Roadwork

VIP免费
2024-12-05 0 0 1.28MB 171 页 5.9玖币
侵权投诉
ROADWORK
Richard Bachman
[05 feb 2001 – scanned for #bookz, proofread and released – v1]
What happens when one good-and-angry man fights back is murder - and then some...
Prologue
I don't know why. You don't know why. Most likely God don't know why, either. It's just
Government business, that's all.
-Man-in-the-street interview concerning
Viet Nam, circa 1967
But Viet Nam was over and the country was getting on.
On this hot August afternoon in 1972, the WHLM Newsmobile was parked near Westgate at
the end of the Route 784 expressway. There was a small crowd around a bunting-covered podium
that had been hurriedly tossed together; the bunting was thin flesh on a skeleton of naked planks.
Behind it, at the top of a grassy embankment, were the highway tollbooths. In front of it, open,
marshy land stretched toward the suburban hem of the city's outskirts.
A young reporter named Dave Albert was doing a series of man-on-the-street interviews while
he and his co-workers waited for the mayor and the governor to arrive for the ground-breaking
ceremony.
He held the microphone toward an elderly man wearing tinted spectacles.
"Well," the elderly man said, looking tremulously into the camera, "I think it's a great thing
for the city. We've needed this a long time. It's . . . a great thing for the city." He swallowed, aware
that his mind was broadcasting echos of itself, helpless to stop, hypnotized by the grinding,
Cyclopean eye of posterity. "Great," he added limply.
"Thank you, sir. Thank you very much."
"Do you think they'll use it? On the news tonight?"
Albert flashed a professional, meaningless smile. "Hard to tell, sir. There's a good chance."
His sound man pointed up to the tollgate turnaround, where the governor's Chrysler Imperial
had just pulled up, winking and gleaming like a chrome-inlaid eight ball in the summer sunshine.
Albert nodded back, held up a single finger. He and the cameraman approached a guy in a white
shirt with rolled-up sleeves. The guy was looking moodily at the podium.
"Would you mind stating your opinion of all this, Mr . . . ?"
"Dawes. No, I don't mind." His voice was low, pleasant.
"Speed," the cameraman murmured.
The man in the white shirt said, still pleasantly, "I think it's a piece of shit."
The cameraman grimaced. Albert nodded, looking at the man in the white shirt reproachfully,
and then made cutting gestures with the first two fingers of his right hand.
The elderly gentleman was looking at this tableau with real horror. Above, up by the
tollbooths, the governor was getting out of his Imperial. His green tie was resplendent in the sun.
The man in the white shirt said politely: "Will that be on the six or eleven o'clock news?"
"Ho-ho, fells, you're a riot, " Albert said sourly, and walked away to catch the governor. The
cameraman trailed after him. The man in the white shirt watched the governor as he came
carefully down the grassy slope.
Albert met the man in the white shirt again seventeen months later, but since neither of them
remembered that they had met before, it might as well have been the first time.
PART ONE
November
Late last night the rain was knocking on my window I moved across the darkened room and in the
lampglow I thought I saw down in the street The spirit of the century Telling us that we're all
standing on the border.
-Al Stewart
November 20, 1973
He kept doing things without letting himself think about them. Safer that way. It was like
having a circuit breaker in his head, and it thumped into place every time part of him tried to ask:
But why are you doing this? Part of his mind would go dark. Hey Georgie, who turned out the
lights? Whoops, I did. Something screwy in the wiring, I guess. Just a sec. Reset the switch. The
lights go back on. But the thought is gone. Everything is fine. Let us continue, Freddy-where were
we?
He was walking to the bus stop when he saw the sign that said:
AMMO HARVEY'S GUN SHOP AMMO
Remington Winchester Colt Smith & Wesson
HUNTERS WELCOME
It was snowing a little out of a gray sky. It was the first snow of the year and it landed on the
pavement like white splotches of baking soda, then melted. He saw a little boy in a red knitted cap
go by with his mouth open and his tongue out to catch a flake. It's just going to melt, Freddy, he
thought at the kid, but the kid went on anyway, with his head cocked back at the sky.
He stopped in front of Harvey's Gun Shop, hesitating. There was a rack of late edition
newspapers outside the door, and the headline said:
SHAKY CEASE-FIRE HOLDS
Below that, on the rack, was a smudged white sign that said:
PLEASE PAY FOR YOUR PAPER!
