A Short Tale of Morality and the Dangers of Time Travel

Renowned scientist Walter Krumpson, not only known for his extensive research of quantum physics, but that he also had the good sense after having been raised in Duluth, Minnesota to move to Santa Barbara, California, was listening to public radio one afternoon when he heard the following distressing news:

"Today's temperature was -62° Fahrenheit. This winter has marked the coldest day ever for Minnesota in recorded history." And with that, the radio began playing Vivaldi's Le Quattro Stagioni. Krumpson immediately turned off his radio, due to his sudden racing thoughts, as well as the fact that whenever he heard classical music, especially from Italy, he immediately craved italian food and he had just ordered chinese takeout.

"How could anyone know that for sure?" he shouted, standing up from his chair. Those that knew him could tell instantly that his great mind would not stop thinking until a discovery was made. Unfortunately for Walter Krumpson, no one knew him, and he would later die alone and penniless trying to invent a dishwasher that used neither water, soap, nor dishes.

Having just completed a thesis entitled "The Theory of Irrelativity: Einstein the Hack" at the University of California where he taught a class on presentism, which as a side note he was never on time for, Krumpson believed it was time to put his theories to good use.

Over the next 8 days he slaved away to create a working time machine. The first five attempts were failures, but made for excellent and efficient low-energy toasters. Finally, at the end of day 9, after a sleepless night, no food, and dismantling twelve of the neighbors' vacuum cleaners, Krumpson succeeded.

A trial run was necessary for an invention of this magnitude. Would he visit the Founding Fathers as they wrote the Constitution? Travel back to the Renaissance? Experience the burning of Rome? Or catch last week's Lakers game? Always the stickler for efficiency, Walter decided to go back 9 days and make up for the time he had spent on creating the device.

Putting on his goggles, he plugged in the machine and began to pedal. A blinding flash of light filled his living room and suddenly everything grew silent. As the light faded, Walter removed his goggles and spat out his snorkel. His face glowed from sheer joy, but it could easily be mistaken as severe radiation burns. Not only was he back 9 days in time, but his carpet had never looked cleaner.

He immediately snapped into action and fired his cleaning lady. After catching up on the television shows he had missed, Walter Krumpson made plans to bring his machine back to Minnesota where he, along with a thermometer, would begin making trips through history and discover if -62° Fahrenheit was truly the coldest day ever recorded in his home state.

Quickly taking up rooms in his hometown, he began making preparations for his time-travel. He would travel light, taking only what was necessary. Gloves, hat, heavy wool coat, flashlight, a thermometer, a novel to read on the trip, microwavable dinners, and a ball of string he had been saving since childhood for sending packages.

But to what year would he travel back to? The ice-age had always sounded cold to him. But at what precise time would he find a temperature colder then -62° Fahrenheit? Would thirty-thousand years be enough? And how long would he be required to pedal for that distance? Finally, after much research and a game of rock-paper-scissors against himself that ended in a draw, he decided on the year 45,000 BC.

Pulling on his coat, Walter strapped on his goggles. He turned on his machine, remembering to unplug the hairdryer in the other room to prevent shortages, and then began to pedal furiously. The blinding light returned and in an instant, the furniture, walls, cars, buildings and people around him vanished and he was left amidst a white background of snow-covered hills and a raging blizzard and a wind that howled against his face.

Walter leapt off the machine. The moment of truth! He dug a gloved hand into his coat and pulled out the thermometer to take a reading. -65° Fahrenheit. He had done it! His name would forever go down in history as the one who discovered the coldest day in the recorded history of Minnesota.

Suddenly, and without warning, a Neanderthal appeared through the snow, which Krumpson at first mistook for his Uncle Theodore, who had died of a ruptured intestine after switching his diet to only allow him to eat cardboard and all-bran cereal. Walter realized his mistake when the Neanderthal, instead of returning Krumpson's hug, took hold of the thermometer. Staring in horror, Krumpson could only watch as the seven-foot-tall, hairy-knuckled, mouth-breather snapped the thermometer in two, raised one end to his lips and gulped down the mercury. Ironically, the Neanderthal also died of a ruptured intestine.

Heartbroken by his chance for greatness ruined, Krumpson returned to the present and dismantled his machine, convinced that time-travel could only lead to violence and more expensive broken thermometers. It was only later that same day that his mind again began having racing thoughts. To what effect would one dead Neanderthal have on civilization? What could have been lost? The secret of fire? The art of communication? The ability to walk upright? His own very existence?

And after having rushed out of his room and into the nearest public area, Walter Krumpson was met with the disastrous news that would forever change the course of human history: Not only did the entire state of New Jersey cease to exist, but he found that regardless of what grocery store you visited, you could no longer buy paprika.