“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?”