Professor Marmot was dead to begin with. There was no doubt whatsoever about that. Dead as an apoptotic cell engulfed by a macrophage. This is an important data point in the poorly written story that follows. Poorly written, but it's a holiday story, so cut Old Mole some slack.
If you are just joining us, I was explaining my change of heart about reviewing papers, and about doing what we scientists do in general. Grab an eggnog and get into the mood, dammit. Where was I?
Old Mole had left the Mole-lets to their research chores and headed home, planning to make some headway on the stack of unread papers long past the deadlines for their evisceration. I say `home' but it was the miserable place where he worked when he wasn't at work, and the cold light of his dreary laptop screen was no substitute for a warm fire. But who bothers lighting a fire when we can turn on the Fireplace Channel, which Mole never did anyway.
And there, on his laptop, with the cold December wind wafting through his improperly caulked, energy-inefficient window, was an email from his old collaborator Marmot, with whom he had published so many high-impact papers. “Hey Fuzzbrain,” it read. “WTF?” returned Mole, “UR DEAD”. “Blah blah blah,” came the reply, “Follow this link.”
And before Mole could refuse, the URL was opened, and there was Old Marmot, trailing what seemed to be a long piece of bathroom tissue that was stuck to his foot. The image spoke: “It is my shame to carry around this frickin' list of the papers I rejected during my tenure, and a long list it is. But the list you've been stacking up is really embarrassing, Mole, and it doesn't even include grant reviews.” And he moaned for dramatic effect.
“Oh cut out that moaning, you whiner. Blah, blah, blah,” snapped Mole, and hit restart on his computer. But the image went on. “Three ghosts will visit, Mole, and you'll have to take them out after their seminars. Reviewers of your work, past, present and future. And it's going to be really scary.” “Oh not the three ghost thing!” cried Mole, shaking. “That is so last decade. Come up with something more clever.” There was no response, and the screen was cold and dark. “Bah, impact factor,” muttered Mole, but drew no comfort from it.
And when he looked up, he was in a laboratory, and there in front of him was Reviewer One, looking young, confident and downright nasty. “Bad job,” he said. “Sloppy blots, Mole. Poor controls. Incremental advance.” And Mole saw that the shade wasn't talking to him, but to a young, crestfallen Mole-let reading a fax at his miserable desk in the poorly equipped lab. Mole remembered that once reviews came by fax, because there wasn't email, or even computers, except for those in the computer center across town, and papers had tables because figures required the services of professional artists. With a start, he remembered something else. “It's me!” he cried. “It's my first rejection, and I worked so hard on that paper. It took me years to develop that project, and only a few days to tear it to pieces.” He angrily turned to Reviewer One. “You didn't even read it, did you! Just crushed it. And look,” he noticed an older scientist had come to the desk to read the review, “there's my mentor, dear Professor Badger, trying to cheer me up.” And a tear almost formed in Mole's crusty old eye. “Crummy impact factor,” sneered Reviewer One, and he was gone.
Mole lifted his head from his desk and realized he had been dozing. But before he could think about his reverie he was disturbed by a commotion coming from his closet. “You call these shirts? You don't even try to dress like a distinguished scientist! Mole, you suck bugs.” Which was true, but hey, Mole was an insectivore after all. Reviewer Two stood before him, nattily garbed in an expensive and rather tasteful suit. He glared at Mole. “If you're so good, why has nothing you've done ever led to anything except papers? What's so great about that?” “Hey,” cried Mole, off balance, “leave my stuff alone. I'm an academic. I live a life of the mind. I don't have time for such things. And who are those kids with you?”
Two sad-faced graduate students clung to the reviewer, taking notes. “These?” gestured the Reviewer, “These are the products of those manuscripts you review, that you hate so much. They are Stagnation and Resentment. Their mother wasn't very good with names. But hey, we've got places to be.” And with that, they were whisked to a place Mole had never been, but looked like it might be the bar off-campus where the Mole-lets gathered after their hard days. And there they were. Even Tiny Shrew, who was actually rather large and a triathlete. “A toast,” one said, “to Professor Mole, and all the grants he brings in so we can slave away for his recognition.” And they drank, but it didn't seem their hearts were in it. “I've gotta give that one a harder project,” thought Mole.
But when he looked, Reviewer Two was gone, and Mole now looked into the faceless form of Reviewer Three. “Lead on,” muttered Mole, “I know who you are, and you're going to show me my fate.” But Reviewer Three only pointed at a book on the table. “A textbook?” said Mole, fearing the worst. And as he gazed, the pages flew open, and a skeletal hand indicated a paragraph. “No,” said Mole, refusing to look, but the specter persisted, and Mole forced himself to read. “That's it?” he cried. “A lousy sentence? And not even referenced? That's all? To read it and know only that these findings were made, and nothing will remain of all the years and hard work but this?” Mole grabbed the book and tore the binding, and the pages flew around him, and he found himself alone – shredding his Mastercard bill. “Oh crap,” he said.
But Mole was a changed insectivore. From that day on he was a kinder, friendlier scientist. He helped his Mole-lets develop into independent scientists, and he spoke to his colleagues about their work and their research flourished. His lab is a wonderful place, where science is often fun, and when he reviews papers, he says nice things to temper the criticisms. Unless it's a really bad paper, but even then, he's as nice as he can manage. And everyone says that Mole keeps the spirit of science every day of the year; and his lab, his department, and his institution love him – except, of course, if he asks for a raise.
And Tiny Shrew won his triathlon, and now he has his own sporting goods store, because he didn't much like science anyway. And it's very successful. It's where Mole buys his running shoes, and he gets a really nice discount.
Happy holidays. Blah, blah, blah.
