Cook, Glen - In the Wind

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Here is a story set in a more distant future when humankind travels to far stars routinely.
Exobiology, the study of life forms beyond the earth, is a young enough branch of biology to be
called "applied science fiction" as practiced by a science specialist of one kind or another.
Studies in this field include characterizing hypothetical planetary environments, the native life
which might exist in such alien ecologies, and how such life might be observed, directly or
indirectly. But short of actually traveling to the planets of other solar systems, the only life
which we might be able to detect at a distance around other stars is intelligent life. Drawing on
background from astrophysics, exobiology, planetary composition, Glen Cook creates an alien
environment inhabited by intelligent life vastly different from us. And in what is also an
exciting adventure story, he manages to raise serious ethical dilemmas about our possible
relationship to such intelligences.
G.Z.
IN THE WIND
Glen Cook
I
It's quiet up there, riding the ups and downs over Ginnunga Gap. Even in combat there's no
slightest clamor, only a faint scratch and whoosh of strikers tapping igniters and rockets smoking
away. The rest of the time, just a sleepy whisper of air caressing your canopy. On patrol it's
hard to stay alert and wary.
If the aurora hadn't been so wild behind the hunched backs of the Harridans, painting glaciers and
snowfields in ropes of varicolored fire, sequinning snow-catches in the weathered natural castles
of the Gap with momentary reflections, I might have dozed at the stick the morning I became von
Drachau's wingman. The windwhales were herding in the mountains, thinking migration, and we were
flying five or six missions per day. The strain was almost unbearable.
But the auroral display kept me alert. It was the strongest I'd ever seen. A ferocious magnetic
storm was developing. Lightning grumbled between the Harridans' copper peaks, sometimes even
speared down and danced among the spires in the Gap. We'd all be grounded soon. The rising winds,
cold but moisture-heavy, promised weather even whales couldn't ride.
Winter was about to break out of the north, furiously, a winter of a Great Migration. Planets,
moons and sun were right, oracles and omens predicting imminent Armageddon. Twelve years had
ticked into the ashcan of time. All the whale species again were herding. Soon the fighting would
be hard and hopeless.
There are four species of windwhale on the planet Camelot, the most numerous being the Harkness
whale, which migrates from its north arctic and north temperate feeding ranges to equatorial
mating grounds every other year. Before beginning their migration they, as do all whales, form
herds-which, because the beasts are total omnivores, utterly strip the earth in their passage
south. The lesser species, in both size and numbers, are Okumura's First, which mates each three
winters, Rosenberg's, mating every fourth, and the rare Okumura's Second, which travels only once
every six years.
Unfortunately. . .
It takes no mathematical genius to see the factors of twelve. And every twelve years the
migrations do coincide. In the Great Migrations the massed whales leave tens of thousands of
square kilometers of devastation in their wake, devastation from which, because of following
lesser migrations, the routes barely recover before the next Great Migration. Erosion is
phenomenal. The monsters, subject to no natural control other than that apparently exacted by
creatures we called mantas, were destroying the continent on which our employers operated.
Ubichi Corporation had been on Camelot twenty-five years. The original exploitation force, though
equipped to face the world's physical peculiarities, hadn't been prepared for whale migrations.
They'd been lost to a man, whale supper, because the Corporation's pre-exploitation studies had
been so cursory. Next Great Migration another team, though they'd dug in, hadn't fared much
better. Ubichi still hadn't done its scientific investigation. In fact, its only action was a
determination that the whales had to go.
Simple enough, viewed from a board room at Geneva. But practical implementation was a nightmare
under Camelot's technically stifling conditions. And the mantas recomplicated everything.
My flight leader's wagging wings directed my attention south. From a hill a dozen kilometers down
the cable came flashing light, Clonninger Station reporting safe arrival of a convoy from Derry.
For the next few hours we'd have to be especially alert.
It would take the zeppelins that long to beat north against the wind, and all the while they would
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be vulnerable to mantas from over the Gap. Mantas, as far as we could see at the time, couldn't
tell the difference between dirigibles and whales. More air cover should be coming up. . .
