woman of color from the President’s Office of Outreach. I think she may be the only one not in the toils of publishing something.
A Professor J.J. McNull, who joined the committee last year, smiled on everyone. He strikes me as one of those academicians who, with a bottomless capacity for boredom, sit on committees trying to look sage and saying no. I’m not sure what he’s professor of. He glances around a lot, either smiling with approval or glowering with disapproval.
Ms. Brattle opened with a short statement about “what appear to be dark happenings in the Museum of Man again leading to concerns about the administration of that institution.” A large woman with the self-obliviousness of a professional professional, so to speak, Ms. Brattle looked over her glasses at me in a manner meant to level blame. She spoke darkly of the need for “a very active subcommittee to monitor the day-to-day operationsof the museum, especially the part dealing with the very sensitive area of genetic research.” She concluded by reminding us that, as Chair, she reports directly to President Twill himself.
Remaining imperturbed, I responded that the museum’s Board of Governors was not likely to allow me to acquiesce in such a step even were I inclined to do so. I informed the committee that the museum is in strict compliance with the Animal Welfare Act and all other local, state, and federal regulations governing the research conducted at the lab. I told them that I was cooperating very closely with the Seaboard Police Department in their ongoing investigation into what had transpired the night that Professor Ossmann and Dr. Woodley died. I reminded them that what happened that night might very well have nothing to do with the lab or with their research there.
Ms. Schanke, in the kind of
non sequitur
to which she is given, stood up and spoke as though reading from a prepared statement. Looking directly at me, she said, “I know that people like you, Mr. Ratour, think that people like me are perverts. But we all know that what’s going on in those labs is the real perversion. You people are perverting nature and you’re going to f*ck everything up. You pretend to be scientists, but all you’re really interested in is the bottom line and how much money you can make …” After several more minutes of this kind of diatribe, Ms. Schanke sat down and helped herself to a Chocolate Frosted.
I let the silence at her outburst gather and provide its own rebuttal.
Attorney Dearth bestirred himself. “What Berthe’s trying to say —”
Ms. Schanke, standing again, interrupted him. “I’m not
trying
to say anything. I have said what I wanted to say.”
In what appeared to be an attempt to strike a moderating note,Professor Athol opined how “the research into the secrets of life needs a spiritual dimension.”
“Yeah, until they find the God gene, and then they’ll find a way to market that as well,” Ms. Schanke rejoined with some bitterness.
Izzy perked up at that. “Well, judging from what’s out there, there must be lots of different God genes. I mean a Methodist God gene, a Catholic God gene, a couple of Jewish God genes, one for the Reformed and one for the Orthodox. And think about the Hindus …”
Professor Murdleston, who is hard of hearing, asked, “A Methodist gene?”
“Well, not a Methodist gene
per se
…”
“I think Randy is trying to say something important here,” Mr. Dearth put in.
And in rare agreement with the attorney, Father O’Gould, the lilt of his native Cork still in his speech, said, “If we are nothing more than our genes, then what are we?”
No one seemed to know.
Mr. Dearth wondered aloud what two people were doing in the lab alone at night.
Izzy asked the learned counsel if he was suggesting there ought to have been chaperones.
“No, I am wondering where the security guard was.”
I informed the committee that there were, as usual, two guards on duty in the Genetics
A Professor J.J. McNull, who joined the committee last year, smiled on everyone. He strikes me as one of those academicians who, with a bottomless capacity for boredom, sit on committees trying to look sage and saying no. I’m not sure what he’s professor of. He glances around a lot, either smiling with approval or glowering with disapproval.
Ms. Brattle opened with a short statement about “what appear to be dark happenings in the Museum of Man again leading to concerns about the administration of that institution.” A large woman with the self-obliviousness of a professional professional, so to speak, Ms. Brattle looked over her glasses at me in a manner meant to level blame. She spoke darkly of the need for “a very active subcommittee to monitor the day-to-day operationsof the museum, especially the part dealing with the very sensitive area of genetic research.” She concluded by reminding us that, as Chair, she reports directly to President Twill himself.
Remaining imperturbed, I responded that the museum’s Board of Governors was not likely to allow me to acquiesce in such a step even were I inclined to do so. I informed the committee that the museum is in strict compliance with the Animal Welfare Act and all other local, state, and federal regulations governing the research conducted at the lab. I told them that I was cooperating very closely with the Seaboard Police Department in their ongoing investigation into what had transpired the night that Professor Ossmann and Dr. Woodley died. I reminded them that what happened that night might very well have nothing to do with the lab or with their research there.
Ms. Schanke, in the kind of
non sequitur
to which she is given, stood up and spoke as though reading from a prepared statement. Looking directly at me, she said, “I know that people like you, Mr. Ratour, think that people like me are perverts. But we all know that what’s going on in those labs is the real perversion. You people are perverting nature and you’re going to f*ck everything up. You pretend to be scientists, but all you’re really interested in is the bottom line and how much money you can make …” After several more minutes of this kind of diatribe, Ms. Schanke sat down and helped herself to a Chocolate Frosted.
I let the silence at her outburst gather and provide its own rebuttal.
Attorney Dearth bestirred himself. “What Berthe’s trying to say —”
Ms. Schanke, standing again, interrupted him. “I’m not
trying
to say anything. I have said what I wanted to say.”
In what appeared to be an attempt to strike a moderating note,Professor Athol opined how “the research into the secrets of life needs a spiritual dimension.”
“Yeah, until they find the God gene, and then they’ll find a way to market that as well,” Ms. Schanke rejoined with some bitterness.
Izzy perked up at that. “Well, judging from what’s out there, there must be lots of different God genes. I mean a Methodist God gene, a Catholic God gene, a couple of Jewish God genes, one for the Reformed and one for the Orthodox. And think about the Hindus …”
Professor Murdleston, who is hard of hearing, asked, “A Methodist gene?”
“Well, not a Methodist gene
per se
…”
“I think Randy is trying to say something important here,” Mr. Dearth put in.
And in rare agreement with the attorney, Father O’Gould, the lilt of his native Cork still in his speech, said, “If we are nothing more than our genes, then what are we?”
No one seemed to know.
Mr. Dearth wondered aloud what two people were doing in the lab alone at night.
Izzy asked the learned counsel if he was suggesting there ought to have been chaperones.
“No, I am wondering where the security guard was.”
I informed the committee that there were, as usual, two guards on duty in the Genetics
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