ABSTRACT
no one in max’s group took much of a liking to Wolf Weidel—except me. He exuded tremendous self-confidence, which, just as Max’s, could be easily mistaken for arrogance. I don’t mean to say that Wolf wasn’t arrogant, only that he was less arrogant than he seemed. Once, while we argued about our work and spun clever, though mostly false, theories during one of our daily brown-bag lunches in the lab, Wolf said, “Well, gentlemen, once you fabulists are done dreaming up your fantasies, let a biochemist tell you how things really are in the real world.” Upon this remark, Jean Weigle added “biochemist” to his repertoire of obscene invectives.