Von Drachau came to Jaeger Gruppe XIII (Corporation Armed Action Command's unsubtle title for our
Hunter Wing, which they used as a dump for problem employees) with that convoy, reassigned from JG
IV, a unit still engaged in an insane effort to annihilate the Sickle Islands whale herds by means
of glider attacks carried out over forty-five kilometers of quiet seas. We'd all heard of him
(most JG XIII personnel had come from the Sickle Islands operation), the clumsiest, or luckiest
incompetent, pilot flying for Ubichi. While scoring only four kills he'd been bolted down seven
times-and had survived without a scratch. He was the son of Jupp von Drachau, the Confederation
Navy officer who had directed the planet-busting strike against the Sangaree homeworld, a brash,
sometimes pompous, always self-important nineteen year old who thought that the flame of his
father's success should illuminate him equally-and yet resented even a mention of the man. He was
a dilettante, come to Camelot only to fly. Unlike the rest of us, Old Earthers struggling to buy
out of the poverty bequeathed us by prodigal ancestors, he had no driving need to give performance
for pay.
An admonition immediately in order: I'm not here to praise von Drachau, but to bury him. To let
him bury himself. Aerial combat fans, who have never seen Camelot, who have read only corporate
propaganda, have made of him a contemporary "hero", a flying do-no-wrong competitor for the pewter
crown already contested by such antiques as von Richtoffen, Hartmann and Galland. Yet these
Archaicists can't, because they need one, make a platinum bar from a turd, nor a socio-
psychological fulfillment from a scatterbrain kid. . .*
Most of the stories about him are apocryphal accretions generated to give him depth in his later,
"heroic" aspect. Time and storytellers increase his stature, as they have that of Norse gods, who
might've been people who lived in preliterate times. For those who knew him (and no one is closer
than a wingman), though some of us might like to believe the legends, he was just a selfish,
headstrong, tantrum-throwing manchild-albeit a fighter of supernatural ability. In the three
months he spent with us, during the Great Migration, his peculiar talents and shortcomings made of
him a creature larger than life. Unpleasant a person as he was, he became the phenom pilot.
*This paragraph is an editorial insertion from a private letter by Salvador del Gado. Dogfight
believes it clarifies del Gado's personal feelings toward his former wingman. His tale, taken
separately, while unsympathetic, strives for an objectivity free of his real jealousies. It is
significant that he mentions Hartmann and Galland together with von Richtoffen; undoubtedly they,
as he when compared with von Drachau, were flyers better than the Red Knight, yet they, and del
Gado, lack the essential charisma of the flying immortals. Also, von Richtoffen and von Drachau
died at the stick; Hartmann and Galland went on to more prosaic things, becoming administrators,
commanders of the Luftwaffe. Indications are that del Gado's fate with Ubichi Corporation's Armed
Action Command will be much the same.
-Dogfight
II
The signals from Clonninger came before dawn, while only two small moons and the aurora lighted
the sky. But sunrise followed quickly. By the time the convoy neared Beadle Station (us),
Camelot's erratic, blotchy-faced sun had cleared the eastern horizon. The reserve squadron began
catapulting into the Gap's frenetic drafts. The four of us on close patrol descended toward the
dirigibles. The lightning in the Harridans had grown into a Ypres cannonade. A net of jagged blue
laced together the tips of the copper towers in the Gap. An elephant stampede of angry clouds
rumbled above the mountains. The winds approached the edge of being too vicious for flight.
Flashing light from ground control, searchlight fingers stabbing north and east, pulsating. Mantas
sighted. We waggle-winged acknowledgment, turned for the Gap and updrafts. My eyes had been on the
verge of rebellion, demanding sleep, but in the possibility of combat weariness temporarily faded.
Black specks were coming south low against the daytime verdigris of the Gap, a male-female pair in
search of a whale. It was obvious how they'd been named. Anyone familiar with Old Earth's sea
creatures could see a remarkable resemblance to the manta ray-though these had ten meter bodies,
fifteen meter wingspans, and ten meter tails tipped by devil's spades of rudders. From a distance
they appeared black, but at attack range could be seen as deep, uneven green on top and lighter,
near olive beneath. They had ferocious habits. More signals from the ground. Reserve ships would
take the mantas. Again we turned, overflew the convoy.
It was the biggest ever sent north, fifteen dirigibles, one fifty meters and larger, dragging the
line from Clonninger at half kilometer intervals, riding long reaches of running cable as their
sailmen struggled to tack them into a facing wind. The tall glasteel pylons supporting the cable
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track were ruby towers linked by a single silver strand of spider silk running straight to
Clonninger's hills.
