The Time Mirror Part 7

He was moving forward, a juggernaut of menace, clenched fists half-raised.

"Keep away from me!" the antiquarian shrilled. His greasy face was paste-colored with terror. "Keep away! Don't touch me!"

The other caught his shoulders. Shook him as a terrier shakes a rat.

"Tell us!" he thundered. "Tell us how to bring her back!"

"I don't know what you're talking about! There wasn't anything wrong with the mirror I sent Elaine!"

"Tell us--"

The professor caught Mark's arm.

"Stop!" he begged. "Do not hurt him. There is a better way."

"A better way? What do you mean?"

The scientist turned to Vance.

"I am sure you are telling the truth," he said. "I feel certain the mirror is harmless." His tone was silky. A thin smile rippled across his aged face.

He was like a cat playing with a mouse.

"Only our friend, young Mr. Carter, remains to be convinced," he went on. "However, we shall have no difficulty in proving him wrong."

Adrian Vance stared at the professor in terrified fascination. His lips moved, but no words came.

The savant hurried across to an ancient desk which stood in one corner.

Rummaged through it. Came back with a big sheet of heavy paper.

"Over there," said the professor--gesturing toward the spot where the mirror still stood upon the easel, again shrouded by the tablecloth--"is the gla.s.s that has caused all the trouble."

He smiled sympathetically at Vance.

"All so unnecessary, too, Adrian!"

"Unnecessary?"

"Of course. We shall demonstrate to Mark right now that it is not a means of time travel."

"Demonstrate?" Vance was shaking again. "How?"

Again the professor smiled.

"Oh, very simply. I have here"--he held up the heavy paper--"a lithographed portrait of the late General George A. Custer. You will recall he was killed by Indians at the battle of Little Big Horn--popularly known as Custer's last stand."

Vance's teeth suddenly were chattering.

"We shall hang this picture on your chest, Adrian," Professor Duchard went on. "Then we shall stand you in front of that mirror and give you a chance to concentrate on the reflection." He chuckled softly. "Of course, since the mirror has nothing to do with time travel, you need have no fear of your mind leaving your body and going back to that of General Custer, and death in a Sioux ma.s.sacre--"

Without warning, Vance erupted into action.

As if by magic, the panic fled his face. His features contorted with hate. His eyes suddenly were glistening pinpoints of jet.

And even faster moved his sinuous body. He snaked free of Mark's restraining grasp. Sprang back like a wounded tiger. His right hand darted under his coat to his left armpit like a Gila monster streaking for cover.

Mark Carter's lips twisted in a snarl of rage. He lunged after the antiquarian, big fists balled and deadly.

"Look out!"

It was Professor Duchard, his voice a shrill warning blast.

Mark's eyes shifted. He caught the sudden spearing movement of Vance's right hand. Lashed out in savage fury to meet the new threat.

The antiquarian shrank back. The other's fist drove by him. Missed him by a hair.

And then his right hand was back in view. Back, and gripping the b.u.t.t of a long-barreled Smith & Wesson Magnum. His teeth were bared, in a grimace of hideous triumph.

Like a rattlesnake striking, he slashed out with the heavy gun. Brought it down at his adversary's head in a vicious blow.

Mark still reeled, off balance, from his own missed blow. But he saw the gun descending. Threw up his arm to ward it off.

The barrel caught him at the juncture of shoulder and collar bones. Sent screaming pain stabbing to the farthest reaches of his brain. Paralyzed his whole side. He staggered drunkenly.

Again that triumphant leer contorted Vance's hatchet face. Once more he whipped the pistol barrel down.

And this time his aim was true. This time the heavy gun slammed home square at the base of the other's brain.

The universe was exploding inside Mark's skull. A crimson universe, with planets that burst into b.l.o.o.d.y flame. His control centers went numb. The life vanished from his muscles. He felt himself falling ... falling ...

falling....

As if in some macabre nightmare, he heard Adrian Vance laugh. Saw the antiquarian step back and bring the gun in his hand to bear on Professor Duchard.

"So you're going to force me to bring Elaine back to the twentieth century!" the rejected suitor mocked. "So you think you still have a chance to save her from death at the hands of Baron Morriere's retainers!"

The old man's eyes were like blue steel as he met the antiquarian's gaze.

"You devil!" he said. "You admit it! You have killed her!"

Vance nodded, his narrow face sinister.

"Of course I admit it. Why shouldn't I? What is there you can do about it? Or do you think the police are going to hold me on a charge of subjecting your daughter to involuntary time travel by sending her a mirror?" He laughed harshly, smoothed his sleek black hair. Then continued:

"Yes, professor. Go to the police. Tell them all about my hideous crimes." Again he laughed. "See how long it takes them to put you under psychiatric observation."