CHAPTER 3

Traci Weber

In the 1920s, Gunn University sprouted from the demise of an open-range cattle ranch, half-way between Corpus Christi and the town of Alice. The institute was founded on a bedrock of orthodox principles and the wealth of a successful family business. Sixty years later, its endowment benefited handsomely from the right-wing beachhead philosophy: the identification and private funding of influential, conservative-minded academics. The investment portfolio is sustained by the generosity of alumni base that is top heavy with business multi-millionaires. 

Essential to school pride, and hence those philanthropic gestures towards the alma mater, are the perennial successes of the so-called student athletes, most notably the basketball and football teams. This is why the Warren School of Economics and Business Studies is on campus. Nominally, it is an independent academy, so that its more relaxed attitude towards the admissions process and class attendance criteria will not drag down Gunn’s GPA average.

Warren was Sophie Gunn’s maiden name.  

While primarily administering a liberal arts education, the board of trustees have also created a life sciences center. The coursework lacks overt conservative indoctrination, but the demands of practical classes limit the free time for counter-activism. Consequently, the trustees are happy enough attracting those science students who are politically docile, and pay higher tuition fees than their peers in the humanities. As a bonus, this is a legitimate location to hold a scientific conference. It has a snappy title. Kinases: War and Peace. The war is the pathology resulting from kinase dysregulation; peace is the successful, post-therapeutic condition. Such benefit-driven taglines attract more attendees, thereby increasing prestige and revenue for the host. 

The explicit boast of human-health relevance in the conference title also offers brand consolidation to the kinase field. This talks to funding agencies and taxpayers, those who will not merrily bankroll scientists motivated by a curiosity to unravel the basic laws of nature. No, that will not work at all. Researchers must boast of tangible, practical outcomes for their research. Which in turn demands exciting headlines: stop tumor growth; slow cognitive decline; repair DNA. If exaggeration ever tips into distortion, no worries. A research field’s dubious statements will eventually be considered established facts, if they are reiterated often enough. It is the illusory truth effect. 

If the susceptibility of humankind to illusory truth were merely a plaything for scientists, maybe the world would be a better place. Alas, the phenomenon has serious, real-life consequences.  Such as loosening lug nuts on the wheels of democracy. A number of Gunn valedictorians are in a position to amplify the complaint that the 2020 Presidential election was rigged. Perhaps purveyors of this myth are aware that slogans should be persistently repeated until the very last individual has come to grasp the idea. So goes Mein Kampf. 

Professor Traci Weber fidgets in her lecture theater chair. 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). 

These walkabouts are facilitated by her reserving a seat at one end of the back row. She had  written her name in Sharpie on the front cover of her conference program, which she had placed on the appropriate chair before breakfast. It is a nod to her German heritage. Like commandeering a pool chair with a towel.

She despairs at the physiological disadvantages of being in her mid-fifties: her slowing metabolic rate, reduced muscle mass, and decreased blood circulation. These are all 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. She loses focus during this final lecture’s Q and A, and it crosses her mind that declining cognitive function is an early symptom of hypothermia.

The session Chair loses patience when the last question defies her request that it be brief. She cuts in. “Clearly this is a complex topic. But we are already running late. Maybe you and the speaker can pursue this discussion over drinks.”

The impatient audience breathes a collective sigh of relief as it makes a creditable attempt to depart hastily without betraying a sprint towards the bar. Traci’s starting position is close to the exit. She also benefits from deference towards her gender. A couple of Texans, belt buckles as generous as their chivalry, usher her through the doorway.

It is the happy hour (free beverages!) prior to the evening meal. Or rather, a happy thirty minutes, since today’s session finishes late. Traci climbs down half-a-dozen bluestone steps to a sunken courtyard. Fluted, gray planters compete for space with patio sets: recycled plastic fashioned into chairs and rectangular, slatted tables. At the nearby corner, a lone server is responsible for a mobile drink station. 

