When I was about to protest, the eating, not the billable hours, she averted her gaze, so I let it go.
“What about Riesler?”
“He was fun. Must publish twenty papers a year, and he’s first author on every one. What a guy.”
I smiled. Both Sylvia and I knew that a man in Madden Riesler’s position spent about as much time in the lab as I did at the dentist, and I have good teeth. As the head of a large university research lab his time would be fully booked with teaching, committees, grant applications, and the endless paperwork generated by any large bureaucracy. So the science was coming from his students: a legion of post-docs and graduate students toiling away at lab benches in an almost medieval system of apprenticeship. The fact that Riesler’s name appeared first on all the publications told me a lot about the man. A more enlightened supervisor would have given the privilege of first authorship to the student who designed and carried out the work. It wasn’t as though Riesler needed the recognition. So he was either greedy, despotic, or insecure, none of which were particularly appealing characteristics.
“Anything else?”
“Not really, except he’s a splitter.” I looked confused. It was her turn to laugh. “He divides up his work into the smallest publishable increments. Say you run three experiments that all attack the same question but from slightly different angles. Normally you’d publish the results in a single paper. A splitter divides it up into three different papers. Three publications. It pads the publishing record, and publishing, as you know, is the name of the game.”
“But it’s acceptable?”
“Acceptable? Sure. Most people would never notice, unless they do a comprehensive search over several years. Let’s just say Riesler understands the game, and he’s damn good at playing it.”
“So our man is ambitious.”
She leaned over the table and lightly brushed my cheek with her fingers. “Ambition isn’t a crime, Morgan. Some of my best friends are ambitious.”
I knew what she was saying, and I didn’t like it. “But it’s another piece of the puzzle. What else?” She leaned back in her chair, examined me for a moment, then signalled to the waiter, who brought over another sherry. I could see a flush working its way up her cheeks. She took a sip then continued, in no hurry.
“He works on salmon migration and stock identification.”
I perked up. “The same area as Edwards.”
“Yes…” There was a noticeable pause. “And no.” I stopped in midbite and looked up. There was a glint of mischief in her eyes. She’d found something. “Same goal, to identify stocks, but totally different technique. Riesler pioneered the use of genetic fingerprints for stock identification. The theory is that all fish from a stock will share certain genetic characteristics. In other words, if you look at their DNA then you’ll be able to tell what stock they’re from. Sort of like the DNA fingerprinting they do in criminal cases. It’s turgid stuff, lots of blurry photos of DNA sequence data and endless descriptions of procedures and protocols. More your ballpark than mine…”
At this point Sylvia bent down and extracted another bundle of papers from her briefcase, this one at least four inches thick. On top were the search results, listing all of Riesler’s publications for the past twenty years. That alone was a tome. Underneath were journal articles. She handed the sheaf to me.
“… and they’re all yours. Thank you for using Canada’s National Science Library. By the way, I’ve just given you the review papers. Drop by tomorrow and I’ll pull whatever else you want. We can do lunch.”
I nodded to the pile. “So what’s your take on this?”
“On the surface, and that’s all I can give you, it looks to me like you got two guys in direct competition, and if these are commercially viable projects — if we’re talking patents and technology transfer — it’s more than just academic. You could be talking big money. Oh, you also asked about Jacobson.” I nodded. “They’re all in there.” She motioned to Riesler’s pile. “Must be Riesler’s Man Friday… or whatever. Everything he’s ever published is as second author to Riesler. The boy’s obviously got no life of his own.”
I packed Riesler’s stack of papers in my briefcase. That at least gave me somewhere to start. Sylvia and I chatted about her new life in Vancouver until the waiter came to clear the plates, then I checked my watch. Two beers, a jog, and a three-hour time change — I wasn’t going to last much longer. I also had one more item on my agenda that I couldn’t discuss in front of Elaine. I held off until the waiter was out of earshot, then I leaned forward.
“I have a favour to ask. A big one.” \
“And you need my permission? Since when?” “Can you trace a reference search?”
There was a pause. “What do you mean?”
“If I know the date and time that a remote search took place, and the number of minutes it took, could you tell me whose account it was charged to?”
“Legally or technically?”
“Technically.”
“I was afraid that’s what you meant.” She paused for a minute, analyzing the problem, then continued. “It could be done. I’d have to hack my way into the financial system, and that would be break and enter or trespass, as if you care.”
“But it is possible.”
“No guarantees, but I think so. I assume this isn’t a formal request.”
“It’s an informal request between two very good friends who always help each other out.”
“Ah. The very good friends angle. If I get caught you support me to the end of my natural life. You can’t pop me off because I become inconvenient.”
Since the prognosis on Sylvia’s life could be calculated in months I thought it was a deal I could live with. I gave her the information from the header, which she scribbled in a notebook.
“But if you can’t pick it up fast, get the hell out. I’ve got some other avenues I can try.”
She looked up from beneath her lashes and smiled wickedly. “I’m not worried. It’s challenge that keeps me young. But I still have to account for the time.”
Since there had been no cover sheet, and hence no charge-code, in the Network file, I had given her Bob’s personal charge-code to cover the time for the searches. I smiled. “Just bill it to the code I gave you. Triple time and a half if you have to.”
Just then the waiter approached the table.
“Is there a Morgan O’Brien at this table?”
I looked up at him. “That would be me.”
“You have a call. You can take it at the cashier.” Sylvia shook her head and muttered, “Figures.”
I picked up the phone. “Hi, Elaine.” I heard a sharp intake of breath on the other end. Guilt is such an overpowering emotion. “Give it a break. Nobody else knew I was here, so it had to be you.”
She let out her breath slowly. “Sorry, Mo…” She was the only person in the world, other than my mother, who ever got to call me that, “… but I can’t make it. I’m still waiting for Cindy — she’s my graduate student — and she’s supposed to be bringing in live fish from Weaver Creek that should have been here an hour ago. I don’t know where the hell she’s got to, but if she does-n’t turn up soon screw her, she can unpack them on her own. Could we meet tomorrow morning instead?”
“You name the time.