Unfortunately, it had not occurred to them that their time machine might need similar protection. The equipment was basically electronic, and the power leads were encased in a new insulation, a synthetic protein which in very thin films afforded a near perfect dielectric. It was also, as it happened, an almost perfect culture medium for certain bacilli, non-existent in the sterile future, but healthy and thriving and full of appetite in the twentieth century. When the gun runners prepared to return to their own time with their cargo of contraband there were small flashes of fire, and smoke curled briefly from various parts of the equipment. Their temporal environment remained unchanged. The gun runners were not technicians, they were specialists in other fields. They pulled and prodded uncertainly here and there, pushed the buttons again. Nothing happened. The senior gun runner, a man who wore in this century the appearance of a quiet, gray-haired professional man, and who wore in any century the habit of command, came to a decision. He spoke in their own language, a language time had pruned to telegraphic brevity: "If tamper, make worse. Electronics technicians this era. Use." The second man raised an eyebrow. "Knowledge adequate? Time travel not simple." The older man shrugged. "Theory not simple, machine simple. Savages clever fingers. Adequate stimulus, can solve." "And after? Disposition?" "Displacement effect. Or--" the senior gun runner sketched a quick gesture of pulling a trigger. The younger man nodded slowly, still dubious--which was proper, it was his function to be suspicious and questioning, as it was the other's to command. "Stimulus?" "Profit. Curiosity. And ... Moirta." Both men turned and looked appraisingly at the woman, who had not yet entered the discussion. She was a very narrow specialist, within the wider specialty of gun running and murder. Now she moved her shoulders uneasily. "Displacement effect," she suggested, "near limit. If caught--" she made an unpleasantly suggestive spastic gesture. The chief gun runner shrugged again. "If caught," he repeated the gesture she had made, "in any case. No choice. Find technician now." * * * * * George Dolan studied his visitors thoughtfully. "Well, actually," he said, "our work is design, not repair. I suppose I could send a man out to look over your job and recommend a firm to handle it. Is that what you want?" "Mr. Dolan," the gray-haired man said earnestly, "I am afraid you still misunderstand me. The work we wish done is small in scale, but very intricate and delicate, and highly confidential. We have investigated your qualifications, and you are the man we want to handle it, you personally. We do not want you to mention this work to any other person--not even your wife." "I don't have a wife," Dolan said. "That's no problem." He hesitated. "Do I need security clearance? That'll take time."