Sacrament

Published:

1996

Rating:

★★★

Tags:

Horror, Fiction, Fiction - Horror, Horror - General, Fantasy, Contemporary, Fantastic fiction, San Francisco (Calif.), Barker; Clive - Prose Criticism, Patients, AIDS (Disease), Yorkshire (England) - Fiction, Yorkshire (England), Photographers, San Francisco (Calif.) - Fiction, Endangered species - Fiction, Endangered species, AIDS (Disease) - Patients - Fiction
Horrorttt Fictionttt Fiction - Horrorttt Horror - Generalttt Fantasyttt Contemporaryttt Fantastic fictionttt San Francisco (Calif.)ttt Barker; Clive - Prose Criticismttt Patientsttt AIDS (Disease)ttt Yorkshire (England) - Fictionttt Yorkshire (England)ttt Photographersttt San Francisco (Calif.) - Fictionttt Endangered species - Fictionttt Endangered speciesttt AIDS (Disease) - Patients - Fictionttt

EDITORIAL REVIEW:

*Sacrament* is a novel unlike any that Clive Barker has written. Neither horror nor fantasy, though partaking of both, this masterful work plunges far deeper and soars even higher.

It is the story of Will Rabjohns, perhaps the most famous wildlife photographer in the world, who has made his reputation chronicling the fates of endangered species, including his own. For even as Will rises to the pinnacle of his career, he is witnessing his own world the close-knit San Francisco community that has nurtured and liberated him ravaged by AIDS.

Then an almost mystical encounter with a bear in the Arctic leaves Will all but dead. In the depths of his coma, he revisits the wildernesses of his youth in England and relives the terrifying encounter that created him, both as an artist and a man.

Befriended by a mysterious couple, Rosa McGee and Jacob Steep, the young Will is granted the love he has been denied by his own family. But with that love comes a grim education. For while Rosa shows him the cruelties of passion, Jacob teaches him the purities of death seducing him with the possibility that he might one day slaughter the last of a species and thus change the world forever.

When Will stirs from his long sleep, he realizes that this dark dream, which he thought he had put behind him is still very much a part of who he is. Haunted by its echoes and driven by the certainty that he must face Rosa and Jacob one final time, he sets out on a journey of self-discovery a journey that will lead him from the familiar streets of San Francisco, back to the Yorkshire moors and on to the stark beauty of Scotland's Western Isles. There he will penetrate the ultimate mystery *The Domus Mundi* and finally discover the secret that links his destiny to that of the innumerable creatures with whom we share our planet.

*Sacrament* is the book Clive Barker's millions of readers knew he had to write someday: the troubling and passionate masterwork from the pen of one of today's most acclaimed authors.

Clive Barker

SACRAMENT

This edition published 1996 Printed and bound in Germany

For Malcolm

CONTENTS

PART ONE He Stands Before An Unopened Door PART TWO He Dreams He Is Loved PART THREE He Is Lost; He Is Found PART FOUR He Meets The Stranger In His Skin PART FIVE He Names The Mystery PART SIX He Enters The House Of The World

I am a man, and men are animals who tell stories. This is a gift from God, who spoke our species into being, but left the end of our story untold. That mystery is troubling to us. How could it be otherwise? Without the final part, we think, how are we to make sense of all that went before; which is to say, our lives? So we make stories of our own, in fevered and envious imitation of our Maker, hoping that we'll tell, by chance, what God left untold. And finishing our tale, come to understand why we were born.

PART ONE

He Stands Before An Unopened Door

CHAPTER I

To every hour, its mystery.

At dawn, the riddles of life and light. At noon, the conundrums of solidity. At three, in the hum and heat of the day, a phantom moon, already high. At dusk, memory. And at midnight? Oh then the enigma of time itself; of a day that will never come again passing into history while we sleep.

It had been Saturday when Will Rabjohns arrived at the weather-bullied wooden shack on the outskirts of Balthazar. Now it was Sunday morning, two-seventeen by the scored face of Will's watch. He had emptied his brandy flask an hour before, raising it to toast the Borealis, which shimmered and billowed far beyond Hudson Bay, upon the shores of which Balthazar stood. He had knocked on the door of the shack countless times, calling out for Guthrie to give him just a few minutes of his time. On two or three occasions it had seemed the man was going to do so; Will had heard him grumbling something incoherent on the other side of the door, and once the handle had been turned. But Guthrie had not appeared.

Will was neither deterred nor particularly surprised. The old man had been universally described as crazy: this by men and women who had chosen as their place of residence one of the bleaker corners of the planet. If anyone knew crazy, Will thought, they did. What besides a certain lunacy inspired people to build a community - even one as small as Balthazar (population: thirty-one) - on a treeless wind-battered stretch of tidal flats which was buried half the year beneath ice and snow, and was for two of the remaining months besieged by the polar bears who came through the region in late autumn waiting for the Bay to freeze? That these people would characterize Guthrie as insane was quite a testament to how crazy he really was.

But Will knew how to wait. He'd spent much of his professional life waiting, sitting in hides and dugouts and wadis and trees, his cameras loaded, his ears pricked, watching for the object of his pursuit to appear. How many of those animals had been, like Guthrie, crazed and despairing? Most, of course.Creatures who'd attempted to outrun the weeping tide of humankind, and failed; whose lives and habitats were in extremis. His patience was not always rewarded. Sometimes, having sweated or shivered for hours and days he would have to give up and move on, the species he was seeking, for all its hopelessness, preserving its despair from his lens.

But Guthrie was a human animal. Though he had holed himself up behind his walls of weather-beaten boards, and had made it his business to see his neighbours (if such they could be called; the nearest house was half a mile away) as seldom as possible, he was surely curious about the man on his doorstep, who had waited for five hours in the bitter cold. This was Will's hope, at least; that the longer he could stay awake and upright the likelier it became that the lunatic would surrender to curiosity and open the door.

He glanced at his watch again. It was almost three. Though he had told his assistant Adrianna not to stay up for him, he knew her too well to think she would not by now be a little concerned. There were bears out there in the dark: eight hundred, nine hundred pounds some of them, with indiscriminate appetites and unpredictable behaviour patterns. In a fortnight, they'd be out on the ice floes hunting seal and whale. But right now they were in scavenging mode; come to befoul themselves in the stinking rubbish heaps of Churchill and Balthazar, and - as had occasionally happened - to take a human life. There was every likelihood that they were wandering within sniffing distance of him right now, beyond the throw of Guthrie's jaundiced porch-light, studying Will, perhaps, as he waited on the doorstep. The notion didn't alarm him. Quite the reverse, in fact. It faintly excited him that some visitor from the wilderness might at this very moment be assessing his palatability. For most of his adult life he'd made photographs of the untamed world, reporting to the human tribe the tragedies that occurred in contested territories. They were seldom human tragedies. It was the populace of the other world that withered and perished daily. And as he witnessed the steady erosion of the wilderness, the hunger in him grew to leap the fences and be part of it, before it was gone.

He tugged off one of his fur-lined gloves and plucked his cigarettes out of his anorak pocket. There was only one left. He put it to his numbed lips, and lit up, the emptiness of the pack a greater goad than either the temperature or the bears.

'Hey, Guthrie,' he said, rapping on the blizzard-heater door, 'how about letting me in, huh? I only want a couple of minutes with you. Give me a break.'

He waited, drawing deep on the cigarette, and glancing back out into the darkness. There was a group of rocks twenty or thirty yards beyond his jeep; an ideal place, he knew, for bears to be lurking. Did something move amongst them? He suspected so. Canny bastards, he thought. They were biding their time; waiting for him to head back to the vehicle.

'Fuck this!' he growled to himself. He'd waited long enough. He was going to give up on Guthrie, at least for tonight; head back to the warmth of the rented house on Balthazar's Main (and only) Street; brew himself some coffee, cook himself an early breakfast, then catch a few hours' sleep. Resisting the temptation to knock on the door one final time, he left the doorstep, digging for the keys as he strode back over the squeaking snow to the jeep.

At the very back of his mind, he'd wondered if Guthrie was the kind of perverse old bastard who'd wait for his visitor to give up before opening the door. He was. Will had no sooner vacated the comfort of the lamplight when he heard the door grinding across the frosted steps behind him. He slowed his departure but didn't turn, suspecting that if he did so Guthrie would simply slam the door again. There was a long silence. Time enough for Will to wonder what the bears might be making of this peculiar ritual. Then, in a worn voice, Guthrie said: 'I know who you are and I know what you want.'

'Do you?' Will said, chancing a backward glance.

'I don't let anybody take pictures of me or my place,' Guthrie said, as though there was an unceasing parade of photographers at his door.

Will turned now, slowly. Guthrie was standing back from the step, and the porchlight threw very little illumination upon him. All Will could make out was a very tall man silhouetted against the murky interior of the shack. 'I don't blame you,' Will said, 'not wanting to be photographed. You've got a perfect right to your privacy.'

'Well then what the fuck do you want?'

'Like I said: I just want to talk.'

Guthrie had apparently seen enough of his visitor to satisfy his curiosity, because he now stepped back a pace and started to push the door closed. Will knew better than to rush the step. He stayed put and played the only card he had. Two names, spoken very softly. 'I want to talk about Jacob Steep and Rosa McGee.'

The silhouette flinched, and for a moment it seemed certain the man would simply slam the door, and that would be an end to it. But no. Instead, Guthrie stepped back out onto the step. 'Do you know them?' he said.

'I met them once,' Will replied, 'a very long time ago. You knew them too, didn't you?'

'Him, a little. Even that was too much. What's your name again?'

'Will - William - Rabjohns.'

'Well . . . you'd better come inside, before you freeze your balls off.

CHAPTER II

Unlike the comfortable, well-appointed houses in the rest of the tiny township, Guthrie's dwelling was so primitive it barely seemed habitable, given how bitter the winters up here could be. There was a vintage electric fire heating its single room (a small sink and stove served as a kitchen; the great outdoors was presumably his toilet) while the furniture seemed to have been culled from the dump. Its collector was scarcely in better condition. Dressed in several layers of grimy clothes, Guthrie was plainly in need of nourishment and medication. Though Will had heard that he was no more than sixty, he looked a good decade older, his skin red- raw in patches and sallow in others, his hair, what little he had, white where it was cleanest. He smelt of sickness and fish.

'How did you find me?' he asked Will as he closed and triple-bolted the door.

'A woman in Mauritius spoke to me about you.'

'You want something to warm you up a bit?'

'No, I'm fine.'

'What woman's this?'

'I don't know if you'll remember her. Sister Ruth Buchanan?'

'Ruth? Christ. You met Ruth. Well, well. That woman had a mouth on her. . .' He poured a shot of whisky into a well-beaten enamel mug, and downed it in one. 'Nuns talk too much. Ever noticed that?'

'I think that's why there are vows of silence.'

The reply pleased Guthrie. He loosed a short, barking laugh, which he followed with another shot of whisky. 'So what did she say about me?' he asked, peering at the whisky bottle as if to calculate how much solace it had left to offer.

'Just that you'd talked about extinction. About how you'd seen the last of some animals.'

'I never said anything to her about Rosa and Jacob.'

'No. I just assumed if you'd seen one you might have seen the other.'

