Astounding British Edition, Vol. 9, No. 7 — page 52: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

50) in disgust. Then he sighed. “If that’s the way it’s going to be”’—he glanced help- lessly at the girl— “I'll take full respon- sibility. But I’ve got to finish.” “And if he dies?” Schiml’s eyes were dull. “It’s very simple,” he said. “If he dies, we'll never have another chance. There'll never be another starship.” He couldn’t tell how long he had been unconscious. Groggily, he raised his head, wincing as the pain stabbed through his brain, and blinked at the reflection of himself in the cold, mirror-steel wall. He stared at the reflection, startled to recog- nize himself. Robert Cox, his black hair muddy and caked, his face scratched in livid, grimy welts, his eyes red with strain and fatigue. With a groan, he rolled over on the polished floor, staring. Hesitantly he rubbed his side; the pain was still there, sharp under his probing fingers, and his head ached violently. But the room— Then he knew there had been another change. The room was perfectly enclosed, without a break, or window, or seam. It was a small, low-ceilinged room, with six sides—each side a polished mirror. The ceiling and floor also reflected his image as he struggled to his feet and sniffed the faint, sharp ozone-smell of the room. In the mirrors, a hundred Robert Coxes strug- gled unsteadily to their feet, blinking stupidly at him and at each other. A hundred haggard, grimy Robert, Coxes, from every angle, from behind and above, re-reflecting in the brilliant glow of the room. And then he heard the scream. A long, - piercing, agonized scream that reverber- ated from the walls of the room, nearly splitting his eardrums. It came again, louder, more piercing. Cox involuntarily clapped his fingers to his ears, but the sound came through them, pounding his skull. And then he heard the grinding sound along with the scream, a heavy, per- vading grate of heavy-moving machinery, grinding, clanking, squealing in his ears. The scream came again, louder, more urgent, and a maddening whir joined the grating machinery. Cox stood poised in the center of the room, waiting, wary, ready for any sort of attack, his whole body geared to meet anything that came ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION to threaten him. Deep in his mind a weariness was growing, a smoldering anger, at himself for being a party to this constantly-altering torture, at Dr. Schiml, and Connover, and anyone else who had a hand in this. What did they want? What conceivable point could there be to these attacks, this horrible instability? Why should he be subjected to such dangers that could kill him so easily? He felt a weakness, a terrible feeling that he couldn’t go on, that he would have to lie down -on the floor and be killed, that his limit was approaching, as he stood poised, fists clenched, waiting. How much could a man stand? What were they getting at, what did they want of him?. And beyond all else, when were they going to stop it? The thought broke off abruptly as a creeping chill slid up his spine, and he stared at the mirror opposite his face, almost gagging. He blinked at the image, then pawed at himself, unbelieving. Some- thing was happening to him. Somehow, he wasn’t the same any more— Another scream cut through the air, a harsh, horrible whine of pain and tor- ture, sending chills up his back as he winced. The image of him was different, somehow, melting and twisting before his eyes as he watched. Fascinated, he saw his hand melting away, twisting and turn- ing into a tentacled slimy mess of writhing worms. He tore his eyes from the image, and glanced down at the hand—and a scream tore from his own throat. His cry echoed and re-echoed, as if every mirror image was screaming too, mocking him. No, he thought, no—it can’t be happening, it can’t! The room rumbled about him, with the cracking, grating sound of machinery with sand in its gears, and the - screams pierced out again and again. Now the arm was changing, too, twisting like something independently alive— He had to get out of that room! With a scream of helpless rage he threw him- self against the mirror, heard it give a strained twang as he bounced back in a heap on the floor. His mind raced, seeking a way out; his eyes peered about, search- ing for a door, but there was nothing but mirrors, mirrors doing hideous things to his arm, creeping toward his shoulder. Every time he looked for a door in one Eomichoo cS f (EC)