Lab Death
A Short Story on Scientific Curiosity
Content warnings (spoiler)1
On the marble steps, a shaft of light reaches his leather shoes and beckons.
For two years now, all lights in the university are turned off after 9pm to save electricity. Whoever remains at night risks the wrath of finance, and by extension, the dean. Friedrich peaks into the illuminated lab: a short woman, her sandy hair twisted into a messy bun, sits bent over the microscope, observing and scribbling into the notebook at her elbow.
Friedrich clears his throat before he enters and searches the large work table for his own lab notebook. The woman doesn’t turn. In the three months since he’s been accepted into this lab, he’s never seen her before.
When he finds his notebook, he flips through the last pages–a paranoid habit he’s picked up from the other biologists. Everything is as he remembers, the conditions and progress of their latest experiment laid out in his barely legible scrawl.
When he looks up, the woman’s steel grey gaze pins him to the spot. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Her icy tone drains the blood from his face. He lifts the notebook and hopes his hand isn’t shaking. “Getting my notebook?” Damn, he hadn’t wanted to sound as if he’s asking. “There’s a report due tomorrow,” he adds.
“You’re Friedrich Kammerer?” Even standing, she’s nearly a head shorter than him.
His skin itches under her scrutiny so he retreats by attacking. “And you? In the three months I’ve been a member of this lab, I’ve never seen you before.”
Instead of replying, she holds up the tag clipped to her lab coat. It says DR. ELEANOR WEBBER.
It’s his turn to be surprised. Of course, he’s heard of the elusive Dr. Webber, the principal investigator who doesn’t investigate, never shows up in public, whose very name hasn’t appeared in academic papers for at least ten years. Despite all the gossip swirling around, Friedrich is surprised to learn that Dr. Webber is a woman. Female scientists are still a minority.
“But you’re a myth,” he blurts out and wants to slap himself.
She tilts her head. “My research is… delicate. I prefer working when there’s no one else around.”
Either her research is that important or she’s that high up on the totem pole–likely both.
“I’ve heard about you from Arthur. Our most promising graduate student. Forgive me, when you came in I thought you were trying to snoop.”
“I understand. It’s better to be vigilant.” The political and intellectual tensions with the neighbouring country have made everyone more than a little paranoid. It’s why Friedrich rushed back to the lab when he discovered he’d left his notes. Others go farther, encrypting their notebooks or even locking them in chains. “I’ll let you get back to your research.” He longs to escape the bizarre situation.
She doesn’t say anything but her gaze follows him as he exits the lab and pulls the door shut.
“You met Eleanor?” Dr. Arthur Mendel stares at him, forgetting the cigarette he was bringing to his thin lips.
Friedrich looks around but they’re the only ones in the smoking corner behind the biology department. Between the deleafed tree on one side and the trash containers on the other, they’re shielded from the arctic wind. “I was afraid she was going to murder me.”
Mendel barks out a laugh. “Believe me, it’s not personal.”
Mendel is the exact opposite of Dr. Webber—not only does he take care of the lab, he’s also sociable and hosts gatherings for colleagues and students to discuss everything from biology to political philosophy at Café Schindl, only a stone’s throw from the institute, or at his own apartment off the Ringstraße. The Mendel Circle, as they’ve come to call it, is immensely popular and Mendel himself, with his shrewd judgment and dry wit, its undisputed king.
“She said she prefers working when no one else is around.”
Mendel shakes his head. “We’re all wondering why she’s leading the lab. Don’t get me wrong, she’s the best scientist I’ve ever known. All our funding hinges on her presence.”
Not only the best biologist but the best scientist? Coming from Mendel, who regularly converses with philosophers, mathematicians, and astrophysicists, that’s saying a lot. “Does anyone know what she’s working on?”
Mendel grins around the glow of his cigarette. “Top secret. You’d think she was spying for the enemy, only no spy would be this conspicuous. All I know is that she used to work in big pharma. Virology. No one knows why she threw away that fat salary.”
Friedrich stubs out his own cigarette and rubs his hands together, contemplating a second. “She hasn’t published in years. Why would someone leave corporate only to turn around and sabotage their own academic reputation?”
Mendel shrugs. “She stopped publishing soon after tenure. Many professors do whatever the hell they want once they get to that point.” His gaze slides to Friedrich. “Say, did you get a look at what she was doing that night?”
When Friedrich breathes in, the cold razorblades his lungs. Despite his taste for extracurricular activities, Mendel is a good biologist. “With respect, who’s spying now?”
