The Time Mirror Part 18

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 s.p.a.ce.

Falling ... falling ... falling....

"Thank G.o.d!" 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--"

"You went through the time mirror, my boy. Back to eighteenth century France. And Vance went with you. Apparently he came too close to the gla.s.s in his eagerness to stop you; his eyes must have focussed on one of the other figures from Jerbette's picture, reflected in the gap through the s.p.a.ce-time barrier. He fell in a coma at the same instant you did."

"But I don't remember anything!" Mark protested. "I was going to go back through time to save Elaine, even if I had to change history to do it.

Then Vance came in, and everything went blank--"

"Yes," broke in Elaine. "The same thing happened to me. I was sitting in front of the mirror Adrian gave me. Then I saw my ancestor from the painting, and I seemed to be falling--"

Professor Duchard nodded.

"Of course. Time travel apparently brings with it complete loss of memory--"

"But I was insulated against amnesia!" exclaimed Mark.

"Only on the trip back, my boy. Not on your return. No doubt you remembered the twentieth century while in the eighteenth. But your return destroyed your memories of Bourbon France."

The younger man scowled.

"It doesn't make sense," he grunted. "I'm beginning to think the whole business is so much imagination. After all, how could I transport Elaine back from 1780 to 1942? Or myself, for that matter--"

"Perhaps I have some information which will throw light on the subject,"

the white-haired scientist interrupted. "Yesterday my old friend, Strong, the historian, was pa.s.sing through the city. He came here to see me.

"He told me he had run across Gustav Jerbette's unpublished memoirs in the course of his researches. And Jerbette, in describing how he came to paint 'Elaine Duchard's Escape,' says the figure in the time mirror on which you concentrated--the man with the horse pistol--was the first Elaine Duchard's lover, Jacques Rombeau.

"Jerbette says Rombeau came to him with a strange a.s.signment. First he took him to the largest gla.s.s works in Paris and made him wait while the craftsmen manufactured a special mirror to his order. Then Rombeau led the way to an abandoned chateau a few miles out of Paris. Elaine Duchard lay hidden on the top floor, desperately ill.

"Jerbette's job was to paint a picture of the girl and a strange man, as described to him by Rombeau. Both wore clothes of a different type than any then known, and were in strange surroundings. The job done, Rombeau dismissed the painter. Later, Jerbette says he heard that the two lovers were surprised and murdered by Baron Morriere and his men, although the baron himself was killed in the fight.

"All this so intrigued Jerbette that he promptly painted his famous 'Elaine Duchard's Escape,' showing the lovers getting away from the baron's chateau."

Mark frowned. Shook his head.

"I see how you think it ties in, Professor," he admitted, "but there are too many loopholes."

The savant smiled.

"Yes, there are loopholes," he agreed, "but I do not think there are too many.

"The strange portrait Jerbette painted unfortunately never turned up again. It, of course, would be final proof. For if we found a picture of you--Mark Carter--and Elaine, in a twentieth century scene and wearing modern clothes, yet painted by Gustav Jerbette, there could be no doubt that your brain--cloaked in Jacques Rombeau's body--did the job.

"However, Jerbette does leave a very accurate description of the mirror Rombeau had made. And there is no doubt in my mind that it is the same one Vance gave to Elaine."

"But it's impossible!" Mark protested. "I couldn't have made a time mirror with the primitive equipment of that era--"

"I believe you could. Our work in discovering the formula for the one I made gave you a sufficient understanding of the device's fundamentals to construct a crude model."

"But a terrific bolt of electricity was required, professor. And there was no electrical equipment in those days. It's a complete anachronism."

"You think so?" The old scientist smiled. "Well, I do not wonder. You convinced Jerbette that Jacques Rombeau was stark, raving mad."

"You mean--"

"What other conclusion could any sane mortal draw from the actions of a man who insisted on defying G.o.d and the elements by exposing great circular trays of molten gla.s.s on top of the highest tower in all Paris during the worst electrical storm in years, until finally one of them was struck by lightning?"

Mark stared open-mouthed. Again he and the bewildered Elaine exchanged glances. And instinctively their hands reached out across the aisle, to join in love's tender clasp. The happiness of utter confidence and peace glowed in their eyes.

Then, still holding the girl's hand, Mark turned back to the professor.

His brows knitted with incredulity.

"My G.o.d!" he exclaimed half to himself. "Could it be possible? Could I have done such a thing?"

Abruptly, he halted.

"No!" he clipped decisively. "There are other angles to be considered.

Vance, for instance. You say he went with me through the time mirror--"

"Yes." The savant nodded slowly. "That, Mark, is the final proof. The evidence beyond contradiction. The thing that convinces me--"

"Proof? Evidence? I don't get it."

"You will recall, Mark, that Jerbette's memoirs said Baron Morriere was killed in that final battle with Jacques Rombeau?"

"Yes. Of course. What's that got to do with it?"

The scientist leveled a trembling finger at the window across the room, through which the sunlight still streamed. Never had he been more impressive. Solemn conviction gleamed in his blue eyes.

"Not five minutes before you and Elaine aroused from your state of suspended animation," he said, "Adrian Vance--still in a coma--sprang from his bed to that window and hurled himself to his death!"

Horror widened the two young people's eyes. Elaine's face was pale.

But understanding now was flooding through Mark. He nodded slowly.

"You can't change history!" he said.