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Monica shakes her head energetically. “Not in any meaningful way.”
“I see.” Relief warms my belly. Very well. “Thank you for being straightforward with me. I’ll be equally straightforward: Is there anything I can do to be chosen over the other candidate?”
She studies me, serious for a moment. Then her face breaks into a fierce grin, and that—thatis my tell. That’s how I know who themeMonica wants is: a champion. Her tribute to the Hunger Games of physics. A gladiator to take on Jonathan Smith-Turner, the entitled STEMlord she despises.
Well, I can do that. Because I happen to despise the very same guy.
“This is what you need to know, Elsie: most of the faculty members you’ll meet during the interview—including Jonathan—have already decided which candidate they’ll recommend for hire, based on whether they prefer a theorist or an experimentalist. They already know whether they’ll vote for you or for George, and there isn’t much we can do to change their minds.”
My eyebrow arches before I can yank it down. I don’t think Monica meant to let slip that Jonathan Smith-Turner’s candidate’s name is George, but I’m the diametrical opposite of surprised.Of coursehe’d want to hire a man.
“But,” she continues, “there are a handful of professors who straddle the line between theoretical and experimental. Drs. Ikagawa, Alvarez, Voight. They’re part of Volkov’s research team and follow where he leads. Which means that Volkov is going to be the deciding vote. My advice is, talk to him during the dead times of your interview. If possible, tailor your presentations to suit his interests. And... I don’t know that Jonathan might try to give his candidate an advantage and make you look bad, but... be wary of him. Be very careful.”
I nod slowly. And then I nod again, inhaling deeply, untangling my overwhelmed thoughts.
Yes, academic interviews are optimized to ensure the candidate’s maximum suffering—but this is situation-room-level politicking, more than I prepared for. I’m a simple girl. With simple needs. All I want is to spend my days solving hydrodynamic equations to calculate the large-scale spatiotemporal chaos exhibited by dry active nematics. And maybe, if possible, buy life-compatible levels of pancreatic hormones at reasonable prices.
But—I bite my lower lip, thinking quickly—maybe Icando this.I’m a great physicist, a pro at giving others what they want, and once I get this job, it’ll be just me and my science. And being selected over Smith-Turner’s candidate? It’d be like avenging Dr. L. and theoretical physics, even just a little. What a lovely, heartwarming thought.
“Okay,” I tell Monica. I met her all of ten minutes ago, but we’re looking at each other like lifelong allies. That accelerated camaraderie that comes from plotting a murder together. Jonathan Smith-Turner’s, of course. “I can do that.”
She’s pleased. “I know this is unorthodox. But you’re the ideal candidate. What’s best for the department.”
“Thank you.” I smile, projecting self-assurance I don’t quite feel. “I won’t let you down.”
She smiles back, at once warm and steely. “Very well. Let’s go. The rest of the search committee should be here.” I follow her to the entrance, head spinning with new information, trying not to walk like a T. rex. “Ah, there they all are.”
The people nestled in the waiting area are, it pains me to say, embarrassingly easy to identify as physicists. It’s not the cargo pants or the sweater vests or the widespread uncombable hair syndrome. Not the eyeglass chains, worn unironically. It’s not even that they’re all men, in line with the hyperabundance of dudes in my field.
It’s that they’re having a physics pun-off.
“What’s the best book on quantum gravity?” an elderly gentleman in transition lenses is asking. He looks like a benign version of the Penguin fromBatman. “The one that’s impossible to put down! Get it?”
The laughter that follows sounds genuine. Ah, my people.
“Everyone.” Monica clears her throat. “This is Dr. Elsie Hannaway. So pleased that she’s joining us tonight.”
I smile warmly, feeling like I’m auditioning for a reality show.Academia’s Got Talent.Dancing with the Profs. The Bachelor (of Science).I’m greeted by the hesitant, awkward handshakes of those who feel more at home staring at a whiteboard than exchanging physical contact, but I don’t hold it against them. I’m the same; I’ve just learned to hide it a bit better.
Several faculty members are familiar to me, both theorists and experimentalists, some just by name, others from conferences and guest lectures. Penguin turns out to be Sasha Volkov, and he gets a wider smile than the others. “I am a fan of your articles on dark matter,” I say. It’s not a lie—Volkov’s a big deal. I’m familiar enough with his work to kiss his ass a bit. “I’d love to chat about—”
“Dr. Hannaway,” he interrupts me, all sharp consonants and round belly, “I have a very important question.”
Oh? “Of course.”
“Do you know what the formula for a velociraptor is?”
I scowl. Thewhat, now? Is hequizzingme on something? The formula for the—oh.
Oh, right.
I clear my throat. “Is it, by any chance, um, a distanceraptor divided by a timeraptor?”
He regards me icily for a second. Then he breaks into a slow, pleased, belly-deep laugh. “This one”—he points at me, glancing at Monica—“I like this one. Good sense of humor!”
Clearly, the Elsie that Volkov wants doles out physics dad jokes. I’ll have to build a repertoire.
“I think we’re all here. We should head for the table—oh.” Monica stops, staring at someplace high behind my shoulder. Her expression hardens. “There are Jonathan and Andrea. Better late than never.”
