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14

 

 

YOU have stated that the Millenarists are only one "religious" sect among many such, and not a large one at that. Why then are there so many on this planet?

 

Yes, well, when I got here that struck me as pretty strange, too. I'd never seen so many Millenarists in one place.

The thing is, there are a hell of a lot of human beings—more than you can imagine—so even a tiny splinter cult like the Millenarists probably has hundreds of thousands of members.

No more than that, of course; their doctrines don't encourage growth. Millenarists don't want to inflict original sin on any helpless infants, so they hardly ever have children.

But a few hundred thousand are barely a pimple on the human race. We are both numerous and diverse. There are probably a hundred thousand or so of almost any kind of improbable human being you wanted to name—left-handed albinos who are more than two meters tall, for instance—and still you'd be pretty surprised if you saw very many of those people in one place.

Even so, you shouldn't exaggerate their number. Out of more than eight hundred people on Pava, less than a quarter were really Millenarists. Don't be deceived by how many showed up for the rejoicing. Everybody loves a party. You know the old saying, "Everybody's Irish on St. Patrick's Day." Well, you don't know it, really, I suppose, but you get the idea.

So the Millenarists were nowhere near a majority, really, and the rest of us were a sampling of all kinds of denominations. We had two or three kinds of Muslims, we had a variety of Christians. We had a clutch of about fifteen or eighteen Mormons, for instance—well, you know about them because the Mormons were about the only ones who really tried hard to convert you people to their religion. Of course they didn't succeed.

Jacky Schottke was the one who told me about that failed mission to the heathen—I guess because he'd tried his own luck at spreading his own Millenarist gospel, back when he was still a red-hot. He told me sadly that with the leps it was a major flop. He said leps had taken very well to human food and human games, and one or two of them had even tried out human liquor . . . but no lep, ever, had shown any interest at all in being converted to any human religion. Not even my little buddy Geronimo, although he struck me as about as fascinated by human ways as any lep I ever heard of—until I met you, anyway.

 

Geronimo was the first lep friend I made. I hadn't really expected to see him again after that day in the woods, in spite of what he had said, but the morning after Jubal's memorial service I was stuck on farm duty, running a tractor plow along what was going to be a potato field near the river. Surprise—when I broke for lunch I saw the little lep humping and hustling up from the riverbank toward me.

"Good morning, Barrydihoa," he said. "Is there candy today?" I'd forgotten all about him and his sweet mouthpart. "I'm sorry, Geronimo. Maybe I can get some tomorrow."

He weaved his upper body back and forth for a moment in silence, watching me with those huge fly eyes. "It is okay," he said, in that hissy, whispery voice. "I will be at another place today. Good-bye, Barrydihoa." And he stretched and squirmed his way back down to the riverbank. There he scouted around for a moment until he found a good piece of deadwood. He took the chunk in his teeth—well, in whatever he had to grind things with in his mouthpart—to help him stay above water, and flopped into the stream. I watched him paddling with his little hands and wriggling his body as he swam across, holding on to the log for buoyancy. The current was strong there. It carried him a pretty long way downstream, but I saw him wriggle safely out on the far bank. He didn't look back.

The other farm workers were looking at me with curiosity. "What did he mean about the candy?" one of them asked—Pasquale Scales, it was; I remembered that he and his wife had come out on Corsair with me.

"I guess leps like candy." (Of course I was wrong about that; "leps" aren't all the same any more than humans are. Geronimo just happened to have acquired the taste.)

"Well," Pasquale said, "maybe we can help. Rita and I were talking about making some fudge if we could. I don't know what it's going to be like, with goat milk, but if you come by the kitchens tonight you can have some."

It was a generous offer. I thanked him, and then I told them about meeting Geronimo up in the hills, and how we'd played Frisbee with one of the flying rats. Pasquale thought that sounded like enough fun to try for ourselves, but although we'd seen some of the rats down by the grain patch we had to get back to work.

I wondered if I could catch one of the creatures for myself. It might be more interesting than playing pinochle with Jacky Schottke. I didn't expect I'd actually be tossing the thing back and forth with Geronimo again, of course. I still didn't really think I'd see him again.

But the next morning, as I was getting ready to help replace some of the shorings on the meeting hall, there he was.

"I will work with you today, Barrydihoa," he said. "Is there candy now?"