After collecting their drinks, most of the attendees ignore the seating, and gather into small circles. Because it is easy to sneak away from a standing group, in order to join another that is higher up the scientific hierarchy. In contrast, a table conversation forges a more structured social bond that is difficult to break. Nevertheless, Traci takes a pour of chardonnay to a seat by herself for a few moments of introspection, a think and a drink. Strong notes of vanilla and butterscotch prompt her to wonder if it was sourced from Target. 

A wistful gaze rises up the steps towards the lecture theater. Behind it, much of a boastfully-named Athenaeum is hidden from her view, except for the pointed arches of a belfry tower, its limestone cladding glistening in the sun, as if it were a lighthouse beacon. She had beheld the full glory of that building yesterday, during a conference break. The library occupies the three lower stories. Higher up, general administrative space tapers through setbacks to the campanile. Traci had the impression of a scaled-down model of Brooklyn’s Williamsburgh Savings Bank, a.k.a. the Fuck You Building. Both edifices have the appearance of an upright fist with an extended middle finger.  

She had toured the third-floor to investigate the Gunn museum. It had been an encounter with a rainbow of emotions. She had begun with flushed anger towards the trustees’ exhibit that admires Governor Gregg Abbott and his ongoing campaign for book-ban laws: elimination from public schools of all themes related to race, gender and sexual identity. Her rage had subsided into resigned disappointment as she passed through the family’s art collection. It is rich with early 20th century nostalgia for white male patriotism. Cowboys and Texan Rangers extolled as heroes, Native Americans vilified as dangerous adversaries.   

Digitized passages from Sophie’s memoirs lie behind an age-restricted paywall, to protect the presupposed innocence of high-schoolers visiting the library on college preview days. Traci had gained access through an optional extra on the entrance ticket, and had read the accounts of a consummate flapper during the Roaring Twenties. It is an enthusiastic rendering of the increased freedom for young women to express themselves sexually. This was why Traci had left the library in a bleak mood. The experience had been an unwanted reminder of a lack of intimacy in recent years. 

Traci did not read the diary’s conclusion, a tonal shift after Sophie’s marriage to a Gunn twenty years her senior. She self-censored her emotions. Her writing became less personal, and more stoic. A treatise to her role as a social asset for her husband. An instruction manual for a perfect wife. A parable for the Gunn library: all’s well that ends well.

This is the first symposium Traci has attended since Chuck’s still-unsolved murder. She still  grieves the loss. They had collaborated on a couple of projects. The two of them had often sat together at conferences, especially at meal breaks, or in the late-night drinking groups. It was Chuck who had chaired her presentation at the ill-fated meeting in San Diego, the very symposium that had been abandoned on its final morning, after his body had been discovered by a designer-dog walker at dawn. His route along the coastal promenade had taken him past the bushy perimeter of the conference hotel grounds, where the Dalmatian-Corgi crossbreed had sniffed out the remains. How has that poor man coped, Traci wonders. Does his daily constitutional now take a different route? Each time he observes the blaze of sunrise that silhouettes the cityscape, does it trigger flashbacks to his gruesome discovery? 

Traci wishes she had not learned how difficult it is to walk away from a crime scene when the body under the forensic tent was said to be someone you had been close to. She had been fixated by the grim theater: officers in latex gloves inspecting the ground, while a curtain of September sea-mist retreated from the canvas. She had been frozen with disbelief. The police must be mistaken. It isn’t Chuck who is lying there. It really isn’t. 

“Ma’am. . .?” That interruption had been polite but official. “We must take your statement.” 

A uniformed arm had directed her away from the perimeter of yellow tape, towards a lecture hall repurposed for interviews with the attendees. She wonders if she will ever escape the memories of the shock and devastation that had hung over that room. How many of the others are still suffering? Could some of them have benefitted from the pastoral solace that had almost been on hand? The hotel had hosted a conclave of leaders from the Order of Genesis Doctrine. But the last of those clerics had checked out, their business meeting concluded, on the same day the scientists had begun to arrive. Perhaps, upon reading the news reports, these pastors had rued a missed recruitment drive? Ironically, it had been Chuck who had complained about a lost opportunity. Given the chance, he had told Traci, he would have pursued a frank exchange of views concerning the origin of the Universe: the 14 billion years for order to self-assemble from chaos, versus the 10 thousand years since bespoke lifeforms were assembled by an all-powerful entity.  

