Brian Stableford - Hooded Swan 06 - Swan Song

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Swan Song
Brian Stableford
1
Chasing freedom can be a very tiring game. It's the sort of game that dominates your thought and
endeavour for months or years-endurance isn't a problem as long as you have some kind of effort to
make and some kind of direction to go-and then, when you win it, you're left utterly and absolutely flat.
Empty and exhausted. Drained of all purpose, impetus, and ambition. The first taste of hard-won
freedom is inevitably as foul as stagnant water. It can be the first time in your life that you can't find an
answer to the question why, and when you've been fighting that hard for that long, the lack of such an
answer can be frightening.
It only takes time to get back into yourself, but that time can hang so limp and useless it makes you
sweat to wear it.
In the end, it's OK. It's worth the feeling absolutely flat, let down like a worn-out balloon, provided that
you can know the only way is up and you're all set to start climbing. It's not the bottom of the spiritual
well or the ladder back up to the good air which really threatens you... it's the past you left so recently
behind, the past that's sitting on your footprints, the past which can always run after you, can always
catch you up, if it can only think of a motive....
... A reason to drag you back down.
When the Sandman touched down on Erica I was in no hurry to leap out of her and get dirt between my
toes. There was nothing about honest soil which appealed to me at that particular point in time. There
were one or two little things in my province which needed sorting, and I was happy enough to sort,
although two hours any time in the next two days would set everything up, and I was bound to be asked
to do a tour of duty as officer-of-the-watch.
After a while, though, I began to get bored. I wandered down to the engine room to see if I could catch
Sam Parks before he ducked ship and ran for the big city lights. I had a lot of things I wanted to complain
about, and he wouldn't take offence if I bitched at him. Also, of course, he might be able to drop me a
hint as to how to get the complaints heard somewhere that mattered. I had a suspicion that a lot of
valuable breath could go to waste without my getting the slightest satisfaction from the noble captain.
Sam was still cleaning up in the engine room, if "cleaning up" is the right expression to describe turning a
disaster into a mess.
"Does it bitch itself up like that every trip?" I asked, in sympathetic tones.
"Hello, Grainger," he said. "I already know." He looked up at me with his grey eyes, which had retreated
somewhat with advancing age until they were almost in the shadow of his fading eyebrows, except when
he looked up. He straightened briefly, easing a kink in his back. He was a big man-or had been-but he
was as thin as a rake. His hands looked too big for his slender wrists, as though they'd been stuck on as
an ironic afterthought. Sam was a giant designed by a committee who wanted to go easy on materials.
'What do you know already?" I asked.
"Everything you're going to tell me. It's all true and there isn't a damn thing I can do about it."
"Nobody's blaming you," I said.
"Doesn't matter who blames who," he said, sounding totally resigned. "Things is what they seem. A
mess. Same down here, as you can see. I reckon I'd be prepared to ride a decent drive-unit into hell, just
for the pleasure of its company."
"You could get a better ship than this," I said, meaning a nice clean passenger job, though I wasn't about
to say so in case he was a proud man and took offence.
He shook his head. "Too old," he said. "Couldn't pass the medical. What's your excuse?"
"I was in a hurry," I said. "What does the captain think of his wonderful ship?"
"The captain doesn't think. He only waits. Promotion is slow but loyalty pays its miserable dividends
eventually. The faster we fall to pieces the happier he'll be. He ain't going places but he's got years under
his hat yet. Go see him if you want to. He'll be half expecting you. He'll give you the old story-and it's
true, so you can't argue. He can't afford it, whatever it is. He can't afford to get a downship crew in to
attend to what we have, let alone replace any of it. He can't afford it-God's truth. It's not his ship. He has
his margins, same as anyone else. Anyone thinks the margins are too narrow on the Sandman, they jack it
in. That's how come you're employed; but don't be grateful."
"I thought your last pilot might have died of shame," I said, trying to inject a little wit into the downbeat
tone of the conversation.
"He was no good," said Sam. "Of all the parts needed replacing he was number one on the list."
"So OK," I said. "He's replaced. Be happy."
He shrugged away the note of irony in my voice. I tried to shrug it away as well. I'd picked up the
Sandman on Ludlock. It was by no means the sort of operation I wanted to stay with, but it was too
close to the core for berths to be easy to come by. I needed to be farther out into the inner ring before I
could begin to make real plans. The Sandman would get me there eventually, if I managed to hold her
together without too much sealing wax in her seams. It's a hard life, but it goes on.
