A plane crash for example. Where did it take place? Were there survivors? Why did it happen? Is it likely that you have an even vague connection to one of the unfortunate passengers? Unless the last question is engaged, whatever sad thoughts one might spare are unavoidably overtaken by others. 

So, when the Director overheard the news early in the morning, her silent prayer for the victims almost immediately gave way to a mental run-through of her very packed agenda for the day. Midway through the commute, however, the accident came back into focus, at first merely nagging, the suddenly in full force as the Director turned around and headed back home. That many passengers had been on their way to a major international scientific meeting was one thing. The clarification that this was a pathology-related event sent a shiver up her spine. Finally, the confirmation that a Very Famous Local Pathologist had been on board made that shiver turn to panic. Although the radio news anchor’s pronunciation was totally off, it could only be the Pathologist. And given that the vague memory of the initial news item, now recalled in force, had been clear on the lack of survivors, a change in wardrobe and a statement were in order.

Despite the botched pronunciation, the Pathologist would have liked to have been thus labelled, the Director thought. Very Famous Local Pathologist. He would perhaps prefer that the word “local” not be used but, despite mandatory hospital training, he still had no clue as to how the media worked, or why he should bother, and it was too late now. It was also too late for the Director to waste time regretting all the heated discussions they’d had throughout the years. Dealing with brilliant monomaniacs who are impossible to please, think the world revolves around them, and that no other research vaguely matters, was part of the job description.

Actually, the questions on her mind were simple. Had the two protégés gotten there already? And, if so, which one had been first?

There was absolutely no doubt neither would be grieving, at least fulltime. Their thought process was as clear to the Director as the cold and clear winter blue sky, while she quickly reviewed the hospital statement and approved press conference and memorial details stuck in traffic. She could not, for the life of her, remember any personal details about the deceased. Married? Children? A damned good asset was all he had ever been to her, and someone better look up all that other stuff so she could address it appropriately. Kids’ names, genders, ages, those things make for inclusion and a kinder picture in any similar situation, that much she did know. But that family was not the Director’s main concern, all due respect. The Pathologist had another family, his scientific family. And that family, more specifically the two tenured Principal Investigators that hierarchically sat right beneath their now-gone leader, was the Director’s focus. There was a succession underway, a heritage bounty with perceived spoils involved. The deceased would probably dispute all this, first of all because he would not acknowledge any hierarchy in his clinical research group that was not expressed as himself on top and all others below, at basically the same level. Secondly because, like all similar figures, deep down he viewed himself as immortal. Hardly believing that this was her current thought process, the Directed noted that had clearly not been the case.

 Regardless of his now-irrelevant mindset, the Pathologist would have been particularly raving mad to learn that his Biobank was to be placed in the hands of one of his two former star pupils, now (in theory) his right and left hands. Unfortunately, the Director did not remember which one; there were too many such feuds at the hospital. And, in the end, it didn’t matter. In previous meetings she did recall that the one who dressed in expensive suits was actually a left-leaning science-for-the-people-and-public-good sort of person, while the other one was in cahoots with Big Pharma and all about capitalism and value generation, although dressed like a past-their-prime hippie; but that was only because she had found the stereotype reversal amusing. All three of them were, however, not amused whenever the Director pointed out that the samples were actually the property of the patients first, and the hospital second. Especially the Pathologist.

It was understandable, in a way. He had started his sample collection many decades earlier, not quite before ethical approval and informed consent, but to be brutally honest, before any of that was taken seriously. Even now…the Director sighed, but that was a discussion for another time. At any rate, the “meticulous” nature of the Pathologist (colleagues used much harsher words to describe him) led to an impressive array of freezers, preservation jars, slide boxes and terabytes of data. He collected all the tissue he could get (from deceased patients, virtually every organ, not just those clearly affected), processed the samples so they could be used for different purposes (histology, sequencing, epigenetics), and paired the samples with detailed medical records that included not only diagnostics, treatments and outcomes, but almost every other aspect of the patients’ lives, some of which the Director was not even sure the Pathologist should have had access to. Regardless, before automation and electronics and artificial intelligence, he had amassed a potential scientific treasure. And he had put it to good use.

