She smiled bitterly. "It's often said that no one knows another person until you've lived with them for some time. It was between our first meeting and three years after I married Harry Foster that I was his wife. That was when I found out about him. I--" "Look," said Tim, worriedly, "there's been something worrying me ever since we took these shots yesterday. Now I know what it is. Let's get out of here and I'll buy you a drink." "_Shhhhhh!_" insisted Hammer. "Stop it," returned Woodart. "Make notes," said Hammer. "I want to see these rushes to the close." "But--" "But nothing. Tell me later." "Let's go," said Tim plaintively. "It'll only be a minute. What are you worrying about?" Tim looked at the stage. This was a comic shot. In it, the head of the butler filled the stage and looked out at the audience through half-closed eyes. A middle distance shot previously had shown the butler taking a sniff of pepper, this was the aftermath-- "No!" yelled Woodart. He was too late. His yell was covered by the explosive sneeze. A hurricane of wind blasted at the tiny theater. A window went out in back, and Martin Hammer's toupee left for Kansas. As the echoes died, Tim Woodart said, "That's what I meant." Hammer blinked. "I'd hate to pull an Alfred Hitchcock and have a .45 pointed at the audience--close-up." Back of him, the photographer looked at the stage and made a quick estimate. "That," he said, "would hurl a nine-foot slug of lead at the audience!" Tim Woodart left quietly. * * * * * Tim Woodart led Jenny Foster to a small table and ordered Martinis. Jenny smiled at him and said: "Tell me how you came to invent this thing?" "Easy," he grinned. "I'm an avid reader of science-fiction and there was a yarn in one of the leading magazines some time ago that dealt with a matter transmitter. Written by a crackpot electronics engineer by the name of George O. Smith. He was rather explicit in a vague sort of way, but it gave me the initial idea, and here we are with it!" She laughed. "Is this character going to get any royalty?" "Oh," said Tim Woodart expansively, "I offered him some, but he refused, saying that his idea was nothing but a fiction idea and that any bright engineer would know how to send matter by radio." "Oh." "Besides, he's in Philadelphia, now, and the men in the white coats wouldn't let him write with anything but a blunt crayon." "Well, could you send things by wire with it?" Tim smiled, "Not at present," he said. "There isn't a transmission line with a broad enough band-pass to accept the signal frequencies necessary." "Now," said Jenny, taking a sip of her Martini, "you're getting in way over my head." Tim Woodart pulled out pencil and paper, but Jenny stopped him by laying a gentle hand on his. "Don't," she said plaintively. "I don't even know what happens when I snap on the light switch, let alone understanding transmission lines."