THIS IS AN HONOR RACK, DEALER MUST PAY FOR ALL PAPERS
It was warm inside. The shop was long but not very wide. There was only a single aisle. Inside
the door on the left was a glass case filled with boxes of ammunition. He recognized the .22
cartridges immediately, because he'd had a .22 single-shot rifle as a boy in Connecticut. He had
wanted that rifle for three years and when he finally got it he couldn't think of anything to do with
it. He shot at cans for a while, then shot a blue jay. The jay hadn't been a clean kill. It sat in the
snow surrounded by a pink blood stain, its beak slowly opening and closing. After that he had put
the rifle up on hooks and it had stayed there for three years until he sold it to a kid up the street
for nine dollars and a carton of funny books.
The other ammunition was less familiar. Thirty-thirty, thirty-ought-six, and some that looked
like scale-model howitzer shells. What animals do you kill with those? he wondered. Tigers?
Dinosaurs? Still it fascinated him, sitting there inside the glass case like penny candy in a
stationery store.
The clerk or proprietor was talking to a fat man in green pants and a green fatigue shirt. The
shirt had flap pockets. They were talking about a pistol that was lying on top of another glass case,
dismembered. The fat man thumbed back the slide and they both peered into the oiled chamber.
The fat man said something and the clerk or proprietor laughed.
"Autos always jam? You got that from your father, Mac. Admit it."
"Harry, you're full of bullshit up to your eyebrows."
You're full of it, Fred, he thought. Right up to your eyebrows. You know it, Fred?
Fred said he knew it.
On the right was a glass case that ran the length of the shop. It was full of rifles on pegs. He
was able to pick out the double-barreled shotguns, but everything else was a mystery to him. Yet
some people-the two at the far counter, for example, had mastered this world as easily as he had
mastered general accounting in college.
He walked further into the store and looked into a case filled with pistols. He saw some air
guns, a few .22's, a .38 with a wood-grip handle, .45's, and a gun he recognized as a .44 Magnum,
the gun Dirty Harry had earned in that movie. He had heard Ron Stone and Vinnie Mason talking
about that movie at the laundry, and Vinnie had said: They'd never let a cop carry a gun like that
in the city. You can blow a hole in a man a mile away with one of those.
The fat man, Mac, and the clerk or proprietor, Harry (as in Dirty Harry), had the gun back
together.
"You give me a call when you get that Menschler in," Mac said.
"I will . . . but your prejudice against autos is irrational," Harry said. (He decided Harry must
be the proprietor-a clerk would never call a customer irrational.) "Have you got to have the
Cobra next week?"
"I'd like it," Mac said.
"I don't promise."
"You never do . . . but you're the best goddam gunsmith in the city, and you know it."
"Of course I do. "
Mac patted the gun on top of the glass case and turned to go. Mac bumped into him-Watch it,
Mac. Smile when you do that-and then went on to the door. The paper was tucked under Mac's
arm, and he could read:
SHAKY CEA
Harry turned to him, still smiling and shaking his head. "Can I help you?"
"I hope so. But I warn you in advance, I know nothing about guns."
Harry shrugged. "There's a law you should? Is it for someone else? For Christmas?"
"Yes, that's just right," he said, seizing on it. "I've got this cousin-Nick, his name is. Nick
Adams. He lives in Michigan and he's got yea guns. You know. Loves to hunt, but it's more than
that. It's sort of a, well, a-'
"Hobby?" Harry asked, smiling.
"Yes, that's it." He had been about to say fetish. His eyes dropped to the cash register, where
an aged bumper sticker was pasted on. The bumper sticker said:
IF GUNS ARE OUTLAWED, ONLY OUTLAWS WILL HAVE GUNS
He smiled at Harry and said, "That's very true, you know.
"Sure it is," Harry said. "This cousin of yours . . ."
"Well, it's kind of a one-upmanship type of thing. He knows how much I like boating and I'll
be damned if he didn't up and give me an Evinrude sixty-horsepower motor last Christmas. He
sent it by REA express. I gave him a hunting jacket. I felt sort of like a horse's ass."
Harry nodded sympathetically.
