Time Travel Omnibus Volume 2

by Anthology

  THE MEN WHO MURDERED MOHAMMED

  Alfred Bester

  There was a man who mutilated history. He toppled empires and uprooted dynasties. Because of him, Mount Vernon should not be a national shrine, and Columbus, Ohio, should be called Cabot, Ohio. Because of him the name Marie Curie should be cursed in France, and no one should swear by the beard of the Prophet.

  Actually, these realities did not happen, because he was a mad professor; or, to put it another way, he only succeeded in making them unreal for himself.

  Now, the patient reader is too familiar with the conventional mad professor, undersized and overbrowed, creating monsters in his laboratory which invariably turn on their maker and menace his lovely daughter. This story isn’t about that sort of make-believe man. It’s about Henry Hassel, a genuine mad professor in a class with such better-known men as Ludwig Boltzmann ( see Ideal Gas Law), Jacques Charles, and André Marie Ampère (1775-1836).

  Everyone ought to know that the electrical ampere was so named in honor of Ampère. Ludwig Boltzmann was a distinguished Austrian physicist, as famous for his research on black-body radiation as on Ideal Gases. You can look him up in Volume Three of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, BALT to BRAI.

  Jacques Alexandre César Charles was the first mathematician to become interested in flight, and he invented the hydrogen balloon.

  These were real men.

  They were also real mad professors. Ampère, for example, was on his way to an important meeting of scientists in Paris. In his taxi he got a brilliant idea (of an electrical nature, I assume) and whipped out a pencil and jotted the equation on the wall of the hansom cab. Roughly, it was: dH = ipdl/r2 in which p is the perpendicular distance from Ñ to the line of the element dl; or dH= i sin è dl/r2. This is sometimes known as Laplace’s Law, although he wasn’t at the meeting.

  Anyway, the cab arrived at the Académie. Ampère jumped out, paid the driver and rushed into the meeting to tell everybody about his idea. Then he realized he didn’t have the note on him, remembered where he’d left it, and had to chase through the streets of Paris after the taxi to recover his runaway equation. Sometimes I imagine that’s how Fermat lost his famous “Last Theorem,” although Fermat wasn’t at the meeting either, having died some two hundred years earlier.

  Or take Boltzmann. Giving a course in Advanced Ideal Gases, he peppered his lectures with involved calculus, which he worked out quickly and casually in his head. He had that kind of head. His students had so much trouble trying to puzzle out the math by ear that they couldn’t keep up with the lectures, and they begged Boltzmann to work out his equations on the blackboard.

  Boltzmann apologized and promised to be more helpful in the future. At the next lecture he began, “Gentlemen, combining Boyle’s Law with the Law of Charles, we arrive at the equation pv= p0 v0 (1 + at). Now, obviously, if aSb = f (x) dx÷(a), then pv = RT and vS f (x,y,z) dV = 0. It’s as simple as two plus two equals four.” At this point Boltzman remembered his promise. He turned to the blackboard, conscientiously chalked 2 + 2 = 4, and then breezed on, casually doing the complicated calculus in his head.

  Jacques Charles, the brilliant mathematician who discovered Charles’s Law (sometimes known as Gay-Lussac’s Law), which Boltzmann mentioned in his lecture, had a lunatic passion to become a famous paleographer—that is, a discoverer of ancient manuscripts. I think that being forced to share credit with Gay-Lussac may have unhinged him.

  He paid a transparent swindler named Vrain-Lucas 200,000 francs for holograph letters purportedly written by Julius Caesar, Alexander the Great, and Pontius Pilate. Charles, a man who could see through any gas, ideal or not, actually believed in these forgeries despite the fact that the maladroit Vrain-Lucas had written them in modern French on modern notepaper bearing modern watermarks. Charles even tried to donate them to the Louvre.

  Now, these men weren’t idiots. They were geniuses who paid a high price for their genius because the rest of their thinking was other-world. A genius is someone who travels to truth by an unexpected path. Unfortunately, unexpected paths lead to disaster in everyday life. This is what happened to Henry Hassel, professor of Applied Compulsion at Unknown University in the year 1980.

  Nobody knows where Unknown University is or what they teach there. It has a faculty of some two hundred eccentrics, and a student body of two thousand misfits—the kind that remain anonymous until they win Nobel prizes or become the First Man on Mars. You can always spot a graduate of U.U. when you ask people where they went to school. If you get an evasive reply like:

  “State,” or “Oh, a freshwater school you never heard of,” you can bet they went to Unknown. Someday I hope to tell you more about this university, which is a center of learning only in the Pickwickian sense.

  Anyway, Henry Hassel started home from his office in the Psychotic Psenter early one afternoon, strolling through the Physical Culture arcade. It is not true that he did this to leer at the nude coeds practicing Arcane Eurythmics; rather, Hassel liked to admire the trophies displayed in the arcade in memory of great Unknown teams which had won the sort of championships that Unknown teams win—in sports like Strabismus, Occlusion, and Botulism. (Hassel had been Frambesia singles champion three years running.) He arrived home uplifted, and burst gaily into the house to discover his wife in the arms of a man.

