I tried to remember what she had said about cosmic entity. “You mean youre going to try to turn matter into space or something like that?” “Something like that. I intend to translate matter-energy into terms of space-time.” “Oh,” I said, “equations and symbols and all that.” “I just said I wasnt going to write a book.” “But how—” I started up as the impact struck me. “Youre going to ...” I groped for words. “Youre going to build a ... an engine which will move through time?” “Putting it crudely. But close enough for a layman.” “You once told me your work was theoretical. That you were no vulgar mechanic.” “I’ll become one.” “Barbara, youre crazy! As a philosophical abstraction this theory of yours is interesting—” “Thank you. It’s always nice to know one has amused the yokelry.” “Barbara, listen to me. Midbin—” “I havent the faintest interest in Oliver’s stodgy fantasies.” “He has in yours though, and so have I. Don’t you see, this determination of yours is based on the fantasy of going back through time to—uh—injure your mother—” “Oliver Midbin is a coarse, stupid, insensate lout. He has taught the dumb to speak, but he’s too much of a fool to understand anyone of normal intelligence. He has a set of idiotic theories about diseased emotions and he fits all facts into them even if it means chopping them up to do it or inventing new ones to piece them out. Injure my mother indeed! I have no more interest in her than she ever had in me.” “Ah, Barbara—” “‘Ah Barbara,’” she mimicked. “Run along to your pompous windbag of a Midbin or your oh-so-willing cow-eyed Spanish doxy—” “Barbara, I’m talking as a friend. Leave Midbin and Catty and personalities out of it and just look at it this way. Don’t you see the difference between promulgating a theory and trying a practical demonstration which will certainly appear to the world as going over the borderline into charlatanism? Like a spiritualist medium or—” “That’s enough! ‘Charlatan’! You unspeakable guttersnipe. What do you know of anything beyond the seduction of cretins? Go back to your trade, you errand boy!” I seemed to remember that once before an incident had ended precisely this way. “Barbara—” Her hand caught me across my mouth. Then she strode away. The fellows of Haggershaven were not enthusiastic for her project. Even as she outlined it to them in more sober language than she had to me it still sounded outlandish, like the recurrent idea of a telegraph without wires or a rocket to the moon. Besides, 1950 was a bad year. The war was coming closer; at the least, what was left of the independence of the United States was likely to be extinguished. Our energies had to be directed toward survival rather than new and expensive ventures. Still, Barbara Haggerwells was a famous figure commanding great respect, and she had cost them little so far, beyond paper and pencils. Reluctantly the fellows voted an appropriation.