Eric van Lustbader - Sunset Warrior 1 - The Sunset Warrior, Angielskie [EN](4)(2)
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Eric Van Lustbader is the author of the bestselling novels The Ninja, Sirens,
Black Heart, The M
and Jian. He graduated from Columbia University in 1968, majoring in
Sociology, then joined
entertainment industry as a journalist. He went to take publicity and
marketing posts for Elek
Records, Dick James Music, NBC-TV and C Records, working with Pink Floyd, Blue
Oys Cult and
Elton John.
By the same author
The Ninja Black Heart The Miko Jian Sirens Shan Zero
Shallows of Night
Dai-San
Beneath an Opal Moon
ERIC VAN LUSTBADER
The Sunset Warrior
Volume 1 of the Sunset Warrior Sequence
GRAFTON BOOKS
A Division of the Collins Publishing Group
LONDON GLASGOW TORONTO SYDNEY AUCKLAND
Grafton Books
A Division of the Collins Publishing Group
8 Grafton Street, London W1X 3LA
Published by Grafton Books 1988
First published in Great Britain by W. H. Alien & Co. Ltd 1980
Copyright © Eric Van Lustbader 1977 ISBN 0-586-20206-4
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Collins, Glasgow
Set in Bembo
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in
a retrieval system, or transmitted, in
any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or
otherwise, without the prior
permission of the publishers.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade
or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired
out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form
of binding or cover other than that
in which it is published and without a similar condition including this
condition being imposed on the
subsequent purchaser.
To R.A.L. and M.H.L.
who were there through the best and,
especially, through the worst.
And To Henry Steig, more than the master artisan.
PART ONE
Echoes
To survive is not enough. - Bujun saying
Ronin was dying and he did not know it.
He lay quite still and completely naked on the centre of an elliptical stone
slab which
occupied roughly the centre of a square, cold chamber. Despite this, tiny
beads of sweat glinted
in the bristles of his short, black hair. His fine features held no expression
whatsoever.
Standing over him, bent, eyes intent, was Stahlig, the Medicine Man. Ronin
tried to relax,
thinking, This is all a waste of time, as Stahlig's fingers probed and pushed
at his chest, moving
slowly down towards his ribs on the left side. He tried not to think of it but
his muscles had a
will of their own and they betrayed him, jumping in pain under the thick
fingers.
'Uhm,' Stahlig grunted. 'Very recent'.
Ronin stared at the ceiling; at nothing. What was bothering him? It was merely
a fight.
Merely? His lips curled in distaste. A brawl; rolling in the Corridor like a
common - abruptly
remembrance blossomed . . .
His bare arms slick with sweat, his thick sword just sheathed, heavy at his
side, his hands
light after almost a full Spell of Combat practice. Walking alone and
distracted out of the Hall of
Combat into a knot of people, all at once surrounded by loud voices
disclaiming hotly, stupidly,
and he paid no attention. Something pushed against him and a voice cut through
the din.
'And where are you going?' It was cold and affected and belonged to a tall,
thin, blond man
who wore the obliquely striped chest bands of the Chondrin. Black and gold:
Ronin did not
recognize the colours. Behind the blond man on either side stood five or six
Bladesmen wearing
the same colours. Apparently they had stopped a cluster of Students on their
way from practice.
He could not think why.
'Answer, Student!' the Chondrin commanded. His thin face was very white,
dominated by a
waxy nose. His high cheeks were pocked and a scar ran down like a tear from
the corner of one
eye so that it appeared lower than the other one.
Ronin was momentarily amused. He was a Bladesman and therefore practised with
other
Bladesmen. But these days he did not have much to do and boredom had led him
to practice
with the Students also. When he did that, as now, he wore plain clothes and
those who did not
know him took him for a Student.
'Where I go and what I do is my own affair' Ronin said blandly.'What is your
business with
these Students?'
The Chondrin goggled at him, stretching his neck forward like a reptile about
to strike, and
two spots of colour appeared high on his cheeks, accentuating the whiteness of
the pockmarks.
'Where are your manners, Student?' he said menacingly. 'Speak with deference
to your betters.
Now answer the question.'
