Hank had temporarily suffered a paralysis of the vocal cords. I went to bat for him.
"Dimensions," I said. "Hank was explaining to me how the Time dimension operates."
Helen sniffed. "Time, indeed! Perhaps he needs an explanation of Time himself. I suppose you completely forgot you had a date with me an hour and a half ago, Hank Cleaver?"
Hank strangled. I said apologetically, "Now, Helen—don't be angry. I guess he forgot dimension it."
"That," scorned the girl, "is just the sort of poor joke I should expect from you, Jim. Well, I'm going to marry him and get him away from your bad influence soon—" Before I could think up a good comeback to that one, she shouldered past me into Hank's bedroom-laboratory, eyed with disdain the wavering, nebulous whatchamaycallit standing there. "What do you call this?" she demanded.
"It—it's a time-machine, honey," said Hank meekly.
"Hmmm! Funniest looking clock I ever saw!"
"Not that kind of Time, sugar-plum." Hank visioned forgiveness in her aroused interest. He sprang to her side, pointed at the various dials and gadgets. "This takes you to the past, so you can watch history being made. Or into the future—"
Helen, being a woman, had no time for nonsense like that. She got right down to fundamentals. "It's not streamlined," she said. "I don't like the color, and the dashboard isn't pretty. Where's the cigarette-lighter? And those seats don't look very comfortable—"
And she climbed into the front seat.