Time Circle

“The Interdimensional Portal Pad is broke,” said Dr. Clive Hoffman sadly.

“You mean we’re trapped in another time and place again,” said Ves Barton.

“What do you expect from something as tiny as a calculator? For the moment we can’t create a portal between dimensions so I can get you home.” He pressed a few buttons on the small miraculous device. “The wormhole manipulator must be stuck, as well as the keypad’s numeric changer. Otherwise, it blew a circuit.”

Barton shook his head. “I thought you were a genius.”

Clive parted a half-smile. “Sometimes. But even geniuses have their-”

“I know,” Barton interrupted him. “They have their moments. You are erratic indeed, Dr. Hoffman. I’ve never come across one like yourself before, and I highly doubt I ever will again.”

Clive grinned. “Well, since you put it like that.” A moment of rethinking. “The great traveler of other dimensions and time periods do have their faults.”

“Uh-huh.” Barton nodded. “You belong in a mental institution, not time.”

* * *

The lost adventurer, Dr. Clive Hoffman, and his dissatisfied interdimensional traveling companion, Vestibule Barton — Ves, for short — did it again. The correct data coordinates submitted into the handheld portal pad for Northwood, England 1897, had been logged wrong, causing the internal continuelizer’s circuit to blow. Sparks were emitted from the device — an obvious blunder on Hoffman’s part, but his purported inventive mind and chronometer were not really of any help either. The two were not sent to Northwood 1897, but helplessly transferred and shorted by the last portal jumping to another place in time; this time it was further back, and to a different European country. The gateways were once again misguided...

As Clive went through his gadget-filled pockets, he found something; it was of the utmost importance. Another device which at least told him the year and date. It was March 17th 1826, and from the look of things, the two must have jumped to Scandinavia. That much was certain. Probably Norway, and during a time when minister of fishermen was the most reputable profession.

They landed on a beach where remnants of leftover antimatter and molecular transferent solvents stained the sands a deep red. The icy waters surrounding the shoreline reflected what was left of the time portal’s blueish-gray dazzle... up until the minute the continuum, the streams and strains of time itself, disappeared.

Clive dusted himself off, and helped Ves out of a sandpit. They took in a deep breath of air and glanced around: grass, a strange body of water, followed by a big lighthouse up the beach, and hundreds of foreign-made fishing boats, docked at a few wooden piers.

The crashing of the waves was mildly unsettling. Norway was a wonderful country, but unfamiliar to them or any of their preceding excursions; unexpected was more like it. Clive produced an electronic watchlike reader out of his Victorian-styled velvet coat pocket. The tall graying man of temporal defiance was full of many gadgets, but it was the portal pad which mattered most in order to punch in the numbers and create the necessary wormholes.

“Where are we?” asked Ves bewilderedly. His hair was full of sand; he ran his fingers through it, loosening some of the grains that stuck to the roots.

“The year is 1826,” Clive said, a smile adorning his face, “and I think this time we’ve landed in luck.” He put his arm around Barton’s shoulder.

“Yeah, Clive, but I have a midterm paper due in 1997. You need to get back to 1897 in order to bring me back to my own time period. That chronometer seems to be off again, as usual, everything you’ve told me misinterpreted, and as for the continuelizer on your portal pad: poof!” There was a hint of sarcasm in the teen’s voice.

“Stop bickering, Ves. You know I’m trying everything in my power to get you back home. Once I’m able to get back to 1897, I can build a machine — and please, no H.G. Wells jokes — that’ll allow us to control the portals’ destination points. So I can’t do anything for the moment, not without the temporal time-distorter. And that’s hidden away in my Northwood laboratory.”

“Then tell me ‘o great traveler’, how did we land in luck?”

“My dear Barton,” Clive said, pinching his cheek. “We’ve either landed in luck or pure coincidence. You see, a few miles from here is the University of Oslo, and a very extraordinary man dwells there. A thinker. In the meantime, let’s tread up to that lighthouse. We’ll freeze standing here. Norway is a cold place at night.”

Ves stopped and picked up a few smooth-surfaced limestones from the beach floor, tucking them in his satchel. The youngster was a bit of a rock collector back in his own time period. “A thinker?” he said, smiling. “You mean like those weird-looking chronologist fellas from the 31st Century?”

“Sort of, but we were up to our necks there,” Clive answered. “You remember, I see, and which also means you remember everything I taught you. But this time if my knowledge of history serves me right, we might be able to get back home.” A moment of silence, as the time traveler scratched his chin. “Ves, ever hear of Niels Henrik Abel?”