'Huh.' Guthrie's face knitted up as he thought this through. Rather than be seen to be studying him - this was not a man who took kindly to scrutiny - Will crossed to the table to look at the books that were piled upon it. His approach brought a warning growl from under the table. 'Shut up, Lucy!' Guthrie snapped. The dog hushed its growl, and came out of hiding to ingratiate herself. She was a sizeable mongrel, with strains of German Shepherd and Chow in her bloodline, better fed and groomed than her master. She'd brought her bone out with her, and dutifully carried it to her master's feet.

'Are you English?' Guthrie said, still not looking at Will.

'Born in Manchester. But I was brought up in the Yorkshire Dales.'

'England's always been a little too cosy for me.'

'I wouldn't call the moors cosy,' Will said. 'I mean, it's not wild like this, but when the mists come down and you're out on the hills-'

'That's where you met them then.'

'Yes. That's where I met them.'

'English bastard,' Guthrie said. Then, finally looking at Will: 'Not you. Steep. Chilly, English bastard.' He spoke the three words as if cursing the man, wherever he was. 'You know what he called himself?' Will knew. But it would serve him better, he suspected, if he let his host have the moment. 'The Killer of Last Things,' Guthrie said. 'He was proud of it. I swear. Proud of it.' He emptied the remnants of the whisky into his mug but didn't drink. 'So you met Ruth in Mauritius, huh? What were you doing there?'

'Taking pictures. There's a kestrel there looks like it's going to be extinct some time soon.'

'I'm sure it was grateful for your attention,' Guthrie said dryly. 'So what do you want from me? I can't tell you anything about Steep or McGee. I don't know anything, and if I ever did I put it out of my head. I'm an old man and I don't want the pain.' He looked at Will. 'How old are you? Forty?'

'Good guess. Forty-one.'

'Married?'

'No.'

'Don't. It's a rat-trap.'

'It's not likely, believe me.'

'Are you queer then?' Guthrie said, with a little tilt of his head.

'As it happens, yes.'

'A queer Englishman. Surprise, surprise. No wonder you got on so well with Sister Ruth - She Who Must Not Be Touched. And you came all this way to see me?'

'Yes and no. I'm here to photograph the bears.'

'Of course, the fucking bears.' What little trace of warmth or humour his voice had contained had suddenly vanished. 'Most people just go to Churchill, don't they? Aren't there tours now, so you can watch them performing?' He shook his head. 'Degrading themselves.'

'They just go where they can find a free meal,' Will said.

Guthrie looked down at the dog, who had not moved from his side since her reprimand. Her bone was still in her mouth. 'That's what you do, isn't it?' The dog, happy she was being addressed, whatever the subject, thumped her tail on the bare floor. 'Little brown-noser.' Guthrie reached down as if to take the bone. The dog's ragged black lips curled back in warning. 'She's too bright to bite me and too stupid not to growl. Give it to me, you mutt.' Guthrie tugged the bone from her jaws. She let him take it. He scratched her behind her ear and tossed the bone back on the floor in front of her. 'I expect dogs to be sycophants,' he said, 'we made 'em that way. But bears - Jesus, bears shouldn't be fucking nosing around in our garbage. They should stay out there- he vaguely waved in the direction of the Bay '-where they can be whatever God intended them to be.'

'Is that why you're here?'

'What, to admire the animal life? Christ no. I'm here because being with people makes me vomit. I don't like 'em. I never did.'

'Not even Steep?' Will said.

Guthrie shot him a poisonous look. 'What in Christ's name kind of question is that?'

'Just asking.'

'Fucking stupid question,' Guthrie muttered. Then, softening somewhat, he said: 'They were something to look at, both of them, and that's the truth. I mean, Christ, Rosa was beautiful. I only put up with talking to Steep to get to her. But he said once I was too old for her.'

'How old were you?' Will asked him, thinking as he did so that Guthrie's story was changing slightly. He'd claimed only to know Steep; but apparently he'd known them both.

'I was thirty. Way too old for Rosa. She liked 'em real young. And of course she liked Steep. I mean the two of them, they were like husband and wife and brother and sister and fuck knows what else all rolled into one. I didn't stand a chance with her.' He let the subject trail away, and picked up another. 'You want to do some good for these bears?' he said. 'Get out there on the dump and poison 'em. Teach 'em not to come back. Maybe it'll take five seasons, and that'll be a lot of dead bears, but they'll get the message sooner or later.' Finally he downed the contents of his glass, and while the liquor still burned his throat said: 'I try not to think about them, but I do-' He wasn't talking about the bears now, Will knew. 'I can see both of them, like it was yesterday.' He shook his head. 'Both of them so beautiful. So . . . pure.' His lip curled at the word, as though he meant its antithesis. 'It must be terrible for them.'

'What must be terrible?'

'Living in this filthy world.' He looked up at Will. 'That's the worst part for me,' he said. 'That the older I get, the more I understand 'em.' Were those tears in his eyes, Will wondered, or simply rheum? 'And I hate myself for it so fucking much.' He put down his empty glass, and with sudden determination announced: 'That's all you're getting from me.' He crossed to the door and unbolted it. 'So you may as well just get the hell out of here.'

'Well, thank you for your time,' Will said, stepping past the old man and into the freezing air.

Guthrie waved the courtesy away. 'If you see Sister Ruth again……'

'I won't,' Will said. 'She died last February.'

'What of?'

'Ovarian cancer.'

'Huh. That's what you get for not using what God gave you,' Guthrie said.

The dog had joined them at the threshold now, and was growling loudly. Not at Will this time, but at whatever lay out there in the night. Guthrie didn't hush her, but stared out at the darkness. 'She smells bears. You'd better not hang around.'

'I won't,' Will said, offering his hand to Guthrie. The man looked down at it in puzzlement for a moment, as though he'd forgotten this simple ritual. Then he took it.

'You should think about what I told you,' he said. 'About poisoning the bears. You'd be doing them a favour.'

'I'd be doing Jacob's work for him,' Will replied. 'That's not what I was put on the planet to do.'

'We're all doing his work just being alive,' Guthrie replied. 'Adding to the trash-heap.'

'Well at least I won't be adding to the population,' Will said, and started from the threshold towards his jeep.

'You and Sister Ruth both,' Guthrie called after him. There was a sudden eruption of fresh barking from his dog, a shrillness in its din which Will knew all too well. He'd heard camp dogs raise a similar row at the approach of lions. There was warning in it, and Will took heed. Scanning the darkness to left and right of him he was at the jeep in half a dozen quickened heartbeats.

On the step behind him, Guthrie was yelling something - whether he was summoning his guest back inside or urging him to pick up his pace Will couldn't make out; the dog was too loud. He blocked out the sound of both voices, man and animal, and concentrated on making his fingers perform the simple function of slipping the key into the lock. They played the fool. He fumbled, and the key slipped out of his hand. He went down on his haunches, the dog's barking shriller by the moment, to pluck it out of the snow. Something moved at the limit of his vision. He looked around, his fingers digging blindly for the key. He could see only the rocks, but that was little comfort. The animal could be in hiding now and on him in five seconds. He'd seen them attack, and they were fast when they needed to be, moving like locomotives to take their quarry. He knew the drill if a bear elected to charge him: drop to his knees, arms over his head, face to ground. Present as small a target as possible, and on no account make eye contact with the animal. Don't speak. Don't move. The less alive you were, the better chance you had of living. There was probably a lesson in that somewhere, though it was a bitter one. Live like a stone and death might pass you by.

His fingers had found the dropped key. He stood up, chancing a backward glance as he did so. Guthrie was still in the doorway, his dog, her hackles raised, now silenced at his side. Will hadn't heard Guthrie hush her; she'd simply given up on this damn fool man who couldn't come out of the snow when he was told.

On the third time of trying, the key went into the lock. Will hauled open the door. As he did so he heard the bear's roar for the first time. And there it was, barrelling out between the rocks. There was no doubting its intention. It had him in its sights. He flung himself into the driver's seat, horribly aware of how vulnerable his legs were, and reached back to slam the door behind him.

The roar came again, very close. He locked the door, put the key into the ignition and turned it. The headlamps came on instantly, flooding the icy ground as far as the rocks, which looked as flat as stage scenery in their glare. Of the bear there was no sign. He glanced back towards Guthrie's shack. Man and dog had retreated behind the locked door. He put the jeep in gear and started to swing it round. As he did so he heard the roar again, followed by a thump. The bear had charged the vehicle in its frustration, and was rising up on its hind legs to strike it a second time. Will caught only a glimpse of its shaggy white bulk from the corner of his eye. It was a huge animal, no doubt of that: nine hundred pounds and counting. If it damaged the jeep badly enough to halt his escape, he'd be in trouble. The bear wanted him, and it had the means to get him if he didn't outpace it. Claws and teeth enough to pry the vehicle open like a can of human meat.

He put his foot on the accelerator, and swung the vehicle around to head it back down the street. As he did so the bear changed tactics and direction, dropping back onto all fours to overtake the jeep, then cutting in front of it.

For an instant the animal was there in the sear of the headlamps, its wedgesnouted head pointing directly at the vehicle. It was not one of the pitiful clan Guthrie had described, their ferality dimmed by their addiction to human refuse. It was a piece of the wilderness still; defying the blaze and speed of the vehicle in whose path it had put itself. In the instant before it was struck, it was gone, disappearing with such speed that its departure seemed almost miraculous; as though it had been a vision conjured by the cold, then snatched away.

As he drove back to the house, he felt for the first time the poverty of his craft. He had taken tens of thousands of photographs in his professional lifetime, in some of the wildest regions of the planet: the Tomes de Paine, the plateaus of Tibet, the Gunung Leuser in Indonesia. There he had photographed species that were in their last desperate days, rogues and man-eaters. But he had never come close to capturing what he had seen in the jeep's headlamps minutes before: the power and the glory of the bear, risking death to defy him. Perhaps it was beyond his talents to do so; in which case it was probably beyond anybody's talents. He was, by general consensus, the best of the best. But the wild was better. Just as it was his genius to wait upon his subject until it revealed itself, so it was the genius of the wild to make that revelation less than complete. The rogues and man- eaters were dying out, one by one, but the mystery continued, undisclosed. And would continue, Will suspected, until the end of the rogues and mysteries and the men who were fools for them both.

CHAPTER III

Cornelius Botham sat at the table with a hand-rolled cigarette lolling from beneath his blond feather moustache, his third beer of the morning set at his elbow, and surveyed the disemboweled Pentax laid out before him.

'What's wrong with it?' Will wanted to know.

'It's broken,' Cornelius dead-panned. 'I say we hack a hole in the ice, wrap it in a pair of Adrianna's knickers and bury it for future generations to discover.'

'You can't fix it?'

'Yes, I can fix it,' Cornelius said. 'That is why I'm here. I can fix everything. But I would prefer to hack a hole in the ice, wrap it in a pair of Adrianna's knickers-'

'It's given good service, that camera.'

'So have we all. But sooner or later, if we're lucky, we'll be wrapped in a pair of Adrianna's knickers-'

Will was at the stove, making himself a ragged omelette. 'You're obsessing.'

'I am not.'

Will slid his breakfast onto a plate, tossed two slices of stale bread on top of it, and came to sit at the table opposite Cornelius.

'You know what's wrong with this town?' Cornelius asked.

