Back | Next
Contents

CHAPTER SIX

Peter watched his Speeds go. Simulated Attack Mode, launching at crash-emergency rates, and everything had to be perfect. The results of a screw-up in a crash launch sequence just didn't bear thinking about. At the velocities involved, even the AI's couldn't possibly react in time to prevent a disaster.

"Smooth," he said aloud, letting his crews hear it. "Pretty damned smooth . . . for a trial run. We'll need to do better in combat, of course."

Jeez, the last time I was this nervous was the day I walked my kid sister down the aisle. He'd been filling in for his father, to whom Debbie refused even to speak. There wasn't a person in the room he hadn't known all his life; even so, he'd been shaking. Of course that might have been due to the fact that my aunts were visibly cranking up for the dreaded, "Well, you're next" speech. 

He walked into the Flight Engineering briefing room. His department heads were already there, riveted by the events on the screen. All you could hear in a room filled by thirty people was the voice of flight control and breathing.

When the last Speed exited the flight deck and the space doors began to close, they all burst out with a spontaneous cheer.

"As if you didn't know it," Raeder said with a grin, "well done, people. And pass my congratulations on to the troops; they've done a great job."

There was a short burst of applause and Raeder was slightly taken aback. He wasn't used to having his remarks received with such an outpouring of enthusiasm. Well, I doubt they'll appreciate my next comments as much. 

"We were a little slow out there today, and we're definitely going to have to work on that." Heads nodded gravely and Peter was pleased to see it. Hey, suddenly I feel like applauding. There was nothing worse than having to first convince people that they could be better, before you could begin actually making them do better.

They settled down for a quick debriefing before everyone returned to the work of preparing for the squadron's return. The Speeds' exercise would take approximately four hours. An hour of that was allowed for transit time, and Peter wanted to go over the morning's work while the details were still fresh in everyone's minds. So they spent the first hour of their downtime vigorously evaluating performance.

When they broke off their meeting, Raeder was feeling pleasantly smug and ready for anything.

 

Peter hurried into his office cubby and set his audio and one of his monitors for the Squadron's mock dogfight. He hadn't been going to do this. He'd told himself it would be masochistic, because he knew himself well enough to realize it would hurt, at some level, not to be out there and part of the action.

But I just have to know what kind of leader Sutton is. He thought the squadron leader would be one of the best, based on his staunch support of Givens. And Raeder knew that if he were assigned to a Leader who backed him that way, he'd have followed the man anywhere. But is that feeling justified? Is he as good in a Speed as he is on the ground? There was a universe of difference between the two.

The squadron was too far away and too dispersed to actually be shown on the ship's monitors. The computers had created a simulation map which indicated their speed, direction, and distance from the ship along the margins of the screen. On the bridge it was an enormous holo-map, which showed their motion in three dimensions, with twisting cones showing possible vectors. In the confines of Raeder's office cubby that complex display was squashed under the flat screen of his monitor, giving him a confusing mass of blips and their ID numbers.

The screen was almost unreadable, but Peter was an old hand at untangling the mess before him and making sense of it. The squadron had broken into two parts for the exercise, blue and green, and the dots on the screen were displayed in those colors.

Raeder grinned at that. In his time everyone had wanted to be in Red Squadron. It had created such bad feelings that finally the powers that be decided to eliminate Red from games like these. An unusually sage idea, Raeder thought approvingly. But then, he'd always been picked for Red, so he could afford to be generous.

He watched the screen intently and listened to the crisp command and response of the pilots. Raeder's mind created the three-dimensional image the screen only hinted at. His mind's eye saw the fuzz of stars burning in the distance, sensed the presence of his fellow pilots around him, just as Sutton and the others must.

Peter shook his head. Whoa, boy! Let's not get too into it, and he forced his mind to simply evaluate the marks crawling across the monitor. And he was riveted. They were good! Sutton was an excellent leader and his people were terrific fliers. Even Givens, whom Raeder had secretly hoped would be cockier than was called for, proved to be a superb pilot. No wonder Sutton wanted him along. 

He settled down to enjoy the exercise with a connoisseur's appreciation. In a Speed you were the fastest thing in space, or at least the most maneuverable . . . except for a seeker missile, or a laser, or a plasma burst. Seekers you could detect coming at you, but the load from an energy weapon arrived faster than any possible sensor reading. You had to have a feel for what was going to happen, something no AI did; that was why pilots were worth the extra weight of life-support systems, despite the fact that they couldn't take as many gravities as a computer.

