or irrationality. His extreme fatigue was evident—but his calmness and clarity of self-expression in a foreign language indicated no mental confusion. A hoax of such magnitude was outside the realm of possibility for a surgeon of his distinction.
The man was simply following a blind alley of reasoning, set off by his life-long frustration of battling cancer.
I mustered my patience and drew him out, hoping he would find a contradiction in his own theory.
“This is a rather staggering notion, Dr. Sansome,” I said. “Have you been able to support it with—additional evidence?”
“Until Miss Caffey,” he said, “frankly, no. Not the kind of evidence that is acceptable. But the theory has much to defend it. In your own Journal of the A. M. A., May 7, 1932, Dr. Maud Slye published the first solid evidence that predisposition to so-called malignant tumor is hereditary. Is this not a better characteristic of a true mutation, rather than of a disease?”
“Perhaps,” I said. “But how does Mother Nature justify the desirability of a change from our present rather successful bisexual system? And isn’t she being rather cruel in her methods? Think of the millions she has made suffer in her experiments.”
“Mother Nature,” Sansome pronounced positively, “is neither kind nor cruel. She is manifestly indifferent to all but the goal of survival of the species. Our civilization has set out to thwart her with increasingly more effective methods of birth-control. In the light of survival, Nature is most justified in trying to bring millions of frustrated, childless humans to parenthood. Meanwhile—” he began riffling the case history of Sara Caffey— “let us examine the evidence at hand. Our patient arrived in Paris positively cancerous. After confirming the diagnosis, I proposed an unprecedented treatment based on my theory. We know several body conditions which promote the rapid development of carcinoma, such as excess alkalinity and high blood sugar content and so forth. Instead of trying to reduce these and fight the tumor, I reversed the treatment and aided Miss Caffey’s body to support and encourage its growth to what I predicted would be a new maturity.
“And what happened?” He threw up his hands. “In two months, the tendrils of the octopus withdrew into the central body of the tumor. The tendency to spread in search for attenuated nourishment was reversed with the treatment. This alone was an accomplishment, for it would have made the growth operable in a short time.
“Unfortunately, word of my unorthodox prescription reached a jealous colleague, and he set off such a quarrel at the Institute that Miss Caffey packed up and left with the generous misconception that she was saving me from embarrassment. I had no opportunity to assure her that the Cancer Institute would decide ultimately in my favor—which it shall when I return with a photostat of a certain birth certificate.”
He smiled for the first time, and his charm was so powerful that I sincerely wanted to believe in him. I could see no use in denying him his request, for his prescriptions were of an innocuous nature for a normally pregnant woman such as Sara Caffey. I trusted that a normal birth of a typical baby would finally dissuade him.
I extended my hand again. “You are most welcome to stay with us, doctor,” I told him. “The treatment you desire is within reason, and I admire your tenacity with your theory. I hope you will forgive me, however, if I say that I find your premises rather tenuous. I feel that we will witness a very normal birth, and ultimately Miss Caffey will find it to her peace of mind to confess a secret marriage, or, at most—an alliance of which she may be pathologically ashamed at the moment.”
Sansome grasped my hand with enthusiasm. “Bien! Tres bien!” he exclaimed. “This is more generous even than I expected. Certainly I do not expect a scientist of your station to swallow my theory at a gulp, Dr. Foley. I will admit that my persistence depends more than it should on intuition. But we shall see. I am grateful to you.” And he kissed me firmly on each cheek.
* * * *
A study of Sansome’s carefully prepared case history on Sara Caffey did disturb me a little. I ordered a thorough reexamination, and was left with some puzzling conclusions at the apparent absence of tumorous growth, malignant or otherwise.
Sara was enduring most of the classic symptoms of typical pregnancy, and was enjoying Dr. Sansome’s treatment hugely. She guzzled the alkaline-producing fruit juices, fortified with carefully rationed dribbles of gin. She nibbled contentedly at the sweets which the Frenchman supplied anonymously. And she raised merry hell because we refused to operate.
After two weeks, she threatened to leave. I was paged over the P. A. and got to her room in time to catch her trying to zip up her skirt.
She looked at me impatiently, and then back to her abdomen. “Damned thing’s getting out of hand.”
She had on an expensive tweed suit, and the smart, powder-blue cashmere coat I helped her into made her look her role of distinguished world traveler, syndicated columnist and woman of parts.
She hunched her shoulders forward slightly, so the loose folds of the coat concealed her protruding middle.
“Thanks,” she said casually. “I’ll write you a check and be on my way.”
“Dr. Sansome will be disappointed,” I said casually.
“You heard from him?” she asked with interest.
I nodded.
She put her hands on her hips. “And you still persist with your fatuous idea that I’m going to have a baby?”
“Let us say,” I evaded, “that we have adopted Dr. Sansome’s treatment on a wait-and-see basis. You said yourself that he refused to operate. We have definitely confirmed that much. Your condition is still inoperable, but you are coming along fine.”
“Well, now, why didn’t you tell me that before.” She threw off her coat and relieved the pressure of her waist zipper with a grateful sigh. “Now you’re making sense. Send out for another Spillane. I’ll go along with that. But no more of this drivel about transferring me to the maternity ward, see?”
* * * *
Ten nights later, she changed her mind. I passed her room after a late emergency case. The door was open and I heard her crying softly to herself. I stopped in. Her bed lamp was on, and for a change she looked all woman.
I felt her pulse and asked, “What’s the matter, Sara?”
“I’m going to have a baby!” she sobbed. “I’ve been feeling something peculiar for some time. But tonight it kicked the hell out of me.”
“Want to talk about it?” I asked, still holding her wrist.
She looked at me with genuine bafflement in her eyes. Her face was puckered up like a hurt child’s. “But it’s so impossible, doctor. I’m sorry I talked to you the way I have, but so help me, I’m a good girl.”
I almost said, Well, these things happen, but that would have sounded pretty silly. It was evident that she still wouldn’t admit even to herself how and when it had happened.
“Ever go on a good binge?” I suggested.
“Not since I was sixteen,” she exclaimed. “But I could use one right now. No, that might hurt the baby.” She folded her arms protectively around her middle. “I don’t get it. I don’t get it at all. But if that’s the way it is—” A