'Give me an A, B or C.'

This was a popular guessing game amongst the trio, the trick being to dream up alternatives more believable than the truth.

'No problem,' Cornelius said. He sipped a mouthful of beer and then said: 'Okay. A, right? There aren't any good-looking women in two hundred miles, besides Adrianna, and that'd be like fucking my sister. Okay? So, B. You can't get any decent acid. And C

'It's B.'

'Wait, I haven't finished.'

'You don't have to.'

'Fuck, man. I got a great C.'

'It's the acid,' Will said. He leaned towards Cornelius. 'Right?'

'Yeah.' He peered at Will's plate. 'What the hell's that?'

'Omelette.'

'What did you make it with? Penguin eggs?'

Will laughed, and was still laughing when Adrianna came in out of the cold. 'Hey, we got more bears at the dump,' she said, her Southern drawl perfectly mismatched with every other detail of her appearance and manner, from her badly trimmed bangs to her heavy-booted stomp. 'At least four of 'em. Two adolescents, a female and a huge male.' She looked first at Will, then at Cornelius, then back at Will. 'A little enthusiasm, please?'

'Just give me a few minutes,' Will said, 'I need a couple of cups of coffee first.'

'You've got to see this male. I mean-' she was struggling for the words - this is the biggest damn bear I ever saw.'

'Maybe the one I saw last night,' Will said. 'Actually we saw each other. Outside Guthrie's place.'

Adrianna unzipped her parka and sat down on the beaten-up sofa, flinging aside a pillow and blanket to do so. 'He kept you talking for quite a while,' she said. 'What was the old fuck like?'

'No more crazy than anybody'd be, living in a shack in the middle of nowhere.'

'On his own?'

'He had a dog. Lucy.'

'Hey. . .' Cornelius cooed. 'Does that sound like a man with a supply or what?' He grinned, his eyes popping. 'Only a guy with a habit would name his dog Lucy.'

'Christ!' Adrianna shouted. 'I am so thoroughly sick of hearing you talk about getting high.'

Cornelius shrugged. 'Whatever,' he said.

'We came here to do a job of work.'

'And we've done it,' Cornelius said. 'Every damn undignified, pitiful thing a polar bear can do we've got on film. Bears playing around the broken sewage pipes. Bears trying fucky-fucky in the middle of the dump.'

'Okay, okay,' Adrianna said, 'we did good.' She turned to Will. 'I still want you to see my bear,' she said.

'Your bear now, is it?' Cornelius said.

She ignored him. 'Just one last shoot,' she implored Will. 'You won't be disappointed.'

'Jeez,' Cornelius remarked, putting his legs up on the table. 'Leave the man alone. He doesn't want to see the fucking bear. Haven't you got the message?'

'Keep out of this,' Adrianna snapped.

'You're so fucking pushy,' Cornelius replied. 'It's just a bear.'

Adrianna was up from the couch and over to Cornelius in two strides. 'I told you: keep out of this,' she said, and shoved Cornelius' shoulder just hard enough to tip him over. Down he went, clearing half of the doomed Pentax from the table with his boot-heel as he went.

'Come on,' Will said, setting down his omelette in case there was an escalation in hostilities. If there was, it wouldn't be the first time. Nine days out of every ten Cornelius and Adrianna worked side by side like brother and sister. And on the tenth they fought, like brother and sister. Today, however, Cornelius wasn't in the mood for insults or fisticuffs. He got to his feet, brushing his hippie-length hair back out of his eyes, and stumbled to the door, picking up his anorak on his way. 'See you later,' he said to Will. 'I'm going to go look at the water.'

'Sorry about that,' Adrianna said when he'd gone. 'It was my fault. I'll make peace when he gets back.'

'Whatever.'

Adrianna went to the stove and poured herself a cup of coffee. 'So what did Guthrie have to say?'

'Not a lot.'

'Why did you even go see him?'

Will shrugged. 'Just . . . some stuff from my childhood. . .' he said.

'Big secret?'

Will offered her a slow smile. 'Huge.'

'So you're not going to tell me?'

'It's nothing to do with us being here. Well, it is and it isn't. I knew Guthrie lived on the Bay, so I kind of killed two birds. . .' the words grew soft '. . . with one stone.'

'Are you going to photograph him?' she said, crossing to the window. The Tegelstrom children, who lived across the street, were out playing in the snow, their laughter loud. She peered out at them.

'No,' Will said. 'I already invaded his privacy.'

'Like I'm invading yours?'

'I didn't mean that.'

'That's right though, isn't it?' she said gently. 'I never get to hear what life was like for little Willy Rabjohns. That's because you don't want to tell me.' She was warming to her thesis now. 'You know . . . this is how you used to be with Patrick.'

'Unfair.'

'You used to drive him crazy. He'd call me up sometimes and vent these streams of abuse-'

'He is a melodramatic queen,' Will said, fondly.

'He said you were cryptic. You are. He said you were secretive. You're that too.'

'Isn't that the same thing?'

'Don't get intellectual. It pisses me off.'

'Have you spoken to him recently?'

'Now you're changing the subject.'

'I am not. You were talking about Patrick and now I'm talking about Patrick.'

'I was talking about you.'

'I'm bored with me. Have you talked to Patrick recently.'

'Sure.'

'And how is he?'

'Up and down. He tried to sell the apartment but he couldn't get the price he wanted so he's staying put. He says it depresses him, living in the middle of the Castro. So many widowers, he says. But I think it's better he's there. Especially if he gets sicker. He's got a strong support group of friends.'

'Is whatsisname still around? The kid with the dyed eyelashes?'

'You know his name, Will,' Adrianna said, turning and narrowing her eyes.

'Carlos,' Will said.

'Rafael.'

'Close enough.'

'Yes, he's still around. And he doesn't dye his eyelashes. He's got beautiful eyes. In fact he's a wonderful kid. I surely wasn't as giving or as loving as he is at nineteen. And I'm damn sure you weren't.'

'I don't remember nineteen,' Will said. 'Or twenty, come to that. I have a very vague recollection of twenty-one-' He laughed. 'But you get to a place when you're so high you're not high any more.'

'And that was twenty-one?'

'It was a very fine year for acid tabs.'

'Do you regret it?'

'Je ne regrette rien,' Will slurred, sloe-eyed. 'No, that's a lie. I wasted a lot of time in bars being picked up by men I didn't like. And who probably wouldn't have liked me if they'd taken the time to ask.'

'What wasn't to like?'

'I was too needy. I wanted to be loved. No, I deserved to be loved. That's what I thought, I deserved it. And I wasn't. So I drank. It hurt less when I drank.' He mused for a moment, staring into middle distance. 'You're right about Rafael. He's better for Patrick than I ever was.'

'Pat likes having a partner who's there all the time,' Adrianna said. 'But he still calls you the love of his life.'

Will squirmed. 'I hate that.'

'Well you're stuck with it,' Adrianna replied. 'Be grateful. Most people never have that in their lives.'

'Speaking of love and adoration, how's Glenn?'

'Glenn doesn't count. He's in for the kids. I've got wide hips and big tits and he thinks I'll be fertile.'

'So when do you start?'

'I'm not going to do it. The planet's fucked enough without me turning out more hungry mouths.'

'You really feel that?'

'No, but I think it,' Adrianna said. 'I feel very broody, especially when I'm with him. So I keep away when there's a chance, you know, I might give in.'

'He must love that.'

'It drives him crazy. He'll leave me eventually. He'll find some earthmother who just wants to make babies.'

'Couldn't you adopt? Make you both happy?'

'We talked about it, but Glenn's determined to continue the family line. He says it's his animal instincts.'

'Ah, the natural man.'

'This from a guy who plays in a string quartet for a living.'

'So what are you going to do?'

'Let him go. Get myself a man who doesn't care if he's the last of his line, and still wants to fuck like a tiger on Saturday night.'

'You know what?'

'I should have been queer. I know. We would have made a lovely couple. Now, are you going to move your butt? This damn bear's not going to wait forever.'

CHAPTER IV

i

As the afternoon light began to fail, the wind veered, and came out of the northeast across Hudson Bay, rattling the door and windows of Guthrie's shack, like something lonely and invisible, wanting comfort at the table. The old man sat in his old leather armchair and savoured the gale's din like a connoisseur. He had long ago given up on the charms of the human voice. It was more often than not a courier of lies and confusions, or so he had come to believe; if he never heard another syllable uttered in his life he would not think himself the poorer. All he needed by way of communication was the sound he was listening to now. The wind's mourn and whine was wiser than any psalm, prayer or profession of love he'd ever heard.

But tonight the sound failed to soothe him as it usually did. He knew why. The responsibility lay with the visitor who'd come knocking on his door the night before. He'd disturbed Guthrie's equilibrium, raising the phantoms of faces he'd tried so hard to put from his mind. Jacob Steep, with his soot-and-gold eyes, and black beard, and pale poet's hands; and Rosa, glorious Rosa, who had the gold of Steep's eyes in her hair, and the black of his beard in her gaze, but was as fleshy and passionate as he was sweatless and unmoved. Guthrie had known them for such a short time, and many years ago, but he had them in his mind's eye so clearly he might have met them that morning.

He had Rabjohns there too: with his green milk eyes, too gentle by half, and his hair in unruly abundance, curling at his nape, and the wide ease of his face, nicked with scars on his cheek and brow. He hadn't been scarred half enough, Guthrie thought; there was still some measure of hope in him. Why else had he come asking questions, except in the belief that they could be answered? He'd learn, if he lived long enough. There were no answers. None that made sense anyhow.

The wind gusted hard against the window, and loosened one of the boards Guthrie had taped over a cracked pane. He raised himself out of the pit of his chair and picking up the roll of tape he'd used to secure the board, crossed to the window to fix it. Before he stuck it back in place, blocking out the world, he stared through the grimy glass. The day was close to departure, the thickening waters of the Bay the colour of slate, the rocks black. He kept staring, distracted from his task, not by the sight but by the memories which came to him still, unbidden, unwanted, but impossible to put from his head.

Words first. No more than a murmur. But that was all he needed.

These will not come again

Steep was speaking, his voice majestic.

-nor this. Nor this

And as he spoke the pages appeared in front of Guthrie's grieving eyes; the pages of Steep's terrible book. There, a perfect rendering of a bird's wing, exquisitely coloured

-nor this

-and here, on the following page, a beetle, copied in death; every part documented for posterity: mandible, wing-case, and segmented limb.

-nor this

'Jesus,' he sobbed, the roll of tape dropping from his trembling fingers. Why couldn't Rabjohns have left him alone? Was there no corner of the world where a man might listen in the wail of the wind, without being discovered and reminded of his crimes?

The answer, it seemed, was no; at least for a soul as unredeemed as his. He could never hope to forget, not until God struck life and memory from him, which prospect seemed at this moment far less dreadful than living on, day and night, in fear of another Will coming to his door and naming names.

'Nor this. . .'

Shut up, he murmured to memories. But the page kept flipping in his head. Picture after picture, like some morbid bestiary. What fish was that, that would never again silver the sea? What bird, that would never tune its song to the sky?

On and on the pages flew, while he watched, knowing that at last Steep's fingers would come to a page where he himself had made a mark. Not with a brush or a pen, but with a bright little knife.