Barton shook his head.

“I didn’t think so. Abel was one of history’s most notable mathematicians. He made a remarkable series of contributions that weren’t recognized in his lifetime. He’s known for his work with integral equations — mathematical expressions that are used to compute the area beneath a curve. He also investigated the numerical field of elliptic functions. An ellipse is an oval with special properties. That leads to quantum theory, the indivisible amount of energy necessary for the wormholes that bend dimensions within the time continuum itself.”

“You sure know your physics, Clive. But what does this Abel’s equations have to do with controlling a time portal? Or you getting back to 1897 so you can bring me home?”

“It has a lot to do with it! Ellipses are oval, and so are the portals. The special properties are circles. Time circles, rotating so fast that a new wormhole emerges whenever and wherever. It would be the gateway we’re looking for, and work in a forwarding fashion. A much slower process of time travel, but swimming our way through the continuum, the years would pass us by until we reached 1897.”

“I understand now,” Ves said, snapping his fingers. “Using Abel’s math skills, you’ll use what’s left of the continuelizer’s energy, but on the chronometer. Then, if I’m right, you’ll turn these elliptic functions into a wormhole. The chronometer will be a substitute for the portal pad, restabilize time fluctuation and finally work clockwise, but at a slower pace where we get it right. We’re stuck for the moment, but eventually we’ll reach 1897, and that’s our bus stop!”

“Very good,” Clive said with a grin. “I knew you’d comprehend it. All we need to do is get some of Abel’s blueprints. History tells that he often carries a journal, a book of sorts, with him. He documents all his work in it. What’s left of the pad, or at least the remaining continuelizer’s energy, can record from it and reuse each function in temporal reality when the time is right. The chronometer says sixteen hours until the next portal attempt, so we might as well get a good night’s sleep.”

“Do you think there’s a main road to Oslo?” Ves asked him.

“I’ll check from the top of the lighthouse. If there is, we’ll follow it at sunup.”

* * *

They both slept in the tower that night. By sunrise, they left for the university along a dirt path. A farmer offered them a ride on his horse-drawn carriage, as he was heading to the Scandinavian capital anyway to sell grains, barley, vegetables, and many different kinds of fruits to support his family.

For many miles, moving east, the two time travelers not only rested their legs on back of a cart filled with plush wheat and rye, but further discussed the history of Abel. A man with such talent, to die so young; perhaps this was the reason why he was never fully recognized. He was only twenty-six at the time of his death. It happened in 1829, and he had succumbed to tuberculosis — almost a decade after his father’s death.

Everyone at the University, including admiring professors and teachers, who contributed to his upkeep from their salaries knew of his infectious disease. But that didn’t matter. It was overlooked. Especially by Bernt Holmboe.

As Holmboe’s prize pupil grew, so did his mathematical skills. Holmboe would go on to publish his works in 1839, opening new doors in the world of math. For Dr. Clive Hoffman and Vestibule Barton, the world of wormholes.

Abel had attended the University of Oslo for four years. He traveled, but returned often — to teach or to lecture. Most of his free time was spent writing papers on mathematics, and it wasn’t until he met August Crelle, a German engineer, that he started a journal.

That academic record would be necessary for Clive’s portal.

The grain and fruit-filled carriage reached Oslo before noon. Ves thanked the farmer repeatedly, though the ride had been a slow one. The farmer shrugged his shoulders as he couldn’t understand or speak English, but it was obvious through facial gesture that he had helped the two foreigners immensely.

The University lay down a thin cobblestone street, with a large fountain and a marble arch towering over the entrance. Large cathedral bells rang out, signaling the noon lunch crowd. Seagulls and pigeons fought over stale bread in the plaza, thrown away from the neighboring bread shop. The fountain decorated the plaza, trickling water from its basin, a place where students could sit and eat. A smaller, granite arch surrounded a garden behind it, filled with lush plants, bulbous roses, and loose swans.

“We’re finally here,” Clive said, removing the chronometer from his coat pocket; though it was a futuristic device, like the portal pad, it looked like a gold pocket watch. Not your ordinary timepiece. A little standard in design; yet so advanced and full of so much potential.

“How long have we got?” Ves asked him, concerning the next portal attempt.

Clive looked at the chronometer in grim silence. “Two hours,” he replied. “It’s amazing how time flies.”

“That doesn’t leave us much. Not only do we have to find this ‘Abel’, but scan the notes in his journal. Without them, the portal’s return is meaningless.”

