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Feynman of Course Is Jewish

Feynman’s probing reached the edge of known science. His scattering calculations had immediate application to a problem that was troubling one of his professors, Manuel S. Vallarta, concerning cosmic rays. These had become a major issue. Not just specialists but also the public worried about these unknown rays of unknown origin, streaming through space at high energies and entering the atmosphere, where they left trails of electric charge. This ionization first gave their presence away. It occurred to scientists just before the turn of the century that the atmosphere, left alone, ought not to conduct electricity. Now scientists were sending forth ray-detecting equipment on ships, aircraft, and balloons all around the globe, but especially in the neighborhood of Pasadena, California, where Robert Millikan and Carl Anderson had made the California Institute of Technology the nation’s focal point of cosmic ray research. Later it began to become clear that the term was a catchall for a variety of particles with different sources. In the thirties the detective work meant trying to understand which of the universe’s constituents might emit them and which might influence their timing and direction as seen from earth. At MIT Vallarta was puzzling over how cosmic rays might be scattered by the magnetic fields of the galaxy’s stars, just as cloud droplets scatter sunlight. Whether cosmic rays came from inside or outside the galaxy, should the scattering effect bias their apparent direction toward or away from the main body of the Milky Way? Feynman’s work produced a negative answer: neither. The net effect of the scattering was zero. If cosmic rays seemed to come from all directions, it was not because the stars’ interference disguised their original orientation. They wrote this up together for publication as a letter to the Physical Review—Feynman’s first published work. Unrevolutionary though the item was, its reasoning turned on a provocative and clever idea: that the probability of a particle’s emerging from a clump of scattering matter in a certain direction must be equivalent to the probability of an antiparticle’s taking the reverse path. From the antiparticle’s point of view, time was running backward.

Vallarta let his student in on a secret of mentor-protégé publishing: the senior scientist’s name comes first. Feynman had his revenge a few years later, when Heisenberg concluded an entire book on cosmic rays with the phrase, “such an effect is not to be expected according to Vallarta and Feynman.” When they next met, Feynman asked gleefully whether Vallarta had seen Heisenberg’s book. Vallarta knew why Feynman was grinning. “Yes,” he replied. “You’re the last word in cosmic rays.”

Feynman had developed an appetite for new problems—any problems. He would stop people he knew in the corridor of the physics building and ask what they were working on. They quickly discovered that the question was not the usual small talk. Feynman pushed for details. He caught one classmate, Monarch Cutler, in despair. Cutler had taken on a senior thesis problem based on an important discovery in 1938 by two professors in the optics laboratory. They found that they could transform the refracting and reflecting qualities of lenses by evaporating salts onto them, forming very thin coatings, just a few atoms thick. Such coatings became essential to reducing unwanted glare in the lenses of cameras and telescopes. Cutler was supposed to find a way of calculating what happened when different thin films were applied, one atop another. His professors wondered, for example, whether there was a way to make exceedingly pure color filters, passing only light of a certain wavelength. Cutler was stymied. Classical optics should have sufficed—no peculiarly quantum effects came into play—but no one had ever analyzed the behavior of light passing through a parade of mostly transparent films thinner than a single wavelength. Cutler told Feynman he could find no literature on the subject.