Theorists think they’re smarter (spoiler alert: we are), and experimentalists think they’re more useful (re-spoiler re-alert: they are not). It makes for some . . . Yeah. Acrimony.

Monica, thank the universe and the subatomic particles it’s made of, is a theorist. We exchange a long, loaded, understanding look. “I am aware,” I say.

“Good. And you might have heard that Jonathan Smith-Turner has recently joined MIT?”

I stiffen. “I had not.”

“But you are familiar with Jonathan Smith-Turner. And with his . . . article.”

It’s not a question. Monica is wise and fully aware that there is no dimension, no parallel universe, no hypothetical self-contained plane of existence in which a theoretical physicist wouldn’t know who he is.

Because Jonathan Smith-Turner is an experimentalist—no, the experimentalist. And several years ago, when I was in middle school and he was probably a grown-ass man who should have known better, he did something horrible. Something unforgivable. Something abominable.

He made theoretical physicists look dumb.

Driven by what I can only assume was bitterness, an overabundance of free time, and involuntary celibacy, he set out to prove to the world that . . . actually, I don’t know what he wanted to prove. But he wrote a scientific article on quantum mechanics that was just full enough of jargon and math to sound like it was written by a theorist.

Except that the article was completely made up. Bogus. A parody, if you will. That turned into a prank when he submitted it to Annals of Theoretical Physics, our most prestigious journal, and waited. Rubbing his hands together evilly, one can only assume.

And that’s where things went wrong. Because despite undergoing supposedly rigorous peer review, the article was accepted. And published. And it stayed published for several weeks, or at least until shit hit the fan—in the form of a blog post by someone likely affiliated with Smith-Turner, back in the olden times when blogging was a thing.

“Is Theoretical Physics Pseudoscience?” had been the title. The post, which detailed how Smith-Turner had gotten a bunch of nonsense published in the most respected theory journal, was even worse. “Has the field of physics lost its way? . . . Is it all made up?” And my personal favorite: “If theoretical physics is gibberish, is it fair to compensate theorists with federal tax money?”

I’m not being needlessly dramatic when I say that it was a whole thing. On Facebook. On the news, including 60 Minutes. Even Oprah talked about it—the Jonathan Smith-Turner Affair, the Theoretical Hoax, the Physics Scandal. Einstein rolled in his grave. Newton puked up his apple. Feynman quietly stepped in a tank of liquid helium. Young Elsie, who in her early teens already knew what she wanted to be when she grew up, seethed and growled and boycotted all coverage of the topic, declaring a ban on all media in the Hannaway household. (The ban was unheeded, as the Hannaway household tended to forget young Elsie existed; her parents were probably too busy trying to stop her brothers from egging the neighbor’s shed.)

Mainstream interest blew over soon enough. Annals of Theoretical Physics pulled the article and apologized for the oversight, a bunch of theorists in improbable sweaters and spray-on hair took to YouTube to defend their honor, and Jonathan Smith-Turner never spoke publicly on the matter. Thankfully, the amount of mental energy normies like to expend on physics is limited.

But the hoax was a humiliating, devastating blow, and the field never quite recovered—all because of a stupid prank. Over a decade later, theoretical physics funding has been slashed. Theory job openings are decimated. The running joke is still that theoretical physics is akin to creative writing, books have been written on how theorists are exploitative wackjobs, and Google’s main autofills for theoretical physics are: Not real science. Nonsense. Dead.

(Slanderous. Google is slanderous and we should all switch to Bing.)

And yet it gets even worse—for two reasons that make all of this personal to me. First, one of the major downfalls of the article was that the theoretical physics community, needing to save face, quickly found a scapegoat: they formally censured the chief editor of Annals—the academic version of pushing someone into a paddle cactus bed and leaving them for dead.

That editor was Christophe Laurendeau—my mentor.

Yup.

The second reason is that, regrettably, Smith-Turner and I operate in the same subfield of physics. Our work on liquid crystals partially overlaps, and I occasionally wonder if that’s reason enough for me to switch to some other topic. Black holes? Lattices? Quantum supremacy? I’m still debating. In the meantime, I’ve been on a boycott. For years I’ve refused to care about what Jonathan Smith-Turner is doing—I’ve refused to read his papers, to acknowledge his existence, to even mention his name.

In hindsight, I probably should have kept tabs.

“Naturally,” Monica is saying, “Jonathan is a talented experimentalist and an asset to the department. He joined us last year—moved from Caltech with sizable grants to lead the MIT Physics Institute. We’re lucky to have him.” Her expression makes it abundantly clear she believes no such thing. “The position you’re interviewing for is a joint one. Half of your salary will be paid by my department, half from the Physics Institute. Which is headed by Jonathan. Who, in turn, strongly favors the other candidate we are interviewing.” Monica sighs. “I cannot tell you who the other candidate is, for obvious reasons.”

My fingers tighten around the glass. “The other candidate is an experimentalist, I assume.”

“Yes. And a previous collaborator of Jonathan’s.”

I close my eyes, and it sinks into me that—shit.

This interview, it’s a pissing contest. Theorists vs. experimentalists. Physics Department vs. Physics Institute. Monica vs. Jonathan.

Hiring Committee: Civil War.

“If I get the job, would Jonathan Smith-Turner be my superior?” There may be a limit to what I’m willing to compromise for protected research time, health insurance, and bottomless cheese-purchasing power.

Monica shakes her head energetically. “Not in any meaningful way.”

“I see.” Relief warms my belly. Very well. “Thank you for being straightforward with me. I’ll be equally straightforward: Is there anything I can do to be chosen over the other candidate?”

She studies me, serious for a moment. Then her face breaks into a fierce grin, and that—that is my tell. That’s how I know who the me Monica wants is: a champion. Her tribute to the Hunger Games of physics. A gladiator to take on Jonathan Smith-Turner, the entitled STEMlord she despises.

Well, I can do that. Because I happen to despise the very same guy.

“This is what you need to know, Elsie: most of the faculty members you’ll meet during the interview—including Jonathan—have already decided which candidate they’ll recommend for hire, based on whether they prefer a theorist or an experimentalist. They already know whether they’ll vote for you or for George, and there isn’t much we can do to change their minds.”

My eyebrow arches before I can yank it down. I don’t think Monica meant to let slip that Jonathan Smith-Turner’s candidate’s name is George, but I’m the diametrical opposite of surprised. Of course he’d want to hire a man.

“But,” she continues, “there are a handful of professors who straddle the line between theoretical and experimental. Drs. Ikagawa, Alvarez, Voight. They’re part of Volkov’s research team and follow where he leads. Which means that Volkov is going to be the deciding vote. My advice is, talk to him during the dead times of your interview. If possible, tailor your presentations to suit his interests. And . . . I don’t know that Jonathan might try to give his candidate an advantage and make you look bad, but . . . be wary of him. Be very careful.”