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The New Accelerator
H.G. Wells
Certainly, if ever a man found a guinea when he was looking for a pin it is my good friend
Professor Gibberne. I have heard before of investigators overshooting the mark, but never
quite to the extent that he has done. He has really, this time at any rate, without any touch of
exaggeration in the phrase, found something to revolutionise human life. And that when he
was simply seeking an all-round nervous stimulant to bring languid people up to the
stresses of these pushful days. I have tasted the stuff now several times, and I cannot do
better than describe the effect the thing had on me. That there are astonishing experiences in
store for all in search of new sensations will become apparent enough.
Professor Gibberne, as many people know, is my neighbour in Folkestone. Unless my
memory plays me a trick, his portrait at various ages has already appeared in The Strand
Magazine--I think late in 1899; but I am unable to look it up because I have lent that
volume to some one who has never sent it back. The reader may, perhaps, recall the high
forehead and the singularly long black eyebrows that give such a Mephistophelian touch to
his face. He occupies one of those pleasant little detached houses in the mixed style that
make the western end of the Upper Sandgate Road so interesting. His is the one with the
Flemish gables and the Moorish portico, and it is in the little room with the mullioned bay
window that he works when he is down here, and in which of an evening we have so often
smoked and talked together. He is a mighty jester, but, besides, he likes to talk to me about
his work; he is one of those men who find a help and stimulus in talking, and so I have been
able to follow the conception of the New Accelerator right up from a very early stage. Of
course, the greater portion of his experimental work is not done in Folkestone, but in Gower
Street, in the fine new laboratory next to the hospital that he has been the first to use.
As every one knows, or at least as all intelligent people know, the special department in
which Gibberne has gained so great and deserved a reputation among physiologists is the
action of drugs upon the nervous system. Upon soporifics, sedatives, and anaesthetics he is,
I am told, unequalled. He is also a chemist of considerable eminence, and I suppose in the
subtle and complex jungle of riddles that centres about the ganglion cell and the axis fibre
there are little cleared places of his making, little glades of illumination, that, until he sees
fit to publish his results, are still inaccessible to every other living man. And in the last few
years he has been particularly assiduous upon this question of nervous stimulants, and
already, before the discovery of the New Accelerator, very successful with them. Medical
science has to thank him for at least three distinct and absolutely safe invigorators of
unrivalled value to practising men. In cases of exhaustion the preparation known as
Gibberne's B Syrup has, I suppose, saved more lives already than any lifeboat round the
coast.
"But none of these little things begin to satisfy me yet," he told me nearly a year ago.
"Either they increase the central energy without affecting the nerves or they simply increase
the available energy by lowering the nervous conductivity; and all of them are unequal and
local in their operation. One wakes up the heart and viscera and leaves the brain stupefied,
one gets at the brain champagne fashion and does nothing good for the solar plexus, and
what I want--and what, if it's an earthly possibility, I mean to have-- is a stimulant that
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stimulates all round, that wakes you up for a time from the crown of your head to the tip of
your great toe, and makes you go two--or even three--to everybody else's one. Eh? That's
the thing I'm after."
"It would tire a man," I said.
"Not a doubt of it. And you'd eat double or treble--and all that. But just think what the thing
would mean. Imagine yourself with a little phial like this"--he held up a little bottle of green
glass and marked his points with it--"and in this precious phial is the power to think twice
as fast, move twice as quickly, do twice as much work in a given time as you could
otherwise do."
"But is such a thing possible?"
"I believe so. If it isn't, I've wasted my time for a year. These various preparations of the
hypophosphites, for example, seem to show that something of the sort . . . Even if it was
only one and a half times as fast it would do."
"It would do," I said.
"If you were a statesman in a corner, for example, time rushing up against you, something
urgent to be done, eh?"
"He could dose his private secretary," I said.
"And gain--double time. And think if you, for example, wanted to finish a book."
"Usually," I said, "I wish I'd never begun 'em."
"Or a doctor, driven to death, wants to sit down and think out a case. Or a barrister--or a
man cramming for an examination."
"Worth a guinea a drop," said I, "and more to men like that."
