"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 massacre—"
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.