CHAPTER 7

The problem with rats on drugs

Lydia leaves her room in a downtown New Orleans hotel. It is a quarter to eight in the morning. The conference will begin on the hour, in a ballroom two floors down. She plans to arrive ten minutes early to exchange pleasantries, to break the ice with some sweet-talk: Hi, Doctor Rakesh, it's great to finally meet you. I am so grateful you agreed to help me with my biography of Professor Standish. I am sure your input will be very valuable. I look forward to our discussions later today.

There is another reason she is attending this conference. The American Academy of Gerontologists wants to better position itself for tapping into the last decade’s ten-fold increase in philanthropic funding for anti-aging research. After all, growing old with dignity is the one human health condition that everyone can identify with. And in greater numbers, as the demographic expands. To share in this growing bankroll, the AAG desires to raise its profile. This is why they commissioned Lydia to report on this symposium. She is contracted to provide a summary in lay terms of current hot topics in aging research, within a narrative arc of AAG's illustrious 75-year history. In return, the AAG waived her registration fee and will reimburse travel expenses. Her article will be published by a popular wellness website targeted to seniors: Sickspancompressed.org. That organization will reward her with a healthy commission. They can well afford it. The healthcare industry pays handsomely for the opportunity to advertise itself to an audience that is ripe with health and financial anxiety.

The elevator doors open to a lack of etiquette. No brief good morning. No respect for the silence of an enclosed space. Instead, she is ignored by an intense quarrel between two middle-aged men in chinos and polos. Gray and navy for one. Khaki and white for the other, he who denies that sweaters have a neck hole. Instead, it drapes it over his shoulders, sleeves knotted around his chest. He speaks with a heavy inflection that Lydia cannot place. European, perhaps?

“. . . changes in the microbiome are just inevitable as we age. Dysbiosis does not drive aging. It’s a secondary response to degradation of our immune system.”  

His companion's retort is loud, self-assertive and over-confident. Like he is ordering a small country to be bombed. Sometimes, Lydia is reminded, it is embarrassing to be American. “That’s a simple-minded approach. You deny the pluralism of biodemography. Fluctuating host-microbiome genomic interactions represent multidirectional and temporal symbiotic ensembles; these are interdependent but synergistic evolutionary forces.”   

They reach the ground floor. The argument storms out of the elevator ahead of her. She has a moment of unease. Is that encounter typical of the conference’s lingua franca? This could be a difficult assignment.

She enters a wide hallway that stretches the entire, city block length of the building. The corridor is floored in marble, interspaced with squares of jewel-toned, mosaic patterning. She passes under coffered, plasterwork ceilings and tiered, crystal chandeliers. Bulky wooden beams, garnished with dental molding, rest on an honor guard of square pillars. Tucked between each pair of columns are alcoves; she peers into each of them, and sees New Deal murals, armchairs graced with velvet, or satin, and photographs of early Hollywood film stars. It is all a pleasant experience. A nerve-calming dose of dopamine décor.

Her cellphone rings. She does not recognize the number, but because the burner is a recent purchase, she knows it is unlikely to be spam. Nevertheless, she still answers cautiously. “This is Lydia.”

A timid, hesitant voice identifies herself. “Hey, it's Susan. From the Robbins lab.” Lydia hears an echo, and wonders if the caller is in hands-free mode, while driving. “We met, like, a couple of months back.” 

Lydia remembers that she gave Susan her contact information. To gain some privacy, she steps into an alcove where a short cabinet is flanked by two walnut chairs. On the wall is a black-and-white photo of a bespectacled Tommy Dorsey with his trumpet. 

“Yes, of course. How can I help?” 

Susan does not directly answer the question. Instead, she explains that life in the lab has become more difficult. “Robbins fully lost it after your visit. We’ve literally never seen him so hostile. It's basically 'cause you called out his authority. And you threatened him. Right in front of all of us.” 

“I bet he’s not used to getting that from a woman,” Lydia assumes.

“For real,” Susan agrees. “Since then, he’s been over-compensating hard. Like making damn sure we know he's still the boss. He’s gotten meaner and way more demanding.” 

Lydia isn’t going to apologize for standing up to Robbins, but she is upset that her confrontation has caused problems for Susan and her lab mates. “I’m so sorry for your situation.”