Employing his Biobank trove of well-characterized samples in almost everything the Pathologist did not only led to several large high-impact studies on different diseases (genetics, outcomes, lifestyle risk factors), but made himself into a world-renowned go-to person for government agencies, companies, societies. In all international consortia that anyone could think of putting together to test for anything in any disease, his name had to be mentioned. That was one of the reasons the hospital was on the map and had been so well-funded, as the Pathologist was constantly reminding everyone. That was also why he was now almost always on planes, giving keynote lectures, why he was on that particular plane, why the Director had to move fast. 

Luckily, this was not her first rodeo. There had been the neurologist who’d tried to sneak in a moving van during the holidays to remove state-of-the-art equipment the hospital had bought for him and planned to use to attract his replacement. That he had accepted a better deal for himself elsewhere without being fully aware of his new circumstances was not the Director’s fault. There was the transplantation guru who had gone to industry because of sexual harassment rumors, and had tried to publish hospital-owned data under the umbrella of her new employers. Right before they fired her for sexual harassment allegations. There was the retiring endocrinologist who switched off freezers and tried to delete all the data so that the incoming replacement he had not chosen would have to deal with a scorched-earth scenario. There was the junior cardiologist who had replaced labels and notations with her own undecipherable code, so her confused colleagues/competitors could not access the information. The list could go on, but there was no time for stories best served at (non-hospital-related) dinner parties. The key thing being that the Director appreciated the fact that academia (even clinical-based academia) could be a refuge for brilliant and productive minds, who would otherwise likely be institutionalized, in jail, or in and out of rehab. The problem was when they actually went that extra mile, and quirks turned into liabilities.

As is usual in these situations, the Pathologist had been a eucalyptus-type figure. He grew tall, sucking up water and resources from the land around him. While he was encyclopedic, both in knowledge and in the different types of projects he got the hospital involved with, this meant those on his team could never grow in any vaguely similar fashion. His current two ex-star pupils were actually not his ex-star pupils, but the “good enough” ones that had not moved on. Because, the Director knew, they were counting on something like this in order to take control and steer the research into the different directions each viewed as a priority. Not as dramatic an event as plane crash, perhaps; but regardless, they had been lying in wait for so long it was not fathomable they wouldn’t pounce immediately.

The Director jumped out of her car almost before it came to a full stop, and raced to the executive elevator she had berated as a fellow, but could not see herself living without as an administrator. Tucked away from the clinical setting, the Director breathed a sigh of relief in the silence still enveloping the research lab and Biobank this early in the morning, the absence of movement but for the people she had summoned on the way. The IT person to make sure all team member cards would no longer grant them access, the locksmith to change a few key locks just in case one of them fancied themselves a hacker, security to ensure that good old human brawn was in place if all technology failed; and the cleaning staff to mop up any blood, she chuckled to herself.

She had just finished giving out her instructions when a sound of shouting coming down the hall started growing. The Director recognized the voices: conveniently the duo had arrived at the same time, good for them. As for her, she would only need to have this awkward conversation once. There were guidelines and requirement lists being drafted, at some point there would be an announcement, and both were welcome to apply for the now-vacant position. However, they should be aware that there would unavoidably be a wide international search call, with a selection committee as knowledgeable, demanding and independent as the Director could manage. Because the prize was huge, and they should therefore get ready for very stiff competition. And, for now, a lock-out would be in place. Once they finished their unavoidable protestations, which the Director would understand as important for momentary catharsis, she would calmly remind them of the memorial they were all about to attend. And ask them to behave accordingly. 

Maybe she’d get lucky.

© João Ramalho-Santos. In memory of Milton S. Costa.

When retelling the story at meetings or parties, I often throw in a few twists and white lies. Especially if the discussion meanders towards nostalgic reminiscing of long-ago career turning points or comparisons of departed students, the latter category usually involving extremes; the good, the bad, the weird. 

Anyway, the main white lie in this case is that I had forgotten all about the paper when the peer reviews came back. True, it took almost a year. But not a week went by where I didn’t think about it. Almost three years of work had gone into piecing it together; so long that, as is often the case in these troubled times of diseased scientific publication, we had more review articles published on the topic than hard data.