“You worry too much, Ves. Typical of 20th-century Americans. Try and be an interdimensional traveler for as long as I have. Time has no distinction. Think of the places I’ve been, and on such short notice. I’ve escaped World War One tanks and bombs through a portal that lasted mere seconds. I’ve been pursued by nasty pirates, nabbing their doubloons, and jumping portal within minutes of having my throat cut. I’ve even outstretched the battle axes of formidable brigandines. Two hours is enough time. I don’t need to make Abel’s acquaintance. We just have to sneak in his room, borrow the journal, and bring it back when we’re through so as not to cause a crack in the ordinance of time.”

“You make it sound so easy. Besides, I thought you’d want to meet Abel. You couldn’t stop talking about him in the carriage.”

“You’re starting to be an annoying companion,” Clive said. “Come. Let’s go to college.”

* * *

Niels Henrik Abel put his papers away for the day. He removed his pince-nez glasses, taking a cloth from his back pocket and mopped his forehead. It was long and hard work, but he’d finished his latest mathematical equations. There were a few books left scattered by the door which he hadn’t even had the time to at least thumb through and make Cliff notes: Formulas, Functions, and Graphs, and Evariste Galois’ Modern Algebra Notes. They were to be taken with him to Paris, for the French Mathematicians’ Convention; and his journal too, which had a critical paper inside for presentation at France’s Academy of Sciences.

Abel struggled through the night on it, hoping when he arrived the professors responsible for evaluating his work on elliptic functions wouldn’t ignore it. It was the funding that counted, and lucky for him the University headmasters allowed a home-away-from-home for much of his study, and his chambers untouched. This was his life, and he practically lived out of his school office when not teaching.

He cleaned off his desk, which was littered with papers — mathematical essays and jottings, an indispensable tool for the students he taught. Two bookcases in the far corner held the mathematician’s teaching devices; if it wasn’t the wrought-iron abacus with crystal beads, then it was the wood-carved apple with the special curves, or the Jesus figurine or the glass-bottled ship.

Yes, these were his tools.

Abel’s toy collection always defined shapes, functions, and involved equations or deduction problems; they have special properties surrounding their structures, he often remarked. This was the most important part of his lesson, using peculiar objects or gadgets as a mathematical example.

Someone knocked at his door. It was a student, not much younger than him.

“Hold on,” he said, wiping his ink-sodden hands across his clean shirt. It was unusual being sought after this time of the afternoon.

“Mr. Abel?” The student shook hands with him and was invited in.

The mathematician was extremely busy, getting ready for his trip, but if there was one thing he was known for, it was his politeness and refusal to turn away the aspiring young mathematical mind of tomorrow; and the young man happened to be one who had studied most of his work and appeared at one too many lectures.

They conversed in Norwegian, boasting news for several minutes. Interesting news indeed, it seemed, as Abel would have a little competition at the convention. August Crelle, the engineer and math expert, would be attending. Still nothing to worry about. Crelle was friendly with Abel and his work — even compensated him in the past.

They spoke a mixture of Norse and English. “Vidunderlig,” Abel said, and the word had meant wonderful. “So Crelle will be at the Academy of Sciences. Please, tell me, how did you hear of this?”

“I overheard two tourists,” the student answered, “back in the main hall. And it was like... like they knew Mr. Crelle personally. Call me crazy. I need help with a math problem though, sir. One in patterns and principles.”

“Is that it?” Abel laughed, looking down at the student’s workbook. “Consider the following question, youngster: does there exist a number with such a property that the result of adding it to three is the same result as subtracting it from fifteen or less? The amount in asking is a number which satisfies an open sentence. Now consider the open sentence, because it may be converted into a true statement.”

“But how?” the student asked.

“By replacing each occurrence of the variable x,” Abel said in reply, “but with the numeral six. It may be converted into a false statement by replacing each and every occurrence of the variable x, with the numeral two. Because of the property behind it, each pair of numbers satisfies the open sentence. The generalization is called the commutative principle for addition. Understand?”

He then handed the student Galois’ book on algebra notes. “Here,” he then said, fixing the youngster’s ascot. “You’ll need this more than I. It contains just about everything you need to know concerning patterns and principles.”

The student was overjoyed. “Thank you, Mr. Abel!”

“Don’t mention it. Return it when you’re through. And study hard!”