That was when Chuck had grumbled at the lost opportunity for him to pursue a frank exchange of views concerning the origin of the Universe: the 14 billion years for order to self-assemble from chaos, versus the 10 thousand years since bespoke lifeforms were assembled by an all-powerful entity. 

Traci had queried Chuck as to his motivation to engage. She is not a religious person. It is not atypical for scientists, who are ten-times more likely than the general population to reject the existence of God. But most of those that do believe – as far as she can tell – they accept the science behind the timescale of evolution, with the caveat that God surreptitiously intervened, most notably at the beginning. It is a proposition that Traci has ceased to care about. She had offered Chuck the opinion that both cosmological and divine interpretations of creation require belief in phenomena that are beyond our comprehension of spacetime. A supreme being must either be eternal, or arise spontaneously. The same goes for a self-evolving universe. The choice of faith is yours. 

He had brushed aside her neutrality. Chuck had been angry. “These wackos are a fringe movement right now. But forty percent of Americans accept a young earth version of creationism. That proportion has persisted for almost five decades. This is fertile breeding ground for religious conservatism.

“The Genesis Order aims to eliminate the constitutional separation of church from state, so they can be a revisionist power in education and politics. In science too: these people believe genetic engineering is a devil’s tool, a blasphemy. In their world, CRISPR would be outlawed.

“I believe this group is a threat to our democracy. As a scientist, I believe it is my duty to fight back. To do whatever I can.” 

In South Texas, the last weekend in February kicks off a series of colorful, outdoor festivals: concerts, rodeos and parades. It is an urgent celebration of the all-to-short spring season. Gunn’s groundskeeping staff have played their part in the annual commemoration. Courtyard planters burst with tulips, and dark purple petunias that particularly appreciate the extra hours of mild sunshine. So does Traci. She removes her jacket, carefully folds it over a chairback, and knocks back more wine.

Lightheadedness briefly surprises her, until she counts the hours since a light lunch. Sugary snacks were also missing from the afternoon coffee break. Conference costs have outpaced the financial reserves of academic societies. The days of caviar canapés and wagyu beef are a distant memory.  

Two of the conference attendees join her table: Agarwal Rakesh, with a glass of red, and Steve, his postdoc, holding a brown bottle in each hand. He senses the need to explain. “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 escapes her. His face strikes her as being distinctly long and narrow. 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 wears 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. 

Steve focuses on his IPA while Agarwal and Traci perform some post-game analysis: they opine on which talk was the highlight of the day, there is agreement on which presentation was devoid of new data, and they recognize the member of the audience who posed the same question today as they had at a previous conference. Traci uses subtle eye contact in an effort to encourage Steve into the conversation. She worries for him. If he neglects networking opportunities , will he be only faintly remembered as that English fella who likes beer? 

It is the nature of the architecture that finally encourages Steve to speak. He swings his non-drinking arm in a wide circle to emphasize common features of the student services building on the left, the main campus lecture theater they just exited, the bioscience building on the right, and the dining room behind Traci. All of these structures are faced with ivy-clad limestone, enhanced with columns, door moldings, window tracery, gargoyles and parapets. 

“What’s the thinking behind all of this fake Gothic?”

“It’s not actually phony.” Agarwal talks at Steve through a smug smile. “It was a genuine, recognized style in the 1920s. Collegiate Gothic. It conveys academic prestige. Like your Oxford and Cambridge.”

“Prestige?" Steve is not impressed. "In the UK, there are many who view those two universities as elitist, perpetuating aristocratic rule. They represent a proving ground for most of our future judges and parliamentarians.”