And then the tears would begin to come in torrents, and it wouldn't matter how hard the northeasterly blew, it could not carry the past away.

ii

The bears did not make a liar of Adrianna. When she and Will got to the dump, the remnants of the day still with them, they found the animals cavorting in all their defiled glory, the adolescents - one of them the best proportioned female they'd yet spotted; a perfect specimen of her clan - scavenging in the dirt, the older female investigating the rusted carcass of a truck, while the male Adrianna had been so eager for Will to see surveyed his fetid kingdom from the top of one of the dump's dozen hillocks.

Will got out of the jeep and approached. Adrianna, always armed with a rifle under these kind of conditions, followed two or three strides behind. She knew Will's methodology by now: he wouldn't waste film on long shots; he'd get as close as he could without disturbing the animals and then he'd wait. And wait; and wait. Even amongst his peers - wildlife photographers who thought nothing of waiting a week for a picture - his patience was legendary. In this, as in so many other things, he was a paradox. Adrianna had seen him at publishing parties grinding his teeth with boredom after five minutes of an admirer's chit-chat; but here, watching four polar bears on a piece of wasteland, he would sit happily mesmerized until he found the moment he wanted to seize.

It was plain he was not interested in either the adolescents or the female. It was the old male he wanted to photograph. He glanced over at Adrianna, and silently indicated the path he was going to take between the other animals, so as to get as close to his subject as possible. She'd no sooner nodded her comprehension than Will was off, sure-footed even on the ice-slickened dirt. The adolescents took no notice of him. But the female, who was certainly large enough to kill either Will or Adrianna with a swipe if she took a mind to do so, ceased her investigations of the truck and sniffed the air. Will froze; Adrianna did the same, rifle at the ready if the bear made an aggressive move. But perhaps because she'd smelt so many people in the vicinity of the dump, the bear wasn't interested in this particular scent. She returned to gutting the truck seats, and Will was off again, towards the male. By now Adrianna had grasped the shot Will was after: a low angle, looking up the slope of the hillock so as to frame the bear against the sky, a fool-king perched on a throne of shit. It was the kind of image Will had built his reputation upon. The whole paradoxical story, captured in a picture so indelible and so inevitable, that it seemed evidence of collusion with God. More often than not such happy accidents were the fruit of obsessive observation. But once in a while, as now, they presented themselves as gifts. All he had to do was snatch them.

Typically, of course (how she cursed his machismo sometimes) he was going to position himself so close to the base of the hillock that if the animal decided to come after him he'd be in trouble. Creeping close to the ground he found his spot. The animal was either unaware of, or indifferent to, his proximity; it was half turned from him, casually licking dirt off its paws. But Adrianna knew from experience such appearances could be dangerously deceptive. The wild did not always like to be scrutinized, however discreetly. Far less adventurous photographers than Will had lost their limbs or their lives by taking an animal's insouciance for granted. And of all the creatures Will had photographed, there was none with a more terrible reputation than the polar bear. If the male chose to come after Will, Adrianna would have to bring the beast down in one shot, or it would all be over.

Will had by now found a niche at the very base of the hillock that suited him perfectly. The bear was still licking its paws, its face now almost entirely turned away from the camera. Adrianna glanced back at the other animals. All three were happily engrossed in their sports, but that was of little comfort. The geography of the dump allowed for there to be any number of other animals scavenging close by yet out of sight. Not for the first time she wished she'd been born with the eyes of a chameleon: side-rigged and independently maneuvered.

She looked back at Will. He had crept up the slope just a little, and had his camera poised. The bear, meanwhile, had given up cleaning its paws, and was lazily surveying its wretched domain. Adrianna willed it to move its rump; turn twenty degrees clockwise and give Will his picture. But it simply raised its scarred snout into the air and yawned, its black velvet lips curling back as it did so. Its teeth, like its hide, were a record of the battles it had fought. Many of them were splintered and several others missing; its gums were abscessed and raw. No doubt it was in constant pain, which probably did nothing for the sweetness of its mood.

The animal's yawn afforded Will a chance to move three or four yards to his left, until the bear was facing him. It was clear by the caution of his advance that he was perfectly aware of his jeopardy. If the animal took this moment to study the ground rather than the sky then he had a couple of seconds at best to get out of its way.

But luck was with him. Overhead, a flock of noisy geese were homing, and the bear idly turned its gaze their way, allowing Will to reach his chosen spot and settle there before it dropped its head and once again sullenly surveyed the dump.

At last, Adrianna heard the barely audible click of the shutter, and the whir of the film's advance. A dozen shots in quick succession; then a pause. The bear lowered its head. Had it sensed Will? The shutter clicked again, four, five, six times. The bear let out a sharp hiss. It was an unmistakable warning. Adrianna leveled the rifle. Will clicked on. The bear did not move. Will caught two more shots, and then, very slowly, began to rise. The bear took a step towards him, but the garbage beneath its bulk was slick, and instead of following through the animal faltered.

Will glanced back towards Adrianna. Seeing the leveled rifle he motioned it down and stealthily stepped away. Only when he'd halved the distance between the hillock and Adrianna did he murmur:

'He's blind.'

She looked again at the animal. It was still poised at the top of the hillock, its scarred head roving back and forth, but she didn't doubt what Will had said was true. The animal had little or no sight left. Hence its tentativeness; its reluctance to give chase when it was not certain of the solidity of the ground beneath its paws.

Will was at her side now. 'You want pictures of any of the others?' she asked him. The adolescents had gone to romp elsewhere, but the female was still sniffing around the truck. He told her no; he'd got what he needed. Then, turning back to look at the bear, he said: 'He reminds me of somebody, I just can't think who.' 'Whoever it is, don't tell them.' 'Why not?' Will said, still staring at the animal. 'I think I'd be flattered.'

CHAPTER V

When they got back to Main Street, Peter Tegelstrom was out at the front of his house, perched on a ladder nailing a string of Halloween lights along the low-hanging eaves. His children, a five-year old girl and a son a year her senior, ran around excitedly, clapping and yelling as the row of pumpkins and skulls was unraveled. Will headed over to chat to Tegelstrom; Adrianna followed. She'd made friends with the kids in the last week and a half, and had suggested to Will that he photograph the family. Tegelstrom's wife was pure Inuit, her beauty evident in her children's faces. A picture of this healthy and contented human family living within two hundred yards of the dump would make, Adrianna argued, a powerful counterpoint to Will's pictures of the bears. The wife, however, was too shy even to talk to the visitors, unlike Tegelstrom himself, who seemed to Will starved for conversation.

'Are you finished with your pictures now?' he wanted to know.

'Near enough.'

'You should have gone down to Churchill. They've got a lot more bears there'

' - and a lot of tourists taking pictures of them.'

'You could take pictures of the tourists taking pictures of the bears,' Tegelstrom said.

'Only if one of them was being eaten.'

Peter was much amused by this. His arranging of the lights finished, he climbed down the ladder and switched them on. The children clapped. 'There isn't much here to keep them occupied,' he said. 'I feel bad for them sometimes. We're going to move down to Prince Albert in the spring.' He nodded into the house. 'My wife doesn't want to, but the babies need a better life than this.'

The babies, as he called them, had been playing with Adrianna, and at her bidding had gone inside to put on their Halloween masks. Now they reappeared, jabbering and whooping to inspire some fear. The masks were, Will guessed, the shy wife's handiwork: not gleeful vampires or ghouls, but more troubled spirits, constructed from scraps of sealskin and bits of fur and cardboard, all roughly daubed with red and blue paint. Set on such diminutive bodies they were strangely unsettling.

'Come and stand here for me, will you?' Will said, calling them over to pose in front of the doorway.

'Do I get to be in this?' Tegelstrom asked.

'No,' Will said bluntly.

Affably enough, Tegelstrom stepped out of the picture, and Will went down on his haunches in front of the children, who had ceased their hollers and were standing at the doorstep, hand in hand. There was a sudden gravity in the moment. This wasn't the happy family portrait Adrianna had been trying to arrange. It was a snapshot of two mournful spirits, posed in the twilight beneath a loop of plastic lights. Will was happier with the shot than any of the pictures he'd made at the dump.

Cornelius was not yet home, which was no great surprise.

'He's probably smoking pot with the Brothers Grimm,' Will said, referring to the two Germans with whom Cornelius had struck up a dope-and-beer-driven friendship. They lived in what was indisputably the most luxurious home in the community, complete with a sizeable television. Besides the dope, Cornelius had confided, they had a collection of all-girl wrestling films so extensive it was worthy of academic study.

'So we're done here?' Adrianna said, as she set about making the vodka martinis they always drank around this time. It was a ritual that had begun as a joke in a mud-hole in Botswana, passing a flask of vodka back and forth pretending they were sipping very dry martinis at the Savoy.

'We're done,' Will said.

'You're disappointed.'

'I'm always disappointed. It's never what I want it to be.'

'Maybe you want too much.'

'We've had this conversation.'

'I'm having it again.'

'Well I'm not,' Will said, with a monotony in his tone Adrianna knew of old. She let the subject drop and moved on to another.

'Is it okay if I take a couple of weeks off? I want to go down to Tallahassee to see my mother.'

'No problem. I'm going back to San Francisco to spend some time with the pictures, start to make the connections.'

This was a favourite phrase of his, describing a process Adrianna had never completely comprehended. She'd watched him doing it: laying out maybe two or three hundred images on the floor and wandering amongst them for several days, arranging and rearranging them, laying unlikely combinations together to see if sparks flew; growling at himself when they didn't; getting a little high and sitting up through the night, meditating on the work. When the connections were made, and the pictures put in what he considered to be the right order, there was undeniably an energy in them that had not been there before. But the pain of the process had always seemed to Adrianna out of all proportion to the improvement. It was a kind of masochism, she'd decided; his last, despairing attempt to make sense of the senseless before the images left his hands.

'Your cocktail, sir,' Adrianna said, setting the martini at Will's elbow. He thanked her, picked it up and they clinked glasses.

'It's not like Cornelius to miss vodka,' Adrianna observed.

'You just want an excuse to check out the Brothers Grimm,' Will said.

Adrianna didn't contest the point. 'Gert looks like he'd be fun in bed.'

'Is he the one with the beer belly?'

'Yep.'

'He's all yours. Anyway, I think they're a package deal. You can't have one without the other.'

Will picked up his cigarettes and wandered over to the front door, taking his martini with him. He turned on the porch-light, opened the door and leaning against the door-jamb lit a cigarette. The Tegelstrom kids had gone inside, and were probably tucked up in bed by now, but the lights Peter had put up to entertain them were still bright: a halo of orange pumpkins and white skulls around the house, rocking gently in the gusting wind.

'I've got something to tell you,' Will said. 'I was going to wait for Cornelius but . . . I don't think there's going to be another book after this.'

'I knew you were fretting about something. I thought maybe it was me-'

'Oh God no,' Will said. 'You're the best, Adie. Without you and Cornelius I'd have given up on all this shit a long time ago.'

'So why now?'

'I'm out of love with the whole thing,' he said. 'None of it makes any difference. We'll show the pictures of the bears and all it'll do is make more people come and watch them getting their noses stuck in mayonnaise jars. It's a waste of bloody time.'

'What will you do instead?'

'I don't know. It's a good question. It feels like . . . I don't know...'

