Charles L. Grant - The Sea Harp Hotel

VIP免费
2024-12-24 0 0 976.53KB 129 页 5.9玖币
侵权投诉
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION 1
Charles L. Grant
EX-LIBRARY 10
Chet Williamson
THE COAT 24
Al Sarrantonio
BEAUTY 40
Robert R. McCammon
SERVICES RENDERED 49
Bryan Webb
AQUARIUM 64
Steve Rasnic Tem
THREE DOORS IN A DOUBLE ROOM 83
Craig Shaw Gardner
REVELATIONS 103
Melissa Mia Hall
ROOM SERVICE 125
Les Daniels
EVIL THOUGHTS 143
Suzy McKee Charnas
BLOOD LILIES 169
Robert E. Vardeman
INTERLUDE 187
Wendy Webb
A MUSE FOR MR. KALISH 200
Leslie Alan Horvitz
NO PAIN, NO GAIN 223
Thomas F. Monteleone
OLD FRIENDS NEVER DIE 242
Bob Booth
AMI AMET DELI PENCET 259
Nancy Holder
THE CHRONICLERS
THE SEAHARP HOTEL
Introduction
by
Charles L. Grant
Greystone Bay 17 July 1862
The SeaHarp Hotel
My dear Jonathan,
Born here, died here. If you would be so kind as to put that on my tombstone, son, I would be grateful. Anything
else would no doubt be blasphemous. And I doubt God has any patience left for me, being busy enough putting fools
in high office who will, I no longer fear but know, soon have us all bearing arms against our own kind. Children in the
park play at war. Those who claim to understand such things, as I do not, claim that conflict is unthinkable, that no
man, no state, no country would dare wage open warfare against itself. As usual, those who claim to know, know
nothing.
Would you were here, you would be shocked to see that even the Bay is afflicted. Aside from the arguments which
rage nightly in the Gentleman's Lounge here at the hotel, each night, on the sand, a madman who claims to have fought
with General Harrison shrieks his anti-abolitionist message to anyone who will listen, including the gulls and the tide.
The guests are disturbed. There is little I can do. Perhaps God, or an armed drunk, will put this fool out of his misery. I
lose rooms because of him.
But perhaps I am too much the cynic these days.
Perhaps I am bitter because, after all these years, I still miss your mother.
Only time and the Rail-splitter will tell.
On a more important subject, in this package you will find the key. Do not lose it. Show it to no one, not even your
lovely Lucinda. It is time.
I know. I understand. You protest, you deny, you may find yourself moved to return to the Bay and examine my
senses for signs of deterioration. Do not bother yourself. Stay where you are. I assure you, Jon, the only deterioration
is in my soul, and my body. I cannot rid myself of this cough. It prevents my sleep, it disturbs my guests, it has kept
me a virtual prisoner in my apartments in order that I do not cause more to flee to other houses along the shore.
I cannot eat.
I can barely drink without spilling.
The men who pass for physicians tell me it is the climate. They tell me my constitution is not suited to the dampness
of the sea air, the chill of even the summer night. The fog. It makes no difference to any of them that I was born in this
very place, not a hundred paces from where my dream now stands. They blame the air.
We know what it is, you and I.
And perhaps it will permit me to see you before I die.
It is much too hot here.
There is too much noise.
I think it is time, perhaps for the last time. I visit the room. I think of your mother often when I am there, which makes
it all bearable. She was so lovely, so fragile, one would never have guessed her age when she was taken. I, now, am
fully aged.
Damn this hotel! have changed my mind. Come home. Without your moth-strength I am too much afraid. Yours,
Howard Bolgran
Greystone Bay 19 February 1889
The SeaHarp Hotel
Walter,
Since you are determined to remain away from your home and your family, I have no choice but to inform you that I
have made arrangements for the affairs of the SeaHarp to be administered by Graham Menzies after I am gone. He has
already taken over most of the daily chores, sees to it that our guests are treated in the manner to which they have
rightly become accustomed, and despite your no doubt drunken accusations, takes nothing out of it but the simplest
of amen-ities.
I have also seen to it, through Mr. Thargood, that the sti-pend you now receive be terminated at my death. You will
have no idea how much that pains me, but since you would rather enjoy the "entertainments" of New York than the
comforts of your birthplace, I have no choice. You are now free to find other means by which to finance your
debauch-eries.
I thank God your grandfather, the founder of this respite from the horrors of the world, is not alive to see this.
However, should you see your way clear to return for my funeral, do at least one thing for me. A deathbed request if
you will—take the key I enclose here and go into the room. What you find there will no doubt answer all your
questions. And I can assure you, it will solve whatever questions you have about your future as well.
Mr. Thargood knows nothing of this, nor does Mr. Men-zies.
You need not respond to this correspondence.
Either you come or you do not.
I do not care.
As far as I am concerned, you have died before me.
Your Father
Greystone Bay 11 October 1900
The SeaHarp Hotel
Dear Mr. Thargood,
When I purchased the SeaHarp Hotel from Mr. Walter Bol-gran three days before his unfortunate passing, it was
with the understanding, in writing both from him and your firm, that this was a thriving establishment, well thought of
by the genteel and the wealthy. As you have seen by the abrupt decline in bookings, this is not the case now, nor has
it been for the past several years, long before I took possession. Even the improvements I made—the doubling of
