My
Shipmate—
Columbus
By STEPHEN WILDER
We've been taught from childhoodthat the earth is round andthat Columbus discovered America.But maybe we take too muchon faith. This first crossingfor instance. Were you there?Did you see Columbus land?Here's the story of a man whocan give us the straight facts.
The laughter brought spotsof color to his cheeks. Hestood there for a while, takingit, and then decided he hadhad enough and would sitdown. A whisper of amusementstill stirred the room ashe returned to his seat andthe professor said,
"But just a moment, Mr.Jones. Won't you tell the classwhat makes you think Columbuswas not the 'bold skipper'the history books say he was.After all, Mr. Jones, this is ahistory class. If you knowmore or better history thanthe history books do, isn't ityour duty to tell us?"
He clutched at his slashed veins and snarled into the face of death."I didn't say he wasn't,"Danny Jones said desperatelyas the laughter started again.Some profs were like that, hethought. Picking on one studentand making the rest ofthe class laugh and thinkwhat a great guy the prof wasand what a prize dodo thehapless student was. "I said,"Danny went on doggedly,"Columbus might not havebeen—maybe wasn't—thebold skipper the history booksclaim he was. I can't prove it.No one can. I haven't a timemachine."
Again it was the wrongthing to say. The professorwagged a finger in front ofhis face and gave Danny a slylook. "Don't you," he said,"don't you indeed? I was beginningto think you had beenwilled H. G. Wells' famousliterary invention, youngman." That one had the classall but rolling in the aisles.
Danny said desperately,"No! No, I mean, they don'teven know for sure if Columbuswas born in Genoa. Theyjust think he was. So they alsocould be wrong about—"
Abruptly the professor'sface went serious. "My dearMr. Jones," he said slowly,acidly, "don't you think we'vehad enough of fantasy? Don'tyou think we ought to returnto history?"
Danny sat down and for amoment shut his eyes but remainedconscious of everyonelooking at him, staring athim, evaluating. It wasn't soeasy, he decided, being a sophomoretransfer student froma big city college, where almosteverything went andthere was a certain amount ofanonymity in the very size ofthe classes, to a small towncollege where every face,after a week or so, was familiar.Danny wished he hadkept his big yap shut aboutColumbus, but it was too latenow. They'd be ribbing himfor weeks....
On his way back to thedorm after classes he washailed by a student who liveddown the hall from him, afellow named Groves, whosaid, "How's the boy, Danny.Next thing you'll tell us isthat Cortez was really a sexySpanish broad with a thirty-eightbust who conqueredMontezuma and his Indianswith sex appeal. Get it, boy. Isaid—"
"Aw, lay off," Danny grumbled.
The other boy laughed,then shrugged, then said, "Ohyeah, forgot to tell you.There's a telegram waitingfor you in the dorm. House-mother'sgot it. Well, see you,Vasco da Gama."
Danny trudged on to theGeorgian-style dormitory andwent inside, through the lobbyand behind the stairs tothe house-mother's office atthe rear of the building. Shewas a kindly-looking oldwoman with a halo of whitehair and a smile which madeher a good copy of everyone'sgrandmother. But now herface was set in