Traci agrees. “I know what you mean, Steve. The esteem of a liberal arts institute should be judged through the civil engagement of its graduates. Their unbiased research into government or corporate claims. Their independence in the media and law courts. That is democracy at work. Working for the people, not kowtowing to a particular Government’s philosophy. When JD Vance echoed Nixon’s words – “professors are the enemy” – he wouldn’t have had Gunn in mind. The Niche web site ranks it second among America’s most conservative colleges. A number of their graduates are prominent in the Republican campaign, through activism and financial support. That’s one more nail in the electoral coffin. I fear there ain’t much stopping’ Trump’s second comin’. . .”

She realizes her Southern colloquialisms have been liberated by agitation about the upcoming election while drinking on an empty stomach. But discarding her wine still seems a little rash. She pincers the stem of her glass between thumb and forefinger. With slow intent she pushes the drink to her left, but only for the distance of half an arm, into a Schrödinger gray zone, where it is both less accessible and not difficult to reach. 

“Trump won’t win,” Agarwal asserts. “The last two Quinnipiac polls are consistent. Biden leads by four to six points. And remember, he beat Trump in 2020.” A dismissive wave preempts discussion of inherent, predictive bias in election polling: canvasing those who are more willing to answer surveys. This cohort is more politically engaged, and more steadfast with their decision. In contrast, the late-deciding voters are not only fickle, but also susceptible to last minute fear-mongering. As with Brexit and Trump in 2016.

Steve pivots from an empty beer to his second bottle and a new topic. “Do you know how much it costs to be a student here?” 

Agarwal is the fastest to an answer. “About a hundred grand a year. That’s typical for an elite, private university.”

“If you have to be wealthy to get in, why are so many students camping out? Yesterday afternoon I walked around campus and discovered a tent city. Scores of them.” 

“Let me jump in here.” Traci has developed strategies at work to restrain her male colleagues from dominating committee meetings. “Each year, the men’s basketball team hosts a huge in-state rivalry game. Competition for tickets is intense. Street prices can exceed a thousand dollars. Hundreds only gets you the nosebleeds. A limited number of free seats are allocated to the students, on a first come, first served basis. They camp out for weeks beforehand to reserve a place in line.”

The concept drops through Steve’s fingers. He has only been in the country for eight weeks, and has yet to sign up for cable TV. “All of that, just to watch an amateur sport? That is mental! Back home, the only student tournament that attracts a ticket-line is University Challenge, a hoity-toity quiz show broadcast from a tiny studio.” 

A stray memory is rescued, a visit to a London hotel. Agarwal had watched a televised episode mouth agape, as the winning team boasted their command of abstrusities: Latin phrases, literary prizes, and the lineage of multiple European monarchies. On the other hand, it was salutary to watch a college contest in which the TV audience did not taunt the private lives of their opponents.

“It’s not amateur, Steve. It’s a multi-billion-dollar media frenzy.”

He recognizes that his postdoc is unaware of Saturday FanFlap, broadcast every week from whichever college football stadium or basketball court is hosting a major rivalry game. The controversial anchor is Hunter Smack, the ex-linebacker with the absurdly large head, both anatomically and metaphorically. He dispenses institutional tribalism into the nation’s bars and living rooms, fueling animosity between opposing supporters with high-octane sermons that foment hostility and hatred. The all-day spectacle lingers long on angry coaches, incorrect calls from the officials, and replays of previous encounters involving serious injuries. There is Passion Fashion, Smack’s proprietary call-out to the cameras that zoom in on T-shirts with inflammatory mottoes. It is this TV show that has brought infamy to the courtside student section at Gunn, for celebrating each home team three-pointer with finger-gun gestures.  

Agarwal decides some tutelage is necessary, a reminder of the superior ethos of their workplace, one of the few American universities that keeps student athletics on the down low. “We value a college experience that culminates in a degree, rather than an apprenticeship for traumatic brain injury. We don’t take in students whose main goal is to share in the revenue that TV companies throw at some collegiate sports.” 

Steve’s beer bottle stalls hallway to his lips. He detests being contractually obliged to send monthly repayments to the UK’s Student Loan Company. “Attending university is a profession now?”

