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