Erin wrenched at the zipper on her bag. Her jaw twitched. Her eyes were downcast.
Rubbing harder at his nape, Ethan was grateful for Schulz’s arrival at the podium and even for the next hellish microphone shriek, which signaled the director’s readiness to speak.
“Thank you, Marcie. Now: I’m pleased to announce that both the Secretary of Energy for the United States and the Department of Energy’s Office of Science will be visiting SVLAC this quarter. Secretary McCandless will tour our departments and our research facilities and attend a presentation by Dr. Helena Quarles on SVLAC’s contributions to American science education. I don’t need to tell you that this is an honor for the lab—and an important event.”
He didn’t. At his mention of a government visit, anticipatory murmuring swelled through Maiman Auditorium. The Department of Energy’s on-site presence afforded opportunities to angle for additional research funding by speaking directly with federal officials, unimpeded by the usual paper bureaucracy.
Funds were tight this year and competition for the Secretary’s attention would be fierce.
Erin was already in consultation with Nadine Fong, her gaze up again, quickly refocused, and presumably discussing the best way to present their research proposals to the government representatives. Plotting revenge, too. Though he couldn’t hear her words through the crowd, Ethan knew this about her.
But there was only so much capital to go around, and his field needed those funds. Dr. Kramer needed those funds.
Heneeded those funds.
“Security will perform a building sweep on Thursday, and Secretary McCandless will arrive on Friday. Staff must display identification badges at all times—”
He couldn’t let her win.
3
He had to beat Erin Monaghan to the Secretary of Energy’s attention—and to the Eischer-Langhoff grant. After a hurried lunch, Ethan stared at the application, flexed his fingers over his keyboard, demanded brilliance from himself, then stalled, wondering whether Erin had already submitted her form. What if the reviewers were nodding over her narrative and her data right now, swayed by the promise of her sole-author publication? What if the hypothetical genius of her proposal impressed them so much that they stopped considering any other submissions?
What if—
He grimaced and rubbed his temples. The earlier microphone screeches from the auditorium continued to ricochet in his ears.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
He snatched up a pen and began to sketch around the margins of his sudoku calendar.
If Erin won the grant, had Fong earmarked a portion of the funds for her own research? Possibly. But possibly not, given her pending maternity leave. Which meant that, if his rival was successful, she’d receive the full amount. She could devote her time to pure science for the duration of the funding cycle, instead of slogging through the administrative bullshit of writing additional applications…
Hehadto secure funding for his research.
And for Dr. Kramer’s projects, of course.
If he failed—
His pen skidded off the sudoku grid and a pulse of anxiety drove his fingers back to the keyboard, where he began to explain the importance of his and Dr. Kramer’s work in dense, stilted paragraphs. When a familiar set of footsteps strode down the hall, however, he paused his typing to tape a Do Not Disturb sign to his door.
He added his headphones and the lull of white noise soon after.
Outside his office, Erin’s aggressively lively conversation with Nadine Fong and Dr. Marco Rossi about authorship, funding, and the Secretary of Energy’s visit faded to a murmur.I, me, mine, we, us, ours…If she was discussing sources for additional research dollars, she probably hadn’t submitted the Eischer-Langhoff grant yet. He exhaled, and nodded to himself in the quiet.
Realistically—theoretically—it was possible that another physicist from a different National Lab could receive the award. But…no. He knew his competition.
Ethan returned to the application.
He paused again an hour later when his desk elevated to standing height, its rise punctuating the end of his first draft. The grant proposal still required several intensive edit sessions before it went to his supervisor for feedback—but Bunsen would also have feedback in the form of gnawed shoes and shredded pillows if he didn’t return home soon for their evening run. He powered down his computer and headed to his car, calculating how many socks he’d forfeit while sitting in the northbound congestion toward Redwood City. Living in Menlo Park or Palo Alto would be more convenient for his commute to SVLAC, but who could afford privacy there?
He exited the traffic jam onto Farm Hill Boulevard, where the vehicle demographic changed from Teslas to trucks hauling flats of construction stone or piping, and the cattle-dotted hills around Junipero Serra Freeway became light industrial buildings. Passing Stulsaft Park, he pulled into his designated parking space near a cluster of older condominiums. The units weren’t in a good neighborhood, were outfitted with unembellished builder’s grade fixtures, and likely had asbestos in their shingles, but the prices for one-bedroom rentals were affordable. The chirp of his hatchback’s lock roused a crescendo of frenzied howls from his unit as he checked the soles of his shoes for turkey shit.
Well, he hadsomeprivacy.
“Hey, buddy.”
Bunsen launched himself at Ethan, wiggling with anticipation and covering him in slobber until he shucked off his sneakers on the interior mud mat. Then the dog dove for the shoes, sniffing hard.
