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MIRK

The last of Marune's suns, Cirse, sank behind Whispering Ridge. The sky

flared and dimmed; darkness fell. Mirk had come to Scharrode.

Throughout the realm, lights were extinguished and doors bolted as the

prudent sought safety. Others donned the cloak and boots of nightwalkers

and slipped through the darkness seeking an unshuttered window and the woman

waiting behind it. For mirk did strange things to the minds and bodies of

the sober folk of Scharrode.

In the castle of Benbuphar Strang, the Kaiark Efraim felt the primal pull of

darkness - and was drawn despite himself to the passage that led to

Sthelany's door.

Her invitation had been clear.

Also by Jack Vance on the Ballantine Books list:

TRULLION: Alastor 2262

available at your local bookstore

MARUNE:

Alastor 933

Jack Vance

BALLANTINE BOOKS - NEW YORK

(another Zine-scan...)

This novel was serialized in the July and September issues of Amazing.

Conventions.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 75-19107

SBN 345-24518-0-150

First Printing: September, 1975

Cover art by Darrell Sweet

Printed in the United States of America

BALLANTINE BOOKS

A Division of Random House, Inc.

201 East 50th Street, New York, N.Y. 10022

Simultaneously published by

Ballantine Books, Ltd., Toronto, Canada

Alastor Cluster, a node of thirty thousand live stars, uncounted dead hulks,

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and vast quantities of interstellar detritus, clung to the inner rim of the

galaxy with the Unfortunate Waste before, the Nonestic Gulf beyond and the

Gaean Reach a sparkling haze to the side. For the spacetraveler, no matter

which his angle of approach, a remarkable spectacle was presented:

constellations blazing white, blue, and red; curtains of luminous stuff,

broken here, obscured there, by black storms of dust; starstreams wandering

in and out; whorls and spatters of phosphorescent gas.

Should Alastor Cluster be considered a segment of the Gaean Reach? The folk

of the Cluster, some four or five trillion of them on more than three

thousand worlds, seldom reflected upon the matter, and indeed considered

themselves neither Gaean nor Alastrid. The, typical inhabitant, when asked

as to his origin, might perhaps cite his native world or, more usually, his

local district, as if this place were so extraordinary, so special and

widely famed that its reputation hung on every tongue of the galaxy.

Parochialism dissolved before the glory of the Connatic, who ruled Alastor

Cluster from his palace on the world Numenes. The current Connatic, Oman

Ursht, sixteenth of the Idite dynasty, often pondered the quirk of fate

which had appointed him to his singular condition, only to smile at his own

irrationality: no matter who occupied the position, that person would frame

for himself the same marveling question.

The inhabited planets of the Cluster had little in common except their lack

of uniformity. They were large and small, dank and dry, benign and perilous,

populous and empty: no two alike. Some manifested tall mountains, blue seas,

bright skies; on others clouds hung forever above the moors, and no variety

existed except the alternation of night and day. Such a world, in fact, was

Bruse-Tansel, Alastor 1142, with a population of two hundred thousand,

settled for the most part in the neighborhood of Lake Vain, where they

worked principally at the dyeing of fabrics. Four spaceports served

Bruse-Tansel, the most important being that facility located at Carfaunge.

Chapter 1

The Respectable Mergan had achieved his post, Superintendent at the

Carfaunge Spaceport, largely because the position demanded a tolerance for

unalterable routine. Mergan not only tolerated routine; he depended upon it.

He would have opposed the cessation of such nuisances as the morning rains,

the glass lizards with their squeaks and clicks, the walking slimes which

daily invaded the area, because then he would have been required to change

established procedure.

On the morning of a day he would later identify as tenth Mariel Gaean(1) he

arrived as usual at his office. Almost before he had settled behind his

desk, the night porter appeared with a blank faced young man in a

nondescript gray suit. Mergan uttered a wordless grumble; he had no taste

for problems, at any time, least of all before he had composed himself for

the day. The situation at the very least promised a disruption of routine.

At last he muttered: "Well, Dinster, what do you have here?"

