Lab Vultures

One day my adviser asked me to accompany him to an unoccupied lab whose former occupant had retired. It was like entering a well-appointed haunted house: glassware on the shelves, awaiting use; chemicals in the hood, fuming; gel boxes idling on the bench. It was a lab, but its eeriness was unsettling; it felt somehow wrong to be there without the owner. I was snapped out of my thoughts by my adviser, who turned suddenly and asked, "What do you think of this centrifuge?" Now I understood why we had brought a cart along. It's often a sad day when a colleague leaves the department and the lab must pack up and go. We always mourn. For about 10 minutes. Weeks before the move, the subtle little comments start: "That's a really nice centrifuge," or "That PCR machine must be two years old, you can afford better now." As the date draws nearer, the comments become downright pointed: "You taking that?" Scientists circle the newly departed lab like vultures over a fresh kill, and it can get ugly. The moving lab determines what they can and will take. This involves negotiations with the department and the university about who owns what. The equipment is usually marked with stickers so that the lab personnel and packers will remember what to take. Fools, them. Often, the surrounding labs also have learned what the stickers mean and have planned accordingly. Sometimes, as the day draws closer, equipment that is not going disappears, only to reappear in a lab down the hall. Nevertheless, there are rules to be followed when raiding another lab, sort of an "honor among cannibals"' protocol. Once the lab is vacated, the unofficial "mourning" period begins, its length inversely proportional to how well off the lab was and where it is going. The occupants of a well-funded, NIH-bound lab will probably abandon quite a bit, sort of the dregs of a former, lesser life. In such a case, the raiding parties likely would arrive even before the movers leave. On the other hand, a retiring professor, whose lab has dwindled to just one grad student, probably would get at least a day, maybe more, as perhaps a final token of respect for the departed. And then there are the more formal rules. The youngest faculty and worst-funded labs usually get first dibs, to help them get equipment and supplies they need but cannot afford. It is somewhat the scientific equivalent of giving the worst team in the league first pick in the draft. But in practice, if older faculty members really want something, they are going to get it because they are more likely to have a master key. Second, it's bad form to claim equipment if the lab hasn't moved yet. Most people will conduct under-the-table negotiations. If you don't, and try to claim something without permission, prepare for nasty looks and maybe some yelling. Third, the sooner you get into the lab, the better. Most advisers await the green light from the department chair, but everyone scouts out the terrain ahead of time, leaving annoying notes, as if a Post-It has the weight of a legal deed. Of course, some notes disappear. I always have suspected companies would be interested in what gets taken first, to rate how valuable their equipment is. Imagine that ad campaign: "Our equipment gets taken more quickly than any other PCR instrument in the business!" Finally, no matter how desperate you or your adviser is, never take really old or poorly labeled chemicals. This goes double for chemicals that look like props from a chemical safety film. One word: Boom. When I first was introduced to lab cannibalism, I felt depressed. It seemed pathetic that we had to find equipment or supplies this way, like scientific panhandling. But I've since changed my mind; it's an integral part of life in the lab. Science is underfunded, and equipment and supplies are expensive. If you have a five-year-old gel dryer that needs constant repair, and the other lab is leaving a three-year-old model, or even the same five-year-old model that you can salvage for parts, yeah, you're going to take it, and fast. Besides, there is nothing more satisfying than pulling every muscle in your body to salvage an old, one-ton vacuum pump to replace your lab's really ancient model, which barely sucks (no pun intended), but your adviser swears works fine. (Of course, back in his day, he probably used hand pumps, so we should just be grateful.) Getting a "new" pump, PCR machine, centrifuge, or anything else (as the saying goes, "new to you") is great, because it's free. Plus, it's one of the few times you and your lab mates truly will work together as a team: Everyone plays a part in the departmental food chain. It's another arc in the great circle of lab life. Caryn Evilia caryn_evilia@yahoo.com is a postdoctoral fellow at Thomas Jefferson University in Philadelphia.

Lab Vultures

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Caryn Evilia

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June 2004

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