Chapter 2 Nuclear Fission #3
I’ll just focus on the fake-girlfriending protocol.
APE, Cece and I call it. (Well, I call it APE.
Cece just shakes her head and asks, “What’s wrong with scientists?
Were you all, like, bullied in high school?
”) First, assess the need: What is it that the person in front of me wants to see?
Then, plan a response: How can I become what they want? And lastly, enact—
“Dr. Hannaway?”
I turn around. A dark-haired woman studies me as I mentally rehearse how to human. “Dr. Salt?”
Her handshake is strong. Businesslike. “It is nice to meet you in person.”
“Likewise.”
“Come—let’s go to the bar.”
I follow her, a little starstruck. Dr. Monica Salt wrote the textbook on theoretical physics—literally. The Salt has been sitting tight on my shelf for over a decade. Nine hundred pages of excellent content. Bonus: it squashes the hornet-crab spiders like a dream.
“Dr. Hannaway?” She sounds assertive. Charismatic. Badass. Like I wish I felt.
“Elsie, please.”
“Monica, then. I’m happy you applied for the position. When I saw your CV, I thought for sure some other university would have snatched you up by now.”
I smile, noncommittal. Yep, that’s me. Beating off job offers with a stick.
“Your dissertation on liquid crystals’ static distortions in biaxial nematics was brilliant, Elsie.”
I feel myself flush. Sex does nothing for me, but maybe this is my kink: being complimented by leading scholars in my field. Hot, huh? “You’re too kind.”
“I can hardly believe how much your work has already affected our understanding of non-equilibrium systems and macroscopic coherent motion. Liquid crystals are a hot topic in theoretical physics, and you’ve positioned yourself as an expert.”
I am thoroughly flattered. Well, almost thoroughly: there is something in her tone that has me on edge. Something odd. Nudging.
“Your discoveries are going to have long-ranging impact on many fields, from displays to optical imaging to drug delivery. Truly impressive.”
Like maybe there’s a but?
“I cannot overstate how impressed I am with the scientific output you’ve produced in such a short period.”
There’s definitely a but.
“You’ll be an asset to whatever institution you choose, and MIT would be the perfect home for you. I want to be honest and admit that based on what I have seen, you should be the person we hire.”
. . . But?
“But.”
I knew it. I knew it. I knew it, but my heart drops to the bottom of my stomach anyway.
“Elsie, I asked you to meet alone because I feel that it would be better if you knew about the . . . politics that are currently at play.”
“Politics?” I shouldn’t be surprised. STEM academia is 98 percent politics and 1 percent science (the rest, I suspect, “I Should Be Writing” memes). “What do you mean?”
“You might have several job offers, and I want to make sure that you choose us despite . . . whatever might happen during your interview.”
I frown. “Whatever might happen?”
She sighs. “As you know, in the past few years there has been some . . . some acrimony, between theoretical and experimental physicists.”
I hold back a snort. Acrimony is a nice ten-dollar word to say that if the Purge were announced at this very moment, three-quarters of the world’s experimentalists would ring the theorists’ doorbells with their freshly sharpened machetes.
Of course it would all be in vain: they’d find the theorists long gone, already swinging their scimitars in the experimentalists’ front yards.
Yes, in this much-visited scenario of mine, we theorists have the cooler weapons.
We’re just different breeds. Apples and oranges.
Dwarves and elves. Cool scientists and less-cool scientists.
We theorists use math, construct models, explain the whys and hows of nature.
We are thinkers. Experimentalists . . . well, they like to fuck around and find out.
Build things and get their hands dirty. Like engineers. Or three-year-olds at the sandbox.
Theorists think they’re smarter (spoiler alert: we are), and experimentalists think they’re more useful (re-spoiler re-alert: they are not). It makes for some . . . Yeah. Acrimony.
Monica, thank the universe and the subatomic particles it’s made of, is a theorist. We exchange a long, loaded, understanding look. “I am aware,” I say.
“Good. And you might have heard that Jonathan Smith-Turner has recently joined MIT?”
I stiffen. “I had not.”
“But you are familiar with Jonathan Smith-Turner. And with his . . . article.”
It’s not a question. Monica is wise and fully aware that there is no dimension, no parallel universe, no hypothetical self-contained plane of existence in which a theoretical physicist wouldn’t know who he is.
