2.Ø1
Argust 15, 2721, 3:15pm
“...I’ll bet that’s not what you read in high school.” Maxwell Muddle, professor of history at Santa Barbara College, surveyed the amphitheater. Some of the faces registered alarm. Dr. Muddle, in his early forties, balding, but otherwise sound of mind and body, had a tendency to call on his students. Worse, he often did so without posing a discernible question. Gesturing to the top of the amphitheater, Muddle hazarded, “But that’s why you’re in college, isn’t it? To learn the truth?”
A fit of coughing broke out. Muddle scowled at the culprit, a graduate student named Angellica de Claire. Gellie was outfitted in a striped blouse, comfy leggings and black boots. Angellica had cinched her hair into a ponytail save for a springy lock that dangled in front of her left eye. She countered Muddle's frown with an exaggerated smile.
Accustomed to taunts of this sort from his teaching assistant, Muddle responded in kind. Clapping a hand over his heart, he crooned, “Thank you ever so much, Gellie. What would I do without you?”
Sensing Muddle’s sarcasm Angellica blipped out her tongue.
Over scattered chuckles, Muddle ignored Gellie's parry in favor of pursuing his elusive point. “Ironic as it may seem, the truth is..." He arched an eyebrow to emphasize the significance of his next statement, “...there is no such thing as truth.”
Pausing to roll up his sleeves Muddle observed the effect his remark had produced. As he hoped, his comment created a stir that, as the moments ticked by, escalated into an agitated buzz. Drawing on long experience Muddle often instigated a climate of disciplined rowdiness as a way of sparking interest in his lectures. He called out over the hubbub, “I repeat, if it’s truth you’re after, don’t bother searching for it in history books.”
This statement achieved the agreeable result—to Muddle’s ear—of arousing even greater rancor among his students. The uproar provided Muddle with an excuse to amplify his next thought. Filling his lungs, he cried, "And, in case you were wondering...the truth remains elusive because all historical facts are open to endless interpretations!” Muddle flung his arms wide, “Indeed, there are as many interpretations of history as there are interpreters. For some, the fall of Rhome was a disaster. For others..." He pumped a fist, "...a triumph!"
Muddle held his tongue to give his students time to ruminate. During the lull, Muddle swatted a spot of chalk on his slacks before posing a weighty question, "So, my fine young scholars, how do we know if one interpretation of history is better than another? Hmmm? Are all truths equal, or are some truths more equal than others?" Wandering to the front of the lecture dais Muddle splayed his hands, "Anyone care to comment?"
Intimidated by the cavernous lecture hall, the students shrank silent as snails into their seats. Muddle sympathized. If he was in their shoes, he would do the same.
Being a requirement for most majors Muddle's Western Civ classes usually filled to the rafters. Although high enrollments had made him the darling of administrators Muddle's popularity also had drawbacks. He often had nightmares about drowning in oceans of unmarked papers.
Muddle's question dangled. Being an opponent of torture Muddle decided to answer it himself. "You know those old chestnuts about wooden teeth and coonskin caps?" Muddle waggled his head to add a finer shade of balance to his next comment, “Let’s just say those versions of history don’t hew as close to truth as one might wish."
The professor grinned in anticipation of his next thought; a sales pitch that he always delivered on the first day of class, "That..." Muddle beamed,"...is why it's so important to study history!"
The fact that Muddle loved his work was a secret to no one. Students often grumbled about his exams, but few complained about his lectures. Even Muddle's most disenchanted students would often concede that Muddle had a flair for making mind-numbing drivel, like history, come to life.
Muddle's eyes sparkled as he drew the disparate threads of his lecture together, "When you begin to look closely, you will see that history is full of surprises. And most surprising of all..." He delayed half a beat for emphasis, "...is that history changes."
Gleefully, Muddle noted the consternation on his students' faces. "Surely..." Muddle bopped his forehead, "...if history is naught but a transcription of past events, then it can't change! ...Can it?"
As he prepared to dissect this mystery Muddle noticed an odd character seated in the amphitheater. It was not uncommon for students to attend class wearing all sorts of costumes. SBC was situated on a dazzling stretch of the Pacific coast and students often attended lectures sporting little more than bathing togs. But this guy was different. To begin with, the mystery man looked like he made a living by crawling through cobwebby caves. Nor, Muddle noted wryly, did Mr. Mysterioso blow much cash on dry cleaning. In response to Muddle’s gaze, the mystery man tugged his fedora down to cover his whiskery face.