capacity by cut-ting the rooms in half, the paint, the gardens, the rates—have had no effect. Nothing seems to work.
If I were not a businessman, I might even go so far as to say that this place, this fog-damned village, has
deliberately attempted to put me out of business. And I am one of them, for God's sake!
If I am to maintain my reputation in commercial circles, I must divest myself of this albatross. It would please me,
then, if you made all the necessary arrangements. You may reach me at my hotel in Boston, certainly a more civilized
place than this. I shall be leaving in the morning, after I am positive nothing has been overlooked, or pilfered, by this
laughable staff.
I have come to suspect, by the way, that much of which has been reported lost and stolen by the handful of guests
who have stayed here—none, by the way, more than a week through the past five months—has been stored in that
locked room in the corridor just before the so-called Gentleman's Lounge. I will check it myself. I would not be
surprised if there is something there I will be able to report to the police.
Until I hear from you then, I remain,
Yours truly, Lamont Hews
Greystone Bay 1 November 1904
The SeaHarp Hotel
Dearest Dorothy,
Just a quick note, on this the first anniversary of our as-suming title to our dream, to tell you that I have, in the
library, at last located the word "SeaHarp." It refers to an obscure form of oceanic life which used to thrive in our very
own bay before the middle of the last century. It is so called because of its peculiar harp-like shape. Oddly, I can find
no mention of whether it is fish or plant. I suspect the "scien-tists" of the day were, at least here, not much more than
amateurs. No matter. There are times when I cannot be sure if this hotel is really a hotel, or a way-station for those
fleeing from the law.
A jest, my love. Do not worry. We are on sound footing at last, and in only one year. I think we will make it.
Please give my best to your mother, and tell her that I trust she is recovering rapidly.
And do hurry home. I have a surprise for you. I cannot tell you what it is for that would spoil the surprise, but
suffice to say, I have finally discovered which lock accepts that key you found in the attic last month.
You won't believe your eyes.
I love you.
Your loving husband, Peter
Greystone Bay 26 Play 1955
SeaHarp Hotel
Dear Father,
The redecoration of your and Mother's apartments on the top floor is now done. Both Simon and I urge you come
home. Simon's children miss you terribly. Frankly, how he manages those dreadful little children I'll never know. They
are horrid, and the longer you two are away, the worse they get.
One of these days, I'm going to put them in the room.
The weather is beautiful.
Wish you were here.
Simon sends his best wishes.
Love and kisses, Elinor
Greystone Bay 9 August 1988
The SeaHarp Hotel
Dear Howard,
Right now, while you're sweltering in the city, ducking from one air conditioned office to another and catching
pneu-monia in the process, I am sitting quite comfortably at a small table on the front porch, watching a fishing boat
on the bay, watching the shadow of the SeaHarp darken the water (the tide is coming in), and waiting for that famous
Greystone fog to roll in. It's a little chilly for this time of year, but it beats 100 in New York any day.
Someone is playing Mozart on the lobby piano.
To my left, in the garden, a young woman and her daughter are chasing a gull that seems to have the kid's pink
rubber ball.
And if someone brings out the hotel's croquet set and asks me to play under the stars, damned if I won't do it.
That's the kind of place this is.
I'm sending along photocopies of those letters and personal reminiscences you asked for just so you can see that
I'm really not exaggerating when I say that this building has been jinxed from the word go. The bizarre stuff that seems
to go on here beats all hell out of me, and yet they keep on coming from all over with their suitcases and their families,
on their honeymoons and on their retirement, just as if nothing's ever happened here and nothing ever will.
It's as if we're talking about lemmings in human form or something.
I've even sent a couple of things over to Wes Martin, the guy who took over for Abe in the Station, to see what he
makes of it. Talking to the police here is a small-town joke— they have one of those it's-our-town-not-yours-so-what
attitudes. You know: "This is the way we've always done things, and it's worked so far, so why bother to change?"
Right. If it ain't broke, don't fix it.
Damn. There's the fog. Write five words and the damned thing sneaks up on you. Pretty impressive, actually. It's
just about at the boardwalk, and you can't even catch a glimpse of the people who were on the beach a moment ago.
Spooky as hell, if you want to know the truth.
Speaking of spooky, I've finally gotten Victor Montgom-ery, grandson of the people who reopened the joint, to
admit that I have in fact discovered the mysterious "room" that keeps popping up in all this correspondence. The
trouble is, he won't let me in. And you can forget that brilliant idea of kissing up, as it were, to sister Noreen. She
reminds me of Mrs. Bates, after Norman took care of her. No thanks. I'll think of something else.
Meanwhile, the fog rolls in every night like clockwork, the bar is well-stocked, and there are, I suppose, worse
places in the world to put your feet up and forget about deadlines and stuff.
I just wish I knew what was in that room.
