Farmer, Philip Jose - Riverworld SS - Tales of Riverworld

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may have been stolen property and reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the
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WARNER BOOKS EDITION
Copyright © 1992 by Philip Jos6 Farmer and Martin H. Greenberg All rignts
reserved.
Questar is a registered trademark of Warner Books, Inc. Cover illustration by
Don Ivan Punchatz
Warner Books, Inc.
1271 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
| A Time Wamer Company Printed in the United States of America Fust Printing:
August, 1992 10 987654321
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Foreword by Philip Jose" Farmer
Copyright © 1992 by Philip Jose Farmer. CROSSING THE DARK RIVER by Philip Jose
Farmer
Copyright © 1992 by Philip Jose Farmer. A HOLE IN HELL by Dane Helstrom
Copyright © 1992 by Dane Helstrom. GRACELAND by Alien Steele
Copyright © 1992 by Alien Steele. EVERY MAN A GOD by Mike Resnick and Barry
Malzberg
Copyright © 1992 by Mike Resnick and Barry
Malzberg. BLANDINGS ON RIVERWORLD by Phillip C. Jennings
Copyright © 1992 by Phillip C. Jennings. TWO THIEVES by Harry Turtledove
Copyright © 1992 by Harry Turtledove. THE MERRY MEN OF RIVERWORLD by John
Gregory Betancourt
Copyright © 1992 by John Gregory Betancourt FOOL'S PARADISE by Ed German
Copyright © 1992 by Ed German. UNFINISHED BUSINESS by Robert Weinberg
Copyright © 1992 by Robert Weinberg.
CONTENTS
Foreword by Philip Jose Farmer ix
CROSSING THE DARK RIVER
by Philip Jose" Farmer 7
A HOLE IN HELL by Dane Helstrom 65
GRACELAND by Alien Steele 73
EVERY MAN A GOD
by Mike Resnick and Barry N. Malzberg 101
BLANDINGS ON RIVERWORLD
by Phillip C. Jennings 141
TWO THIEVES by Harry Turtledove 173
FOOL'S PARADISE by Ed Gorman 207
THE MERRY MEN OF RIVERWORLD
by John Gregory Betancourt 237
UNFINISHED BUSINESS by Robert Weinberg
283
FOREWORD
by Philip Jose Farmer
What we have here is a gathering of stories by different writers about one
planet. This is the Riverworld, the first novel about which was written by me
and was published in 1971. This novel was called To Your Scattered Bodies Go.
The second, The Fabulous Riverboat, appeared the same year. Then came The Dark
Design, The Magic Labyrinth, and Gods of Riverworld. My novelet, River-world,
is part of the series but is not concerned with the main plot or main
characters.
The book at hand is a shared-world anthology. That is, each of its stories
takes place on the Riverworld but is by a different writer. These writers were
given carte blanche with their situations and characters but had to follow the
structure and strictures of the Riverworld as laid down by me. However, when
the action takes place on a planet where there is a river almost eighteen
million miles long, and which is populated by over thirty-six billion and six
hundred million human beings who lived and died on Earth from circa 100,000
B.C. to A.D. 1983, the writers are not very confined.
My "Crossing the Dark River" is the lead story. "A Hole in Hell," a very short
but powerful story, is by Dane Helstrom, a name appearing in print for the
first time. Jennings's "Blandings on Riverworld" is the first humorous
Riverworld story to be written. Betancourt's "The Merry Men of Riverworld" is
about a character who is well known in the Western world. Well, it is in a
way. "Fool's Paradise" is by Ed German, a well-known mystery writer, and is
his first science-fiction story. His protagonist, as might be expected, is a
detective-turned-writer well known in the twentieth century. Weinberg's
"Unfinished Business," Resnick's and Malzberg's "Every Man a God," and
Turtledove's "Two Thieves" exhibit the inventive virtues and high imagination
we have come to expect from these writers.
In fact, as one of the editors choosing these stories for inclusion in the
anthology, I was very pleased with their handling of another writer's basic
concept and of the historical characters they chose to write about.
I hope you enjoy these stories as much as I did.
Crossing the Dark River
Philip Jose Farmer
"What? You prescribed lemon juice to cure cholera?"
"What? You had a sure cure for infants who held their breaths until their
faces turned blue? And for young females in a hysterical seizure? You stuck
your little finger up their anuses? Presto! Changeo! They're rid forever of
infantile behavior and the tantrums of the body?"