"And in a duel, again," said Gibberne, "where it all depends on your quickness in pulling
the trigger."
"Or in fencing," I echoed.
"You see," said Gibberne, "if I get it as an all-round thing it will really do you no harm at
all--except perhaps to an infinitesimal degree it brings you nearer old age. You will just
have lived twice to other people's once--"
"I suppose," I meditated, "in a duel--it would be fair?"
"That's a question for the seconds," said Gibberne.
I harked back further. "And you really think such a thing IS possible?" I said.
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"As possible," said Gibberne, and glanced at something that went throbbing by the window,
"as a motor-bus. As a matter of fact--"
He paused and smiled at me deeply, and tapped slowly on the edge of his desk with the
green phial. "I think I know the stuff. . . . Already I've got something coming." The nervous
smile upon his face betrayed the gravity of his revelation. He rarely talked of his actual
experimental work unless things were very near the end. "And it may be, it may be--I
shouldn't be surprised--it may even do the thing at a greater rate than twice."
"It will be rather a big thing," I hazarded.
"It will be, I think, rather a big thing."
But I don't think he quite knew what a big thing it was to be, for all that.
I remember we had several talks about the stuff after that. "The New Accelerator" he called
it, and his tone about it grew more confident on each occasion. Sometimes he talked
nervously of unexpected physiological results its use might have, and then he would get a
little unhappy; at others he was frankly mercenary, and we debated long and anxiously how
the preparation might be turned to commercial account. "It's a good thing," said Gibberne,
"a tremendous thing. I know I'm giving the world something, and I think it only reasonable
we should expect the world to pay. The dignity of science is all very well, but I think
somehow I must have the monopoly of the stuff for, say, ten years. I don't see why all the
fun in life should go to the dealers in ham."
My own interest in the coming drug certainly did not wane in the time. I have always had a
queer little twist towards metaphysics in my mind. I have always been given to paradoxes
about space and time, and it seemed to me that Gibberne was really preparing no less than
the absolute acceleration of life. Suppose a man repeatedly dosed with such a preparation:
he would live an active and record life indeed, but he would be an adult at eleven, middle-
aged at twenty-five, and by thirty well on the road to senile decay. It seemed to me that so
far Gibberne was only going to do for any one who took his drug exactly what Nature has
done for the Jews and Orientals, who are men in their teens and aged by fifty, and quicker
in thought and act than we are all the time. The marvel of drugs has always been great to
my mind; you can madden a man, calm a man, make him incredibly strong and alert or a
helpless log, quicken this passion and allay that, all by means of drugs, and here was a new
miracle to be added to this strange armoury of phials the doctors use! But Gibberne was far
too eager upon his technical points to enter very keenly into my aspect of the question.
It was the 7th or 8th of August when he told me the distillation that would decide his failure
or success for a time was going forward as we talked, and it was on the 10th that he told me
the thing was done and the New Accelerator a tangible reality in the world. I met him as I
was going up the Sandgate Hill towards Folkestone--I think I was going to get my hair cut,
and he came hurrying down to meet me--I suppose he was coming to my house to tell me at
once of his success. I remember that his eyes were unusually bright and his face flushed,
and I noted even then the swift alacrity of his step.
"It's done," he cried, and gripped my hand, speaking very fast; "it's more than done. Come
up to my house and see."
"Really?"
"Really!" he shouted. "Incredibly! Come up and see."
"And it does--twice?
"It does more, much more. It scares me. Come up and see the stuff. Taste it! Try it! It's the
most amazing stuff on earth." He gripped my arm and, walking at such a pace that he forced
me into a trot, went shouting with me up the hill. A whole char-a-banc-ful of people turned
and stared at us in unison after the manner of people in chars-a-banc. It was one of those
hot, clear days that Folkestone sees so much of, every colour incredibly bright and every
outline hard. There was a breeze, of course, but not so much breeze as sufficed under these
conditions to keep me cool and dry. I panted for mercy.
"I'm not walking fast, am I?" cried Gibberne, and slackened his pace to a quick march.
"You've been taking some of this stuff," I puffed.
