Harry Harrison - Planet Of The Damned

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Harry Harrison
Planet of the Damned
I
A man said to the universe: "Sir, I exist"
"However" replied the universe, "The fact has not created in me A sense of
obligation."
STEPHEN CRANE
Sweat covered Brion's body, trickling into trie tight loincloth that was the
only garment he wore. The light fencing foil in his hand felt as heavy as a
bar of lead to his exhausted muscles, worn out by a month of continual
exercise. These things were of no importance. The cut on his chest, still
dripping blood, the ache of his overstrained eyes--even die soaring arena
around him with the thousands of spectators--were trivialities not worth
thinking about. There was only one thing in his universe: the button-tipped
length of shining steel that hovered before him, engaging his own weapon. He
felt the quiver and scrape of its life, knew when it moved and moved himself
to counteract it. And when he attacked, it was always there to beat him aside.
A sudden motion. He reacted--but his blade just met air. His instant of panic
was followed by a small sharp blow high on his chest.
"Touch!" A world-shaking voice bellowed the word to a million waiting
loudspeakers, and the applause of the audience echoed back in a wave of sound.
"One minute," a voice said, and the tune buzzer sounded.
Brion had carefully conditioned the reflex in himself. A minute is not a very
large measure of time and his body needed every fraction of it. The buzzer's
whirr triggered his muscles into complete relaxation. Only his heart and lungs
worked on at a
strong, measured rate. His eyes closed and he was only distantly aware of his
handlers catching him as he fell, carrying him to his bench. While they
massaged his limp body and cleansed the wound, all of his attention was turned
inward. He was in reverie, sliding along the borders of consciousness. The
nagging memory of the previous night loomed up then, and he turned it over and
over in his mind, examining it from all sides.
It was the very unexpectedness of the event that had been so unusual. The
contestants in the Twenties needed undisturbed rest, therefore nights in the
dormitories were as quiet as death. During the first few days, of course, the
rule wasn't observed too closely. The men themselves were too keyed up and
excited to rest easily. But as soon as the scores began to mount and
eliminations cut into their ranks, there was complete silence after dark.
Particularly so on this last night, when only two of the little cubicles were
occupied, the thousands of others standing with dark, empty doors.
Angry words had dragged Brion from a deep and exhausted sleep. The words were
whispered but clear--two voices, just outside the thin metal of his door.
Someone spoke his name.
"... Brion Brandd. Of course not. Whoever said you could was making a big
mistake and there is going to be trouble--"
"Don't talk like an idiotl" The other voice snapped with a harsh urgency,
clearly used to command. "I'm here because the matter is of utmost importance,
and Brandd is the one I must see. Now stand aside!"
"The Twenties-"
"I don't give a damn about your games, hearty cheers and physical exercises.
This is important, or I wouldn't be here!"
The other didn't speak--he was surely one of the officials--and Brion could
sense his outraged anger. He must have drawn his gun, because the intruder
said quickly, "Put that away. You're being a fool!"
"Out!" was the single snarled word of the response.
There was silence then and, still wondering, Brion was once more asleep.
"Ten seconds."
The voice chopped away Brion's memories and he let awareness seep back into
his body. He was unhappily conscious of his total exhaustion. The month of
continuous mental and physical combat had taken its toll. It would be hard to
stay on his feet, much less summon the strength and skill to fight and win a
touch.
"How do we stand?" he asked the handler who was kneading his aching muscles.
"Four-four. All you need is a touch to win!"
"That's all he needs too," Brion grunted, opening his eyes to look at the wiry
length of the man at the other end of the long mat. No one who had reached the
finals in the Twenties could possibly be a weak opponent, but this one, Irolg,
was the pick of the lot. A red-haired mountain of a man, with an apparently
inexhaustible store of energy. That was really all that counted now. There
could be little art in this last and final round of fencing. Just thrust and
parry, and victory to the stronger.
Brion closed his eyes again and knew the moment he had been hoping to avoid
had arrived.
Every man who entered the Twenties had his own training tricks. Brion had a
few individual ones that had helped him so far. He was a moderately strong
chess player, but he had moved to quick victory in the chess rounds by playing
incredibly unorthodox games. This was no accident, but the result of years of
work. He had a standing order with off-planet agents for archaic chess books,
the older the better. He had memorized thousands of these ancient games and
openings. This was allowed. Anything was allowed that didn't involve drugs or
machines. Self-hypnosis was an accepted tool.
