Now he strolled the crescent sand strip, stooping to pluck slipper shells from the gray strand, and let the peaceful afternoon work its way with his mind. He lay against the grassy foreshore and napped. The air was cooler by the Sound than in the city. He awoke to raindrops, scouts for a raging Atlantic thunderstorm. The rain brought more cool air and freshness and a falling of leaves; the relief of autumn was near.
The sun came out again. Mead wandered about his new habitat, which was wreathed in a thick, sweet smell he’d already learned to associate with the heavy, late-season ripeness of New England vegetation. He walked a meadow speckled with tiny white asters and big purple asters, all against a backcloth of goldenrod. Buckeyes and sulphurs nectared, and monarchs tanked up for their impending exodus. Little blue herons stalked the margins of the salt marsh at Indian Neck. Mead felt that species of refreshment that all naturalists know in new places.
His day finished with a beer or three at the Indian Neck Tavern, an old place hanging over the salt marsh on stilts, where he drank to having landed on his feet in Connecticut. Then he said, “Apparently, anyway” and raised another schooner to that, rapping the wooden table as he did. “I guess I’ll survive.” The bartender brought him another Schaefer just to make sure.
Mead met Monday with equanimity, which was good, as it was the day scheduled for his first meeting with his committee members. After messing about with cereal and milk in his new cottage and kitchenette, he dressed and hitchhiked the eight miles in to Yale. “Good afternoon, again,” he greeted Professor Winchester as he entered the conference room and awaited introductions to the rest of his faculty committee. He noticed that Winchester’s manner, while still friendly, was a little more formal.
“Hello, James. Let me introduce Dr. Phelps, whose work with sandhill and Siberian cranes you will no doubt know . . .” Mead shook the proffered hand of the handsome, white-haired wildlife biologist. He had a skeptical cant to his eyelids that suggested way too many such meetings over the years, but his grip was firm and his blue eyes were not bored. “. . . and Dr. Scotland, James Mead.” The young forest sociologist, tall with a sheet of yellow hair that he shook or swept out of his eyes frequently, had an earnestness about him that suggested dedication or ambition, or both. Mead thought he saw generosity there as well.
“Ah, here comes Frank. Professor Griffin has journeyed across the hill from Kline Tower to join us.”
“Hello, Mead. New Mexico, eh? Ummm.” He contributed little more to the meeting, other than pipe smoke and a sermonette on the nature of “real” research. This seemed to carry a thinly veiled put-down of field studies in general and an advertisement for Kline as the proper seat of almost everything of value in biological science. Mead couldn’t tell whether these potshots were for his benefit or that of the rest of the committee, all field men connected with western institutions.
The initial meeting remained comfortably vague until the question of a dissertation topic came up. Winchester reiterated what he had told Mead about time, choice, and rigor. Phelps and Scotland nodded assent and seemed happy to leave it at that, but Griffin begged to differ.
“Gentlemen,” he began. “Research today is expensive, and so is our time. The dissertation project should be directed, effective, and parsimonious—anything but whimsical. I’m sure we can find a suitable problem for you soon enough, Mr. Mead, if your lab skills are adequate, that is.”
“Well, I haven’t framed a research question yet,” said Mead, “but my interests lie more in the field.”
“Excuse me, George, I have experiments waiting. I hope when you convene us again, we’ll have more to discuss. Good day!” Griffin rose and dissipated from the conference room like a bad fog blowing.
“Positive fellow, isn’t he?” said Scotland after the door closed. “Please let me know if I can help in sifting your thoughts, James. I enjoyed meeting you. Dick, I think the dean’s got sherry up for us next door, hasn’t he?”
“Right; faculty search reception. Pleased to know you, Mr. Mead. Come over and take some classes with us in Sage Hall, or drop in for a seminar. And don’t mind old Frank . . . he’s a bit formal and brusque, but he’s all right, and a good scientist. Glad to have you here at Yale. George, I’ll see you at the gym Wednesday dawning?”
“Of course, and this time I’ll squash your butt, so to speak.” When the others had left, Winchester asked Mead to remain behind for a moment. “James,” he said, “Frank Griffin is a rather sour man . . . different. He is abrupt, he thinks he’s the only busy person with a grant and a lab to run, and he is entirely absent of humor, as far as I can see. Plus, he bears a load of resentment. For all that, as Phelps said, he’s a fine scientist.”
“Resentment over what, sir?” Mead asked.
“No need to air dirty laundry so soon. But in the barest terms, he was passed over for department chair twice. Both times, the deciding faculty votes came from Osborn Lab. That sharpened his basic distrust of ecology and ecologists. He knows whole animal biology is in a secondary position, and he likes to whip the underdog—kick it, too.” Winchester raised one corner of his mouth. “I’m afraid he may prove a challenge for you, not to say a roadblock.”
“But the catalogue states that I can dismiss committee members if I wish . . .”
“And so you may. But the department wants a diversity of faculty interests on each advisory committee—that’s why he was appointed in the first place—and his replacement might be worse. Besides, to dismiss Frank would only alienate him, and he heads the departmental grants committee—a sop to him last time he was passed over for chairman. You might find you need that support. It may be better for now to try to work with the man.”
“Hmm,” said James.
“Who knows? His attitudes might even soften from the experience when he sees you doing good work. We can expect some pressure from him to settle on a thesis topic sooner than you might wish, and on a lab study rather than one in the field. But don’t be intimidated. It’s your PhD. Here, let’s look over your classes.”
Winchester peered over his half-glasses at Mead’s proposed course of studies for the fall semester. “That Computer Methods course can’t hurt; more and more students are using the mainframes, which are getting smaller and more approachable all the time. Saves a lot of time over a slide rule when you get to your statistics. They say personal computers might be next—imagine! And Evolution is my own favorite class to teach; I hope you’ll enjoy it too. I’m interested to see that you’ve selected Runic Lit. for an elective. I’ll look forward to glancing over your shoulder. And with Phelps’s Advanced Population Biology, you’ll have a very full term.”
“Yes, I have a bad habit of taking big bites from the smorgasbord.”
“One or two more like that, and you should be ready for full-time research. Here, let me sign that.” Once again, George Winchester had managed to banish his new grad student’s fears, at least for the time being. Then he assigned Mead a workspace of his own, an office-cum-laboratory; explained the curatorial assistantship at the museum, which was paying part of his way; and wished him good day. And by the time Mead made his way back to Limewood Beach, he almost felt as if he might make it in New Haven after all.
Mead began his coursework. At odd times he explored the wondrous Yale libraries, prowled the campus, and explored the individual colleges. Their beautiful courtyards and cloisters softened the harshness of the industrial seaboard city, with its edgeward sprawl, interior decay,