 

I wasn't surprised at leps helping humans; by then I'd got used to the idea. But this was special. I had no idea why Geronimo picked me out. He didn't say, and I couldn't guess. But there I was, all of a sudden, with a new lep friend and a new interest in life.

I don't want you to think that I'd given up on my plans to fix whatever was wrong with the Pava colony. I kept on bothering everybody I could find with questions. Wherever I worked—the farms, the biomass power plant, even kitchen detail a couple of times when I didn't duck fast enough—I cross-examined everybody who would talk to me. I doubt there was a person in the colony who hadn't heard that I was this new guy who was obsessed on the subject.

But Geronimo was my sidekick. Almost every day he showed up wherever I was working and worked right along with me—tending Theophan's seismological stuff when Marcus Wendt was having one of his feeling-poorly days, repairing buildings, clearing roadways after a storm—whatever I had to do, he helped. Or, if that particular task was beyond his physical powers, at least he kept me company.

When he began humping up the steps to Jacky Schottke's apartment with me after work, I wasn't sure Jacky would be happy about having him there. I mean, that grassy, earthy lep smell could get pretty strong in an enclosed space, and the place was Jacky's apartment before it was mine. Actually Jacky was delighted. He'd talked to any number of leps before, of course—that was one of the things he did as an ethnologist—but seldom, he said, one as willing to spend time conversing with a human being as my Geronimo. A third-instar lep doesn't know as much as a senior, but Geronimo easily remembered things some of the more mature ones forgot—what it was like to be second instar, for instance, basking in the sun for warmth and toddling around in a fumbling search for edible roots and fruits and the slower, softer, least aggressive bugs.

"The leps," Jacky lectured me one night after Geronimo had crept away home, "along with the goobers and the black crawlers, are a trophic species—"

"The what?"

"The goobers and the crawlers. You must have seen them in the woods. No? Well, they look like leps, but they're not intelligent. Anyway, they all eat the same things in the food chain, and I'm pretty sure they're eaten by the same predators—or were, before we wiped out most of the predators in this area. So they're a trophic species. The hard part of figuring out their relationships is that the adult leps don't eat what the young ones do, but Geronimo seems to remember every bite he ever took."

And was willing to answer all of Jacky's questions about them, too, up to a point . . . although when the questioning stretched out too long Geronimo might rear back and give him a frosty look and screech, "Play cards?"

That was the other thing Geronimo liked a lot. He liked to play games. He was willing to play indoors when it was dark or raining—he didn't mind being out in the rain, but I did—and he was quick to learn pinochle. He learned it well enough to beat Jacky and me a fair bit of the time.

He loved the vid games, too, although we didn't let him play them often. It was a drain on Schottke's computer time, and besides, Geronimo would get so wrapped up in piloting his simulated aircraft from simulated Seattle to simulated Singapore (I wondered what he made of the simulated Earthly geography along the way) that he wasn't answering any questions at all. He even tried baseball a time or two, when we could get up a scratch team. He managed surprisingly well with the bat but he couldn't really cover the outfield.

Geronimo made a big difference for me in my new life on Pava.

I didn't have that many friends in the colony. Geronimo was a welcome addition to the list—if "friend" is the right word for what Geronimo was to me. Maybe it was more like owning a particularly smart, loyal, affectionate pet . . . although it wasn't always clear to me which was the pet and which the owner.

 

As it happened, we had plenty of time for indoor games around then. The weather changed. For a while we were pretty much housebound as Freehold was hit by a nasty three-day storm, wave after wave of thunder-boomers with spectacular lightning displays, high winds and pelting rain. Jacky Schottke and I took turns running to the kitchens to bring food back to the apartment, and the outside work of the community had to be done in two-hour snatches between waves. I used the time to work the apartment's screen to catch up on some of the colony's history and technology—not being very impressed with what I found—and to get my notions about bringing it up to speed into some coherent order. The first step, surely, was to get the factory orbiter fueled from Tscharka's antimatter store; after that I was less clear. But no less impatient.

When the clouds moved out toward the coast and Delta Pavonis beamed again, there was a lot of accumulated work to deal with, I found out that there were some jobs Geronimo didn't care to share with me when Jimmy Queng tagged me for butcher detail. Geronimo was standing right beside me at the morning show-up when I got the call, but by the time I was halfway to the little meadow where Freehold's herd of free-ranging goats grazed he wasn't there anymore. He was sloping off, as fast as he could slither, in the direction of the hills.

