"I dunno exactly," confessed Cleaver No. 1. "I—I mean we—had planned on installin' a magnetic grapple in the machine so's we c'd alluz get back where we come from—but now, ding-bust it, I'm in the machine an' can't git out, an' the equipment ain't installed—"
That was too much! It was bad enough arguing with Hank Cleaver, but to sit there listening to two Hank Cleavers talking and arguing with one another—that was a little too much for me! I sent out an SOS to my alter ego.
"Look, Buster, or Blakeson, or Narcissus,[2] how about a Share-the-Health plan with that bottle? After all, I'm the guy who bought it."
He said, "The hell you did! But here—" And held out the bottle. I reached for it—
His hand passed completely through the walls of the machine in which I sat! My hand passed completely in and out of the bottle he handed me; the bottle fell right through my fingers, my arm, and my right foot—and crashed on the floor below! Both of me wailed, good dusty rye gurgled cheerfully into the carpet, and I stared at Hank Cleaver dismally.
"Now what?" I demanded. "Now who did what when?"
And Hank, a haunted look in his eyes, said, "Sorry, Jim—but that's another o' the drawbacks to this time-travel business. You c'n see things an' hear 'em and smell 'em, but you can't tetch 'em. Because as fur's you're concerned, they ain't, an' as fur's they're concerned, you don't exist!"
Helen MacDowell stared at him.
"You mean we can't step out of this jaloppy when we take it into our minds to do so?"