CHAPTER 3

Professor Traci Weber

Traci does not carry a grudge against chairs in general. Just those that populate lecture theaters. 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 SoftWalk Vera Cruz (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 is accomplished through a nod to her German heritage. She writes her name in Sharpie on the front cover of her conference program, which she places on the appropriate chair before breakfast. Like commandeering a pool chair with a towel.

Traci would rather she wasn’t in her mid-fifties (slowing metabolic rate; reduced muscle mass; decreased blood circulation). These physiological changes don't help her to avoid hypothermia at the hands of the building’s air conditioner. So instead, she is wearing jeans, and a blue blazer on top of a striped, button-down shirt. Even so, the chilled air drives her out of 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. Those who remain in the slowly shuffling line for the bar are becoming increasingly agitated.

She relaxes with a generous pour of Chardonnay in 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. 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. Traci is seated, but no longer twitchy; the alcohol helps. 

The departing sunshine remains generous with its warmth. The concrete floor is helping too. It is radiating the heat it captured from the sun earlier in the day. As a result, the temperature is a pleasant 70 degrees. She places her jacket over the back of the chair. 

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 resembles that selected for the ill-fated meeting in San Diego last September. With two significant exceptions. Roger Spinnit isn’t here. Traci takes a moment to reflect on that situation. Makes me a happy camper. 

The other absence from the current symposium is more keenly felt. The last time that Chuck Standish had attended a conference, it had to be abandoned on its final morning, after his body was discovered by a designer-dog walker at dawn. A Dalmatian-Corgi crossbreed had sniffed out the remains, which had been partly hidden 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. 

On the brighter side, Traci thinks, today's meeting had started with an uplifting discussion concerning 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.

Traci 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 five 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. It would serve as an appropriate epitaph. There is also an awareness that the actual funds would be divided among whomever the Committee selected to honor as joint recipients. Presumably, one or maybe two of Chuck's closest colleagues. Naturally, everyone was openly praising that such an award would be valued for the kudos it will 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 PowerPoint stacks to emphasize their own unique contributions to Standish's successes. This situation offers Traci an explanation for the lack of new data; those have been sacrificed to make room for older, published results, now repurposed as campaign propaganda.   

Traci enjoys another sip from her glass. The stone stairways that invite access to the courtyard's perimeter buildings seem to Traci to add grandeur to her surroundings. Nevertheless, she views the mixture of architectural styles as offering jarring aesthetics. The building on the south side – where dinner will be served shortly – has the shape of a rectangular prism. It is encased in tinted glass walls. An array of steel fins, painted burnt orange, climb up the two narrower sides of the building and join together on the roof. Traci guesses this serves a cooling purpose, but it is also the finishing touch to a structure that is strikingly similar to a giant power transformer. 

In astonishing contrast, the other buildings are faced with limestone. These are further decorated with Gothic elements: stone columns, door moldings, window tracery, gargoyles and parapets. The biochemistry department lies to the west. The lecture theater is on the north side. The edifice on the east, that guards the main campus entrance, is a campanile. This 310 feet, freestanding clock tower is the tallest such construction in America. 

Yesterday, Traci had fulfilled an ambition to tour the Gunn library, which occupies the tower’s first three floors. This was why she had arrived the afternoon before the conference began. It had been a fascinating experience. It was here where she had 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 described 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: the 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.

Two of the attendees join Traci at her 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. His surname has escaped her. For now, Traci will have to think of him as English Steve. Or maybe Skinny Steve. His face strikes her as being distinctly long and narrow, despite the curtained hairstyle. He is slimly built, with thin arms that remain the same width all the way up. 

She concludes that her two companions do not shop at the same 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. 

Steve is puzzled by the University’s style of architecture. Cathedrals of the same genre exist in his home country that are many centuries older. So, after chugging half of his first beer, he is prompted to ask, “what’s the thinking behind the fake Gothic architecture?”

Traci recognizes that Steve is not following established protocol for a postdoc. He is missing the opportunity to put intellect on display, a key aspect for networking. He should be offering his insight into some important aspect of today’s talks, ideally one that more senior scientists have failed to recognize. Or the value of a recently published article. Or a new trend in the field. But instead, thinks Traci, he is in danger of being only faintly remembered as that Englishman who likes beer. 

“Actually, it’s not phony architecture.” 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. "That's not the general attitude in the UK. It's well-known these institutions train less than one percent of the population. 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 of course, 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. What they are really scared of is the truth might get out. So they intend to silence it. 

"In a recent campaign video, Trump said the Government should not be funding institutions that breed communists and terrorists. He is resurrecting Red Scare tactics from the 1950s. This will be his excuse for targeting Federal funding of universities, if he's elected."

She is now directing her attention towards Steve. "We should all be concerned about this.” But he appears not to hear the warning that future funding of his postdoctoral career might be at risk. 

In any case, Agarwal banishes Traci's concerns with a dismissive wave. “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. He is also more interested in what he views as an unfortunate consequence 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 chose 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 asking questions that bring him astonishing answers. “How did this University get its name?” 

Agarwal responds that the construction of the university was financed by the Gunn family. Who, he goes on to explain, acquired their wealth from manufacturing firearms. 

It is all too much for the innocent postdoc. “What? This place has an occupational surname? The Gunn family actually sell weapons? And nobody questioned naming a place of learning after something that kills people?”

Agarwal nods in sympathy to the nature of these questions. “Not in Texas, and not in the 1920s. And it’s not the only example. There is another American university named after a tobacco baron.” 

