The sun is high, and incredibly bright.
The time machine has dropped me in 1875 B.C. and disappeared.
I'm free to survey the mountains which surround me. 
They have a deep red tone,
and caves and crevices I can easily make out from thirty 
miles away.
Everything is so clear.
I can see birds sitting in trees 200 yards in the distance.
There's no smog. 
"Well, we'll fix that." I say to myself as I begin to scurry down the plateau 
on which I had been standing,
and begin to make my way over to a group of men and 
women about a mile in the distance.

I make it to their camp quickly,
but I stop just outside of the main concentration of people.
There's an earthen hut, with its door open.
Inside, I see an elderly man writing on his wall with what appears to be chalk.
I enter, and look at the wall. On it, he has inscribed

dy  	  =  f(x+h)-f(x)
dx x->0	h

I quickly ascertain that the man has some belief that he has a grasp of 
mathematics.
I am curious to see if he does,
so taking the chalk from him I copy a 
problem out of the S.A.T. preperation book I brought.
I write on the wall,
"If Bob works 8 hours at an hourly salary of d dollars and c cents,
his total salary for the 8 hours will equal how many dollars?"
The man snatches the chalk back from me and begins to draw on the wall.
It takes shape slowly,
and after ten miutes,
I see that he has drawn a picture of a piece of parchment,
from which  two hands emerge,
each drawing the other. The picture is stunning, but under it he has written,
"Bob?"
I shake my head and walk out.
The poor man had no concept of the math problem,
and that drawing!
The hands were technically flawless, but the man couldn't 
grasp the fact that two hands couldn't draw each other.
It makes no sense.
I am saddened by the fact that he will be a failure at everything,
but I walk towards the center of the camp,
hoping to meet someone with inteliigence.

Everyone seems to be gathered around a tall dark woman,
who stands on a rock.
She seems to be in the middle of a great oration of her work and I stand in 
the crowd that listens to her.
She continues, her voice is low and booming.

"Life's but a walking shadow,
a poor player that struts and frets his hour 
upon the stage and then is heard no more.
It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing."

Overcome with emotion, she collapses onto the rock, her lion skin 
clothing cushions the fall.
The crowd, dressed similiarily, hoots and pounds their feet 
appreciatively of her writing.
I admire the woman's oratory skills, and decide to approach her,
and possibly ascertain if she has any real talent.
I ask her,
She looks at me quizically. 
"Would you like to see something I've been working on?" she asks.
"Sure" I answer, "but could you try the `pasta' question again?" She 
apparently didn't hear me, and had retrieved several small sections of cloth-like 
material from under her rock.
She handed them to me.
It appeared to be a crude book,
its title was The Republic.
I thumbed through the pages.
She discussed justice,
ideal societies and such.
Frankly, it wasn't very interesting. I gave it back to her.
"That's great, really, but what is the antonym of `yacht'?"
She turned and walked away.
Rather rude, actually, but just about what 
I'd expect from someone who would score about an 830.
The time machine has reappeared on the plateau,
and I step into it sorrowfully.
I wished there was something I could do for this culture,
but you know, 
some people are just beyond hope.