"What? You're searching for the woman who's supposed to have given birth to a
baby somewhere along the River? A baby? In this world where all are sterile
and no woman has ever gotten pregnant? You believe that's true? How about
buying the Brooklyn Bridge?
' 'No? Then how about a splinter from the True Cross? Ho! Ho! Ho! And you
believe that this baby reproduced by parthenogenesis is Jesus Christ born
again to save us Valleydwellers? And you've been traveling up-River to find
the infant? Who do you think you are? One of the Three Wise Men? Ho! Ho! Ho!"
And so Doctor Andrew Paxton Davis had not stayed long any place until he had
been detained by Ivar the Boneless. He had wandered up the Valley, seldom
paus-
i
2 Philip Jos<5 Farmer
ing, just as, on Earth, he had been the peripatetic's peripatetic. During the
late 1800s and early 1900s, he had traveled to many cities in the United
States. There he had lectured on and practiced his new art of healing and
sometimes established colleges of osteopathy. Denver, Colorado; Quincy,
Missouri; Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania; Cincinnati, Ohio; LaFayette and
Indianapolis, Indiana; Dallas and Corsicana, Texas; Baker, City, Oregon; Los
Angeles, California, and many other places.
Then he had originated Neuropathy, an eclectic discipline of healing. It
combined all the best features of osteopathy, chiropracty, magnetism,
homeopathy, and other systems of drugless medicine. He had preached that God-
inspired gospel throughout the country. And he had written four thick books
that were used by osteopaths and ophthalmologists and read by many laymen
throughout the United States.
"From going to and fro in the earth and from walking up and down in it."
That was Satan's answer to God when He said, "Whence comest thou?" That could
be said also of Andrew P. Davis. But Davis loathed Satan, and his model was
Job, who "was perfect and upright and one that feared God and eschewed evil."
Since Davis had awakened on the Riverworld, he had suffered the torments of
Job. Yet he had not faltered in his faith any more than had Job. God must have
made this world, but the Great Tempter was here too. To realize that, you just
had to look around at the inhabitants.
Riverworlders dreamed most often about lost Earth. The one exception to this
was the nightmare about their mass resurrection, the Day of the Great Shout
when all
CROSSING THE DARK RIVER 3
the dead had screamed at one time. What a cry that must have been!
Doctor Andrew Paxton Davis had often awakened moaning, sometimes screaming,
from that nightmare. But he had another dream that distressed him even more.
For instance, on this early and still-dark morning of the fifth anniversary of
The Day, he had painfully oozed into wakefulness from a Riverworld-inspired
nightmare. Not terror but shame and humiliation had written the script for
that sleep-drama.
He had gotten his M.D. from Rush Medical College in Chicago in 1867. But,
after many years as a physician in the rural areas of Illinois and Indiana, he
had become unhappy with the practice. Always a seeker after truth, he had
become convinced that the new science and art of healing devised by Dr. Andrew
Taylor Still was a breakthrough. Davis had been in the first class (1893) to
complete the courses of the newly established American School of Osteopathy in
Kirksville, Missouri.
But, ever questioning, ever seeking, he had decided that osteopathy alone was
not enough. Hence, his own discipline and his founding of the College of
Neuropathy in Los Angeles. When he died at the age of eighty-four of stomach
cancer—he also had nightmares about that long agony—he was still the head of a
flourishing practice. However, medical science had improved considerably from
his birth in 1835 to his death in 1919. And, from then on, it had accelerated
at an incredible velocity. His late-twentieth-century informants made it sound
like one of those scientific romances by H.G. Wells.
In the first two years on the Riverworld, he had proudly, at first, anyway,
told the doctors he met of his knowledge and accomplishments. He had also
confided
4 Philip Jos€ Farmer
his belief that the Savior had been born again. So many had laughed at him
that he became very reserved about telling any M.D. that he had practiced the
healing art. He was almosf as reticent about revealing his Quest to laymen.
But how could he find the Holy Mother and the Holy Infant unless he told
people that he was searching for them?
He had awakened this morning and lain in a sweat not caused by the
temperature. After a while, he vaguely remembered a dream preceding the one
about the mockery and jeers.