Dinster, in a piping over-loud voice, called out, "Sorry to bother you, sir,

but what shall we do with this gentleman? He seems to be ill."

"Find him a doctor," growled Mergan. "Don't bring him here. I can't help

him."

"It's not that kind of illness, sir. More mental, if you get my meaning."

"Your meaning escapes me," said Mergan. "Why not just tell me what's wrong?"

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Dinster politely indicated his charge. "When I came on duty he was sitting

in the waiting room and he's been there since. He hardly speaks; he doesn't

know his name, nor anything about himself."

Mergan inspected the young man with some faint awakening of interest.

"Hello, sir," he barked. "What's the trouble?"

The young man shifted his gaze from the window to Mergan, but offered no

response. Mergan gradually allowed himself to become perplexed. Why had the

young man's gold-brown hair been hacked short, as if by swift savage strokes

of a scissors? And the garments: clearly a size too large for the spare

frame!

"Speak!" commanded Mergan. "Can you hear? Tell me your name!"

The young man put on a thoughtful expression but remained silent.

"A vagabond of same sort," Mergan declared. "He probably wandered up from

the dye-works. Send him off again down the road."

Dinster shook his head. "This lad's no vagabond. Look at his hands."

Mergan reluctantly followed Dinster's suggestion. The hands were strong and

well kept and showed evidence neither of toil nor submersion in dye. The

man's features were firm and even; the poise of his head suggested status.

Mergan, who preferred to ignore the circumstances of his own birth, felt an

uncomfortable tingle of deference and corresponding resentment. Again he

barked at the young man: "Who are you? What is your name?"

"I don't know." The voice was slow and labored, and colored with an accent

Mergan failed to recognize.

"Where is your home?"

"I don't know."

Mergan became unreasonably sarcastic. "Do you know anything?"

Dinster ventured an opinion. "Looks to me, sir, as if he came aboard one of

yesterday's ships."

Mergan asked the young man: "What ship did you arrive on? Do you have

friends here?"

The young man fixed him with a brooding dark-gray gaze, and Mergan became

uncomfortable. He turned to Dinster. "Does he carry papers? Or money?"

Dinster muttered to the young man: "Excuse me, sir." Gingerly he groped

through the pockets of the rumpled gray suit. "I can't find anything here,

sir."

"What about ticket stubs, or vouchers, or tokens?"

"Nothing at all, sir."

"It's what they call amnesia," said Mergan. He picked up a pamphlet and

glanced down a list: "Six ships in, yesterday. He might have arrived on any

of them." Mergan touched a button. A voice said: "Prosidine, arrival gate."

Mergan described the amnesiac. "Do you know anything about him? He arrived

sometime yesterday."

"Yesterday was more than busy; I didn't take time to notice anything."

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"Make inquiries of your people and notify me."

Mergan thought a moment, then called the Carfaunge hospital. He was

connected to the Director of Admissions, who listened patiently enough, but

made no constructive proposals. "We have no facilities here for such cases.

He has no money, you say? Definitely not, then."

"What shall I do with him? He can't stay here!"

"Consult the police; they'll know what to do."

Mergan called the police, and presently an official arrived in a police van,

and the amnesiac was led away.

At the Hall of Inquiry, Detective Squil attempted interrogation, without

success. The police doctor experimented with hypnotism, and finally threw up

his hands.

"A most stubborn condition; I have seen three previous cases, but nothing

like this."

"What causes it?"

"Autosuggestion, occasioned by emotional stress. This is most usual. But

here" - he waved toward the uncomprehending amnesiac - "my instruments show

no psychic charge of any kind. He has no emotions, and I have no leverage."

Detective Squil, a reasonable man, asked: "What can he do to help himself?

He is obviously no ruffian."

"He should take himself to the Connatic's Hospital on Numenes."

Detective Squil laughed. "All very well. Who pays his fare?"

"The superintendent at the spaceport should be able to arrange passage, or

so I should think."

Squil made a dubious sound but turned to his telephone. As he expected, the

Respectable Mergan, having transferred responsibility to the police, wanted

no further part of the situation. "The regulations are most explicit," said

Mergan. "I certainly cannot do as you suggest."