“Not your fault. It’s who he is.”

The conversation pauses. Lydia senses that Susan is reluctant to elaborate further. Is she holding back a description of sexual harassment? Lydia encourages her to continue. “Is there something else he’s done to upset you?” 

“He wants us wear GigaGlasses in the lab.” 

“Smart specs?” Lydia struggles to construct a mental image of how Susan wearing thick-rimmed glasses might serve Robbins’ lecherous tendencies.

“Spot on. He's giving control freak. He told us the GigantoPharm researchers find them really useful for taking videos, for record-keeping. It's, like, dead creepy.”

Lydia considers offering more sympathy, but Susan’s peevish vent is a little irritating. Why does she think a journalist can be of assistance with this particular problem? Lydia checks her watch; the symposium is about to start.

There is an abrupt change in tone. It becomes foreboding. “But that’s not why I called. I wanted to let you know Robbins is heading your way. I think he may have flown down to New Orleans last night.”

Lydia’s first thought is that he might be staying in the same hotel. Her stomach flutters, like a flag in a breeze. 

“He knows I'm at the AAG symposium?” Lydia sees conference delegates pass by in twos and threes. Their superficial, happy gossip sharpens Lydia’s dread that Robbins might already be among them. She lowers her voice, and rotates her body towards the bookcase. One hand cups her mouth.

“Yes. AAG. He told me he found out from a colleague, Professor Rakesh. Do you know him?”

“I do. I'm meeting him here.” As Lydia speaks, she silently curses Agarwal.

“The past few days, he’s been flexing about getting back at you,” Susan continues. “It’s a bad vibe.”

Lydia's apprehension tightens, as she constructs one worst-case scenario after another. She had made her plans to attend this meeting knowing that Robbins was not in the list of delegates. It  is not his field of research. She wonders if he is now planning to break into the meeting. But does he need to? He could still accost her in public areas of the hotel. 

Or maybe a direct confrontation isn’t his motive? Perhaps he has brought his lab's GigaGlasses with him - he could photograph her from a discreet distance. Is that what he wants? A photo? She knows the power of the internet’s facial recognition services. If Robbins establishes her true identity, he could probably uncover the reason she was fired from her postdoc position. That would definitely tarnish her brand, her credibility. Her hands suddenly feel cold.

“Just giving you a heads-up, figured you’d wanna know,” Susan says. “But I gotta bounce. I’m running late for my son’s toddler-tumbling class. I literally just pulled into the parking lot.” And then she is gone.

Lydia remains seated for a couple of minutes to assess her situation. She decides she will not run from Robbins. Maybe Agarwal will help? She thinks she can guilt him, now she has learned from it was he who told Robbins she would be here. Perhaps she can persuade him to intercept Robbins and prevent him from accessing the conference?

She takes precautionary glances up and down the corridor. There is no sign of her nemesis. She sees that the stairway to the conference ballroom is fifteen yards away, behind a towering, mother-of-all flower arrangement. She hurries past the gravity-defying bouquet, which launches from a wide-mouth ceramic planter urn placed on a marble table. Just ahead, the corridor terminates at a glass doorway. Lydia takes note of the possibility of an emergency exit to the street, if she were to need it. 

She slows her pace, climbing the steps cautiously as the floor above comes into view. Straight ahead, at the top of the stairs, she sees a restroom entrance. To her right, there is a staging area, with a trestle table. Behind it, two middle-aged women are seated. They are the Academy office staff whom she had spoken to them the previous evening, when the registration desk had been in the hotel lobby. Like most of the other delegates, that was when she had picked up a conference booklet and her lanyard. The name tag states: Lydia Goode, Journalist.

Lydia walks towards double doors propped open. Chattering escapes from the ballroom. A young man in a suit stands to one side of the entrance, and to Lydia’s dismay, he seems derelict in his duty to ensure that no-one enters unless they wear a badge. She cautiously steps inside, and recognizes Agarwal from the photograph his university has posted on-line. He is making an announcement from the front stage. Shit! I've lost my chance to talk to him before the conference begins. 

She takes a minute to survey the room. She searches for a head of black wavy hair and above-average height. Six-six? At least. He should stick out even when seated. She thinks he is not here, but she still keeps checking, as she walks towards an empty seat about halfway into the room. Her posture slumps into the chair as she wonders how she might cope when Robbins turns up.