It had taken Brion over two years to find a way to tap the sources of
hysterical strength. Common as the phenomenon seemed to be in the textbooks,
it proved impossible to duplicate. There appeared to be an immediate
association with the death-trauma, as if
the two were inextricably linked into one. Berserkers and juramentados
continue to fight and kill though carved by scores of mortal wounds. Men with
bullets in the heart or brain fight on, though already clinically dead. Death
seemed an inescapable part of this kind of strength. But there was another
type that could easily be brought about in any deep trance-hypnotic rigidity.
The strength that enables someone in a trance to hold his body stiff and
unsupported except at two points, the head and heels. This is physically
impossible when conscious. Working with this as a clue, Brion had developed a
self-hypnotic technique that allowed him to tap this reservoir of unknown
strength--the source of "second wind," the survival strength that made the
difference between life and death.
It could also kill--exhaust the body beyond hope of recovery, particularly
when in a weakened condition as his was now. But that wasn't important. Others
had died before during the Twenties, and death during the last round was in
some ways easier than defeat.
Breathing deeply, Brion softly spoke the auto-hypnotic phrases that triggered
the process. Fatigue fell softly from him, as did all sensations of heat, cold
and pain. He could feel with acute sensitivity, hear, and see clearly when he
opened his eyes.
With each passing second the power drew at the basic reserves of Me, draining
it from his body.
When the buzzer sounded he pulled his foil from his second's startled grasp,
and ran forward. Irolg had barely time to grab up his own weapon and parry
Brion's first thrust. The force of his rush was so great that the guards on
their weapons locked, and their bodies crashed together. Irolg looked amazed
at the sudden fury of the attack--then smiled. He thought it was a last burst
of energy, he knew how close they both were to exhaustion. This must be the
end for Brion.
They disengaged and Irolg put up a solid defense. He didn't attempt to attack,
just let Brion wear himself out against the firm shield of his defense.
Brion saw something dose to panic on his opponent's face when the man finally
recognized his error. Brion wasn't tiring. If anything, he was pressing the
attack. A wave of despair rolled out from Irolg--Brion sensed it and knew the
fifth point was his.
Thrust--thrust--and each time the parrying sword a little slower to return.
Then the powerful twist that thrust it aside. In and under the guard. The slap
of the burton on flesh and the arc of steel that reached out and ended on
Irolg's chest over his heart.
Waves of sound--cheering and screaming--lapped against Brion's private world,
but he was only remotely aware of their existence. Irolg dropped his foil, and
tried to shake Brion's hand, but his legs suddenly gave way. Brion had an arm
around him, holding him up, walking towards the rushing handlers. Then Irolg
was gone and he waved off his own men, walking slowly by himself.
Except that something was wrong and it was like walking through warm glue.
Walking on his knees. No, not walking, falling. At last. He was able to let go
and fall.
II
Ihjel gave the doctors exactly one day before he went to the hospital. Brion
wasn't dead, though there had been some doubt about that the night before.
Now, a full day later, he was on the mend and that was all Ihjel wanted to
know. He bullied and strong-armed his way to the new Winner's room, meeting
his first stiff resistance at the door.
"You're out of order, Winner Ihjel," the doctor said. "And if you keep on
forcing yourself in here, where you are not wanted, rank or no rank, I shall
be obliged to break your head."
Ihjel had just begun to tell him, in some detail, just how slim his chances
were of accomplishing that, when Brion interrupted them both. He recognized
the newcomer's voice from the final night in the barracks.
"Let him in, Dr Caulry," he said. "I want to meet a man who thinks there is
something more important than the Twenties."
While the doctor stood undecided, Ihjel moved quickly around him and closed
the door in his flushed face. He looked down at the Winner in the bed. There
was a drip plugged into each one of Brion's arms. His eyes peered from sooty
hollows; the eyeballs were a network of red veins. The silent battle he fought
against death had left its mark. His square, jutting jaw now seemed all bone,
as did his long nose and high cheekbones. They were prominent landmarks rising
from the limp greyness of his skin. Only the erect bristle of his
close-cropped hair was unchanged. He had the appearance of having suffered a
long and wasting illness.
"You look like sin," Ihjel said. "But congratulations on your victory."