  There she was, a lovely woman of thirty-five, with smoky red hair and almond eyes, being heartily embraced by a person whose pockets were stuffed with pamphlets, microchemical apparatus, and a patella-reflex hammer—a typical campus character of U.U., in fact. The embrace was so concentrated that neither of the offending parties noticed Henry Hassel glaring at them from the hallway.

  Now, remember Ampère and Charles and Boltzmann. Hassel weighed one hundred and ninety pounds. He was muscular and uninhibited. It would have been child’s play for him to have dismembered his wife and her lover, and thus simply and directly achieve the goal he desired—the end of his wife’s life. But Henry Hassel was in the genius class; his mind just didn’t operate that way.

  Hassel breathed hard, turned and lumbered into his private laboratory like a freight engine. He opened a drawer labeled DUODENUM and removed a .45-caliber revolver. He opened other drawers, more interestingly labeled, and assembled apparatus.

  In exactly seven and one half minutes (such was his rage), he put together a time machine (such was his genius).

  Professor Hassel assembled the time machine around him, set the dial for 1902, picked up the revolver and pressed a button. The machine made a noise like defective plumbing and Hassel disappeared. He reappeared in Philadelphia on June 3, 1902, went directly to No. 1218 Walnut Street, a red-brick house with marble steps, and rang the bell. A man who might have passed for the third Smith Brother opened the door and looked at Henry Hassel.

  “Mr. Jessup?” Hassel asked in a suffocated voice.

  “Yes?”

  “You are Mr. Jessup?”

  “I am.”

  “You will have a son, Edgar? Edgar Allan Jessup—so named because of your regrettable admiration for Poe?”

  The third Smith Brother was startled. “Not that I know of,” he said. “I’m not married yet.”

  “You will be,” Hassel said angrily. “I have the misfortune to be married to your son’s daughter. Greta. Excuse me.” He raised the revolver and shot his wife’s grandfather-to-be.

  “She will have ceased to exist,” Hassel muttered, blowing smoke out of the revolver. “I’ll be a bachelor. I may even be married to somebody else . . . Good God! Who?”

  Hassel waited impatiently for the automatic recall of the time machine to snatch him back to his own laboratory. He rushed into his living room. There was his redheaded wife, still in the arms of a man.

  Hassel was thunderstruck.

  “So that’s it,” he growled. “A family tradition of faithlessness.

  Well, we’ll see about that. We have ways and means.” He permitted himself a hollow laugh, returned to his laboratory, and sent
himself back to the year 1901, where he shot and killed Emma Hotchkiss, his wife’s maternal grandmother-to-be. He returned to his own home in his own time. There was his redheaded wife, still in the arms of another man.

  “But I know the old bitch was her grandmother,” Hassel muttered. “You couldn’t miss the resemblance. What the hell’s gone wrong?”

  Hassel was confused and dismayed, but not without resources. He went to his study, had difficulty picking up the phone, but finally managed to dial the Malpractice Laboratory. His finger kept oozing out of the dial holes.

  “Sam?” he said. “This is Henry.”

  “Who?”

  “Henry.”

  “You’ll have to speak up.”

  “Henry Hassel!”

  “Oh, good afternoon, Henry.”

  “Tell me all about time.”

  “Time? Hmmm . . .” The Simplex-and-Multiplex Computer cleared its throat while it waited for the data circuits to link up.

  “Ahem. Time. (1) Absolute. (2) Relative. (3) Recurrent. (1) Absolute: period, contingent, duration, diurnity, perpetuity—”

  “Sorry, Sam. Wrong request. Go back. I want time, reference to succession of, travel in.”

  Sam shifted gears and began again. Hassel listened intently.

  He nodded. He grunted. “Uh huh. Uh huh. Right. I see. Thought so. A continuum, eh? Acts performed in past must alter future.

  Then I’m on the right track. But act must be significant, eh? Mass-action effect. Trivia cannot divert existing phenomena streams. Hmmm. But how trivial is a grandmother?”

  “What are you trying to do, Henry?”

  “Kill my wife,” Hassel snapped. He hung up. He returned to his laboratory. He considered, still in a jealous rage.

  “Got to do something significant,” he muttered. “Wipe Greta out. Wipe it all out. All right, by God! I’ll show ‘em.”

  Hassel went back to the year 1775, visited a Virginia farm and shot a young colonel in the brisket. The colonel’s name was George Washington, and Hassel made sure he was dead. He returned to his own time and his own home. There was his redheaded wife, still in the arms of another.

  “Damn!” said Hassel. He was running out of ammunition. He opened a fresh box of cartridges, went back in time and massacred Christopher Columbus, Napoleon, Mohammed and half a dozen other celebrities. “That ought to do it, by God!” said Hassel He returned to his own time, and found his wife as before.

  His knees turned to water; his feet seemed to melt into the floor. He went back to his laboratory, walking through nightmare quicksands.

  “What the hell is significant?” Hassel asked himself painfully.

  “How much does it take to change futurity? By God, I’ll really change it this time. I’ll go for broke.”