Ronin's hand strayed to the hilt of his sword but he said nothing.
'Well,' sneered the Chondrin, 'it appears this Student is in need of a
lesson.' As if the words
were a signal, the Bladesmen rushed at Ronin. Too late he realized that he
could not draw his
sword rapidly within the confines of the crowd. Then they were piling into
him, the sheer force
of their combined weight bearing him to the ground, and he thought, I do not
believe this is
happening. Instinctively he kicked out as he was borne under, and had the
satisfaction of
feeling his boot smash into flesh that gave way. Almost at the same moment, a
blow along the
side of his head disrupted his enjoyment. Adrenalin spurted and he punched up
and out, and
even though he was on his back and the leverage was not there, he felt his
fist connect as it split
open skin, cracked into bone. He heard a brief wail.
Then the boot caught him in the side and a thick gauze came down over his
brain. He tried to
hit again, could not, struggled with an enormous weight on his chest. His
lungs were on fire
and he felt ashamed. When the boot hit him again, he passed out . . .
The wave of pain came again but this time he had it under control and there
was only the
slightest movement. He looked at the wide head bent over him with its shaggy
brows, rheumy
eyes, and creased forehead.
'Ach!' exclaimed the Medicine Man, as much to himself as to Ronin. 'What have
you been
up to, ah?' He shook his head and, without looking at
Ronin, turned and put a dark, furry cloth against the mouth of an opaque
white-glass bottle, and
turned it upside down. He applied the cloth to Ronin's side. It was cold and
the pain subsided.
'So. Dress and come inside.' He threw the cloth over the back of a hard chair
and disappeared
through a doorway. Ronin sat up, his side stiff but now without pain, pulled
on his leggings and
shirt, then his low leather boots. He stood to strap on his sword, then
followed in the wake of
Stahlig's body into a warmly lighted cubicle in sharp contrast to the starkly
geometrical surgery
outside.
Here all was a jumble. Shelves of bound papers and tablets rose like wild ivy
from floor to
ceiling along three walls. Occasionally gaps appeared in the contents of the
shelves, or markers
stuck out at odd angles. Stahlig's desk was set close to the far wall, and it
was covered
completely by mounds of papers and tablets, as were the two small chairs set
before the desk.
Behind the Medicine Man lay glass cases filled with phials and boxes.
Stahlig did not look up from his work as Ronin entered but he reached out
behind him and
got a clear bottle of amber wine, and from somewhere produced two metal cups,
which he blew
into perfunctorily before filling them halfway. He looked up then as he held
one out. Ronin took
it, and Stahlig sat back and waved an arm expansively.
'Sit,'he said.
Ronin had to set his cup down in order to clear away the masses of tablets
from the chair. He
hesitated with them in his arms.
'Oh, drop them anywhere,' said Stahlig with a flick of his thick hand.
Ronin sat and sipped, felt the sweet wine unroll its carpet of warmth along
his throat and
into his stomach. He took a long swallow.
Stahlig leaned forward, elbows on the masses of tablets, fingers steepled, his
thumbs tapping
absently at his upper lip. He said: 'Tell me what happened.'
Ronin, swirling the wine slowly in his cup, said nothing. He sat very straight
because of his
side.
The Medicine Man dropped his eyes, crumpled a sheet of paper, and threw it
into a corner
apparently without caring where it landed. 'So.' He sighed audibly, and when
he spoke again
his voice had softened perceptibly. 'You do not wish to speak of it, yet I
know something
troubles you.' Ronin looked up. 'Oh, yes, the old man still sees and feels.'
He hunched forward
over the desk again.
He stared at Ronin. 'Tell me, how long do we know each other?' His fingers
moved along the
desktop. 'Since you were very young, since before your sister dis - ' He
stopped abruptly and
colour came to his worn cheeks. 'I - '
Ronin shook his head. 'You will not hurt me if you say it,' he said softly. 'I
am beyond that.'
Stahlig said quickly, 'Since before her disappearance,' as if, even in speech,
it was a terrible
thing to linger over. 'A long time we know each other. Yet you will not speak
to me of what
troubles you.' His hands came together again. 'You will leave here and go and
talk to Nirren' -
his voice had acquired a hard edge - 'your friend. Ha! He is a Chondrin,
Estrille's Chondrin, and
what is his first concern? You are without affiliation - you have no Saardin
to order you or protect
you. He is without feelings, that one. He pretends friendship, for
information. That is after all one of his
functions.'