"You don't look so very good yourself--for a Winner," Brion snapped back. His
exhaustion and sudden peevish anger at this man let the insulting words slip
out. Ihjel ignored them.
But it was true; Winner Ihjel looked very little like a Winner, or even an
Anvharian. He had the height and the frame all right, but it was draped in
billows of fat--rounded, soft tissue that hung loosely from his limbs and made
little limp rolls on his neck and under his eyes. There were no fat men on
Anvhar, and it was incredible that a man so gross could ever have been a
Winner. If there was muscle under the fat it couldn't be seen. Only his eyes
appeared to still hold the strength that had once bested every man on tike
planet to win the annual games. Brion turned away from their burning stare,
sorry now he had insulted the man without good reason. He was too sick,
though, to bother about apologizing.
Ihjel didn't care either. Brion looked at him again and felt the impression of
things so important that he himself, his insults, even the Twenties were of no
more interest than dust motes in the air. It was only a fantasy of a sick
mind, Brion knew, and he tried to shake the feeling off. The two men stared at
each other, sharing a common emotion.
The door opened soundlessly behind Ihjel and he wheeled about, moving as only
an athlete of Anvhar can move. Dr Caulry was halfway through the door, off
balance. Two men in uniform came close behind him. Ihjel's body pushed against
them, his speed and the mountainous mass of his flesh sending them back in a
tangle of arms and legs. He slammed the door and locked it in their faces.
"I have to talk to you," he said, turning back to Brion. "Privately," he
added, bending over and ripping out the communicator with a sweep of one hand.
"Get out," Brion told him. "If I were able-"
"Well, you're not, so you're just going to have to lie there and listen. I
imagine we have about five minutes before they decide to break the door down,
and I don't want to waste any more of that. Will you come with me offworld?
There's a job that must be done; it's my job, but I'm going to need help.
You're the only one who can give me that help.
"Now refuse," he added as Brion started to answer.
"Of course I refuse," Brion said, feeling a little foolish and slightly angry,
as if the other man had put the words into his mouth. "Anvhar is my planet-why
should I leave? My life is here and so is my work. I also might add that I
have just won the Twenties. I have a responsibility to remain."
"Nonsense. I'm a Winner, and I left. What you really mean is you would like to
enjoy a little of the ego-inflation you have worked so hard to get. Off Anvhar
no one even knows what a Winner is--much less respects one. You will have to
face a big universe out there, and I don't blame you for being a little
frightened."
Someone was hammering loudly on the door.
"I haven't the strength to get angry," Brion said hoarsely. "And I can't bring
myself to admire your ideas when they permit you to insult a man too ill to
defend himself."
"I apologize," Ihjel said, with no hint of apology or sympathy in his voice.
"But there are more desperate issues involved than your hurt feelings. We
don't have much time now, so I want to impress you with an idea."
"An idea that will convince me to go offplanet with you? That's expecting a
lot."
"No, this idea won't convince you--but thinking about it will. If you really
consider it you will find a lot of your illusions shattered. Like everyone
else on Anvhar, you're a scientific humanist, with your faith firmly planted
in the Twenties. You accept both of these noble institutions without an
instant's thought. All of you haven't a single thought for the past, for the
untold billions who led the bad Me as mankind slowly built up the good life
for you to lead. Do you ever think of all the people who suffered and died in
misery and superstition while civilization was clicking forward one more slow
notch?"
"Of course I don't think about them," Brion retorted. "Why should I? I can't
change the past."
"But you can change the future!" Ihjel said. "You owe something to the
suffering ancestors who got you where you are today. If Scientific Humanism
means anything more than just words to you, you must possess a sense of
responsibility. Don't you want to try and pay off a bit of this debt by
helping others who are just as backward and disease-ridden today as
great-grandfather Troglodyte ever was?"
The hammering on the door was louder. This and the drug-induced buzzing in
Brion's ear made thinking difficult. "Abstractly, I of course agree with you "
he said haltingly. "But you know there is nothing I can do personally without
being emotionally involved. A logical decision is valueless for action without
personal meaning."
"Then we have reached the crux of the matter." Ihjel said gently. His back was
braced against the door, absorbing the thudding blows of some heavy object on
the outside. "They're knocking, so I must be going soon. I have no time for
details, but I can assure you upon my word of honor as a Winner that there is
something you can do. Only you. If you help me we might save seven million
human lives. That is a fact."