“It’s almost there. The top athletes already generate an income stream through personal branding, but they are not satisfied. They now want direct compensation from their colleges too. They have filed a lawsuit to get it. If it’s successful, cultural identity will take a big hit. Not from the fans, nor the boosters. They only care about victories. It’s the athletes who will readily discard their loyalty. They’ll readily jump between colleges, prostituting their allegiance to the highest bidder.”

Steve finds himself in a bind. Even his short time in the States has taught him that fitting in is much more complicated than eating with a fork in his right hand, or giving the correct answer when asked if America or England is his favorite country. He must also discard that English reserve. He needs to appear more confident. In order to integrate, his ignorance of college athletics should not inhibit him from expressing an opinion on it. But for now, he takes a safer route: a change of subject. After a second or two of searching for a prompt, he asks, “How did this University get its name?” 

Traci wishes Steve had not asked, as she observes Agarwal gently stroking his goatee. This is not the only sign of his cognitive effort. Receding white hair has allowed his forehead to grow taller, highlighting three horizontal furrows of concentration, 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,   

a lecture begins with an unduly elaborate description of the American arms industry in the 1900s exploiting an untapped home market. One that was leveraged by generating fear and promoting masculinity. A monotonic monologue describes an essay on that era that Time Magazine  published, along with the reproduction of a prototypical advertisement. Underneath the slogan, Protect your Family, an armed husband confidently shields his terrified wife as they both step down a darkened staircase.

“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. Today’s gun lobby continues to deploy these tactics. Large sections of the American public still lap it up. 

“By the 1920s, the Gunns had accumulated vast wealth from their firearms company. They decided that constructing a private university would be a suitable, self-aggrandizing legacy.   

Their financial dynasty thrives to this day, thanks in no small part to the National Rifle Association clipping the wings from gun controls.”

It is all too much for the innocent postdoc. “What? These people still sell weapons? And nobody questions a place of learning that is funded by 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 by not  beginning at the time the dinosaurs died out. It is the reason that her attention wanders away from their table. She notices Batman and Robin expressing frustration; they are still in the line for drinks.

Remembering names is a problem. 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 found 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.

This dynamic duo had been Chuck's major postdoctoral driving force during his most productive era. This recently incentivized GigantoPharm to amend the statues of its two-million-dollar Cancer Prize, which the company announced in 2023. A posthumous awardee will now be permitted. Consequently, it is generally expected that Standish, Bateman and Johnson will share the commendation when it is awarded in January 2025. It is not entirely a freebie. The winning team’s funds will be contractually allocated to drug development. The three leading candidates are co-authors of a cancer-drug pipeline patent, which is also of interest to GigantoPharm. Intellectual property law allows the researchers’ respective institutes to share in any licensing revenue, including Peter Davies University, where Standish worked.  

Traci views the Prize as a singularly deserving legacy for Chuck. She is ambivalent about Bateman and Johnson being likely to share the honor. The pair of them have each graduated into tenure-track scientists. Deservingly so, Traci, believes, but she wishes they 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.

When does give and take between colleagues slip into unethical territory? It is a question Traci has given much thought to. After all, she had bent the rules once, by interceding in the process of a manuscript review. She had given 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. The attempt at self-justification falls flat. She is still haunted by the knowledge that helping someone out does not mean a good deed was performed. 

She has certainly been rewarded. Chuck raised her profile through invitations to speak at a couple of large conferences. It was he who had facilitated her appointment at the Federal Institute of Biosciences, after learning that GigantoPharm had head-hunted the previous Chair of Cell Signaling, Ted Worthington (Ted the Head is Traci's cue). She is sure Chuck's letter of recommendation was key to her recruitment as Ted's replacement.  

A position at the FIB had been an offer she felt unable to refuse. The institute had opened 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. Traci does not dwell on the intrigue that lies behind the institute’s funding, she is simply grateful that the resources for her work have much improved since she left her university position. 

But it had been a tough start. She had inherited a crisis that needed to be dealt with strongly. One of her group leaders, Graham Rice, had shown "a cavalier attitude towards Federal regulations." That was how she had described her feelings about the offenses to the FIB's Scientific Director who, she felt, was not dealing adequately with the situation. Despite the danger of starting a new job by creating an enemy, she had successfully pushed for Rice to be removed from her Signaling Department.