"Well, I got a letter from him about six weeks ago, and he sounds just like a kid with a free
pass to the circus. It seems that he and about six buddies chipped in together and bought
themselves a trip to this place in Mexico, sort of like a freefire zone-"
"A no-limit hunting preserve?"
"Yeah, that's it." He chuckled a little. "You shoot as much as you want. They stock it, you
know. Deer, antelope, bear, bison. Everything."
"Was it Boca Rio?"
"I really don't remember. I think the name was longer than that."
Harry's eyes had gone slightly dreamy. "That guy that just left and myself and two others
went to Boca Rio in 1965. I shot a zebra. A goddam zebra! I got it mounted in my game room at
home. That was the best time I ever had in my life, bar none. I envy your cousin."
"Well, I talked it over with my wife," he said, "and she said go ahead. We had a very good
year at the laundry. I work at the Blue Ribbon Laundry over in Western. "
"Yes, I know where that is."
He felt that he could go on talking to Harry all day, for the rest of the year, embroidering the
truth and the lies into a beautiful, gleaming tapestry. Let the world go by. Fuck the gas shortage
and the high price of beef and the shaky ceasefire. Let there be talk of cousins that never were,
right, Fred? Right on, Georgie.
"We got the Central Hospital account this year, as well as the mental institution, and also three
new motels."
"Is the Quality Motor Court on Franklin Avenue one of yours?"
"Yes, it is."
"I've stayed there a couple of times," Harry said. "The sheets were always very clean. Funny,
you never think about who washes the sheets when you stay at a motel."
"Well, we had a good year. And so I thought, maybe I can get Nick a rifle and a pistol. I know
he's always wanted a .44 Magnum, I've heard him mention that one-"
Harry brought the Magnum up and laid it carefully on top of the glass case. He picked it up.
He liked the heft of it. It felt like business.
He put it back down on the glass case.
"The chambering on that-" Harry began.
He laughed and held up a hand. "Don't sell me. I'm sold. An ignoramus always sells himself.
How much ammunition should I get with that?"
Harry shrugged. "Get him ten boxes, why don't you? He can always get more. The price on
that gun is two-eighty-nine plus tax, but I'm going to give it to you for two-eighty, ammo thrown
in. How's that?"
"Super," he said, meaning it. And then, because something more seemed required, he added:
"It's a handsome piece."
"If it's Boca Rio, he'll put it to good use."
"Now the rifle-"
"What does he have?"
He shrugged and spread his hands. "I'm sorry. I really don't know. Two or three shotguns,
and something he calls an auto-loader-"
"Remington?" Harry asked him so quickly that he felt afraid; it was as if he had been walking
in waist-deep water that had suddenly shelved off.
"I think it was. I could be wrong."
"Remington makes the best," Harry said, and nodded, putting him at ease again. "How high
do you want to go?"
"Well, I'll be honest with you. The motor probably cost him four hundred. I'd like to go at
least five. Six hundred tops. "
"You and this cousin really get along, don't you?"
"We grew up together," he said sincerely. "I think I'd give my right arm to Nick, if he wanted
it. "
"Well, let me show you something," Harry said. He picked a key out of the bundle on his ring
and went to one of the glass cabinets. He opened it, climbed up on a stool, and brought down a
long, heavy rifle with an inlaid stock. "This may be a little higher than you want to go, but it's a
beautiful gun. " Harry handed it to him.
"What is it?"
"That's a four-sixty Weatherbee. Shoots heavier ammunition than I've got here in the place
right now. I'd have to order however many rounds you wanted from Chicago. Take about a week.
It's a perfectly weighted gun. The muzzle energy on that baby is over eight thousand pounds . . .
like hitting something with an airport limousine. If you hit a buck in the head with it, you'd have
to take the tail for a trophy."
"I don't know," he said, sounding dubious even though he had decided he wanted the rifle. "I
know Nick wants trophies. That's part of-"
"Sure it is," Harry said, taking the Weatherbee and chambering it. The hole looked big
enough to put a carrier pigeon in. "Nobody goes to Boca Rio for meat. So your cousin gutshoots.
With this piece, you don't have to worry about tracking the goddam animal for twelve miles
through the high country, the animal suffering the whole time, not to mention you missing dinner.