Abel had explained it bluntly. It was no wonder students and professors alike looked up to him, relying on his knowledge. He was an admirable genius, as Clive had made him out to be. Concepts of modern algebra were useful in his branch of mathematics. He gained a considerable reputation in European math and circles, and several attempts were made to find him a professorship.

The aspiring student smiled and thanked him again. “This means a lot, Abel,” he said. “I really appreciate it!”

“Any time,” the mathematician said. “Your future is bright, my pupil. If I can help towards it, then I feel I have done my job. Come, I’ll walk you back to class.”

He escorted the student out, closing the door behind him.

* * *

Abel was gone from his room for some time, allowing Hoffman and Barton to sneak in unannounced. They were there for one reason, and one reason only. To find the journal and scan the mathematical equations within it.

“It’s definitely here,” Clive said, closing the door lightly. He was holding what still remained functional of the continuelizer, now hooked up to the chronometer.

“Nobody’s here,” Ves whispered. “How can you be sure he left the journal?”

“You may not know this, Ves, but the leftovers to the continuelizer have a tiny scanner. Sort of like my time reader.” He held it up for his companion to see. “It’s this microscopic beacon on the end, makes it a tracking device. It can home in on scrolls, written documents, and books as well.”

“We’ve wasted almost a half-hour already, asking for directions!”

“There’s never enough time, is there?” Clive shook his head. “Ah, you must be talking about that guidance counselor. What a talkative nuisance she was.”

“It’s because of her we got lost in the mezzanine,” Ves said, browsing through the titles on the bookshelves in the far corner. “Clive, this is hopeless! Abel’s book could be any place. This school has so many offices and classes. For all we know, the library might have it.”

“Then we’ll go library hunting,” Clive said, checking Abel’s desk drawers. “It’s not like we’ll have to resort to that, but my instincts never failed me before so why should it now?”

“I know your locator works. You’re the one with the loose nuts and bolts.”

“Rather harsh words, Ves. Why not trust me for once?”

“I’m sorry, Clive. I... I shouldn’t have jumped at you like that. I forget. You’re the inventor, I’m the assistant. Still, there’s no journal and I’ve practically looked everywhere. The only things I’ve shuffled through were strange trinkets with odd shapes and books on geometry, linear equations, and the importance of variables. Nothing on elliptic functions. Are you sure it looks like a diary?”

“It’s shaped like one,” Clive remarked, “but it has a sketchbook-type interior.” He looked around some more. “Probably onionskin for this time and era. Ah, this is an odd book,”-which he picked up with interest, “untitled and has absolutely nothing to do with arithmetic or algebra. It’s about Samuel Adams. The man was one of the firebrands of the American Revolution, combining great ideals with the element of shrewd politics and helping change America from a British colony into an independent nation. He died in 1803. Not too long ago. You’d never know it’s his memoirs — a half-translated copy, of course.” A most inappropriate book for a Norwegian mathematician to own. Perhaps I can find a better home for it. Put it in your satchel, Ves, along with your rock collection.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Ves exclaimed. “We’re keeping it? That book is not going to help us any.”

“Never turn your back on an interesting piece of literature. Besides, that very book you’re holding has no place in this period. We’re helping reassess the fabric of time by bringing it back with us.”

Ves shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Whatever, Clive,” he murmured half-aloud, opening his satchel and tucking the book inside. “Whatever you say, boss!” The boy did not want to dwell on subjects having little or no consequence. But as he tied the handle to his satchel, he inadvertently trod forward and tripped over a different kind of book. It was lying in the middle of the floor, concealed by a heap of crumpled paper.

It was Abel’s journal.

“No wonder we couldn’t find it,” Ves then said. “This math expert desperately needs a maid.”

Clive rushed over and picked it up. It was blue and perfect bound, the initials N.H.A. engraved on the cover. “Superb!” Clive was overjoyed. “Abel’s equations of elliptic functions should be on pages 295-320. I’ll start winding up the scanner to blueprint copy mode.”

Ves shook his head. “Imagine that. This stupid book helped me find that one. Well, what are you waiting for? Use the continuelizer!”

“That’s just what I’m going to do, Barton. I’ll slowly scan each page, making a record of the basic figures necessary for our perfect portal. Then all the equations will be added together, retrieved by one memory bank: the chronometer’s power-stabilizer, which the scanning energy of the continuelizer has been hooked up to.”

He twisted a dial on the gold pocket watch, with the reader and beacon hooked on top, across one line and one page at a time. It recorded everything. “When we get to portal jump again, I’ll reface its structure by aiming a secular beam into newly-formed circles. In other words, the math figures will create the wormhole for us.”

