Courtney motioned to the window. "They never have the air-conditioning on this time of year and that window got painted shut around the turn of the century, so I called maintenance to bring us a fan. They should be here any minute."
"It's okay. It's fine, Dr. Smith," Stacy said, her heart jack-hammering, her hands flapping around her like small bony sparrows. She told herself to calm down. After all, she'd been having breakfasts with the entire panel at least once a week, all through the year. She knew them all well.
It was the practice for doctorate students to get as close to their advisors as possible. The faculty viewed this exercise as an attempt to make friends, so students could come to them with study problems, but any post-grad would tell you the real reason from the students' perspective was to psych out the advisor's pet projects or pet peeves. Hopefully one could discern what might be asked on the oral.
Now Art Hickman appeared in the doorway, pushing his new swivel chair. He was heavy-set, and his blow-dried, combed-over blond hair tented a patch of open scalp. A sharp, clipped mustache seemed a misplayed note in a symphony of fleshy curves. "Am I the last?" he said, then turned to Stacy, grinning wolfishly. "Well, Mrs. Richardson, are we ready?" Using her married name was a slap not lost on any of them. Art glanced in Courtney's office. "Where's H. R.?" he asked, referring to Dr. Horace Rosenthal.
"Here," a voice caroled from down the hall, and then Dr. Rosenthal appeared, a large, worn briefcase in hand. He was tall and slender and always wore bow ties. He was "Mr. Plant Virus." Rosenthal could talk for hours on vegetable diseases, soil antigens, and whatnot. Stacy had read all his published papers, searching for his pet theories.
"Stacy. Big day," Horace said, smiling. He had ivory-white skin. Blue veins roadmapped under a papery complexion that suggested he rarely got outside. His bow tie this morning was a cherry-red number with, of all things, a pattern of tiny clocks on it. Who was it that said, ' 'Nobody ever takes a man in a bow tie seriously,'' Stacy thought nervously.
"Let's get going," Courtney said. "Horace, you can drag that extra chair over from the window."
Rosenthal grabbed the oversized upholstered chair and tugged it around like a rusted gun battery to face the room. Stacy was offered a metal student's chair, but she elected to remain standing. Wendell Kinney winked at her and kicked the door shut.
"Okay," Art Hickman said. "To begin with, "snaps' on a great Written. You really aced that puppy." He liked to try to sound hip, using the vernacular of his students. "But, as you know, the qualifying orals are intended to be a much wider-ranging set of questions. What we're trying to determine is, not your technical or book expertise, but more how you will deal with the broader, less defined concepts of microbiology."
"I understand," she said.
"Any of us might interrupt you at a given point in your answer and ask for definitions or elaborations of your thoughts, or perhaps even redirect you. Don't view that as criticism. We are only searching the corners of your knowledge," he continued.
"Yes, Doctor, I understand."
"It'd be nice if we could be finished by lunch. I hate sending out," Dr. Courtney Smith said.
Wendell Kinney shot Stacy a slight smile. He sure called that one, she thought. If she passed her Quals she would only have her doctorate thesis left, and most of them had already read sections of that emerging document entitled "Neurotransmission in Rhabdovirus Infection of Raccoon Species." It promised to be an exceptional piece of student science.
"So, let's get started," Wendell Kinney said, cheerfully.
Here we go, Stacy thought, crossing her fingers behind her back.
"I'd like you to explain the possible relationship of herpes viruses to multiple sclerosis," Dr. Hickman began, brushing his fingers across his neat little mustache.
"Yes," Stacy said, clearing her throat to buy a few seconds.
"Take your time, Stacy. You don't have to rush your answers," Wendell reminded her.
"Yes, thank you, Doctor… According to a recent study, seventy percent of the patients with the most common form of MS showed signs of active infection with human herpes virus six."
"A study, Mrs. Richardson?" Art Hickman interrupted. "What study? The study of California muffler mechanics? Let's be specific."
"Uh, the… the finding was reported in the December issue of Nature and Medicine, and was conducted at the University of Minnesota… And uh… Research Associates funded it, a government bio-research funding bank. The study was annotated by-"
"That's okay," he cut her off. "Just don't use generalities. Go on." He was still stroking his bullshit mustache.
"Yes, Doctor." She continued, "Representational differences were used to search for pathogens in multiple sclerosis brain tissue…"
Joanne Richardson almost hit the University policeman as she pulled her car into the Science Campus lot, parking her red Toyota sloppily across two spaces.
The cop moved to the passenger window of her car and glared in angrily. Joanne was gathering up her purse and had her head down as he rapped on the window.
"Hey! You almost ran me down!" he growled through the glass. When she looked up, he could see that she was crying. Tears were streaming, running her mascara, leaving black clown smudges.
"Where's the Science Building?" Joanne sobbed, rolling down the window.
"You almost hit me," the University cop said, his anger coasting to an awkward stop as he looked at the pretty twenty-year-old.
"Where is it? I have to get there, now."
He finally relented. "The new Science Building or the old Science Building?"
"I don't know, she didn't say."
"You looking for classrooms or faculty?"
"Faculty," she said, choking back a sob.
"First, center this vehicle inside the lines, then go along this walk, past Sprague Hall, turn left at the statue of Tommy Trojan. It's three buildings down, on the left, a big brick job."
She reparked the car, quickly got out, and ran up the street. It only took her a few minutes to find the building. She ran up the steps into an entry that was filled with glass cases. Some contained faculty awards, some had student projects. Years of Lysol had turned the light gray linoleum floor yellow. There was a reception desk in front of the elevators, where an Assistant Professor sat grading papers, guarding the entrance like a soccer goalie.
"I need Dr. Courtney Smith's office," Joanne said, out of breath.
The Assistant Professor looked up at the tear-streaked face across from him. "Third floor, but I'm sorry, you can't go up there. She's giving orals."
"I've got to talk to my sister-in-law, Stacy Richardson. It's important."
"You can't break into her Quals. You'll just have to wait down here."
"For how long?" Joanne asked, her voice cracking pitifully.
"Could be three or four hours, maybe longer."
"I can't wait." She turned, and forgoing the elevators, ran around him and up the stairs.
The Assistant Professor dropped the paper he was grading and bolted after her.
Joanne got to the third floor and ran down the corridor. None of the offices had names on them, just numbers. She started to look for a directory board, but the man finally caught up with her and grabbed her arm.
"I need to talk to Stacy. She's in Dr. Smith's office," Joanne repeated.
"I told you, you can't talk to her. She's taking orals."
"It's an emergency!" Joanne paused to catch her breath. "Her husband just committed suicide!"
Dr. Horace Rosenthal had abandoned his beloved plant viruses to ask a question on HIV infection. "Give us an identification of the chemokine receptor expressed in brain-derived cells and T-cells as a new co-receptor for HIV infection."
"We have isolated HIV-r variants that infect brain-derived CK4 positive cells…" Stacy began, as there was a knock at the door.