The streetlamps are on.
It's almost like London, before they cleaned up the facto-ries.
But it's not so much the fog, not really.
It's the sounds in the fog.
Right now, I can barely see over the porch railing. But I can hear the water slapping at the pilings, I can hear
someone in high heels walking on the sidewalk, I can hear what almost sounds like a carriage rattling over
cobblestones in the street; someone is giggling in the garden; there are wings overhead, probably a large gull heading
for home; the piano has stopped; the streetlamps are little more than blurs of lighter fog; a fish jumps, or something
has been thrown into the water; a buoy rings unevenly, as if something has just passed it, tipping it in its wake; a
match is struck, but I can't see the light; far down Harbor Road someone's whistling; someone kicks a pebble; a door
opens, but I don't know where; footsteps on wood; wings; whistling; humming; a carriage; a woman laughs; and
someone, out there, whispers my name.
Charles L. Grant
EX-LIBRARY
by Chet Williamson
It was not, Kendall Harris thought, the ideal place for a fam-ily vacation, and he would damn well let Riggs know it
when he got back to Boston. The SeaHarp Hotel, despite Riggs's paeans of praise, struck Harris as little cheerier than a
mau-soleum, and the town of Greystone Bay was not so much "charmingly caught in time," as Riggs had put it, as it
was embalmed, like a long-dead insect trapped in amber.
Every face Harris had seen in the hotel, including his own in the mirror, had a pale, sickly cast that unerringly
reflected the pallor of the sky. Was it ever blue over Greystone Bay? Harris wondered. And was there any haven in
this great pile of a building where you could not hear that damned surf? The pounding of each wave on the strand
seemed to mock the pounding of each worry, every concern that beat against the rickety seawall that was all that was
left of his relationship with Maureen and David.
His wife. His son. He said those words to himself over and over, trying to find in them something that moved him,
some saving grace that would make things the way they had been before Deborah had come into his life, Deborah with
her heart-shaped face, her willowy form, and her heart of oak that would brook no rival, not even a wife. She had
refused to be a mistress, and for that Harris loved her all the more.
But his family was too important to him to give up, even for Deborah, and he told her that, and told her that it had to
end between them. She had understood and had walked away, leaving his life emptier than it had been before, the
memories of his happiness with her creating an abyss in which the small amount of affection he still had left for
Maureen was totally swallowed up.
Maureen had known that he was having an affair. She was neither dumb nor blind, and her pain had lashed out at
him, and he had returned word for word, curse for curse, until there was nothing left but legalities to bind them
together. They had gone to a counselor, and the counselor had said to get away, go on a vacation together, escape
the petty pres-sures of everyday life.
And so they had come to Greystone Bay, where the petty
pressures vanished, making room for the huge and deeper pres-
sures that Harris carried inescapably within him, the pressures
that now boiled inside his brain as the foam boiled on the
rocky strand.
They had arrived only that morning, and already the large, second-floor suite they occupied seemed tight and
claustro-phobic. Christ, Harris thought, the Superdome would have seemed claustrophobic if both he and Maureen
had been in it. Her presence, smoldering with disgust toward him, filled the room, leaving him no air to breathe, and the
way in which she sheltered David, as though his father were some brute who might devour him, both saddened and
angered Harris. The worst of it was that the boy had begun to share his mother's aversion, and in the presence of his
wife and child Harris now felt leprous, monstrous, murderous.
So much, he thought bitterly, for a fucking family vaca-tion. And this was only the first evening. Ten more days to
go. Jesus God, he wondered, grimacing inwardly at the ab-surd melodrama of the thought, will I be able to get through
this vacation without killing somebody?
He shook his head at the idea, wondered if a third drink would be too many, decided that it would not, and ordered
another Glenfiddich. He drank it in less time than he had taken with its two predecessors, and after it was gone he
decided that he would drain his bladder before adding any more fluid to its contents. It was a long way to the door of
the bar, but he made the trip easily, and just as easily found his way to the men's room beneath the staircase. No, he
thought, not drunk yet. He sighed. Not drunk enough. Never drunk enough.
He urinated, washed his hands, splashed some water on his cheeks, and ran a comb through his graying hair, trying
not to look at the haggard face that suddenly seemed so old and sad. Forty-two, he thought. Only forty-fucking-two
and everything is over? He slipped the comb back into his pocket and listened for a moment.
It was there. The sound of the breakers. He had heard it in the bar, and could even now hear it in here, in a room
with no windows. Maybe through the pipes, he thought. Je-sus, was there any place you couldn't hear those
goddamned waves crashing?
Harris went back into the hall and took a few steps toward the bar, but then stopped and looked to the right down
the corridor. Was there someplace down there, he wondered, someplace quiet, where a man could stop thinking about
