Junior Year: Nobel Papers and Family Feasts
Junior year of undergrad. 1973.
After a ton of grueling work with my professor, we'd finally completed a paper that would change the world. Its title was In Vitro Functional Plasmids and Enzymatic Synthesis of DNA. This was the very paper that, in the original timeline, handed Paul Berg his Nobel Prize. Though it did cost him a bit of his hair.
Standing on the shoulders of giants, armed with truth to serve humanity—wasn't that a bargain? I'd prescribe him some hair loss meds the moment I got my license, Professor. Of course, I might have to invent the treatment protocol first. Come to think of it, even in the modern era, that stuff barely works. Sixty years ahead of schedule here. Hell, if I invented a truly effective hair loss cure, that could snag a Nobel. That's why they're messing around with bacterial plasmids instead.
Anyway. I'd also fired off a letter to major journals encapsulating the core of genetic recombination and nucleotide sequencing research. Like scripting a prophecy. The one I sent to Nature was titled Reductionist Approach: Why Bacterial Enzymes Enable Genome Editing Research. Complicated to explain. But research gunning for a Nobel isn't going to be simple, right?
This was a proposal for research directions from the future. Studying the simplest, most machine-like organisms was the key to treating biochemistry like engineering.
Paul Berg glanced at the journal. "Shark pups are a breed apart, huh? How the hell did you get published in Nature?"
"Want to read it?"
"Hand it over."
I showed Professor Berg the Nature paper. He squinted and flipped through the pages.
Now we could win the Nobel, right? The award itself would take time, of course. Even after the research wraps, it usually takes years of follow-ups to prove the direction and claim the prize.
Thanksgiving that year. Heading home after ages, my parents showed me a local newspaper.
Not a single accurate word in that article. Not an orphan, not cancer drugs—what, did they just glance at the paper title? But my parents didn't know the difference.
"We're so proud. We were shocked you got into Stanford, and now you're excelling there too."
I nodded. My parents were the picture-perfect Americans you picture when you think "American." Church on Sundays, manicured front lawn, plumber dad, housewife mom. For Thanksgiving, the whole extended family gathered around a massive turkey smack in the center.
The turkey was bigger than expected. Deep-fried ostrich? The family had slathered it in butter and roasted it in the oven. A bizarre sight, but honestly, turkey tastes worse than you'd think. At least compared to chicken... Ah, I crave some fried chicken.
Anyway, the turkey wasn't the point. I was the center of attention. Adopted kid, Stanford, black hair. They'd raised a foreign adoptee into a doctor. To Protestant Americans chasing the American Dream, I was living proof of their ideology. That's why California loved me—I perfectly validated their worldview.
Sitting in front of the turkey, all eyes turned to me from the relatives.
"Heard you became a dentist recently."
"Top of your class at the academy this time? Congrats!"
"Congrats on your debut. Published an essay somewhere, right? Good royalties?"
I scratched my head. Where'd dentist come from? The essay was probably my letter. Relatives had no clue. Stanford, papers, journals—those were worlds apart from their lives.
A golden retriever padded over from the floor toward the table, and a cousin with matching hair color tossed it a turkey scrap. Nom. The pup wagged its tail, scarfed the meat, then trotted back to its kibble. Dog food tastier than turkey? Maybe we should serve kibble at the table.
I looked back at the relatives. "Ah... yeah, pays pretty well."
I rubbed my temples. Easier to let them think it was an essay than explain papers and journals. For the record, we pay to publish papers. Authors pay journals, readers pay journals. Damn thieves.
"You're doing great, kid."
A warm, harmonious American family scene.
Senior year of undergrad. 1974.
Even after putting my name on a Nobel-level paper, there was one more Stanford project I wanted in on. I'd scoured for it diligently. Major Histocompatibility Complex (MHC)! Another Nobel-winning research topic right around this era.
Simply put... it's the protein that presents antigens to immune cells, letting the immune system distinguish self from non-self. Not so simple? It's chapter one in any immunology textbook—every modern doctor knows it. And this would win a Nobel a few years down the line too.
Same playbook this time. I drafted a letter predicting the existence of MHC, then tracked down the professor working on related research.
Hugh McDevitt. Lucky for me, he was at Stanford. A contemporary MHC researcher who didn't quite snag the Nobel—but he did win a Lasker Award. Less public fame, but comparable prestige.
Stanford's a wild place. Turn your head, and Nobel-caliber scientists are milling about. An era where glory and romance in science hadn't faded yet.
I knocked and opened Professor McDevitt's lab door. He seemed to recognize me just from my black hair.
"Professor. Write a paper with me, and we can win the Nobel."
Just the facts. McDevitt eyed me up and down. The look screamed "lunatic," but with a flicker of intrigue. I paused at the unexpected reaction.
"Heard a lot about you. Top enrollee, working with Berg, skills light-years beyond undergrads."
Yeah, that's me—the guy who shattered the admission crystal. Top not just at entry, but ever since.
"Ah, yes."
"Want to be a researcher?"
"I think the purpose of research matters. Ultimately, isn't all research for clinical application?"
McDevitt frowned. "Clinical application in the end, huh."
I nodded. Patients were what counted. Some protein presenting antigens to the immune system... who cares? MHC mattered because it played a key role in allergies, transfusions, and most crucially, adaptive immunity.
McDevitt skimmed the Nature letter I'd published. Barely three pages of pure proposal. But any future paper using those concepts would have to cite it. The core idea, distilled.
"A student wrote this last year?"
The content wasn't experimentally proven yet, but physiologically elegant as hell. I nodded.
"Yes."
"Hard to believe... My team's wrestling with something right now. Want to hear?"
"Sure."
He spoke. "There's this H-2 protein—Histocompatibility—that triggers immune responses in transplanted organs. It's what I'm studying. What do you think it is?"
MHC wasn't named yet in this era, so he was genuinely curious. Time to build the logic. Brainstorming mode.
"Asking about its function?"
"Let's say."
H-2 wasn't there to sabotage transplants, so what was MHC's true role? McDevitt watched me, eager to hear from the rumored black-haired genius. He wasn't expecting much.
But I knew the answer. McDevitt had no clue how groundbreaking his H-2 work was. The protein he called H-2 was MHC—the one enabling adaptive immunity by presenting antigens to lymphocytes.
How to explain? Got it. I met his eyes.
"Occam's razor. Isn't the simplest solution the most likely?"
Occam's razor. The scientific principle that the simplest explanation is usually closest to the truth.
"Anyone can say that. Does your razor cut to the chase in the argument?"
There was a perfect, elegant explanation. Like a restaurant analogy...