by Anthology
Then he pressed the button.
The sensations of speed and sound enveloped him immediately. Blackness rushed in on him like a swelling tidal wave. Then—oblivion . . .
Reggie opened his eyes and beheld two beady eyes, set in a sharp brown face, stared down at him. Reggie blinked twice and then he saw that the eyes and the face were attached to a grinning, gnome-like man dressed in quaint comical clothes and a sweeping be-plumed hat. The ludicrous appearance of the hat made Reggie think wistfully of Sandra, and reminded him of the purpose of it all.
“What-ho,” Reggie said by way of greeting. Then he sat up and peered around him. He was seated on what looked to be an unused wharf, facing a vast expanse of water. The sun was chinning itself on the horizon and its long brilliant lances of light were striking the incredibly blue water and glancing up into his eyes.
“Well, I’ll be,” Reggie cried in delighted recognition, “That’s the Mediterranean. And this must be near Genoa, the home of Christopher Columbus.”
He heard a shrill, spontaneous giggle behind him as he finished speaking. He turned and saw the comically dressed little man laughing uproariously. His monkey-like face was convulsed with merriment and tears of mirth were trickling down his brown cheeks.
Reggie scratched his head in bewilderment. “What’s the joke?” he asked, slightly nettled. “What’s so terribly funny?”
The little man stopped laughing long enough to wipe his eyes. “I am so sorry,” he said, his voice trembling with suppressed laughter, “but I cannot help it. You say Christopher’s name and”—here the little fellow’s voice broke and giggles began to trickle from his lips—“and I cannot help it. I am so sorry.” He began to laugh again, slapping his sides in unrestrained glee. “It is so very, very funny,” he choked at last.
“Must be,” Reggie said dryly. “Would you mind letting me in on it?”
“Oh I am so sorry,” the little man gurgled, “I am being rude, no? My name is Guiseppe. And you, my friend are—?” He paused.
“Randhope—Reggie Randhope,” Reggie answered. “I’m from America.”
“America?” Guiseppe pronounced the word gingerly and his brows knitted together in a frown. “Where is that?”
“Oh, I forgot,” Reggie said. “You wouldn’t know anything about that. It hasn’t been discovered yet. And,” he added to himself, “it never will be if I can get to this guy Columbus.”
Guiseppe, he noticed, was looking at him rather queerly. Reggie’s eyes dropped to his torn dusty toga and to his frayed Roman sandals. He smiled reassuringly. “Kinda silly clothes,” he said. “Do you think you could find me something a little more appropriate?”
“You want to change your clothes, no?” Guiseppe asked.
“I want to change my clothes, yes,” Reggie answered.
He crawled to his feet, then, and stood up. Looking around, he saw a small square, bounded by stone railings, and beyond that he saw Genoa. He knew it immediately. It was just like a scene from a costume movie. Crooked cobbled streets twisted their way through a maze of ridiculous pointed houses with narrow long windows. Early rising vendors and peddlers pushed their carts before them; and off in the distance, Reggie could see church spires rising against the cold blue background of the Italian sky. For a fleeting instant Reggie thought of the barbarian Alaric and his miserable failure to prevent the sacking of Rome. A feeling of discouragement, of futility grew in him but he shoved it resolutely from his mind. This was a new chance, a new world, and a new Reggie Vliet. He wouldn’t fail, he couldn’t. For Sandra and himself he must succeed.
“Never mind the clothes,” he said firmly, “just lead me to this fellow Christopher Columbus.”
“Please, p-please,” Guiseppe’s voice was cracking again, “that name—it does things to me. I can’t help myself. Please—” His voice crescendoed helplessly into a shrill hysterical cackle. He doubled over, clutching his sides, his face reddening like a tomato. Finally, breathless and weak, he straightened up. “You must excuse me,” he giggled, “but I am unable to control myself.”
“So I see,” Reggie said. “What’s the gag? Why do you start laughing like a hyena when you hear that name?”
“I will try to explain to you,” Guiseppe said, controlling his voice with an obvious effort. “I will tell you why I laugh. I will tell you why all Genoa she laugh too. I will tell you and then, you and me, we will laugh together until we are too weak to laugh anymore.”
