They all sat down. Mrs. Foster turned to Tim Woodart and asked him how it was done.
"You mean the whole thing?"
"No, the job of making enlargements."
"Easy," he said. "We just have a repeat-scan that repeats the same atom in between true signals. Same like cramming a whole twelve-story building on a busy street. We cut out certain patterns—sometimes every other signal, sometimes every third, sometimes four out of five are eliminated in the recording. The number cut is a definite statement of the 'times-size' of the reproduction."
"Sounds simple when you say it fast," she smiled.
"I'll tell you about it later—?" he suggested.
"I'd like that."
He was too silent for a moment, and Jenny Foster knew it. "Tim," she said, "if you're worrying about the ... the—"
"Well," he admitted slowly, "I was. Not that I care, but you—?"
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—"