Wearily, the dying girl obeyed.
With one savage jerk, Mark whipped the cover from another stand. A stand on which stood a mirror. A mirror whose surface seemed to ripple in the fading light. A circular mirror, full three feet in diameter. A mirror with a garishly ornate frame.
His hands trembling with feverish haste, Mark adjusted the picture to reflect in the glass.
Already the door was cracking.
He snatched Elaine from where she lay. Held her half-conscious body before the mirror.
"Open your eyes, Elaine! Open your eyes and look at that girl in the mirror! Concentrate on her, Elaine! Concentrate!"
His own eyes were fixed on the image of his twentieth century self that Gustav Jerbette had painted. His brain ached with the force of will he was exerting. He felt himself falling through endless miles of space. Falling ... falling ... falling....
"Thank God!" exclaimed Professor Duchard fervently. "You both are safe!"
Dazedly, Mark and Elaine looked at each other across the narrow aisle separating their white hospital beds. Across the room, sunlight streamed in an open window, its rays glistening on the snowy linen of a third but empty bed.
"What happened?" Mark queried in a bewildered tone. "I was in your laboratory, professor, and Vance rushed in—"