Fame, if I'm saying anything new, is a two-edged sword.
I'm sure that's true for anyone, but it sometimes seems particularly so for scientists. Of course, one appreciates the recognition, but in an area like mine, longevity, there will always be the fringe journalists who will twist the facts into something sensational that bears little resemblance to the original research. This always brings the nuts out of the woodwork and makes one's life miserable, fending them off while simultaneously suffering the ridicule of one's peers.
I should have known something was off when I entered the department office on Monday. The department secretary informed me that a reporter from one of the scientific journals was waiting in my office and had told her that I had arranged the interview. If that lie wasn't enough of a warning, the strange look from the secretary certainly was. I didn't say anything because it wasn't her fault, but as I approached my office door I was loaded for bear.
However, when I opened the door, I just stopped cold and stared. I really should have known that no reputable science journal would send a reporter dressed like this one. But my exploding hormones precluded any objective thinking. She was gorgeous! She was seated in my guest chair, facing me with her legs crossed. And what legs they were! She wore remarkably high black stiletto heels and dark stockings. Those spectacularly long legs extended quite a ways from the stilettos until they disappeared into a short black leather skirt. Her soft white blouse clung to the contours of her ample breasts and was unbuttoned far enough down to reveal the beginning of her cleavage. Her long black hair was casually draped over her left shoulder and splayed itself across the mound of her left breast. Her face was elegantly made up and strikingly beautiful.
I was at a loss for words. My anger disappeared like a popped balloon, and I just stood there gaping like an idiot. The reporter rose to her feet and put out her hand. Like a robot I took it. It was warm and soft.
"Good morning, Dr. Clarke," she said in a lovely contralto voice. "My name is Chase. I apologize for the little lie I told your secretary, but I really did want to interview you for my paper, and I was afraid that you would refuse."
Gradually my brain began to re-engage. I stopped staring at her cleavage and let go of her hand. I managed to look her in the eye.
"My secretary would have refused," I said, regaining the power of speech. "I don't give interviews to journalists. An email would have been better. Just what journal are you from, anyway?"
She mentioned the name of one of the more popular journals that interpreted science for a lay audience. That wasn't so bad.
"Well, okay, then, as long as you've gone to this much trouble. But next time please ask in advance and be honest."
She smiled. She had a lovely smile, with lush red lips. I walked over to my desk and sat behind it, hoping to use that barrier to calm the aroused primitive in me and project an aura of academic competence.
Chase sat in the chair opposite my desk. She re-crossed her legs, which almost set me off again, and took out a notebook. She began asking questions. With most of my attention focused on her long legs, it took me a while of automatically responding to her questions to realize the direction this was going.
"Wait a minute," I said. "What journal did you say you represented? Your questions seem to be looking for something a lot more sensational that I would expect."
