Mad Science Cafe by Ross Deborah J

Author:Ross, Deborah J. [Editor, Deborah J. Ross,]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: science fiction, mad science, steampunk
ISBN: 9781611383287
Publisher: Book View Cafe
Published: 2013-10-22T07:00:00+00:00

The Stink of Reality

Irene Radford

“Frivolous,” Dr. Pretentious, head of the Tenure Committee declared.

Dr. Wallace Beebee Ph.D., Associate Professor of Bio-Physics, cringed.

“Impractical,” chimed in Dr. Beta.

Wallace leaned over his data flow charts protectively.

“Demeaning,” finished Dr. Shallow.

Wallace set his jaw in affront.

“Is Bio-Physics even a recognized discipline at universities other than Vasco da Gama?” Dr. Pretentious asked rhetorically.

And that was the crux of the matter for the Tenure Committee. Never making a decision until they knew it would be applauded by other universities, never hiring anyone who didn’t have at least two other offers, denying tenure to any but the most staid and conservative candidates.

And yet they claimed that VDGU had to take the forefront in prestige.

“Tenure denied.” If Dr. Pretentious had a gavel, the old fart would have pounded it. Instead he picked up his thick file on Wallace Beebee and retreated.

“If only they could smell their own hypocrisy…” Wallace said as he gathered up his charts and graphs and vials of petroleum eating bacteria. That wasn’t exactly a new idea. Using their natural by-products to replace diminishing supplies of helium was new.

“I wonder what hypocrisy smells like?” he wondered. A dash of umbrage, a pinch of outrage, and a great deal of anger…and perhaps an undernote of fear.

He shook his head, dismissing the idea. And yet…human bodies created subtle odors in reaction to emotions that animals could detect. How would people react if they could smell what other people were thinking?

His mind twisted and churned all the way back to his lab.

Two weeks later, Wallace carefully placed each item from atop his wife Evelyn’s dresser into a shoebox. Deodorant, perfume, hairspray, cosmetics, anything with a fragrance. He needed a clean room at the lab but dared not book usage until he knew if his premise could be made viable.

When the dresser was empty, he moved into the adjacent bathroom and collected shampoos, soaps, his own shaving cream and aftershave, and the candle on the toilet tank. When a second box was full, he slapped the lid on it, secured it with a rubber band, and took them both to the laundry room at the opposite end of their ranch style rental home on the campus fringes.

The University had named their teams “The Explorers” What a bunch of bullshit! (Which might smell better than the Tenure Committee.) “They haven’t taken a chance or had an original idea in fifty years,” Wallace grumbled. He’d been on faculty seven years, always promised tenure the next semester, then the next, and the next, always denied because his ideas were just a little too revolutionary. The University itself had little grant money. Everything they collected was controlled by major corporations who dictated that new projects must be marketable by them. Pure Research was left hanging and openly discouraged, decried as worthy only of science fiction novels.

How could he and Evelyn ever hope to afford children living on the pittance the university paid untenured—and therefore disposable—professors?

Into another box, he loaded all of the cleaning supplies beneath the bathroom sink.

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