I sat up. “Fan me with a blowtorch,” I said.
But I didn’t nod. In fact, I didn’t move. When I realized what I’d said, I held my neck so rigid that it hurt, and didn’t quite breathe for fear I’d swing that pendulum.
Very gingerly, so as not to tilt it, I reached up and took off the headband and put it down on the floor.
Then I got up and felt myself all over. There were probably bruises, but no broken bones. I picked up the drink and drank it. It was a good drink, but I mixed the next one myself. With three-quarters gin.
With it in my hand, I circled around the headband, not coming within a yard of it, and sat down on the bed.
“Charlie,” I said, “you’ve got something there. I don’t know what it is, but what are we waiting for?”
“Meaning?” said Charlie.
“Meaning what any sensible man would mean. If that darned thing brings anything we ask for, well, let’ s make it a party. Which would you rather have, Lili St. Cyr or Esther Williams? I’ll take the other.”
He shook his head sadly. “There are limitations, Hank. Maybe I’d better explain.”
“Personally,” I said, “I would prefer Lili to an explanation, but go ahead. Let’s start with Yehudi. The only two Yehudis I know are Yehudi Menuhin, the violinist, and Yehudi, the little man who wasn’t there. Somehow I don’t think Menuhin brought us that gin, so—”
“He didn’t. For that matter, neither did the little man who wasn’t there. I was kidding you, Hank. There isn’t any little man who wasn’t there.”
“Oh,” I said. I repeated it slowly, or started to. “There—isn’t -any—little—man—who—wasn’t—” I gave up. “I think I begin to see,” I said. “What you mean is that there wasn’t any little man who isn’t here. But then, who’s Yehudi?”
“There isn’t any Yehudi, Hank. But the name, the idea, fitted so well that I called it that for short.”
“And what do you call it for long?”
“The automatic autosuggestive subvibratory superaccelerator.” I drank the rest of my drink.
“Lovely,” I said. “I like the Yehudi principle better, though. But there’s just one thing. Who brought us that drink-stuff? The gin and the soda and the so forth?”
“I did. And you mixed our second-last, as well as our last drink. Now do you understand?”
“In a word,” I said, “not exactly.”
Charlie sighed. “A field is set up between the temple-plates which accelerates several thousand times, the molecular vibration and thereby the speed of organic matter—the brain, and thereby the body. The command given just before the switch is thrown acts as an autosuggestion and you carry out the order you’ve just given yourself. But so rapidly that no one can see you move; just a momentary blur as you move off and come back in practically the same instant. Is that clear?”
“Sure,” I told him. “Except for one thing. Who’s Yehudi?”
I went to the table and started mixing two more drinks. Seven-eighths gin.
Charlie said patiently, “The action is so rapid that it does not impress itself upon your memory. For some reason the memory is not affected by the acceleration. The effect—both to the user and to the observer—is of the spontaneous obedience of a command by … well, by the little man who wasn’t there.”
“Yehudi?”
“Why not?”
“Why not why not?” I asked. “Here, have another drink. It’s a bit weak, but so am I. So you got this gin, huh? Where?”
“Probably the nearest tavern. I don’t remember.”
“Pay for it?”
He pulled out his wallet and opened it. “I think there’s a fin missing. I probably left it in the register. My subconscious must be honest.”
“But what good is it?” I demanded. “I don’t mean your subconscious, Charlie, I mean the Yehudi principle. You could have just as easily bought that gin on the way here. I could just as easily have mixed a drink and known I was doing it. And if you’re sure it can’t go bring us Lili St. Cyr and Esther Williams—”
“It can’t. Look, it can’t do anything that you yourself can’t do. It isn’t an it. It’s you. Get that through your head, Hank, and you’ll understand.”
“But what good is it?”
He sighed again. “The real purpose of it is not to run errands for gin and mix drinks. That was just a demonstration. The real purpose—”
“Wait,” I said. “Speaking of drinks, wait. It’s a long time since I had one.”
I made the table, tacking only twice, and this time I didn’t bother with the soda. I put a little lemon and an ice cube in each glass of gin.
Charlie tasted his and made a wry face.
I tasted mine. “Sour,” I said. “I should have left out the lemon. And we better drink them quick before the ice cubes start to melt or they’ll be weak.”
“The real purpose,” said Charlie, “is—”
“Wait,” I said. “You could be wrong, you know. About the limitations. I’m going to put that headband on and tell Yehudi to bring us Lill and—”
“Don’t be a sap, Hank. I made the thing. I know how it works. You can’t get Lill St. Cyr or Esther Williams or Brooklyn Bridge.”
“You’re positive?”
“Of course.”
What a sap I was. I believed him. I mixed two more drinks, using gin and two glasses this time, and then I sat down on the edge of the bed, which was swaying gently from side to side.
“All right,” I said. “I can take it now. What is the real purpose of it?”
Charlie Swann blinked several times and seemed to be having trouble bringing his eyes into focus on me. He asked, “The real purpose of what?”
I enunciated slowly and carefully. “Of the automatonic autosuggestive subvibratory superaccelerator. Yehudi, to me.”
“Oh, that,” said Charlie.
“That,” I said. “What is its real purpose?”
“It’s like this. Suppose you got something to do that you’ve got to do in a hurry. Or something that you’ve got to do, and don’t want to do. You could—”
“Like writing a story?” I asked.