 

Givens settled himself a little deeper in his seat, a hidden sign of his deep satisfaction with the way things were going. His handsome face was almost serene in its concentration as he smoothly made his turn on his teammate's wing. And they wanted to ground me, he thought sarcastically.

He looked less handsome with a sneer. Not that anyone could have seen it; the suit reduced him to a smooth-edged outline, like a clay model of a human being, and most of that was hidden by the petal-like restraints that held and cushioned him.

For just a moment he allowed his thoughts to dwell on the rather weird Lieutenant Robbins. She was kinda cute in an intense sort of way. Maybe this is her way of getting my attention, he thought and smirked. She sure isn't the type I usually go for. He wondered idly if he was disposed to give the little geek a chance. Or should I report her for sexual harassment? He chuckled. Tough call. 

"Hey, buddy," his teammate, Apache, called. "What's so funny over there?"

"I was just thinking of Lieutenant Robbins and her incredible glitch machine."

Apache laughed. "Yeah, that little honey's got it in for you, bud. Go to silent running on my mark. Mark."

Givens and Apache cut their engines simultaneously and allowed their craft to drift. The plan was to allow Blue Squadron to overfly them and then to catch Blue in the rear; without the drive pumping out ionized particles, a Speed had a surprisingly small sensor signature. A classic move, and they'd be watching out for it. Which was why the two Speeds lay so close together, hoping to fool the "enemy's" sensors into wasting time looking for the "other" Speed until it was too late. He lay in eerie silence, nothing but the stars around him and the glowing graph-and-schematic projections of the passive sensor array, filtered through the AI.

And here they come, Givens thought with satisfaction. Come on fellas, step up for an early retirement. He enjoyed a moment of pure, boyish glee as his prey swept toward him all unaware of their danger.

Then his engines fired.

"What the hell are you doing, Givens?" Apache bellowed as Blue Squad swept toward them with cries of victory.

"It isn't me!" Givens shouted. His disbelieving eyes swept the control board, watching things happen that shouldn't, couldn't happen like this. He yanked his fingers out of the control cups and began hitting auxiliary keys, but the computer was there before him, locking him out of the manual controls. Suddenly it hit him, squeezing at his gut.

"My God! It's gone into automatic combat mode! I'm locked out, Apache, this Speed's gone rogue!"

Givens watched the monitor that showed the AI's thoughts as they scrolled across the screen in the control panel before him, and what he read dried his mouth with sheer horror.

"Blue Squadron, Blue Squadron," he shouted desperately, "my Speed is malfunctioning. I repeat, this Speed is malfunctioning. It is identifying you as Mollie fighters. Break off your attack pattern, repeat, break off your attack."

His fingers flew over the controls, trying again and again to disarm his weapons, only to have his authorization codes repeatedly rejected.

"Nice try, Givens," Blue Leader said. "But today you get your ass kicked for a change." Her smile died an instant death as her computer informed her that Givens' weapons were hot and locked onto her Speed. "Givens," she growled and sent out her IFF beacon.

Givens watched in horror as his insane computer swept aside Blue Leader's Identification Friend-Foe beacon without so much as a second's pause. "It doesn't recognize you," he screamed. "Eject! Eject! Eject!"

It was amazing how fast a seeker missile could travel when two ships were less than four kilometers apart. He felt the Speed rumble slightly as the fusion-powered magnetic rail slammed the weapon out at literally astronomical velocities. Blue Leader knew she had no time to maneuver, so she followed Givens' frantic advice. She was well away from her Speed when the missile found it, grimly enduring the fierce ride the ejection seat provided.

Givens watched in numb horror as his energy cannon lazily tracked her arc. Sighting pips strobed on the curving holoscreen before him.

"No," he begged the monster in whose belly he rode. "Please, don't."

The traitor Speed jolted under him; all it was firing was a handful of copper atoms, but they were accelerated to lightspeed. Blue Leader flared as the plasma struck, subliming into a cloud of monatomic hydrogen and oxygen and carbon, with trace elements from the ejector pod. And both squadrons cried out in the horror Blue Leader had no time to express.