'What does it feel like?'

'That everything's winding down. I'm forty-one and it feels like I've seen too much and been too many places and it's all blurred together. There's no magic left. I've done my drugs. I've had my infatuations. I've outgrown Wagner. This is as good as it's going to get. And it's not that great.'

Adrianna came to join him at the door, putting her chin on his shoulder. 'Oh my poor Will,' she said, in her best cocktail clip. 'So famous, so celebrated, and so very, very bored.'

'Are you mocking my ennui?'

'Yes.'

'I thought so.' 'You're tired. You should take a year off. Go sit in the sun with a beautiful boy. That's Dr Adrianna's advice.'

'Will you find me the boy?'

'Oh Lord. Are you that exhausted?'

'I couldn't cruise a bar if my life depended upon it.'

'So don't. Have another martini.'

'No, I've got a better idea,' Will said. 'You make the drinks, I'll go fetch Cornelius. Then we can all get maudlin together.'

CHAPTER VI

Cornelius had spent the dregs of the afternoon with the Lauterbach brothers, and had a fine time of it, watching the wrestling flicks and smoking their weed. He'd left as darkness fell, intending to head back to the house for a couple of shots of vodka, but halfway along Main Street the prospect of dealing with Adrianna had loomed. He wasn't in the mood for apologies and justifications; they'd only bring him down. So instead of heading back he fished out the fat roach he'd connived from Gert, and wandered down towards the water to smoke it.

As he walked, weaving between the houses, the wind carried flecks of snow from across the Bay, grazing his face. He stopped beneath one of the lamps that illuminated the ground between the back of the houses and the water's edge and turned his face up to the light so as to watch the flakes spilling down. 'Pretty . . .' he said to himself. So much prettier than bears. When he got back, he'd tell Will he should give up with animals and start photographing snowflakes instead. They were a lot more endangered, his gently befuddled wits decided. As soon as the sun came out they were gone, weren't they? All their perfection, melted away. It was tragic.

Will didn't get as far as the Lauterbach house. He'd trudged maybe a hundred yards down Main Street - the wind getting stronger with every gust, the snow it carried thickening - when he caught sight of Cornelius, reeling around, face to the sky. He was obviously high, which was no great surprise. It had always been Cornelius' way of dealing with life, and Will had far too many quirks of his own to be judgmental about it. But there was a time and a place for such excesses, and the Main Street of Balthazar in bear season was not one of them.

'Cornelius!' Will yelled. 'Cornelius? Can you hear me?'

The answer was apparently no. Cornelius just kept up his dervish dance under the lamp. Will started down the street in the man's direction, cursing him ripely as he went. He didn't waste his breath shouting, the wind was too strong, but part of the way down the street he regretted not doing so because without warning Cornelius gave up his spinning and slipped out of sight between the houses. Will picked up his pace, though he was tempted to head back to the house and arm himself before pursuing Cornelius any further. If he did so, however, he risked losing the man altogether, and to judge by his stumbling step Cornelius was in no fit state to be wandering alone in the dark. It wasn't so much the bears Will was concerned about, it was the Bay. Cornelius had headed in the direction of the shore. One slip on the icy rocks and he'd be in water so cold it would stop his heart.

He'd reached the spot where Cornelius had been dancing, and followed his tracks away from the comfort of the lamplight into the murky no-man's-land between the houses and the tidal flats. There he was pleased to discover Cornelius' phantom figure standing maybe fifty yards from him. He'd given up his spinning and his sky- watching, and he was standing stone-still, staring out towards the darkness of the shore.

'Hey, buddy!' Will called to him. 'You're going to get pneumonia.' Cornelius didn't turn. In fact he didn't move so much as a muscle. What kind of pills had he been popping?, Will wondered. 'Con!' he yelled again. He was no more than twenty yards from Cornelius' back. 'It's Will! Are you okay? Talk to me, man.' Finally, Cornelius spoke. One slurred word that stopped Will in his friend's tracks.

'Bear.'

There was a cloud of breath at Will's lips. He waited, as still as Cornelius, while the cloud cleared, then scanned the scene to the limit of his vision. First to the left. The shore was empty as far as he could see. Then to the right; the same.

He dared a one-word question.

'Where?'

'Ahead. Of. Me.' Cornelius replied.

Will took a very slow sideways step. Cornelius' drug-induced senses were not deceiving him. There was indeed a bear maybe sixteen or seventeen yards in front of him, its form barely visible to Will through the snow- flecked murk.

'Are you still there, Will?' Cornelius said.

'I'm here.'

'What the fuck do I do?'

'Back off. But, Con: very, very slowly.'

Cornelius glanced back over his shoulder, his stricken face suddenly sober.

'Don't look at me,' Will said. 'Keep your eyes on the animal.'

Cornelius looked back towards the bear, which had begun its implacable approach. This wasn't one of the playful adolescents from the dump; nor was it the blind old warrior Will had photographed. This was a fully grown female; a good six hundred pounds.

'Fuck. . .' Cornelius muttered.

'Just keep coming,' Will coaxed him. 'You're going to be okay. Just don't let her think you're anything worth chasing.'

Cornelius managed three tentative backward steps, but his equilibrium was poor after the dervish act, and on the fourth step his heel slid on the slick ground. He flailed for a moment, then recovered his balance, but the harm was done. Hissing her intentions, the bear gave up her plod and came bounding at him. Cornelius turned and ran, the bear roaring in pursuit, her body a blur. Weaponless, all Will could do was dodge out of Cornelius' path and yell himself hoarse in the hope of distracting the animal. But it was Cornelius she wanted. In two bounds she'd halved the distance between them, jaws wide in readiness

'Get down!'

Will threw a glance back in the direction of the voice and there, God save her, was Adrianna, rifle raised.

'Con!' she yelled. 'Get your fucking head down!'

He got the message, and flung himself to the frozen dirt, with the bear a body's length from his heels. Adrianna fired, and hit the animal's shoulder, checking her before she could catch up with her quarry. The animal rose up with an agonized roar, blood staining her fur. Cornelius was still within swatting distance, however, if she chose to take him out. Ducking to make himself as small a target as possible, Will scrambled towards him, and, grabbing his trembling torso, hauled him out of the bear's path. There was a sharp stink of shit off him.

He looked back at the bear. She wasn't finished; nowhere near. Roaring so loudly that the ground shook, she started towards Adrianna, who leveled her rifle and fired a second time, at no more than ten yards' range. The animal's roar ceased on the instant, and again she rose up, white and red and vast, teetering for a moment. Then she reeled back like a breaking wave, and limped away into the darkness.

The entire encounter - from the moment Cornelius had named his nemesis - had perhaps lasted a minute, but it was long enough for a kind of delirium to have taken hold of Will. He got to his feet, the snowflakes spiraling around him like giddy stars, and went to the place where the bear's blood had splashed on the ice.

'Are you all right?' Adrianna asked him.

'Yes,' he said.

It was only half the truth. He wasn't hurt, but he wasn't whole either. He felt as though some part of him had been torn out by what he'd just witnessed, and had fled into the darkness in pursuit of the bear. He had to go after it.

'Wait!' Adrianna yelled.

He looked back at her, trying his best to block out Cornelius' sobbing apologies, and the shouts of people on Main Street as they came sniffing after the bloodshed. Adrianna was staring straight at him, and he knew she was reading the thoughts on his face.

'Don't be a fuck-wit, Will,' she said.

'No choice.'

'Then at least take the rifle.'

He looked at it as though it had just pumped its bullets into him. 'I don't need it,' he said.

'Will-'

He turned his back on her, on the lights, on the people and their asinine questions. Then he loped off towards the shoreline, following the red trail the bear had left behind her.

CHAPTER VII

0h, all the years he'd waited. Waited and watched with his dispassionate eye while something died nearby, recording its passing like the truthful witness he was. Keeping his distance, keeping his calm. Enough of that. The bear was dying, and he would die too if he let her go now; let her perish in the dark alone. Something had snapped in him. He didn't know why. Perhaps because of the conversation with Guthrie, which had stirred up so much pain, perhaps the encounter with the blind bear at the dump; perhaps simply because the time had come. He'd hung on this branch long enough, ripening there. It was time to fall and rot into something new.

He followed the bear's trail along the shoreline parallel to the street with a kind of exulting despair in him. He had no idea what he would do when he caught up with the animal; he only knew he had to be with it in its agonies, given that he was to some degree their author. He was the one who'd brought Cornelius and his habits here, after all. The bear had simply been doing what she would do in the wild, confronted by something threatening. She'd been shot for being true to her nature. No thinking queer could be happy with his complicity in that.

Will's empathy with the animal hadn't totally unseated his urge to self-preservation. Though he followed the trail closely most of the way, he gave the rocks a little distance when he came upon them, in case there were more animals lurking there. But what little light the lamps of Main Street had supplied was now too far behind him to be of much use. It was harder and harder to make out the bloodstains. He had to stop and study the ground to find them, for which pause he was grateful. The icy air was raw in his throat and chest; his teeth ached as though they were all being drilled at the same time, his legs were trembling.

If he was feeling weak, he thought, the bear was surely a damn sight weaker. She'd shed copious amounts of blood now, and must be close to collapse.

Somewhere nearby a dog was barking, her alarm familiar.

'Lucy. . .' Will said to himself, and looking up through the flickering snow saw that his pursuit had brought him within twenty yards of the back of Guthrie's shack. He heard the old man shouting now, telling the dog to shut up; and then the sound of the back door being opened.

Light spilled from it, out across the snow. A meager light by comparison with the streetlamps half a mile back, but bright enough to show Will his quarry.

The animal was closer to the shore than to the shack, and closer to Will than either: standing on all fours, swaying, the ground around her dark with her free-flowing blood.

'What the fuck's going on out here?' Guthrie demanded.

Will didn't look at him; he kept his eyes fixed on the bear - as hers were fixed on him - while he yelled for Guthrie to go back inside.

'Rabjohns? Is that you?'

'There's a wounded bear out here-' Will shouted.

'I see her,' Guthrie replied. 'Did you shoot her?'

'No!' From the corner of his eye Will could see that Guthrie had emerged from his shack. 'Go back inside will you?'

'Are you hurt?' Guthrie called.

Before Will could reply the bear was up, and turning her bulk towards Guthrie, she charged. There was time as she roared upon the old man for Will to wonder why she'd chosen to take Guthrie instead of him; whether in the seconds they'd stared at one another she'd seen that he was no threat to her: just another wounded thing, trapped between street and sea. Then she was up and swiping at Guthrie, the blow throwing him maybe five yards. He landed hard, but thanks to some grotesque gift of adrenalin he was on his feet a heartbeat later, yelling incoherently back at his wounder. Only then did his body seem to realize the grievous harm it had been done. His hands went up to his chest, his blood running out between his fingers. His yells ceased and he looked back up at the bear, so that for a moment they stood staring at one another, both bloodied, both teetering. Then Guthrie spoiled the symmetry and fell face down in the snow.

Still standing at the doorstep, Lucy began a round of despairing yelps, but however traumatized she was she plainly had no intention of approaching her master. Guthrie was still alive; he was attempting to turn himself over, it seemed, his right hand sliding on the ice as he tried to lift himself up.

