"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."
Uncertainly he replaced the pencil and paper in his pocket. Then he laughed. "Shall we dance?"
"That," she told him, "I understand."
They danced—and they danced well together. And while they were getting better acquainted, a hundred miles to the south a man was stopped by a motorcycle policeman for traveling too fast.
"Name?" snapped the policeman.