I still had most of the cash that remained to me once I'd bought myself free of all obligations to Titus
Charlot and the shadows which trailed him, but it wasn't all that much of a stake and it wouldn't carry me
far into the civilised galaxy or into the future. Ideally I wanted to buy myself a slice of a ship, but with
inflation the way it was courtesy of the Caradoc/Star Cross stranglehold on interplanetary commerce the
chance was becoming more remote by the hour. I had to live on whatever was offered and a purse-full of
hope. The Sandman had been on offer.
She was a squat, untidy d-skipper, built cheap somewhere on the Solar wing. She handled in a manner
that was faintly reminiscent of the old Fire-Eater that Lapthorn and I had used to trundle away our youth,
and felt privileged so to do. The Sandman wasn't quite as old as the Fire-Eater, but she was by no means
this year's model, or even last year's. It wasn't that she was horribly dangerous or difficult to fly-but she
was damned uncomfortable and capable of giving sixty percent efficiency at the best. She was slow,
cumbersome, and a real pig's bastard in atmosphere. On takeoff she acted like a bronchial case with a
hangover and she landed like a drunk coming down a ladder. Apart from that she was home, for the time
being.
"Couldn't we do her up a bit between ourselves?" I asked.
Sam had returned to his slow and unmethodical tidying-up while I'd been thinking quietly to myself. Now
he looked up again with a distant expression on his face. I realised that his complexion had once been as
pale as his eyes, before the radiation tan got to his skin and polished it up like dark wood. For a second
or two, his eyes failed to focus, and I knew there was more than one reason why he'd fail a medical if he
were forced to take one. He'd spent his life looking at a lot of hot light. I wondered how old he was, in
real years. Maybe the same age as me. He could probably live to see fifty-five, if he retired now to chew
grass on some dirtside haven where the labour problem was nine parts solved. Otherwise...
After a pause, he said, "We might. If we had the time and the inclination. Pigs might also fly. No pay, no
thanks, and a flogged-out gut is what we'd end up with. You volunteer?"
His voice held a hint of bitter sarcasm. He was getting at me, just a little. He knew I'd been running ships
that made this one look like scrap metal, and he knew I'd owned my own in the past. He couldn't help
resenting it, just a little. It occurred to me that he really would love pouring a bucketful of sweat into a
ship like the Hooded Swan, if that could be anything more than a dream. But this wasn't my ship or his,
not in the real sense. We were here to stay alive and get paid. Sure, we could ginger up the baby-but for
nothing, or less than nothing. We'd probably lose out on pay because if she could go faster she could
work faster and there'd be less pay for space time.
"Suppose I were to request politely that the contacts could be trimmed?" I said. "It's no fun hooking up
to that column. It feels like I'm being garrotted."
Sam shrugged. It was none of his business. But the way his eyes dropped told me that there wasn't much
chance.
I accepted the situation without grace, but without much bitterness. In all likelihood I would have to go at
the captain anyhow, if I got the chance. I would complain long and hard. But it would only be for the
good of his soul and mine.
"It's a living," said Sam. He didn't sound as if he meant it-much.
"Any idea where we're liable to be going in the near future?" I asked him.
"Nowhere," he said. "Lots of it." He waved a hand indicatively. "Hop, skip, and hop again. No jump, not
for a while. Wait for some luck. That captain's one hell of a smartass when it comes to cheating
dirtsquatters. In time, he'll land us a little role. Then we go somewhere decent for a while. The company
doesn't need to ask too many questions. Anyone's entitled to a look at the living now and again."
I nodded. It was no more than I expected. No ship working this kind of territory was going to be taking
long hauls unless she had effort in hand. Her margins were too narrow. She'd hop a handful of light-years
at a time, picking up crumbs and swapping marbles. It might be months before we touched somewhere
important enough to warrant my hanging around waiting for something to turn up- somewhere that
opportunity might call once now and again to give a quick knock. Perhaps I could have made it to the
inner ring faster by taking one ship at a time and keeping my direction out from the heart stars, but that
would be risky. I might get stranded and I'd certainly get poorer. Far better to stick with the Sandman
and be patient. If it took six months, six months it took. You can't command the future from where I was.