Friar Tuck had drawn the same detail and was just behind me. When he saw where I was looking he gave me a consoling smile. "Leps don't like to kill things," he said.

"I'm not crazy about it myself," I told him.

He said mildly, "You eat the meat, though." That was a point for him, all right. When we had stripped to the waist and begun to get into the actual nasty business of slitting throats and spilling out the guts from the body cavities of the animals, I gave serious if brief thought to becoming a vegetarian. The reverend did not appear to have any such thoughts. He waded right in, regardless of struggling animals, bad smells or gore. I suppose that when death is your dearest ambition a little extra slaughter doesn't matter much, one way or the other.

By the time we had six carcasses skinned and cleaned and cut into quarters Dabney Albright had joined us in his boat, pissing and moaning because he'd had so much trouble dodging floating debris on the way up. All the rivers had risen after the storms, and our little local stream was yellow with mud and full of storm-downed branches and even fair-sized trees.

"At least it makes it easier for the woodcutters," Tuchman said jovially as we began loading the meat into the boat. The man was determined to be cheerful about everything. He had good ideas, though; when we had all the carcasses loaded and Albright was already pushing off for the downstream run, Tuchman was the first one to get out of his clothes and into the water to get the blood off.

Although the water was cold, Delta Pavonis was hot. It seemed that Millenarists didn't suffer much from nudity taboos, and when we were reasonably clean Tuchman sprawled naked on the riverbank for a while, unconcerned with his great, pale, bare body, gazing benignly at the rest of us. One of the others, a young dark-skinned man named Phil Pass, threw a stick into the stream and said, "You know what I'd like to do? I'd like to put some trout in these rivers."

"You know we can't do that," Tuchman reminded him. Well, we all did know that. The colonists were strict about releasing the kinds of Earthly organisms that might go explosively feral in the Pavan environment; there had been too many Hawaiis and Australias in human history to make that particular mistake again. Even our free-ranging goats were all female—fertilized by sperm collected from the few closely guarded males that were allowed to grow to maturity—and kept tightly fenced in until they delivered. But Tuchman wasn't finished. He was gazing at me as he said, "There are a lot of things we'd like to do, but can't."

I took that to be a challenge. "On the other hand," I said, "there are a lot of things that we can do, and should. Like getting some use out of all that antimatter Tscharka brought."

"You're so concerned with worldly things," he said gently.

"Maybe you and Tscharka aren't concerned enough. Where's he been, anyway?"

"Shuttling cargo down from Corsair, of course."

"Well, what's going to happen when that's finished? We're not all Millenarists, you know."

"I do know that," he said earnestly, "and I sorrow for that fact every day of my life." He stood up and began getting dressed. "No," he said, "we're not all Millenarists, but what we are is a democracy. It isn't up to you to decide what the colony does with its resources, my friend Barry. It's up to the colony as a whole, and I have no doubt that that decision will be made in good time. Now I think we should start back to see what else needs doing."

 

Before dinner I decided on a social call. I hadn't seen Madeleine Hartly for several days, and I liked the woman. Her house was a one-flat at the opposite end of town from Jacky Schottke and me. I found it without trouble, but when I knocked on the door a tall, skinny young woman answered. She had a big spoon in her hand and I could smell cooking as she shook her head at me. "No, you can't see Gram right now. This weather hasn't been good for her. She's not feeling too well right now."

I asked her to please tell Madeleine that I'd stopped by and that I hoped she'd be better soon—the things you say when someone's sick. It seemed to me that she'd have to be pretty ill to have someone cooking for her in her own kitchen, and I didn't like that idea. I hadn't thought of Madeleine ever being sick. She was old; I knew that. But the way she'd loped up and down the hillside to gather fruit hadn't suggested an invalid.

On the way to the mess tables I strolled along the riverbank, enjoying the warm dusk. You could hear the river that night; it was still all yellow with mud brought down from the storm. Bits and pieces of vegetation were floating in it, and Pavans were out walking like myself.

Halfway there I heard someone calling my name, and it was Theophan. "Listen," she said when she caught up to me, "are you doing anything important tomorrow?"

I looked around for Marcus Wendt, but she was alone. "Whatever they tell me to do, I guess."