 

Raeder sat stunned, his mouth and eyes wide open in shock. Alarms were ringing through the Invincible, voices were shouting . . . and there was nothing anyone could do. If the Speed wasn't responding to Givens' override codes from inside, it certainly wouldn't to a broadcast. The cramped office cubicle was rank with the smell of his sweat.

This isn't happening, he kept thinking, it can't be. There were fail-safes for this kind of thing. Over a dozen of them. Givens should have been able to do something, he thought. At least one of his options should have worked. And in the back of his mind Robbins' phantom spike sparked over and over again. Such a tiny warning for such a major malfunction.

Givens was cursing with raw inventiveness as he strove to take control of the Speed. As though he could verbally abuse it into submission.

"Shall we break off, sir?" one of the pilots asked.

"No," Sutton said grimly. "I'll remind you, Conan, since you've forgotten, that the next item on the preprogrammed Battle Options Menu that damned AI has loaded is to turn on the nearest enemy capital ship. And since Givens' computer thinks we're all Mollies, I imagine that would be the Invincible herself. However, there's no reason for all of us to be out here." He rattled off a list of names, sending twenty-seven of his squadron home.

Raeder knew that Sutton was keeping the best fliers in his squadron, the ones who could do witchcraft with their Speeds, who never got caught flat-footed.

Unfortunately the AIs were programmed to learn from their pilots. They added their human factors' moves to their own preprogrammed set, the better to take over should the pilot be killed or injured during combat. And Givens is one of the best I've ever seen, Peter thought. Almost as good as me. 

He reached for the comm to call the captain, but Knott's voice found him first.

"Commander," the captain said in a voice like frozen steel, "are you aware of the situation?"

"Yes, sir. I was just going to call the bridge to ask if I may be patched through to Lieutenant Givens. There may be something I can suggest to him."

"Commander!" A dark haired whirlwind swept into Raeder's office and then stopped short in confusion as Raeder held up a hand. Cynthia blushed as she realized she'd breached protocol again.

"That sounds like Lieutenant Robbins," Knott said dryly.

"Yes, sir, it is," Raeder said.

"Well, listen up, both of you. Fix this if you can. For obvious reasons I want to save that Speed. But I'm not going to keep those people out there dodging fire forever. You have ten minutes, then we'll have to destroy it."

"Understood, sir," Raeder answered seriously.

"Good, we're patching you through now. Don't disappoint me, Raeder."

"I'll try not to, sir."

"See to it."

 

"Sir!" Givens said to Sutton."It's issuing itself a mission." He read the AI's thoughts as they scrolled across the screen. He'd been doing this right along, to the considerable benefit of his squadron-mates. "It's going to break off and head for Invincible. It's going to ram the bridge! You were right, sir, it thinks Invincible's the enemy mother ship!"

"Then we'll just have to keep it too busy to leave us. Won't we?" Sutton said calmly. "Just keep working on it, Givens," he said. "Something's bound to give."

"Yes, sir."

Frankly the lieutenant was surprised that he could still communicate. The AI had to know he was doing it. "What if the computer cuts off my radio?" he asked nervously, addressing no one in particular.

"Don't worry, Givens," Raeder said, "that system's triple protected and the AI has given itself more important things to do."

"Where the hell have you been, man, do you know what's happening out here?" Givens' voice was so tight from tension it almost squeaked.

"That's why I'm here," Raeder said, ignoring Givens' plaintive "man" where there should have been a "sir." "Tell me what you've done."

And the lieutenant did. Most of it was stuff Raeder had been going to suggest, but there were one or two options left.

"I want you to break out your toolkit," Raeder said.

"Where is it?"

"Put your right arm out, straight from the shoulder. Your hand should be touching what looks like a small drawer," Robbins said, a trace of exasperation in her voice.

"Got it," Givens said. He pulled it out and it dropped open, revealing a few tools and a lot of empty spaces. "What can I do with this garbage?" he demanded.

"Take out the laser cutter," Raeder instructed.

"Haven't got one," Givens said.

Raeder looked at Robbins, who was hovering over his shoulder. She shrugged, with a bitter twist to her mouth. "Diagnostics said the toolkit was full." She pulled her belt recorder and made a note. "Physical checks from now on."

"Then take out your wire cutters," he went on.

"Haven't got one," Givens said, a tone of rising impatience clear in his voice.