It has become tiresome that some university academics express jealousy towards her (and even anger, behind her back) concerning the luxuries they perceive to be enjoyed by Government scientists. They say that a tenured Federal employee enjoys greater job security. They are disdainful that she is liberated from writing grant applications to fund lab expenses and staff salaries. They note that she is freed from teaching – unlike the college system, there are no students. But they are tone deaf when she counters that her position is tied to exacting requirements from the institute's leadership. She must publish multiple, ground-breaking discoveries in the major journals. To sustain that level of productivity she is compelled to work longer hours than she did as a university professor, and endure a salary-cap. Her detractors - there are more of them since she joined the FIB - they all think her excuses are not worth a shit.

An unexpected incoming triggers Traci to bring her wine back into play. It is Nick Robbins (Nick the Prick; that was an obvious one). He makes it easy to ignore Steve by standing behind him, casting a shadow over the table. “I need to ask you both a question. 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, deciding not to mention the voicemail that the journalist had left for her, only a couple of days ago. Traci also makes a mental note: I really should return that call. 

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 with one-upmanship. He implies that an important opportunity is being missed. “It's the 75th anniversary of the American Academy of Gerontologists. Lydia has a commission to write a commentary on the meeting. The SSC will publish it. It's a big deal.

“What’s the SSC?” asks Steve.

“The website for SickSpanCompressed” Agarwal explains. “A popular health and wellness portal targeted to the over-fifties.”

“I have no interest in the AAG or the SSC.” 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 to discuss it, a few weeks ago.” 

He has prepared his lies carefully. “She wasn’t interested in my tributes towards Standish. She only wanted dirt. 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.”

Steve rotates to face Robbins, mistakenly assuming he has something useful to contribute.  “Do you mean close-cropped as in Die Another Day, or curly wig in The Call?” 

Robbins is not intent on expanding his circle of friends for game nights. Instead, he issues a scowl to convey disgust at stepping into dog shit. Steve returns to his beer, mouthing displeasure towards American arrogance: wanker!  

“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 offers an alternative viewpoint. “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. The disturbance prompts Steve to appreciate there is no longer a line at the bar. He glances at his watch, and concludes that the four minutes that remain before dinner offer ample opportunity. He excuses himself – to nobody in particular – and hurries to procure another IPA. 

Again, Robbins looks directly at Agarwal. “I just need a photo of her attending your conference in New Orleans. I can’t do it myself. The registration deadline has passed. I could use her image to scan the internet using facial recognition. Pictures of her must surely exist somewhere. I think we should all know who she really is. So I'm wondering if you would help–"

“Nick, that's an appalling suggestion.” Traci feels obliged to intervene. “If she wants privacy, you should respect it. Maybe it just works well for her career to be anonymous.”

Robbins flashes her a cold, predatory glare. She reflexively jerks back into her seat. Her heart races. Did Agarwal see that anger? It seems not, as Robbins covers his tracks with a forced smile. “Don't we all want to protect Standish’s legacy?”

Traci knows Robbins is acting deceitfully, because she remembers a conversation with Chuck from a couple of years ago. She had learned how he 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 his lab’s first paper on this topic, Chuck had cited Robbins' work, and emailed him a copy of the manuscript prior to its publication. 

Chuck had confided that Robbins went apeshit over the phone, claiming the application to pancreatic cancer was his idea. Chuck had refused to agree to Robbins' demand to be a coauthor of the study. The call had ended with dueling epithets. Traci cannot understand why Robbins now claims to be the guardian of Chuck's fine reputation. 

A new voice conquers the courtyard's discourse. “Ladies and Gentlemen!” Traci  turns around and observes that the announcement has been delivered by an overfed man in a white apron and a tall, pleated hat. At his side is a young woman in a business suit. They occupy an elevated position, atop the steps outside the cafeteria. The man introduces himself as George Baker. 

He pauses to see if anyone makes the connection. Nobody does, so he moves on by making 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?