wasn't like most laboratory directors, concerned strictly with the number of papers their assistants authored. Instead, Wilson stressed to his students that it was important to first get a handle on adult life; if they learned some science along the way, so much the better.
His office was even more meticulous than the laboratory. No loose pens or pencils on the desk, and the papers were neatly stacked to one side. Behind his desk hung a large black-and-white photo of the two brothers hugging after Wilson had received his graduate degree. Sterling was only ten, tall and lanky, flashing the same smile that kept him in trouble with women now. As reluctant as Sterling would have been to admit it to anyone, this had always been his favorite picture. He treasured it mostly because it was the only photo he could remember of the two of them together and happy. Since he had come to terms with his resentment of his older brother, his copy of the photo now sat on his nightstand back in his apartment. The day of Wilson's graduation was the only time that Sterling had seen the old man cry.
“This is some office,” Wiley said. He was eyeing a picture of the Professor with some of his students. “You go to some of these professors' offices and it's a pigsty. Papers and books all over the place, moldy cups of coffee everywhere.” He picked up the picture of the students and handed it to Sterling.
The photograph had been taken on the lawn in front of the lab or a similar building. Eight students surrounded Wilson. They looked so content and carefree. Sterling took his time and studied each of their faces. The student next to Wilson stood out from the others and not only because she was attractive. Her eyes, her posture, her smile—they all added up to an unmistakable air of confidence.
Sterling replaced the photograph on the desk and looked around. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined the wall, full of bulky textbooks and lab manuals. Three shelves had been dedicated entirely to fiction, something Sterling never imagined Wilson having an interest in or time to read. He had a lot of mysteries, Elmore Leonard and Walter Mosely and almost all of the Grishams. Sterling only remembered Wilson burying his head in the
New York Times
and
Scientific American
.
He walked to the other side of the large oak desk and pulled out the heavy, black-leather chair that slid on a square piece of Plexiglas. A small metal wastebasket in the shape of an elephant had been tucked against the right inside wall of the desk. Sterling emptied its contents onto the desk—three crumpled pieces of paper and a pen that had run out of ink. Sterling opened up one of the crumpled balls.
“Anything interesting?” Wiley asked.
“Not exactly sure,” Sterling replied. “It seems to be a list of chemicals and their structures, but it's hard to make most of them out. They didn't print very well.” He handed the first sheet to Wiley, then opened the second and third. More of the same.
“I can't even pronounce most of these names,” Wiley surrendered. “That's why I never got along with science. So many damn words that take up too much space on a page. I always had better places to spin my wheels.”
Sterling considered the names. He wasn't a chemist, but he had spent a couple of years studying organic chemistry. Changing just one number or a couple of letters, he knew, could mean two very different compounds.
“Does it say where that list came from?” Wiley asked.
Sterling couldn't find anything on the first couple of pages; most of the ink had been blurred or cut off at the bottom. He could, however, read some letters at the bottom of the third page:
http://www.fda.
The rest were illegible. “It's from the Internet,” Sterling said.
Wiley stretched his neck, and brought the sheet of paper close enough to his face to practically smell the ink. Then he gave up on vanity and pulled out a pair of reading glasses from his breast pocket. “Part of getting
His office was even more meticulous than the laboratory. No loose pens or pencils on the desk, and the papers were neatly stacked to one side. Behind his desk hung a large black-and-white photo of the two brothers hugging after Wilson had received his graduate degree. Sterling was only ten, tall and lanky, flashing the same smile that kept him in trouble with women now. As reluctant as Sterling would have been to admit it to anyone, this had always been his favorite picture. He treasured it mostly because it was the only photo he could remember of the two of them together and happy. Since he had come to terms with his resentment of his older brother, his copy of the photo now sat on his nightstand back in his apartment. The day of Wilson's graduation was the only time that Sterling had seen the old man cry.
“This is some office,” Wiley said. He was eyeing a picture of the Professor with some of his students. “You go to some of these professors' offices and it's a pigsty. Papers and books all over the place, moldy cups of coffee everywhere.” He picked up the picture of the students and handed it to Sterling.
The photograph had been taken on the lawn in front of the lab or a similar building. Eight students surrounded Wilson. They looked so content and carefree. Sterling took his time and studied each of their faces. The student next to Wilson stood out from the others and not only because she was attractive. Her eyes, her posture, her smile—they all added up to an unmistakable air of confidence.
Sterling replaced the photograph on the desk and looked around. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined the wall, full of bulky textbooks and lab manuals. Three shelves had been dedicated entirely to fiction, something Sterling never imagined Wilson having an interest in or time to read. He had a lot of mysteries, Elmore Leonard and Walter Mosely and almost all of the Grishams. Sterling only remembered Wilson burying his head in the
New York Times
and
Scientific American
.
He walked to the other side of the large oak desk and pulled out the heavy, black-leather chair that slid on a square piece of Plexiglas. A small metal wastebasket in the shape of an elephant had been tucked against the right inside wall of the desk. Sterling emptied its contents onto the desk—three crumpled pieces of paper and a pen that had run out of ink. Sterling opened up one of the crumpled balls.
“Anything interesting?” Wiley asked.
“Not exactly sure,” Sterling replied. “It seems to be a list of chemicals and their structures, but it's hard to make most of them out. They didn't print very well.” He handed the first sheet to Wiley, then opened the second and third. More of the same.
“I can't even pronounce most of these names,” Wiley surrendered. “That's why I never got along with science. So many damn words that take up too much space on a page. I always had better places to spin my wheels.”
Sterling considered the names. He wasn't a chemist, but he had spent a couple of years studying organic chemistry. Changing just one number or a couple of letters, he knew, could mean two very different compounds.
“Does it say where that list came from?” Wiley asked.
Sterling couldn't find anything on the first couple of pages; most of the ink had been blurred or cut off at the bottom. He could, however, read some letters at the bottom of the third page:
http://www.fda.
The rest were illegible. “It's from the Internet,” Sterling said.
Wiley stretched his neck, and brought the sheet of paper close enough to his face to practically smell the ink. Then he gave up on vanity and pulled out a pair of reading glasses from his breast pocket. “Part of getting
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