"Well, this damp is bad for Marcus's shoulder, and I need to get some stuff up to the Rockies in the morning. Want to give me a hand?"

I promised. I thought for a moment that she might suggest joining her at the meal, but she didn't; she nodded thanks and turned around and left.

Oddly, Geronimo wasn't with us when Theophan and I met the next morning. That wasn't a total surprise, because there were days when the lep had business of his own, whatever that business was, and never showed up. But I thought I'd seen him out my window, and yet when I came down he wasn't there.

He wasn't waiting at the car, either, though two other leps were. I didn't give it much of a thought, because I was looking forward to seeing the Rockies close up. Theophan wouldn't even try to do that particular jaunt when it was raining—it was going to be hard enough getting up those hills in dry weather, she promised; if it was raining we'd never make it. So I hadn't been west of the river at all.

I almost wasn't that day, either, because after we'd taken the long detour upriver to the only place where it could be forded, Theophan stopped the car and got out to stare at the water. It wasn't inviting. The river was several hundred meters broad at that point and obviously flowing fast. "It's still pretty high," she fretted. "What do you think, Barry?"

I knew my opinion wasn't worth much—what did I know about fording rivers on Pava?—but I didn't want to turn back again. "I think we can make it if we go slow," I said wisely. Theophan knew how little my opinion was worth as well as I did, but I had said what she wanted to hear. She made all the leps get out of the car and gave me a rope; I led them across, each one of them hanging gamely by its mouth-part to the rope and slithering and sliding around in the flow.

It wasn't any fun for me, either, though my only real personal problems were just the coldness of the water and the necessity for taking care in where I placed my feet. It was a good deal harder for the leps. Their bodies wanted to float. Try as they would, they couldn't keep enough of themselves below water to anchor themselves on the bottom. But we made it safely, and then it was Theophan's turn to drive the car after us.

That was tricky. There was a minute or two when I could see it beginning to slide, but she jammed on the speed and got clear.

When she finally crawled out onto the west bank I breathed easier—and, from the strained look on her face as she grinned at me, so did she.

We dried off quickly enough in the warm air as we drove back down along the river. There weren't many new sights for me to see yet. There was only one real difference between the two banks of the river and that was man-made. The colony's farm plots were scattered all along the east bank. There weren't any farms on the west—I thought—and then I began to notice that the occasional leps who raised their heads to stare at us as we passed were usually in the middle of patches of yellowish flowering plants or red-berried green ones.

That suggested something very close to agriculture to me. When I asked Theophan about them she nodded.

"Beans and berry roots, that's what they eat. They cultivate them, all right. I don't know if you'd call it real farming, though. They don't have to work very hard at it, because all they do is fling seeds into the ground and come back to collect their crops a few months later."

She looked over her shoulder at our lep assistants, whistling and snorting interestedly among themselves in the back of the car, and then added, "Now and then we've tried to show the leps how they could increase their productivity—selecting the best strains, fertilizing, and so on—but they just didn't seem to be interested in the idea. Now, with their population explosion, they may begin to pay attention."

That rang a bell. "Somebody else said something about a lep population explosion," I mentioned.

"Sure. They're hardly ever eaten by predators anymore. I'd guess there are twice as many leps around this colony now as there were when the first ship arrived," she said with satisfaction. "So they really have something to thank us for, don't they? Only they don't act that way."

"Well, but they do," I objected. "Look at the way Geronimo works with me, and he's not the only one. I mean, they're always helping out, aren't they? Seems to me that's pretty decent of them." She shrugged. She didn't look at me; we had turned west into the hills and she was concentrating on peering ahead at the rutty track we were following. I persisted. "Wouldn't you call that gratitude?"

She said shortly, "For some people, maybe. Shut up for a minute, will you? so I won't run us into some damn ditch."

I shut up, and we were both silent for half an hour or so as we climbed along the slope of one of the mountains. I was glad Theophan was doing the driving; if she seemed touchy, I put it down to the difficulty of the job. There wasn't any road. There wasn't really even the kind of primitive track we'd followed to the old hydroelectric dam; Theophan was steering us across meadows and through clearings in wooded areas that became harder and harder to penetrate. Then she put on the brakes and killed the motor.

She looked around to make sure of her bearings, then nodded. "This is as far as we can go in the car," she said. "Let's unload the gear."