So, I was looking very much forward to a response, any response. Even outright rejection was, I lied to myself, better than the paper not being in the exact remit of one journal, another not being able to procure reviewers, a third not getting answers from the ones it had procured; and all three taking an inordinately long time to arrive at quite simple and straightforward resolutions I didn’t particularly appreciate. This was, I knew, the main problem with a multidisciplinary research project. Everybody likes the notion as a buzzword with good intentions, but all retreat to their respective disciplinary trenches as soon as possible. And it is from those trenches that comments and reviews, not to mention journals, are born. 

The reviews of the other two papers I had been able to power through and address. Not only was my own disciplinary training appropriate, but the reviewer comments had been extremely useful and, above all, understandable; even when they were outside of what I knew, they weren’t outside of what I could easily learn. Or, to be honest, bluff my way across when it was absolutely clear we had no good answer for a specific query. I tended to ignore the instances where editors and reviewers had done the equivalent of condescendingly patting a paper and its authors on the head, as if it were a child with no business attending that prestigious school or taking that advanced course, but who had, by some miraculous circumstance, obtained a passing grade. When published it would count the same, regardless of what sort of charitable gesture the journal thought it was providing to amateurs poking around in their disciplinary domain.

This paper I knew from the start would be a different animal. The others were close enough to my own training that I could acknowledge (or at least convince myself) that the warranted criticisms were indeed warranted (and mostly answerable), while the unwarranted comments were biased by closed disciplinary thought, made by colleagues refusing to see the merits of cross-border talks (thus also answerable, if not as purposefully). In this case I knew we might have strayed, because we had used theoretical frameworks and methodologies that were more foreign (to us) than most. While, as far as we could tell, the paper was solid, the conclusions seemed at the same time very clear, but also too good to be true. A sort of personified Impostor Syndrome, which had hovered vaguely above the other papers, was waiting just outside the door for this one, ready to barge in. And so, it did.

In short, the theoretical framework was deemed unfocused by reviewers, at least some of the methodologies and statistical analyses were off, and thus our beloved conclusions were indeed considered too good to be true. Still, there was hope; although the kid had clearly flunked the exam, there was a remedial test on the horizon. All that was needed was to fix the issues. But that, I quickly realized, was beyond my expertise. Not that I couldn’t recognize the inadequacy of some controls, a few flaws in experimental design, or the leaps of faith we shouldn’t have made. The problem was addressing all this in a convincing fashion. Even though some of the problems had been the obvious result of COVID-19 restraints, and it was a minor miracle that we had any data at all, not only did the reviewers seem unimpressed (it’s interesting how quickly we forget, and demand normality after a crisis), but the problems went beyond this easy, pandemic-driven pleading for mercy.

A multidisciplinary project has the same issues as any other project. Namely, that funding runs out, and people move on. The difference is that, while a disciplinary lab regularly replaces members with the same general skill set, and is able to pick up unfinished business, in this case very specific knowledge had been lost. The sociologist left academia, the psychologist was now involved in too many other things, the journalist was wrapped up in lucrative consulting jobs, the epidemiologist had been recruited by the WHO; that sort of thing. If they replied at all to my pleading emails it was in polite refusal – too much water under the bridge, too little time, no added value. And finding alternatives was not an option, it had taken long enough for this particular multidisciplinary team to live up to the word “team”. 

There was hope, however. In the form of the outstanding PhD student whose project this had been, the person who had talked extensively to all those people, sponging off their disciplines for her thesis. And who, more importantly, was the first author on the paper. Clearly, that should work. Except for what I tell all my students.

Regardless of what they may have heard wherever these things are heard, thesis supervision is a long and convoluted tale of exploitation. Forget for a moment mentoring, friendship, leading by example, providing resources, establishing collaborations, helping shape ideas and navigate various structures set in their ways. All this may be true (I don’t add that the exact opposite may also be true, it’s too much in one setting), but the relationship can be best characterized by that one word. Exploitation. That word usually drowns out at least some of the auditorium noise in graduate seminars about career development, even makes a few aspiring scientists look up from their phones. It is, I continue, a reality that is best approached head-on and dealt with, rather than hidden behind the usual unicorns and rainbows, especially in a country that only invests in science at the easier bottom levels. What we have to strive for is actually two main things. One: that there must always be a timetable to any type of training; it can’t go on forever, in essence holding people hostage. Two: that this exploitation has to be <i>mutual</i>.