“Go on,” Reggie said uneasily. “I’ll try and keep my head.”
“All right, then listen to me.” Guiseppe moved closer, a shadow of a laugh dancing in his voice. “This Christopher Columbus, he live here in Genoa all his life. He good boy. But listen, now, what he thinks. He think—” Guiseppe’s hands pressed against his sides—“he thinks and he says and he argue with everybody that—that the earth, she is round.” Guiseppe roared gleefully. “There I have told you. Is it not crazy? Is it not fantastic? This crazy boy cries that the earth is round and he says he will prove it. Is it not something to laugh at? Laugh, my friend! Laugh with all Genoa at this crazy Christopher Columbus!”
Reggie essayed a feeble grin. Then he chuckled. Then he laughed. Finally, transported by merriment, he sank to the ground, clutching his sides, laughing frenziedly at the ludicrous idea of a round earth.
“It’s wonderful,” he gasped, minutes later, “positively wonderful. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t heard it with my own ears.”
“You see,” Guiseppe gurgled. “I told you you would laugh with all Genoa.”
“Yes indeed,” Reggie chortled. “A round earth! the very idea! Why that’s the most—” Reggie’s voice died away, his smile faded. A sudden thought had occurred to him. The earth was round!
“Look, Guiseppe,” he cried, “Columbus is right. We’re wrong. The earth is round.”
This sent Guiseppe off into fresh roars of delirious mirth. “You make good joke!” he cried, when the attack was over. “Very good joke.”
“It’s no joke,” Reggie said glumly. “Now look, Guiseppe, take me to Columbus.”
A thought was bobbing around in Reggie’s head. If everyone thought Columbus was a bit touched for thinking the world round, it wouldn’t do for Reggie Randhope to run around saying the same thing! Wouldn’t do at all. He’d wind up in the local nut house with Columbus.
“Yes sir,” he said “good joke of mine. This boy Columbus must be quite a card, yes indeed. Thinks the world is round, does he? Well sir, I’d like to meet him. Yes sir.”
Guiseppe looked at him a trifle doubtfully, Reggie thought, but finally he bobbed his head. “I take you,” he said, “I take you to this crazy Columbus who thinks the world is round.” Guiseppe threw his head back and started laughing all over again. Reggie joined in heartily . . .
Guiseppe led Reggie through miles of labyrinthine streets, past dozens of shops and dwellings, and finally stopped in front of a weather-beaten building with crooked windows and a sagging, worn-looking door.
“Columbus lives here,” Guiseppe confided, “Go in. He is always happy to tell someone about his plans to prove the world is round. Even you,” Guiseppe said, with another long glance at Reggie’s curious raiment, “would be welcome.”
“Well, thanks a lot,” Reggie said. Impulsively, he stretched out his hand and clasped Guiseppe’s. You’ll never know how much this means to me.” Then he turned and knocked on the door of Columbus’ house. In a few short minutes the door was opened by a tall, moody, dark-haired young man, who stared glumly at Reggie. Reggie heard a chuckle behind him and he turned in time to see Guiseppe staggering down the street, roaring with laughter.
“What-ho,” Reggie said to the tall young man. “Know anything about this chap Columbus?”
“I am Christopher Columbus,” the young man answered sadly. “Who seeks me?”
“I do,” Reggie answered. “I’d like to talk to you. May I come in?”
Columbus shrugged. Without answering, he stepped aside
and Reggie entered the house. It was dark inside, but he could see maps and compasses strewn about a large table and various instruments of navigation attached to the walls. Columbus waved him wearily to a rickety-looking chair and seated himself on a stool before the long work table. He rested his chin forlornly on his hands. “What did you want to talk to me about?” he muttered unenthusiastically.
“Well, now—” Reggie hitched his chair a little closer—“it’s about this nonsense of the world being round. I understand you’ve got some silly idea about that. First of all, I want to tell you that you’re absolutely, positively barking up the wrong tree.”
“What?” Columbus looked closer at him.