"You've been around these parts all your life?" I asked him, to manufacture conversation.
"I know my way around," he said. He looked at me and he grinned.
"I used to work the outer rim," I said. "Mostly."
'Never could stand wide-open spaces," he said.
The hatch behind me was open, and somebody on their way out of the belly of the ship paused to look
in on us. It was a kid whose name I didn't know. Chief bottle-washer and cargo-humper, and part-time
everything as the occasion demanded. The captain generally called him "Hey you," or-not so often-"What
the hell are you doin'?" Everyone else probably did the same. It's easy to lose or gain names out in space.
"You got seckin watch, Turpin," he said, with an odd flattening accent that I'd not heard before. "Better
mik most of the evenin'." He paused as he glanced sideways at me. "You're OK," he said, deliberately
avoiding any direct manner of address. "Free till timorrow."
"Thanks," said Sam. I nodded acknowledgement.
"Captain still aboard?" I asked. I knew the other spare crewman had already gone. He'd been in the
cockpit with me when we touched and he'd gone out like a rabbit. Apparently, he had urgent business of
one kind or another on the ground.
"Naw," said the engineer, waving the kid away. "He'll be in his cabin, but not in, if you see what I mean.
He'll crawl around the port as soon as the jumbos have cleared the cargo-he won't be fit to talk to till
tomorrow, when he'll have his mind on a lift again. He shouldn't have to beg for cargo-the port knew we
were on regular run, and they got a standing arrangement to fix us up. Unless the big company's
expanding its operation to cut us out."
"What company's that?" I asked.
He looked at me a little sharply. "Zacher's lot," he said. "The something-or-other lifting company.
Something like that."
"Never heard of it," I said.
"You could have signed on with 'em where we picked you up, if you'd wanted to," he said. He thought I
was already sick to death of the Sandman.
I shook my head. "Don't like the big men and the sign-on," I said.
He looked away again. He knew the score. He probably valued his own soul too much to put it in hock.
I turned away to go back to the cockpit, but he interrupted me. "I'm going out in a couple of minutes," he
said. "If you want to come with me. I know my way around. Here and everywhere."
I didn't hesitate. "Okay," I said.
"Don't bother the captain," he said. "Just lock your cabin door."
"Sure," I said.
I waited for him outside. I looked around the field at all the rust-buckets sitting on the tarpol. There were
six, but one of them just had to be a derelict. I couldn't imagine that anybody intended to lift it. Of the
others, two were obviously based here-transports owned by communities or planet-based operations
which had found something to dig up and ship out to somewhere else in the vicinity, just to keep the
micro-economy ticking over. The others were operative ships, cleaner and tougher, but not new. I
assumed that one, at least, must belong to the company Sam had talked about. Even a relatively small
company with a name like the something-or-other lifting company could probably keep a couple of
hundred ships on a rim-to-rim shuttle covering a two-fifty-world circuit and clean up pretty
comprehensively. Come the time when the Sandman and all the other small-time operators like her got
run clear out of the black edges on the profit margins they'd have a stranglehold on a corner of
civilisation. Then they'd merge with Star Cross or somebody, and another piece of the jigsaw of Galactic
Empire would be in place. I wouldn't live to see it, unless I got really unlucky and the whispering thing
that rode in my mind let me live forever. Once the amalgamation had taken place Zacher's collection of
toy traders would be put to the thankless task of drawing into their net all the little worlds which had
stayed out of the loose network of exploitation-the worlds which had contrived, somehow, to look after
themselves. Things could get unpleasant then-all around. One by one, they'd be tied in one way or
another. There could be no escape except ultimate escape-total insularity. Only the Coventry worlds
could stay out of the company bag forever-worlds which turned their back on the stars from which the
settlers had come, and forgot that there was a great big wonderful universe on their tail end. I could smell
wars-maybe a hundred years off, maybe only five. They'd come. It's a great big fragile universe.
Sam came down out of the skipper and we set off for the port clearing-house. The sun-a deep red
sun-was already close to setting. I had no idea how fast local time might run and I didn't really care. I
was still becalmed by the desolation of new-found freedom, and the length of the night didn't seem a
terribly relevant thing. I had no ideas, no foci in time. I was content to drift with Sam.