Steve expresses surprise that the firearms industry was so profitable after World War One was over. Traci wishes he hadn't, 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 whenever he is concentrating. 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. 

He begins with an unduly elaborate introduction to the establishment of the American arms industry near the end of the 19th century. Eventually he moves on to describe how they came to recognize and exploit the untapped home market in the 1900s: they generated fear and promoted masculinity. Agarwal acknowledges that he learned this from an essay in Time Magazine, and he goes on to describe a prototypical advertising slogan that the magazine reproduced. “Protect your family!”

Agrawal provides a detailed account of the advert’s content. “An image of an armed husband shielding a scared wife as they were cautiously stepping 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.”

Gradually, Agarwal reaches his conclusion that the gullible American public eagerly latched on to these selling points, and the Gunn’s coffers overflowed. 

“Around 1920 the Gunns decided that using their vast wealth to fund the construction of a private university would be a suitable, self-aggrandizing legacy. It also helped that they already owned the farmland where we are now sitting.”

Traci thinks the main point of this 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. She hears Robin’s deep voice rise above the hubbub. He asks if the beers can be self-service, to move the line faster. She suspects there must be some rule against this proposal, because the request is denied.  

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 Batman and Robin as the most successful products of the Chuck Standish franchise: the placement of one’s protégés in positions where they can obligingly return favors to their mentor. 

She accepts that Chuck had been fortunate to recruit this dynamic duo as postdocs. They had been the 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 is critical that both had since failed to impartially review Chuck's Science. She came to this conclusion after serving on grant review committees with them. Moreover, as an academic editor of some important journals, she has seen their referees’ reports. In her opinion, when they have reviewed Chuck’s work they have been too slavish with their praise, and too reticent with their criticisms. Traci had known Chuck well. They had collaborated on a couple of projects. She could not imagine that Chuck would have requested favoritism from those whom he has trained. But, Traci thinks, he certainly did benefit from this weakening of the guard rails to the peer review system.

Traci observes that Nick Robbins (Nick the Prick; that was an obvious one!) is talking to Batman and Robin. 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.

Nick is now striding 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 Nick ignores this. Traci observes the rudeness, but also concludes that Steve is unperturbed. He seems perfectly happy making sure his second beer is not wasted.

“I need to ask you both a question,” Nick begins. “Have either of you been contacted by a journalist? She goes by the name of Lydia Goode.”

Traci notes the aggressive tone to Nick’s voice. Something is off. She decides not to mention the recent phone call between her and Lydia. She shakes her head. 

Agarwal is more forthcoming. “Yes. She is writing a biography of Standish. She knew 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 in New Orleans. Why are you asking?”

Nick is still standing. “We met for the same reason, a few weeks ago. But it didn’t go well. She has an agenda.” Nick has prepared his lies carefully: they are based on some truth. “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. The interview ended badly, and I kicked her out of my office. 

“I wondered what her motive might be. So, I decided to check into her background. Peculiar thing is, I can’t find much about her on the internet beyond her journalistic credentials. She’s published overviews of scientific advances in Science and Nature. And she has her own web site. But her online headshot is fake, it’s absolutely nothing like her.”

“What does she look like?” asks Agarwal, innocently.

“Well, she’s quite tall. And she reminded me of Halle Berry.”

She’s Black?” assumes Agarwal.

“Nooo."  Nick drags out the word, like he’s answering a stupid question. “Her hairstyle reminded me of Halle Berry.”

Steve has finally decided he has something useful to contribute. Everyone appreciates a movie buff, right? “Do you mean close-cropped as in Die Another Day, or curly wig in The Call?” 

Nick rewards this intervention with the type of scowl one normally reserves for inadvertently stepping into dog shit. Steve returns his attention to the beer. 

“My point is,” Nick continues, “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 was setting up interviews with those who had worked with Standish. But I just spoke to Johnson and Bateman. Lydia 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 Nick 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. 

Agarwal has a question for Nick. “Do you have a photo of Lydia?”

“No,” Nick confesses. “I wish I had. Real images of her must surely exist on-line somewhere. If I did have a photo, I could run facial recognition over the internet. I bet that would uncover  her history.”

Traci suspects where this conversation is heading. “If she wants privacy, you should respect it. Maybe it just works well for her career to be anonymous. I hope you were not going to ask Agarwal to get a surreptitious snapshot during his meeting with Lydia.”  

“No, of course not.” Nick is lying again. “But I don’t think any of us would want to help someone who is dead set on dragging Chuck Standish’s name through the mud. Right?”

The sun is setting behind the campus buildings, placing the entire courtyard in shade. An overweight man in a white apron and a tall, pleated hat appears on the steps outside the glass-walled cafeteria. He is accompanied by a young woman in a business suit. He is able to shout loudly enough to be heard over the ongoing conversations. 

“Ladies and Gentlemen!" He waits a few moments to ensure he has captured everyone's attention. 

"Let me introduce myself. I am 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!” 

Nick addresses Agarwal. “All I’m asking is, if you find anything out about her, would you let me know? And maybe be careful what you say to her about Standish. Especially now that the GigantoPharm award is up for grabs."

And with that, Nick quickly strides off; it is the only gait he seems to know. It does encourage others to step aside, which clears his path towards Alison. Within a few seconds, they are deep in conversation. Now Alison is laughing 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 has my Sharpie gone?

Return to Chapter 2         Chapter 4 will be posted soon