We circled wide and slow at two thousand meters, gradually dropping lower. When we got down to
five hundred we were replaced by a flight from the reserve squadron while we scooted to the Gap
for an updraft. Below us ground crews pumped extra hydrogen to the barrage balloons, lifting
Beadle's vast protective net another hundred meters so the convoy could slide beneath. Switchmen
and winchmen hustled about with glass and plastic tools in a dance of confusion. We didn't have
facilities for receiving more than a half dozen zeppelins-though these, fighting the wind, might
come up slowly enough to be handled.
More signals. More manta activity over the Gap, the reserve squadron's squabble turning into a
brawl. The rest of my squadron had come back from the Harridans at a run, a dozen mantas in
pursuit. Later I learned our ships had found a small windwhale herd and while one flight busied
their mantas the other had destroyed the whales. Then, ammunition gone, they ran for home,
arriving just in time to complicate traffic problems.
I didn't get time to worry it. The mantas, incompletely fed, spotted the convoy. They don't
distinguish between whale and balloon. They went for the zeppelins.
What followed becomes dulled in memory, so swiftly did it happen and so little attention did I
have to spare. The air filled with mantas and lightning, gliders, smoking rockets, explosions. The
brawl spread till every ship in the wing was involved. Armorers and catapult crews worked to
exhaustion trying to keep everything up. Ground batteries seared one another with backblast
keeping a rocket screen between the mantas and stalled convoy-which couldn't warp in while the
entrance to the defense net was tied up by fighting craft (a problem unforeseen but later
corrected by the addition of emergency entryways). They winched their running cables in to short
stay and waited it out. Ground people managed to get barrage balloons with tangle tails out to
make the mantas' flying difficult.
Several of the dirigibles fought back. Stupid, I thought. Their lifting gas was hydrogen,
screamingly dangerous. To arm them seemed an exercise in self-destruction.
So it proved. Most of our casualties came when a ship loaded with ground troops blew up, leaking
gas ignited by its own rockets. One hundred eighty-three men burned or fell to their deaths.
Losses to mantas were six pilots and the twelve man crew of a freighter.
III
Von Drachau made his entry into JG XIII history just as I dropped from my sailship to the packed
earth parking apron. His zepp was the first in and, having vented gas, had been towed to the apron
to clear the docking winches. I'd done three sorties during the fighting, after the six of regular
patrol. I'd seen my wingman crash into a dragline pylon, was exhausted, and possessed by an
utterly foul mood. Von Drachau hit dirt long-haired, unkempt, and complaining, and I was there to
greet him. "What do you want to be when you grow up, von Drachau?"
Not original, but it caught him off guard. He was used to criticism by administrators, but pilots
avoid antagonism. One never knows when a past slight might mean hesitation at the trigger ring and
failure to blow a manta off one's tail. Von Drachau's hatchet face opened and closed, goldfish-
like, and one skeletal hand came up to an accusatory point, but he couldn't come back.
We'd had no real contact during the Sickle Islands campaign. Considering his self-involvement, I
doubted he knew who I was--and didn't care if he did. I stepped past and greeted acquaintances
from my old squadron, made promises to get together to reminisce, then retreated to barracks. If
there were any justice at all, I'd get five or six hours for surviving the morning.
I managed four, a record for the week, then received a summons to the office of Commander
McClennon, a retired Navy man exiled to command of JG XIII because he'd been so outspoken about
Corporation policy.
(The policy that irked us all, and which was the root of countless difficulties, was Ubichi's
secret purpose on Camelot. Ubichi deals in unique commodities. It was sure that Camelot operations
were recovering one such, but fewer than a hundred of a half million employees knew what. The rest
were there just to keep the wind-whales from interfering. Even we mercenaries from Old Earth
didn't like fighting for a total unknown.)
Commander McClennon's outer office was packed, old faces from the wing and new from the convoy.