The air was thin but clean and fresh. There was a light wind, perhaps a little cold for comfort, but rolling
just a hint of alien odours across the field. It was easy enough, drifting, I thought. I didn't mind the
emptiness.
Though I didn't know it, a fragment of darkness from the long shadow of my past was waiting for me in
the clearing-house. It hadn't just caught up with me, it was already ahead of me.
2
We walked into a small coffee-house at the farther end of the huddle of transient-traps which crowded
around the field. I just followed Sam, and he went straight there without glancing into any of the lighted
windows or advertising displays which edged out on to the pavement along our path as if they were
waiting to pounce.
I let him order both food and drink. This was his stamping ground and he was canny enough to have
sorted out something that was better than the average.
I hadn't noticed the man waiting at the port while our papers were checked, and I hadn't consciously
realised that we'd been followed from the clearing-house.
When we sat down, I asked Sam why the kid had called him Turpin.
"They all do," he said. "It's an old joke. Old and tired. But you know how these things live and never
die."
"What was the punchline?" I inquired.
"I always had a yen to be a highwayman. Dick Turpin. When I was a kid I wanted to grow up to be a
space pirate. I guess the joke stayed with me since I was so high. I talk about it still, sometimes. It's my
joke at my expense, I guess. They all pick it up. Hold up a liner and rob it... it's a nice idea."
"Not very practical," I commented.
"So who cares? It's a nice idea. Someday, I may give it a try. Just for the laugh."
"Hasn't it ever been done?"
"Who knows?"
"You've never done it."
"No," he said, straight-faced. "I never did. You know how it is. A kid never grows up to be what he's
cut out to be. He always gets hammered into some other slot. Mine's the slot in a drive-unit, any kind and
all kinds. But it wouldn't be the same anyway-the dreaming and the doing. Kids can hold up liners, not
grown men. I guess it'd be a disappointment"
It was a crazy conversation, but I didn't mind it. I was about to pursue the point further when I became
conscious of the fact that someone was standing behind me. Sam was looking up at him, and the light
crept under those ashen eyebrows to shine off his eyes.
I turned around.
"Mr. Grainger," he said.
I looked at him, and I could feel my stomach sinking. I didn't know him from Adam, but I knew his style.
I recognised immediately what he represented. Something from behind me, treading on my heels. He
knew me. And he wasn't an autograph hunter.
"Never heard of him," I said.
"Me neither," lied Sam, unthinkingly.
"I was at the port," he said, smoothly and gently. "I saw your papers checked."
"So? The galaxy is brim full of men named Grainger. The one you want is one of the other ten thousand.
Try the slums on Penaflor."
"I'd like to talk to you, if I may," he said. Some people just can't take a hint.
He was tall, and though he stood quite relaxed he was neat enough and straight enough to suggest that
he had some kind of discipline in his background. I knew he wasn't a cop and I knew he wasn't a New
Alexandrian. He was dark haired but pale skinned, and he had just a hint of makeup in the mould of his
face. He talked with a silky catch to his voice which suggested that English wasn't his first or his only
language. His coat was expensive and behind his collar I could see the sharp white of a good shirt. I
looked down at his shoes, knowing that they'd be shiny. If I'd been Sherlock Holmes I would have
known his pet poodle's nickname, but as things stood I only knew that he was trouble.
"No," I said.
"Just a few words," he said calmly. He wasn't bothering to sound friendly. Just confident.
"I don't want to know," I said. I'm not interested. I just don't care. Go away."
"We care," he said. He pulled a chair out from one of the other tables and he sat down wrong way
around, so that his hands could rest on the back of it, just beside me. He didn't so much as glance at
Sam. I knew I was going to have to listen. I didn't see a lot of alternatives.
The waitress brought out the food. Sam looked at her and gave her a nice smile. She knew him by sight
and she smiled right back at both of us. I couldn't raise an eyebrow. She probably didn't form too high an
opinion of me. I picked up my fork and began to eat. Sam grinned at me, and followed suit.
"I want to offer you a job, Mr. Grainger," said the stranger. "My name is Soulier, and I represent the
Caradoc Company. There's nothing underhanded about this-nothing at all. I'm not trying to trick you in
any way. You know that we've had an interest in you for some time and we both know what sort of an
interest that is. You're a free agent now and we're approaching you as a free agent. We aren't going to
pretend that we owe you anything for what happened in the past, but on the other hand, we don't expect
you to bury all your grievances for nothing. We need men with your knowledge and experience, Mr.