  He traveled to Paris at the turn of the twentieth century and visited a Madame Curie in an attic workshop near the Sorbonne.

  “Madame,” he said in his execrable French, “I am a stranger to you of the utmost, but a scientist entire. Knowing of your experiments with radium—Oh? You haven’t got to radium yet? No matter. I am here to teach you all of nuclear fission.”

  He taught her. He had the satisfaction of seeing Paris go up in a mushroom of smoke before the automatic recall brought him home. “That’ll teach women to be faithless,” he growled . . .

  “Guhhh!” The last was wrenched from his lips when he saw his redheaded wife still—But no need to belabor the obvious.

  Hassel swam through fogs to his study and sat down to think.

  While he’s thinking I’d better warn you that this not a conventional time story. If you imagine for a moment that Henry is going to discover that the man fondling his wife is himself, you’re mistaken.

  The viper is not Henry Hassel, his son, a relation, or even Ludwig Boltzmann (1844—1906). Hassel does not make a circle in time, ending where the story begins—to the satisfaction of nobody and the fury of everybody—for the simple reason that time isn’t circular, or linear, or tandem, discoid, syzygous, longinquitous, or pandicularted. Time is a private matter, as Hassel discovered.

  “Maybe I slipped up somehow,” Hassel muttered. “I’d better find out.” He fought with the telephone, which seemed to weigh a hundred tons, and at last managed to get through to the library.

  “Hello, Library? This is Henry.”

  “Who?”

  “Henry Hassel.”

  “Speak up, please.”

  “HENRY HASSEL!”

  “Oh. Good afternoon, Henry.”

  “What have you got on George Washington?”

  Library clucked while her scanners sorted through her catalogues. “George Washington, first president of the United States, was born in—”

  “First president? Wasn’t he murdered in 1775?”

  “Really, Henry. That’s an absurd question. Everybody knows that George Wash—”

  “Doesn’t anybody know he was shot?”

  “By whom?”

  “Me.”

  “When?”

  “In 1775.”

  “How did you manage to do that?”

  “I’ve got a revolver.”

  “No, I mean, how did you do it two hundred years ago?”

  “I’ve got a time machine.”

  “Well, there’s no record here,” Library said. “He still doing fine in my files. You must have missed.”

  “I did not miss. What about Christopher Columbus? Any record of his death in 1489?”

  “But he discovered the New World in 1492.”

  “He did not. He was murdered in 1489.”

  “How?”

  “With a forty-five slug in the gizzard.”

  “You again, Henry?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s no record here,” Library insisted. “You must be one lousy shot.”

  “I will not lose my temper,” Hassel said in a trembling voice.

  “Why not, Henry?”

  “Because it’s lost already,” he shouted. “All right! What about Marie Curie? Did she or did she not discover the fission bomb which destroyed Paris at the turn of the century?”

  “She did not. Enrico Fermi—”

  “She did.”

  “She didn’t.”

  “I personally taught her. Me. Henry Hassel.”

  “Everybody says you’re a wonderful theoretician, but a lousy teacher, Henry. You—”

  “Go to hell, you old biddy. This has got to be explained.”

  “Why?”

  “I forget. There was something on my mind, but it doesn’t matter now. What would you suggest?”

  “You really have a time machine?”

  “Of course I’ve got a time machine.”

  “Then go back and check.”

  Hassel returned to the year 1775, visited Mount Vernon, and interrupted the spring planting. “Excuse me, colonel,” he began.

  The big man looked at him curiously. “You talk funny, stranger,” he said. “Where you from?”

  “Oh, a freshwater school you never heard of.”

  “You look funny too. Kind of misty, so to speak.”

  “Tell me, colonel, what do you hear from Christopher Columbus?”

  “Not much,” Colonel Washington answered. “Been dead two, three hundred years.”

  “When did he die?”

  “Year fifteen hundred some-odd, near as I remember.”

  “He did not. He died in 1489.”

  “Got your dates wrong, friend. He discovered America in 1492.”

  “Cabot discovered America. Sebastian Cabot.”

  “Nope. Cabot came a mite later.”

  “I have infallible proof!” Hassel began, but broke off as a stocky and rather stout man, with a face ludicrously reddened by rage, approached. He was wearing baggy gray slacks and a tweed jacket two sizes too small for him. He was carrying a .45 revolver.

  It was only after he had stared for a moment that Henry Hassel realized that he was looking at himself and not relishing the sight.<
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  “My God!” Hassel murmured. “It’s me, coming back to murder Washington that first time. If I’d made this second trip an hour later, I’d have found Washington dead. Hey!” he called. “Not yet. Hold off a minute. I’ve got to straighten something out first.”

  Hassel paid no attention to himself; indeed, he did not appear to be aware of himself. He marched straight up to Colonel Washington and shot him in the gizzard. Colonel Washington collapsed, emphatically dead. The first murderer inspected the body, and then, ignoring Hassel’s attempt to stop him and engage him in dispute, turned and marched off, muttering venomously to himself.

  “He didn’t hear me,” Hassel wondered. “He didn’t even feel me. And why don’t I remember myself trying to stop me the first time I shot the colonel? What the hell is going on?”