Behind him, shoes scraped the floor. Fingers probed warily at his pockets, his belt, his armpits. Then they went away again and the voice said, "All right. Now take off that outfit."
Wordless, wooden-fingered, Horning unstrapped the transdimensional registration unit's harness.
"Get up!" the voice commanded.
Horning obeyed.
"Now sit down on that lounge in front of you, with your hands on the arms."
Horning crossed to the divan and turned around. For the first time, he faced his captor.
It was the same man Horning had seen on the screen. He stood poised, cat-footed, back against the gleaming metaloid wall. An ugly, snub-nosed pistol of strange design was in his hand.
And his face was Horning's face.
Horning went rigid—shocked, half unbelieving.
"Down!" rapped his counterpart.