It was toward this sound that Reggie hurried. The whole camp was aroused now. He could still hear Alaric’s voice trumpeting like an enraged elephant. Flares were visible now, as the barbarians tramped about in search of him.
Reggie reached the horses not a second too soon. Three Goths rounded a corner and began bawling loudly as they sighted him. Reggie untied a champing stallion and vaulted onto its back. The horse reared and plunged like a demon but Reggie clamped his long arms around the animal’s neck and clung like a burr.
“N—n—ice h—ho—horsey,” he panted into the jolting horse’s ear, “t—take—it easy.”
Either the horse recognized Reggie’s plight and decided to lend a helping hand or it just needed exercise for it suddenly plunged into the street, steadied its stride into a ground-eating gallop and left Alaric’s camp like an arrow from a bow.
Reggie’s heart felt a glow of hope, but seconds later it was thoroughly quenched. Risking his life and limb on a glance over his shoulder he saw a body of horsemen racing after him, and in back of them, he could see hundreds of shadowy figures mounting and preparing to ride. The whole camp was awakening. A harsh bugle signal sounded and Reggie’s last glimpse of Alaric’s camp showed him a scene of frantic and feverish activity. All for him.
“This is your party,” Reggie told the horse desperately, “I’m just along for the ride.”
* * * *
It was a ride he never forgot. Over the rutted narrow roads and through the thick knee-high grass his horse galloped swiftly; but behind him, Alaric’s screaming horsemen inched closer and closer.
In a glance Reggie saw that Alaric was leading his men, mounted on a splendid white stallion. In that terrified glance Reggie could see Alaric’s face twisted in rage and fury and he could see the infamous Vanderveer jaw clamped like an excavation shovel. The hoarse, savage cries of his pursuers brought the short hairs up on Reggie’s neck.
Reggie licked his dry lips. He’d have to ride this one out. He could escape with his Time Machine but he’d lose forever his chance of preventing Alaric from sacking Rome.
The horse was laboring now as they charged up the grass-covered hill overlooking Rome. From its summit, Reggie had a panoramic view of the mighty city, gleaming palely in the moonlight. Then he was clinging frantically for dear life as his charger thundered down the side of the hill toward the slumbering city. Behind him he heard the savage screams of Alaric’s hordes as they breasted the hill and charged down after him.
The rest of the ride was a jumbled, hideous nightmare, comprised of screaming barbarians behind him, a jolting bundle of dynamite beneath him and the sanctuary of Rome far ahead.
But miraculously, incredibly, he made it. With his horse trembling from fatigue and heaving with exertion, Reggie swept into a hard-packed boulevard that led into the heart of Rome. Toga-clad citizens stared wildly at him, and then fled in terror as they beheld the fearsome horde of barbarians who were pouring into the city like a wild flood.
Reggie dug his heels into the flanks of his mount and was rewarded with a last burst of speed. He charged toward the center of the city, aware that the yells and screams of the barbarians were growing fainter as he pulled away from them.
Thanking his lucky stars fervently, Reggie turned his mount off the main boulevard and raced up a side street that led to the outskirts of the city.
Everywhere he saw fleeing citizens, madly plunging horses, excited soldiers of the Roman legions.
Racing on, Reggie soon left Rome behind him. But he still did not feel secure, and it wasn’t until he reached a small hill a mile or so from the city that he was able to relax and rein his spent horse. He slid from the horse, his knees trembling, his breath surging in and out like a tide. He mopped his damp forehead with a shuddering hand. “That,” he said wearily, “beats anything Tom Mix ever did.”
Then he looked toward Rome. His knees buckled at the sight.
Rome was in flames! Half of the city was burning and by the leaping flames Reggie could see the savage, bearded horsemen of Alaric, charging through the streets of the city, slaughtering, pillaging, burning everything in their path.
Reggie’s knees gave way completely and he sank to a sitting position. The destruction was immeasurable; the holocaust was complete. Slowly to his stunned brain came understanding.
He was witnessing the sacking of Rome!
There could be no doubt of it. It was going on before his very eyes. This was the invasion and destruction of Rome by Alaric the Goth that history had recorded.
Reggie groaned, a heart-felt, heartsick groan that came from deep inside him. For another sickening realization was forced onto his brain.
The sacking of Rome, that historians made so much of, was nothing but an accident caused by Reggie Vliet. Alaric had followed him into the city, but once there, his men had fallen on the inhabitants in barbaric frenzy.
Reggie shuddered. He was responsible for the sacking of Rome! If he had just left everything alone it would never have happened, the course of world history would have been different, the Vanderveer’s would be different and Sandra Vanderveer would have been his.
On that tiny hill overlooking the burning city of Rome, Reggie’s spirits sank to their lowest ebb. He had botched everything, so far, messed up the whole works. There was only one consolation that presented itself to his haggard hopes.
He still had, roughly speaking, sixteen centuries ahead of him, in which to change the course of world history. This thought renewed his confidence, flagged and fanned his expiring hopes, to a slight extent.
He looked at his Time Machine and his eyes gleamed: The fifteenth century looked promising. Reggie set the machine firmly, with determination. He looked down at the conflagration that was Rome and his lips tightened. A man couldn’t be wrong all the time. Or could he?
“Columbus,” he muttered, “here I come!”
* * * *
Reggie set the machine unhurriedly. There was a new quality of deliberation and purpose in his actions. This popping about in Time had been something of a lark at first, something whimsical and comical; but now the Vliet mood had changed. Grim efficiency was replacing his former slipshoddiness. The episode with Alaric had done something to him, made him see things in a new light. If he were going to succeed in re-arranging history he’d have to be more business-like about it. He had three chances left now. No more shenanigans, no more slip-ups. Efficiency? Pip pip! Pronto!
With this high resolve burning in his heart, Reggie’s hand moved to the send-off button. “Columbus,” he thought to himself, “your Genoese goose is cooked!”
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 chee
ks.
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 th
e 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.
The Second Time Travel Megapack: 23 Modern and Classic Stories Page 50