those waves?
He crossed the corridor only to find a locked meeting room on the right, a locked ballroom on the left, and, further
down the hall and to the right, a room with a closed door marked Club. "Not a member," Harris muttered to himself, and
went back the way he had come. At the cross-corridor, he turned left, and heard the sharp sound of billiard balls
strik-ing one another. Not tonight, he thought. Not in the mood. Then he noticed the door with the words Reading
Room let-tered on it. It was closed, but Harris could see a light beneath the door. He walked up to it, turned the knob
slowly, and pushed it open.
An old man was sitting in a leather armchair against the far wall, the only light in the room coming from the brass
floor lamp whose green shade hung over him like a censer. When the man looked up, Harris thought for a moment that
he was staring at an egg, not so much for the shape of the man's head as for its color—or lack of it. His hair was a
brilliant white, as was the well-trimmed beard that wreathed his chin, and the pallor of his flesh was almost equal to that
of his hair and whiskers. Harris, frozen in the doorway, was relieved as the apparition's face split in a friendly smile, and
blue eyes observed him from behind shining bifocals.
"Come in," the old man said warmly. "I had the door closed to keep out the sounds of the billiards, not fellow
readers. Make yourself at home. The chairs are comfortable, the ambience is pleasant, and the silence is delightful."
Harris smiled back and closed the door behind him. Peace settled over the room like a shroud. He listened in pleased
surprise. "You can't hear the surf," he said.
"You're glad of that?"
"Well . . . yes."
The old man nodded and quoted:
" 'Sophocles long ago Heard it on the Aegean, and it brought Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow Of human
misery . . .' "
"Dover Beach," Harris said, happy to recognize the al-lusion.
"Ah!" the man said, delighted. "You are a reader."
"I, uh, remembered it from college, that's ail."
"You agree with Matthew Arnold? The ebb and flow of human misery—the surf reminds you of it?"
"I . . . guess so. Sometimes."
"Well, you're safe from it for the little while you're here. But I'm being rude, I should introduce myself." He pushed
himself to his feet with surprising agility, and thrust out a hand. "My name is Samuel. And you?"
Harris took the hand and shook it. It was warm and dry and gripped his own hand firmly and a bit longer than Harris
thought necessary. "Harris," he said. "Kendall Harris."
"A pleasure, Mr. Harris. And to what tastes does your reading run? I know this room and its holdings quite well.
Perhaps I can help you select a suitable volume?"
"Well ... I don't know. I mean, I came in here mainly for a place to just sit and . . . and think," Harris finished weakly.
"Ah, and here I am chattering away." Samuel put his head to one side and frowned. "But are you sure, Mr. Harris,"
he went on more softly, ' 'that you want to sit and think? You appear, if you don't mind my saying so, to be more than a
little ill at ease. Perhaps some literary escapism would be more in order."
Jesus, it shows, Harris thought. He didn't know why he just didn't tell the old man to be quiet and sit down and
finish his damn book, but there was something that stopped him. Perhaps it was the air of occupancy that Samuel
possessed, as though this reading room was his private suite, and Harris was only there at his indulgence. "Look, I
don't know ..."
"Mr. Harris, have you ever read M.R. James?"
The name struck a chord, and Harris remembered a Dover paperback that he had bought when he was in college. A
roommate had turned him on to LeFanu, and for several joy-ously chilly months he had immersed himself in English
ghost stories whenever he was not doing the required reading for his classes. "I have, yes."
Samuel stepped up to one of the packed mahogany book-shelves that surrounded the room, and drew from it a
small, thick volume bound in a dark red cloth which he handed to Harris. "Please, take this. There's a certain story I'd
like you to read, if you have a half hour or so?"
Harris looked at the book, Collected Ghost Stories by M.R. James. He opened it to the title and copyright pages
and saw that it was a British edition published by Edward Arnold Ltd. in 1931. The volume was dog-eared, and the
front hinge had broken. As Harris turned to the back, he noticed a paper library pocket pasted in, and in it a yellowed
card, covered with several signatures. "Greystone Bay Public Library," Harris read aloud.
"Yes. Destroys its collectors' value, but it also brings . . . another dimension, shall we say, to the book. Now the
story I'd like for you to read is 'Oh, Whistle, and I'll Come to You, My Lad.' "
Harris sighed in exasperation. "Look, Mr. Samuel—"
"Just Samuel."
"All right. Samuel. Now I don't know why you want me to read this story, but—"
"An experiment," Samuel said, never losing his soft smile.
"An experiment," Harris repeated.
"To be explained when you finish the story."
Harris smiled thinly. "Samuel," he said, "what is it with you? Are you a retired high school English teacher who
misses the old days or what?"
Samuel chuckled. "I assure you I'm not, Mr. Harris. What harm can it do? Do you have anything better to do with
your time tonight?"
Harris thought of Maureen and David watching television in the cavernous living room of their suite, and felt a hot
flame of revulsion blaze through him. He shook his head. "No. No I don't."