"Well, what have you got?" Raeder asked. By now you may have gathered that we need a cutting instrument. 

"I've got a set of jewelers' screwdrivers and what looks like a miniature crowbar."

"That's it?" Raeder and Robbins cried as one.

"What did you do with your tools?" Robbins demanded. Her eyes were narrowed suspiciously, as if she thought he'd sold them for beer money.

"Nothin', I didn't even know where they were! What did you do with 'em, Lieutenant? What did you do to my Speed, for that matter?"

"Calm down, Givens," Raeder snapped. "That isn't gong to get us anywhere. I want you to take that little crowbar and use it to pry open the panel that covers your electronics. Don't argue, do it now."

"Those tools are supposed to be there," Robbins muttered angrily.

"Lieutenant, could you put a sock in it, please?" Raeder said.

Givens wasn't one hundred percent sure just which of them Raeder was addressing, so he shut up and stuck the flattened end of the tool into a slot and pried. There were four other slots and the panel gave a little at each until it floated free and he thrust it behind him impatiently.

"Oh, my God," Givens groaned.

"What is it?" Raeder asked urgently.

"That's what I was going to ask you." Before him was a dizzyingly complex array of lights, connections, and brilliantly colored, closely patterned boards. They'd all been there in the familiarization lectures, but he hadn't looked at them since—it was specialists' work, and doing his own job was hard enough. He hadn't the rudest idea what any of it was and panic tightened around his chest like a vise. How was he supposed to do anything with this mess?

"Don't let what you're seeing get to you, Lieutenant," Raeder said reassuringly.

 

 

 

 

"Easy for you to say," the pilot replied with a hint of desperation. "I've never seen anything like this mess!"

"Neanderthal," Robbins muttered.

Raeder shot her a poisonous look and she crossed her arms and looked away.

"Ignore the complexity of it," Peter advised. "What I want you to do is very simple. Counting from right to left, I want you to stop when you reach the fourth board. It should be red."

"Got it."

"That board controls your weapons. Yank it out."

"Yes, sir!" Givens' heart leapt as he reached out. He'd thought this was going to be hard.

SSSSSNNNAAAPPP! 

"AAAhhh!" he snatched his hand away and held it by the wrist. "Son of a bitch!"

"What is it?" Raeder shouted. "What's happening? Answer me, Lieutenant! Givens!"

Givens wondered if there was fire inside his glove; it sure as hell felt like it.

"Force field," he gasped. "There's a goddamn force field protecting that goddamn board!"

Raeder and Robbins looked at each other.

She looks as astounded as I feel, Peter thought. Robbins' hand was clutching her chest as if her heart were trying to claw its way out, and her eyes fairly bulged.

"You might have warned me," Givens snarled.

"That's not standard issue, Lieutenant," Raeder told him. This is out and out sabotage. "No way that field should be there." And probably the generator is deeper inside and therefore out of reach. "If you can't touch the electronics, there's nothing we can do."

"In that case, Givens," the captain broke in, his voice painfully matter-of-fact, "much as I hate to give this order, eject. Squadron Commander, as soon as the lieutenant is clear I want you to kill that Speed."

"Yes, sir," Sutton answered.

Givens pressed the firing stud that would blast away the canopy over his head and rocket him into space. Nothing happened. He pressed again and again with no result.

"Goddammit, Raeder! What the hell is this, a placebo button? It's not working!"

Christ! Peter thought. This can't be happening. Then: That thought is getting monotonous. "Okay," he said aloud. "There's an auxiliary system. Reach down with your right hand. You should find a handle."

"Of course," Givens muttered, sounding embarrassed. "Got it."

"Give it a yank," Raeder instructed.

Givens bit his lip and did as ordered. He felt a metallic chunk . . . click! The handle came off in his hand.

"Dammit! Dammit! Dammmit! Damn, damn, damn!" He flung the handle at the bulkhead in frustration, realizing as it left his injured hand that he'd made a mistake. It came right back at him. "Shit!" he yelped and ducked.

"It didn't work," Raeder said softly. Ye gods, whoever set this up really wanted Givens outta the gene pool. 

"What happened?" Robbins shouted. "Stop swearing and tell us what's going on."

"I threw the damn handle and it's ricocheting all over the cockpit."

"Well, get it back," Robbins exclaimed. "You've got to reattach it."