“Just a manner of speaking,” Reggie said hurriedly, “let’s get back to the point. The earth is not round. It can’t be. Any fool can see that. Now, look. If the earth is round, it must have a top and a bottom. Now, if that were true everybody on the bottom of the earth would be standing on their heads. Now, seriously, doesn’t that sound pretty ridiculous?”
“But the sails disappear over the horizon,” Columbus cried. “How can you explain that? Oh, I’m so confused and discouraged. Maybe you’re right. The whole world can’t be wrong. Everyone has laughed at me and derided me ever since I first conceived the dream of a western route to the Indies. It is not possible that I am right and everyone else is wrong. But—” Columbus’ eyes traveled longingly to a large map pinned to the wall. “Will I never know what mysteries lie behind the horizon of our own knowledge?”
“Don’t worry about those things, Chris old boy.” Reggie hurried on, taking advantage of Columbus’ disheartened attitude. “Pick out a nice cuddly girl for yourself and settle down here in good old Genoa. Your friends are here, your family is here and you couldn’t find a better spot on the globe to raise your own family. What do you say, Chris, forget these wild ideas of yours and put your roots down here.”
Columbus stood up and clenched his fists. His eyes focused on the huge wall map with a burning glare. “You have decided me,” he whispered tensely. “My work has been a tragic failure. I go now to the dock.”
“You mean,” Reggie said hopefully, “you’re—you’re going to end it all?”
Columbus threw a coat over his shoulder, placed a be-plumed hat on his dark head. “Accompany me,” he said darkly. “You will see what your words have done.”
Reggie jumped to his feet. “I’m sorry you feel that I’ve driven you to commit suicide, Chris; but maybe it’s the best way after all.”
Columbus jerked open the door and strode into the morning sunlight, Reggie trotting happily at his heels. Through the now bustling streets they moved swiftly. Reggie was experiencing the delightfully intoxicating elixir of success. He felt a slight pang of conscience as he looked at Columbus’ youthful, brooding, determined face but he shrugged mentally. You couldn’t change history without causing a little trouble along the line. The thought that he was to be present at Columbus’ suicide buoyed him up, filled him with a sense of importance.
“I think you’ve got a great idea,” he said breathlessly, as they wended their way through the crowds. “Just don’t change your mind, that’s all. After all, it will all be over in a few minutes.”
Soon they were nearing the water front. Columbus’ strides were longer, his jaw harder as they marched side by side down the last hundred feet that separated them from the blue water. There was a small ship just embarking from the dock and a small crowd of cheering Italians waved and shouted on the dock. Through these, Columbus shoved his way, with Reggie bringing up the rear. Columbus turned at the edge of the dock, gripped Reggie’s hand. “Goodbye,” he said. “Your words have done this to me. Your words have given me the courage to face death itself.”
“Well, old boy,” Reggie said cheerfully, “hurry along, don’t waste any time y’know. Make up your mind and strike while the iron is hot. Pip! Pip! old fellow.”
“Farewell!” Columbus said sorrowfully. Then he wheeled swiftly and jumped—a long, arching jump that deposited him with a thump on the deck of the departing sailing ship!
Reggie’s mouth dropped open. “Wait a minute!” he yelled. “You can’t do that. Where do you think you’re going?”
“To Spain,” Columbus shouted exultantly, “to borrow money from Isabella. My success I will owe to you. When you referred to this earth as a globe, something in my mind came alive again. I started for the dock, but without your encouragement I would have turned back, as I have on countless other occasions. Thank you, noble stranger, and may you be blessed to the end of your days.”
“Come back!” Reggie yelled frantically. His mind was a wild maelstrom of despair and chagrin. Columbus was leaving, escaping to borrow the necessary money from Isabella. Reggie acted with the desperation of an inspired fanatic. He dashed back into the crowd, wheeled and raced for the edge of the dock.
“You won’t get away from me!” he yelled. Then he was flying through the air. It was a noble effort, a splendid, magnificent effort. His thin body hurtled through the ozone, the tattered toga flying behind him like the tail of a kite. His grasping fingers, distended like the talons of an eagle, grabbed for the rail. Grabbed—and missed!
Reggie clawed frantically at the side of the boat. But it was a futile gesture. The next instant his twisting body dropped with a painful splash into the murky water.
