“Fine,” said Twain, “I need to chat with the good Dr. Livingstone, but I’ll give you control of the ship if you promise to return for me in one hour… with Emily Dickinson.”

“Where did that name come from all of a sudden?”

“That’s the deal, take it or leave it, Tesla.”

“Done.”

The author and inventor parted ways, and soon Mark Twain was left standing in an African jungle clearing with nary a map or machete. But he had a cigar in hand, and one tucked away for later, and he was ready for anything.

“I say, who goes there?” called out a voice behind him.

He turned around to see his friend in knee-high boots and full safari gear. “David, you old sot! It’s been a long time!”

The explorer cocked his head and took a step backwards. “Do I know you?”

“Of course you know me!” Twain tried to remember what year he had met the doctor, and wasn’t sure, come to think of it, if that was earlier or later than today.

“Wait… you’re Sam! I didn’t recognize you without your mustache.”

“It’s Twain now, David. Mark Twain.”