This baby will spread his insides over twenty feet. "
"How much?"
"Well, I'll tell you. I can't move it in town. Who wants a freaking anti-tank gun when there's
nothing to go after anymore but pheasant? And if you put them on the table, it tastes like you're
eating exhaust fumes. It retails for nine-fifty, wholesales for six-thirty. I'd let you have it for seven
hundred."
"That comes to . . . almost a thousand bucks. "
"We give a ten percent discount on orders over three hundred dollars. That brings it back to
nine." He shrugged. "You give that gun to your cousin, I gaarantee he hasn't got one. If he does,
I'll buy it back for seven-fifty. I'll put that in writing, that's how sure I am."
"No kidding?"
"Absolutely. Absolutely. Of course, if it's too steep, it's too steep. We can look at some other
guns. But if he's a real nut on the subject, I don't have anything else he might not have two of. "
"I see." He put a thoughtful expression on his face. "Have you got a telephone?"
"Sure, in the back. Want to call your wife and talk it over'?"
"I think I better."
"Sure. Come on."
Harry led him into a cluttered back room. There was a bench and a scarred wooden table
littered with gun guts, springs, cleaning fluid, pamphlets, and labeled bottles with lead slugs in
them.
"There's the phone," Harry said.
He sat down, picked up the phone, and dialed while Harry went back to get the Magnum and
put it in a box.
"Thank you forcalling the WDST Weatherphone," the bright, recorded voice said. "This
afternoon, snow flurries developing into light snow late this evening-"
"Hi, Mary?" he said. "Listen, I'm in this place called Harvey's Gun Shop. Yeah, about Nicky.
I got the pistol we talked about, no problem. There was one right in the showcase. Then the guy
showed me this rifle-"
"--clearing by tomorrow afternoon. Lows tonight will be in the thirties, tomorrow in the mid to
upper forties. Chance of precipitation tonight--"
"I -so what do you think I should do?" Harry was standing in the doorway behind him; he
could see the shadow.
"Yeah," he said. "I know that."
"Thank you for dialing the WDST Weatherphone, and be sure to watch Newsplus-Sixty with
Bob Reynolds each weekday evening at six o'clock for a weather update. Good-bye."
"You're not kidding. I know it's a lot."
"Thank you for calling the WDST Weatherphone. This afternoon, snow flurries developing
into--"
"You sure, honey?"
"Chance of precipitation tonight eight percent, tomorrow--"
"Well, okay." He turned on the bench, grinned at Harry, and made a circle with his right
thumb and forefinger. "He's a nice guy. Said he'd guarantee me Nick didn't have one."
"--by tomorrow afternoon. Lows tonight-' "I love you too, Mare. Bye." He hung up. Jesus,
Freddy, that was neat. It was, George. It was. He got up. "She says go if I say okay. I do." Harry
smiled. "What are you going to do if he sends you a Thunderbird?" He smiled back. "Return it
unopened." As they walked back out Harry asked, "Check or charge?" "American Express, if it's
okay." "Good as gold." He got his card out. On the back, written on the special strip, it said:
BARTON GEORGE DAWES
"You're sure the shells will come in time for me to ship everything to Fred?"
Harry looked up from the credit blank. "Fred?"
His smile expanded. "Nick is Fred and Fred is Nick," he said. "Nicholas Frederic Adams. It's
kind of a joke about the name. From when we were kids."
"Oh." He smiled politely as people do when the joke is in and they are out. "You want to sign
here?"
He signed.
Harry took another book out from under the counter, a heavy one with a steel chain punched
through the upper left corner, near the binding. "And your name and address here for the
federals."
He felt his fingers tighten on the pen. "Sure," he said. "Look at me, I never bought a gun in
my life and I'm mad." He wrote his name and address in the book:
Barton George Dawes 1241 Crestallen Street West
"They're into everything," he said.
"This is nothing to what they'd like to do," Harry said.
"I know. You know what I heard on the news the other day? They want a law that says a guy
riding on a motorcycle has to wear a mouth protector. A mouth protector, for God's sake. Now is
it the government's business if a man wants to chance wrecking his bridgework?"
"Not in my book it isn't," Harry said, putting his book under the counter.