The lock burst and the door started to open. Ihjel shouldered it back into the
frame for a final instant.
"Here is the idea I want you to consider. Why is it that the people of Anvhar,
in a galaxy filled with warring, hate-filled, backward planets, should be the
only ones who base their entire existence on a complicated series of games?"
III
This time there was no way to hold the door. Ihjel didn't try. He stepped
aside and two men stumbled into the room. He walked out behind their backs
without saying a word.
"What happened? What did he do?" the doctor asked, rushing in through the
ruined door. He swept a glance over the continuous recording dials at the foot
of Brion's bed. Respiration, temperature, heart, blood pressure--all were
normal. The patient lay quietly and didn't answer him.
For the rest of that day, Brion had much to think about. It was difficult. The
fatigue, mixed with the tranquilizers and other drugs, had softened his
contact with reality. His thoughts kept echoing back and forth in his mind,
unable to escape. What had Ihjel meant? What was that nonsense about Anvhar?
Anvhar was that way because--well, it just was. It had come about naturally.
Or had it?
The planet had a very simple history. From the very beginning there had never
been anything of real commercial interest on Anvhar. Well off the interstellar
trade routes, there were no minerals worth digging and transporting the
immense distances to the nearest inhabited worlds. Hunting the winter beasts
for their pelts was a profitable but very minor enterprise, never sufficient
for mass markets. Therefore no organized attempt had ever been made to
colonize the planet. In the end it had been settled completely by chance. A
number of offplanet scientific groups had established observation and research
stations, finding unlimited data to observe and record during Anvhar's unusual
yearly cycle. The long-duration observations encouraged the scientific workers
to bring their families and, slowly but steadily, small settlements grew up.
Many of the fur hunters settled there
as well, adding to the small population. This had been the beginning.
Few records existed of those early days, and the first six centuries of
Anvharian history were more speculation than fact. The Breakdown occurred
about that time, and in the galaxy-wide disruption Anvhar had to fight its own
internal battle. When the Earth Empire collapsed it was the end of more than
an era. Many of the observation stations found themselves representing
institutions that no longer existed. The professional hunters no longer had
markets for their furs, since Anvhar possessed no interstellar ships of its
own. There had been no real physical hardship involved in the Breakdown as it
affected Anvhar, since the planet was completely self-sufficient. Once they
had made the mental adjustment to the fact that they were now a sovereign
world, not a collection of casual visitors with various loyalties, life
continued unchanged. Not easy--living on Anvhar is never easy--but at least
without difference on the surface.
The thoughts and attitudes of the people were, however, going through a great
transformation. Many attempts were made to develop some form of stable society
and social relationship. Again, little record exists of these early trials,
other than the fact of their culmination in the Twenties.
To understand the Twenties, you have to understand the unusual orbit that
Anvhar tracks around its sun, 70 Ophiuchi. There are other planets in this
system, all of them more or less conforming to the plane of the ecliptic.
Anvhar is obviously a rogue, perhaps a captured planet of another sun. For the
greatest part of its 780-day year it arcs far out from its primary, in a
high-angled sweeping cometary orbit. When it returns there is a brief, hot
summer of approximately eighty days before the long winter sets in once more.
This severe difference in seasonal change has caused profound adaptations in
the native fife forms. During the winter most of the animals hibernate, the
vegetable Me lying dormant as spores or seeds. Some of the warm-blooded
herbivores stay
active in the snow-covered tropics, preyed upon by fur-insulated carnivores.
Though unbelievably cold, the winter is a season of peace in comparison to the
summer.
For summer is a time of mad growth. Plants burst into life with a strength
that cracks rocks, growing fast enough for the motion to be seen. The
snowfields melt into mud and within days a jungle stretches high into the air.
Everything grows, swells, proliferates. Plants climb on top of plants,
fighting for the life-energy of the sun. Everything is eat and be eaten, grow
and thrive in that short season. Because when the first snow of winter falls
again, ninety per cent of the year must pass until the next coming of warmth.