He was outside the tower on top of the hill and just starting to walk down the
hill when he heard the king calling him. He turned and looked up through the
twilight that enveloped most of his dreams. Ivar the Boneless" was staring
down at him from the top of the tower. As usual, the king was half smiling.
Beside him, Ann Pullen, the queen not only of Ivar's land but of all the
bitches in the world, was leaning through a space in the top wall. Her bare
breasts were hanging over the top of the stone. Then she lifted one and
flipped it at him.
Suddenly, Sharkko the Shyster appeared beside the two. Sharkko, the man who
would have been utterly miserable if he could understand how detestable he
was. But Sharkko was unable to imagine that anyone could not like him. He had
been given solid proof, kicks, slaps, curses, and savage beatings, that he was
not loved by all. Yet his mind slid these off and kept his self-image undented
and unbreakable.
These three were the most important beings in Davis's life in Ivar's land. He
would have liked to have put them in a rocket and fired them off toward the
stars. That way, he would keep them from being resurrected somewhere
CROSSING THE DARK RIVER 5
along the River and thus avoid meeting them again. Except in his nightmares,
of course.
Later, a few hours after dawn, Davis was walking up the hill to the tower
after fishing in the River. He had caught nothing and so was not in a good
mood. That was when he met the lunatic gotten up like a clown.
"Doctor Faustroll, we presume?"
The man, who spoke in a strangely even tone, held out an invisible calling
card.
Davis glanced down at the tips of the man's thumb and first finger as if they
really were holding a card.
"Printed in the letters of fire," the man said. "But you must have a heart on
fire to see them. However, imaginary oblongs are best seen in an imaginary
unlighted triangle. The darker the place, the brighter the print. As you may
have noticed, it's late morning, and the sunlight is quite bright, At least,
they seem to be so."
The fellow, like all other insane on Earth, must have been resurrected with
all traces erased of any mental illness he had suffered there. But he was
crazy again.
His forehead was painted with some kind of mathematical formula. The area
around his eyes was painted yellow, and his nose was painted black. A green
mustache was painted on his upper lip. His mouth was lipsticked bright-red. On
his chest, a large question mark was tattooed in blue. A dried fish was
suspended on a cord reaching to his belly. His long, thick, and very black
hair was shaped into a sort of bird's nest and held in place by dry gray mud.
And, when the man bent his neck forward, he exposed the upper part of an egg
in the nest. Davis could easily see it because the man was shorter than he. It
did not roll with the movement of the head. Thus, it must be fixed
6 Philip Jos6 Farmer
with fish glue to the top of his head. The wooden and | painted pseudo-egg,
Davis assumed, was supposed to : represent that laid by a cuckoo. Appropriate
enough. The stranger was certainly cuckoo.
A large green towel, the clown's only garment, was draped around his hips. The
gray cylinder of his grail was near his bare feet. Most people carried a fish-
skin bag that held their worldly possessions. This fellow lacked that, and he
was not even armed. But he did carry a bamboo fishing pole.
The man said, "While on Earth, we were King Ubu. Here, we are Doctor
Faustroll. It's a promotion that we richly deserve. Who knows? We may yet work
our way to the top and become God or at least occupy His empty throne. At the
moment, we are a pataphysician, D.Pa., at your service. That is not a
conventional degree in one sense, but in all senses it is a high degree,
including Fahrenheit and Kelvin."
He started to put his imaginary card in an imaginary pocket of an imaginary
coat.
Davis said, "I'll take it," and he held out his hand. Humoring the
pataphysician, whatever that was, might prevent him from becoming violent.
He moved his hand close to his bare chest to suggest that he was pulling out a
card from an inner pocket of his coat. He held it out.
"Andrew Paxton Davis, M.D., Oph.D., N.D., D.O., D.C."
"Where's the rest of the alphabet?" the man said, still keeping his voice
even-toned. But he pretended to take the card, read it, and then put it inside
his coat.
"I made soup of it," Davis said. His blue eyes seemed to twinkle.
CROSSING THE DARK RIVER 7
Doctor Faustroll's dark-brown eyes seemed to reflect the twinkle, and he
smiled. He said, "Now, if you'll be kind enough to conduct us to the ruler of
this place, whatever his or her or its names, we will present ourself or
perhaps more than one of our selves and will apply for a position or
positions."
Davis was startled. He said, "What? You don't know where you are? The guards
did not stop you? How did you get by them?"