He spoke too soon.

The door slid open and Abel entered. He looked about haggardly. “Goodness! What is the meaning of this? Who are you?” he asked, confused and unknowing if the trespassers were thieves, trying to steal his mathematical notes, or scholars in strange-looking garments seeking advice.

“Clive, what’s he saying?” Ves ran behind Hoffman’s coattail frantically. Clive dropped the journal and continuelizer as well, in nervous reaction of being caught in the act. And he was, but he strove to be cheerful.

“Neither of us will be able to understand him,” he said quietly. “He’s speaking Norwegian.”

“What are you doing here?” Abel asked again, clenching his hands together; it seemed he was growing angrier by the moment.

“I think he’s got the wrong impression about us,” Clive muttered. “It’s always the historical types who get a bad rep. I’ll try and communicate with him. Maybe clear things up.” Clive rushed forward with an open hand and introduced himself. “I am Dr. Clive Hoffman, English inventor and historian of time. It is an honor to make your acquaintance, Mr. Abel. And this is Vestibule Barton, from America, a pupil and traveling assistant of mine.”

Barton smiled. “Ves, for short,” he said. “I’m from Boston, Mass.”

“Ah, yes,” the mathematician mumbled. “England? Boston? Are you scholars, by any chance?” By now he was no longer talking in his native tongue.

“Yes, we are,” Clive answered. “I see you speak English rather well.”

“It’s like a second language to me. I also speak Danish and some French, too. But that doesn’t matter. I want to know how you got in here. And what were you doing with my journal?”

“Ahem!” Clive cleared his throat. “Oh, nothing horrible really. My pupil and I were just going to copy some of your notes for a very critical purpose.”

“Liar! Thieves!” Abel shouted. “You probably work for Karl Jacobi. That man will do anything to get my notes!”

“No we don’t!” Ves said, in defense of himself and Clive. “We don’t even know who August Crelle is.” A moment of silence, and then a mistaken: “Whoops!”

“Nice job, Ves.” Clive patted him on the shoulder. “Do us both a favor and put your foot in your mouth.”

“Enough of this,” Abel finally said. “If you’re both visiting scholars then prove it, otherwise I will be forced to get school security.”

Ves tugged on Hoffman’s coattail. “What now, Clive?”

“Then I will,” Clive said, smiling. “You want proof that I am an historian? Ah, so be it... then it is history and the elements of time I shall serve you.”

He began to pace back and forth; Ves looked on, remaining silent as a mouse. “You, my fellow, are Niels Henrik Abel, are you not? You were born on August 5th 1802, in a straw shack on the island of Finnoy, near the port of Stavanger. You were the son of the hapless, impoverished minister type, and a terrible student till the age of fifteen.”

A moment of silence, as Abel couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “By age fifteen your school had hired Bernt Holmboe,” Clive went on, “a very strict math teacher. He became your instructor, and you his pupil. He recognized your talent; he even encouraged you. You soon surpassed him. Now others look up to your brilliance, and learn from it. Is that enough scholarly proof?”

Abel’s face was not only one of sufficiency but that of reverence. “But how did you know all this? Have you... have you followed me my whole life?”

“We come from the future,” Clive said. “You wanted proof. There you have it. We’re scholars, just visiting... but at the same time trapped you might say.”

“That doesn’t prove you’re scholars,” Abel said. “Still, you... you just explained my childhood to me.” He shook his head. “My experiences and my memories.”

“You better show him what’s what, Clive,” Ves said. “He still looks confused.”

“I suppose you’re right, Mr. Abel. It is hard to fathom. I’ll tell you everything if you at least take the time to listen and believe.”

“All right. I’ll listen. But do make it quick, as I have a convention to attend in Paris tomorrow.”

“Can you accept time or interdimensional travel as a possibility?” Clive asked, creeping closer. “Using such a possibility from a mathematical perspective?”

Abel gave no reply at first; his mind was cluttered and he suddenly flew off on one of his tangents. “No,” he finally said. “There’s no such thing as time travel.”

“Oh, but there is, Mr. Abel,” Clive said, “and the future is where we originate. I come from 1897, and my companion here comes from 1997. I’m what you’d call a chronologist. Not just an inventor. As for time, it is constant and involves math such as yours, but history is only temporary.”

“You want me to accept this? That mathematically time is a continuous factor and that history is but temporary? Nonsense! How does math play a vital role?”