Mankind has had to adapt to the Anvharian cycle in order to stay alive. Food
must be gathered and stored, enough to last out the long winter. Generation
after generation had adapted until they look on the mad seasonal imbalance as
something quite ordinary. The first thaw of the almost nonexistent spring
triggers a wide-reaching metabolic change in the humans. Layers of
subcutaneous fat vanish and half-dormant sweat glands come to life. Other
changes are more subtle than the temperature adjustment, but equally
important. The sleep center of the brain is depressed. Short naps or a night's
rest every third or fourth day becomes enough. Life takes on a hectic and
hysterical quality that is perfectly suited to the environment. By the time of
the first frost, rapid-growing crops have been raised and harvested, sides of
meat either preserved or frozen in mammoth lockers. With this supreme talent
of adaptability mankind has become part of the ecology and guaranteed his own
survival during the long winter.
Physical survival has been guaranteed. But what about mental survival?
Primitive Earth Eskimos can fall into a long doze of half-conscious
hibernation. Civilized men might be able to do this, but only for the few cold
months of terrestrial midwinter. It would be impossible to do during a winter
that is longer than an Earth year. With all the physical
needs taken care of, boredom became the enemy of any Anvharian who was not a
hunter. And even the hunters could not stay out on solitary trek all winter.
Drink was one answer, and violence another. Alcoholism and murder were the
twin terrors of the cold season, after the Breakdown.
It was the Twenties that ended all that. When they became a part of normal
life the summer was considered just an interlude between games. The Twenties
were more than just a contest--they became a way of life that satisfied all
the physical, competitive and intellectual needs of this unusual planet. They
were a decathlon--rather a double decathlon--raised to its highest power,
where contests in chess and poetry composition held equal place with those in
ski-jumping and archery. Each year there were two planet-wide contests held,
one for men and one for women. This was not an attempt at sexual
discrimination, but a logical facing of facts. Inherent differences prevented
fair contests--for example, it is impossible for a woman to win a large chess
tournament--and this fact was recognized. Anyone could enter for any number of
years. There were no scoring handicaps.
When the best man won he was really the best man. A complicated series of
playoffs and eliminations kept contestants and observers busy for half the
winter. They were only preliminary to the final encounter that lasted a month,
and picked a single winner. That was the title he was awarded. Winner. The
man--and woman--who had bested every other contestant on the entire planet and
who would remain unchallenged until the following year.
Winner. It was a title to take pride in. Brion stirred weakly on his bed and
managed to turn so he could look out of the window. Winner of Anvhar. His name
was already slated for the history books, one of the handful of planetary
heroes. School children would be studying him now, just as he had read of the
Winners of the past. Weaving daydreams and imaginary adventures around Brion's
victories, hoping and
fighting to equal them someday. To be a Winner was the greatest honor in the
universe.
Outside, the afternoon sun shimmered weakly in a dark sky. The endless
icefields soaked up the dim light, reflecting it back as a colder and harsher
illumination. A single figure on skis cut a line across the empty plain;
nothing else moved. The depression of the ultimate fatigue fell on Brion and
everything changed, as if he looked in a mirror at a previously hidden side.
He saw suddenly--with terrible clarity--that to be a Winner was to be
absolutely nothing. Like being the best flea, among all the fleas on a single
dog.
What was Anvhar after all? An ice-locked planet, inhabited by a few million
human fleas, unknown and unconsidered by the rest of the galaxy. There was
nothing here worth fighting for; the wars after the Breakdown had left them
untouched. The Anvharians had always taken pride in this--as if being so
unimportant that no one else even wanted to come near you could possibly be a
source of pride. All the other worlds of man grew, fought, won, lost, changed.
Only on Anvhar did life repeat its sameness endlessly, like a loop of tape in
a player....
Brion's eyes were moist; he blinked. Tears! Realization of this incredible
fact wiped the maudlin pity from his mind and replaced it with fear. Had his
mind snapped in the strain of the last match? These thoughts weren't his.
Self-pity hadn't made him a Winner--why was he feeling it now? Anvhar was his
universe--how could he even imagine it as a tag-end planet at the outer limb
of creation? What had come over him and induced this inverse thinking?
As he thought the question, the answer appeared at the same instant. Winner
Ihjel. The fat man with the strange pronouncements and probing questions. Had
he cast a spell like some sorcerer--or the devil in Faust? No, that was pure
nonsense. But he had done something. Perhaps planted a suggestion when Brion's
resistance was low. Or used subliminal vocalization like the villian in
Cerebrus Chained. Brion could find no adequate reason on which to base his
suspicions. But he knew, with sure positiveness, that Ihjel was responsible.
He whistled at the sound-switch next to his pillow and the repaired
communicator came to life. The duty nurse appeared in the small screen.