Reggie’s first sensation was a bitter galling sense of failure. His next was hardly more comforting. He couldn’t swim! He realized that as he sank for the first time. It was demonstrated to him as he sank for the second time. Sputtering, gasping, strangling, Reggie started down for the third time.
With his last desperate strength he groped for his Time Machine. He tried to set the machine for the Revolutionary War but his eyes were filmed with water and he could hardly see his hands. He was sinking into the greenish water as he made the last frantic adjustment. Then he pressed the button. A pounding, roaring noise filled his ears but whether this was heralding his escape or his death he didn’t know. Then a smothering blackness descended upon him . . .
The black, whirling feeling of flying through Time had become common to Reggie, and so it was without surprise or shock that he woke to find himself reclining on the floor of a long veranda.
It was night. The cold gloomy blackness that settled over him matched the condition of the Vliet soul. He sat up and tasted the ashes of despair and futility in his mouth. Off a way, he saw an ice-locked river glinting in the moonlight. It was, he knew, the Delaware and that meant that he was now in Trenton during the Revolution.
“Trenton,” Reggie muttered. “Bah!”
He glanced at his Time Machine. If the thingamajig was still working, he must be right in the thick of the Revolutionary War. Reggie thought about this for a while. The Revolutionary War was quite a biggish thing in history. And he hoped to fix it so England would win instead of—
“Oh, what’s the use?” he groaned.
He had botched everything he had touched, so far. Anthony and Cleopatra! Alaric! Chris Columbus! He had tried to change the history of these immortals and had merely made history.
He was a hopeless, dismal failure. He had lost Sandra through his own sloppiness and inability. Still the thought buzzed in his head like a persistent gadfly—there was yet a chance for him if he could disrupt the course of the Revolutionary War. If he could do that—the Randhope optimism was rising to the fore—it might rectify all his past mistakes.
Reggie stood up, his cheeks flushed. “Try, try again,” he whispered jubilantly to the darkness. Peering about, he saw a pair of swinging doors a dozen feet from him. A pale flickering light shone through these onto the floor of the veranda. Listening closely, Reggie could hear muted voices from within the structure.
He still wore his tattered Roman toga. Entering the house cautiously, he discovered a hall clothes closet. Fumbling in the dark he found clothes and donned a suit blindly. Then he reentered the hall.
Reggie squared his shoulders
, strode to the inner doors, shoved them open and entered. In spite of the poor illumination, Reggie could see that the room was large and well-furnished. A half dozen soldiers who were lounging against the wall sprang to their feet and saluted smartly.
“My General,” one of them said breathlessly, “we did not know you would make an inspection on Christmas Eve.”
Reggie tried to cover his surprise. “Well, now, didn’t you?” he said. “And what made you think I wouldn’t?”
The soldier, a phlegmatic, stolid fellow peered closely at Reggie. “What is this?” he muttered. “You are not our commander, yet you wear the uniform of a general.”
Before he finished speaking he had grabbed Reggie by the arm and dragged him unceremoniously into the circle of light cast by the one lighted lantern in the room.
“Comrades,” he exclaimed. “This man wears the uniform of France! What does this mean? Rumor has it that France is ready to declare war against England.”
There was an ominous growl from the men encircling Reggie.
“Now, just a minute,” Reggie put in hastily. “Who are you fellows?”
“We are Hessians,” their spokesman answered, “fighting in the cause of England. The report is being circulated that your government, the Government of France, is ready to throw their aid to the colonies in their fight against England. If that is true, then you must be a spy. The penalty for that you well know.”
Reggie glanced about the circle of unfriendly faces. Everything he did seemed to get him into more trouble. It was the only thing he did well. But the realization that almost all of his stopping places in Time had been used up, put new starch in his back-bone. This was his fourth stop. He only had five. He was perilously close to the end of his rope. If he didn’t pull the cat out of the fire they’d be throwing him into it.
“Listen, boys,” he said, in what he hoped was a chummy tone of voice, “if I were a spy, do you think I’d come marching in here like this?” Taking advantage of their momentary hesitation he rushed on. “And furthermore, that talk about France helping the colonies is a lot of bunk. As a French officer—I can say that with authority.”