Grainger, and we're willing to pay a good deal over the odds for your services."
I said nothing. He waited for a few seconds and then he went on.
"We are prepared to forget the past, Mr. Grainger, so far as you have contributed to... matters
disadvantageous to the company. We are prepared to learn from the past. We always like to learn from
our mistakes. You know that you have cost us money, and you no doubt feel that there is some justice in
that, in view of what happened a year ago when one of our ships picked you up in the Halcyon Drift.
You know that we are big enough to shrug off these matters as a drop in the commercial ocean. There
need be no resentment between us unless you insist that it should be so... and I believe that you are
realistic enough not to allow petty prejudices to interfere with your future well-being. We do not hold you
responsible in any way for what happened to the ramrods which we lost in the Halcyon core, and we feel
that you should be prepared to understand and forgive the unfortunate affair of the Ella Marita and the
salvage claim. Time has moved on since then. Things happen quickly in the universe today. We want to
start again, and we want you with us instead of against us.
"We will give you a ship... virtually any type of ship you care to specify... yours to command as long as
you care to. We are prepared to negotiate freely as to conditions of employment and the nature of the
work you will undertake. On your joining the company we will pay you a lump sum to offset any
resentment which you may harbour as regards our past clashes. This, too, is negotiable."
"No," I said.
"I'll take it," volunteered Sam. Soulier didn't favour him with so much as a glance.
"We need you, Mr. Grainger," said Soulier, who apparently never tired of flogging dead horses, "and
we're being absolutely honest about that. Write your own ticket. Name your price. You don't have to
sign on. We'll employ you on any basis whatsoever. Just say the word."
I continued eating, and he continued waiting. He thought I was thinking it over. I wasn't.
-You're in a spot, said the wind.
That I knew.
-You could have guessed that something of this sort might happen.
How could I? I retorted. I'm only a little guy. I'm only a pilot. How could I know the vultures would
gather over me the moment I stepped out from under Charlot's perch? Why shouldn't they just let me
fade away? What makes me so bloody popular?
-You're too modest, said the wind ominously. Far too modest.
"I don't suppose," I said to Soulier, "that it would do any good to tell you that I don't know anything.
Nothing worth your while. I don't know about Charlot's secrets, Charlot's plans, Charlot's methods. I'm
not privy to his innermost thoughts and I never have been. I'm only the most minor of his pawns. I'm not a
fool and I know what you're asking for, but I couldn't give it to you if I wanted to. You're wasting your
time. Now you got an explanation, which I didn't owe you, so will you please go away."
He had frozen up just a bit. I wasn't trying to be nasty. I wasn't being tough. I knew the score and I was
outpointed every way. But he thought I was playing hero, and he was all ready to play by the roughest
rules.
"Come on, Mr. Grainger," he said gently. "You've been closer to Titus Charlot than anyone else these
last few months. You're a clever man, and you aren't one of his disciples by any means. You've been
around on New Alexandria, you've flown the Hooded Swan, and you've been at the very heart of several
incidents which are pregnant with interest. So far as our company is concerned, you're a very valuable
man, Mr. Grainger. You know that your dreams of avarice aren't big enough to cut much of a hole in
company assets. You interest us greatly, Mr. Grainger, and we can afford to indulge that interest. Think
of me, if you like, as Caradoc's opposite number to your last employer. A picker-up of loose ends, a
dabbler in small projects, but a man with power nevertheless. A man with determination. You don't have
to take a job with us at all, if you don't want to. But we want a few days- perhaps only a few hours-of
your valuable time, and we're willing to pay you a great deal for it. We just want your memoirs, that's all."
"I've got a very bad memory," I told him.
"In this day and age," he pointed out, "nobody has to rely on the infallibility of his memory."
"You aren't augMENTing me," I said flatly.
"You make augMENTation sound like some kind of I torture," he said. "You know that isn't so. It
doesn't hurt, and it leaves you just as it finds you, with your memory I sharpened up a bit. It's not like a
mindpick, you know... not at all.