Ronin put down his cup. Another time he might have been angry with Stahlig.
But, he thought, he
truly likes me, watches out for me, he does not realize - yet I must remember
that he fears many
things, some justly, others not. He is wrong about Nirren.
'No one knows better than I the deviousness of Chondrin,' he said. 'You know
this. If Nirren seeks
information from me, he is welcome to it.'
'Ach!' Stahlig's fingers flailed the air. 'You are not a political animal.'
Ronin laughed. 'True,' he said. 'Oh, how very true.'
The Medicine Man frowned. 'I do not believe you realize the precariousness of
the situation.
Politics is what rules the Freehold. There has been much friction among the
Saardin recently, and it
becomes worse daily. There are elements within the Freehold - very powerful
elements - who, I
believe, want a war.'
Ronin shrugged. 'I could think of worse things happening.' He sipped his wine.
'At least the
boredom will be relieved.'
Stahlig was shocked. 'You do not mean that, I know you better. Perhaps you
think you will be
unaffected.'
'Perhaps I will be.'
Stahlig shook his head slowly, sadly. 'You talk without thinking because there
is little for
you to do. But you know as well as I that none shall remain unscathed by an
internal war.
Within this confined space such a foolhardy action can only have disastrous
consequences.'
'Yet I am uninvolved.'
'You are without a Saardin, yes. But you are a Bladesman, and when the time
comes you
cannot be uninvolved.'
There was a small silence. Within it, Ronin took another swallow of wine. He
said, finally: 'I
shall tell you what occurred today.'
Stahlig listened to Ronin through half-closed eyes, his blunt thumbs again
idly tapping his
upper lip. He could have been falling asleep.
'I find it incredible that I should be attacked in such a manner - and by
Bladesmen. If I were
Downshaft in the Middle Levels - you know the Code as well as I. Fistfights
are not for
Bladesmen. Any grievances are settled by Combat; it cannot be otherwise. For
centuries it has
been so. And today I am attacked by Bladesmen led by a Chondrin - as if they
were urchins who
did not know any better.'
Stahlig sat back now. 'It is as I have said. Tension, and something more, is
in the air. A war is
certainly coming, and with it a breakdown of all the traditions that have
allowed this Freehold,
among all other Freeholds, to survive.' He shuddered, just once, a pathetic
gesture. 'The victors,
whoever they may be, will change the Freehold.
Nothing will remain the same.' He gulped his wine, poured more. 'Black and
gold, you said. That
would be - Dharsit's people. He is one of the relatively new Saardin. A new
Order they want; new
ideas, new Traditions, so they say. Their ideas, / say.' He was suddenly
vehement, slamming his cup
down so hard that the contents flew across his desk, staining the tablets. 'It
is power they want!' He
jumped up in exasperation, flinging the wet tablets away from him, heedless of
where they fell.
'Oh, Chill take it! Ask your friend Nirren,' he said darkly. 'He will know.'
'We do not normally talk of politics.'
'No, of course not,' Stahlig said contemptuously. 'He would not divulge the
strategies Estrille
thinks upon. But I will wager he gathers Corridor gossip from you.'
'Perhaps.'
'Ah!' Stahlig paused, sitting down once again, and then rushed on as if
surprised at having elicited
this from Ronin. 'As for this incident today, I trust you are not
contemplating a precipitous action.'
'If by that you mean that you are worried I will use this' - he partially
withdrew his blade from its
scabbard and slammed it home with a whack -'rest assured I am not interested
in being drawn into
the world of the Saardin.'
The Medicine Man sighed. 'Good, because I doubt if Security would believe
you.'
'What about the Students who witnessed the attack?'
'And jeopardize their chances to be Bladesmen?'
Ronin nodded. 'Yes, of course. Well, it is no matter to me. And who knows,
sometime I may
run into Dharsit's Chondrin at practice.' He grinned. 'He will have cause to
remember me then.'
