He punched a button on the desk intercom. "Betty, I'm going out to look at a job with Mr. Brown and Miss—uh—" he glanced at the girl.
"Jones," the gray-haired man said. "Miss Jones."
"Oh, yes, excuse me." Dolan smiled at the girl and drew a brief quirk of the lips in response. "—with Mr. Brown and Miss Jones," he continued. "Be back some time this afternoon."
"OK," he said to his clients. "Let's go see this intricate and delicate problem."
For reasons compatible with the profession of gun running and the nature of time travel, the time translator had been located outside of urban limits—the city was to be rather systematically bombed in the near future—on a secluded and stable granite dike, within the shell of a frame cottage. Dolan observed all this without comment.
They were met outside the cottage by a man about Dolan's age.
"This is my colleague, Mr. Smith," Brown introduced him.
Mr. Smith offered his hand. As he turned to lead them inside, Dolan noticed that the light summer jacket Smith wore did not drape well over the right hip pocket. He filed this fact also for future reference.
"And here," Brown said, "is the machine we wish repaired."