“Man, turnip or chemical compound,” she answered impatiently; “if resolved into its essence it can presumably be reassembled, another wrong word, at another point of the time-space fabric.” “You mean ... like yesterday?” “No—and yes. What is ‘yesterday’? A thing? An aspect? An idea? Or a relationship? Oh, words are useless things; even with mathematical symbols you can hardly.... But someday I’ll establish it. Or lay the groundwork for my successors. Or the successors of my successors.” I nodded. Midbin was at least half right; Barbara was emotionally sick. For what was this “theory” of hers but the rationalization of a daydream, the daydream of discovering a process for reaching back through time to injure her dead mother and so steal all of her father’s affections? _14._ _MIDBIN’S EXPERIMENT_ At the next meeting of the fellows Midbin asked an appropriation for experimental work and the help of haven members in the project. Since the extent of both requests was modest, their granting would ordinarily have been a formality. But Barbara asked politely if Dr Midbin wouldnt like to elaborate a little on the purposes of his experiment. I knew her manner was a danger signal. Nevertheless Midbin merely answered goodhumoredly that he proposed to test a theory of whether an emotionally induced physical handicap could be cured by recreating in the subject’s mind the shock which had caused—to use a loose, inaccurate term—the impediment. “I thought so. He wants to waste the haven’s money and time on a little tart he’s having an affair with while important work is held up for lack of funds.” One of the women called out, “Oh, Barbara, no,” and there were exclamations of disapproval. I saw Kimi Agati look steadfastly down in embarrassment. Mr Haggerwells, after trying unsuccessfully to hold Barbara’s eye, said, “I must apologize for my daughter—” “It’s all right,” interrupted Midbin. “I understand Barbara’s notions. I’m sure no one here really thinks there is anything improper between the girl and me. Outside of this, Barbara’s original question seems quite in order. Quite in order. Briefly, as most of you know, I’ve been trying to restore speech to a subject who lost it—again I use an inaccurate term for convenience—during an afflicting experience. Preliminary explorations indicate good probability of satisfactory response to my proposed method, which is simply to employ a kinematic camera like those making entertainment photinugraphs—” “He wants to turn the haven into a tinugraph mill with the fellows as mummers!” “Only this once, Barbara, only this once. Not regularly; not as routine.” At this point her father insisted the request be voted on without any more discussion. I was tempted to vote with Barbara, the only dissident, for I foresaw Midbin’s tinugraph would undoubtedly rely heavily on cooperation from me, but I didnt have the courage. Instead I merely abstained, like Midbin himself and Ace.