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THE FEYNMAN SALTATION
Charles Sheffield
T he worm in the apple; the crab in the walnut . Colin Trantham was adding fine black bristles to the
crab’s jointed legs when the nurse called him into the office.
He glanced at his watch as he entered. “An hour and a quarter the first time. Forty minutes the second.
Now he sees me in nine minutes. Are you trying to tell me something?”
The nurse did not reply, and Dr. James Wollaston, a pudgy fifty-year-old with a small mouth and the face
of a petulant baby, did not smile. He gestured to a chair, and waited until Trantham was seated on the
other side of his desk.
“Let me dispose of the main point, then we can chat.” Wollaston was totally lacking in bedside manner,
which was one of the reasons that Colin Trantham liked him. “We have one more test result to come, but
there’s little doubt as to what it will show. You have a tumor in your left occipital lobe. That’s the bad
news. The good news is that it’s quite operable.”
“Quite?”
“Sorry. Completely operable. We should get the whole thing.” He stared at Trantham. “You don’t seem
surprised by this.”
Colin pushed the drawing across the table: the beautifully detailed little crab, sitting in one end of the
shelled walnut. “I’m not an idiot. I’ve been reading and thinking cancer for weeks. I suppose it’s too
much to hope it might be benign?”
“I’m afraid so. It is malignant. But it appears to be primary site. There are no other signs of tumors
anywhere in your body.”
“Wonderful. So I only have cancer once .” Trantham folded the drawing and tucked it away in his jacket
breast pocket. “Am I supposed to be pleased?”
Wollaston did not answer. He was consulting a desk calendar and comparing it with a typed sheet.
“Friday is the twenty-third. I would like you in the night before, so we can operate early.”
“I was supposed to go to Toronto this weekend. I have to sign a contract for a set of interior murals.”
“Postpone it.”
“Good. I was afraid you’d say cancel.”
“Postpone it for four weeks.” Wollaston was pulling another folder from the side drawer of his desk. “I
propose to get you Hugo Hemsley. He and I have already talked. He’s the best surgeon east of the
Rockies, but he has his little ways. He’ll want to know every symptom you’ve had from day one before
he’ll pick up a scalpel. How’s the headache?”
 
The neurologist’s calm was damping Colin’s internal hysteria. “About the same. Worst in the morning.”
“That is typical. Your first symptom was colored lights across your field of vision, sixty-three days ago.
Describe that to me . . .”
The muffled thump on the door was perfunctory, a relic of the days when Colin Trantham had a live-in
girlfriend. Julia Trantham entered with a case in one hand and a loaded paper bag held to her chest with
the other, pushing the door open with her foot and backing through.
“Grab this before I drop it.” She turned and nodded down at the bag. “Bought it before I thought to ask.
You allowed to drink?”
“I didn’t ask, either.” Colin examined the label on the bottle. “Moving up in the world. You don’t get a
Grands Echézeaux of this vintage for less than sixty bucks.”
“Seventy-two plus tax. When did you memorize the wine catalog?”
“I’m feeling bright these days. When a man knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight, it concentrates his
mind wonderfully.”
“No points for that. Everybody quotes Johnson.” Julia Trantham pulled the cork and sniffed it, while her
brother was reaching up into the cabinet for two eight-ounce glasses.
“You’re late.” Colin Trantham placed the thin-stemmed goblets on the table and watched as Julia
poured, a thin stream of dark red wine. His sister’s face was calm, but the tremor in her hand was not.
“The plane was on time. You went to see Wollaston, didn’t you, before you came here?”
“You’re too smart for your own good. I did.”
“What did you find out?”
Julia Trantham took a deep breath. Colin had always been able to see through her lies; it would be a
mistake to try one now. “It’s a glioblastoma. A neuroglia cell tumor. And it’s Type Four. Which means—
“I know what it means. As malignant as you can get.”
Colin Trantham picked up his glass, emptied it in four gulps, and walked over to stand at the sink and
stare out of the kitchen window. “Christ. You still have the knack of getting the truth out of people, don’t
you? I had my little interview with Dr. Hemsley, but he didn’t get as honest as that. He talked procedure .
Day after tomorrow he saws open my skull, digs in between the hemispheres, and cuts out a lump of my
brain as big as a tennis ball. Local anesthetic—he wants me conscious while he operates.”
“Probably wants you to hold tools for him. Like helping to change a car tire. Sounds minor.”
“Minor for him . He gets five thousand bucks for a morning’s work. And it’s not his brain.”
“Minor operation equals operation on somebody else.”
“One point for that. Wish it weren’t my brain, either. It’s my second favorite organ.”
“No points—that’s Woody Allen in Sleeper . You’re all quotes today.”
 