“Math is the foundation for everything in the universe,” Clive said, “including matter and antimatter. That’s why I needed to scan your journal. Your papers on elliptic functions were not only a major breakthrough but required. For the time being we’re stranded in 1826, and we don’t have much time left because we’ve got a portal to catch. An oval-shaped portal called a wormhole, rotating so fast that a series of time circles are created. Basically, a gateway to the future. Without your mathematical knowledge, and my scientific gadgets, my assistant and I are lost.”

“Lost? Preposterous,” Abel said. “You don’t want to scan my notes. You want to steal them — for glory!”

“Not so!” Ves said, once again in defense of what he felt was an attack on both himself and Clive’s legitimacy of the matter.

“Like your elliptic functions, the portal’s ovals are also elliptic,” Clive said. “It then in turn creates circles around the boundaries, through rotation and function. How do I make you a believer, Mr. Abel? The special properties are circles.”

“Wait a minute,” the mathematician then said. “What you just said about how the special properties are circles. Not even Karl Jacobi knew that. Those answers were merely theories inside my head, which I had considered for some time. And they were never part of my notes. I kept it strictly confidential; up in my noggin.”

He narrowed his eyes at the two, actually beginning to believe them. “An ellipse’s special property may very well be a circle, but in a rotative state; that’s just one of the functions. I never revealed it to other professors, because I did not want to be discredited by August Crelle in the event I was wrong. So I decided to leave it out of my journal purposely. How could you know this?”

Clive picked the journal up and put it flat on the mathematician’s desk. “We’ll help you finish your notes,” he said humbly, “if you help us get home.”

A moment of forethought. “Well, you are rather strange indeed. But you have made a believer out of me, Dr. Hoffman. If my notes can help you get home, then you have my permission to use them. In linear terms, one day I’d like to learn the boundaries of these gateways or portals as you call them.”

“Matter transference,” Clive explained. “Taking a solid object, human, animal or insect, table or chair, to another point in time. Antimatter is what’s left over as the portal closes but as a liquefied solvent which can coexist here.”

Abel’s mouth was agape; he was more or less fascinated.

And then, Ves interrupted by saying, “What’s that irreparable noise?”

“The continuelizer,” Clive said. “Our portal attempt is here, and the red signal says it’s coming from the University’s roof. Come, both of you. We must hurry!”

The notes were scanned hastily and they were out the office, up the stairs, the roof door forced open, and finally upon the moment they’d been waiting for.

“It’s starting to materialize,” Clive said, aiming the chronometer forward.

Abel was awestruck. “I... I can’t believe it. My math helped formulate this?”

“You did it,” Ves cried out, laughing excitedly. “We can go home now!”

A wormhole opened before them... the familiar blueish-gray dazzle as always.

“They were formed by circles,” Abel muttered. “No, ellipses. Nonetheless, my eyes are playing tricks on me.” The time travelers insisted he come with them, not only to bid them off but to witness firsthand his life’s work take shape and form.

“One more thing,” Clive said, “you must never tell anyone about this or of our existence, as it could affect the time continuum. It must always remain a secret.”

“Yes, of course,” Abel said agreeably. “I don’t even think the professors would believe me. They’d call me crazy.”

Clive agreed. “That they would.” He shook hands with him, as Ves sprinted to the portal and jumped in first. “And don’t forget about the special properties, Mr. Abel. You have pages 321-330 to finish up by yourself. You will be remembered, and highly regarded for this journal, in time to come.” He handed it back to him.

“Goodbye, Dr. Hoffman,” the mathematician said.

“Goodbye.”

Clive now entered the portal himself. The blueish-gray dazzle surrounded his very being, transferring his body, mind and soul to another point in time. And he had hoped that this time it would be Northwood, England, 1897.

The wormhole disappeared two minutes later.

Abel considered what he had just seen, wishing them luck. The theory behind time travel would never leave his thoughts, even twenty-four hours later when the convention was to take place. He would fail to win the recognition he deserved in his lifetime, especially at the convention by prominent French math professors; it would be the competition between himself and a young German math expert who went by the name Karl Jacobi. That would be the beginning of his downfall.

You see, Karl Jacobi was also investigating the field of elliptic functions. Shortly after, Abel’s life would turn upside down, coming home jobless, with debts, no upkeep, and no prospects. Just a man and his journal. He’d get sicker, and as a man torn apart from the inside, he would reach his grave in less than three years. But there would be a familiar saying engraved on his tombstone...

Math is the foundation for everything.

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