Zlaw’s Echo

Four people in their mid-twenties to early thirties are standing around in a dusty corridor, having a conversation which, judging by their expressions, must be serious. “We have to tell someone,” says the one woman in the group. “Oh, come on! What good ever comes from things like this?” The man who just spoke has his hands on his hips, and an incredulous look in his eyes. “Don’t you want to put your name on something amazing?” she pleads. “Oh yeah? And end up like Rosalind Franklin, cheated out of it?” he argues pessimistically. “She was acknowledged in the end,” adds one of the other men, timidly. The last member of the team is not really listening. He is busy risking furtive glances into a room further along the path. He looks a little worried, whereas his friends are completely engrossed in their discussion. “Way too late, if you ask me,” grumbles the contrarian in response to the previous remark. “Recognition should not be the reason to come forward anyway,” adds the shi...