One of the three conference organizers had to take responsibility to open the symposium this morning. That same volunteer had also agreed to make an announcement on behalf of the sponsor, the AAG. Agarwal wishes that it wasn’t him. 

Ten minutes ago, a mullet-haired GenZ with gold ear-studs had introduced himself to Agarwal as the hotel’s IT expert. In that capacity, he had copied onto a flash drive the PowerPoint decks from the two speakers who will give their presentations before the coffee break. Both talks had been loaded onto the system’s PC, and Mullet Head had verified the setup, before taking “a break” with a promise of “I’ll be right back.”

Agarwal has prepared a slide to accompany his announcement. But he is devoutly Windows-averse. He insists on swapping out the PC for his Mac. It is also a test-bed for his own research talk, later this morning. But his Mac won’t talk to the ZX-5000 digital podium. He triple-checks the input source, removes and reinserts cables, and restarts both his laptop and the projector. This failure to connect elicits unpleasant memories of growing up in the debris of his parents’ arranged marriage. Their frequent arguments had typically been followed by prolonged silences. Often for days at a time. And now he is dealing with yet another lack of communication. It is an unnerving situation. He is sorely missing the old days when setting up a presentation only required the skill to insert slides into a carousel the right way up.

Alone and exposed on the wood-floored stage, Agarwal wonders what length of time-frame is implied by “right back”. Five minutes? Ten? Can he avoid being blamed for these difficulties? At least his wife isn’t here. He knows exactly what she would tell his colleagues: he can’t work our smart TV. And it’s been installed for nine months.

He attempts what he hopes is a nonchalant survey of his audience. As yet, they are not betraying impatience, which brings him some relief. Mostly, they have corralled themselves into a meticulously arranged, four column grid of trestle tables, each seating three delegates. Scientists like to appear busy in front of their colleagues, so many laptops are open, and phones are at the ready. This facade will continue into the talks. Which is why a symposium’s buzz no longer references a palpable sense of scientific excitement. But rather, the vibrations that announce incoming emails and calls. 

The seating extends ten rows back, beyond which is a catering table where, noting signs of a delayed start, a small group exchanges some customary scientist-style pleasantries. Agarwal has heard them all before: I’m looking forward to hearing your talk (Subtext: I’m going to give you a tough time in the Q and A). I enjoyed reading your recent paper (you should be grateful that I was one of the referees). I’ve brought my postdoc with me, I hope you get chance to visit her poster (I want you to admire our latest data, and my astute recruiting). It is ironic that a ballroom that normally hosts wedding parties has been repurposed for an academic meeting. In both situations bad tempers can be fueled by heightened emotions, interpersonal competition, old grievances and alcohol. 

Notes of freshly brewed coffee and the sweet aroma of cinnamon waft around the room. Spilled coffee and juice, over the course of the next three days, will soil the white three-sided tablecloths that, for now, boujee up the trestle tables. Also expected to be sullied, by the time of the final session of the conference, is the quality of the talks. That is when speaking slots are typically allocated to the junior researchers, or those with the weakest presentational skills – or both. It is the graveyard shift.

The table that is reserved for the three conference organizers is at the center of the front row. Agarwal takes advantage of this proximity to assure his two co-organizers that the IT guy is returning very soon. Even though his optimism is undermined by the oversized digital clock on the right-hand wall. It ticks from 8:01 to 8:02. 

Agarwal fully appreciates why the organizer’s table is so close to the stage. It facilitates each speaker fulfilling an obligation at the start of their presentation: to make eye contact when expressing fulsome gratitude for the great honor to be among the prestigious list of speakers at this exciting and superbly-arranged conference.

The second coming! Finally! Mullet Head rematerializes from behind a plate of donuts. Agarwal attempts to convey the urgency of the situation without betraying the severity of his panic. He holds his arm over the unresponsive podium and jabs a pointed finger downwards. Mullet Head’s response is to approach the stage at a pace that implies he does not want to arrive. It is Agarwal’s aha! moment. He has read an article about this. GenZ entered the workforce after a pandemic and economic turndown. Wages are stagnant and prices are rising, and what does overworking accomplish? More stress and less social life. So Agarwal is sympathetic that his IT guy lacks motivation for a boring job and the low pay, and is probably also pissed that working on a Saturday conflicts with his usual diet of streaming and gaming.