"We can't keep him here at the station."

"He appears able-bodied; let him earn his fare, which after all is not

exorbitant."

"Easier said than done, what with his disability."

"What generally happens to indigents?"

"You know as well as I do; they're sent out to Gaswin. But this man is

mentally ill; he's not an indigent."

"I can't argue that, because I don't know. At least I've pointed out a

course of action."

"What is the fare to Numenes?"

"Third class by Prydania Line: two hundred and twelve ozols."

Squil terminated the call. He swung about to face the amnesiac. "Do you

understand what I say to you?"

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The answer came in a clear voice. "Yes."

"You are ill. You have lost your memory. Do you realize this?"

There was a pause of ten seconds. Squil wondered if any response were

forthcoming. Then, haltingly: "You have told me so."

"We will send you to a place where you can work and earn money. Do you know

how to work?"

"No."

"Well, anyway, you need money: two hundred and twelve ozols. On Gaswin Moor

you will earn three and a half ozols a day. In two or three months you will

have earned enough money to take you to the Connatic's Hospital on Numenes,

where you will be cured of your illness. Do you understand all this?"

The amnesiac reflected a moment, but made no response.

Squil rose to his feet. "Gaswin will be a good place for you, and perhaps

your memory will return." He dubiously considered the amnesiac's bland brown

hair, which for mysterious reasons, someone had rudely cut short. "Do you

have an enemy? Is there someone who does not like you?"

"I don't know. I can't remember any such person."

"What is your name?" shouted Squil, hoping to surprise that part of the

brain which was withholding information.

The amnesiac's gray eyes narrowed slightly. "I don't know."

"Well, we have to find a name for you. Do you play hussade?"

"No."

"Think of that! A strong agile fellow like yourself! Still, we'll call you

Pardero, after the great strike forward of the Schaide Thunderstones. So

now, when someone calls out 'Pardero' you must respond. Is this understood?"

"Yes."

"Very well, and now you'll be an your way to Gaswin. The sooner you begin

your work, the sooner you'll arrive on Numenes. I'll speak with the

director; he's a good chap and he'll see to your welfare."

Pardero, as his name now would be, sat uncertainly.

Squil took pity on him. "It won't be so bad. Agreed, there are tough nuts at

the work camp, but do you know how to handle them? You must be just a bit

tougher than they are. Still, don't attract the attention of the

disciplinary officer. You seem a decent fellow; I'll put in a word for you,

and keep an eye on your progress. One bit of advice - no, two. First: never

try to cheat on your work quota. The officials know all the tricks; they can

smell out the sluggards as a kribbat smells out carrion. Second, do not

gamble! Do you know what the word 'gamble' means?"

"No."

"It means to risk your money on games or wagers. Never be tempted or

inveigled! Leave your money in the camp account! I advise you to form no

friendships! Aside from yourself, there is only riff-raff at the camp. I

wish you well. If you find trouble, call for Detective Squil. Can you

remember that name?"

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"Detective Squil."

"Good." Squil led the amnesiac out to a dock and put him aboard the daily

transport to Gaswin. "A final word of advice! Confide in no one! Your name

is Pardero; aside from this, keep your problems to yourself! Do you

understand?"

"Yes."

"Good luck!"

The transport flew low under the overcast, close above the mottled black and

purple moors, and presently landed beside a cluster of concrete buildings:

the Gaswin Work Camp.

At the personnel office Pardero underwent entry formalities, facilitated by

Squil's notification to the camp director. He was assigned a cubicle in a

dormitory block, fitted with work boots and gloves, and issued a copy of

camp regulations, which he studied without comprehension. On the next

morning he was detailed into a work party and sent out to harvest pods from

colucoid creeper, the source of a peculiarly rich red dye.

Pardero gathered his quota without difficulty. Among the taciturn group of

indigents his deficiency went unnoticed.

He ate his evening meal in silence, ignoring the presence of his fellows,

who at last had begun to sense that all was not well with Pardero.

The sun sank behind the clouds; a dismal twilight fell across the moors.