"Then make yourself comfortable. What better way to pass an evening than to sit comfortably and read a thrilling
tale?"
While Samuel resumed his own seat and volume, Harris stepped over to a chair twenty feet away, turned on the
floor lamp, sat, and began to read. He dimly remembered having read the story years before, but was soon caught up in
it enough to forget both the odd circumstances under which he was now rereading it and the old man seated several
yards away.
It was, he thought, a truly eerie story, with an effective and terrifying ghost, and he blinked quickly several times at
the story's end until he felt free of the false yet chilling reality of the tale. He looked over at Samuel, and closed the
book with a loud enough report to make the old man look up.
"I'm finished," Harris said. "Do you want me to do a book report for you?"
Samuel grinned, and Harris was not surprised to find that his teeth were as startlingly white as his hair. "No, Mr.
Har-ris," he said. "All I want is to ask you a question about the story. A single question."
"All right."
The old man stood up and crossed the room until he was next to Harris's chair. "What did you see?"
"What did I . . . see? What do you mean?"
"When the ghost ... the malignant thing . . . forms itself out of the bedding." He held out a hand for the book.
"Al-low me." Harris placed the book in Samuel's hand, and the man opened it and read: " 'I gathered that what he
chiefly remembers about it is a horrible, an intensely horrible, face of crumpled linen. What expression he read upon it
he could not or would not tell, but that the fear of it went nigh to maddening him is certain.' " Samuel closed the book.
"We all create mental images when we read. Now what I should like to know is what, specifically, was the image that
you saw in your mind's eye when you just read that passage."
Harris had no trouble remembering. For some reason the image had been extraordinarily vivid. Still, he was hesitant
to allow the strange old man to share his thoughts.
"Well?" Samuel pressed.
Why not? Harris thought. It was certainly neither secret nor intimate. "It was . . . kind of silly, I guess. The sheet
that made the image of the ghost had these waves of hair parted in the middle . . . there were bulging eyes, and the
mouth was wide open with ..." Harris had to chuckle. "... with linen teeth. Fangs, I suppose. And a beaked, pointy
nose." He shrugged. "That's about it."
"And does that surprise you?" Samuel asked. "That you
should create such a picture?" •
Harris thought for a moment. "Yes. Yes, it does," he said slowly. "When I was halfway through the story, I
remem-bered reading it before, and I remembered that there was an illustration—I don't know by who—but it was of
this, this sheet-thing rising up over its victim. But when I came to the part in the story where it happened, I didn't see
that, but instead got this other image."
Samuel reached into the pocket of his dark suit coat and withdrew a sealed envelope which he handed to Harris. It
bore the return address of the SeaHarp Hotel. "Open it," Samuel said.
Harris tore it open and withdrew a sheet of hotel stationery on which was written in a spidery script, Long wavy
hair. Large eyes. Sharp nose. Fangs. Harris read it twice, then looked up. "What is this?"
"Evidence that our little experiment worked."
Harris looked at the man, the book, the paper, and back at the man again. "Experiment? In what, ESP? You read my
mind?"
Samuel shook his head. "No, no. That was in my pocket, sealed, before you even came in here. I would have to be
precognitive to have done such a trick. No, Mr. Harris, there was no thought transmission between you and I while
you read that story. But there was something between you . . ." He held up the book. "... and this."
Harris was confused, almost frightened. "Look, I don't know what you're trying to do, but—"
"Mr. Harris, please be calm. You have done this much at my request, will you do one thing more?"
"Do . . . what?"
"Read the story one more time. To prove that this paper is no coincidence."
"This is ridiculous," Harris muttered, starting to get to his feet.
"Please," Samuel said earnestly. "It is important. More important than you may guess."
Harris looked into the pale face and blue eyes for nearly a minute, then nodded curtly. "All right. All right, one more
time, but then I'm leaving." He took the book, opened it once more, and reread the story. This time it took him only ten
minutes, and when he had finished he looked up, puz-zled.
"Yes?" Samuel said. "You have read it, and what did you see?"
"I saw ..." Harris swallowed heavily. "I saw something different. It was more mature, more . . . fleshed out? The . . .
contours of the face were lined and wrinkled, and there seemed to be traces of, of decay, rotting on it.'' He looked at
Samuel. "What is this all about? What is this book?"
"Look at the card in the back," the man said. "Read the first two names."
Harris turned to the back of the book and slipped the card from the pocket. The first name, Donald Lorcaster, was
written in a childish scrawl, the second, Richard Williams, in a firm, adult hand.
"Notice the handwriting," Samuel said. "A child, and an adult. Now, remember the two images that you saw in your
mind—the first a child's cartoon horror, the second a more developed adult vision."
"You're saying that this book is ... a storage medium of some sort?"
Samuel nodded. "A battery, if you will, that stores not power, but images. A single, strong mental image of each
person who has read this particular story. In this particular volume."
摘要：

