Monday, 10 June 2013

Er traa as Texas - liorish William F. Nolan

“Lesh ard-vuilley,” dockil magh yn Olloo C. Cydwick Ohms, lesh sheeidey magh rybban keyl dy yaagh gorrym ass e phiob, as leaystey er e ghaa voyn, “ta mee kiarail feaysley magh ard-ghoilleeid jeianagh deiney. By ard-vroc fardailagh eh jannoo coloin ‘syn Arctagh. As cha dod y Çhalee Castey Clienney Curmit ve curmit. She birrag ‘sy vio foast ee ro-chummaltys, gheiney seyrey—” Scuirr eh as yeeagh eddyr daa hooill dagh fer naight v’ayn. “—cha row agh un freggyrt ain.”

“Dunverys er y clane?” as fer aeg, er craa.

“Ommidjys, yilley! Cha nee son shickyrys!” Haink caulg er yn olloo. “Ta mee çheet er—TRAA!”


“Dy jarroo,” as Ohms lesh snoggal. Ren eh cowrey ard-haghyrtagh as tayrn erash curtan velvad jiarg—as soilshaghey magh jeshaght ard ass meain soilsheanagh. “Myr feanish!”

“Moirrey, cre’n nhee shen?” vrie y quaillian naight.

“She Dorrys Traa C. Cydwick Ohms eh y nhee shoh,” as yn ollee, dy geayr.

"Jee bannee mee, jeshaght hraa!”

“Cha nee, cha nee. My saillt, yilley! Jeshaght Hraa, rere yn eie cadjin, shen obbyr ass pooar deiney. Fansee keoie! Agh—” Scuirr eh, as folmaghey y piob echey. “—liorish mooarane earrooaght neuloaghtagh chruinn, ta mee er groo Dorrys Traa C. Cydwick Ohms yindyssagh. Foshil eh, gow kesmad ynrican—as presto, yn Emshir Chaie!”

“Agh, c’raad ‘syn emshir chaie, Olloo?”

Hug sheese Ohms mongey kiune er yn ‘ainney dy eddinyn lane çhennid. “Gheiney seyrey, er çheu cooylloo y dorrys shoh hee shiu foawr anvaaragh America Heear Yiass—thalloo dy liooar dy hoo stiagh pobble brash ny cruinney myr shen!” Ren eh polt lesh e veir. “Gheiney seyrey, ta mee çheet er Texas, 1957!”

“Nagh bee ny Texanee n’oi?”

“Cha nel reih ocsyn. She cassan un-hrawagh glen eh y Dorrys Traa. Hug mee geill da. Cha cosoylagh eh er chor erbee da fer erbee ass 1957 çheet erash da’n teihll 2057 ainyn. As nish—ta’n Emshir Chaie fieau orrym!”

Hayrn eh ny coamraghyn ollooagh jeh. Foue, va eaddagh shenndeeagh as quaagh mysh Cydwick Ohms: bootsyn markee doo, gloasagh as oirr argid oc; troosyn olley; cryss lheead lane cliejeenyn as glackey foawragh eck; lheiney as sambleyr kerrinagh gial er; as bandana jiarg gial mysh e wannal. Dy tappee, vroo eh edd jeih-galloon er e chione, as shooyl rish y Dorrys Traa.

Ghreim eh doarnane eboin, as tayrn seose. Ren y dorrys meain mooar snaue ry-lhiattee dy moal. “Traa,” as Cydwick Ohms, lesh cowrey cour y veg lheeah honnick ad trooid y dorrys.

Ren fir naight as fotograafee freayney roue, as lioaryn screeuee ny shamraigyn ry-laue. “Cre haghyrys my ta’n dorrys dooney dty yei?” as fer jeu.

“Aggle gyn oyr, yilley,” dreggyr Ohms dy shickyr. “Ren mee shickyr nagh dod y Dorrys Traa dooney arragh. As nish—slaynt, gheiney seyrey. Ny, rere y chaant cooie—so long, hombres!”

Chroym eh ec y vouin, hayrn eh yn edd mooar reesht, as ghow eh kesmad er oaie.

Cha skell eh roish.

Hass eh ayns shen as meekey. Eisht ghuee eh mollaght, woaill eh e ghuirn er y woalley lheeah neulhoobagh, as loaganey erash da’n voayrd echey, tayrn ennal dy trome.

