CHAPTER 8
A Professional Foul
Ted Worthington is welcomed into a house that he views as not so much over the top, but more of an avalanche down the other side. The experience is overwhelming. He passes through a two-story entranceway. Floating in its stratosphere is a magnificent chandelier that could have done Bridgerton proud.
He pauses near the short edge of an oversized island and eyeballs the surroundings panoramically. The kitchen décor evokes in Ted a memory of visiting one of Quebec’s Catholic churches: there is an abundance of polished gold. It is the color of the pendant lighting, the cabinet pulls, the switch plates, the H-shaped mullions in the glass-doored wall-cupboards, and the tall, U-shaped faucet.
In the vaulted living room, there is a three-sided sectional that could double up as a sheep pen. One of this room’s walls is given over to a cabinet of curiosities. Ted recognizes some of their countries of origin: a Korean good-fortune bell, a beer glass with a round base that relies on a wooden stand to remain upright (from Belgium?), Japanese dolls, a Chinese tapestry, and a brightly striped boomerang. Ted assumes these are gifts that Nick Robbins has accumulated from his international colleagues.
Installed above a gas fireplace mantle is perhaps the largest wall-mounted TV that Ted has ever seen outside a conference center. Soccer is in progress, involving teams referenced as NFO and MCI - he does not care to know what the initials represent. He deduces that after eight-five minutes of playing time, NFO are losing by a mere two points to zero. The players in possession of the ball wear shirts with stripes of navy and bright yellow. They pass the ball casually from one side of the pitch to the other, and back again, as if their strategy is to subdue their opponents with boredom.
Nick is pulling out all of the stops today. First-class seats from Halifax into Pittsburgh airport, where he had been met with a limo just over two hours ago, to be dropped off at this lakeside residence. And soon, a generous barbeque - burgers and ribs stand in line to be grilled. Ted also admires the accessories: cheese, tomatoes, pickles, and brioche buns. Plus guacamole, salsa and chips. Two Maker’s Marks are each poured over a large sphere of ice. A salad is even being assembled, which prompts Ted to remember that his friend’s wife is joining them later.
Robbins invites his guest to take a seat on the outdoor patio while he completes the preparations. “I’ll join you in just a couple of minutes”.
Ted obliges, and selects one of the four Adirondack chairs that encircle a square table. He takes another slow sip from the cut crystal. He decides he must also compliment his host for knowing how to optimize enjoyment of this drink. The ice softens the intensity of the alcohol, but the surface area to volume ratio hits a sweet spot, and the liquor is only slowly diluted, so as to gently unlock the notes of vanilla, oak and caramel. Ted sinks deeper into his chair. It is so peaceful here. Even the birds are taking a siesta.
The gardens on either side are empty. Presumably, Ted thinks, Robbins is not the only person in this street who occasionally occupies a second home. These backyards are not fenced, so a couple of acres of uninterrupted lawn slopes casually towards a finger of Maryland’s Deep Creek Lake. He watches a middle-aged couple guide their bowrider into a community jetty and secure the mooring lines. Oaks and maples station an honor guard on the opposite shoreline. I bet the fall colors here are amazing.
Just a few, languid cumulus track across a deep blue sky. The temperature is forecast to climb above seventy by mid-afternoon, which is a treat for him. A slight breeze is still welcome - he feels overdressed in polyester pants and a flannel shirt. His brogues feet feel tight around his feet.
A door opens and closes to announce Robbins striding onto his patio with a bottle in one hand, an ice bucket in the other, and more practical dress sense: sandals, shorts and a T-shirt.
“Ready for a refill?”
Ted twists an arm behind his back and pulls an if-I-must face. Fresh drinks are prepared with the aid of polished, eagle-claw ice tongs, and they clink glasses. “Cheers!”
The boating couple leave the dock with a cooler in hand. The woman stumbles slightly, and giggles. “Looks like the Trumpers are in town this weekend.” She means to speak in confidence to her companion, but underestimates that her voice carries, on the strength of the gently moving air and her Long Island accent.
It is an invitation for Robbins to retaliate with a wave and a taunt. “Make America great again!” The woman flips him off. A broad smile cuts across his face, as he takes the insult for a victory.