Colin Trantham sat down slowly at the kitchen table. “I’m trying, Julia. It’s just not . . . easy.”
The casual brother-sister jousting shattered and fell away from between them like a brittle screen. Julia
Trantham dropped into the seat opposite. “I know, Colin. It’s not easy. It’s awful. My fault. I’m not
handling this well.”
“Not your fault. Everybody’s. Mine too, same problem. You go through life, build your social responses.
Then you get a situation they just don’t cover. Who wants to talk about dying, for Christ’s sake?” There
was a long silence, but the tension was gone. Colin Trantham stared at his older sister’s familiar face,
unseen for half a year. “I’m scared, Julie. I lie awake at night, and I think, I won’t make old bones.”
Little brother, hurt and crying. We’re grown-ups now. We haven’thugged in twenty years . “Social
responses. I’m supposed to say, don’t be scared, Col, you’ll be fine. But while I say it I’m thinking,
you’re scared, no shit? Of course you’re scared. Me, I’d be petrified. I am petrified.”
“Will you stay until the operation’s over?”
“I was planning to. If it’s all right with you, I’ll hang around until you’re out of the hospital. Write up a
paper on extinct invertebrates that I’ve had in the mill for a while.” She poured again into both glasses,
emptying the bottle. “Any girlfriend that I need to know about, before I embarrass her by my drying
panty-hose?”
“Rachel. Just a now-and-again thing.” Colin Trantham picked up the empty bottle and stared at the layer
of sediment left in the bottom, divining his future. “Should we have decanted it? I hardly tasted that first
glass. I’ll try to sip it this time with due reverence.” The raw emotion was fading, the fence of casual
responses moving back into position. “No problem with Rachel. If she finds you here with me I’ll just
pretend you’re my sister.”
The waiting room was empty. Julia dithered on the threshold, possessed by conflicting desires. She
wanted news, as soon as it was available. She also wanted a cigarette, more than she had ever wanted
one, but smoking was forbidden anywhere in the hospital.
Dr. Wollaston solved her problem before she could. He approached along the corridor behind her and
spoke at once: “Good news. It went as well as it possibly could go.”
The nicotine urge was blotted out by a rush of relief.
“Minimum time in the operating room,” the neurologist went on. “No complications.” He actually
summoned a smile. “Sedated now, but he wanted you to see this. He said that you would know exactly
what it means.”
He held out a piece of paper about five inches square. At its center, in blue ink, a little figure of a
hedgehog leered out at Julia, cheeks bulging. She could feel her own cheeks burning. “That’s
me—according to Colin. Private family joke.”
“Drawn right after the operation, when Hemsley was testing motor skills. Astonishing, I thought.”
“Can I see him?”
“If you wish, although he might not recognize you at the moment. He should be sleeping. Also”—a
second of hesitation, picking words carefully—“I would appreciate a few minutes of your time. Perhaps a
 
