Do you like Thomas Pynchon, but are you stumped by the crazy turn-of-the-century science in his latest novel, Against The Day? You're not alone! I've put together a little guide for the perplexed, a three-part primer on special relativity, vector analysis and quaternions, and Riemann surfaces, just for Pynchon readers.

If you've ever had a severe asthma attack or gone into premature labor, there is a good chance you were given the drug terbutaline. Terbutaline can relax your involuntary smooth muscle when it's causing problems: in constricted airways during an asthma attack, or in the uterus during contractions. But if you've taken terbutaline, you've probably also noticed another effect: it can induce a pounding, racing heartbeat. How can one drug produce such opposite effects - relaxing smooth muscle in some parts of your body, while making your cardiac muscle work harder?

The answer is that terbutaline switches on a common information-processing module, called a signaling pathway, which gets used over and over in different cells to perform very different jobs. This information-processing module can be plugged into different cell types, where it will transmit signals from the environment outside the cell to the inside where the information is processed and acted upon. Because our cells use a common set of information-processing modules to carry out so many different jobs, it's easy for drugs that act on these modules to produce a wide range of side-effects.

How can today's wired, multitasking scientists ever compete with the great scientists of the past? One feature of Darwin's work as a scientist was that it proceeded slowly, very, very slowly. He wrote massive groundbreaking books, compiled huge amounts of data on orchids, barnacles, and Galapagos animals, but all over a long period of time. Scientists in Darwin's day had hours to kill on long voyages, took long walks out in the field, and waited while their scientific correspondence leisurely wended its way across oceans or continents.

Even in the first half of the 20th century, great scientists are famous for what they accomplished on long walks, hiking trips, and train rides. Niels Bohr would walk for hours around Copenhagen and come up with groundbreaking ideas, while Werner Heisenberg spent weeks every year hiking in the mountains. Even Richard Feynman, working in our more modern (but still pre-internet) era, insisted on long blocks of time to concentrate; he likened his thought process to building a house of cards, easily toppled by distraction and difficult to put back together.

Does that mean the kind of science we do in our overscheduled, multitasking world will never be the same as it was in the past? Certainly in one sense it won't - earlier generations of scientists had one distinct advantage we don't have today: Servants.