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. Then the footsteps were running,
the torchlight burned above him.
"Palin! My son!" and Palin was in his father's arms.
"What have they done to you?" Caramon cried in a choked voice.
Dropping the torch, he lifted his son's body from the floor and
cradled it against his strong breast.
Palin could not speak. He leaned his head against his
father's chest, hearing the heart beating rapidly from the
exertion of climbing the Tower stairs, smelling the familiar
smells of leather and sweat, letting- for one last moment-
his father's arms shelter and protect him. Then, with a soft
sigh, Palin raised his head and looked into his father's pale,
anguished face.
"Nothing, Father," he said softly, gently pushing himself
away. "I'm all right. Truly." Sitting up, he looked around,
confused in the feeble light cast by the torch flickering on
the floor. "But where are we?"
"Out-outside that . . . that place," Caramon growled,
letting go of his son, but watching him dubiously,
anxiously.
"The laboratory," murmured Palin, puzzled, his gaze
going to the closed door and the two, white, disembodied
eyes that hovered before it.
The young man started to stand up.
"Careful!" said Caramon, putting his arm around him
again.
"I told you, father. I'm all right," Palin said firmly,
shaking off his father's help and getting to his feet without
assistance. "What happened?" He looked at the sealed
laboratory door
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