Will looked back the way he'd come, hoping that somebody was in sight to help. There was no sign of anyone on the shoreline; perhaps people were making their way along the street. He couldn't afford to wait for them, however. Guthrie needed help and he needed it now. The bear had sunk down onto all fours again, and by the degree of her sway she looked ready to keel over entirely. Keeping his eyes on her he cautiously approached the place where Guthrie was lying. The delirium that had seized him earlier had guttered out. There was only a bitter sickness in his belly.

By the time he reached Guthrie's side the man had managed to turn himself over, and it was clear that he was wounded beyond hope of healing: his chest a wet pit, his gaze the same. But he seemed to see Will; or at least sense his proximity. He reached out as Will bent to him, and caught hold of his jacket.

'Where's Lucy?' he said.

Will looked up. The dog was still at the doorway. She was no longer barking.

'She's okay.'

Guthrie didn't hear him reply, it seemed, because he drew Will closer, his hold remarkably strong. 'She's safe,' Will told him, more loudly, but even as he spoke he heard the warning hiss of the bear. He glanced back in her direction. Her whole bulk was full of shudders, as though her system, like Guthrie's, was close to capitulation. But she wasn't ready to die where she stood. She took a tentative step towards Will, her teeth bared.

Guthrie's other arm had caught hold of Will's shoulder. He was speaking again. Nothing that made much sense to Will; at least not at this moment.

'This will . . . not come . . . again.. .' he said.

The bear took a second step, her body rocking back and forth. Very slowly Will worked to pull Guthrie's hands off him, but the man's hold was too fierce.

'The bear. . .' Will said.

'Nor this. . .' Guthrie muttered, '. . . nor this. . .' There was a tiny smile on his bloody lips. Did he know, even in his dying agonies, what he was doing; holding down the man who had come with such sour memories, where the bear could claim him?

Will had no choice: if he was going to get out of the bear's way he was going to have to lug Guthrie with him. He started to haul himself to his feet, lifting the old man's sizeable frame with him. The motion brought a howl of anguish from Guthrie, and his grip on Will's shoulder slipped a little. Will stepped sideways in the direction of the shack, half-carrying Guthrie with him like a partner in some morbid dance. The bear had halted, and was watching this grotesquerie with black-sequin eyes. Will took a second step, and Guthrie let out another cry, much weaker than the first, and all at once gave up his hold on Will, who didn't have the power left in his arms to support him. Guthrie slipped to the ground as though every bone in his body had gone to water, and in that instant the bear made her move. Will didn't have time to dodge, much less run. The animal was on him in a bound, striking him like a speeding car, his bones breaking on impact, the world becoming a smear of pain and snow, both blazing white.

Then his head struck the icy ground. Consciousness fled for a few seconds. When it returned he raised his hand; saw the snow beneath him red. Where was the bear? He swivelled his gaze left and right looking for her. There was no sign. One of his arms was tucked beneath him, and useless, but there was enough strength in the other to raise him up. The motion made him sick with pain, and he was fearful he was going to lose consciousness again, but by degrees he bullied and coaxed his body up into a kneeling position.

Off to his left, a sniffing sound. He looked in its direction, his gaze flickering. The bear had her nose in Guthrie's corpse, inhaling its perfumes. She raised her vast head, her snout bloody.

This is death, Will thought. For all of us, this is death. This is what you've photographed so many times. The dolphin drowning in the net, pitifully quiescent; the monkey twitching amongst its dead fellows, looking at him with a gaze he could not stand to meet, except through his camera. They were all the same in this moment, he and the monkey; he and the bear. All ephemeral things, running out of time.

And then the bear was on him again, her claws opening his shoulder and back, her jaws coming for his neck. Somewhere far off, in a place he no longer belonged, he heard a woman calling his name, and his lazy brain thought: Adrianna's here; sweet Adrianna

He heard a shot, then another. Felt the weight of the bear against him, carrying him down to the ground, her blood raining on his face.

Was he saved? he vaguely wondered. But even as he was shaping the thought another part of him, that had neither eyes to see nor ears to hear, nor cared to have either, was slipping away from this place; and senses he had never known he owned were piercing the blizzard clouds and studying the stars. It seemed to him he could feel their warmth; that the distance between their blazing hearts and his spirit was just a thought, and he could be there, in them, knowing them, if he turned his mind to it.

Something checked his ascent, however. A voice in his head that he knew was familiar to him, yet he could not put a name to.

'Where d'you think you're going?' the voice said. There was a sly humour in it. He tried to put a face to the sound, but he saw only fragments. Silky red hair; a sharp nose, a comical moustache. 'You can't go yet,' the interloper said.

But I want to, he said. It hurts so much, staying here. Not the dying part, the living.

His companion heard his complaints, and would have no truck with them. 'Hush yourself,' he said. 'You think you're the first man on the planet lost his faith? That's all part of it. We're going to have to have a serious conversation, you and me. Face to face. Man to-'

Man to what?

'We'll get to that,' the voice replied. It was starting to fade.

Where are you going? Will wanted to know.

'Nowhere you can't find me when the time comes,' the stranger replied. 'And it will come, my faithless friend. As sure as God put tits on trees.'

And with this absurdity, he was gone.

There was a moment of blissful silence, when it crossed Will's mind that maybe he'd died after all, and was floating away into oblivion. Then he heard Lucy - poor, orphaned Lucy - howling out her heart somewhere close to him. And coming on the heels of her din, human voices, telling him to be still, be still, he was going to be all right.

'Can you hear me, Will?' Adrianna was asking him.

He could feel the snowflakes dropping on his face, like cold feathers. On his brow, on his lashes, on his lips, on his teeth. And then - far less welcome than the pricking snow - a swelling agony in his torso and head.

'Will,' Adrianna said. 'Speak to me.'

. . . ye . . . s,' he said.

The pain was becoming unendurable, rising and rising.

'You're going to be all right,' Adrianna said. 'We've got help coming, and you're going to be all right.'

'Christ, what a mess,' somebody said. He knew the inflections. One of the Lauterbach brothers, surely; Gert the doctor, struck off the register for improper distribution of pharmaceuticals. He was giving orders like a field sergeant: blankets, bandages, here, now, on the double!

'Will?' A third voice, this one close to his ear. It was Cornelius, weeping as he spoke. 'I fucked up man. Oh Christ, I'm sorry-'

Will wanted to hush the man's self-recrimination - it was of no use to anybody now - but his tongue would not work to make the words. His eyes, however, opened a fraction, dislodging the dusting of snow in his sockets. He couldn't see Cornelius, nor Adrianna, nor Gert Lauterbach. Only the snow, spiralling down.

'He's still with us,' Adrianna said.

'Oh man, oh man-' Cornelius was sobbing. 'Thank fucking God.'

'You hold on,' Adrianna said to Will. 'We've got you. You hear me? You're not going to die, Will. I'm not going to let you, okay?'

He let his eyes close again. But the snow kept coming down inside his head, laying its hush upon him; like a tender blanket put over his hurt. And by degrees the pain retreated, and the voices retreated, and he slept under the snow, and dreamt of another time.

PART TWO

He Dreams He Is Loved

CHAPTER I

For a few precious months following the death of his older brother, Will had been the happiest boy in Manchester. Not publicly so, of course. He had quickly learned how to put on a glum face; even to look teary sometimes, if a concerned relative asked him how he felt. But it was all a sham. Nathaniel was dead, and he was glad. The golden boy would reign over him no longer. Now there was only one person in his life who condescended to him the way Papa did, and that was Papa himself.

Papa had reason: he was a great man. A philosopher, no less. Other thirteen-year-olds had plumbers for fathers, or bus-drivers, but Will's father, Hugo Rabjohns, had six books to his name, books that a plumber or a bus- driver would be unlikely to understand. The world, Hugo had once told Nathaniel in Will's presence, was made by many men, but shaped by few. The important thing was to be one of those few; to find a place in which you could change the repetitive patterns of the many through political influence and intellectual discourse, and failing either of these, through benign coercion.

Will adored hearing his father talk this way, even though much of what Papa said was beyond him. And his father loved to talk about his ideas, though Will had heard him once fly into a fury when Eleanor, Will's mother, had called her husband a teacher.

'I am not, never have been, nor ever will be a teacher!' Hugo had roared, his always ruddy face turning a still deeper red. 'Why do you always seek to reduce me?'

What had his mother said by way of reply? Something vague. She was always vague. Looking past him to something outside the window, probably; or staring critically at the flowers she'd just arranged.

'Philosophy can't be taught,' Hugo had said. 'It can only be inspired.'

Perhaps the exchange had gone on a little longer, but Will doubted it. A short explosion, then peace: that was the ritual. And sometimes a fond exchange, but that too quickly withering. And always on his mother's face the same distracted look whether the subject was philosophy or affection.

But then Nathaniel had died, and even those exchanges had ceased.

He was injured on a Thursday morning, crossing the street: run down by a taxi, the driver racing to carry his passenger to Manchester Piccadilly Station in time for a noon train. Struck square on, he was thrown through the window of a shoe-shop, sustaining multiple lacerations and appalling internal injuries. He did not die instantly. He held on to life for two-and-a-half days in Intensive Care at the Royal infirmary, never regaining consciousness. In the early hours of the third night his body gave up the fight and he died.

In Will's mythologized version of the event, his brother had made the decision, somewhere in the depths of his coma, not to come back into the world. Though he was only fifteen when he died, he had already tasted more of the world's approbation than most men who lived out their Biblical spans. Loved to devotion by those who'd made him, blessed with a face nobody could lay eyes upon without wanting to love, Nathaniel had decided to let go of the world while it still idolized him. He had been adored enough, feted enough. He was already bored with it. Best to be gone, without a backward glance.

After the funeral Eleanor did not stir from the house. She'd always liked to walk and windowshop; she no longer did so. She'd had a circle of women-friends with whom she lunched at least twice a week; she would no longer come to the phone to speak to them. Her face lost all its glamour. Her distraction turned to vacuity, her obsessions grew stronger by the day. She would not have the curtains in the living-room open, for fear she saw a taxi. She could not eat, except off white plates. She would not sleep until every door and window in the house had been treble-locked. She took to praying, usually very quietly, in French, which was her native tongue. Nathaniel's spirit, Will heard her telling Papa one night, was with her all the time; did Hugo not see him in her face? They had the same bones, didn't they? The same, French bones.

Even at the age of thirteen, Will had an unsentimental grasp of the world; he didn't lie to himself about what was happening to his mother. She was going crazy. That was the simple, pitiful truth of it. For several weeks in May she could not bear to be left alone in the house, and Will was obliged to skip school (no great hardship there) and stay at home with her -banned from her presence (she had no wish to see a face that resembled a poor copy of Nathaniel's perfection) but called back with sobs and promises if he was heard opening the front door. Finally, in the middle of August, Hugo sat Will down and told him that life in Manchester had plainly become intolerable for all three of them, and he had decided they would move. 'Your mother needs some open skies,' he explained, the toll of the months since the accident gouged into his face. He had, in his own words, a pugilist's face; its monolithic rawness an unlikely rock from which to hear fine distinctions of thought and vocabulary spring. But spring they did. Even the simple business of describing the family's departure from Manchester became a linguistic adventure.