Doctor Faustroll indicated an invisible object by his right foot. "We carried
ourself through the border in our suitcase. The guards did not see the case.
It was midnight and cloudy. Also, they were drowsy."
"It must be a very large case to hold you. All of you?"
"It's very small, but there's enough room for us and our conscience," Doctor
Faustroll said. "We take the conscience out of the case only when we intend to
use it, which isn't often, Or when it needs airing."
He picked up his grail with one hand and his fishing pole in the other.
Davis hitched up the towel Velcroed to his waist and then grasped the handle
of his own grail. His good humor had vanished. He was getting impatient with
the fellow, and he did not want to be late for his appointment with the king.
Looking serious, he said, "If I were you, I'd get out of this place as quickly
and quietly as possible. If you don't, you'll be working with those wretched
people down there."
He pointed at the riverbank. Faustroll turned around to stare at the swarm of
sweating, straining, and shouting men and women. Tiny figures at this
distance, they were
8
Philip Jos6 Farmer
striving to pull or to push a roughly cube-shaped and bungalow-sized block of
granite on log rollers into the River. Its forward edge was on two wooden
runners, heavily lubricated with fish fat, that dipped into the water.
"They're building a pyramid beneath the surface of the River?" Faustroll said.
"Must you keep up this nonsense?" Davis said. "And why don't you ask me why
I'm giving you this advice to scoot out of here as fast as your feet can carry
you? If, that is, you're able to do so, which I doubt very much."
"There is no such thing as nonsense," Faustroll said. "In fact, what you call
nonsense makes greater sense than what you call sense. Or, perhaps, there is
no concrete abstraction that we term sense. But, if there is no sense, then
there is also no nonsense. We have spoken. Selah."
Davis sighed, and he said, "If you don't mind risking slavery and perhaps
torture, come along with me. Don't say I didn't try to warn you."
They had been standing at the edge of the grass-carpeted plain. Now they
trudged up the slope of the foothills. Davis, a red-haired man of medium
height and build but with abnormally large hands, led the way. The madman was
slower because he was observing the whole milieu. Though the mountains
towering straight up to 20,000 feet, the mile-wide foothills, and the mile-
wide plains on either side of the mile-wide River were typical
CROSSING THE DARK RIVER 9
of most of the Rivervalley, the human activity was not. Many men and women
were cutting away large blocks of stone in the vertical face of the mountains
and were sliding the blocks down the foothills. The grass in the path of the
very heavy weights was crushed, and the earth had sunk in. But the grass was
so tough that it had not died out.
Near the lower edge of the foothill were extra oak log rollers for moving the
blocks across the plain. Halfway along the plain, several crews were pulling
on ropes tied around the blocks while gangs shoved against the rear of the
blocks. When these got to the River's edge, they were placed on runners and
slid into the water.
As in most areas, the River was shallow for several yards beyond the banks,
which were only a few inches above the River. Then the level bottom abruptly
became a cliff. That plunged straight down at least a mile before reaching the
cold and lightless bottom in which was a multitude of strange forms of fish.
Not only was the bank swarming with people, the River itself was jammed with
boats small and large. And two gigantic wooden cranes on the bank were close
to being completed.
The other side of the River showed a similar scene. Even as Faustroll watched,
a huge stone block on that side slid on runners into the water and
disappeared. A huge bubble formed above the roiling water and burst.
Suddenly, Faustroll caught up with Davis.
"We don't leap to quick conclusions," he said, "or even walk to them. But it
seems to us that those workers are trying to fill the River. They're not
having much success at it."
"Building a dam," Davis said. He quickened his pace.
10
Philip Jos£ Farmer
CROSSING THE DARK RIVER
11
"Ivar and that other fool across the River, King Arpad, plan to dam the stream
with all those blocks of stone if it takes them a hundred years. Then they'll
be able to keep any boats from slipping through past the guards at night.
They'll also tax the merchant boats going up and down the River past this
point. Also, Ivar thinks that he'll be able to cut through the mountains to
the other side of the Valley. He'll invade the state on the other side and
rule it. And the tunnel will be a conduit for trade from the other side. Ivar
also has this dream that the tunneling will reveal large deposits of iron.
"Pride goeth before a fall. He'll suffer the fate of the arrogant Nimrod, who
built the Tower of Babel thinking that he could conquer the hosts of Heaven."