Mendel laughs. “Touché. But aren’t you at least a little curious? What could be so delicate that she’s hiding even in her own lab?”
Friedrich doesn’t know what to say to that. Later, he notices that Mendel used the same word that Dr. Webber herself had used to describe her research: delicate. The only hint he has, the root for sleepless late night speculation.
The trumpets fill the lab as if a whole cavalry were galloping through instead of only Friedrich and Eleanor sitting by the worktable with cups of instant coffee.
“Magnificent, isn’t it?”
Friedrich nods. “Hard to believe that one simple theme, repeated over and over, could have this effect.”
“That’s the genius of Ravel. He was humble about it, saying any grade schooler could’ve done the same, but the genius lies in the idea: Simplicity in the face of complexity.”
“It must’ve been scandalising too, using the Spanish bolero for a piece of classical music.”
“It was. Dark and sexual.” Eleanor wets her lips with her tongue. After that first meeting, Friedrich couldn’t help thinking about the elusive professor and eventually pretended to forget his notebook again. Of course, she saw through his ruse instantly but still accepted his coffee offer.
This is the third night in two weeks that they’re chatting about music, philosophy, and science over coffee. It’s the first time, however, that Eleanor has put a record on. To his surprise, the turntable and box of records in the corner are hers. Bach, Händel, Coltrane.
He’s not spying on her, Friedrich tells himself. Courting Dr. Webber is the same as socialising with his peers at the Mendel Circle—it will be good for his career when he applies to other labs, to scholarships and grants.
He ignores the fact that few of their conversations revolve around microbiology.
After Ravel’s Boléro comes to a grand finish, Eleanor gets up to turn the record. Friedrich’s wandering gaze lands on her lab notebook. It’s within reach on the table, he could flip it open without even getting up.
Likely her research is connected to politics. Her deep-pocketed sponsor could be the ministry of defence or some weapons manufacturer. Friedrich knows when it’s better not to pry—when his uncle, a government clerk, discovered an enemy informant in his office, he tried to blackmail him for profit but ended up getting caught and convicted along with the comrade.
When Eleanor returns, he schools his face. Still, she must’ve caught him looking. “Curious about my notes?”
He shrugs, trying to hide the chill that shudders through him. “Who wouldn’t be? You’re our resident ghost, the biology department’s greatest mystery.”
She returns but doesn’t sit. “I’m merely the keeper of Pandora’s box. Once you know, you can never go back to ignorance. Tell me, would you still open it?”
“Yes,” Friedrich says, looking up at her.
For their coffee break, Eleanor has freed her hair from the practical bun. It falls over her shoulders in sandy waves, exuding a scent of lab disinfectant and patchouli. Her steel grey eyes pierce his chest. She takes the empty cup out of his hands and gestures for him to stand up.
When he does, she kisses him.
Her mouth tastes like cold espresso and something herbal. Mint toothpaste? Still, she attacks his lips with hunger, biting and clawing at his hair with sharp nails. Once he’s recovered from the shock, he pushes back against her tongue. It’s a violent dance.
She breaks it off as suddenly as she’s begun. “That should teach you about controlling your curiosity.” She sits and puts one hand flat on the thick notebook. “It’s all I can do to keep you from harm in what’s to come.”
Dazed, Friedrich stumbles out. The cold wind shivers some sense back into him. He wonders if he’s been sexually harassed. Should he complain to someone?
It’s all I can do to keep you from harm in what’s to come. If nothing else, it’s confirmation that Dr. Eleanor Webber keeps something dangerous in that notebook of hers.
As Friedrich hurries back to his dorm, the wind cuts his cheeks and the smell of snow hangs over everything like a cotton candy cloud.
After he has left, Eleanor stares into the fridge. The petri dishes she stores on the top shelf have sprouted small crimson flowers. They overflow out of the dishes, merging, pushing against the sides and the ceiling. Their round petals are too numerous to count.
After the shock has dulled, Eleanor finds a pair of gloves and takes a sample. The flowers are tiny and delicate. Some rip between her fingers and crumble to the floor. They give off no scent. Further experiments suggest that they’re perfectly harmless.
“Pity it had to happen this way,” she mutters. The flowers are cute but they’ll have to go.
She still has work to do.
Friedrich doesn’t have to wonder about her words much longer.
Lab work is wrapping up for the semester. He puts in long hours with Mendel and the other students. The nights are spent writing and rewriting his reports. When the words on the page start blurring together, he stares out the window into the courtyard and thinks of Eleanor. If she’s working in the lab right now. If she’s taking her coffee breaks alone and thinking of him too.