Pardero sat to the side of the recreation hall, watching a comic melodrama

on the holovision screen. He listened intently to the dialogue; each word

seemed to find an instantly receptive niche inside his brain with a semantic

concept ready at hand. His vocabulary grew and the range of his mental

processes expanded. When the program was over he sat brooding, at last aware

of his condition. He went to look into the mirror over the washbasin; the

face which looked back at him was at once strange and familiar: a somber

face with a good expanse of forehead, prominent cheekbones, hollow cheeks,

dark gray eyes, a ragged thatch of dark gold hair.

A certain burly rogue named Woane attempted a jocularity. "Look yonder at

Pardero! He stands like a man admiring a beautiful work of art!"

Pardero studied the mirror. Who was the man whose eyes stared so intently

into his own?

Woane's hoarse murmur came from across the room. "Now he admires his

haircut."

The remark amused Woane's friends. Pardero turned his head this way and

that, wondering as to the motive behind the assault on his hair. Somewhere,

it would seem, he had enemies. He turned slowly away from the mirror and

resumed his seat at the side of the room.

The last traces of light left the sky; night had come to Gaswin Camp.

Something jerked deep at the bottom of Pardero's consciousness: a compulsion

totally beyond his comprehension. He jumped to his feet. Woane looked around

half-truculently, but Pardero's glance slid past him. Woane nevertheless saw

or felt something sufficiently eery that his jaw dropped a trifle, and he

muttered to his friends. All watched as Pardero crossed to the door and went

out into the night.

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Pardero stood on the porch. Floodlights cast a wan glow across the compound,

now empty and desolate, inhabited only by the wind from the moors. Pardero

stepped off the porch into the shadows. With no purpose he walked around the

edge of the compound and out upon the moor; the camp became an illuminated

island behind him.

Under the overcast, darkness was complete. Pardero felt an enlargement of

the soul, an intoxication of power; as if he were an elemental born of the

darkness, knowing no fear . . . He stopped short. His legs felt hard and

strong; his hands tingled with competence. Gaswin Camp lay a half-mile

behind him, the single visible object. Pardero took a deep throbbing breath,

and again examined his consciousness, half-hoping, half-fearful of what he

might find.

Nothing. Recollection extended to the Carfaunge spaceport. Events before

were like voices remembered from a dream. Why was he here at Gaswin? To earn

money. How long must he remain? He had forgotten, or perhaps the words had

not registered. Pardero began to feel a suffocating agitation, a

claustrophobia of the intellect. He lay down on the moor, beat his forehead,

cried out in frustration.

Time passed. Pardero rose to his knees, gained his feet and slowly returned

to the camp.

A week later Pardero learned of the camp doctor and his function. The next

morning, during sick call, he presented himself to the dispensary. A dozen

men sat on the benches while the doctor, a young man fresh from medical

school, summoned them forward, one at a time. The complaints, real,

imaginary, or contrived, were usually related to the work: backache,

allergic reaction, congestion of the lungs, an infected lychbug sting. The

doctor, young in years but already old in guile, sorted out the real from

the fictitious, prescribing remedies for the first and irritant salves or

vile-flavored medicines for the second.

Pardero was signaled to the desk and the doctor looked him up and down.

"What's wrong with you?"

"I can't remember anything."

"Indeed." The doctor leaned back in his chair. "What is your name?"

"I don't know. Here at the camp they call me Pardero. Can you help me?"

"Probably not. Go back to the bench and let me finish up the sick call;

it'll be just a few minutes."

The doctor dealt with his remaining patients and returned to Pardero. "Tell

me haw far back you remember."

"I arrived at Carfaunge. I remember a spaceship. I remember the depot - but

nothing before."

"Nothing whatever?"

"Nothing."

"Do you remember things you like, or dislike? Are you afraid of anything?"

"No."

"Amnesia typically derives from a subconscious intent to block out

intolerable memories."

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Pardero gave his head a dubious shake. "I don't think this is likely."

The doctor, both intrigued and bemused, uttered an uneasy half-embarrassed

laugh. "Since you can't remember the circumstances, you aren't in a position

to judge."

