Jamison was waiting for him, and it was clear to Stoner that he had been waiting for some time; folders and X-rays and notes were laid out neatly on his desk. Jamison stood up, smiled abruptly and nervously, and extended his hand toward a chair in front of his desk.
"Professor Stoner," he said. "Sit down, sit down."
Stoner sat.
Jamison frowned at the display on his desk, smoothed a sheet of paper, and let himself down on his chair. "Well," he said, "there's some sort of obstruction in the lower intestinal tract, that's clear. Not much shows up on the X-rays, but that isn't unusual. Oh, a little cloudiness; but that doesn't necessarily mean anything." He turned his chair, set an X-ray in a frame, switched on a light, and pointed vaguely. Stoner looked, but he could see nothing. Jamison switched off the light and turned back to his desk. He became very businesslike. "Your blood count's down pretty low, but there doesn't seem to be any infection there; your sedimentation is subnormal and your blood pressure's down. There is some internal swelling that doesn't seem quite right, you've lost quite a bit of weight, and—well, with the symptoms you've shown and from what I can tell from these"—he waved at his desk—"I'd say there's only one thing to do." He smiled fixedly and said with strained jocularity, "We've just got to go in there and see what we can find out."
Stoner nodded. "It's cancer then."
"Well," Jamison said, "that's a pretty big word. It can mean a lot of things. I'm pretty sure there's a tumor there, but—well, we can't be absolutely sure of anything until we go in there and look around."
"How long have I had it?"
"Oh, there's no way of telling that. But it feels like—well, it's pretty large; it's been there some time."
Stoner was silent for a moment. Then he said, "How long would you estimate I have?"
Jamison said distractedly, "Oh, now, look, Mr. Stoner." He attempted a laugh. "We mustn't jump to conclusions. Why, there's always a chance—there's a chance it's only a tumor, non-malignant, you know. Or—or it could be a lot of things. We just can't know for sure until we—"
"Yes," Stoner said. "When would you want to operate?"
"As soon as possible," Jamison said relievedly. "Within the next two or three days."
"That soon," Stoner said, almost absently. Then he looked at Jamison steadily. "Let me ask you a few questions, Doctor. I must tell you that I want you to answer them frankly."
Jamison nodded.
"If it is only a tumor—non-malignant, as you say—would a couple of weeks make any great difference?"
"Well," Jamison said reluctantly, "there would be the pain; and—no, not a great deal of difference, I suppose."
"Good," Stoner said. "And if it is as bad as you think it is—would a couple of weeks make a great difference then?"
After a long while Jamison said, almost bitterly, "No, I suppose not."
"Then," Stoner said reasonably, "I'll wait for a couple of weeks. There are a few things I need to clear up—some work I need to do."
"I don't advise it, you understand," Jamison said. "I don't advise it at all."
"Of course," Stoner said. "And, Doctor—you won't mention this to anyone, will you?"
"No," Jamison said and added with a little warmth, "of course not." He suggested a few revisions of the diet he had earlier given him, prescribed more pills, and set a date for his entrance into the hospital.
Stoner felt nothing at all; it was as if what the doctor told him were a minor annoyance, an obstacle he would have somehow to work around in order to get done what he had to do. It occurred to him that it was rather late in the year for this to be happening; Lomax might have some difficulty in finding a replacement. The pill he had taken in the doctor's office made him a little light-headed, and he found the sensation oddly pleasurable. His sense of time was displaced; he found himself standing in the long parqueted first-floor corridor of Jesse Hall. A low hum, like the distant thrumming of birds' wings, was in his ears; in the shadowed corridor a sourceless light seemed to glow and dim, pulsating like the beat of his heart; and his flesh, intimately aware of every move he made, tingled as he stepped forward with deliberate care into the mingled light and dark.
He stood at the stairs that led up to the second floor; the steps were marble, and in their precise centers were gentle troughs worn smooth by decades of footsteps going up and down. They had been almost new when—how many years ago?—he had first stood here and looked up, as he looked now, and wondered where they would lead him. He thought of time and of its gentle flowing. He put one foot carefully in the first smooth depression and lifted himself up.
Then he was in Gordon Finch's outer office. The girl said, "Dean Finch was about to leave . . ." He nodded absently, smiled at her, and went into Finch's office.
"Gordon," he said cordially, the smile still on his face. "I won't keep you long."
Finch returned the smile reflexively; his eyes were tired. "Sure, Bill, sit down."
"I won't keep you long," he said again; he felt a curious power come into his voice. "The fact is, I've changed my mind —about retiring, I mean. I know it's awkward; sorry to be so late letting you know, but—well, I think it's best all around. I'm quitting at the end of this semester."
Finch's face floated before him, round in its amazement. "What the hell," he said. "Has anyone been putting the screws on you?"
"Nothing like that," Stoner said. "It's my own decision. It's just that—I've discovered there are some things I'd like to do." He added reasonably, "And I do need a little rest."
Finch was annoyed, and Stoner knew that he had cause to be. He thought he heard himself murmur another apology; he felt the smile remain foolishly on his face.
"Well," Finch said, "I guess it's not too late. I can start the papers through tomorrow. I suppose you know all you need to know about your annuity income, insurance, and things like that?"
"Oh, yes," Stoner said. "I've thought of all that. It's all right."
Finch looked at his watch. "I'm kind of late, Bill. Drop by in a day or so and we'll clear up the details. In the meantime— well, I suppose Lomax ought to know. I'll call him tonight." He grinned. "I'm afraid you've succeeded in pleasing him."
"Yes," Stoner said. "I'm afraid I have."
There was much to do in the two weeks that remained before he was to go into the hospital, but he decided that he would be able to do it. He canceled his classes for the next two days and called into conference all those students for whom he had the responsibility of directing independent research, theses, and dissertations. He wrote detailed instructions that would guide them to the completion of the work they had begun and left carbon copies of these instructions in Lomax's mailbox. He soothed those who were thrown into a panic by what they considered his desertion of them and reassured those who were fearful of committing themselves to a new adviser. He found that the pills he had been taking reduced the clarity of his intelligence as they relieved the pain; so in the daytime, when he talked to students, and in the evening, when he read the deluge of half-completed papers, theses, and dissertations, he took them only when the pain became so intense that it forced his attention away from his work.
Two days after his declaration of retirement, in the middle of a busy afternoon, he got a telephone call from Gordon Finch.
"Bill? Gordon. Look—there's a small problem I think I ought to talk to you about."
"Yes?" he said impatiently.
"It's Lomax. He can't get it through his head that you aren't doing this on his account."
"It doesn't matter," Stoner said. "Let him think what he wants."