Shortly, McClennon appeared and announced that the wing had been assigned some gliders with new
armaments, low velocity glass barrel gas pressure cannon, pod of four in the nose of a ship
designed to carry the weapon system. . .immediate interest. Hitherto we'd flown sport gliders jury-
rigged to carry crude rockets, the effectiveness of which lay in the cyanide shell surrounding the
warhead. Reliability, poor; accuracy, erratic. A pilot was nearly as likely to kill himself as a
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whale. But what could you do when you couldn't use the smallest scrap of metal? Even a silver
filling could kill you there. The wildly oscillating and unpredictable magnetic ambience could
induce sudden, violent electrical charges. The only metal risked inside Camelot's van Aliens was
that in the lighters running to and from the surface station at the south magnetic pole, where few
lines of force were cut and magnetic weather was reasonably predictable.
Fifty thousand years ago the system passed through the warped space surrounding a black hole.
Theory says that's the reason for its eccentricities, but I wonder. Maybe it explains why all
bodies in the system have magnetic fields offset from the body centers, the distance off an
apparent function of size, mass and rate of rotation, but it doesn't tell me why the fields exist
(planetary magnetism is uncommon), nor why they pulsate randomly.
But I digress, and into areas where I have no competence. I should explain what physicists don't
understand? We were in the Commander's office and he was selecting pilots for the new ships.
Everyone wanted one. Chances for survival appeared that much better.
McClennon's assignments seemed indisputable, the best flyers to the new craft, four flights of
four, though those left with old ships were disappointed.
I suffered disappointment myself. A blockbuster dropped at the end, after I'd resigned myself to
continuing in an old craft.
"Von Drachau, Horst-Johann," said McClennon, peering at his roster through antique spectacles, one
of his affectations, "attack pilot. Del Gado, Salvador Martin, wingman."
Me? With von Drachau? I'd thought the old man liked me, thought he had a good opinion of my
ability. . .why'd he want to waste me? Von Drachau's wingman? Murder.
I was so stunned I couldn't yell let me out!
"Familiarization begins this afternoon, on Strip Three. First flight checkouts in the morning." A
few more words, tired exhortations to do our best, all that crap that's been poured on men at the
front from day one, then dismissal. Puzzled and upset, I started for the door.
"Del Gado. Von Drachau." The executive officer. "Stay a minute. The Commander wants to talk to
you."
IV
My puzzlement thickened as we entered McClennon's inner office, a Victorian-appointed, crowded yet
comfortable room I hadn't seen since I'd paid my first day respects. There were bits of a stamp
collection scattered, a desk becluttered, presentation holographs of Navy officers that seemed
familiar, another of a woman of the pale thin martyr type, a model of a High Seiner spaceship
looking like it'd been cobbled together from plastic tubing and children's blocks. McClennon had
been the Naval officer responsible for bringing the Seiners into Confederation in time for the
Three Races War. His retirement had been a protest against the way the annexation was handled.
Upset as I was I had little attention for surroundings, nor cared what made the Old Man tick.
Once alone with us, he became a man who failed to fit my conception of a commanding officer. His
face, which usually seemed about to slide off his skullbones with the weight of responsibility,
spread a warm smile. "Johnnyl" He thrust a wrinkled hand at von Drachau. He knew the kid?
My new partner's reaction was a surprise, too. He seemed awed and deferential as he extended his
own hand. "Uncle Tom."
McClennon turned. "I've known Johnny since the night he wet himself on my dress blacks just before
the Grand Admiral's Ball. Good old days at Luna Command, before the last war." He chuckled. Von
Drachau blushed. And I frowned in renewed surprise. I hadn't known von Drachau well, but had never
seen or heard anything to suggest he was capable of being impressed by anyone but
himself.
"His father and I were Academy classmates. Then served in the same ships before I went into
intelligence. Later we worked together in operations against the Sangaree."
Von Drachau didn't sit down till invited. Even though McClennon, in those few minutes, exposed
more of himself than anyone in the wing had hitherto seen, I was more interested in the kid. His
respectful, almost cowed attitude was completely out of character.
"Johnny," said McClennon, leaning back behind his desk and slowly turning a drink in his hand,
"you don't come with recommendations. Not positive, anyway. We going to go through that up
here?"
Von Drachau stared at the carpet, shrugged, reminded me of myself as a seven year old called to
explain some specially noxious misdeed to my creche-father. It became increasingly obvious that
McClennon was a man with whom von Drachau was unwilling to play games. I'd heard gruesome stories
of his behavior with the CO JGIV.
"You've heard the lecture already, so I won't give it. I do understand, a bit. Anyway, discipline
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here, compared to Derry or the Islands, is almost nonexistent. Do your job and you won't have it
bad. But don't push. I won't let you endanger lives. Something to think about. This morning's
scrap left me with extra pilots. I can ground people who irritate me. Could be a blow to a man who
loved flying."
