I have to write a paper for my math class. We are supposed to research a mathematician and write up his (or her) contributions to mathematics in the format of an interview. A fictional interview, says the professor, but I have other plans.
I look up Rene Descartes in Britannica and check up on the years. Eesh, they aren't as specific as I'd like, but I pick Germany, 1633, and hope for the best as I twirl the dials on the time machine to zero in on my subject. This is a low end model and deposits one at one's destination (or close enough for government work) in a cloud of smoke. It's like they want their customers to get burned at the stake.
Pow! I arrive. Coughing from the smoke, I duck into an alley and peek out into the street to survey the scene. I have to elbow a cutpurse in the throat, but otherwise the alley is not bad as seventeenth century alleys go and I expect to escape with my life, although my shoes will be ruined. Across the street, three large men are unloading barrels off a wagon and arguing in German. Right country anyhow, and the buildings look right for my target era: some stone, some half timbered, all dirty. My smoke clears without anyone pointing and shouting at it. Usually it's mistaken for fire and I get water thrown on me, but here most of the people around are more interested in the barrels.
Church bells ring cacophonously and between them and the sun, I guess it's afternoon. According to my research, Descartes was (is) a late riser, so he should be up by now. Looking out for someone who looks more French than the rest, I keep an eye on a straggle of pedestrians. One of them, with long dark hair visible beneath his hat and a rather scruffy mustache, is staring at the sky and doesn't notice the cutpurse (moving on to easier game) edging up behind him.
Even if he's not my mathematician, I figure I'll help the guy out anyway. I grab the cutpurse by his greasy collar and sling him against the wall—I'm small in the twenty-first century, but I'm a damn giantess here. That's the one thing I love about early modern Europe: no one fucks with me.
"Monsieur Descartes? Je m'appelle—" I introduce myself and make my request for an interview. "Pour ma classe de mathématique—"
My mark blinks up vaguely at me. Either he didn't notice me dealing with the cutpurse and can see no reason for my addressing him, or my bad twenty-first century French is totally incomprehensible here.
Sighing, I let the Babelfish take over. This time he understands and we chat for a little while. Right now he's staying with an alchemist and I can't stop myself from telling him to avoid the evaporated mercury. I want to ask him about geometry, but I just know he'll want a table to write on. I point to the tavern across the street, now fully stocked with ale, and ask him if he'd like to get a drink.
"Oh, I think not," he says, and disappears.
I about have heart failure right there. He won't publish the Meditations till 1641! I tap my time machine against the wall and recheck the paradox-prevention mechanism. Damn cheap-ass piece of shit.
564 words | April 5, 2004 10:29 PM | Story