"I know you have secrets, Mr. Grainger... haven't we all? But how much can those secrets really be
worth? We'll pay it, whatever it is. And your personal secrets mean little enough to us-it's not your
private life we're interested in. You have no loyalty to Charlot-he used you. He may not have been
responsible for your initial troubles but he certainly took the fullest advantage of them. You owe nothing
to anyone save yourself. You have a perfect right to tell us all you know, moral and legal. I appreciate
your resentment of the augMENTation procedures, but really, when you come down to it, is there
anything you have to hide? We'll deal honestly, Mr. Grainger-it's not worth our while to be dishonest.
Whatever safeguards you care to specify... all we want is information. We bear you no malice. None at
all."
"I don't want to have my memory sharpened," I said. "I'm very good at forgetting because I like
forgetting. There are some things I don't care to remember at any price."
There was another pause. I finished my meal. Sam was already finished. I guess I'd been distracted
somewhat.
"You don't look to me like a man who doesn't want to be rich," said Soulier. "It's just not your line. You
don't want to end your days dragging a heap like the Sandman around the radiant rim. You want a ship
of your own. Maybe a world of your own. It can be arranged. You can't afford to turn us down, Mr.
Grainger. It wouldn't be fair to yourself."
That was a threat if I ever heard one, though it lacked any kind of inflection.
The food was fine but I was feeling sick. My stomach was all churned up. I wanted this man off my back
and I wanted him off fast, but I knew there was no way. If the company had made up its commercial
collective mind- and it seemed that it had-there was simply no way to say no.
"Soulier," I said, "I wouldn't sell you my soul for the entire assets of your goddamned company and I
don't care if it does end up owning the universe. Don't get me wrong... it isn't loyalty or pride or even
downright bloody-mindedness. It's simple fear. I don't trust you as far as I can throw a feather into a
gale-force headwind, and I'd be every kind of fool if I did. You can't have my mind, Soulier. Not for all
your promises and not for any of your threats. No way. I've got legal rights, here and everywhere I mean
to go, and I've got Titus Charlot on the end of a call for help. You can't take my mind, Soulier, and I
think that you can get that message into your skull if you work hard enough. No counterthreats-I'm just
telling you the plain truth. It's not me that'll stop you, it's the bounds of possibility."
Soulier rocked back in his chair, picking its back legs up off the floor. I hoped he'd fall over.
"I haven't made any threats," he said evenly-and it was the most threatening sound I'd ever heard. "I'm
only interested in honest dealing. The company is only interested in honest dealing. We're trying to
establish contact with you, so that we can both get what we want.
"You know that you're finished with Charlot and vice versa. You're on your own. You know that. I think
you should accept our offer. I think you will. It's an honest offer, Mr. Grainger, and it will stay that way.
We only want to make you a rich man. I want you to understand that."
"Yeah," I said. "I understand." One of us was lying and it wasn't me.
"I'll be in town for some days," said Soulier. "At the organisation's hotel. Anyone will tell you which it is.
Ask for Mr. Zacher. You can contact me through him, any time."
"I'll be gone in two days," I told him.
"Will you, Mr. Grainger?" he said flatly.
I hate people who call me "mister."
"Good-bye, Mr. Grainger," he said, as he stood up and replaced the chair neatly. "I'll be waiting to hear
from you."
Then he left.
I felt Sam Parks' eyes boring into the top of my head as I stared down at my empty plate and turned my
fork over and over, clicking the tines against the plastic rim.
"You know," he said, "ever since I was so high, I've had this thing about the romantic life of high crime. I
guess I never had any real ambition."
"Honestly," I said, to no one in particularly, "I didn't think I was worth it. I don't think I'm worth it.
Bloody hell, I'm not worth it. They steal my mind they may get a lot of things they didn't bargain for; but
mother is it worth it? It's all just trash. Why can't the bloody universe, just for a while, get off my back?"
"Take the money," advised Sam.
"I can't," I said.
"They might just let you keep it," he said. "I'd take it."
"It's not the money," I told him. "If there was a chance of getting away with it, I might, but..."
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  SwanSong BrianStableford   1 Chasingfreedomcanbeaverytiringgame.It'sthesortofgamethatdominatesyourthoughtandendeavourformonthsoryears-enduranceisn'taproblemaslongasyouhavesomekindofefforttomakeandsomekindofdirectiontogo-andthen,whenyouwinit,you'releftutterlyandabsolutelyflat.Emptyandexhausted.Drai...

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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：108 页 大小：276.41KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-24

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