Muddle tried not to stare. Strange as it seemed the mystery man could be just like any other student. SBC had recently launched a number of special degree programs for mid-career professionals. Muddle cajoled himself. Grubby or not, the mystery man probably had as much right to be in his classroom as anyone.
Speaking of classrooms, Muddle suddenly recalled that he was in the midst of a lecture. Thanks to the mystery man Muddle had completely lost his train of thought. Hmmm… Where was I? I remember something about the Rhoman Empire and then...Aww, nuts!
Muddle castigated himself, "You idiot! When will you learn? If you've got to daydream, do it in your office!!"
As a means of buying time Muddle tapped the microphone that was clipped to his shirt collar. The mike, as Muddle knew only too well, was in perfect working order and transformed his finger taps into ear-splitting thunderclaps, "Ka-THUNK! UNK-UNK!!"
While his students howled in fright, Muddle skittered to the lectern and riffled through his notes. Muddle soon found the point where he had drifted from his prepared comments. Seeing that it would be a simple matter to get his lecture back on track, Muddle heaved a sigh. "So..." the absent-minded professor recommenced, "...do you remember all that talk about truth?” The devilish gleam rekindled in Muddle’s eyes, “Well, if you study history carefully enough, you’ll quickly discover that it contains no truth whatsoever!"
Muddle's students shifted in their seats. Why their professor should be so elated about his field’s grievous shortcomings was a real puzzler.
Aware that he was skating on thin ice, Muddle added, "Once you delve into the illusions of orthodox history—such as, who deserves credit for discovering Amerrica—you will understand how the past can change, because..." Muddle’s pulse quickened, " ...you will have changed it!"
Muddle fell back a step and held his breath. He had dropped his bombshell. The professor exhaled slowly and agonizingly. Down and down sank his chest and with it went Muddle's hopes. Instead of erupting into riotous applause Muddle's students looked singularly unimpressed. Muddle imagined that he could hear crickets chirping in the amphitheater.
He sighed. Some things never change. Muddle encountered the same reaction whenever he trotted out his blockbuster theory of Historical Transitivity.
Crickets...
The gist of Muddle's theory was simple but provocative. Interpretations of the past often change when priorities shift in the present. Wars, dynasties, even entire historical epochs were forever falling in and out of historical fashion. With that in mind, historical transitivity asserted that the past was just as malleable as the present.
If Muddle’s theory had stopped there, he might have been able to generate enough polite interest to assuage his damaged ego. But Muddle insisted on adding another wrinkle that, as far as his students were concerned, pitched Muddle and his theory into the abyss of certifiable insanity.
Ever the optimist, Muddle was convinced that, with the right tools, he could do more than change the way that people interpret history. Muddle believed that, via the magic of historical transitivity, he would—somehow, some day!—find a way to alter the very course of human history. For Muddle, history was not a lifeless record of bygone events. Muddle believed that history contained all of the answers to humanity’s most vexing problems. All he had to do was identify the key turning points in history and then find a way to change their outcomes...for the better!!
Before he could finish that thought, Muddle noticed that Gellie had turned an odd shade of green. Her mouth fell open and she hoisted a shaky finger toward the classroom's flatscreen.
Being philosophically opposed to teaching with computer gadgetry Muddle rarely even glanced at the flatscreen. A screensaver typically scrolled innocuous Faux News teasers throughout Muddle’s low-tech lectures. Muddle was on the verge of shooshing Gellie outside for a breath of fresh air when he noticed similar expressions throughout the amphitheater. Curious, Muddle turned to examine the screen. What he saw nearly knocked him on his can.
Instead of Faux News blurbs, the SmartScreen displayed the mind-blowing image of a vast spacecraft descending over Washington, PC. Muddle guessed that the ship must be upwards of a kilometer—perhaps even two—in diameter. The ship was tall enough to hover a dozen meters above the White House, while, at its topmost curve, it was obscured by low-flying clouds. Though he found the idea bewildering, Muddle couldn’t help thinking that the spacecraft bore an uncanny resemblance to a colossal bike wheel. The wheel rotated at a modest pace, which drew attention to its sorry state of repair. In addition to being woefully out of true a majority of the ship’s spokes were either broken or missing.
As Muddle tallied the wheelcraft’s list of shocking defects, a column of purple light sputtered to life at its base. The purple beam struck the White House and, for one anxious moment, Muddle feared that it might vaporize the old plantation villa. But, instead of destroying the White House, the beam popped, fizzled and then conveyed three opaque forms to the rooftop.