In keeping with this (not at all universal) view, I try to make sure all my students are aware of what career steps they can take after graduation, offer recommendations for a variety of positions, encourage all sorts of soft skills training and mobility, and plan for them to finish their work and graduate on time, unless an agreement can be reached and there is money available to pay for a salary extension. This particular student had done stellar work in a challenging multidisciplinary project, presented an excellent thesis on time, and helped submit the other papers before leaving. What more could I have asked for? Well, contribute towards answering the queries from moody reviewers whose field I did not totally grasp suddenly came to mind… But surely this was in her own interest, right? A paper in a good journal is always a CV booster in any circumstance, right? There was no way this could be construed as non-mutual exploitation, right?

I should have realized that it all that depends, of course, on perspective.

The first unhopeful sign was my email bouncing back from the generic account she had used after her institutional email was cancelled. In her original admission file I found another email address, tried it. No reply. Until I did something I swore I’d never, ever do: send a somewhat desperate WhatsApp call for attention. And, mercifully, a reply came.

She was doing fine, in a wonderful new job that kept her very busy and had nothing to do with academia. While she had appreciated my efforts on the previous papers, she was now “miles away” from the research, even though it might have helped her reach her current employment heights. It seemed as if that part of her life had turned into a distant childhood memory, and, from her tone, not a particularly fond one at this stage of her career (these things shift, I told myself).

“I don’t see why you should keep milking this already-milked cow,” she stated bluntly –  rather unfairly I thought, to both me and to cows everywhere. The fact that she had left that particular path did not mean it was not a path worth taking (these things shift, I told myself). But, at the very end, she seemed more positive. 

“I’ll look at the reviews, but can’t promise anything. You have to realize that this is pretty low on my priority to-do list, boss.”

Well, I thought, can’t blame her for following my career advice to the letter. 

And at least she still called me “boss”.

—

(c) João Ramalho-Santos. The author dedicates this story to Mireia Alemany-Pagès

What a great start … Without a word he hands me the document from his lawyer. Even I recognize the high-powered firm. Our lawyer said this would happen – he would not go down without a fight. Still, it’s a bit of a shock. Especially because I’m doing what our lawyer specifically said not to do, thinking way ahead, to the months, possibly years, of negotiations. One step at a time, she preached. Right.

The annoying euroscientist on the third floor who likes to diagnose everyone on sight says this guy is borderline autistic. Or is he just one of those entitled geniuses in their own mind, hired because of a bad recommendation, and who has produced nothing of relevance yet, but thinks it’s everyone else’s fault? That’s where my money’s at. 

Not that it matters. This whole deal hinges on those three former postdocs testifying. The two Russians went home, and never responded to follow-up requests. I talked to the cleaning lady and the girl in HR (the dude has range…) and they’re not coming forward. Actually they are recanting their initial testimonies. I feel the urge to berate them, but then remember the Seminar we all had to attend in the wake of this mess. As part of the historically oppressive gender and ethnicity I can’t begin to understand what they are still going through.

OK, but he’s also part of that very same gender and ethnicity, and actually did some honest-to-god oppressing! (Allegedly, whispers the soft lawyer voice in my head) Of course, in his mind he didn’t, everything was consensual, blah, blah. Once, twice, maybe, the lab is like any other place for bad personal relationship decisions. But not these many (allegedly). 

I should have tried to get rid of him via (lack of) productivity, but that ship has sailed. I read the very predictably menacing letter, go to my happy place, and listen to him rant about how misunderstood he is (and how incompetent everyone else is, me included) for the rest of the hour. Hopefully the postdocs will come through, but I already have a severance offer on my bottom drawer, ready to go. 

And this is what doing science has come to.

9 AM

Photo albums and slideshows are dead, long live small hand-held devices that unfortunately hold many more photos. Worse, you can never predict when it will all end. 