He isn’t so deluded as to believe the kiss meant anything to her. Their conversations, on the other hand… he hopes she misses those. “The genius of science is to open your mind and pull ideas from dialogue with other disciplines,” she explained to him once. “Your work shows that you’re broadening your horizons. Keep at it and you’ll shoot past your peers in no time.”
In her ghostlike way, Eleanor is watching over her students after all.
Relations with the enemy reach boiling point. The tension is so thick in the air, it could fill a sauna with steam.
One afternoon, Friedrich is on his way to Mendel’s office to hand in his last lab report when cheers break out on the square ahead. His stomach plummets. Another five steps and he recognises the enemy’s anthem. The chancellor must have folded to the pressure and signed the treaty—handing their country over on a silver platter.
The enemy has won. Friedrich knows it won’t be long until every last dissenter is silenced or removed. Politicians, philosophers, not even scientists will be spared. For months, Mendel has warned them of this. And if Mendel has anticipated the course of events, Eleanor must have too.
From afar, Friedrich glimpses red: Some supporters are wearing tiny crimson flowers on their hats, in their lapels. He doesn’t waste time wondering at the symbolism. Instead, he breaks into a run. Avoiding the square, he reaches the department of biology through deserted backstreets.
Dusk is falling over the city like a curtain on this first warm day of the year. Soon, more flowers will bloom. He prays they won’t all be red.
As expected, Eleanor isn’t at the lab—he finds only a huddle of undergraduates, discussing the events in hushed voices.
When he enters Mendel’s office, the professor wordlessly thrusts a newspaper at his chest. It’s the evening edition, hot off the press.
In blackest bold letters, the headline reads: CHANCELLOR SIGNS, THREATENED BY DEADLY VIRUS. As Friedrich speedreads the article, dread rises from his gut like stench from the city sewers. Mendel’s voice echoes in his head: All I know is that she used to work in big pharma. Virology. So that was her research all along: creating a novel virus to be used as a threat, to persuade the chancellor to hand over their country on a silver platter. And that was her sponsor, their sponsor: the enemy. The money funded not only Eleanor but every single experiment in her lab.
Finally he looks up. “Did you…”
“No,” Mendel says before he can finish.
Friedrich is so relieved, the paper slips from his hand and rustles to the floor. “Do you know where she is?”
Mendel sighs. “I hope she’s on the move or already far, far away. She might’ve worked for the enemy but she’s still one of us. I don’t know what motivated her to take their funding but she’s too clever not to have foreseen the consequences.”
“This makes no sense.” Why did she do this to herself, to all of us?
The enemy believes in racial superiority. Those of inferior ancestry will be persecuted. Friedrich spent many nights poring over propaganda pamphlets with the Mendel Circle, horrified but also fascinated by the arguments and flimsy science they use to justify their claims.
Mendel bends to pick up the newspaper and sits behind his desk. His movements are leaden. For the first time, he looks his age: not the sociable professor, beloved friend to students and colleagues alike, but just a man approaching seventy with sagging jowls getting too thin for his tweed suits. “Go home, Friedrich,” he mutters. “Leave the city if you can. May God have mercy on us all.”
Friedrich doesn’t know what to say. His last report still in his bag, he turns and leaves.
What he understands least of all is how she could develop something that would harm herself and many of her peers. Eleanor, Mendel, and others will be driven from the university, if not arrested, once the enemy learns who they are.
Yet she committed career suicide.
People are still celebrating on the streets. Flowers break under Friedrich’s soles. Avoiding the crowds gathered around tram stations and squares, he returns to his apartment and drags out his large suitcase.
Following Mendel’s advice, he leaves the city the next day. His parents are ecstatic when he turns on their doorstep in the village but joy turns into worry when he explains the political situation. His father’s ancestors are from the enemy country but his mother will be in danger.
They spend the next years hiding out in the hills nearby. During the previous war, villagers and deserters built an elaborate cave system there. Every summer, one or two children get lost in it. Now it provides shelter from the enemy. They forage and steal food but still go hungry many nights.
When the enemy finally retreats, Friedrich’s mother has died of starvation and his father has disappeared. Friedrich emerges from the caves along with less than half of the villagers who entered them.
They pick up the pieces of their old lives, pretending nothing has happened in the three years they’ve been in hiding. Friedrich returns to the university to finish his studies. Eleanor’s turntable and box of records have disappeared from the lab. He never sees her again.
