterday, before the conference had begun. It was here where she had been surprised to read passages from Sophie Gunn’s detailed diary of her thoughts and experiences during the University’s construction in the Roaring Twenties. Sophie had been the consummate flapper. In surprisingly unexpurgated text, Sophie had immortalized her enjoyment of the era’s increased freedom for women to express themselves sexually, including the intense courtship that led to her marrying into the Gunn family. Traci also learned that the ample size of her husband’s pecker (as Sophie had described it) had motivated an architectural flourish: her clock tower is capped with a hemispherical dome. A tribute to her husband’s prowess, that can be observed with appropriate awe from a distance of nearly 22 miles. Traci had left the library in a bleak mood. The experience had been an unwanted reminder of a lack of intimacy in recent years. 

Before she can nosedive further into such somber thoughts, two other conference attendees join the table: Agarwal Rakesh, with a glass of red, and Steve, his postdoc, holding a bottle of IPA in each hand. Because, he explains, “I didn’t think there would be enough time to queue for a second one.” 

Agarwal had introduced Steve to Traci yesterday, along with the explanation that he had arrived from the UK at the start of this year. Traci thinks of him as English Steve; his surname has escaped her. His face strikes her as being distinctly long and narrow. She knows her Mom would have described his body-type as being in sore need of some stick-to-his-ribs cooking. Traci wonders if a better word-association is Skinny Steve.

It appears that her two companions do not shop at the same clothing store. Agarwal is a dapper double doctor: an MD-Ph.D. Consequently, he is wearing a two-piece charcoal suit. His unbuttoned jacket reveals a light gray shirt and a navy tie with a few narrow white stripes. Steve, who is half of Agarwal’s age and earns one fifth of his salary, wears baggy brown cargos and a loose fitting, black T-shirt. Steve’s footwear is a pair of high-top sneakers; Agarwal has chosen dark brown brogues. 

Traci and Agarwal perform the necessary post-game analysis: they must opine on which talk was the highlight of the day, identify whose presentation was devoid of new data, and recognize the member of the audience who posed the same question today as they had at a previous conference. Of course, their recap cannot now include discussion of the latest attempt by Chuck Standish to belittle Roger Spinnit. 

Steve's first contribution to the table comes after chugging half of his first bottle. He expresses bewilderment concerning the motives of the University’s planning committee. “What’s the thinking behind the fake Gothic architecture?”

Traci recognizes that Steve is not following protocol. This is a poor performance for a postdoc. He is missing the opportunity to display his scientific acumen, which is a key aspect for networking. He should offer his insight into some important aspect of today’s presentations, ideally one that more senior scientists have failed to recognize. Or he should expound on the value of a recently published article he has just read, or a new trend in the field. But instead, thinks Traci, he is in danger of being only faintly remembered as that English fella who likes beer. 

“Actually, it’s not phony.” Agarwal is trying to help Steve to make sense of it all. “It was a genuine style in the 1920s. Collegiate Gothic. It was designed to convey academic prestige. Like your Oxford and Cambridge.”

“Prestige?" Steve is not impressed. "Not in the UK. Less than one percent of the population get selected by those two institutions. But their graduates represent a quarter of our Members of Parliament and most of our senior judges. Many see this as elitism. Perpetuation of aristocratic rule.”

Now that the subject is university politics, Traci needs to make some points. “Our college system is not under attack from liberals. We face a backlash from the opposite end of the political spectrum, which is especially riled just now. Because of the recent campus protests over the Gaza situation. 

"And it's an election year. It suits the Republicans to claim that the nature of elitism in higher education is its anti-American, liberal ideology. They’re fixin’ to shut down the truth, ’cause they can’t stand to face it." 

Traci realizes her articulation is regressing. It happens when she gets worked up about something. She takes a breath, not wanting to be mistaken for a simple-minded, Southern lunatic. She also reminds herself that she is speaking from a position of relative privilege. Three years ago, she became a Senior Scientist at the FIB: the Federal Institute of Biosciences. 

The FIB was established in the 1960s, to anchor a new research and technology park  through a handshake agreement between the US President and the Florida Governor (tax dollars for the State!). Federal funding arrives directly from DC, through procedures that largely avoid Congressional scrutiny. Much of it is earmarked by the US Senate, through turgid legalese buried deep into Appropriation Bills. In addition, the Defense Department provides brown envelope money. By total coincidence, of course, a military base is one of the FIB’s neighbors.

There are many university professors who are jealous of what they perceive as the luxuries enjoyed by Government scientists. Traci understands their envy. They interpret that her being a tenured Federal employee awards greater job security. They know that she is freed from teaching – unlike a university, there are no students. She also has colleagues who resent that she  is liberated from writing grant applications to fund lab expenses and staff salaries. It is important to her that she make political points without appearing to be condescending.