Stahlig laughed then. 'I daresay he will.'
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zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl upanicza.keep.pl
Eric Van Lustbader is the author of the bestselling novels The Ninja, Sirens,
Black Heart, The M
and Jian. He graduated from Columbia University in 1968, majoring in
Sociology, then joined
entertainment industry as a journalist. He went to take publicity and
marketing posts for Elek
Records, Dick James Music, NBC-TV and C Records, working with Pink Floyd, Blue
Oys Cult and
Elton John.
By the same author
The Ninja Black Heart The Miko Jian Sirens Shan Zero
Shallows of Night
Dai-San
Beneath an Opal Moon
ERIC VAN LUSTBADER
The Sunset Warrior
Volume 1 of the Sunset Warrior Sequence
GRAFTON BOOKS
A Division of the Collins Publishing Group
LONDON GLASGOW TORONTO SYDNEY AUCKLAND
Grafton Books
A Division of the Collins Publishing Group
8 Grafton Street, London W1X 3LA
Published by Grafton Books 1988
First published in Great Britain by W. H. Alien & Co. Ltd 1980
Copyright © Eric Van Lustbader 1977 ISBN 0-586-20206-4
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Collins, Glasgow
Set in Bembo
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in
a retrieval system, or transmitted, in
any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or
otherwise, without the prior
permission of the publishers.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade
or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired
out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form
of binding or cover other than that
in which it is published and without a similar condition including this
condition being imposed on the
subsequent purchaser.
To R.A.L. and M.H.L.
who were there through the best and,
especially, through the worst.
And To Henry Steig, more than the master artisan.
PART ONE
Echoes
To survive is not enough. - Bujun saying
Ronin was dying and he did not know it.
He lay quite still and completely naked on the centre of an elliptical stone
slab which
occupied roughly the centre of a square, cold chamber. Despite this, tiny
beads of sweat glinted
in the bristles of his short, black hair. His fine features held no expression
whatsoever.
Standing over him, bent, eyes intent, was Stahlig, the Medicine Man. Ronin
tried to relax,
thinking, This is all a waste of time, as Stahlig's fingers probed and pushed
at his chest, moving
slowly down towards his ribs on the left side. He tried not to think of it but
his muscles had a
will of their own and they betrayed him, jumping in pain under the thick
fingers.
'Uhm,' Stahlig grunted. 'Very recent'.
Ronin stared at the ceiling; at nothing. What was bothering him? It was merely
a fight.
Merely? His lips curled in distaste. A brawl; rolling in the Corridor like a
common - abruptly
remembrance blossomed . . .
His bare arms slick with sweat, his thick sword just sheathed, heavy at his
side, his hands
light after almost a full Spell of Combat practice. Walking alone and
distracted out of the Hall of
Combat into a knot of people, all at once surrounded by loud voices
disclaiming hotly, stupidly,
and he paid no attention. Something pushed against him and a voice cut through
the din.
'And where are you going?' It was cold and affected and belonged to a tall,
thin, blond man
who wore the obliquely striped chest bands of the Chondrin. Black and gold:
Ronin did not
recognize the colours. Behind the blond man on either side stood five or six
Bladesmen wearing
the same colours. Apparently they had stopped a cluster of Students on their
way from practice.
He could not think why.
'Answer, Student!' the Chondrin commanded. His thin face was very white,
dominated by a
waxy nose. His high cheeks were pocked and a scar ran down like a tear from
the corner of one
eye so that it appeared lower than the other one.
Ronin was momentarily amused. He was a Bladesman and therefore practised with
other
Bladesmen. But these days he did not have much to do and boredom had led him
to practice
with the Students also. When he did that, as now, he wore plain clothes and
those who did not
know him took him for a Student.
'Where I go and what I do is my own affair' Ronin said blandly.'What is your
business with
these Students?'
The Chondrin goggled at him, stretching his neck forward like a reptile about
to strike, and
two spots of colour appeared high on his cheeks, accentuating the whiteness of
the pockmarks.
'Where are your manners, Student?' he said menacingly. 'Speak with deference
to your betters.
Now answer the question.'
Ronin's hand strayed to the hilt of his sword but he said nothing.
