"Linda Carroll," Bram said. His voice was deep, husky.
"Bram, you're hurt ..."
A mewling wail started up. Bram went rigid "What hour is this?" he grated.
"The sun has just gone down; it's after seven—"
Bram tried to get to his feet. "Help me up," he ordered. "Curse the weakness...."
Tremaine got a hand under the old man's arm. "Careful, Bram," he said. "Don't start your wound bleeding again."
"To the Repellor," Bram muttered. Tremaine guided him to the rocking chair, eased him down. Bram seized the two black pistol-grips, squeezed them.
"You, young man," Bram said. "Take the circlet there; place it about my neck."
The flat-metal ring hung from a wire loop. Tremaine fitted it over Bram's head. It settled snugly over his shoulders, a flange at the back against his neck.