Because Jonathan Smith-Turner is an experimentalist—no, the experimentalist. And several years ago, when I was in middle school and he was probably a grown-ass man who should have known better, he did something horrible. Something unforgivable. Something abominable.
He made theoretical physicists look dumb.
Driven by what I can only assume was bitterness, an overabundance of free time, and involuntary celibacy, he set out to prove to the world that .
. . actually, I don’t know what he wanted to prove.
But he wrote a scientific article on quantum mechanics that was just full enough of jargon and math to sound like it was written by a theorist.
Except that the article was completely made up. Bogus. A parody, if you will. That turned into a prank when he submitted it to Annals of Theoretical Physics, our most prestigious journal, and waited. Rubbing his hands together evilly, one can only assume.
And that’s where things went wrong. Because despite undergoing supposedly rigorous peer review, the article was accepted.
And published. And it stayed published for several weeks, or at least until shit hit the fan—in the form of a blog post by someone likely affiliated with Smith-Turner, back in the olden times when blogging was a thing.
“Is Theoretical Physics Pseudoscience?” had been the title.
The post, which detailed how Smith-Turner had gotten a bunch of nonsense published in the most respected theory journal, was even worse.
“Has the field of physics lost its way? . . . Is it all made up?” And my personal favorite: “If theoretical physics is gibberish, is it fair to compensate theorists with federal tax money?”
I’m not being needlessly dramatic when I say that it was a whole thing.
On Facebook. On the news, including 60 Minutes.
Even Oprah talked about it—the Jonathan Smith-Turner Affair, the Theoretical Hoax, the Physics Scandal.
Einstein rolled in his grave. Newton puked up his apple.
Feynman quietly stepped in a tank of liquid helium.
Young Elsie, who in her early teens already knew what she wanted to be when she grew up, seethed and growled and boycotted all coverage of the topic, declaring a ban on all media in the Hannaway household.
(The ban was unheeded, as the Hannaway household tended to forget young Elsie existed; her parents were probably too busy trying to stop her brothers from egging the neighbor’s shed.)
Mainstream interest blew over soon enough.
Annals of Theoretical Physics pulled the article and apologized for the oversight, a bunch of theorists in improbable sweaters and spray-on hair took to YouTube to defend their honor, and Jonathan Smith-Turner never spoke publicly on the matter.
Thankfully, the amount of mental energy normies like to expend on physics is limited.
But the hoax was a humiliating, devastating blow, and the field never quite recovered—all because of a stupid prank.
Over a decade later, theoretical physics funding has been slashed.
Theory job openings are decimated. The running joke is still that theoretical physics is akin to creative writing, books have been written on how theorists are exploitative wackjobs, and Google’s main autofills for theoretical physics are: Not real science. Nonsense. Dead.
(Slanderous. Google is slanderous and we should all switch to Bing.)
And yet it gets even worse—for two reasons that make all of this personal to me.
First, one of the major downfalls of the article was that the theoretical physics community, needing to save face, quickly found a scapegoat: they formally censured the chief editor of Annals—the academic version of pushing someone into a paddle cactus bed and leaving them for dead.
That editor was Christophe Laurendeau—my mentor.
Yup.
The second reason is that, regrettably, Smith-Turner and I operate in the same subfield of physics.
Our work on liquid crystals partially overlaps, and I occasionally wonder if that’s reason enough for me to switch to some other topic.
Black holes? Lattices? Quantum supremacy?
I’m still debating. In the meantime, I’ve been on a boycott.
For years I’ve refused to care about what Jonathan Smith-Turner is doing—I’ve refused to read his papers, to acknowledge his existence, to even mention his name.
In hindsight, I probably should have kept tabs.
“Naturally,” Monica is saying, “Jonathan is a talented experimentalist and an asset to the department. He joined us last year—moved from Caltech with sizable grants to lead the MIT Physics Institute. We’re lucky to have him.
” Her expression makes it abundantly clear she believes no such thing.
“The position you’re interviewing for is a joint one.
Half of your salary will be paid by my department, half from the Physics Institute.
Which is headed by Jonathan. Who, in turn, strongly favors the other candidate we are interviewing.
” Monica sighs. “I cannot tell you who the other candidate is, for obvious reasons.”
My fingers tighten around the glass. “The other candidate is an experimentalist, I assume.”
“Yes. And a previous collaborator of Jonathan’s.”