"No," he said. "At the utmost a drop of water that stood in a beaker from which I had
washed out the last traces of the stuff. I took some last night, you know. But that is ancient
history, now."
"And it goes twice?" I said, nearing his doorway in a grateful perspiration.
"It goes a thousand times, many thousand times!" cried Gibberne, with a dramatic gesture,
flinging open his Early English carved oak gate.
"Phew!" said I, and followed him to the door.
"I don't know how many times it goes," he said, with his latch-key in his hand.
"And you--"
"It throws all sorts of light on nervous physiology, it kicks the theory of vision into a
perfectly new shape! . . . Heaven knows how many thousand times. We'll try all that after--
The thing is to try the stuff now."
"Try the stuff?" I said, as we went along the passage.
"Rather," said Gibberne, turning on me in his study. "There it is in that little green phial
there! Unless you happen to be afraid?"
I am a careful man by nature, and only theoretically adventurous. I was afraid. But on the
other hand there is pride.
"Well," I haggled. "You say you've tried it?"
"I've tried it," he said, "and I don't look hurt by it, do I? I don't even look livery and I feel--"
I sat down. "Give me the potion," I said. "If the worst comes to the worst it will save having
my hair cut, and that I think is one of the most hateful duties of a civilised man. How do
you take the mixture?"
"With water," said Gibberne, whacking down a carafe.
He stood up in front of his desk and regarded me in his easy chair; his manner was suddenly
affected by a touch of the Harley Street specialist. "It's rum stuff, you know," he said.
I made a gesture with my hand.
"I must warn you in the first place as soon as you've got it down to shut your eyes, and open
them very cautiously in a minute or so's time. One still sees. The sense of vision is a
question of length of vibration, and not of multitude of impacts; but there's a kind of shock
to the retina, a nasty giddy confusion just at the time, if the eyes are open. Keep 'em shut."
"Shut," I said. "Good!"
"And the next thing is, keep still. Don't begin to whack about. You may fetch something a
nasty rap if you do. Remember you will be going several thousand times faster than you
ever did before, heart, lungs, muscles, brain--everything--and you will hit hard without
knowing it. You won't know it, you know. You'll feel just as you do now. Only everything
in the world will seem to be going ever so many thousand times slower than it ever went
before. That's what makes it so deuced queer."
"Lor'," I said. "And you mean--"
"You'll see," said he, and took up a little measure. He glanced at the material on his desk.
"Glasses," he said, "water. All here. Mustn't take too much for the first attempt."
The little phial glucked out its precious contents.
"Don't forget what I told you," he said, turning the contents of the measure into a glass in
the manner of an Italian waiter measuring whisky. "Sit with the eyes tightly shut and in
absolute stillness for two minutes," he said. "Then you will hear me speak."
He added an inch or so of water to the little dose in each glass.
"By-the-by," he said, "don't put your glass down. Keep it in your hand and rest your hand on
your knee. Yes--so. And now--"
He raised his glass.
"The New Accelerator," I said.
"The New Accelerator," he answered, and we touched glasses and drank, and instantly I
closed my eyes.
You know that blank non-existence into which one drops when one has taken "gas." For an
indefinite interval it was like that. Then 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 falls 16 feet in the first
second. This glass is falling 16 feet in a second now. Only, you see, it hasn't been falling yet
for the hundredth part of a second. That gives you some idea of the pace of my
Accelerator." And he waved his hand round and round, over and under the slowly sinking
glass. Finally, he took it by the bottom, pulled it down, and placed it very carefully on the
table. "Eh?" he said to me, and laughed.
"That seems all right," I said, and began very gingerly to raise myself from my chair. I felt
perfectly well, very light and comfortable, and quite confident in my mind. I was going fast
all over. My heart, for example, was beating a thousand times a second, but that caused me
no discomfort at all. I looked out of the window. An immovable cyclist, head down and
with a frozen puff of dust behind his driving-wheel, scorched to overtake a galloping char-
a-banc that did not stir. I gaped in amazement at this incredible spectacle. "Gibberne," I
cried, "how long will this confounded stuff last?"