She starts with pictures of her invited lectures at NIH, then moves to her work on nutritional education in several African countries, then to her workshops in Indonesia, then to her hospital collaborations on bariatric surgeries, back to invited lectures in the UK, Denmark, god knows where else. Selfies with famous (non-science) people wedged in for good luck. Then it’s time to list the progress on all the different projects she has going on, all the grants she has submitted. She seems offended when I don’t remember them in detail. Get the funding and I’ll be sure to do all the remembering she wants…

But, to be honest, after the first meeting it’s a huge relief to just deal with a scientist who is merely applying for glory and sainthood, for whom somewhere down the road there is a film based on her life starring Gwyneth Paltrow in the leading role. And who just wants a pat on the back from her Director. Even after all that Seminar advice I think I can do that.

10 AM

I want to remind this dude that he is another member of the historically oppressive gender and ethnicity, but he knows it. The fact that the oppression scheme is flipped is not lost on him. He alleges it’s all about power, and of course he’s right. What else he’s right about, however, I can’t say.

He’s a junior scientist who has yet to get enough funding to form his own lab, so his career is in a sort of limbo. Working in a big lab, he managed to get this small grant. But who has final say on the work, himself or the lab head who is listed as a Co-Principal Investigator? Who goes last on the papers, who gets the most credit? He says he wrote it, and all the original ideas are his. But even he can’t deny that it would never have been approved with only his CV to back it up. Worse, the project focuses on animal models and gene editing tools that were there before he came on board.

He seems to understand all this, until suddenly he doesn’t, and goes on a bitter tangent. Oppression and Unaccountable Bosses, the Important People Club that protects the Important People, the lack of jobs for true talent, the slaveholder mentality of Bosses (not sure he is “allowed” to use that one…). That’s the general idea, and of course he is right in principle. I know he knows I know this; I’m just not sure he’s as right as he thinks he is. I’m not in their lab every day, I was not in the meetings where this grant (that I now wish had not been funded) was discussed. Again it’s a “he said, she said” sort of thing, and why do I only get those today? 

I tell him the obvious suggestion I will make to his Boss (no apologies, that’s who she is). Share credit on the work, be co-corresponding authors. For some reason he’s offended by this, but did he really think I’d just take his side? In the name of what, gender solidarity? No use arguing though. I’ll let him hit the coffee room to discuss with his mates how the Important People Club protected the Important People, yet again. He’ll get his fill of validation. 

I wonder what he’ll be like as a Boss, if he ever gets to be one… Will keep an eye on that.

11 AM

This was actually not her time slot, but I’ll put her here regardless. I don’t think it matters, and it makes more sense. 

Of course she believes the junior scientist to be a buffoon, only good at selling other peoples’ research and ideas. A used car salesman she employs out of pity (or because he is related to someone – couldn’t really follow, she talks too fast, faster than me!). This is her main point, but she only gets to it after half an hour of singing the praises of her lab and all the grants and prestige it has brought to an Institute that fails to adequately reward it with more (hint, hint). More space, more access to core facilities, more PhD students. Just more of anything that might be around, except the problems she knows are hovering (who doesn’t?). She then pays me the wonderful compliment of declaring that I’m the right person for these difficult times because I’m just not that great of a scientist, and if someone is to be burned due to this nasty business, it might as well be me. But she says this in the nicest possible way!

Anyway, she has a wonderful take on my suggestion. She agrees to discuss the possibility of shared credit on the work. If she deems the work good enough to be accepted in a great journal, that is. If the work turns out to be below par Junior can have it, she won’t soil her name… What generosity! 

12 noon

The junior scientist would really like to be this guy. A brand new Principal Investigator, who has already published better than most here.

We talk about science and where his field is going, where the Institute needs to be to adequately back up people like him so they can do their best possible work, move forward. What expertise we must jump on, possible high-quality recruits we may lure here, how to reorganize things. I try to put on my best career mentoring cap, and tell him what I think he should be doing.

Of course he also had predictable requests, they all do. More, more, more. But I’ll pretend he didn’t. Actually, as I unpack my sandwich I can’t even remember exactly what he asked for.