“Did you see the recent campaign video in which Trump said the Government should not be supporting institutions that breed communists and terrorists? Don’t you think this sounds like he is resurrecting Red Scare tactics from the 1950s? Y’all should be worried this will become an excuse to reduce Government funding of universities, if he's elected." 

With a dismissive wave, Agarwal banishes Traci's concerns. “It won’t happen. The last two Quinnipiac polls are consistent. Biden has the lead. Between four and six points. And remember, Biden beat Trump in 2020.”

Steve places an empty bottle on the table and reaches for his second. He, too, has not given any consideration to the possibility that Trump could win the election. In any case, he is more concerned about his recent encounter with the consequences of inordinate tuition fees. “It must be expensive to study here,” he says. “A lot of the students can’t even afford proper accommodation. Yesterday afternoon I walked around campus and discovered a tent city. Full of homeless students. Hundreds of them. How is that tolerated?”

Traci concludes that Steve is not just naive about American politics. He also needs a lesson on American culture. She asks, “was this near the basketball arena?”

Steve returns a puzzled look. “The tents were set up on a large lawn. There was a building nearby that could have been a stadium, I suppose. I didn’t pay it much attention. I was more concerned about how these poor students were getting fed. I didn’t pause to wonder what sports they might like to play.”

“They are not homeless,” Traci explains through a polite smile. “The Gunn Basketball team have a huge rivalry with a nearby state-funded university. The tickets are extremely difficult to get. The street price can exceed a thousand dollars for the better seats. Hundreds only gets you the nosebleeds.

“The Administration has a limited allotment of free tickets for the  students. But it’s first come, first served. This is why they camp out for weeks beforehand. To reserve their place in line.”

Steve just cannot grasp this concept. “They choose to sleep outside? In the winter? College sport is that important?” 

Now Agarwal chips in. “You bet. And the university certainly thinks so too. I can guarantee you that the basketball coach is the most highly paid campus employee. And I’m talking millions.” 

It takes a few moments for Steve to adsorb the concept that the salary structure at American universities has nothing to do with the importance of receiving an education. Nor can he avoid posing more questions that bring him astonishing answers. “How did this University get its name?” 

Traci wishes Steve hadn't asked, because she observes Agarwal is gently stroking his goatee. This isn't the only sign of his cognitive effort. Receding white hair has allowed his forehead to grow taller, highlighting three horizontal furrows of concentration - Traci sees a hamburger button. 

She is antsy because of previous experience with Agarwal not simply being a walking Wikipedia. He has also mastered its narrative style: overly factual and lacking in engagement. True to form, the lecture begins with an unduly elaborate description of the American arms industry exploiting an untapped home market in the 1900s. Agarwal acknowledges an essay on that era that he came across in Time Magazine. He describes a prototypical slogan that the magazine had reproduced. “Protect your family!” These words, Agarwal explains, were placed above an image of an armed husband shielding a scared wife as they cautiously stepped down their staircase at night.

"Other adverts would advise you to hide a pistol between your car seat cushions, or demand that every 12-year-old boy should be armed. The idea was to generate fear and promote masculinity. The American public lapped it up. They still do. 

"The Gunn family were among those who acquired vast wealth from manufacturing firearms. Around 1920 they decided that constructing a private university would be a suitable, self-aggrandizing legacy."

It is all too much for the innocent postdoc. “What? The Gunn family actually sold weapons? And nobody questions a place of learning that is associated with products that kill?”

Agarwal nods in sympathy to the nature of these questions. “Not in Texas. And it’s not the only example. Several American universities have been accused of accepting funds from the tobacco industry in return for indirectly assisting with their PR campaigns."  

Traci thinks the main points of Agarwal's address could have been more succinctly put without  beginning at the time the dinosaurs died out. It is the reason that her attention wanders away from their table’s conversation. She observes that Batman and Robin are expressing frustration at being near the end of the line for the drinks. 

Remembering names is a problem for Traci. She tries not to worry about it, having read a study that concluded the human brain is bombarded each day with over thirty gigabytes of information. That is the equivalent of two complete seasons of Game of Thrones (in high definition). With its cast of several hundred, who remembers all of their names? 

She has become grateful to a memory aid that she has come across on-line: Name Games. The strategy is to link a person’s name to a shared characteristic. One of its successes, she now realizes, is her recall of James Bateman and Robin Johnson. Even though it is Robin, at a burly six feet two, who is the taller of the pair. James, a less superheroic six inches shorter, is African-American. It dawns on Traci that she has unwittingly constructed an allegory for the underrepresentation of Blacks in Science being as severe as it is among costumed crime fighters.