"Heaven knows!" he answered. "Last time I took it I went to bed and slept it off. I tell you, I
was frightened. It must have lasted some minutes, I think--it seemed like hours. But after a
bit it slows down rather suddenly, I believe."
I was proud to observe that I did not feel frightened--I suppose because there were two of
us. "Why shouldn't we go out?" I asked.
"Why not?"
"They'll see us."
"Not they. Goodness, no! Why, we shall be going a thousand times faster than the quickest
conjuring trick that was ever done. Come along! Which way shall we go? Window, or
door?"
And out by the window we went.
Assuredly of all the strange experiences that I have ever had, or imagined, or read of other
people having or imagining, that little raid I made with Gibberne on the Folkestone Leas,
under the influence of the New Accelerator, was the strangest and maddest of all. We went
out by his gate into the road, and there we made a minute examination of the statuesque
passing traffic. The tops of the wheels and some of the legs of the horses of this char-a-
banc, the end of the whip-lash and the lower jaw of the conductor--who was just beginning
to yawn--were perceptibly in motion, but all the rest of the lumbering conveyance seemed
still. And quite noiseless except for a faint rattling that came from one man's throat! And as
parts of this frozen edifice there were a driver, you know, and a conductor, and eleven
people! The effect as we walked about the thing began by being madly queer, and ended by
being disagreeable. There they were, people like ourselves and yet not like ourselves, frozen
in careless attitudes, caught in mid-gesture. A girl and a man smiled at one another, a
leering smile that threatened to last for evermore; a woman in a floppy capelline rested her
arm on the rail and stared at Gibberne's house with the unwinking stare of eternity; a man
stroked his moustache like a figure of wax, and another stretched a tiresome stiff hand with
extended fingers towards his loosened hat. We stared at them, we laughed at them, we made
faces at them, and then a sort of disgust of them came upon us, and we turned away and
walked round in front of the cyclist towards the Leas.
"Goodness!" cried Gibberne, suddenly; "look there!"
He pointed, and there at the tip of his finger and sliding down the air with wings flapping
slowly and at the speed of an exceptionally languid snail--was a bee.
And so we came out upon the Leas. There the thing seemed madder than ever. The band
was playing in the upper stand, though all the sound it made for us was a low-pitched,
wheezy rattle, a sort of prolonged last sigh that passed at times into a sound like the slow,
muffled ticking of some monstrous clock. Frozen people stood erect, strange, silent, self-
conscious-looking dummies hung unstably in mid-stride, promenading upon the grass. I
passed close to a little poodle dog suspended in the act of leaping, and watched the slow
movement of his legs as he sank to earth. "Lord, look here!" cried Gibberne, and we halted
for a moment before a magnificent person in white faint-striped flannels, white shoes, and a
Panama hat, who turned back to wink at two gaily dressed ladies he had passed. A wink,
studied with such leisurely deliberation as we could afford, is an unattractive thing. It loses
any quality of alert gaiety, and one remarks that the winking eye does not completely close,
that under its drooping lid appears the lower edge of an eyeball and a little line of white.
"Heaven give me memory," said I, "and I will never wink again."
"Or smile," said Gibberne, with his eye on the lady's answering teeth.
"It's infernally hot, somehow," said I. "Let's go slower."
"Oh, come along!" said Gibberne.
We picked our way among the bath-chairs in the path. Many of the people sitting in the
chairs seemed almost natural in their passive poses, but the contorted scarlet of the
bandsmen was not a restful thing to see. A purple-faced little gentleman was frozen in the
midst of a violent struggle to refold his newspaper against the wind; there were many
evidences that all these people in their sluggish way were exposed to a considerable breeze,
a breeze that had no existence so far as our sensations went. We came out and walked a
little way from the crowd, and turned and regarded it. To see all that multitude changed, to
a picture, smitten rigid, as it were, into the semblance of realistic wax, was impossibly
wonderful. It was absurd, of course; but it filled me with an irrational, an exultant sense of
superior advantage. Consider the wonder of it! All that I had said, and thought, and done
since the stuff had begun to work in my veins had happened, so far as those people, so far
as the world in general went, in the twinkling of an eye. "The New Accelerator--" I began,
but Gibberne interrupted me.