GenZ (or Zoomers? Really?) bear another curse. Before they were born, the names of demographic cohorts were expository, or at the very least they were hip. The Silent Generation is synonymous with compliancy; there was discipline and work ethic. A post-war population explosion produced the Baby Boomers and counterculture. The cachet of Generation X led it to be appropriated by a team of superheroes. And Millennial? The word alone is an invitation to reminisce on digital days of yore, when the internet was accessed through a shared family computer, an AOL install CD, and the screech of dialup modems.

Then the 21st century arrived and generational terms became uninformative, bland, uncool: Z, alpha, beta.

As Mullet Head steps from a teal carpet onto the stage, he wipes a sugary hand down the leg of gray jeans. He shakes his head in disbelief at the age of Agarwal’s Mac, replaces a faulty dongle, and toggles on screen mirroring. “You’re all set,” he announces as he takes his leave, again. Agarwal thanks the back of his head, and finally opens the conference.

“For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Agarwal Rakesh.” 

He estimates that he should be recognized by about one-quarter of the audience, those he recalls from his two previous invitations to speak at an AAG meeting. A pity, he reminds himself, that he has just purged all of the most exciting data from his research talk. Not that a dull presentation will hinder future invites. Everyone he has invited to speak is obliged to return the favor when it is their turn to serve on the organizing committee. A conference payback that ensures a consistent caucus of speakers will feature at future meetings.  

“Let me welcome you to N’awlins.” A handful of the local delegates offer appreciative nods to his pronunciation. “And also welcome to the first day of our symposium.”

Agarwal sees the doors are closing behind the last person to enter the ballroom. He glances at her hair, but quickly realizes he is unqualified to decide if the style might be inspired by Halle Berry. But in other aspects she fits the description Robbins had provided a few weeks ago: a white female, in her early thirties, and above average height. Also, there aren’t that many women to choose from. That could be Lydia. 

He finds contradictions in this woman being tall and pretty, but somehow unimposing. Maybe because her posture is a little stooped? Of perhaps it's the muted tones of her clothes: beige pants and a matching jacket that is buttoned across a white, silk shirt. Her brown purse reminds him of one that his wife uses. He concludes that’s not surprising; his wife owns many purses. 

He observes that Lydia pauses to look around while nervously fidgeting with the handbag strap. Why does she seem so anxious? Is she looking for someone? Didn’t she tell me there wouldn’t be  anyone here that she knows? 

“Before we begin the first session, I have been asked to make an announcement on behalf of the AAG.” In his peripheral view, Lydia walks towards a vacant seat about half way in. Just like being late to board an aircraft, only a middle seat is available.

Since Agarwal has a slide to exhibit, he taps a podium button that harbors a promise. House Lights Dim. Black, wagon-wheel chandeliers, and color matched wall-sconces, all oblige by dimming in synchrony. A victory! A click on his pointer animates the appearance of bullet-points on the screen behind him.

“The Academy has created a sabbatical award. This initiative is a partnership with the Healthy Aging Research Institute in Green Bay, Wisconsin, where the honoree will enjoy the opportunity to perform their research, free of the constraints of teaching and administration at their home institute. 

“It is anticipated that the award process will be an annual event, beginning next year. It will be offered on a competitive basis. Self-nominated applications are encouraged. 

“The Academy’s administrative staff is working to post further information on the web. Probably before the end of this meeting. Applications for next year’s sabbatical will then be accepted.”

Hands shoot into the air like bottle rockets. Agarwal pleads for patience. “Due to our delayed start, I will only take a couple of questions. We should try to prevent the schedule from overrunning further.”

Without waiting for an invitation, a disdainful voice emerges from the third row. “Green Bay?” 

Agarwal establishes that there is an unruly mop of red hair in the audience, that is paired with a large, uneven beard. A blue and white plaid shirt is stretched tight across broad shoulders. Agarwal finds himself wondering how this person came to be separated from his felling ax.

“Has anyone counted how many snow-shoveling months there would be during a sabbatical year?” 

