topic, an extension of the major professor’s work, as so often happens in graduate schools.
“Not necessarily, no,” Winchester said. “Though you’ve certainly got the name for it.”
“How so?”
“T. L. Mead was one of the best lepidopterists of the last century. He brought many western butterflies to light. But we’ll get to him later, as we tour the collection. As for selecting a dissertation question, there is plenty of time: don’t rush it. You’ll have to live with it for four or five, maybe six or seven years, depending on how it goes, so you’d better choose something right for you. The only bounds are that it must be original research with a rigorous approach. And, if I am to be useful as an adviser, it should lie somewhere in the area of population biology, genetics, or ecology. Of course, funding may be easier if it relates to any of our ongoing grants.”
“That’s a broad menu. But preferably involving insects?”
“Preferably, but not essentially. One of my students worked on warblers recently, another on human and chimpanzee sexuality. Oh, those bonobos!”
Mead raised an eyebrow at that. Then he wondered whether, when it came down to approval, it would turn out to be like a Russian menu: lots of choices, but few of them actually available. Winchester pursed his lips for a moment or two before he spoke again.
“It is true that the committee must approve the eventual topic. But it’s not likely they would veto a project that you and I agreed was worthwhile. Take your time, and take your pick—so long as we all agree on the value of the work, and funding is available, you should be able to cater to your own interests and, if you’re lucky, your passion. It does happen sometimes. I’m glad you asked, by the way; too many students expect to be led by the hand from square one, which doesn’t interest me.”
The time sneaked by like the silverfish in the corners of the room. Now and then Winchester leaned back and caught a fly with his hand without looking directly at it or breaking pace. Then, at a certain point, his shoulders, or perhaps it was his heroic eyebrows, dropped a degree relative to the bookshelf behind. By whatever subtle signal, Mead knew the interview was over. He stood, nearly all his trepidation flushed away. Dr. Winchester’s broad, high, balding brow was damp. I would hate, Mead thought later, to be on his wrong side. He’d heard too many beery tales of major professors turned into major roadblocks. As Winchester noted their next appointment in his tiny blue pocket diary, Mead remembered one more question he’d meant to ask. “Dr. Winchester, what is that peculiar odor coming from the lab down the hall?”
“Odor?” Winchester narrowed his gaze and tilted his head in puzzlement. “Oh, I suppose newcomers might detect a slight aroma. You’ll find out soon enough,” he said with a leprechaun’s grin. “As curatorial associate, not everything will be your own choice for the first year or two.” It was clear that he did not mean to elaborate, so Mead left it there and made his way from the cool bastion of Osborn Laboratories into the wet heat outside.
The next Sunday, Mead awakened amazed to be a dweller beside the Atlantic Ocean. He had rented a three-room beach cottage east of the city in Branford, on Long Island Sound. It was supposed to be winterized, but he doubted that it really was. Once he became accustomed to the crescendo of the katydids screeching from the trees each night, he slept well to the tumble of waves on little Limewood Beach.
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