"There's that infernal old woman!" he said.
"What old woman?"
"Lives next door to me," said Gibberne. "Has a lapdog that yaps. Gods! The temptation is
strong!"
There is something very boyish and impulsive about Gibberne at times. Before I could
expostulate with him he had dashed forward, snatched the unfortunate animal out of visible
existence, and was running violently with it towards the cliff of the Leas. It was most
extraordinary. The little brute, you know, didn't bark or wriggle or make the slightest sign
of vitality. It kept quite stiffly in an attitude of somnolent repose, and Gibberne held it by
the neck. It was like running about with a dog of wood. "Gibberne," I cried, "put it down!"
Then I said something else. "If you run like that, Gibberne," I cried, "you'll set your clothes
on fire. Your linen trousers are going brown as it is!"
He clapped his hand on his thigh and stood hesitating on the verge. "Gibberne," I cried,
coming up, "put it down. This heat is too much! It's our running so! Two or three miles a
second! Friction of the air!"
"What?" he said, glancing at the dog.
"Friction of the air," I shouted. "Friction of the air. Going too fast. Like meteorites and
things. Too hot. And, Gibberne! Gibberne! I'm all over pricking and a sort of perspiration.
You can see people stirring slightly. I believe the stuff's working off! Put that dog down."
"Eh?" he said.
"It's working off," I repeated. "We're too hot and the stuff's working off! I'm wet through."
He stared at me. Then at the band, the wheezy rattle of whose performance was certainly
going faster. Then with a tremendous sweep of the arm he hurled the dog away from him
and it went spinning upward, still inanimate, and hung at last over the grouped parasols of a
knot of chattering people. Gibberne was gripping my elbow. "By Jove!" he cried. "I
believe--it is! A sort of hot pricking and--yes. That man's moving his pocket-handkerchief!
Perceptibly. We must get out of this sharp."
But we could not get out of it sharply enough. Luckily, perhaps! For we might have run,
and if we had run we should, I believe, have burst into flames. Almost certainly we should
have burst into flames! You know we had neither of us thought of that. . . . But before we
could even begin to run the action of the drug had ceased. It was the business of a minute
fraction of a second. The effect of the New Accelerator passed like the drawing of a curtain,
vanished in the movement of a hand. I heard Gibberne's voice in infinite alarm. "Sit down,"
he said, and flop, down upon the turf at the edge of the Leas I sat--scorching as I sat. There
is a patch of burnt grass there still where I sat down. The whole stagnation seemed to wake
up as I did so, the disarticulated vibration of the band rushed together into a blast of music,
the promenaders put their feet down and walked their ways, the papers and flags began
flapping, smiles passed into words, the winker finished his wink and went on his way
complacently, and all the seated people moved and spoke.
The whole world had come alive again, was going as fast as we were, or rather we were
going no faster than the rest of the world. It was like slowing down as one comes into a
railway station. Everything seemed to spin round for a second or two, I had the most
transient feeling of nausea, and that was all. And the little dog which had seemed to hang
for a moment when the force of Gibberne's arm was expended fell with a swift acceleration
clean through a lady's parasol!
That was the saving of us. Unless it was for one corpulent old gentleman in a bath-chair,
who certainly did start at the sight of us and afterwards regarded us at intervals with a
darkly suspicious eye, and, finally, I believe, said something to his nurse about us, I doubt if
a solitary person remarked our sudden appearance among them. Plop! We must have
appeared abruptly. We ceased to smoulder almost at once, though the turf beneath me was
uncomfortably hot. The attention of every one--including even the Amusements'
Association band, which on this occasion, for the only time in its history, got out of tune--
was arrested by the amazing fact, and the still more amazing yapping and uproar caused by
the fact that a respectable, over-fed lap-dog sleeping quietly to the east of the bandstand
should suddenly fall through the parasol of a lady on the west--in a slightly singed condition
due to the extreme velocity of its movements through the air. In these absurd days, too,
when we are all trying to be as psychic, and silly, and superstitious as possible! People got
up and trod on other people, chairs were overturned, the Leas policeman ran. How the
matter settled itself I do not know--we were much too anxious to disentangle ourselves
from the affair and get out of range of the eye of the old gentleman in the bath-chair to
make minute inquiries. As soon as we were sufficiently cool and sufficiently recovered
from our giddiness and nausea and confusion of mind to do so we stood up and, skirting the
crowd, directed our steps back along the road below the Metropole towards Gibberne's
house. But amidst the din I heard very distinctly the gentleman who had been sitting beside
the lady of the ruptured sunshade using quite unjustifiable threats and language to one of
those chair-attendants who have "Inspector" written on their caps. "If you didn't throw the
dog," he said, "who did?"