1 PM

Oh, great… Is it too late to open the door, just in case? Probably. She didn’t come straight from the lab, did she? More of a risqué outfit for a gala; and the makeup is flawless. At this hour, in this place, in this weather, that is a feat in itself.

Wait, can I even think this? Well, I can think anything I want, but the Seminar was clear: we truly start to win these battles when we don’t even think in sexual terms, and keep everything professional. Right, but everyone has to do that… Not come to the Directors office siting like Sharon Stone and acting like a wannabe porn star. Maybe I shouldn’t write this down? But I already thought it. Oh, shut up and just figure out want she wants…

Covering the costs of publications. All the other talk is basically camouflage. She has been doing OK with her projects, but ran out of money to pay for this. No, actually not accurate, she just doesn’t want to waste money if she can get some sort of softhearted codger to put up the dough. Because the Institute’s name is on them, press release possibilities, media attention, prestige, blah, blah. Another one who thinks she’s the only competent researcher in the world. I won’t even bother going into my usual rant of what I think of publishing companies and the racket they have going on. I know I can think this, but at this stage of her career she can’t afford to. I’ll just give her the usual spiel: if I did it for one I’d have to do it for everyone, Sharon Stone lookalikes or otherwise. 

She does notlook pleased. But still hot, ever hotter when angry. 

Don’t write that down, you idiot!

3 PM

I was prepared for a sob story, but I guess you can never prepare enough. His desperation is palpable, it floats ahead as he comes in the room, immediately setting the tone. If we were in a (bad) B-movie the lights would go out, a howling gust of wind would chill the building, an unknown animal would cry out in menace or pain. 

I understand, I really do. He’s been here for years, but his career never took off as expected when he was recruited. He has published a lot (and reminds me of this constantly) but the lack of really good papers and grants (following everyone else’s trends will only take you so far…) means tenure is not any closer than it was. And there is no way to increase his salary with other monies, there aren’t any. 

Plus his kid has ADHD (or something), and his wife is pregnant (congratulations? not quite sure), and there is the mortgage, and his dog died, and everyone is in therapy, and… It’s not fair, and I know it, but I start hearing a (bad) country-western song in my head. I want to tell him my problems, but I know he’ll be offended.

He wants to give up this particular rat race, try another one. Go into management, be a technician in one of the core facilities, a lab manager; have some sort of 9 to 5 tranquility.

Actually, having read through all his latest career plans, that’s probably the best idea he’s had in years.

4 PM

“Match my offer, or else!” That’s basically the whole conversation she had planned. Always sharp, ruthless, to the point. That’s why she received this great offer from abroad. Her CV is outstanding, she is a commanding presence on social media. Good for her, and I really mean that. I measure the success of our Institute not only by who we manage to recruit, but how we help people move on, because they eventually become too good for us, so to speak. Does that make sense? I think it does, and I’m the Director, so…

She’s willing to stay, but only if I guarantee a (not small) promotion to match what she’ll be getting elsewhere. Do I want to do that? I don’t know. Can I recruit someone as promising to take up her lab space? Has she published all the great papers she had in her? And is all this a bluff? I’m familiar with the place she’s considering; it’s a great offer to move to what is, in fact, a shiny scientific desert. It will take her years to set up a competitive lab, if she ever manages. But is that her priority?

Sometimes this job is hard.

5 PM

So he doesn’t want do to anything that is not specifically in his contract. His research, sure, of course, no doubt. But none of that crap of participating in teaching or in services and core facilities. It’s his equipment and expertise, other lazy bastards should get their own, just like he did. And those that don’t do, teach, of course. He doesn’t have time for imbeciles, and must spend every ounce of effort in building up his CV so he can move away from this joint. That is a noble endeavor that I fully support (no irony). And I tell him so. Not sure he believes it.

He’s also lawyered up, but even I can see his counsel is not close to top notch, most scientists can’t afford that. I tear through each argument without breaking a sweat, showing that, in fact, it is all in the contract. First of all, “his” equipment is actually mine (so to speak, it belongs to the Institute). I can change the locks, and that would be that. Secondly, “his” expertise was acquired here, and the contract is pretty clear on Intellectual Property, good luck with your challenge. Teaching, OK, I’ll give you that one. But rules say you can only take on MSc and PhD students if you are part of the syllabus… Does he really want to lose that major source of very cheap and eager workforce?