Traci knows that this dynamic duo had been Chuck's major postdoctoral driving force during his most productive era. Traci has no problem acknowledging their deserving graduation into tenure-track scientists at their own institutions. But she wishes both of them had subsequently reviewed Chuck’s science more impartially. She has served on grant review committees with them. Furthermore, as an academic editor of some important journals, she has seen their referees’ reports. She feels that both of them were too slavish with their praise, and too reticent with their criticisms. Both of them would have felt indebted towards their mentor. It would be instinctive not to turn against him. Traci could not imagine that Chuck would have requested favoritism from those whom he has trained. But, Traci thinks, he certainly did benefit.

How often does such give and take between colleagues slip into unethical territory? It is a question Traci has given much thought to. After all, she also bent the rules once. Only a minor and justifiable infraction, she has convinced herself. She had interceded in the process of a manuscript review, in order to allow Chuck the opportunity not to publish an embarrassingly incorrect conclusion. One that would have provided Roger Spinnit with ample ammunition in the war of attrition between him and Chuck. I only acted to save the field from bad data being published. I prevented an outbreak of controversy. I extended my network of friendly colleagues. Nothing dodgy in that.

She had not expected any payback. But of course it had been gratefully received. Her appointment to the FIB was greatly facilitated by Chuck's letter of recommendation. He had raised her profile through invitations to speak at a couple of important conferences. He had shared some of his unpublished data with her, when he knew it could help her own research. 

Traci’s thoughts are interrupted as she observes that Batman and Robin are being spoken to by Nick Robbins (Nick the Prick; that was an obvious one!). Their body language appears to Traci to be signaling that they are not thrilled to have this conversation. A couple of minutes pass. They shrug their shoulders in synchrony, which ends a brief exchange.

Robbins strides over to Traci’s table. Darn, she thinks. The three senior academics exchange brief pleasantries. Agarwal makes the effort to introduce his young postdoc, but Robbins ignores this. Traci observes the rudeness, but also concludes that Steve appears unperturbed. He seems perfectly happy making sure his second beer is not wasted.

“I need to ask you both a question,” Robbins remains standing as he speaks. “Have either of you been contacted by a journalist? She goes by the name of Lydia Goode.”

Traci takes the aggressive tone in Robbins' voice as a warning. Something is off. She shakes her head, having decided not to mention the voicemail that the journalist had left for her, only a couple of days ago. Traci also tries to make a mental note to self: I really should return that call. Of course it is self-deception. Anxiety over Karen's upcoming visit has fully booked up her to-do list. 

Agarwal is more responsive to Robbins' query. “Yes. She is writing a biography of Standish. She knows about the PNAS paper that he and I had published together. As part of her research, she wants to interview me. We’ve arranged to meet up next month, at the gerontology symposium that I am organizing in New Orleans." 

Knowing that Robbins has not signed up for this meeting, Agarwal follows up with one-upmanship. "It's the 75th anniversary of the American Academy of Gerontologists. It's a big deal. Lydia has a commission to write a commentary on the meeting."  The implication is that an important opportunity is being missed. Agarwal also wants it noted that he, too, is on first-name terms with an influential journalist.

“I have no interest in the AAG." Robbins speaks at a volume that would be appropriate for an audience stationed at the back of an airplane hangar. "I know about the biography. She and I met for the same reason, a few weeks ago.” 

He has prepared his lies carefully. “She wasn’t interested in my tributes towards Standish. She only wanted dirt on the guy. I wouldn’t play that game. I have no desire to speak ill of the dead. I kicked her out of my office. After that, I checked into her background. Peculiar thing is, only her journalism credentials show up on the internet. She’s written several commentaries for Science and Nature. And she has her own web site. But her online headshot is fake, it’s absolutely nothing like her.”

Traci ponders whether Robbins is aware of the concept of a private conversation, as his voice cannons into an adjacent table of Europeans. She reads their amusement as heads turn.   

Perhaps, like tourists on safari, they will enjoy reporting home about sighting an insufferably loud American in its natural habitat? 

“What does this journalist look like?” she asks. 

“Well, she’s quite tall. I guess in her early thirties. And she reminded me of Halle Berry.”

She’s Black?” assumes Traci.

“Nooo." It's like he’s answering a stupid question. “Her hairstyle reminded me of Halle Berry.”

Now that the discussion around the table has veered away from academic topics, Steve decides he has something useful to contribute. “Do you mean close-cropped as in Die Another Day, or curly wig in The Call?” Attempting to curry favor as a movie buff teaches Steve that Robbins is not interested in expanding his circle of friends for game nights. Instead, Steve receives a scowl that conveys the disgust one experiences when stepping into dog shit. He mouths his displeasure with American arrogance - wanker! - and returns his attention to the beer. 