Givens laughed bitterly. "It won't work," he said scornfully. "Even if I reattached it perfectly, it wouldn't work. Don't you get that yet?"

"Yes, it will," she snapped.

"Lieutenant," Raeder said quietly. "Have you noticed that all of our fail-safes are failing?"

She looked a little sick for a moment, but then she nodded. "What do we do?" she asked in a small voice.

"What do you mean we?" Givens bellowed.

"All right, Lieutenant," Raeder broke in, "you have one option left. What I want you to do is get out of your chair, crawl to the hatch, and manually release it."

"Are you crazy? You want me to jump out of a Speed in a combat situation?"

"Givens," Raeder said patiently, "the only Speed firing out there is yours."

"And did you see what it did to Blue Leader?" Givens demanded, his voice harsh and ugly.

"So don't turn on your homing beacon until the squadron takes care of your Speed."

At the rate they'd be traveling Givens would be left hundreds of kilometers behind in seconds. His throat closed. He tried to speak, to answer the commander, but all that came out were choking noises. Until he faced the prospect, he'd never realized just how the idea of being lost in space terrified him.

"The commander is right, Lieutenant," the captain said. "It's your only chance. Your other choice is to stay where you are and die. Because I'm not going to let that Speed ram this ship. I've lost one pilot today, Lieutenant Givens. Don't make me lose another."

Givens took a ragged breath and unhooked his harness. "Yes, sir," he managed to say, and began crawling toward the hatch. He was terrified that the manual release lever would come off in his hand. The lieutenant could feel it happening, his palm anticipating the weight of the broken handle, even though he had three meters yet to crawl. He was deeply shaken, not only by the horrible events of the last hour, but by the knowledge that someone he knew loathed him and wanted him to die. He'd always sort of blithely assumed that he was a great guy and that everyone he'd ever met wanted to be his friend. Those he rejected were naturally angry and jealous of those in his inner circle. But he'd never imagined that anyone actually hated him.

He couldn't help but think of Robbins. She not only had the knowledge and the opportunity, but she'd never made any secret of her dislike for him. He'd always assumed she was frustrated. But she'd had nothing against Blue Leader. In fact, the two women had seemed to get along, which, with Robbins, meant she ignored you. And to go to such elaborate lengths to kill him, it was insane! But then, the lieutenant had always been strange. Maybe strange was thin veneer over crazy as a bandicoot.

Givens reached the hatch and, yanking open the cover over the manual release, he muttered a short, urgent prayer that it would work. He grasped the handle and turned. He felt it release, and if he'd been in gravity he'd have dropped to his knees in relief. He moved to the second of them and it too released. But his success made him wary and he moved to the third and final lever with an almost unbearable tension leaving a taste of sour bile at the back of his throat. If the third latch failed to open, he was dead.

He turned the handle and it stuck halfway. In spite of the fact that he'd half expected it, Givens still felt a surge of absurd indignation.

"Shit," he said simply.

"What is it?" Raeder asked. Don't tell me they've rigged the hatch, too. 

"They've rigged the hatch, too," Givens said.

This is too much! Peter covered his eyes with his hand.

"The third latch is jammed," Givens said, grunting with effort. He couldn't even get it back into position.

Oh, great, Raeder thought. You can't get to those things without dismantling the whole hatch. 

"Go back and get the crowbar," Robbins suggested. "When you've got it you can try prying the—"

"Hold it," Peter said.

"The crowbar? You want me to get the crowbar?" Givens screamed. "How the hell do I know where the damn thing is?"

I can tell by the way he's talking that if he and Robbins and a crowbar were in proximity it would be a bad thing for Cynthia, Raeder thought.

"Didn't you put it back where it belonged?" There was a touch of horror in Robbins' voice.

"No, I didn't put it back! I'm trapped in a rogue Speed that's going to be shot to hell in four minutes and you want me to go looking for some damn tool?" Givens screamed. You could practically hear him foaming at the mouth.

"I said hold it!" Peter barked. "Givens, get a grip, and kick that sucker till it breaks open." C'mon boy, give it a go. Imagine it's Robbins' butt. 

"Kick?" The pilot said it in a strange voice, as though he didn't know what the word meant. "Yeah!" he snarled.

