Intuition by Allegra Goodman

too.
    “I'm not jumping to conclusions,” she warned him. “And I'm not going to let you jump to conclusions for me. I won't stake the reputation of this lab on half-baked results.”
    “You are so damn conservative,” he said.
    “All right, I'm conservative,” she told him.
    “We're going to lose our first-strike advantage,” he said. “And then we'll have to share credit with copycats at Stanford.”
    She said nothing.
    “Don't you care about that?”
    She looked him in the eye and said, “Fine. I'll share the credit if I have to.”
    Even so, he could not stop thinking about their argument. He was preoccupied at dinner and, still later, at the symphony that night. He sat in Symphony Hall and thought about press releases. He leaned forward in his regular chair, E-3, in the crook of the first balcony, and debated the language he would use.
Treatment with R-7 yields stunning results.
No.
Striking results.
He could not stop considering and reconsidering, even as he gazed at the musicians tuning. Vic Firth, the timpanist, in his black tie and tails, coming out early to check his instruments. So tall and patrician, like an eminent surgeon, laying out his percussive tools. How would the headlines run? Preliminary results in mice show startling effect of modified virus . . .
    The black- and white-clad orchestra was massing below. Tendril sounds of violins and oboes filled the hall. Perhaps he'd write a draft. He could write some notes for internal circulation at the institute. Or speak to Lorraine in PR, and suddenly find the press release written, a done deed, without a hint of impropriety on his part. These were just pipe dreams. He would never do such things without Marion's consent. And yet, if her consent were somehow unnecessary? He gazed at the gold pipes of the organ above the stage, pipes that seemed to him like rows of golden sharpened pencils, arrayed in their proscenium pencil box.
    The conductor stepped up to the podium. Seiji Ozawa was acknowledging the applause, shaking back his long black hair, ready to begin. He lifted his baton. Where would the musicians be without their conductor? What loose rhythm and wild melodies would emerge without him? Of course Sandy could not push Marion. But could he orchestrate the news? Could he begin the proper, necessary flow of information? He would never hurt her, but he couldn't stand by while she held back. Caution undercut Marion's ambition; worry doomed her to obscure conferences, and articles in esoteric journals.
    To make a mark, to see one's name indelibly imprinted on a field! To be a Pasteur, or a von Behring, or a Salk, revered for saving lives, as Beethoven was revered for his profundity! There was the composer's name over the proscenium, inscribed in gold. BEETHOVEN , flanked by gilt cornucopia: double symbols of his fecund gift and overflowing fame. The other gold plaques in Symphony Hall were blank as cuff links without monograms, proof of the fickle politics of history. Other composers were also-rans, their contributions semiprecious; no one had bothered to set their names in gold around the stage. And so it was with science. There were those who triumphed, and those who faded. Marion could succeed; he knew that, if only she chose to compete. And he knew how. He knew how to run a race.
    He smiled as the music rose and warmed the hall. The country dance motif began, then the oncoming storm scattering the villagers in the
Pastoral.
Sandy had nothing but admiration for Marion. He had never known anyone, man or woman, so intelligent. But stubborn! He had to find a way around her myopic brilliance. After all, did she want to end up like Rosalyn Franklin or Watson and Crick? Did she want to be Wallace or Darwin? He would not stand by as the partner of an unacknowledged genius.
    The orchestra rose below. Applause enveloped them. “Lovely!” Ann exclaimed. Startled, Sandy turned to her. He had completely forgotten his wife at his side. His reverie was ended,