Whistling, Friedrich ducks out of the summer sun into the shade of thick, old walls. In the corridor, he is greeted by a couple of students and asked about free spots in his upcoming seminar on viral pathogenesis. Outside his office, a thick brown envelope peeks out of his mailbox. When Friedrich sees the sender, his hands start shaking so heavily, he drops his packet of cigarettes—twice. He shuts the door firmly behind him and tears open the envelope.
Rust-coloured dried flowers explode in his hands and sail to the floor. When he pulls out the notebook, he gasps.
The neat handwriting on the cover reads: DR. ELEANOR WEBBER.
Friedrich’s heart stops, then starts back up twice as fast as before. Between the first pages, he finds a loose sheet covered in dense scribbles. The first line starts with: Dear Friedrich.
I know there can be no apology for what I did. Yet I find myself writing an apology to you.
All I ever wanted to do was discover and innovate. I wanted to succeed where others had failed before. Perhaps it’s my fatal flaw to lust for fame above other, worthier aspirations such as respect or teaching the next generation. I’ve been following your career over the years. You’ve done well for yourself—no thanks to my mentorship, I know—and so I hope you can agree with me that all scientists have some amount of God complex in them.
In some, it might manifest as a spark of inspiration, in others as a raging bush fire that consumes everything in its path.
Anyway, this is my legacy. If you can forgive me for being selfish one last time, allow me to entrust it to you. Whatever you decide to do with it, I am sure it will be the right path. Unlike me, you never strayed.
I don’t expect you to forgive me but I remain grateful for your companionship.
Eleanor
Friedrich thumbs through her notebook. It’s all there: her research on the virus as well as the vaccine she transmitted through that kiss in her lab. Friedrich suspects he wasn’t her only guinea pig yet she chose to send the notebook to him.
He sweeps up the dried flowers and takes the notebook to his lab. History might condemn Eleanor as a traitor but years of experience have taught Friedrich to agree with Mendel’s assessment that she’s brilliant. He can’t resist the treasure hidden in those pages now.
And so he goes to test it.
Dr. Eleanor Webber’s research proves invaluable to the field of virology.
Dr. Friedrich Kammerer becomes known as her spiritual successor, verifying and expanding on what she has begun. Some of his lab work explodes with tiny crimson flowers that he collects in bouquets and gives away to his students.
Years later, a student asks why he chose someone else’s research over his own. “Wasn’t it a sacrifice?”
He shakes his head and twirls the flower bouquet he’s about to give her between his fingers. “It was at first. I’m not proud, I could see her work was a hundred times better than anything I would have achieved on my own. Perhaps it doesn’t matter—we don’t work in a vacuum, after all. Every collaboration, every conversation influences what we do in the lab.”
She nods, this is the easy part.
“Above all, I’d come to care for Dr. Webber. I wanted to help her. Don’t get me wrong: What she did can never be forgiven. But if she found the courage and humility to ask for help, she must’ve known that too. It doesn’t excuse the terrible consequences but it’s a start.”
He sighs and sits staring into the past. The student nudges the bouquet out of his hand and leaves the office. Later, she tells his story to others, who tell it to others, until it passes into local legend.
They jokingly call him the florist for the rest of his long and fertile career.
Author Notes
I recently read Vienna. How the City of Ideas Created the Modern World by Richard Cockett. In it, he describes the beginnings of experimental biology in Vienna and how the Vivarum, a private institute dedicated to that field, was closed by the regime in 1938. The locks were changed to prevent Jewish or anti-eugenics professors from getting into their offices. Imagine the terror of going to your office one day, finding you can’t get in, and knowing all your work will be lost because it doesn’t align with political propaganda.
This short story is a rewrite of a story I wrote four years ago during lockdown, combined with the image of science forced to conform to a certain regime. Whether they were Jewish or not, many Austrian and German biologists were targeted for supporting the ‘wrong’ theory of evolution in the 30s and 40s. Others helped propagate the ‘right’ theory of racial superiority even if there was no scientific evidence for it.
I also recently watched the film Atonement, which was harrowing and got me thinking about the question of atoning for sins so great they can’t ever be forgiven. In that film, the girl acts in a fit of jealousy, without knowing the consequences of her actions. Eleanor knew very well what would happen but she did it anyway.
If you were in Friedrich’s position, would you still respect her attempt at atonement and help her? Or would you destroy her research so no one can misuse it ever again?
Whatever the answer, I hope you enjoyed this short story! I’m planning on releasing more fiction in the future so if you like this one, stick around for more!
Brief illness, racism, mentions of war including genocide