'Well,' sneered the Chondrin, 'it appears this Student is in need of a
lesson.' As if the words
were a signal, the Bladesmen rushed at Ronin. Too late he realized that he
could not draw his
sword rapidly within the confines of the crowd. Then they were piling into
him, the sheer force
of their combined weight bearing him to the ground, and he thought, I do not
believe this is
happening. Instinctively he kicked out as he was borne under, and had the
satisfaction of
feeling his boot smash into flesh that gave way. Almost at the same moment, a
blow along the
side of his head disrupted his enjoyment. Adrenalin spurted and he punched up
and out, and
even though he was on his back and the leverage was not there, he felt his
fist connect as it split
open skin, cracked into bone. He heard a brief wail.
Then the boot caught him in the side and a thick gauze came down over his
brain. He tried to
hit again, could not, struggled with an enormous weight on his chest. His
lungs were on fire
and he felt ashamed. When the boot hit him again, he passed out . . .
The wave of pain came again but this time he had it under control and there
was only the
slightest movement. He looked at the wide head bent over him with its shaggy
brows, rheumy
eyes, and creased forehead.
'Ach!' exclaimed the Medicine Man, as much to himself as to Ronin. 'What have
you been
up to, ah?' He shook his head and, without looking at
Ronin, turned and put a dark, furry cloth against the mouth of an opaque
white-glass bottle, and
turned it upside down. He applied the cloth to Ronin's side. It was cold and
the pain subsided.
'So. Dress and come inside.' He threw the cloth over the back of a hard chair
and disappeared
through a doorway. Ronin sat up, his side stiff but now without pain, pulled
on his leggings and
shirt, then his low leather boots. He stood to strap on his sword, then
followed in the wake of
Stahlig's body into a warmly lighted cubicle in sharp contrast to the starkly
geometrical surgery
outside.
Here all was a jumble. Shelves of bound papers and tablets rose like wild ivy
from floor to
ceiling along three walls. Occasionally gaps appeared in the contents of the
shelves, or markers
stuck out at odd angles. Stahlig's desk was set close to the far wall, and it
was covered
completely by mounds of papers and tablets, as were the two small chairs set
before the desk.
Behind the Medicine Man lay glass cases filled with phials and boxes.
Stahlig did not look up from his work as Ronin entered but he reached out
behind him and
got a clear bottle of amber wine, and from somewhere produced two metal cups,
which he blew
into perfunctorily before filling them halfway. He looked up then as he held
one out. Ronin took
it, and Stahlig sat back and waved an arm expansively.
'Sit,'he said.
Ronin had to set his cup down in order to clear away the masses of tablets
from the chair. He
hesitated with them in his arms.
'Oh, drop them anywhere,' said Stahlig with a flick of his thick hand.
Ronin sat and sipped, felt the sweet wine unroll its carpet of warmth along
his throat and
into his stomach. He took a long swallow.
Stahlig leaned forward, elbows on the masses of tablets, fingers steepled, his
thumbs tapping
absently at his upper lip. He said: 'Tell me what happened.'
Ronin, swirling the wine slowly in his cup, said nothing. He sat very straight
because of his
side.
The Medicine Man dropped his eyes, crumpled a sheet of paper, and threw it
into a corner
apparently without caring where it landed. 'So.' He sighed audibly, and when
he spoke again
his voice had softened perceptibly. 'You do not wish to speak of it, yet I
know something
troubles you.' Ronin looked up. 'Oh, yes, the old man still sees and feels.'
He hunched forward
over the desk again.
He stared at Ronin. 'Tell me, how long do we know each other?' His fingers
moved along the
desktop. 'Since you were very young, since before your sister dis - ' He
stopped abruptly and
colour came to his worn cheeks. 'I - '
Ronin shook his head. 'You will not hurt me if you say it,' he said softly. 'I
am beyond that.'
Stahlig said quickly, 'Since before her disappearance,' as if, even in speech,
it was a terrible
thing to linger over. 'A long time we know each other. Yet you will not speak
to me of what
troubles you.' His hands came together again. 'You will leave here and go and
talk to Nirren' -
his voice had acquired a hard edge - 'your friend. Ha! He is a Chondrin,
Estrille's Chondrin, and
what is his first concern? You are without affiliation - you have no Saardin
to order you or protect
you. He is without feelings, that one. He pretends friendship, for
information. That is after all one of his
functions.'