CONTENTSINTRODUCTION1CharlesL.GrantEX-LIBRARY10ChetWilliamsonTHECOAT24AlSarrantonioBEAUTY40RobertR.McCammonSERVICESRENDERED49BryanWebbAQUARIUM64SteveRasnicTemTHREEDOORSINADOUBLEROOM83CraigShawGardnerREVELATIONS103MelissaMiaHallROOMSERVICE125LesDanielsEVILTHOUGHTS143SuzyMcKeeCharnasBLOODLILIES169Robe...

展开>> 收起<<
Charles L. Grant - The Sea Harp Hotel.pdf

共129页,预览26页

还剩页未读， 继续阅读

声明：本站为文档C2C交易模式，即用户上传的文档直接被用户下载，本站只是中间服务平台，本站所有文档下载所得的收益归上传人(含作者)所有。玖贝云文库仅提供信息存储空间，仅对用户上传内容的表现方式做保护处理，对上载内容本身不做任何修改或编辑。若文档所含内容侵犯了您的版权或隐私，请立即通知玖贝云文库，我们立即给予删除！

相关推荐

更多
立即下载
分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：129 页 大小：976.53KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-24

开通VIP享超值会员特权

  • 多端同步记录
  • 高速下载文档
  • 免费文档工具
  • 分享文档赚钱
  • 每日登录抽奖
  • 优质衍生服务

作者详情

相关内容

更多

热门标签

人际关系 动力学连接体 力的合成 配电装置 高考理综 全宋诗作者索引 公务员考试
/ 129
评分 收藏
分享
立即下载 VIP免费下载
客服
关注