He did not connect. The stranger disappeared at that instant, and Hammer's well directed blow fell upon thin air. Hammer, finding no resistance before him, fell flat on his face, which mashed the cigar into his mouth and burned a hole in his fine Persian carpet. He turned over and sat up, spitting out bits of tobacco mixed with equal parts of very bad language. Blankly he ran his hand through the spot where the stranger had been. "Now," he said in puzzlement, "what in the name of--" "May I apologize?" came a voice at the door. Hammer whirled and saw the intruder again, standing there with a rather dumfounded expression on his face. Hammer grunted. At least he is now cognizant of his ruin-production, he thought. This was true. The intruder no longer had that fatuous expression that ignored the damage. "Apologize?" exploded Hammer. The intruder stepped through the ruined door. "I got the focus wrong," he said, "otherwise the image could have--" "Image?" yelled Hammer. The stranger nodded. "Image," he said. "Look, Hammer, you don't really think that I actually walked through that door, across your office floor, and then disappeared into thin air, do you?" "Well ... and who are you?" "My name is Tim Woodart. I'm an engineer." "Look," said Hammer shakily, "I'd like to know what's been going on. As a producer of motion pictures, I am beginning to see the glimmerings of a fine idea. I sort of resent the destruction you've created, but it certainly carried off its point." "I'll bring in the gear, too," said Woodart. "If you don't mind." Hammer nodded. Whatever it was, Martin Hammer had just had his door broken in by the first of all true three-dimensional photography! * * * * * Harry Foster stood on a lonely stage and smiled at some mythical point in the mid distance. Dramatically he pointed, and as he pointed, across his face there came a change over his features. Normally handsome, Harry Foster's "bad" face was thrice as bad for the distortion into hatred. It was excellent acting. The man beside the camera nodded. It was not only excellent acting but it was rather emotionally troublesome to be confronted by a living, breathing image of yourself. You, watching you do something that you had done previously. Harry Foster's hand stole up alongside of the cutoff button and he thrust it down viciously. The scene stopped instantly and disappeared. Foster, remaining beside the camera, swore. He rereeled manually a few yards and restarted the camera. He caught a previous scene's ending: a beautiful woman smiling shyly at another man. The scene's ending was brief, to a flash-over of Harry Foster standing in the center of the stage, and going through the same motions of smiling offstage, with the features changing from smile to scowl of hate. Again Foster's hand flipped the switch and the image of Foster disappeared as did the settings on the stage.