n and stared at a peeling blue-paper
liner. He rolled over and curled up. The bottom of the trunk was a good
fit. He reached up and found a rope dangling down toward him. He pulled
the lid down, smiling at his own credulity, and was engulfed in total
darkness.

But it would be wonderful, he found himself thinking. It would be the
most wonderful thing in the world, to be able to travel through time and
see for yourself what really had happened in all the world's colorful
ages and to take part in the wildest, proudest adventures of mankind.

He thought, I want to believe. It would be so wonderful to believe.

He also thought about his history class. He did not know it, but his
history class was very important. It was crucial. Everything depended on
his history class. Because he doubted. He did not want to take Columbus'
bravery and intelligence for granted. There were no surviving documents,
so why should he?

Maybe Columbus was a third-rater!

Maybe--at least you didn't have to worship him as a hero just because he
happened to discover ...

Now, what did he discover?

In absolute darkness and a ringing in the ears and far away a dim
glowing light and larger and brighter and the whirling whirling spinning
flashing I don't believe but strangely somehow I have faith, faith in
myself, buzzing, humming, glowing ...

The world exploded.

There was a great deal of laughter in the tavern.

At first he thought the laughter was directed at him. Giddily, he raised
his head. He saw raw wood rafters, a leaded glass window, a stained and
greasy wall, heavy wood-plank tables with heavy chairs and a
barbarous-looking crew drinking from heavy clay mugs. One of the mugs
was in front of him and he raised it to his lips without thinking.

It was ale, the strongest ale he had ever tasted. He got it down somehow
without gagging. The laughter came again, rolling over him like a wave.
A serving girl scurried by, skirts flashing, a rough tray of clay mugs
balanced expertly on one hand. A man with a sword dangling at his side
staggered to his feet drunkenly and clawed at the girl, but she shoved
him back into his seat and kept walking.

The third wave of laughter rolled and then there was a brief silence.

"Drink too much, Martin Pinzon?" Danny's companion at the long
board-table asked. He was an evil-looking old man with a patch over one
eye and a small white spade-shaped beard and unshaven cheeks.

"Not me," Danny said, amazed