Ted welcomes some rare solidarity. As an American who now works in Nova Scotia, he has learned to be circumspect with his views on the current election campaign. Here, it is safe for him to blow off steam. “Who was it that first said ‘it’s the economy, stupid’? Don’t they realize how the middle class is suffering because Biden is printing money?” He poses such questions rhetorically, because this is partisan discourse. “Do you think they’ll change their mind when the Presidency changes? After Trump raises the value of their retirement funds?”
“Nah. The radical left will always find something else to whine about.”
Ted offers his glass for another toast, as if he is congratulating a statement that is deeply profound. Celebratory swigs quickly follow.
Robbins raises the inevitable reunion question. “How long has it been?”
“Six years. The twenty-eighteen Federation symposium in Brussels.” Ted is able to recall a calamity for a time-stamp. “Remember the light show in the Grand Place? Where George Wilson messed up his wrist? He was tripped up by uneven cobblestones and two-too-many Delirium Tremens.”
During the passage of these years, which of them has aged the more gracefully? That is the question Ted suspects his friend is mulling over because, apparently, he is being given a once-over. Each of them is approaching their sixtieth birthday, which is another comparative opportunity. Ted is at least grateful that his natural ability to burn calories maintains a slender torso. He acknowledges the consequences of not being a gym rat, so his muscle tone cannot compete with that hugged by Robbins’ stretchy T-shirt. And a graying widow’s peak is no match for Robbin’s full head of textured waves. But wait! No wrinkles? Has he had work done? Ted consoles himself that cosmetic intervention makes this an unfair contest. He pledges that, when he shaves tomorrow morning, he will not become anxious as his reflection tattles on his crow’s feet, and the sinking cheeks.
“I appreciate you re-establishing contact,” says Ted, impulsively. He wants a change of topic. “Since I moved, I am rarely invited to give seminars in academia.”
“I was surprised when I heard you had left the FIB. When was it – three years ago?”
“That’s right,” Ted agrees. “I had maxed out my government salary.” He is comfortable complaining, because it invites an opportunity to imply that his income level has dramatically improved.
In any case, Federal pay scales are not today’s only grievance to raise, especially as politics are already on the table. “I’d also become frustrated with Government pettiness and overreach. I seemed to spend more time in classes than I did performing research. There was leadership training, travel regulations, health and safety requirements, and lessons on conflicts of interest and scientific misconduct.
“And then, GigantoPharm knocked on my door.”
“That’s why I invited you to give a seminar at MISTI tomorrow.” Robbins explains. “We hope you will tell us about your experiences with drug development – especially the importance of AI. We think you can help us translate our own research into tangible benefits to human health. My colleagues have told me how much they are looking forward to your talk. Several have asked to meet with you afterwards.”
Ted knows he is being flattered. Whenever he had welcomed outside speakers to the FIB, he would routinely exaggerate the audience’s degree of anticipation, while hoping no-one would call him a liar by falling asleep before the presentation’s half-way point.
Robbins suggests they might enjoy an appetizer. He enters the house to return with a basket of tortilla chips and a bowl that is half-full of chunky salsa. “Do you know if GigantoPharm’s Cancer Prize has been finalized?”
His guest resists a temptation. “You know I can’t discuss that.”
“Of course.” Robbins backtracks. “But you must be aware that everyone in the kinase field anticipates Chuck Standish will be a posthumous recipient. It also doesn’t take a genius to know someone else has to share the prize, so that the money can actually be spent. The only question is who that will be. But that’s not why I asked. I wonder if you have heard of Lydia Goode?”
He takes a chip and digs out a mound of salsa that is teetering on being unstable. Miraculously, none of it tumbles to the ground before it can reach his mouth. As if to emphasize that Robbins cannot fail at anything.
Ted answers the query with an inquisitive shake of the head.
Robbins swallows greedily. “She’s a science journalist, but that’s not her real name. She’s hiding behind a pseudonym. I’ve been trying to uncover her real identity. . . ” He scoops another liberal serving from the salsa dish.
“I met her earlier this year. She is writing a biography of Standish to post on her web site. It may not make pleasant reading. I think she’s trying to dig up dirt. I thought you might appreciate a heads-up.”
Ted does not disclose a company secret. Even GigantoPharm’s fifty thousand strong workforce is largely unaware how much of their personal information and social media history – even that which the user mistakenly believes to be deleted – is vacuumed up by AI into a company database. One that inevitably includes valuable information on their employees’ “contacts”.