Stunned silence invades the ballroom.

The expectation that conference attendees be attentive (that is, they succeed in staying awake) has prompted scientists to ask – and answer – some very weighty questions: do boring speakers talk longer? Yes. Can jocularity liven up the proceedings? Probably not. Most attempts at conference humor fall spectacularly flat. Science is simply too serious to be joked about. But if someone wishes to try, please remember that being mean is not appropriate. Agarwal wishes ax-man had read that scientific paper.  

A sturdily framed woman in a gray business suit expresses particular agitation. She rises quickly from her seat. Agarwal knows Grace. She is a senior researcher at the Healthy Aging Research Institute. His arm extends an invitation for her to respond. 

“Maybe this gentleman is not aware that Green Bay is the economic hub of Wisconsin. We no longer construct cabins from fallen trees." Her response is greeted by scattered murmurs of mild amusement, which in the annals of conference humor, is as good as it gets. 

"And HARI is one of the top five non-profit research institutes in the country. Being awarded a sabbatical to work here would be an honor and a privilege. At any time of year."

In the interests of time, and his disinterest in refereeing a contentious verbal exchange, Agarwal calls a halt. “As I just said, we are already behind schedule. We must now move on to our first session. It is titled Natural Products, Kinases and Aging. We will have five talks, with a fifteen-minute coffee break after the first two. Your chair will be Marie Beaumont from the Sorbonne.” 

Agarwal gratefully hands over the stage to the Parisian. He glances again at Lydia as he walks to the back of the room to pour some coffee. Yes, she is definitely distracted. Why is she so nervous? 

All that remains in the urn is cold and bitter, but he needs caffeine, so he suffers it. He knows that any additional diuretic will stretch his bladder before the mid-morning break, but caffeine-deprivation wins out. A second cup is carried back to his reserved seat in the front row.

Maria briefly introduces Professor Riku Yamamoto. It is the cool season in Japan, so he wears a navy blue suit. There are competing theories as to his age. At least 70, is the guess from those who have found papers of his from 1979. Younger than that, say those who point to the compulsory retirement age in Japan, usually 65, 70 at most. He is certainly old enough for his silver hair to have tactically withdrawn from a wide forehead, but he remains young enough for it to sustain a reinforced high position, thick and lush, parted deep down the middle, as if by Moses. The skin on his face is smooth and taut. But there again, he hails from the Okinawa Blue Zone, one of the epicenters of aging with dignity. 

Yamamoto slow-walks through a long introduction, occasionally adjusting the position of oversized round spectacles that seem to press too deep into his face. His first slide is a photograph of the alleged forty or so individuals that work in his lab, at least when they are not displayed on the front steps of their shiny research building. If the goal is to inspire envy, it works for this audience. Seven is the average number of staff supervised by an American researcher.

There are other aspects of this photo that catch Agarwal’s eye. Yamamoto stands front and center, and his warm weather, charcoal gray suit is largely covered by a lab coat. It is an exhibit for display purposes only, like a storefront mannequin, because leaders of large groups have no need for protective clothing. For them the drudgery of actually performing experiments has been supplanted by first class travel and the honor of plenary lectures. Consequently, Yamamoto is not required to write labels on tubes or reagent bottles. Nevertheless, he is the only person in the photo who poses with a Sharpie that pokes proudly out of his coat’s top pocket. It is his professorial privilege. His team are left to compete among themselves for the inevitable shortages of supply.

From tortuous experiences at prior conferences, Agarwal anticipates Yamamoto’s next slide will be a dense bibliograph, listing numerous papers published in the very best journals. Because such accomplishments justify the award of a Nobel Prize. More to the point, his government had believed him. Supposedly during the 2010s, for the purpose of sustaining national pride, potential Laureates were identified for receipt of enhanced funding. It is a fallacy, of course. If the next big idea were foreseeable, the Nobel Prize would have no value. In reality, the award is given to transformative discoveries that, by definition, are unpredictable.