"I suppose that's true . . . Could something be wrong with my brain?"

"You mean physical damage? Do you have headaches or head pains? Any

sensation of numbness or pressure?"

"No."

"Well, it's hardly likely a tumor would cause general amnesia in any event .

. . Let me check my references . . ." He read for a few moments. "I could

try hypnotherapy or shock. Candidly, I don't think I'd do you any Amnesia

generally cures itself if left alone."

"I don't think I can cure myself. Something lies on my brain like a blanket.

It suffocates me. I can't tear it loose. Can't you help me?"

There was a simplicity to Pardero's manner which appealed to the doctor. He

also sensed strangeness: tragedy and drama beyond his conjecture.

"I would help you if I could," said the doctor. "With all my soul I would

help you. But I wouldn't know what I should be doing. I'm not qualified to

experiment on you."

"The police officer told me to go to the Connatic's Hospital on Numenes."

"Yes, of course. This is best for you; I was about to suggest it myself."

"Where is Numenes? How do I go there?"

"You must go by starship. The fare is a little over two hundred ozols. That

is what I have been told. You earn three and a half ozols a day - more if

you exceed your quota. When you have two hundred and fifty ozols, go to

Numenes. That is my best advice."

(1) Numerous systems of chronometry create confusion across Alastor Cluster

and the Gaean Reach, despite attempts at reform. In any given locality, at

least three systems of reckoning are in daily use: scientific chronometry,

based upon the orbital frequency of the K-state hydrogen electron;

astronomic time - 'Gaean Standard Time' - which provides synchronism across

the human universe; and local time.

Chapter 2

Pardero worked with single-minded energy. Without fail he collected a half

measure over his quota, and sometimes a total of two measures, which first

excited jocular comment among his fellow workers, then sardonic sneers, and

finally a cold, if covert, hostility. To compound his offenses Pardero

refused to participate in the social activities of the camp, except to sit

staring into the holovision screen, and thereby was credited with

assumptions of superiority, which was indeed the case. He spent nothing at

the commissary; despite all persuasions he refused to gamble, although

occasionally he watched the games with a grim smile, which made certain of

the players uneasy. Twice his locker was ransacked by someone who hoped to

avail himself of Pardero's earnings, but Pardero had drawn no money from his

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account. Woane made one or two halfhearted attempts at intimidation, then

decided to chastise the haughty Pardero, but he encountered such ferocious

retaliation that he was glad to regain the sanctuary of the mess hall; and

thereafter Pardero was strictly ignored.

At no time could Pardero detect any seepage through the barrier between his

memory and his conscious mind. Always as he worked he wondered: "What kind

of man am I? Where is my home? What do I know? Who are my friends? Who has

committed this wrong against me?" He expended his frustration on the

colucoid creeper and became known as a man possessed by as inner demon, to

be avoided as carefully as possible.

For his part Pardero banished Gaswin to the most remote corner of his mind;

he would take away as few memories as possible. The work he found tolerable;

but he resented the name Pardero. To use a stranger's name was like wearing

a stranger's clothes - not a fastidious act. Still the name served as well

as any other; it was a minor annoyance.

More urgently unpleasant was the lack of privacy. He found detestable the

close intimacy of three hundred other men, most especially at mealtimes,

when he sat with his eyes fixed on his plate, to avoid the open maws, the

mounds of food, the mastication. Impossible to ignore, however, were the

belches, grants, hisses, and sighs of satiety. Surely this was not the life

he had known in the past! What then had been his life?

The question produced only blankness, a void without information. Somewhere

lived a person who had launched him across the Cluster with his hair hacked

short and as denuded of identification as an egg. Some times when he

pondered this enemy he seemed to hear wisps of possibly imaginary

sound - echos of what might have been laughter, but when he poised his head

to listen, the pulsations ceased.

The onset of darkness continued to trouble him. Often he felt urges to go

forth into the dark - an impulse which he resisted, partly from fatigue,

partly from a dread of abnormality. He reported his nocturnal restlessness

to the camp doctor, who agreed that the tendency should be discouraged, at

least until the source was known. The doctor commended Pardero for his

industry, and advised the accumulation of at least two hundred and

seventy-five ozols before departure, to allow for incidental expenses.

