"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.