'I realize these last few months have been troubling to you,' Papa told Will. 'The manifestations of grief can be confounding to us all, and I can't pretend to fully understand why your mother's distress has taken such idiosyncratic forms. But you mustn't judge her. We can't feel what she feels. Nobody can ever feel what somebody else feels. We can guess at it. We can hypothesize. But that's it. What happens up here-' he tapped his temple, '-is hers and only hers.'

'Maybe if she talked about it-' Will tentatively suggested.

'Words aren't absolutes. I've told you that before, haven't I? What your mother says and what you hear aren't the same thing. You understand that, don't you?' Will nodded, though he only grasped the crudest version of what he was being told. 'So we're moving,' Hugo replied, apparently satisfied that he'd communicated the theoretical underpinning of this.

'Where are we going?'

'A village in Yorkshire, called Burnt Yarley. You'll have to change schools but that's not going to be much of a problem for you, is it?' Will murmured no, it wasn't; he hated St Margaret's. 'And it won't hurt for you to be out in the open air a little more. You look so pale all the time.'

'When will we go?'

'In about three weeks.'

CHAPTER II

i

The move didn't happen quite as planned. Two days after Hugo's conversation with Will, quite without warning, Eleanor broke her own rules and left the house in the middle of the morning and went wandering. She was escorted home in the late evening, having been found weeping in the street where Nathaniel had been struck down. The move was postponed, and for the next fortnight she was watched over by nurses and tended to by a psychiatrist. His medications did some good. Her mood brightened after a few days - she became uncharacteristically jolly, in fact, and dived into the business of packing up the house with gusto. On the second weekend of September, the delayed move took place.

The journey from Manchester took little more than an hour but it might as well have delivered the two-vehicle convoy into another country. With the charmless streets of Oldham and Rochdale behind them they wound their way into open countryside, sweeping moorland steadily giving way to the steeper fells, whose lush green flanks were here and there stripped to pavements of grim, grey limestone. The wind blew hard on the hilltops, buffeting the high-sided van in which Will had asked to be a passenger. With map in hand he followed their route as best he could, his eyes straying from the road they were taking to venture where the names were strangest: Kirkby Malzeard, Gammersgill, Horton-in-Ribblesdale, Yockenthwaite and Garthwaite and Rottenstone Hill. There was a world of promise in such names.

Their destination, the village of Burnt Yarley, was to Will's eyes indistinguishable from a dozen other villages they'd passed through on their way: a scattering of plain, square houses and cottages built of the local limestone, and roofed with slate; less than half a dozen shops (a grocer, a butcher, a newsagent, a post office, a pub), a church with a small churchyard surrounding it, and a steeply humped bridge rising over a river no wider than a traffic lane. There were, however, three or four more substantial residences on the outskirts of the village. One of them would be their new house, he knew: it was the largest house in Burnt Yarley, so beautiful that according to Will's father Eleanor had cried with happiness at the thought of their living in it. We're going to be very happy there, Hugo had said, offering this not as a cherished hope, but as an instruction.

ii

The first sign of that happiness was waiting for them at the front gate: a plumpish, smiling woman in early middle-age who introduced herself to Will as Adele Bottrall and welcomed them all with what seemed to be genuine pleasure. She instantly took charge of the unloading of the car and the removal van, supervising her husband Donald and her son Craig, who was the kind of sullen, thick-necked sixteen-year-old Will would have feared an arbitrary beating from in the yard of St Margaret's. Here, however, he was a workhorse, eyes downcast most of the time, as he lugged boxes and furniture into the house. Will was given a glass of lemonade by Mrs. Bottrall and wandered around the house to survey it, coming back to the front now and then to watch Craig at his labours. The afternoon was clammy - thunder later, Adele promised, it'll clear the air - and Craig stripped down to a threadbare vest, the sweat trickling down his neck and face from his low hairline, his neck and arms peeling where he'd caught too much sun. Will was envious of his muscularity; of the curling hair at his armpits, and the wispy sideburns he was cultivating. Pretending a concern for the care Craig was exercising with the tables and lamps, he idly followed the youth from room to room, watching him work. Occasionally, Craig would do something that made Will feel as though he shouldn't be watching, though they weren't particularly odd things for anyone to do. Passing his tongue over his frizzy moustache; stretching his arms above his head; splashing water on his face at the kitchen sink. Once or twice Craig looked his way, a little bemused at the attention he was getting. When he did Will made sure he was wearing a facsimile of that indifference he'd seen on his mother's face so often.

The unloading went on until the early evening, the house - which had not been lived in for two years - subtly resisting its re-occupation. Interior doors proved too narrow for several of the tea-chests, and rooms too small gracefully to accommodate pieces of furniture from the house in the city. As the hours went on, tempers grew tattered. Knuckles were skinned and bloodied, shins scraped and toes stubbed. Eleanor maintained an imperious calm throughout, seating herself in the bay window which offered a magnificent panorama of the valley and sipping herbal tea, while her husband made decisions as to the arrangement of rooms she would never have trusted to him in the old days. Once, trapping his fingers between a box and the wall, Craig let loose a fair stream of foul language, silenced by a hard slap on the back of the head from Adele. Will chanced to witness the blow, and saw how Craig's eyes reared up from the sting. He was, Will realized, just a boy, for all his sweat and muscle, and his interest in watching Craig's labours instantly evaporated.

iii

That was Saturday. The night did not bring thunder, as Adele had predicted it would, and the next day the air was already sticky before St Luke's solitary bell had summoned the faithful to worship. Adele was amongst the congregation, but her husband and son were not. By the time their task-mistress finally appeared, they had already put in almost two hours of graceless work, unloading the tea-chests in such a ham-fisted fashion that several pieces of crockery and a Chinese vase had been forfeited.

Alert to the general malaise, Will decided to keep out of the way. While the Bottrall clan stamped around below he remained upstairs in the room with the sloped, beamed ceiling which he'd been given. It was at the back of the house, which suited him fine. From the deep-Billed window he had a view up the unspoiled slope of the fell, with not a house in sight, just a few wind-stunted trees and a scattering of hardy sheep.

He was pinning a map of the world up on the wall when he heard the wasp, its last days upon it, come weaving around his head. He snatched up a book and swatted it away, but back it came, its buzz escalating. Again, he struck out at it, but somehow it avoided his blow and winding its way around him, stung him below his left ear. He yelped, and retreated to the door as the insect flew a victory circuit around his head. He didn't attempt to swat it a third time, but opened the door, and stumbled downstairs, wailing.

He got no sympathy. His father was in the midst of a heated altercation with Donald Bottrall, and shot him such a glance when he approached that he swallowed his complaints. Gulping back tears he went to find his mother. She was once again sitting at the bay window, with a bottle of pills on the arm of her chair. She had a second bottle open, the contents in her palm, and was counting them.

'Mum?' he said.

She raised her eyes from the pills, a look of genteel despair upon her face. 'What's wrong?' she said. He told her. 'You are careless,' she replied. 'Wasps always get nasty in the autumn. You shouldn't annoy them.'

He began to protest that he hadn't annoyed it at all, he'd been the innocent party, but he could see by the expression on her face that she'd already tuned him out. A moment later, she returned to counting the pills. Feeling frustrated but utterly ineffectual, he withdrew. The sting was really throbbing now, the discomfort fuelling his rage. He went back up to the bathroom, found some ointment for insect bites in the medicine cabinet and gingerly applied it to the sting. Then he washed his face, removing any evidence of tears. He was never going to cry again, he told his reflection; it was stupid. It didn't make anybody listen. Feeling not in the least happier, he headed back downstairs. Little had changed. Craig was lounging in the kitchen, his mouth stuffed with something Adele had cooked up; Eleanor was sitting with her pills; and Hugo had taken his argument with Donald - who looked bull-headed enough to give as good as he got - out into the front garden, where they were talking at each other in a red rage. Nobody noticed Will stamp off towards the village; or if they did, nobody cared sufficiently to stop him.

CHAPTER III

The streets of Burnt Yarley were virtually deserted, the shops all closed. Even the little sweet-shop, where Will had hoped he might soothe his frustration and his dry throat with an ice-cream, was locked up. He peered in through the window, cupping his hands around his face. The interior was as small as the facade suggested, but packed to the rafters with goods, some clearly targeted at the ramblers and hikers who passed through the town: postcards, maps, even knapsacks. Curiosity satisfied, Will wandered on to the bridge. It wasn't large -a span of maybe twelve feet - and built of the same grey stone as the tiny cottages in its immediate vicinity. He sat on the low wall and peered down into the river. The summer had been dry, and there was presently little more than a stream creeping between the rocks below, but the banks were fringed with marsh marigolds and clumps of balsam. There were bees around the balsam in their dozens. Will watched them warily, ready to retreat if one winged its way towards him.

'It's all stupid,' he muttered. 'What is?' said somebody at his back.

He turned round, and found not one but two pairs of eyes upon him. The speaker, a fair-haired, fair-skinned and presently heavily-freckled girl a little older than himself, was standing at the rise of the bridge, while her companion squatted against the wall opposite Will and picked his nose. The boy was plainly her brother; they had common broad, plain features and grave, grey eyes. But while she still looked to be in her Sunday best, her sibling was a mess, his clothes wrinkled and grimy, his mouth stained with berry juice. He stared at Will with a scowl.

'What's stupid?' the girl said again. 'This place.'

"Tisn't,' said the boy. 'You're stupid.' 'Hush, Sherwood,' the girl said.

'Sherwood?' said Will.

'Yeah, Sherwood,' came the boy's defiant reply. He scrambled to his feet as if ready for a fight, his legs scabby with old scrapes. His belligerence lasted ten seconds. Then he said: 'I want to go and play somewhere else.' His interest in the stranger had plainly already waned. 'Come on, Frannie.

'That's not my real name,' the girl put in, before Will could remark upon it. 'It's Frances.'

'Sherwood's a daft name,' Will said.

'Oh yeah?' said Sherwood.

'Yeah.'

'So who are you?' Frannie wanted to know.

'He's the Rabjohns kid,' scabby-kneed Sherwood said.

'How'd you know that?' Will demanded.

Sherwood shrugged. 'I heard,' he said with a mischievous little smile, "cause I listen.'

Frannie laughed. 'The things you hear,' she said.

Sherwood giggled, pleased to be appreciated. 'The things I hear,' he said, his voice sing-song, as he repeated the phrase. 'The things I hear, the things I hear.'

'Knowing somebody's name isn't so clever,' Will replied.

'I know more than that.'

'Like?'

'Like you came from Manchester, and you had a brother only he's dead.' He spoke the d-word with relish. 'And your dad's a teacher.' He glanced at his sister. 'Frannie says she hates teachers.'

'Well he's not a teacher,' Will shot back.

'What is he then?' Frannie wanted to know.

'He's . . . he's a Doctor of Philosophy.'

It sounded like a fine boast, and for a moment it silenced his audience. Then Frannie said: 'Is he really a doctor?'

She had unerringly gone to the part of his father's nomenclature Will had never really understood. He put a brave face on his incomprehension. 'Sort of,' he said. 'He makes people better by .. . by writing books.'

'That's stupid,' Sherwood said, crowing the word that had begun their whole exchange. He started to laugh at how ridiculous this was.