"Or look at that highway extension they're building over in Western. Some snotnose surveyor
says 'It's going through here' and the state sends out a bunch of letters and the letters say, 'Sorry,
we're putting the 784 extension through here. You've got a year to find a new house.' "
"It's a goddam shame."
"Yes, it is. What does 'eminent domain' mean to someone who's lived in the frigging house for
twenty years? Made love to their wife there and brought their kid up there and come home to
there from trips? That's just something from a law book that they made up so they can crook you
better. "
Watch it, watch it. But the circuit breaker was a little slow and some of it got through.
"You okay?" Harry asked.
"Yeah. I had one of those submarine sandwiches for lunch, I should know better. They give me
gas like hell."
"Try one of these," Harry said, and took a roll of pills from his breast pocket. Written on the
outside was:
ROLAIDS
"Thanks," he said. He took one off the top and popped it into his mouth, never minding the bit
of lint on it. Look at me, I'm in a TV commercial. Consumes forty-seven times its own weight in
excess stomach acid.
"They always do the trick for me," Harry said.
"About the shells-"
"Sure. A week. No more than two. I'll get you seventy rounds."
"Well, why don't you keep these guns right here? Tag them with my name or something. I
guess I'm silly, but I really don't want them in the house. That's silly, isn't it?"
"To each his own," Harry said equably.
"Okay. Let me write down my office number. When those bullets come in-"
"Cartridges," Harry interrupted. "Cartridges or shells."
"Cartridges," he said, smiling. "When they come in, give me a ring. I'll pick the guns up and
make arrangements about shipping them. REA will ship guns, won't they?"
"Sure. Your cousin will have to sign for them on the other end, that's all. "
He wrote his name on one of Harry's business cards. The card said:
Harold Swinnerton 849-6330
HARVEY'S GUN SHOP
Ammunition Antique Guns
"Say," he said. "If you're Harold, who's Harvey?" "Harvey was my brother. He died eight years ago." "I'm
sorry." "We all were. He came down here one day, opened up, cleared the cash register, and then dropped dead of a
heart attack. One of the sweetest men you'd ever want to meet. He could bring down a deer at two hundred yards."
He reached over the counter and they shook. "I'll call," Harry promised.
"Take good care."
He went out into the snow again, past SHAKY CEASE-FIRE HOLDS. It was coming down a
little harder now, and his gloves were home.
What were you doing in there, George?
Thump, the circuit breaker.
By the time he got to the bus stop, it might have been an incident he had read about
somewhere. No more.
Crestallen Street West was a long, downward-curving street that had enjoyed a fair view of the
park and an excellent view of the river until progress had intervened in the shape of a high-rise
housing development. It had gone up on Westfield Avenue two years before and had blocked most
of the view.
Number 1241 was a split-level ranch house with a one-car garage beside it. There was a long
front yard, now barren and waiting for snow-real snow-to cover it. The driveway was asphalt,
freshly hot-topped the previous spring.
He went inside and heard the TV, the new Zenith cabinet model they had gotten in the
summer. There was a motorized antenna on the roof which he had put up himself. She had not
wanted that, because of what was supposed to happen, but he had insisted. If it could be mounted,
he had reasoned, it could be dismounted when they moved. Bart, don't be silly. It's just extra
expense . . . just extra work for you. But he had outlasted her, and finally she said she would
"humor" him. That's what she said on the rare occasions when he cared enough about something
to force it through the sticky molasses of her arguments. All right, Bart. This time I'll "humor"
you.
At the moment she was watching Merv Griffin chat with a celebrity. The celebrity was Lorne
Green, who was talking about his new police series, Griff. Lorne was telling Merv how much he
loved doing the show. Soon a black singer (a negress songstress, he thought) who no one had ever
heard of would come on and sing a song. "I left My Heart in San Francisco," perhaps.
"Hi, Mary," he called.
"Hi, Bart."
Mail on the table. He flipped through it. A letter to Mary from her slightly psycho sister in
Baltimore. A Gulf credit card bill-thirty-eight dollars. A checking account statement: 49 debits, 9
credits, $954.47 balance. A good thing he had used American Express at the gun shop.
"The coffee's hot," Mary called. "Or did you want a drink?"
"Drink," he said. "I'll get it."
