Well, they were free if only for a few seconds, and there was no
reception committee waiting for them. Ross gave thanks silently for
those two small favors. But if they were now returned to the Bronze Age
village, they were still in enemy territory. With Ashe wounded, the odds
against them were so high it was almost hopeless.
Working hurriedly with strips torn from McNeil's kilt, they managed to
stop the flow of blood from Ashe's wound. Although he was still groggy,
he was fighting, driven by the fear which whipped them all--time was one
of their foremost enemies. Ross, Ashe's gun in hand, kept watch on the
transfer plate, ready to shoot at anything appearing there.
"That will have to do!" Ashe pulled free from McNeil. "We must move." He
hesitated, and then pulling the spools of tape from his bloodstained
tunic, passed them to McNeil. "You'd better carry these."
"All right," the other answered almost absently.
"Move!" The force of that order from Ashe sent them into the corridor
beyond.
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