The Speaker, listening to the monotonous reading of a bill, reached absently for the water carafe, tilted it. The water did not pour. The Speaker tilted the carafe further—and further—suddenly the water made its exit.

It fell from the carafe, the entire contents, struck against the glass, knocked the glass over, bounced off the table into the air, and thence to the floor.

There the water, a half-gallon of it, tightly rolled into a neat, compact sphere, bounced up and down several times, and then subsided on the floor as clear and flawless as crystal glass.

The Speaker stared at it.

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.

In the Martian Legation Building, Olduk faced his seven associates.

"It is done," he said, in the Martian dialect of his native state. "The Earthmen have chosen their hell and will soon experience it. You have your tickets? Then go at once."

The youngest of 

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