“Ta mee brisht!” as eh, lesh coraa caillt. “She obbyr rey eh Dorrys Traa C. Cydwick Ohms!” Chroym eh e chione ayns laueyn er creau.

Fer er fer, ren ny fir naight as fotograafee shooyl magh.

Eisht dirree yn olloo e chione çhelleeragh. “Eaisht!” as eh, myr raaue.

Dirree buirrooghey injil ass lheeahid y Dorrys Traa, plooghit ec foddid. Va yllee as gerrym ry-chlashtyn dy baghtal aynsyn. Daase eh dy tappee—dys bwoalley thousane drummey—dys faarkey tharmaneagh!

Roie ny fir naight as fotograafee er çhea roish ny greeishyn, as adsyn screeaghey.

Ah, feysht kialgagh elley ry-‘eaysley, smooinee yn Olloo Cydwick Ohms, as eh lheimmey, dy dooillee, er cooyl fer jeh tree thousane terriu Texas gheayrt magh er ouyl ‘sy seyrlan.

Of Time and Texas

By William F. Nolan

"In one fell swoop," declared Professor C. Cydwick Ohms, releasing a thin blue ribbon of pipe-smoke and rocking back on his heels, "—I intend to solve the greatest problem facing mankind today. Colonizing the Polar Wastes was a messy and fruitless business. And the Enforced Birth Control Program couldn't be enforced. Overpopulation still remains the thorn in our side. Gentlemen—" He paused to look each of the assembled reporters in the eye. "—there is but one answer."

"Mass annihilation?" quavered a cub reporter.

"Posh, boy! Certainly not!" The professor bristled. "The answer is—TIME!"


"Exactly," nodded Ohms. With a dramatic flourish he swept aside a red velvet drape—to reveal a tall structure of gleaming metal. "As witness!"

"Golly, what's that thing?" queried the cub.

"This thing," replied the professor acidly, "—is the C. Cydwick Ohms Time Door."

"Whillikers, a Time Machine!"

"Not so, not so. Please, boy! A Time Machine, in the popular sense, is impossible. Wild fancy! However—" The professor tapped the dottle from his pipe. "—by a mathematically precise series of infinite calculations, I have developed the remarkable C. Cydwick Ohms Time Door. Open it, take but a single step—and, presto! The Past!"

"But, where in the past, Prof.?"

Ohms smiled easily down at the tense ring of faces. "Gentlemen, beyond this door lies the sprawling giant of the Southwest—enough land to absorb Earth's overflow like that!" He snapped his fingers. "I speak, gentlemen, of Texas, 1957!"

"What if the Texans object?"

"They have no choice. The Time Door is strictly a one-way passage. I saw to that. It will be utterly impossible for anyone in 1957 to re-enter our world of 2057. And now—the Past awaits!"

He tossed aside his professorial robes. Under them Cydwick Ohms wore an ancient and bizarre costume: black riding boots, highly polished and trimmed in silver; wool chaps; a wide, jewel-studded belt with an immense buckle; a brightly checked shirt topped by a blazing red bandana. Briskly, he snapped a tall ten-gallon hat on his head, and stepped to the Time Door.

Gripping an ebony handle, he tugged upward. The huge metal door oiled slowly back. "Time," said Cydwick Ohms simply, gesturing toward the gray nothingness beyond the door.

The reporters and photographers surged forward, notebooks and cameras at the ready. "What if the door swings shut after you're gone?" one of them asked.

"A groundless fear, boy," assured Ohms. "I have seen to it that the Time Door can never be closed. And now—good-bye, gentlemen. Or, to use the proper colloquialism—so long, hombres!"

Ohms bowed from the waist, gave his ten-gallon hat a final tug, and took a single step forward.

And did not disappear.

He stood, blinking. Then he swore, beat upon the unyielding wall of grayness with clenched fists, and fell back, panting, to his desk.

"I've failed!" he moaned in a lost voice. "The C. Cydwick Ohms Time Door is a botch!" He buried his head in trembling hands.

The reporters and photographers began to file out.

Suddenly the professor raised his head. "Listen!" he warned.

A slow rumbling, muted with distance, emanated from the dense grayness of the Time Door. Faint yips and whoopings were distinct above the rumble. The sounds grew steadily—to a thousand beating drums—to a rolling sea of thunder!

Shrieking, the reporters and photographers scattered for the stairs.

Ah, another knotty problem to be solved, mused Professor Cydwick Ohms, swinging, with some difficulty, onto one of three thousand Texas steers stampeding into the laboratory.

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