When Pardero's account reached two hundred and seventy-five ozols, he

claimed his money from the bursar, and now, no longer an indigent, he was

free to pursue his own destiny. He took a rather mournful leave of the

doctor, whom he had come to like and respect, and boarded the transport for

Carfaunge. He left Gaswin with a twinge of regret. He had known little

pleasure here; still the place had given him refuge. He barely remembered

Carfaunge, and the spaceport was no more than the recollection of a dream.

He saw nothing of Superintendent Mergan, but was recognized by Dinster the

night porter, just coming on duty.

The Ectobant of the Prydania Line took Pardero to Baruilla, on Deulle,

Alastor 2121, where he transferred to the Lusimar of the Gaean Trunk Line,

and so was conveyed to Calypso Junction on Imber, and thence by the Wispen

Argent to Numenes.

Pardero enjoyed the voyage: the multifarious sensations, incidents, and

vistas amazed him. He had not imagined the variety of the Cluster: the

comings and goings, the flux of faces, the gowns, robes, hats, ornaments,

and bijouterie; the colors and lights and strains of strange music; the

babble of voices; haunting glimpses of beautiful girls; drama, excitement,

pathos; objects, faces, sounds, surprises. Could he have known all this and

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forgotten?

So far Pardero had not indulged in self-pity and his enemy had seemed a

baleful abstraction. But how great and how callous the crime which had been

performed upon him! He had been isolated from home, friends, sympathy,

security; he had been rendered a neuter; his personality had been murdered.

Murder!

The word chilled his blood; he squirmed and winced. And from somewhere, from

far distant, came the ghost of a sound: gusts of mocking laughter.

Approaching Numenes, the Wispen Argent first passed by Blazon, the next

world out in orbit, to be cleared for landing, by the Whelm - a precaution

to minimize the danger of an attack from space upon the Connatic's Palace.

Having secured clearance; the Wispen Argent proceeded; Numenes slowly

expanded.

At a distance of about three thousand miles that peculiar referential

displacement occurred; instead of hanging off to the side, a destination

across the void, Numenes became the world below, upon which the Wispen

Argent descended - a brilliant panorama of white clouds, blue air, sparkling

seas.

The Central Spaceport at Commarice occupied an area three miles in diameter,

surrounded by a fringe of the tall jacinth palms and the usual spaceport

offices, built in that low airy style also typical of Numenes.

Alighting from the Wispen Argent, Pardero rode a slideway to the terminal,

where he sought information regarding the Connatic's Hospital. He was

referred first to the Traveler's Aid Station, then to an office at the side

of the terminal, where he was presented to a tall spare woman of

indeterminate age in a white and blue uniform. She gave Pardero a laconic

greeting. "I am Matron Gundal. I understand that you wish to be admitted to

the Connatic's Hospital?"

"Yes."

Matron Gundal touched buttons, evidently to activate a recording mechanism.

"Your name?"

"I am called Pardero. I do not know my true name."

Matron Gundal made no comment. "Place of origin?"

"I don't know."

"Your complaint?"

"Amnesia."

Matron Gundal gave him a noncommittal inspection, which perhaps indicated

interest. "What about your physical health?"

"It seems to be good."

"An orderly will conduct you to the hospital." Matron Gundal raised her

voice. "Ariel."

A blond young woman entered the room, her uniform somewhat at discord with

her sunny good looks. Matron Gundal gave her directions: "Please conduct

this gentleman to the Connatic's Hospital." To Pardero: "Have you luggage?"

"No."

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file:///F|/rah/Jack%20Vance/Jack%20Vance%20-%20Marune%20v1.0.txtMIRKThelastofMarune'ssuns,Cirse,sankbehindWhisperingRidge.Thesky\flaredanddimmed;darknessfell.MirkhadcometoScharrode.Throughouttherealm,lightswereextinguishedanddoorsboltedastheprudentsoughtsafety.Othersdonnedthecloakandbootsofnightwalk...

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Jack Vance - Marune

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