And so we did, Theophan passing the bits of equipment to me from the back of the car, I handing them down to the leps outside. The leps seemed to know the drill better than I did. They took the sleds and instruments in their little hands and organized them—stringing the harnesses to the sleds, tying the sensor parts securely in place. Then they stopped, looking up at me out of those remarkable eyes.

Theophan followed me out of the car. She looked up at the hill ahead of us and sighed. "All right," she said, "let's go."

Nothing happened. The leps stayed there, silent and staring.

Theophan looked grim but not surprised. "Damn them," she said. "Barry, tell them to get going."

I wasn't quite clear what was happening, but I tried it. "Let's get going," I said . . . and each of the leps picked up its harness and began tugging the sleds up along the slippery vegetation.

 

It was like that all day. Theophan would tell me what the leps were supposed to do. Then I would tell the leps. Then they would do it.

I didn't have the breath to ask her what that was all about while we were lugging the equipment up the mountain. I hardly had the breath to crawl through the slick, damp undergrowth, with the pack on my back weighing about one ton more with every hundred meters we climbed. The leps didn't seem bothered by the climb. They inched smoothly along, sliding through whatever gaps presented themselves in the brush, pulling those runnered sleds after them as though they were toys. The only good part of that climb was the scenery, and the only word for that was "spectacular." We stopped to catch our breaths at the edge of a huge rock amphitheater, and although I was panting and sore I couldn't help staring at it: vertical walls of something like limestone or marble, a tiny trickle of waterfall sparkling out of a cliff top.

Theophan noticed it. "Pretty, isn't it? The Millenarists call it The Cathedral—they come up to have their retreats here sometimes."

"It's a long climb," I said. If I'd been the Millenarists I would have picked somewhere closer.

She laughed. "I guess that's what they like best about it. Nobody comes to bother them here. Let's go."

We went. It didn't get easier. When we did finally reach the top I fell flat on the ground, sweating cold sweat—it was windblown and chilly on the peak—and trying to get my heart to stop pounding. I wondered if this sort of exertion were going to accelerate my need for a booster. Then I wondered if Dr. Billygoat would have something for me next time I saw him. Then I wondered what I would do if he didn't.

Then I got up and got busy, because I didn't want to do any of that wondering anymore.

If it hadn't been for the chill and Theophan's mood, it might have been real nice to be up high in the Pavan Rockies that day. It was different from the places on the east side of the river. There weren't any traces of human activity here, no roads, no leftover debris from food-gathering parties, nothing but what we had brought with us. And correspondingly there was more wildlife; I saw a couple of jacks, the little kangaroo-like lizards that hopped like bunnies, and heard whistling snakes all around me, and saw flocks of the flyers. I even thought I saw a red-marked third-instar lep looking out from the trees at us once. It seemed to me that it might possibly be Geronimo, but it disappeared before I could call to it.

We didn't have time to look around much, because the work was hard. It took us two hours to struggle the strain gauges into place, then another hour of Theophan scowling as she tinkered the transmitter into service. It didn't go well. She kept swearing to herself as she made tiny adjustments, and then swore some more after she'd made them and the needles on her test equipment continued to wobble unsteadily. The leps silently handed over the parts needed or went off and whistled morosely among themselves. I wasn't that smart. I kept making what I thought were helpful suggestions. Theophan didn't think they were. She snapped at me until finally I just shut up, sat down, and waited.

"Shit," she said at last. "That's as good as I can get it. What I really need is a whole set of new instruments, but let's go."

Then it took us another hour to get back to the car, and when we got there all of the leps simply disappeared.

Theophan sighed. "Get in, Barry," she said. "I guess we aren't going to have any company for the trip back."

There it was again. Something between her and the leps, but what?

I hadn't forgotten any of those questions, but I didn't think that was the time to ask them. It took all her concentration to get us down the hill in one piece. I didn't want to slow her down; the sun was getting low, and I didn't want to face trying to ford that river in the dark.

Theophan didn't seem to be feeling conversational, but as we were approaching the river she said morosely, "The more I think of it, the more I'm not sure we got that gauge in right, Barry. I'll have to check it when we get home, but I bet we're going to have to come back here, okay?"

"Any time," I said, though I wouldn't have said it had been a fun trip. I cleared my throat and asked, "Mind if I ask you something? What's the matter between you and the leps?"