Three other pieces of mail: An overdue notice from the library. Facing the Lions, by Tom
Wicker. Wicker had spoken to a Rotary luncheon a month ago, and he was the best speaker they'd
had in years.
A personal note from Stephan Ordner, one of the managerial bigwigs in Amroco, the
corporation that now owned the Blue Ribbon almost outright. Ordner wanted him to drop by and
discuss the Waterford deal-would Friday be okay, or was he planning to be away for
Thanksgiving? If so, give a call. If not, bring Mary.
Carla always enjoyed the chance to see Mary and blah-blah and bullshit-bullshit, etc., et al.
And another letter from the highway department.
He stood looking down at it for along time in the gray afternoon light that fell through the
windows, and then put all the mail on the sideboard. He made himself a scotch-rocks and took it
into the living room.
Merv was still chatting with Lorne. The color on the new Zenith was more than good; it was
nearly occult. He thought, if our ICBM's are as good as our color TV, there's going to be a hell of
a big bang someday. Lorne's hair was silver, the most impossible shade of silver conceivable. Boy,
I'll snatch you bald-headed, he thought, and chuckled. It had been one of his mother's favorite
sayings. He could not say why the image of Lorne Green bald-headed was so amusing. A light
attack of belated hysteria over the gun shop episode, maybe.
Mary looked up, a smile on her lips. "A funny?"
"Nothing," he said. "Just my thinks."
He sat down beside her and pecked her cheek. She was a tall woman, thirty-eight now, and at
that crisis of looks where early prettiness is deciding what to be in middle age. Her skin was very
good, her breasts small and not apt to sag much. She ate a lot, but her conveyor-belt metabolism
kept her slim. She would not be apt to tremble at the thought of wearing a bathing suit on a public
beach ten years from now, no matter how the gods decided to dispose of the rest of her case. It
made him conscious of his own slight bay window. Hell, Freddy, every executive has a bay
window. It's a success symbol, like a Delta 88. That's right, George. Watch the old ticker and the
cancer-sticks and you'll see eighty yet.
"How did it go today?" she asked.
"Good. "
"Did you get out to the new plant in Waterford?"
"Not today."
He hadn't been out to Waterford since late October. Ordner knew it-a little bird must have
told him-and hence the note. The site of the new plant was a vacated textile mill, and the smart
mick realtor handling the deal kept calling him. We have to close this thing out, the smart mick
realtor kept telling him. You people aren't the only ones over in Westside with your fingers in the
crack. I'm going as fast as I can, he told the smart mick realtor. You'll have to be patient.
"What about the place in Crescent?" she asked him. "The brick house."
"It's out of our reach," he said. "They're asking forty-eight thousand."
"For that place?" she asked indignantly. "Highway robbery!"
"It sure is." He took a deep swallow of his drink. "What did old Bea from Baltimore have to
say?"
"The usual. She's into consciousness-raising group hydrotherapy now. Isn't that a sketch?
Bart--
I 'It sure is," he said quickly.
"Bart, we've got to get moving on this. January twentieth is coming, and we'll be out in the
street."
"I'm going as fast as I can," he said. "We just have to be patient."
"That little Colonial on Union Street-'
"--is sold." he finished, and drained his drink.
"Well that's what I mean," she said, exasperated. "That would have been perfectly fine for the
two of us. With the money the city's allowing us for this house and lot, we could have been ahead."
"I didn't like it."
"You don't seem to like very much these days," she said with surprising bitterness. "He didn't
like it," she told the TV. The negress songstress was on now, singing "Alfie."
"Mary, I'm doing all I can."
She turned and looked at him earnestly. "Bart, I know how you feel about this house—"
"No you don't," he said. "Not at all."
摘要：

ROADWORKRichardBachman[05feb2001–scannedfor#bookz,proofreadandreleased–v1]Whathappenswhenonegood-and-angrymanfightsbackismurder-andthensome...PrologueIdon'tknowwhy.Youdon'tknowwhy.MostlikelyGoddon'tknowwhy,either.It'sjustGovernmentbusiness,that'sall.-Man-in-the-streetinterviewconcerningVietNam,circa...

展开>> 收起<<
Roadwork.pdf

共171页,预览10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：171 页 大小：1.28MB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-05

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
/ 171
评分 收藏
分享
立即下载 VIP免费下载
客服
关注