“My point is,” Robbins bellows, “this woman has something to hide. She’s using an alias, I’m sure of it. I can’t even find out if she really has a Ph.D. She told me she has, but she didn’t say where it was from. I don’t even know which state she lives in. I tried a reverse number search on her phone and found nothing. I guess she’s using a burner. But why? What doesn’t she want us to know?

“I just discovered something else weird. She told me that she is setting up interviews with those who had worked with Standish. But I just spoke to Johnson and Bateman. Goode has not tried to contact either of them. If she genuinely wants to write an informed biography, then surely she would have set up interviews with the people who had worked in his lab. Why hasn’t she done that?” 

Traci has answers to that. “You can’t assume she won’t, at some future point.” After all, as far as Robbins is concerned, she has not contacted me either. She also speaks from her knowledge that those who have come through Chuck’s lab remain extremely loyal to him. “Maybe she considers that Chuck’s alumni would be too biased? They might sugarcoat him.” 

Their conversation is momentarily interrupted by an ironic cheer. Batman and Robin are clinking bottles in celebration of their accomplishment. This prompts Steve to appreciate there is no longer a line at the bar. He glances at his watch. He concludes that the four minutes that remain before dinner offer ample opportunity to get a refill. He excuses himself – to nobody in particular – and hurries to the bar. 

Again, Robbins looks directly at Agarwal. “I just need a photo of her. Then I could run facial recognition over the internet. Real images of her must surely exist somewhere. I think we should all know who she really is. But I can’t do it myself. The registration deadline has passed. And it’s not even my field of interest. So I'm wondering. . ."

Traci interjects. It is in her nature to be kind and considerate towards others, at least until they give her good reason to behave otherwise. Robbins has certainly bulldozed across that threshold. But she thinks that Linda . . . or is it Lydia? . . . deserves the benefit of the doubt. “Nick, that is a really bad idea. If she wants privacy, you should respect it. Maybe it just works well for her career to be anonymous.”

Robbins feigns innocence with a forced smile. “I just want to protect Standish’s legacy.”

Traci stifles a derisive snort by coughing. She adds insincerity to a list of nasty personality traits that justify branding Robbins as the most obnoxious person she knows. Traci's conclusion that Robbins is acting deceitfully arises out of a conversation with Chuck from a couple of years ago. She had learned how Chuck and Robbins had seriously locked horns. Their dispute arose out of a conversation at a conference in Japan. Robbins had bragged about his discovery of a novel pseudokinase, which he had said was abundant in the pancreas. In the following months, Chuck had gone on to investigate this protein as a therapeutic target for pancreatic cancer. In their first paper on this topic, Chuck had cited Robbins' work, and emailed him a copy of the manuscript prior to its publication. 

Traci also recalls Chuck confiding that "Robbins went apeshit over the phone, claiming the application to pancreatic cancer was his idea." Chuck had explained how he had refused to agree to Robbins' demand to be a coauthor. The call had ended with dueling epithets. 

Being aware of this backstory leads Traci to presume that Robbins would love to see Chuck cast as a bad guy. She cannot think of a reason why Robbins has now claimed to be the guardian of Chuck's fine reputation. 

A resonant voice conquers the courtyard's discourse. “Ladies and Gentlemen!" The announcer is an overweight man in a white apron and a tall, pleated hat. At his side is a young woman in a business suit. They stand on the steps outside the cafeteria. Its glass walls dazzle the audience by reflecting the last rays of sunshine from the rapidly sinking sun. The man introduces himself as George Baker. 

He pauses to see if anyone makes the connection. Nobody does, so he moves on. He makes a show of patting his ample belly. “They say you should never trust a skinny chef.” This time, his audience senses that soft chuckles represent an appropriate response.

“So,” he continues, “one look at me should tell I've prepared a great dinner for you tonight.” He holds out an arm to introduce his companion. “Alison will lead you to the dining area that we have reserved for you on the second floor. Please follow her. And enjoy!” 

There is one last request from Robbins. “All I’m asking is, if you find anything out about her, would you let me know?” And with that, he quickly strides off; it is the only gait he seems to know. He snowplows other delegates aside, clearing his path towards Alison. After a few seconds, she laughs at some joke he makes.

As Traci observes all this, she expels a tired sigh. She gathers up her jacket, and inspects the contents of her purse. She knows it’s a little obsessive, but she can’t avoid checking she still has hold of her important possessions. Credit cards. Cell phone. Car Keys. But something is missing. Where's my Sharpie gone?

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