The geneticists were ready to give up.

They were tramping through a forest near Austin, Texas.

It was January 1932, the depths of the Great Depression.

They were cold and exhausted.

And with every passing step they grew more and more convinced

that their colleague, Herman Muller, had killed himself.

It wasn't hard to imagine why.

Muller's marriage had disintegrated.

Local newspapers were denouncing him as a communist.

Still, you never expect to find a suicide note.

The whole department had been scouring Austin since yesterday,

hoping against hope they weren't too late.

The crazy thing was his colleagues didn't even like Muller.

Frankly, he was an asshole.

But no one could deny he was a brilliant asshole.

And the thought of a mind like his just disappearing from the world?

It made them shiver.

Finally, someone spotted something, a body.

People started running, stumbling along, drawn by the shells.

Muller was lying beneath a tree.

He'd clearly been outdoors all night.

His face and suit were streaked with mud.

...