Didn’t think so.

6 PM

OK, maybe it’s getting late and I stepped into an alternative dimension. Do people still remember “The Twilight Zone”? (The original, of course; the remake was not that great) 

My first thought is that this guy should be checked for either psychiatric disorders or stimulant abuse. Or both. He usually has only one conspiracy theory brewing at any given time, but today they all came out to play. The grant evaluators stole his ideas. It doesn’t matter because they can’t understand them, no one really can (not even him, I often think). His neighbors are sabotaging his research, changing the settings on equipment and peeing in his cell cultures (he said that, I swear he did). His students are faking data, possibly working for foreign powers while they are at it. All that is missing are secret coded messages on Twitter from the Illuminati, the Free Masons, Opus Dei, the Communists, the Fascists, the Neo-communists, the Neo-fascists, Animal Righters, Flat Earthers, Anti-Vaxxers. No, wait, he is listing a few of those now… It’s too much, I have to tune out, look out onto infinity and recite haikus to match his garbled speech.

I’m a great believer in the social duties of science. And one of them is that it can successfully employ some of our more… How do we say this now? Special Minds? That does not sound right. Unique Talents? OK, how about this: creative scientific research can put to great use minds that would otherwise be wasted, because their bearers would be committed, or in jail. 

Yet, there is a fine line to all this, and I’m not sure it’s even fine in this case. While I make a note to check when his next mandatory medical evaluation will be, I just hope there is a Nature paper in this dude’s near future, for all of our sakes.

7 PM

He peeks in, “just to say hi”.  Sure buddy, I’ll bite. 

We’ll amicably chat about the issues of the day. And I’ll pretend you didn’t come in to start measuring the office for drapes, and see how the awards you can’t stop talking about will fit on the shelves. Most scientists despise admin jobs. But, on the other hand, Director sure looks good on your CV. He didn’t want it before, when all this crap was brewing. What a shocker. But it will end soon, one way or another. And he’ll be waiting in the wings, blaming whatever goes wrong on my poor management skills. 

Fine with me, that’s what I did with the previous Director. 

In a nice way, I try to believe, but who am I kidding?

8 PM (via Skype)

This was not wise at all… But where they are it’s earlier, this was the only slot I had, and I don’t predict anything unexpected. They are a great fit for the Institute. But, as a couple, they want us to hire both of them, at equivalent positions. Who wouldn’t ask for the exact same thing in their situation? After all, it means uprooting, leaving a country they are probably very familiar with at this stage, starting over in more ways than one.

Except that won’t work in the short term; two hires is always harder to run by a Board who cares very little about equalitarian relationships, by the way. And their CVs are not exactly similar, I’m sorry to say. My previous suggestion was that we would hire the “better” one as the Principal Investigator, while the other would have some sort of lower technical position until we could figure it out, or the grants came flowing in. To be honest I forget which one of them was which, but that plan did not go over well… In fact, I felt like the complete opposite of a marriage counsellor. 

But they really want to leave where they are. Politics, being closer to what they still consider home, the kids starting to be more comfortable in a “foreign” culture; the usual things. Again, can’t blame them. But in a way I’m almost sorry that, after skewering me on the spot last time, they are basically agreeing with what I put forward. I almost slip and tell them so; but I don’t. Six years on this job will teach you something. 

Plus, now I can committedly hint to “Match my offer, or else!” lady that it could very well be “or else!”. Her lab space would be perfect for them, and it’s always good to have options.

9 PM

As I walk home, I wonder if this was the sort of exercise I was supposed to write. The Seminar person was not super-clear on that (are they ever? on anything?)… Maybe I should focus on something else? There are so many interesting things happening in my lab… I hope to immerse myself in them tomorrow, while I try to (or try hard to pretend to) solve the more egregious or reasonable issues my (mostly) wonderful researchers have piled on before the next round of periodical evaluation interviews. 

I wish I could write more about the beauty of well-rounded experiments sometimes, I really do. It’s just not as cathartic I guess. And at this stage I’m more about catharsis than anything else.