Givens grabbed the handles extruded from the wall on either side of the hatch and slammed both feet into it just below the jammed latch. His body bucked backward, though his grip remained firm, and it took a moment to bring his feet up again, and again and again. He could see a thin slice of space all around the edges, but that was all.

"It's—not—working," he panted.

"Well, of course not!" Cynthia snapped in exasperation. "Those latches are made of tempered—"

"We know what they're made of, Lieutenant," Raeder said through his clenched teeth. "Didn't I just ask you to—"

"Put a sock in it? Yes, sir." Robbins assumed a sort of seated parade rest stance, her eyes fixed on a point straight ahead.

Boy, you don't do anything by halves do you, Cindy? When you're annoying, you're as annoying as hell; when you're being a jerk, you're the mold they make them from. 

"I can't do it," Givens said, his voice plainly despairing. "It won't give."

"It will," Raeder insisted. "It's got to," he grimly reminded the young pilot.

"Oh, yeah. That's right," Givens said, and brought his feet back up.

He was almost shocked when the pounding finally broke the recalcitrant latch. He stared out at the stars in astonishment.

"Hoo-ah!" he cried, and dove. He tumbled, stars whirling by his faceplate; the Speed whirled by as well, maintaining its relative position, then disappeared in a flare of drive gasses as the rogue AI made a vector change to dodge its opponents.

"I'm out!" he shouted.

"Understood," Sutton's voice said in his ear.

And far off, a sudden brightness blossomed and died. He put on his homing beacon, and while he waited he had time to feel regret, sorrow, and fear, as well as a growing anger.

 

A tiny red dot sparked on Raeder's monitor and Robbins leapt happily out of her chair.

"He's safe!" the young engineer cried.

Peter was astonished by the genuine delight in her smile.

"I thought you didn't like him," he said.

Cynthia stopped her little victory hop and stared at him with her mouth open.

"Well, we're not friends," she said, "but I wouldn't want him to die or anything."

Raeder just stared at her. Not friends. I see understatement is one of your many gifts, he thought. He couldn't help but feel that she made a good suspect in what was obviously sabotage. And when Givens gets back, I think you'd better be somewhere he can't find you. 

"What I want you to do now, Lieutenant Robbins, is go to your office and write up a report on this incident. Then I want you to finish writing your report on this morning's activities. Then I want you to diligently clear your desk of any paperwork you may have outstanding. I want you to lock your office door and to not come out until I come for you. Do you understand?"

Her face had screwed itself up in to a puzzled, narrow-eyed, frown.

"Nnno, sir. I don't. We're going to have wounded Speeds coming in here in the next twelve minutes. I'm needed on Main Deck, not in my cubby," she objected.

"Well, I think that when Lieutenant Givens gets back he's going to be looking for someone to blame. And since you don't seem to like him, he's very likely to focus on you."

Cynthia stiffened and slowly brought herself to attention.

"Is that what you think, sir? That I did this?" Her brown eyes were wide with disbelief.

Raeder thought that, for just a moment, real pain had flickered across her face. But then, if she's guilty she'd want me to think she's innocent. Maybe she's a really good actress. 

"Lieutenant, it isn't what I believe, it's what Givens and the others will believe," he said. "There's going to be an investigation of this incident. And they will find that you had access, knowledge, opportunity, and possibly a motive to—"

"Motive! What possible motive could I have for wanting to murder Givens? You don't murder people just because they're macho jerks! You avoid them." She looked at the commander for a moment, breathing hard. "You heard me, sir. I begged him not to take that Speed. I've nursed that craft like an ailing child and everyone in the squadron knows it. How could you possibly turn my concern into guilt?"

"Good question," he admitted. "I don't know, but—" He paused. "I think it would be best if the whole crew for that Speed were spoken to and cleared by Security before we do anything else."

If possible Cynthia stiffened even more. "Am I being accused, sir?"

"No," Raeder said patiently. "But you and the flight crew are going to have to be questioned. Given what happened, that's both necessary and inevitable. Bear in mind, Lieutenant, that I cleared that Speed, and therefore I'm going to have to answer some hard questions, too. The sooner we get them asked, the sooner we can get back to work." He looked her in the eye as she, apparently, fought her way through a conflicting morass of emotions.

"Yes, sir," she said finally, through her teeth. Then she pivoted and marched out, her stiff shoulders looking as though they expected a blow from behind.

 

Back | Next
Contents
Framed