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Authors: Neve Maslakovic
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very much
not
just around the corner, their bare brown branches stark next to their evergreen cousins. The cold was character-building. At least it was a dry cold, I thought as I reached for my phone to turn it off so that any calls would go directly to voice mail. Then I took off a glove and had another go at it (the phone tended to ignore any activity made by gloved fingers). Before heading to work, I’d donned my “astronaut” boots—the warm, puffy, white ones with treadedsoles that Penny Lind had both envied and hated—in anticipation of the walking I’d be doing around the science buildings. The only one that would require driving was Astronomy, which was located north of the lake, on the biggest hill on campus.
I let a bundled-up student on a bicycle pass me, then set a course for the Earth Sciences building, the one nearest to the boat dock. From the dock, counterclockwise, the path brought visitors first to the Science Quad, then the Humanities Quad; the path then touched the south parking lot and continued on to the School of Law and the School of Medicine, known as the Law-Med Quad; then came the fourth, unnamed quadrant which housed the Coffey Library, the History Museum, and student housing, after which the path came full circle, ending back at the boat dock. Today a group of students who’d stayed on campus during the break were playing ice hockey next to the dock.
A slow and steady plod took me from the stately Mary Anning Hall of Earth Sciences to the oversized Marie Curie Chemistry and Physics Annex to the elegant, glass-dominated Emmy Noether House for Mathematics, during which I (a) alternately removed and donned my jacket and gloves; (b) listened to the latest lab news while waiting for professors and researchers to fill out forms; (c) watched a chemistry demonstration in which a gallium spoon melted into hot water; (d) fielded a thinly veiled, inappropriate comment about my astro-boots from a senior researcher who clearly needed a refresher course in workplace sexual harassment; and (e) failed to find anyone who had seen the didgeridoo from Dr. Mooney’s office. The sun had progressed well along its low arc in the sky when I decided it was time for a lunch break and a fresh supply of forms.
I returned to the Hypatia of Alexandria House nursing a cut on my finger—a black, glossy specimen that had caught my attention on a Geology Department lab bench had turned outto be unexpectedly sharp. I bought a hot chocolate and a ham sandwich from the kitchenette vending machine, and carried my lunch past the multicultural winter holiday display in the hall and into my office, where I spent a few minutes rummaging around in the window cabinet for a Band-Aid. After the Band-Aid was in place, I unwrapped the ham sandwich, took a warming sip of the hot chocolate, and hit the answering machine button on my desk phone.
The first message was from Dean Sunder. He was driving to St. Paul to meet with a potential donor who was hinting that she might offer up a significant sum for the school. I jotted down a note to ask him for details when he got back; the dean kept a running tally of donation promises in his head and sometimes forgot to relay them to me. It helped speed matters along if I sent a follow-up letter printed on the finest and thickest university stationary reminding the donor of his or her promised sum.
The next three messages were from researchers wondering when STEWie would be back online, followed by two from news reporters. I had seen the headlines.
Has Science Gone Too Far? Is a Life Worth a Journal Article? The Death Price for a Photo?
Perhaps, I thought, replaying the reporters’ messages, Dean Sunder needed to compose a press statement about the adventurous journey that is science, a journey of curiosity and exploration that only occasionally leads to mishaps. I jotted that down on my yellow legal pad, then played the last message, a long, rambling one that filled the rest of the phone
not
just around the corner, their bare brown branches stark next to their evergreen cousins. The cold was character-building. At least it was a dry cold, I thought as I reached for my phone to turn it off so that any calls would go directly to voice mail. Then I took off a glove and had another go at it (the phone tended to ignore any activity made by gloved fingers). Before heading to work, I’d donned my “astronaut” boots—the warm, puffy, white ones with treadedsoles that Penny Lind had both envied and hated—in anticipation of the walking I’d be doing around the science buildings. The only one that would require driving was Astronomy, which was located north of the lake, on the biggest hill on campus.
I let a bundled-up student on a bicycle pass me, then set a course for the Earth Sciences building, the one nearest to the boat dock. From the dock, counterclockwise, the path brought visitors first to the Science Quad, then the Humanities Quad; the path then touched the south parking lot and continued on to the School of Law and the School of Medicine, known as the Law-Med Quad; then came the fourth, unnamed quadrant which housed the Coffey Library, the History Museum, and student housing, after which the path came full circle, ending back at the boat dock. Today a group of students who’d stayed on campus during the break were playing ice hockey next to the dock.
A slow and steady plod took me from the stately Mary Anning Hall of Earth Sciences to the oversized Marie Curie Chemistry and Physics Annex to the elegant, glass-dominated Emmy Noether House for Mathematics, during which I (a) alternately removed and donned my jacket and gloves; (b) listened to the latest lab news while waiting for professors and researchers to fill out forms; (c) watched a chemistry demonstration in which a gallium spoon melted into hot water; (d) fielded a thinly veiled, inappropriate comment about my astro-boots from a senior researcher who clearly needed a refresher course in workplace sexual harassment; and (e) failed to find anyone who had seen the didgeridoo from Dr. Mooney’s office. The sun had progressed well along its low arc in the sky when I decided it was time for a lunch break and a fresh supply of forms.
I returned to the Hypatia of Alexandria House nursing a cut on my finger—a black, glossy specimen that had caught my attention on a Geology Department lab bench had turned outto be unexpectedly sharp. I bought a hot chocolate and a ham sandwich from the kitchenette vending machine, and carried my lunch past the multicultural winter holiday display in the hall and into my office, where I spent a few minutes rummaging around in the window cabinet for a Band-Aid. After the Band-Aid was in place, I unwrapped the ham sandwich, took a warming sip of the hot chocolate, and hit the answering machine button on my desk phone.
The first message was from Dean Sunder. He was driving to St. Paul to meet with a potential donor who was hinting that she might offer up a significant sum for the school. I jotted down a note to ask him for details when he got back; the dean kept a running tally of donation promises in his head and sometimes forgot to relay them to me. It helped speed matters along if I sent a follow-up letter printed on the finest and thickest university stationary reminding the donor of his or her promised sum.
The next three messages were from researchers wondering when STEWie would be back online, followed by two from news reporters. I had seen the headlines.
Has Science Gone Too Far? Is a Life Worth a Journal Article? The Death Price for a Photo?
Perhaps, I thought, replaying the reporters’ messages, Dean Sunder needed to compose a press statement about the adventurous journey that is science, a journey of curiosity and exploration that only occasionally leads to mishaps. I jotted that down on my yellow legal pad, then played the last message, a long, rambling one that filled the rest of the phone
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