That is a story that has circulated among the jury of his peers: those who spread gossip when conference drinking continues into the wee hours. Another more recent addition to the late-night show has been a description of an alternate route to secure a high-profile award: fake an academic society, and their annual big prize, and then award it to oneself. That was the approach taken by Florent Montaclair, a French professor of language at the Marie and Louis Pasteur University. His fictious International Society of Philology awarded its 2016 Gold Medal to Montaclair, who likened it to winning a Nobel Prize. Finding himself propelled into an academic equivalent of the fast lane – prestige, promotion and a pay raise – Montaclair was encouraged to sustain the ruse by honoring other academics with the Gold Medal in subsequent years: Eugen Simon, a former president of the Romanian Academy, followed by a distinguished American linguist, Noam Chomsky. It was publicity over those later events that led a team of Romanian journalists to expose the scam. 

Yamamoto completes his lengthy summary of a long and productive career, and finally rewards his audience with more contemporary findings. Agarwal indulges in a pang of silent sympathy for Maria. In about forty minutes, she will suffer a chair’s indignity of being helpless to enforce Yamamoto’s allotted presentation time. The morning’s schedule will be further delayed.

Timing is on Nick Robbins’s mind, as he checks out of his airport hotel. He expects to arrive at the conference around nine, when according to his program, the second of this morning’s talks will be in progress. 

He always appreciates the comfort of Todd Snyder stretch denim when he travels. However, his lightweight black jacket has been rendered superfluous by an overnight low of 65 degrees. It is draped over his arm. A collared shirt, with narrow, gray and white stripes, is open at the neck. He is wearing glasses, but for now they are switched off, to preserve the battery. A black computer bag serves as an overnight carry-on. One compartment contains yesterday’s shirt, underwear and socks, plus the necessary toiletries. 

“Mr. Robbins?” His taxi driver boasts three hundred pounds of muscle. Powerful arms protrude from a light blue T-shirt, darkened by pit-stains. A sturdy neck conveys the strength of a stone column. His head is shaved. Quite recently, Robbins deduces, upon noticing the sheen of lubricant. 

“That’s me,” Robbins answers, as he steps into the black Camry. He appreciates that the rear of the vehicle is clean. Although he notices that any passenger in the front would have to share a seat with an empty box of Dunkin’s. He provides the name of the conference hotel. 

“Sorry, I didn’t catch the destination. I don’t hear so well.” 

Robbins pulls out his stapled printout of the conference schedule; the name of the hotel is on the front page, which he shows to the driver. “Ok”, is the curt response, as the car accelerates out of the hotel frontage onto Route 61, as if rejoining the racetrack after a pit-stop.  

The driver apologizes again. “I used to be NOPD. Undercover. Narcotics. I was in a shootout. Gunfire close to my face messed up my right eardrum.” 

The car weaves around the early morning traffic like it is still answering emergency calls to all available units. A driving skill, Robbins hopes, that has been perfected by years of intense training. 

“My old headquarters were in the news this week. Superintendent complained about the rats.” 

Robbins normally avoids small talk. It does not offer him control or self-aggrandizement. But he has watched some police dramas, and considers himself to be familiar with the vernacular. “I thought you guys liked snitches?”

They are approaching a left turn and the traffic light turns amber. It is a signal to go faster. A blur of airport buildings whizz by on the left. 

“Five stitches?” Through his reflection in the rearview mirror, Deaf Cop refuses to take any blame for the misunderstanding. “I never said she was bitten. And this Chief is a woman, not a guy.” 

This is an annoying reminder of why Robbins typically avoids wasteful chitchat. He exhales loudly in frustration. 

Deaf Cop either ignores his passenger’s sigh, or he doesn’t hear it. Either way, the summary of breaking news in New Orleans continues. “Rats have taken over the evidence room. Crapping on desks. Eating the drugs.” Robbins imagines the possibility of a city infested with hallucinating rats playing out as a B-movie horror.

A right turn takes them onto a long on-ramp. They merge onto Route 10 through a maneuver that is uncomfortably close to a collision with a sixteen-wheeler. Robbins wonders why his driver seems unperturbed by this near-death experience. Perhaps this fearlessness arises out of surviving undercover operations and participating in shoot-outs? You can either withdraw into PTSD or adopt fearlessness as your superpower? 

These thoughts are interrupted by a question. “What brings you to New Orleans?” 

“A conference. I work in academia.” 

“Oh, yes. I know about that.” Deaf Cop gives a dopey nod. “The blood disease.”