The first figure to emerge from the beam was a large, orange humanoid. In addition to having sunset orange skin the alien’s body was shaped like an overripe citrus. The orange blob’s head was topped by candy floss hair and his doughy face was accented by a triple-double chin. The alien was just as pudgy below the neck as he was above. He wore a suit of armor—which would have been intimidating if the alien’s marshmallowy flesh didn’t protrude through its seams.
Following the dough ball a shirtless weasel wearing camo slacks stepped out of the beam. Without a shirt, it was evident that the weasel had undergone extensive cybernetic modification. There were sensors, metallic sinew and electric motors operating throughout the critter’s torso. The weasel’s eyes were sharp and accusing.
The third figure to step out of the beam was a spindly, self-conscious geek. The nerd was outfitted in a black scuba suit that was bedazzled with the moniker, “The Plumber!” Comically, the plumber also toted a toilet plunger over his shoulder much as a sentry would bear a rifle.
An object unspooled from the wheelcraft. When it dropped low enough, the weasel caught it, flipped a switch on its base and then spoke into it with a heavy east European accent, “Tisd, Tisd. Von, doo, tree. Ees vorking, eh? De mick?”
Loud speakers installed in the wheelcraft’s hull blasted the weasel’s mike test out to a ten block radius of the White House. The dough ball assured the weasel that he was indeed holding a hot mike.
“Hokay.” The weasel passed the mike to the dough ball, “You spick in de mick.”
The orange blob snatched the mike from the rodent's hand. Only then did Muddle notice that the dough ball’s hands were laughably tiny. In an abortive attempt to conceal this shortcoming, the blob had sheathed his right hand with a golden gauntlet. Even with the gauntlet, the poor guy had to use both hands to hold the mike. Gazing out over a swelling sea of spectators, the dough ball sneered, “Greetings, Earthlings!”
When he spoke, the blob scowled so much that Muddle wondered if his tongue had gone rancid, “Today, you have the honor of being addressed by the most awesome bazillionaire in the Infiniverse!”
Muddle blinked, “Did that guy just say he’s…?”
“That’s right,” The blob cut Muddle off, “You never thought you would be so lucky, did you?” To encourage audience feedback, the dough ball raised his right arm in an alarming approximation of a Nutzi salute.
There were gasps from Muddle’s students. Not believing his eyes, Muddle turned to Gellie, “Is this some kind of joke…?”
“That’s right…” The orange blob resumed, “...today you have the great good fortune—and I mean the really amazing fortune—of being addressed by the most amazing speaker who’s ever set foot in this shithole country.” The dough ball encouraged the crowd to shower him with affection, “Throughout my life, my two greatest assets have been mental stability and being, like, really smart. Which not everyone has. I can assure you.”
In response to a signal from the blob, the weasel and Plumber began whapping out a drumroll on their thighs.
The dough ball soaked up a few more moments of adulation before braying, “...Get ready to be amazed, Earthlings. Cuz, I am the one! The only!! URANUS BLOWHARD!!!
There was a confused silence. Practically everyone on Earth expected the speaker to confess that he was a poker-faced comedian rather than a nincompoop named Uranus, but that didn’t happen.
“No doubt…” Blowhard wagged a teensy finger at the White House crowd, “...you are wondering, ‘Why is this sex-pot bazillionaire wasting time on losers like us?’” Blowhard didn’t wait for his audience to register the insult, “The answer is that I have come here to help you.”
Uh, oh! Muddle’s skin crawled, What’s this guy up to?
“At great personal cost, I have come here…” Blowhard droned hypnotically, “...to build border walls, badmouth immigrants, commit high crimes and misdemeanors and, generally speaking, do everything I can to Make Amerrica Great Again. ”
No sooner had Blowhard uttered those altruistic sentiments than an infectious chant began to emanate from the wheelcraft.
“MAGA...MAGA...MAGA...”
Without knowing why, the crowd outside the White House felt a burning urge to chant.
“MAGA! MAGA! MAGA!”
Like pistons in an engine, Muddle’s students took up the chant.
“MAGA!! MAGA!! MAGA!!”
Like a fast-moving pandemic, people in every corner of the USA suddenly started babbling.
“MAGA!!! MAGA!!! MAGA!!!"
Feeling queasier by the moment, Muddle tried to dismiss his students, but his fare-thee-wells were drowned out by his students’ deafening cheers.
“MAGA!!! MAGA!!! MAGA!!!”