"The man who was here today," Brion said, "Winner Ihjel. Do you know where he
is? I must contact him."
For some reason this flustered her professional calm. The nurse started to
answer, excused herself, and blanked the screen. When it lit again a man in
guard's uniform had taken her place.
"You made an inquiry," the guard said, "about Winner Ihjel. We are holding him
here in the hospital, following the disgraceful way in which he broke into
your room."
"I have no charges to make. Will you ask him to come and see me at once?"
The guard controlled his shock. Tm sorry, Winner-- I don't see how we can. Dr
Caulry left specific orders that you were not to be--"
"The doctor has no control over my personal life." Brion interrupted. Tm not
infectious, nor ill with anything more than extreme fatigue. I want to see
that man. At once."
The guard took a deep breath, and made a quick decision. "He is on the way up
now," he said, and rung off.
"What did you do to me?" Brion asked as soon as Ihjel had entered and they
were alone. "You won't deny that you have put alien thoughts in my head?"
"No, I won't deny it. Because the whole point of my being here is to get those
'alien' thoughts across to you."
"Tell me how you did it," Brion insisted. "I must know."
"I'll tell you--but there are many things you should understand first, before
you decide to leave Anvhar. You must not only hear them, you will have to
believe them. The primary thing, lie clue to the rest, is the true nature of
your life here. How do you think the Twenties originated?"
Before he answered, Brion carefully took a double dose of the mild stimulant
he was allowed. "I don't think," he said; "I know. It's a matter of historical
record. The founder of the games was Giroldi, the first contest was held in
378 A.B. The Twenties have been held every year since then. They were strictly
local affairs in the beginning, but were soon well established on a
planet-wide scale."
"True enough," Ihjel said. "But you're describing what happened. I asked you
how the Twenties originated. How could any single man take a barbarian planet,
lightly inhabited by half-mad hunters and alcoholic farmers, and turn it into
a smooth-running social machine built around the artificial structure of the
Twenties? It just couldn't be done."
"But it was done!" Brion insisted. "You can't deny that. And there is nothing
artifical about the Twenties. They are a logical way to live a life on a
planet like this."
Ihjel laughed, a short ironic bark. "Very logical," he said; "but how often
does logic have anything to do with the organization of social groups and
governments? You're not thinking. Put yourself in founder Giroldi's place.
Imagine that you have glimpsed the great idea of the Twenties and you want to
convince others. So you walk up to the nearest louse-ridden, brawling,
superstitious, booze-embalmed hunter and explain clearly. How a program of his
favorite sports-things like poetry, archery and chess--can make his life that
much more interesting and virtuous. You do that. But keep your eyes open at
the same time, and be ready for a fast draw."
Even Brion had to smile at the absurdity of the suggestion. Of course it
couldn't happen that way. Yet, since it had happened, there must be a simple
explanation.
"We can beat this back and forth all day," Ihjel told him, "and you won't get
the right idea unless--" He broke off suddenly, staring at the communicator.
The operation light had come on, though the screen stayed dark. Ihjel reached
down a meaty hand and pulled loose the recently connected wires. "That doc-
tor of yours is very curious--and he's going to stay that way. The truth
behind the Twenties is none of his business. But it's going to be yours. You
must come to realize that the life you lead here is a complete and artificial
construction, developed by Societies experts and put into application by
skilled field workers."
"Nonsense!" Brion broke in. "Systems of society can't be dreamed up and forced
on people like that. Not without bloodshed and violence."
"Nonsense, yourself," Ihjel told him. "That may have been true in the dawn of
history, but not any more. You have been reading too many of the old Earth
classics; you imagine that we still live in the Ages of Superstition. Just
because fascism and communism were once forced on reluctant populations, you
think this holds true for all time. Go back to your books. In exactly the same
era democracy and self-government were adapted by former colonial states, like
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HarryHarrisonPlanetoftheDamnedIAmansaidtotheuniverse:"Sir,Iexist""However"repliedtheuniverse,"ThefacthasnotcreatedinmeAsenseofobligation."STEPHENCRANESweatcoveredBrion'sbody,tricklingintotrietightloincloththatwastheonlygarmenthewore.Thelightfencingfoilinhishandfeltasheavyasabarofleadtohisexhaustedmu...

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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：104 页 大小：246.1KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-19

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