The sudden return of movement and familiar noises, and our natural anxiety about
ourselves (our clothe's were still dreadfully hot, and the fronts of the thighs of Gibberne's
white trousers were scorched a drabbish brown), prevented the minute observations I should
have liked to make on all these things. Indeed, I really made no observations of any
scientific value on that return. The bee, of course, had gone. I looked for that cyclist, but he
was already out of sight as we came into the Upper Sandgate Road or hidden from us by
traffic; the char-a-banc, however, with its people now all alive and stirring, was clattering
along at a spanking pace almost abreast of the nearer church.
We noted, however, that the window-sill on which we had stepped in getting out of the
house was slightly singed, and that the impressions of our feet on the gravel of the path
were unusually deep.
So it was I had my first experience of the New Accelerator. Practically we had been running
about and saying and doing all sorts of things in the space of a second or so of time. We had
lived half an hour while the band had played, perhaps, two bars. But the effect it had upon
us was that the whole world had stopped for our convenient inspection. Considering all
things, and particularly considering our rashness in venturing out of the house, the
experience might certainly have been much more disagreeable than it was. It showed, no
doubt, that Gibberne has still much to learn before his preparation is a manageable
convenience, but its practicability it certainly demonstrated beyond all cavil.
Since that adventure he has been steadily bringing its use under control, and I have several
times, and without the slightest bad result, taken measured doses under his direction;
though I must confess I have not yet ventured abroad again while under its influence. I may
mention, for example, that this story has been written at one sitting and without
interruption, except for the nibbling of some chocolate, by its means. I began at 6.25, and
my watch is now very nearly at the minute past the half-hour. The convenience of securing
a long, uninterrupted spell of work in the midst of a day full of engagements cannot be
exaggerated. Gibberne is now working at the quantitative handling of his preparation, with
especial reference to its distinctive effects upon different types of constitution. He then
hopes to find a Retarder with which to dilute its present rather excessive potency. The
Retarder will, of course, have the reverse effect to the Accelerator; used alone it should
enable the patient to spread a few seconds over many hours of ordinary time,--and so to
maintain an apathetic inaction, a glacier-like absence of alacrity, amidst the most animated
or irritating surroundings. The two things together must necessarily work an entire
revolution in civilised existence. It is the beginning of our escape from that Time Garment
of which Carlyle speaks. While this Accelerator will enable us to concentrate ourselves
with tremendous impact upon any moment or occasion that demands our utmost sense and
vigour, the Retarder will enable us to pass in passive tranquillity through infinite hardship
and tedium. Perhaps I am a little optimistic about the Retarder, which has indeed still to be
discovered, but about the Accelerator there is no possible sort of doubt whatever. Its
appearance upon the market in a convenient, controllable, and assimilable form is a matter
of the next few months. It will be obtainable of all chemists and druggists, in small green
bottles, at a high but, considering its extraordinary qualities, by no means excessive price.
Gibberne's Nervous Accelerator it will be called, and he hopes to be able to supply it in
three strengths: one in 200, one in 900, and one in 2000, distinguished by yellow, pink, and
white labels respectively.
No doubt its use renders a great number of very extraordinary things possible; for, of
course, the most remarkable and, possibly, even criminal proceedings may be effected with
impunity by thus dodging, as it were, into the interstices of time. Like all potent
preparations it will be liable to abuse. We have, however, discussed this aspect of the
question very thoroughly, and we have decided that this is purely a matter of medical
jurisprudence and altogether outside our province. We shall manufacture and sell the
Accelerator, and, as for the consequences--we shall see.
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