“Not anemia. Academia. Like at a university. That’s where I work.”

“Oh, sorry. So, what do you study? If you don’t mind me asking?”

Cancer is very much in public focus. Two thirds of respondents to opinion polls have stated they worry about receiving such a diagnosis. Consequently, Robbins expects awe and admiration once he explains that he is a very important scientist pursuing cancer therapy. This might be worth the effort. But best to dumb down the explanation to hearing-impaired idiot level. “I run a large science lab. We are studying cancer . . .” 

The cab's intercom interrupts Robbin's explanation. It is a call from Dispatch. The driver's good ear captures a new instruction, which is answered with a few words of agreement. “Yes. That works. The extra twenty minutes let’s me grab a coffee.”

This opportunity to extend a well-earned break adds urgency to Deaf Cop's current assignment. Heavy use of the horn is directed at vehicles ahead of them that have the audacity to move at anything less than the speed of sound. 

“Science lab, huh?” Deaf Cop returns to the conversation. “You should take some of the rats of our hands. For your experiments.” 

The Camry navigates the 10/90 interchange, and passes by the Superdome. Robbins is angry that his prolific research output has been distilled into a derogatory image of a nerdy scientist messing around with rodents. “We don’t use animals,” he responds, the words heavy with derision. “We only work with cultured cells.” It’s a lie, but that’s not the point. 

They shriek to a halt outside the conference hotel in the Central Business District. Robbins sorts through his wallet to retrieve the exact payment for the fare. “My lab uses highly advanced technology.” He raises his voice again, to make sure the message is received. “You should too. You should wear a hearing aid. You might even learn something useful from your passengers.”

As Robbins opens the door, he hurls more abuse. It is a very satisfying experience. “But even if you could hear properly, you couldn’t hope to understand the significance of my discoveries.”

For the first time, Deaf Cop acts as if he has heard every word. “What I do understand is that you are a fucking pompous, high-and-mighty university type. You think you are so superior. Good fucking luck curing cancer with that attitude.”

Robbins slams the door as hard as possible. The outcome of this confrontation pleases him. He has successfully vented his anger. He has also avoided leaving a tip, and belittled a dim-witted driver. Next up – Goode.

He slips into his jacket in anticipation of the hotel air conditioning, and strides confidently into the building. The lobby displays a sign to the symposium, although he knows the way from his recall of the floor-plan. He follows the route that Lydia had taken, an hour earlier. He reaches the stairway, which he climbs two at a time, and emerges into the staging area. Two women sit behind a registration desk. AAG office staff? They chat with a thirtyish male in a dark suit. Hotel employee? 

A bright light shines through a gap underneath the closed ballroom doors. He hears the end of a muffled statement from a member of the audience, and the Asian accent that replies. It is amplified, so Robbins hears the words clearly. “Thankyou, that is an excellent question.” He looks at his watch and realizes the Japanese speaker is fifteen minutes behind schedule. Shit!

He must purposefully delay for a minute or so, until the house lights dim for the next talk. He has learned how the ballroom seating is arranged from the pictures of a previous conference layout that the hotel has posted on-line. He is sure that everyone in the meeting, with their backs to the entrance, will pay him no more attention than they would to any late-arriving delegate. The unlikely possibility that Agarwal observes him in the audience has even been taken into account. He knows I’m not registered. He also did not approve of my plan to photograph Lydia. But that lardass won’t dare to confront me while a talk is in progress. It would be too embarrassing.

“Can we help you?” The inquiry from the direction of the registration desk has been prompted by his moment of indecision. This unwanted scrutiny might draw attention to his lack of a name tag. 

The end of the Q and A is signaled by applause. A handful of unclaimed lanyards on the registration desk catch Robbin's eye. He decides he will walk up to the table and pretend to be one of the missing male delegates. The hotel employee will have no reason to doubt him. The two women will be unfamiliar with the attendees. In any case, he can distract them with one of his charming smiles and good looks. They will blithely hand him a conference booklet, and cross the borrowed name off a list. Then, he will sneak into the meeting. 

When the end of the second presentation dissolves into the coffee break, he plans to approach Lydia in the entirely innocent manner appropriate for two colleagues renewing their acquaintance. He is sure she cannot anticipate his real intentions.