Ronin put down his cup. Another time he might have been angry with Stahlig.
But, he thought, he
truly likes me, watches out for me, he does not realize - yet I must remember
that he fears many
things, some justly, others not. He is wrong about Nirren.
'No one knows better than I the deviousness of Chondrin,' he said. 'You know
this. If Nirren seeks
information from me, he is welcome to it.'
'Ach!' Stahlig's fingers flailed the air. 'You are not a political animal.'
Ronin laughed. 'True,' he said. 'Oh, how very true.'
The Medicine Man frowned. 'I do not believe you realize the precariousness of
the situation.
Politics is what rules the Freehold. There has been much friction among the
Saardin recently, and it
becomes worse daily. There are elements within the Freehold - very powerful
elements - who, I
believe, want a war.'
Ronin shrugged. 'I could think of worse things happening.' He sipped his wine.
'At least the
boredom will be relieved.'
Stahlig was shocked. 'You do not mean that, I know you better. Perhaps you
think you will be
unaffected.'
'Perhaps I will be.'
Stahlig shook his head slowly, sadly. 'You talk without thinking because there
is little for
you to do. But you know as well as I that none shall remain unscathed by an
internal war.
Within this confined space such a foolhardy action can only have disastrous
consequences.'
'Yet I am uninvolved.'
'You are without a Saardin, yes. But you are a Bladesman, and when the time
comes you
cannot be uninvolved.'
There was a small silence. Within it, Ronin took another swallow of wine. He
said, finally: 'I
shall tell you what occurred today.'
Stahlig listened to Ronin through half-closed eyes, his blunt thumbs again
idly tapping his
upper lip. He could have been falling asleep.
'I find it incredible that I should be attacked in such a manner - and by
Bladesmen. If I were
Downshaft in the Middle Levels - you know the Code as well as I. Fistfights
are not for
Bladesmen. Any grievances are settled by Combat; it cannot be otherwise. For
centuries it has
been so. And today I am attacked by Bladesmen led by a Chondrin - as if they
were urchins who
did not know any better.'
Stahlig sat back now. 'It is as I have said. Tension, and something more, is
in the air. A war is
certainly coming, and with it a breakdown of all the traditions that have
allowed this Freehold,
among all other Freeholds, to survive.' He shuddered, just once, a pathetic
gesture. 'The victors,
whoever they may be, will change the Freehold.
Nothing will remain the same.' He gulped his wine, poured more. 'Black and
gold, you said. That
would be - Dharsit's people. He is one of the relatively new Saardin. A new
Order they want; new
ideas, new Traditions, so they say. Their ideas, / say.' He was suddenly
vehement, slamming his cup
down so hard that the contents flew across his desk, staining the tablets. 'It
is power they want!' He
jumped up in exasperation, flinging the wet tablets away from him, heedless of
where they fell.
'Oh, Chill take it! Ask your friend Nirren,' he said darkly. 'He will know.'
'We do not normally talk of politics.'
'No, of course not,' Stahlig said contemptuously. 'He would not divulge the
strategies Estrille
thinks upon. But I will wager he gathers Corridor gossip from you.'
'Perhaps.'
'Ah!' Stahlig paused, sitting down once again, and then rushed on as if
surprised at having elicited
this from Ronin. 'As for this incident today, I trust you are not
contemplating a precipitous action.'
'If by that you mean that you are worried I will use this' - he partially
withdrew his blade from its
scabbard and slammed it home with a whack -'rest assured I am not interested
in being drawn into
the world of the Saardin.'
The Medicine Man sighed. 'Good, because I doubt if Security would believe
you.'
'What about the Students who witnessed the attack?'
'And jeopardize their chances to be Bladesmen?'
Ronin nodded. 'Yes, of course. Well, it is no matter to me. And who knows,
sometime I may
run into Dharsit's Chondrin at practice.' He grinned. 'He will have cause to
remember me then.'
Stahlig laughed then. 'I daresay he will.'
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