AOH :: JAUNT.TXT A Time-travel jaunt
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Subject: A Quick Jaunt With A Madman
Keywords: Time Travel in a Ford Escort

It's been quiet around the lab recently.  Deathly quiet, one
might say.

A few days back I started to piece together an apparatus for
time travel, and to be completely honest, it is working like
a charm.
Mad, am I?  Perhaps.  But remember that they said the same of
Da Vinci and Van Gough.

How does this impossiblity work, you ask?  Simple.  As we
know (or at least strongly believe), the speed of light is
unattainable.  But if, just say if we do attain light speed,
we can travel back in time, correct?  So the theory goes,
anywho.  But speed is simply motion in reference to a given
point, correct?

Ah, and that's the beauty of it all.  Mad as a hatter they'll
say.  Ah, who cares.  As long as my Truely Evil Cat/Familiar
Desdinova the Cat understands, all is well.  She is the one
that gave me the idea.  Mad as a hatter.

Speed.  Two cylinders rotating antiparallel to each other.
Each going at a little better than half the speed of light
(there is a slight distortion in the space/time continuum
as you approach light speed, so I compensated for it with the
extra speed.), and in reference to each other, they are going
at light speed.  Using certaing rather minor modifications to
a Ford Escort (stick-I've made her into a 12-speed transmission
to help the acceleration process)  I devised a cockpit of sorts,
and I altered the innard of a Sears radio to help out in the

As of yet, I haven't really talked to anyone of great importance
(I don't want to screw up history too much.  Don't know what
that will do to me.  Could create a paradox under which I may
never exist.).  The trip, however, is extremely interesting.

Mad, they'll say.  Looney.  Nutz.  Crazy.  I can smell it.
Give him a long sleeved lab coat and a box of crayons.

First, I climb into the "cockpit", which is nestled inside
the two cylinders.  Turn on the ignition, and the cylinders
begin to rotate.  Basically, nothing major happens until you
hit about 8th gear, when you cross from subspace into the
secondary continuum (that is what I call it.  It lays between
subspace and hyperspace.).  Shapes begin to shift.  Straight
lines cease to exist.  Light begins to collect in little
eddies along the edges of the cockpit as I begin to actually
begin to make ripples in it.  Beautiful.  Have you ever seen
a multifacted prism?  That is what it is like-looking into a
liquid polyhedron.  A sight meant for the very Gods themselves.
Even if they don't exist.

But I swear to you that it is true.  No matter how mad I may seem,
it is true.

When you hit 11th gear, you enter into lower hyperspace (there's
a nasty kick as you enter.  Wear your seatbelt.)  The starfield
is this really wild streaked mosaic.  The clock stops as you get
close to outrunning its Mentor.

Then you hit 12th.  There's a flash of light (wear sunglasses)
and things go black.  It takes a few minutes for the light to
accelerate to the point where it can keep up with you.

This is True Hyperspace.  Clocks reverse, trees grow young and
return to seed, water undoes its own work on stones and river
beds, Mother Nature begins once again to harmonize with Sister
Earth and Father Time.

I dare not go forward yet.  I don't want to see things growing old
and dying, man destroying everything that Mother Nature and Sister
Nature have meticulously made through their own savage manipulation.

Of course I'm mad.  Don't question that.  I am crazy.  I have to
be.

But I think I'm going to go back.  Back before apes descended from
the trees.  Back before the human race decided that we are superior
to all else, that Nature would have to bow down before us and
submit.

Okay,  enough of the technical stuff.  One need not know that
when  the  speed  of  light  is  approached  that  the star field
becomes  distorted  and  that  you  get  some  incredible  photon
eddying  effects.   Fascinating  perhaps  only  to the one deemed
"unfit to associate with for reasons of insanity."

I  don't  care.  Let them all rot in their own private little
hells.   They  can have them.  I care not for their desire to fit
in  with  everybody  else.   I  care  not for the conformity, the
silly  formality  and  social  graces which restrict the mind and
soul to earthly pursuits.

Idiots,  all of them.  Fools.  Even the scientific community,
for  which  I  have  lived  all  of my life, thinks this is all a
raving  fantasy.   'Time travel is impossible,' they say.  'Leave
it  to the silly sci-fi writers to deal with.  At least they know
what they do is fiction.'

As  if  I do not.  I, who stood before them, lauded as one of
the  greatest  minds  of  qunatum physics and relativity.  I, the
man  that  recieved  the  Nobel  Prize  in 1994 for work that was
nothing  compared  to  what  I  have  done now.  And they cast me
aside, telling me that my mind has finally cracked.

Who  do they think they are?  Once I sat in the chairs of the
Gods,  and  now  I  subsist  in  their sewers.  Bitter, am I, you
ask?  I don't see why I shouldn't be.  I have the right.

I  must  prove them wrong.  I must.  They must believe me, no
matter how difficult it is for them to accept.

But  wait.   What  if someone more insane than I wants to use
what  I  have  discovered  as  a tool for evil?  One must realize
that  I  am  not  evil, only crazy.  There is a grave difference.
One  can  be completely sane and be evil, as can a raving lunatic
such as myself be compelled to be a force for good.

So  I  must  leave.   Take  all  my research with me, burn it
perhaps,  but my love of knowledge and sharing is greater than my
loathing  of  humanity.   Because  at the base of everything, the
human  race  is  inherantly good.  My only consolation is that no
matter  how  I  hate  people, that at the base of everything, the
human  race is as noble as everything King Arthur ever dreamed it
could be.

But  to  be  enslaved.   Oh,  to be enslaved to a world where
mediocrity  is stressed, where only the rotten parasites come out
on  top.   Leeches,  the lot of them.  They use the Mother's Body
until  it  becomes  a dry husk, and move on, not caring that this
could possibly be the last meal they ever have.

Maybe  that's why they think I'm crazy. Because I dare to say
something  they don't want to hear.  Are they so afraid that I am
right?

Maybe  that's  why  I'm  going back.  Maybe that's why I have
decided  to  leave this smog-infested nest of vampires for a time
without  so  much  as a goodbye to my family.  They, too, think I
should  be put away.  They'll never come out and say it, but when
my  little girl says "Dad, I don't think you should be living all
alone  anymore.   Who  knows  what  might happen.  You might hurt
yourself."

In  other words, I might go crazy and go on a rampage with an
outdated  assault  rifle  like the AK-47 at the local McDonald's.
Or  maybe  she  is afraid that in my misery, I will decide to end
it all.

The  thought has crossed my mind.  But I can't do it.  I have
too  many  things yet to discover.  So I leave this note in hopes
that   my   family   finds  it  on  the  end  table.   They  will
understand.   I  will  be in touch, and I will keep good notes of
what  I  find.   But  I can guarentee that I will not be back for
some  time.   I  must  find  a reason to it all.  There has to be
one.

And by the Gods themselves, I will find it.

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