Like most, Ted is familiar with the concept of six degrees of separation. But he also knows that the average distance contracts to two-to-three, for small populations linked through a common interest. This is why the small-world concept is especially applicable to those in a specific geographical or scientific group. For example, North Americans who specialize in biochemistry. Consequently, Ted is sure that GigantoPharm AI was put to good use when it screened Standish’s candidature.
“I very much doubt this is a problem.” Ted chooses his words carefully. “We have a very efficient legal department. They will have performed background checks on all of the candidates. I seriously doubt they would have missed anything that might embarrass the company. Still, it might be useful to check out this journalists’ web site.”
Robbins finishes spelling out the URL just before a friendly two-tap on a car horn obliges him to clarify that his “partner-in-crime” has pulled into their driveway. She appears from around the side of the house.
It is the first time Ted has encountered the second wife. No more than thirty, he guesses. Oh! That is young. And she knows how to flaunt it. She has a platinum blonde, shaggy bob. Her dress is bright red, and short. He suspects that one of Newton’s laws of motion is being thwarted, otherwise her ample breasts should have bounced out of the plunging V-neckline. Stone pavers are her catwalk: black ankle boots take long and deliberate steps, one placed directly in front of the other.
Robbins remains seated as he makes the briefest of introductions. “Destiny. Ted.”
Ted stands to greet her. Later that night, his memory of this meeting will pursue his dreams. Because in real time, the introduction seems to unfold as an unforgettably intense, slow-motion replay. The prolonged, velvety handshake. The snow-white smile that remains alluringly wide. The eyes that transfix him: they are feline green, a genetic rarity. Is she trying to get a rise out of Nick by flirting with me?
He does not need to ponder her motives for long. She approaches her husband, places one hand on his chest, and leans over him so as to offer an eyeful. Their mouth-to-mouth greeting lingers. For a brief moment, before he averts his gaze in embarrassment, Ted thinks the crotch of Robbins’ shorts bulges. He wonders if his host had actually announced his wife’s name, or instead had referenced the inevitability of his evening’s prospects.
“That salsa is spicy,” she notes, when she comes up for air. And then: “I’m going to freshen up.” She says it like it is a promise.
Ted returns to his seat, oogling as she hip-sways into the house, buttocks jiggling. He hears Traci Weber’s name mentioned, and realizes he has been asked a question. “Sorry,” he blurts out. “I didn’t catch that.”
Robbins shoots him a very knowing smile. “I was asking if you know how it’s going with Traci Weber as the new Chair?”
“There is some lingering resentment,” Ted explains, with a hint of vehemence that Robbins does not miss. “The person who remains most bent out of shape is Graham Rice. We stay in touch. Do you know him? An expert in structural biology.”
Robbins explains that he is not familiar with Rice’s research.
Ted continues: “When I informed our Scientific Director that I would be leaving the FIB for GigantoPharm, I lobbied for Graham to replace me as the departmental Chair. The SD agreed, in principle. It was made as a temporary appointment, pending the decision of the search committee.”
While Ted unloads a diatribe, Robbins crunches his way through their snack.
“But this was twenty-twenty-one, and Biden had just signed his diversity initiative. The FIB knew they were in a bind. None of their ten scientific departments were led by a woman. An African American is in charge of Molecular and Cellular Biology. The guy who heads Immunity and Inflammation is gay. But no women were at the top. Administration in DC was piling on pressure. The search committee was in disarray. Then Weber’s name cropped up. I believe Chuck Standish put her name forward, which also helped her get the job. Graham was justifiably pissed because all of the citation metrics were in his favor. Mathematically, he was the best candidate.”
In most other circumstances, the two of them would disparage methodologies that, for the purposes of recruitment and promotion, tally the extent to which researchers cite each other’s publications. They would dispute the premise that novel and important discoveries must be cited more frequently, whatever the algorithm (and there are several: impact factor, relative citation value, h-index, Eigenfactor). Ted and Robbins are aware that a flaw in these analytics is that it favors large research fields. Yes, they would agree, an innovative researcher focusing on tissue regeneration in shell-less sea-snails could not match the citation number of, for example, a scientist developing new anti-viral vaccine strategies. Moreover, they are scientific stars themselves, so they know first-hand that citations of their own work - even their unremarkable papers – is gratuitously inflated by others seeking to curry favor.
