Twenty-eight-year-old William Nolan, another newcomer to the field,introduces us to the capricious Time Door of Professor C. Cydwick Ohms,guaranteed to solve the accumulated problems of the world of the year 2057.
Open the C. Cydwick Ohms TimeDoor, take but a single step, and—
"In one fell swoop," declaredProfessor C. Cydwick Ohms, releasinga thin blue ribbon of pipe-smokeand rocking back on hisheels, "—I intend to solve thegreatest problem facing mankindtoday. Colonizing the Polar Wasteswas a messy and fruitless business.And the Enforced Birth ControlProgram couldn't be enforced.Overpopulation still remains thethorn in our side. Gentlemen—"He paused to look each of theassembled reporters in the eye."—there is but one answer."
"Mass annihilation?" quavereda cub reporter.
"Posh, boy! Certainly not!" Theprofessor bristled. "The answer is—TIME!"
"Time?"
"Exactly," nodded Ohms. Witha dramatic flourish he swept asidea red velvet drape—to reveal atall structure of gleaming metal."As witness!"
"Golly, what's that thing?"queried the cub.
"This thing," replied the professoracidly, "—is the C. CydwickOhms Time Door."
"Whillikers, a Time Machine!"
"Not so, not so. Please, boy! ATime Machine, in the popularsense, is impossible. Wild fancy!However—" The professor tappedthe dottle from his pipe. "—by amathematically precise series ofinfinite calculations, I have developedthe remarkable C. CydwickOhms Time Door. Open it, takebut a single step—and, presto! ThePast!"
"But, where in the past, Prof.?"
Ohms smiled easily down at thetense ring of faces. "Gentlemen,beyond this door lies the sprawlinggiant of the Southwest—enoughland to absorb Earth's overflow likethat!" He snapped his fingers. "Ispeak, gentlemen, of Texas, 1957!"
"What if the Texans object?"
"They have no choice. The TimeDoor is strictly a one-way passage.I saw to that. It will be utterly impossiblefor anyone in 1957 to re-enterour world of 2057. And now—thePast awaits!"
He tossed aside his professorialrobes. Under them Cydwick Ohmswore an ancient and bizarre costume:black riding boots, highlypolished and trimmed in silver;wool chaps; a wide, jewel-studdedbelt with an immense buckle; abrightly checked shirt topped by ablazing red bandana. Briskly, hesnapped a tall ten-gallon hat onhis head, and stepped to the TimeDoor.
Gripping an ebony handle, hetugged upward. The huge metaldoor oiled slowly back. "Time,"said Cydwick Ohms simply, gesturingtoward the gray nothingnessbeyond the door.
The reporters and photographerssurged forward, notebooks andcameras at the ready. "What if thedoor swings shut after you'regone?" one of them asked.
"A groundless fear, boy," assuredOhms. "I have seen to it thatthe Time Door can never be closed.And now—good-bye, gentlemen.Or, to use the proper colloquialism—solong, 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 heswore, beat upon the unyieldingwall of grayness with clenched fists,and fell back, panting, to his desk.
"I've failed!" he moaned in alost voice. "The C. Cydwick OhmsTime Door is a botch!" He buriedhis head in trembling hands.
The reporters and photographersbegan to file out.
Suddenly the professor raised hishead. "Listen!" he warned.
A slow