The members of the conclave stared at it.
The Speaker turned to the gaping orderly.
"That's a glass ball," he said harshly, accusingly.
"No, it isn't," the orderly chattered. "That's water! I filled the carafe with water."
The Speaker looked at it again, and then walked to the sphere, the Conclave watching him in fascination.
The Speaker scooped up the ball in two hands. Then he tried to drop it. He couldn't. His fingers seemed curled around the ball, crushed close together. His hands couldn't draw apart.
He tried to shake the sphere away. He tried harder, and then violently, working himself into a sudden frenzy. The sphere of water clung to his hands, and his hands were locked as effectively as if handcuffs had been placed around the wrists. He got control of himself and turned to face the Conclave, white-faced.
"It can't be water," he said hoarsely, "but I think it is!"
And looking at the glass ball, he was conscious of a sudden thirst; but he knew he couldn't drink, although he held in his hands four times more water than he needed to quench his thirst.