There were fifteen steps, and at the bottom, a corridor, with curved walls of black glass, and a floor of rough boards. It went straight for twenty feet and ended at an old-fashioned five-panel wooden door. Tremaine tried the brass knob. The door opened on a room shaped from a natural cave, with waterworn walls of yellow stone, a low uneven ceiling, and a packed-earth floor. On a squat tripod in the center of the chamber rested an apparatus of black metal and glass, vaguely gunlike, aimed at the blank wall. Beside it, in an ancient wooden rocker, a man lay slumped, his shirt blood-caked, a black puddle on the floor beneath him. "Bram!" Miss Carroll gasped. She went to him, took his hand, staring into his face. "Is he dead?" Tremaine said tightly. "His hands are cold ... but there is a pulse." A kerosene lantern stood by the door. Tremaine lit it, brought it to the chair. He took out a pocket knife, cut the coat and shirt back from Bram's wound. A shotgun blast had struck him in the side; there was a lacerated area as big as Tremaine's hand. "It's stopped bleeding," he said. "It was just a graze at close range, I'd say." He explored further. "It got his arm too, but not as deep. And I think there are a couple of ribs broken. If he hasn't lost too much blood...." Tremaine pulled off his coat, spread it on the floor. "Let's lay him out here and try to bring him around." Lying on his back on the floor, Bram looked bigger than his six-foot-four, younger than his near-century, Tremaine thought. Miss Carroll knelt at the old man's side, chafing his hands, murmuring to him. Abruptly a thin cry cut the air. Tremaine whirled, startled. Miss Carroll stared, eyes wide. A low rumble sounded, swelled louder, broke into a screech, cut off. "Those are the sounds I heard that night," Miss Carroll breathed. "I thought afterwards I had imagined them, but I remember.... James, what does it mean?" "Maybe it means Bram wasn't as crazy as you thought," Tremaine said. Miss Carroll gasped sharply. "James! Look at the wall--" Tremaine turned. Vague shadows moved across the stone, flickering, wavering. "What the devil...!" Bram moaned, stirred. Tremaine went to him. "Bram!" he said. "Wake up!" Bram's eyes opened. For a moment he looked dazedly at Tremaine, then at Miss Carroll. Awkwardly he pushed himself to a sitting position. "Bram ... you must lie down," Miss Carroll said. "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.