It was 2019 and Adrian Hill was still waiting for his success.
The 61-year-old British molecular geneticist had spent nearly three decades working with a colleague, Sarah Gilbert, on a malaria vaccine. Historically, most vaccines used killed or weakened versions of a virus to teach the immune system to fend off a pathogen. Hill and Gilbert favored a more controversial approach—they used a chimpanzee virus to shepherd a malaria gene into the body’s cells.
Using a virus—derived from chimp poop, no less—to ferry genetic code into human bodies might seem strange, or even dangerous. The approach was based on sound logic, however. Chimpanzees are humans’ closest living relatives, so a virus that infected these mammals seemed likely to spread in humans as well. That means it was capable of doing a good job chauffeuring a piece of the malaria parasite into the body. And there was no danger to using the chimp virus because Hill and Gilbert had tweaked it so the virus would infect human cells, but be incapable of spreading within the body.
Hill, an Irish vaccinologist at the University of Oxford, had been fascinated with malaria since the early 1980s. As a medical student in Dublin, he had spent his vacations visiting an uncle who worked as a priest in a hospital in Rhodesia, which later became the nation of Zimbabwe. Hill saw how malaria absolutely hounded the region. But pharmaceutical companies weren’t eager to tackle the disease, partly because it’s endemic in developing nations and has minimal profit potential.
Hill dedicated himself becoming the one to develop protective shots, work that went on for years. By late 2019, Hill was still working with Gilbert to produce a malaria vaccine. They also worked on shots to fend off influenza, HIV, and other viruses and diseases. At that point, though, the Oxford team hadn’t gained approval for a single vaccine.
Limited success had hardly humbled Hill, though. In fact, he had emerged as one of the most controversial and disliked men in the world of science, notorious for his sharp critiques of fellow researchers and caustic, even offensive, behavior. At scientific meetings, Hill was usually the first to jump to his feet, grab a microphone, and challenge a point being made in a presentation. He often did it in degrading or insulting language. Here are snippets of quotes from Hill over the years, as related by various scientists in his field:
“That’s a really dumb idea.”
“Your data sucks.”
“That’s the most ignorant thing I’ve ever heard.”
Researchers came to these meetings girded for Hill’s blunt, even vicious, verbal lashings. If Hill merely cleared his throat, it likely meant some kind of savagery was on its way. Some peers learned to appreciate the remarks, realizing that Hill’s punches were often packed with trenchant points that enabled researchers to perfect their methods. But younger or unprepared scientists were sometimes startled by the comments, which they viewed as unnecessarily personal.
At times, the criticisms were made with such vehemence and intensity that Hill’s face turned bright red, nearly matching his hair color. Hill’s derisive comments hit hard because the self-worth of some researchers, not to mention their career prospects, were tied up in their scientific data and conclusions.
What bothered Hill’s peers most was that he seemed more critical of the work of others than he was of his own research. It seemed that almost every year, the BBC, CNN, or another media outlet profiled the progress he and Gilbert were making against some disease or other. Rivals thought he overstated his group’s chances of success. Yet there was Hill, at one more medical conference, lecturing another scientist about why her approach was doomed. Gilbert was a quiet, restrained presence at the meetings, but Hill eagerly shared his critiques.