Von Drachau locked gazes With the Commander. Rebellion stirred but he only nodded.
McClennon turned again. "You don't like this assignment." Not a question. My face must've been a
giveaway. "Suicidal, you think? You were in JG IV a while. Heard all about Johnny. But you don't
know him. I do, well enough to say he's got potential-if we can get him to realize aerial
fighting's a team game. By which I mean his first consideration must be bringing himself, his
wingman, and his ship home intact." Von Drachau grew red. He'd not only lost seven sailships
during the Sickle Islands offensive, he'd lost three wing-men. Dead. "It's hard to remember you're
part of a team while attacking. You know that yourself, del Gado. So be patient. Help me make
something out of Johnny."
I tried to control my face, failed.
"Why me, eh? Because you're the best flyer I've got. You can stay with him if anyone can.
"I know, favoritism. I'm taking special care. And that's wrong. You're correct, right down the
line. But I can't help myself. Don't think you could either, in my position. Enough explanation.
That's the way it's going to be. If you can't handle it, let me know. I'll find someone who can,
or I'll ground him. One thing I mean to do: send him home alive."
Von Drachau vainly tried to conceal his embarrassment and anger. I felt for him. Wouldn't like
being talked about that way myself-though McClennon was doing the right thing, putting his motives
on display, up front, so there'd be no surprises later on, and establishing for von Drachau the
parameters allowed him. The Commander was an Old Earther himself, and on that battleground had
learned that honesty is a weapon as powerful as any in the arsenal of deceit.
"I'll try," I replied, though with silent reservations. I'd have to do some handy self-examination
before I bought the whole trick bag.
"That's all I ask. You can go, then. Johnny and I have some catching up to do."
I returned to barracks in a daze. There I received condolences from squadron mates motivated, I
suppose, by relief at having escaped the draft themselves.
Tired though I was, I couldn't sleep till I'd thought everything through.
In the end, of course, I decided the Old Man had earned a favor. (This's a digression from von
Drachau's story except insofar as it reflects the thoughts that led me to help bring into being
the one really outstanding story in Ubichi's Camelot operation.) McClennon was an almost
archetypically remote, secretive, Odin/Christ figure, an embastioned lion quietly licking private
wounds in the citadel of his office, sharing his pain and privation with no one. But personal
facts that had come flitting on the wings of rumor made it certain he was a rare old gentleman
who'd paid his dues and asked little in return. He'd bought off for hundreds of Old Earthers,
usually by pulling wires to Service connections. And, assuming the stories are true, the price he
paid to bring the Starfishers into Confederation, at a time when they held the sole means by which
the Three Races War could be won, was the destruction of a deep relationship with the only woman
he'd ever loved, the pale Seiner girl whose holo portrait sat like an icon on his desk. Treason
and betrayal. Earthman who spoke with forked tongue. She might've been the mother of the son he
was trying to find in Horst-Johann. But his Isaac never came back from the altar of the needs of
the race. Yes, he'd paid his dues, and at usurous rates.
He had something coming. I'd give him the chance he wanted for the boy. . .Somewhere during those
hours my Old Earther's pragmatism lapsed. Old Number One, survival, took a temporary vacation.
It felt good.
V
Getting along with von Drachau didn't prove as difficult as expected. During the following week I
was the cause of more friction than he. I kept reacting to the image of the man rumor and
prejudice had built in my mind, not to the man in whose presence I was. He was much less arrogant
and abrasive than I'd heard-though gritty with the usual outworlder's contempt for the driving
need to accomplish characteristic of Old Earthers. But I'd become accustomed to that, even
understood. Outworlders had never endured the hopelessness and privation of life on the
motherworld. They'd never understand what buying off really meant. Nor did any care to learn.
There're just two kinds of people on Old Earth, butchers and bovines. No one starves, no one
freezes, but those are the only positives of life in the Social Insurance warrens. Twenty billion
unemployed sardines. The high point of many lives is a visit to Confederation Zone (old
Switzerland), where government and corporations maintain their on-planet offices and estates and
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allow small bands of citizens to come nose the candy store window and look at the lifestyle of the
outworlds. . .then send them home with apathy overcome by renewed desperation.