glass of wine, after what I know has been a trying day for you. This is”—Julia sensed another infinitesimal
pause—“primarily medical matters. I need to talk to you about your brother.”
How could she refuse? Walking to the wine bar, Julia realized that he had talked her out of seeing Colin,
without seeming to do so. Typical James Wollaston, according to Colin. Gruff, sometimes grumpy; but
smart.
His eyes were on her as they settled in on the round cushioned stools across a fake hogshead table, and
she took out and lit a cigarette.
“How many of those a day?”
“Five or six.” Julia took one puff and laid down the burning cigarette in the ashtray. “Except I’m like
every other person who smokes five—a pack lasts me a day and a half.”
“You’re going to regret it. It’s murder on your skin. Another ten years and you’ll look like a prune.”
“Skin? I thought you were going to tell me about my heart and lungs.”
“For maximum effect, you have to hit where it’s least expected. You ought to give it up.”
“I was going to. I really was. But you know what happened? Since Mother died, Colin and I have called
each other every week.”
“Sunday midday.”
“That’s right. How’d you know?”
“I know a lot about you and Colin.”
“Then you know Colin’s not one for overstatement. He hadn’t said a word about . . . all this. When the
evidence was in, he hit me with it all at once. It floored me. I’d got up that morning determined that I was
through, that was it for cigarettes. I’d just thrown a near-full pack away.” She laughed shakily. “Looks
like I picked a hell of a day to quit smoking.”
“That’s from Airplane . No points, I think your brother would say.”
“My God. You really do know a lot about us.”
“When it was clear to me that Colin might have a serious problem, I put him through my biggest battery
of tests, checking his memory and his reflexes and his logical processes. We also went over all his
background. As a result I know a great deal about you, too, your background, what you do.” He
paused. “I even understood about the hedgehog, though it didn’t seem the best time and place to mention
it. Anyway, how’s the paleontology business?”
“Just scratching out a living. Sorry. Programmed response. In a very interesting state. You see, every few
years there’s a major upheaval—facts, or theories. New radioactive dating, punctuated equilibrium,
Cretaceous extinctions, mitochondrial DNA tracking, the reinterpretation of the Burgess Shale. Well, it
seems were in for another one. A biggie.”
“So I have heard.”
“You have? Well, not from Colin, that’s for sure.”
“True. I read it”
 
“Fossils bore him stiff. He says that Megatherium was an Irish woman mathematician.”
A moment’s thought. “Meg O’Theorem?”
“That’s her. He was all set to be a mathematician or a physicist himself, till the drawing and painting bug
took hold. He’s the talented one, you know—I’m just the one who wrote papers and stayed in college
forever. Anyway, first he started to paint in the evenings, and then—” She stopped, drew breath, and
shook her head. “Sorry, doctor. I’m babbling. Nerves. You wanted to talk.”
“I do. But I like to listen, too—unless you’re in a big hurry?”
“Nothing in the world to do but sit here and listen.”
Wollaston nodded. The wine had arrived and he was frowning at the label. “I hope this isn’t too
lowbrow. It’s certainly not one of the grandcrus that you and your brother like to sample. It’s a naive
domestic burgundy without any breeding, but I think you’ll be amused—”
“—by its presumption. No points. But I get one for finishing the line.”
“I need practice, or I’ll never be a match for the two of you.” He poured the first splash of wine, and in
that instant seemed to become a younger and more vulnerable person. “A successful operation. That was
the first stage. It is now behind us. Did your brother discuss with you what might happen next?”
Julia shook her head. Colin had not raised the subject, nor had she. Somehow it had not seemed
significant before the operation. “Chemotherapy?”
“Not with the conventional anti-metabolites. They have difficulty crossing the blood-brain barrier. The
normal next step would be radiation. But a glioblastoma is fiercely malignant. Bad odds. I want to try
something that I hope will be a lot better. However, I wanted to obtain your reaction before I discussed it
with Colin.” Another pause, words chosen carefully. Julia nodded her internal approval. A good, cautious
doctor. “I’d like to put him onto an experimental protocol,” continued Wollaston. “An implanted
drug-release device inside the brain itself, with a completely new drug, a variable delivery rate, and an
internal monitor sensitive enough to respond to selected ambient neurotransmitter levels. It’s tiny, and
there will be no need to reopen the skull to install it.”
He was not looking at her. Why not? “Price isn’t an issue, Dr. Wollaston, unless it’s out of this world.
We have insurance and money. What are the side effects?”
“No consistent patterns. This is too new. And the implant would be done free, since your brother would
be part of a controlled experiment. But”—the kicker, here it came, he was finally looking into her
eyes—“Colin would have to fly to Europe to get it. You see, it’s not yet FDA approved.”
“He’d have to stay there? ”
His surprise was comical. “Stay there? Of course not. He could fly over one night, have the implant
performed the next day, and as soon as the surgeon there approved his release he’d turn right around
and come back. But I’m not sure how Colin will react to the idea. What do you think? It’s doesn’t have
FDA approval, you see, so—”
“I don’t think. I know . Colin doesn’t give a tinker’s damn about the FDA. He’ll do it.” Julia stubbed out
her cigarette, which had burned its whole length unnoticed in the ashtray. “Of course he’ll do it. Colin
wants to live.”
She took a first sip of wine, then two big gulps. “What next?”
 

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