"How can they cut granite with flint tools?" Faustroll said.
"They can't. But this area was blessed—or cursed— with underground deposits of
copper and tin. The only such for thousands of miles either way from here.
Ivar and his army of Vikings and Franks grabbed this land three years ago, and
that's why he has bronze tools and weapons."
Going up the hill, they heard a loud explosion as rock was blasted with black
gunpowder. When they stopped at the top, they heard a loud clanging. Beyond
the shallow valley below them was a higher hill on top of which was a large
round tower of granite blocks. Circling it at its base was a moat.
Below the two in the valley were the smithies, the molds, and great chunks of
tin- and copper-bearing ore and the round bamboo huts with cone-shaped and
leaf-thatched roofs in which the workers lived. The din, heat, and stench
rolled over the two men in a nauseating wave.
"Men have brought Hell from Earth to this fair place," Faustroll said. "They
should be seeking spiritual progress, not material gain and conquest. That, we
believe, is why we were placed in this purgatory. Of course, without the
science of pataphysics, they won't get far in their quest.
"On the other hand, left or right, we don't know, it may all be accidental.
But accidental doesn't necessarily mean meaningless."
Davis snorted his contempt for this remark.
"And just what is pataphysics?" he said.
"Our friend and fellow doctor, let us charge through the breach created by our
conversation and assault the definition of pataphysics. It is an almost
impossible task since it can't be explained in nonpataphysical terms.
"Pataphysics is the science of the realm beyond metaphysics. It lies as far
beyond the metaphysics as metaphysics lies beyond physics—in one direction or
another, or perhaps still another.
"Pataphysics is the science of the particular, of laws governing exceptions.
You follow us so far?"
Davis only rolled his eyes.
"Pataphysics, pay attention, this may be the heart of the matter, pataphysics
is the science of imaginary solutions. But only imaginary solutions are real."
Davis grunted as if struck a soft blow in the stomach.
"For pataphysics, all things are equal," Faustroll continued. "Pataphysics is,
in aspect, imperturbable.
"And this, too, is the heart of the matter, one of them anyway. That is, all
things are pataphysical. Yet few people practice pataphysics."
"You expect me to understand that?" Davis said.
"Not at once. Perhaps never. Now, the last castle to be
12
Philip Jos6 Fanner
CROSSING THE DARK RIVER
13
conquered. Beyond pataphysics lies nothing. It is the ultimate defense."
"Which means?"
Faustroll ignored that question. He said, "It allows each man or woman to live
his own life as an exception, proving no law but his own."
"Anarchy? You're an anarchist?"
"Look about you. This world was made for anarchy. We don't need any government
except self-government. Yet men won't permit us to be anarchists—so far."
"Tell this to Ivar," Davis said. He laughed, then said, "I'd like to see his
face when you tell him that."
"Ah, but what about the brain behind that face? If he has a brain?"
"Oh, he has brains! But his motives, man, his motives!"
They descended the hill and then climbed to the top of the next hill, much
steeper and higher than the previous ones. The tower drawbridge was down, but
many soldiers were by its outer end. Most of them were playing board games or
casting dice carved from fish bones. Some were watching wrestling matches and
mock duels. Their conical bronze helmets were fitted with nose- and cheek-
pieces. A few wore chain-mail armor made of bronze or interlocking wooden
rings. All were armed with daggers and swords and many had spears. Their
leather bronze-ringed shields were stacked close by them. The wooden racks by
these held yew bows and quivers full of bronze-tipped arrows. Some spoke in
Esperanto; others, in barbaric tongues.
The sentinels at each end of the drawbridge made no effort to stop the two.
Davis said, "I'm the royal osteopath to King Ivar. Since you're with me, they
assume you're not to be challenged." -
"I like to be challenged," Faustroll said. "By the way, what is an osteopath?"
"You've never heard of osteopathy?" Davis said, raising his reddish eyebrows.
"When did you die?"
"All Saints' Day, though I'm no saint in the Catholic sense, in 1907. In
Paris, which you may know is in France, who knows how many light-years away?"
Davis said only, "Ah!" That explained the man's madness and decadence. He was
French and probably had been a bohemian artist, one of those godless immoral
wretches roistering in the dives of Montmartre or the Left Bank or wherever
that kind of low life flourished. One of those Dadaists or Cubists or
Surrealists, whatever they were called, whose crazed paintings, sculptures,
and writings revealed that their makers were rotten with sin and syphilis.
