The car lurched—and the gun suddenly vanished, leaving his hand empty.
His responses were too quick—and his mind wasn't waiting, once it knew there was danger. He slumped back on the rear seat, trying to think. Drugs were out—he knew his system could throw them off.
But he couldn't remove himself!
He lifted his wrist—to his teeth, and bit down savagely. If he could sever an artery.... Pain shot through him, and he stared down at the blood.
Then the blood was gone, and the wound was closing before his eyes, until only smooth flesh remained. His mind could juggle the cells back into their original form.
It would have to be sudden, complete death.
And no death was that sudden! For a fraction of a second, there'd be life left—and during that split second, the damage would be repaired, or he would be shifted from danger.
There was no way out—unless he could pull himself to another planet, or throw himself back into the dim past. But that would take voluntary control, and he knew now that hours of effort had shown him how impossible that was. He hadn't been able to lift a crumb of bread from the table deliberately, in his original tests after he had treated himself.
He was faced with a problem that had to be solved—and there was no possible solution that he could find.
No man could face that dilemma forever without going insane. Hawkes shuddered, trying to picture what would happen if he went mad, and the wild talents began operating at every whim of his crazed mind!