She glanced at me. She shrugged. "They hate me."

"I kind of suspected they did. Why?"

She thought for a moment. "You've never seen their main nesting place, have you? There's not much to see now. They had a big quake that diverted a mountain stream, and the new path took the flow right through the nests. A lot of the leps got drowned."

"Yes?"

She thought some more, then sighed and began at the beginning. "Do you remember what a fault is? It's a place where you get crustal slippage. It's usually associated with a subducting region, where the edge of one tectonic plate slides down under another. On Earth you usually find subduction along an ocean coast, like California. Oh, there are other places even on Earth—the Rift Valley in Africa for instance—but mainly they're on coasts. Here not."

"Why is that?" I asked—hoping to keep her going long enough to get to the answer to my question. Which she didn't seem in any hurry to get around to.

"What do you mean 'why'? I'm not even sure of what, much less why. I'll never know for sure until we can do a complete geodetic survey, and I don't think I'll live that long. All this crap—I'm just scratching the surface! As a minimum, I ought to be setting off acoustic blasts: dig a shallow borehole and blow up a ton or so of explosives to measure the acoustic-wave reflections. But I can't get the explosives, and—" She stopped and bit her lip. "So I theorize. The only decent theory I've got doesn't help. Besides, I've already told it to you: The tectonic activity is linked to the fact that there's just one big continent on Pava. What do you think?"

That caught me by surprise, because what I'd been mostly thinking about was that she was having a hard time getting to answering me. I fell back on the truth. "I don't know enough to have an opinion."

"Neither do I," she said gloomily. She was silent for half a kilometer or so, I guess rehearsing her worries. Then she said, still talking around the question I had asked her, "Anyway, there are faults under where we built that dam—we found that out for sure, when it collapsed—and there are also big faults under these Rockies. And now I think they're coupled."

"Yes?"

"I mean," she said, sounding as though her patience tank was running low, "when one of the faults lets go—as the one under the dam did, probably from the weight of water we impounded behind it—that may trigger the other so it lets go too. The leps' quake wasn't more than twelve hours after the dam burst. Only theirs was worse. The slippage was twice as great, at least eight meters. What I think, I think there's a much deeper fault down under the surface there somewhere that connects the two faults."

"Oh," I said.

I waited for her to go on. She didn't. Finally I prompted, "And why does that make the leps hate you?"

"They blame me for that quake," she said. "They found out that Jake and I were seismologists, and they got it into their heads that the quake that ruined their nests was our fault. That's bullshit, of course. If they want to blame anybody, they should blame the klunkhead who sited the dam there in the first place. But try to tell them that! Now, if you don't mind, I really need to get us across the river."

 

That was true enough; and I could see by looking at it that the river had not come down much since the morning. My heart was in my mouth as we lurched across, but practice had improved Theophan's fording skills. She goosed the car across, throwing up a big spray of river water, and we made it safely enough to the other side.

Then she stopped and hunched over the wheel for a minute before she turned and looked at me.

"I might as well tell you all of it," she said.

"Please do!"

She looked at me in a hostile way, but she said it anyway. "The thing is, most of the leps who died were young. That's what got them so pissed off. Leps have a funny attitude about death. When a six-star lep dies, it happens after it's laid its eggs or fertilized its female. They think that's perfectly all right. It's what a six-star lep is supposed to do. But for a lep to die before the sixth instar is—well—you said you were brought up Western Orthodox, didn't you? Then think back to your early training. You'll understand what the leps believe, maybe, if you think of somebody dying unbaptized."

"If you die unbaptized you don't go to heaven, is that what you mean? But I didn't think the leps believed in heaven."

"They don't believe in heaven. Christ, Barry, they don't have to. They see heaven all around them. It's what they get as a reward at the end of their lives. Their sixth instar—the winged phase, when they don't work or eat or have to think about anything anymore, just fly around and make love and die—that's their heaven. Think about it, Barry! Think of angels. The lep sixth instar is exactly what you thought heaven was going to be like when you were a kid—plus unlimited fucking! And so if any lep happens to die before the sixth instar, it's a terrible tragedy. It means they've been cheated out of their final reward, their life has lost its fruition, and when the leps think somebody has done that to anyone, or even just been careless enough to let it happen, it's the one thing they can't ever forgive."

 

 

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