_We've been taught from childhood that the earth is round and that
Columbus discovered America. But maybe we take too much on faith.
This first crossing for instance. Were you there? Did you see
Columbus land? Here's the story of a man who can give us the
straight facts._
The laughter brought spots of color to his cheeks. He stood there for a
while, taking it, and then decided he had had enough and would sit down.
A whisper of amusement still stirred the room as he returned to his seat
and the professor said,
"But just a moment, Mr. Jones. Won't you tell the class what makes you
think Columbus was not the 'bold skipper' the history books say he was.
After all, Mr. Jones, this is a history class. If you know more or
better history than the history books do, isn't it your duty to tell
us?"
[Illustration: He clutched at his slashed veins and snarled into the
face of death.]
"I didn't say he _wasn't_," Danny Jones said desperately as the laughter
started again. Some profs were like that, he thought. Picking on one
student and making the rest of the class laugh and think what a great
guy the prof was and what a prize dodo the hapless student was. "I
said," Danny went on doggedly, "Columbus might not have been--maybe
wasn't--the bold skipper the history books claim he was. I can't prove
it. No one can. I haven't a time machine."
Again it was the wrong thing to say. The professor wagged a finger in
front of his face and gave Danny a sly look. "Don't you," he said,
"don't you indeed? I was beginning to think you had been willed H. G.
Wells' famous literary invention, young man." That one had the class all
but rolling in the aisles.
Danny said desperately, "No! No, I mean, they don't even know for sure
if Columbus was born in Genoa. They just think he was. So they also
could be wrong about--"
Abruptly the professor's face went serious. "My dear Mr. Jones," he said
slowly, acidly, "don't you think we've had enough of fantasy? Don't you
think we ought to return to history?"
Danny sat down and for a moment shut his eyes but remained conscious of
everyone looking at him, staring at him, evaluating. It wasn't so easy,
he decided, being a sophomore transfer student from a big city college,
where almost everything went and there was a certain amount of anonymity
in the very size of the classes, to a small town college where every
face, after a week or so, was familiar. Danny wished he had kept his big
yap shut about Columbus, but it was too late now. They'd be ribbing him
for weeks....
On his way back to the dorm after classes he was hailed by a student who
lived down the hall from him, a fellow named Groves, who said, "How's
the boy, Danny. Next thing you'll tell us is that Cortez was really a
sexy Spanish broad with a thirty-eight bust who conquered Montezuma and
his Indians with sex appeal. Get it, boy. I said--"
"Aw, lay off," Danny grumbled.
The other boy laughed, then shrugged, then said, "Oh yeah, forgot to
tell you. There's a telegram waiting for you in the dorm. House-mother's
got it. Well, see you, Vasco da Gama."
Danny trudged on to the Georgian-style dormitory and went inside,
through the lobby and behind the stairs to the house-mother's office at
the rear of the building. She was a kindly-looking old woman with a halo
of white hair and a smile which made her a good copy of everyone's
grandmother. But now her face was set in unexpectedly grim lines.
"Telegram for you, Danny," she said slowly. "They read it over the
telephone first, then delivered it." She held out a yellow envelope.
"I'm afraid it's some bad news, Danny." She seemed somehow reluctant to
part with the little yellow envelope.
"What is it?" Danny said.
"You'd better read it yourself. Here, sit down."
Danny nodded, took the envelope, sat down and opened it. He read, MR.
DANNY JONES, WHITNEY COLLEGE, WHITNEY, VIRGINIA. REGRET TO INFORM YOU
UNCLE AVERILL PASSED AWAY LAST NIGHT PEACEFULLY IN HIS SLEEP LEAVING
UNSPECIFIED PROPERTY TO YOU. It was signed with a name Danny did not
recognize.
"I'm terribly sorry," the house-mother said, placing her hand on
Danny's shoulder.
"Oh, that's all right, Mrs. Grange. It's all right. You see, Uncle
Averill wasn't a young man. He must have been in his eighties."
"Were you very close to him, Danny?"
"No, not for a long time. When I was a kid--"
Mrs. Grange smiled.
"Well, when I was eight or nine, I used to see him all the time. We
stayed at his place on the coast near St. Augustine, Florida, for a
year. I--I feel sorry about Uncle Averill, Mrs. Grange, but I feel
better about something that happened in class today. I--I think Uncle
Averill would have approved of how I acted."
"Want to talk about it?"
"Well, it's just he always said never to take any so-called fact for
granted, especially in history. I can almost remember his voice now, the
way he used to say, 'if ever there's an argument in history, sonny, all
you ever get is the propaganda report of the side which won.' You know,
Mrs. Grange, I think he was right. Of course, a lot of folks thought old
Uncle Averill was a little queer. Touched in the head is what they
said."
"They oughtn't to say such things."
"Always tinkering around in his basement. Funny, nobody ever knew on
what. He wouldn't let anybody near the place. He had a time lock and
everything. What nobody could figure out is if he was trying so hard to
guard something that was in the basement, why did he sometimes disappear
for weeks on end without even telling anybody where he went. And I
remember," Danny went on musing, "every time he came back he went into
that harangue about history, as if somehow he had confirmed his
suspicions. He was a funny old guy but I liked him."
"You remembering him so vividly after all these years will be the best
epitaph your uncle could have, Danny. But what are you going to do?
About what he left you, I mean."
"Uncle Averill always liked promptness. If he left something for me,
he'd want me to pick it up immediately. I guess I ought to go down there
to St. Augustine as fast as I can."
"But your classes--"
"I'll have to take an emergency leave of absence."
"Under the circumstances, I'm sure the college will approve. Do you
think your uncle left you anything--well--important?"
"Important?" Danny repeated the word. "No, I don't think so. Not by the
world's standards. But it must have been important to Uncle Averill. He
was a--you know, an image-breaker--"
"An iconoclast," supplied Mrs. Grange.
"Yes'm, an iconoclast. But I liked him."