All Old Earth is a slum/ghetto surrounding one small, stoutly defended bastion of wealth and
privilege. That says it all, except that getting out is harder than from any historical ghetto.
It's not really what Old Earth outworlders think of when they dust off the racial warm heart and
talk about the motherworld. What they're thinking of is Luna Command, Old Earth's moon and the
seat of Confederation government. All they have for Old Earth itself is a little shame-faced under-
the-table welfare money. . .bitter. The only resource left is human life, the cheapest of all. The
outworlds have little use for Terrans save for work like that on Camelot. So bitter. I shouldn't
be. I've bought off. Not my problem anymore.
Horst (his preference) and I got on well, quickly advanced to first names. After familiarizing
ourselves with the new equipment, we returned to regular patrols. Horst scattered no grit in the
machinery. He performed his tasks-within-mission with clockwork precision, never straying beyond
the borders of discipline. . .
He confessed, as we paused at the lip of Ginnunga Gap one morning, while walking to the catapults
for launch, that he feared being grounded more than losing individuality to military conformity.
Flying was the only thing his father hadn't programmed for him (the Commander had gotten him
started), and he'd become totally enamored of the sport. Signing on with Ubichi had been the only
way to stick with it after his father had managed his appointment to Academy; he'd refused, and
been banished from paternal grace. He had to fly. Without that he'd have nothing. The Commander,
he added, had meant what he said.
I think that was the first time I realized a man could be raised outwQild and still be deprived.
We Old Earthers take a perverse, chauvinistic pride in our poverty and persecution-like, as the
Commander once observed, Jews of Marrakech. (An allusion I spent months dredging: he'd read some
obscure and ancient writers.) Our goals are so wholly materialistic that we can scarcely
comprehend poverty of the spirit. That von Drachau, with wealth and social position, could feel he
had less than I, was a stunning notion.
For him flying was an end, for me a means. Though I enjoyed it, each time I sat at catapult head
credit signs danced in my head; so much base, plus per mission and per kill. If I did well I'd
salvage some family, too. Horst's pay meant nothing. He wasted it fast as it came-I think to show
contempt for the wealth from which he sprang. Though that had been honest money, prize and coup
money from his father's successes against the Sangaree.
Steam pressure drove a glasteel piston along forty meters of glasteel cylinder; twenty seconds
behind von Drachau I catapulted into the ink of the Gap and began feeling for the ups. For brief
instants I could see him outlined against the aurora, flashing in and out of vision as he searched
and circled. I spied him climbing, immediately turned to catch the same riser. Behind me came the
rest of the squadron. Up we went in a spiral like moths playing tag in the night while reaching
for the moons. Von Drachau found altitude and slipped from the up. I followed. At three thousand
meters, with moonlight and aurora, it wasn't hard to see him. The four craft of my flight circled
at ninety degree points while the rest of the squadron went north across the Gap. We'd slowly drop
a thousand meters, then catch another up to the top. We'd stay in the air two hours (or we ran out
of ammunition), then go down for an hour break. Five missions minimum.
First launch came an hour before dawn, long before the night fighters went down. Mornings were
crowded. But by sunrise we seemed terribly alone while we circled down or climbed, watched the Gap
for whales leaving the Harridans or the mantas that'd grown so numerous.
Daytimes almost every ship concentrated on keeping the whales north of the Gap. That grew more
difficult as the density of their population neared the migratory. It'd be a while yet, maybe a
month, but numbers and instinct would eventually overcome the fear our weapons had instilled. I
couldn't believe we'd be able to stop them. The smaller herds of the 'tween years, yes, but not
the lemming rivers that would come with winter. A Corporation imbued with any human charity
would've been busy sealing mines and evacuating personnel. But Ubichi had none. In terms of
financial costs, equipment losses, it was cheaper to fight, sacrificing inexpensive lives to
salvage material made almost priceless by interstellar shipment.
VI
Signals from the ground, a searchlight fingering the earth and flashing three times rapidly. Rim
sentries had spotted a whale in the direction the finger pointed. Von Drachau and I were front. We
began circling down.
We'd dropped just five hundred meters when he wag-winged visual contact. I saw nothing but the
darkness that almost always clogged the canyon. As wide as Old Earth's Grand Canyon and three
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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：17 页 大小：65.2KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-11-20

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