“What the hell is that?” Barnaby pointed at the odd antiquity.
“You said we had to contact The Coordinator.”
Barnaby stared at the historian he’d shuttled through Time.
“You’ll need fifty cents, Barn.” The historian stuffed his hands into his pockets, retrieving two quarters stolen from the Twentieth-Century museum display.
Barnaby slapped his hand away, flinging the quarters in all directions. “What the hell is a matter with you? Are you saying there’s no way to communicate back home?”
Donning a Boston Orioles baseball cap the historian said, “I’d suggest trying to blend in. We could be here a long time.”