And yet, there may come a time to reflect on these being the good old days, before alt-metrics were in the ascendency. With a modus operandi to monitor the attention that research findings receive from social media, does the “alt” prefix doom this new benchmark to be manipulated by falsehoods propagated on X, just like the dystopian alt-facts and alt-right?
But at this moment, Ted has a political point to make. Consequently, he rides roughshod over his own belief that every citation method has its failings. It frees him to assert that diversity-driven recruitment is bad practice, and in this case, it favored an inferior candidate.
“Their workaround was to design a job description that perfectly matched Weber’s expertise. It was not a proper search process. It was a setup.”
“A professional foul,” exclaims Robbins.
This is terminology that Ted is not familiar with, so Robbins explains that it is a soccer term. A deliberate and cynical infringement of the rules of the sport, to prevent the opposition from gaining an advantage.
“Yes.” Ted can agree now. “And totally unfair on Graham. I can still remember the anger in his voice when he phoned me at GigantoParm to tell me about Weber’s recruitment. It was just before he drove out to a meeting at a local university. He told me of his plan to drown his sorrows that evening. I learned later that he had purchased whiskey from a liquor store on the way back to the FIB. The car had been parked for only a few minutes. Problem was, the vehicle boasted a “US Government” license plate. Which had been fine when he signed it out for the drive to the meeting – that was considered Federal business – but it’s not for personal use. He was photographed carrying the liquor back to the car. . .”
Ted emphasizes his disdain. “He was told it was a ‘vigilant member of the public.’ Aka, a fucking snitch.”
“There was another problem,” Ted admits. “He pre-gamed a little in his office while he was wrapping up work, and a custodian blundered into the room. The consumption of alcohol in a Federal building is strictly prohibited. So, Graham got reported for that, too.”
Robbins grimaces at this revelation. A couple of his MISTI colleagues maintain a supply of liquor in their offices, in order to congratulate with their staff when an important paper is published. No-one would ever consider that to be improper.
“By the time the shit hit the fan, Weber was incoming. The SD hadn’t wanted to alert the DC office, because then he would get backlash too. So his first impulse was to keep a lid on it. He proposed to just rap Graham’s knuckles. But Weber insisted that Graham be kicked out of her department, so that she could move into it with a ‘clean slate’. Instead of firing him from the institute – which would have involved notifying DC – the SD sidelined Graham to be responsible for a core facility; a resource for everyone to share. That way, the move could be sold as an ‘administrative rearrangement.’ Most of his staff were taken away. He is no longer allowed to perform independent research. Instead, he has been demoted to the level of an assistant to other researchers’ projects. It’s a fucking big slap in the face.”
“I can understand why your colleague was outraged.” Robbins rubs his hands together, in order to erode tortilla dust. “The FIB was happy to abuse Federal regulations in order to appoint Weber, yet they came down hard on Graham for his mistakes. It’s hypocritical.
“Yeh,” Ted responds. “I’m also not over the moon that I’ll probably have to engage politely with Weber in a couple of weeks.”
“How so?”
“She’s one of the speakers at this year’s Halifax Drug Discovery Forum that I am organizing. It wasn’t my idea, but others were influenced because Standish nominated her, a couple of years ago.
Robbins gives a sly glint. “The Feds don’t have a problem with one of their employees participating in a meeting organized by a pharmaceutical company?” He still nurses his grudge against Traci Weber. If that trailer trash hadn’t interfered, I would already have a photo of Goode.
“Not if she behaves herself. I know all the rules,” says Ted.
Two gardens away, a neighbor pull-starts a lawn mower. The roar of the engine shatters the calm, like an armistice has failed.
“We paid the FIB for her accommodation and the air fare, which has to be in Coach. She can enjoy all of the conference provisions. But she can’t accept any gifts from us. I had to state all of that in a letter she needed for her Travel Office, before they would approve her trip. She also must not advise the company in any way or disclose any unpublished information. That is strictly verboten.”
Robbins unleashes an attack dog. “Do you think it would be rather unfortunate if Weber were to flaunt any of these rules – however inadvertently – and Graham Rice got to hear about it? Especially after she got him booted out of her department so it could be squeaky clean.”
Chapter 9 will be posted shortly.