There wasn't any syphilis on this world, but there was plenty of sin.
"My question?" Faustroll said.
"Oh, yes! One, osteopathy is any form of bone disease. Two, it's a system of
treatment of ailments and is based on the valid belief that most ailments
result from the pressure of displaced bones on nerves and so forth. Osteopaths
relieve the traumatic pressure by applying corrective pressure. Of course,
there's much more to it than that. Actually, I seldom have to treat the king
for anything serious, he's in superb physical health. It could be said that he
retains me—enslaves me would be a better term—as the royal masseur."
Faustroll lifted his eyebrows and said, "Bitterness? Discontent? Your soul, it
vomits bile?"
Davis did not reply. They had gone through the large foyer and up the stone
steps of a narrow winding stair-
14
Philip Jos6 Fanner
CROSSING THE DARK RIVER
15
case to the second floor. After passing through a small room, they had stepped
into a very large room, two stories high and very cool. Numerous wall slits
gave enough light, but pine torches and fish-oil lamps made the room brighter.
In the center, on a raised platform, was a long oaken table. Placed along it
were high-backed oaken chairs carved with Norse symbols, gods, goddesses,
serpents, trolls, monsters, and humans. Other smaller tables were set around
the large one, and a huge fireplace was at the western wall. The walls were
decorated with shields and weapons and many skulls. i
A score or so of men and women were in a line leading to a large man seated in
a chair. The oaken shaft of a huge bronze-headed ax leaned against the side of
the chair.
"Petitioners and plaintiffs," Davis said in a low voice to Faustroll. "And
criminals."
"Ah!" Faustroll murmured. "The Man With the Ax!" He added, "The title of one
of our poems."
He pointed at a beautiful bare-breasted blonde sitting in a high-backed chair
a few feet from the king's throne. "She?"
"Queen Ann, the number-one mare in Ivar's stable," Davis said softly. "Don't
cross her. She has a hellish temper, the slut."
Ivar the Boneless, son of the semilegendary Ragnar Hairybreeches, who was the
premier superhero of the Viking Age, stood up from the chair then. He was at
least six feet six inches tall. Since his only garment was a sea-blue towel,
his massive arms, chest, legs, and flat corded belly were evident. Despite his
bulk, his quick and graceful movements made him seem more pantherish than
lionlike. His only adornment was a wide bronze band around »
the upper right arm. It bore in alto-relief a valknut, three hunting horns
meeting at the mouthpieces to form a triskelion, a three-legged figure. The
valknut, the knot of the slain, was the sacred symbol of the greatest of the
Norse gods, Odin.
His long, wavy, and red-bronze hair fell to his very broad shoulders. His face
would have been called, in Davis's time on Earth, "ruggedly handsome." There
was, however, something vulpine about it. Though Davis could not put a verbal
finger on the lineaments that made him think of Brer Fox, he always envisioned
that character when he saw the king.
Ivar was not the only general in the ninth century A.D. Danish invasion of
England. Many native kings ruled there, but the king of Wessex would be the
only one whose name would be familiar to twentieth-century English speakers.
That was Alfred, whom later generations would call The Great, though his son
and grandson were as deserving of that title. Though Alfred had saved Wessex
from conquest, he had not kept the Danes from conquering much of the rest of
England. Ivar had been the master strategist of the early Dane armies. Later,
he had been co-king of Dublin with the great Norwegian conqueror, Olaf the
White. But Ivar's dynasty had ruled Dublin for many generations.
As Davis and Faustroll approached the king, Davis said softly, "Don't call him
Boneless. Nobody does that to his face without regretting it. You can call him
Ivar, though, from what he's told me, it was Yngwaer in the Norse of his time.
Languages change; Yngwaer became Ivar. His nickname in Old Norse was The
Merciless, but it was close in sound to a word meaning "boneless."
摘要:

Ifyoupurchasethisbookwithoutacoveryoushouldbeawarethatthisbookmayhavebeenstolenpropertyandreportedas"unsoldanddestroyed"tothepublisher.Insuchcaseneithertheauthornorthepublisherhasreceivedanypaymentfrorthis"strippedbook."WARNERBOOKSEDITIONCopyright©1992byPhilipJos6FarmerandMartinH.GreenbergAllrigntsr...

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