“But the mechanics understood each other. At the end of the summer, it would be these hardheaded tinkers with their lopsided-healed fractures, scars, and singed-off eyebrows, chronically short-tempered before Creation’s irreducible cussedness, who’d come out of these time-traveler’s clambakes with any practical kind of momentum, and when the professors had all gone back to their bookshelves and protégés and intriguings after this or that Latinate token of prestige, it’d be the engineers who’d figure out how to keep in touch, what telegraphers and motor expressmen to trust, not to mention sheriffs who wouldn’t ask too many questions, Italian firework artists who’d come in and cover for them when the townsfolk grew suspicious of night horizons, where to find the discontinued part, the exotic ore, the local utility somewhere on Earth able to generate them current with the exact phase or frequency or sometimes simple purity that would meet their increasingly inscrutable needs.” (ATD, p. 457/8)

[Roswell & Merle in front of a blackboard full of mathematical equations]

“Way I figure, all’s we need to do’s translate this here into hardware, then solder it all up, and we’re in business.”
“Or in trouble”
“By the way, who’s the practical one here and who’s the crazy dreamer, again? I keep forgetting.” (ATD 459)