'The New Accelerator,' he answered, and we touched glasses and drank, and instantly I closed my eyes.
You know that blank non-existence into which one drops when one has taken 'gas.' For an indefinite interval it was like that. Then I heard Gibberne telling me to wake up, and I stirred and opened my eyes. There he stood as he had been standing, glass still in hand. It was empty, that was all the difference.
'Well?' said I.
'Nothing out of the way?'
'Nothing. A slight feeling of exhilaration, perhaps. Nothing more.'
'Sounds?'
'Things are still,' I said. 'By Jove! yes! They are still. Except the sort of faint pat, patter, like rain falling on different things. What is it?'
'Analysed sounds,' I think he said, but I am not sure. He glanced at the window. 'Have you ever seen a curtain before a window fixed in that way before?'
I followed his eyes, and there was the end of the curtain, frozen, as it were, corner high, in the act of flapping briskly in the breeze.
'No,' said I; 'that's odd.'
'And here,' he said, and opened the hand that held the glass. Naturally I winced, expecting the glass to smash. But so far from smashing, it did not even seem to stir; it hung in mid-air—motionless. 'Roughly speaking,' said Gibberne, 'an object in these latitudes falls 16 feet in the first second. This glass is falling 16 feet in a second now. Only, you see, it hasn't been falling yet for the hundredth part of a second. That gives you some idea of the pace of my Accelerator.'
And he waved his hand round and round, over and under the slowly sinking glass. Finally he took it by