'I don't care what you think,' Will said, putting on his best sneer. 'Anybody who lives in this dump has got to be the biggest stupid person I ever saw. That's what you are-'

Sherwood had turned his back on Will and was spitting over the bridge. Will gave up on him and marched off back towards the house.

'Wait-' he heard Frannie say.

'Frannie,' Sherwood whined, 'leave him alone.'

But Frannie was already at Will's side. 'Sometimes Sherwood gets silly,' she said, almost primly. 'But he's my brother, so I have to watch out for him.'

'Somebody's going to bash him one of these days. Bash him hard. And it might be me.'

'He gets bashed all the time,' Frannie said, "cause people think he's not quite. . .' she halted, drew a breath, then went on: '. . . not quite right in the head.'

'Fraaaannnnie. . .' Sherwood was yelling.

'You'd better go back to him, in case he falls off the bridge.'

Frannie gave her brother a fretful backward glance. 'He's okay. You know, it's not so bad here,' she said.

'I don't care,' Will replied. 'I'm going to be running away.'

'Are you?'

'I just said, didn't I?'

'Where to?'

'I haven't made up my mind.'

The conversation faltered here, and Will hoped Frannie would go back to her brattish brother, but she was determined to keep the exchange going, walking beside him. 'Is it true what Sherwood said?' she asked, her voice softening. 'About your brother?'

'Yeah. He was knocked down by a taxi.'

'That must be horrible for you,' Frannie said.

'I didn't like him very much.'

'Still . . . if something like that ever happened to Sherwood . . .They had come to a divide in the road. To the left lay the route back to the house; to the right, a less well-made track that rapidly wound out of sight behind the hedgerows. Will hesitated a moment, weighing up the options.

'I should go back,' Frannie said.

'I'm not stopping you,' Will replied.

Frannie didn't move. He glanced round at her, and saw such hurt in her eyes he had to look away. Seeking some other point of interest, his gaze found the one visible building close to the right-hand track, and more to mellow his cruelty than out of genuine curiosity he asked Frannie what it was.

'Everybody calls it the Courthouse,' she said. 'But it isn't really. It was built by this man who wanted to protect horses or something. I don't know the proper story.'

'Who lives there?' Will said. As far as he could tell at this distance, it was an impressive-looking structure; it almost looked like a temple in one of his history books, except that it was built of dark stone.

'Nobody lives there,' Frannie said. 'It's horrible inside.'

'You went in?'

'Sherwood hid there once. He knows more about it than I do. You should ask him.'

Will wrinkled up his nose. 'Nah,' he said, feeling as though he'd made his attempt at conciliation and he could now depart without guilt.

'Fraaannnie!' Sherwood was yelling again. He had clambered up onto the wall of the bridge and was imitating a trapeze artist as he walked along it.

'Get down off there!' Frannie shouted at him, and saying goodbye to Will over her shoulder, hurried back to the bridge to enforce her edict.

Relieved to have the girl gone, Will again considered the routes before him. If he went back to the house now he could slake his thirst and fill the growing hole in his belly. But he'd also have to endure the atmosphere of ill- humour that hung about the place. Better to go walking, he thought; find out what was around the bend and beyond the hedgerows.

He glanced back at the bridge to see that Frannie had coaxed Sherwood down off the wall and that he was now sitting on the ground again, hugging his knees, while his sister stood gazing in Will's direction. He gave her a half-hearted wave, and then struck out along the unexplored road, thinking as he went that perhaps the route would be so tantalizing that he'd make good on his boast to the girl, and keep walking till Burnt Yarley was just a memory.

CHAPTER IV

The Courthouse was further than he'd thought. He walked and walked, and every turn in the road showed him another turn and every hedgerow he peered over another hedgerow, until it dawned on him that he'd completely miscalculated the size of the building. It was not near and small, it was far and enormous. By the time he came abreast of it, and surveyed the hedge looking for a way into the field in which it stood, fully half an hour had passed. The day had grown more uncomfortable than ever, and there were heavy clouds looming over the fells to the northeast. Adele Bottrall's cleansing storm, at last, its billowing thunderheads casting shadows on the heights. Perhaps it would be better to leave this adventuring for another day, he thought. The sting on his neck had begun to pain him afresh, and had passed its throb to the bones of his head. It was time to go home, whatever he'd boasted.

But to have come so far and not have anything to tell was surely a waste. Five more minutes he'd be through the hedge and across the field, into the mystery building. Another five and he'd have seen its dank interior, and he could be away, taking a short cut across the fields, content that his trudge had not been in vain.

So thinking he scouted for a gap in the woven hawthorn and, finding a place where the branches looked less tightly meshed, pushed through. He didn't emerge entirely unscathed, but the spectacle on the other side was worth the scratches. The grass in the meadow surrounding the Courthouse was almost up to his chest, and there was life in it everywhere. Peewits erupted from underfoot, hares he could hear but not see raced away at his approach. He instantly forgot his aching head, and strode through the hay and cow parsley like a man lost on safari, his stomach suddenly churning with excitement. Perhaps, after all, this wouldn't be such a bad place to live: away from the dirty streets and the taxis, in a place where he could be somebody else; somebody new.

He was just a few yards from the Courthouse now, and any doubts he'd entertained about the wisdom of venturing inside had fled. He climbed the overgrown steps, passed between the pillars (which had the girth of Donald Bottrall) and pushing open the half-rotted door, stepped inside.

It was colder than he had expected it to be, and darker. Though there had been so little rain that the river had been reduced to a trickle, there was nevertheless a dankness everywhere, as though somehow the building was drawing moisture up from the earth below, and with it came the smell of rot and worms.

The room he'd entered was most peculiar: a kind of semi-circular vestibule, with a number of alcoves carved into it that looked as though they might have been intended for statues. On the floor was an elaborate mosaic, depicting a curious collection of objects, some of which Will recognized, others which he did not. There were grapes and lemons, flowers and cloves of garlic; there was what might have been a piece of meat, except that it had maggots crawling out of it and he thought that must be his mistake, because nobody in their right mind would go to the trouble of building a magnificent place like this and then put a picture of a rotted steak on the floor. He didn't linger to puzzle over it for long. A call of distant thunder so deep it reverberated in the walls reminded him of the coming storm. He needed to be out of here in a couple of minutes if he was to have a hope of outrunning the rain. He headed on, into the belly of the building, down a wide, high-ceilinged corridor (it was almost as though the doors and passageways had been designed to let giants pass) and through another door, this less vaulted than the first, into the central chamber.

As he entered there was a clattering in the shadows ahead of him, so loud his heart jumped in his chest. He threw himself back towards the door, and would have been away through it - his adventurous spirit quenched - had he not moments later heard the pitiful bleat of a sheep. He studied the chamber. It had a round skylight in the middle of its domed roof, and a beam came down to strike the filthy ground, like a single bright pillar designed to hold the whole magnificence in place. There was a wash of light up upon the tiers of stone seats which ran round the entire chamber, bright enough to touch the walls themselves. Here, he saw, there were carvings, depicting who knew what? Sporting events, perhaps; he saw horses in one of them, and dogs in another, straining on long leashes.

The bleating came again, and following the sound Will set eyes on a pitiable sight. A fully grown sheep - its body pitifully thinned by malnutrition, its fleece hanging off it in filthy rags - was cowering in a niche between two tiers of seats where it had retreated upon Will's entrance.

'You're a mess,' he said to the animal. Then, more softly: 'It's okay . . . I'm not going to hurt you.' He started to approach. The sheep regarded him balefully with its bulbous eyes, but it didn't move. 'You got stuck in here, didn't you?' he said. 'You big dafty. You found your way in and now you can't get out again.'

The closer he got to the creature, the more pathetic its condition appeared. Its legs and head and flanks were covered in scrapes, where it had presumably attempted to push its way out. There was one particularly befouled wound along the side of its jaw where flies were busy. Will had no intention of actually touching the animal. But if he could just scare it in the right direction, he thought, he might get it out into the light where at least it had a chance of finding its way home. The theory had merit. When he climbed up onto one of the tiers of seats, the poor creature, frightened out of its simple wits, fled its bolt-hole in an instant, its hooves clattering on the stone floor. He pursued it to the door, and overtook it. Terrified, the animal reeled around, bleating pitifully. Will put his shoulder against the door, and pushed it open. The sheep had retreated to the pool of light in the centre of the chamber, and stood watching Will with its flanks heaving. Will glanced down the passageway to the front door, which was still as he had left it, open wide. Surely the animal could see that far? The sun was still shining out there; the grass swayed in a rising wind, as pliant and seductive as this place was severe. 'Go on!' Will said. 'Look! Food!' The sheep just stared at him, bug-eyed. Will glanced back along the passageway, and saw that here and there the wall had crumbled and blocks of stone slipped from their place. He let the door go, found a block that he had the strength to move, and rolling it ahead of him, used it to wedge the door open. Then he went back into the chamber and scooting around behind the sheep, shoved it towards the open door. Finally its undernourished brain got the message. It was off down the passageway and out through the front door to freedom. Will was pleased with himself. It wasn't quite the adventure he'd expected to have in this bizarre place, but it had satisfied some instinct in him. 'Perhaps I'll be a farmer,' he said to himself. Then he headed out, into whatever was left of the day.

CHAPTER V

The episode with the sheep had delayed him in the Courthouse longer than he'd intended; even as he stepped outside the clouds covered the sun, and a gust of wind, strong enough to bow the grass low as it passed, brought a spatter of rain. He would not now be able to outrun a soaking, he knew, but he was determined not to go back the way he'd come. Instead he'd take a short cut across the fields to the house. He walked to the corner of the Courthouse, and tried to spot his destination, but it was out of sight. He knew its general direction, however; he would simply follow his nose. The rain was getting heavier by the moment, but he didn't mind. The air carried the metallic tang of lightning, sweetened by the scent of wet grass; the heat was already noticeably mellowed. On the fells ahead of him, a few last spears of sunlight were shining through the big-bellied clouds and stabbing the heights. Just as the storm was filling the valley, so it seemed his senses were filled: with the rain, the grass, the tang, the sunlight and thunder. He could not remember ever feeling as he felt now: that he and the world around him were in every particular connected. It made him want to yell with happiness, he felt so full, so found. It was as though, for the first time in his life, something in the world that was not human knew he was there. His blessedness made him fleet. Whooping and shouting he ran through the lashing grass like a crazy, while the clouds sealed off the last of the sun and threw lightning down on the hills. He did his best to hold to the direction he'd set himself, but the rain quickly escalated from a bracing shower to a downpour, and he could soon no longer see slopes that minutes before had been crystalline, so obscured were they by veils of water and cloud. Nor was this his only problem. The first hedgerow he encountered was too thick to be breached and too tall to be clambered over, so he was obliged to go looking for a gate, his trek along the edge of the field disorienting him. It was some time before he found a means of egress: not a gate but a stile, which he hoisted himself over, glancing back at the Courthouse only to find that it too had disappeared from sight. He didn't panic. There were farmhouses scattered all along the valley, and if he did find himself lost then he'd just strike out for the nearest residence and ask for directions. Meanwhile he made an instinctive guess at his route, and ploughed on first through a meadow of rape and then across a field occupied by a herd of cows, several of which had taken refuge under an enormous sycamore. He was almost tempted to join them, but he'd read once that trees were bad spots to shelter during thunderstorms so on he went, through a gate onto a track that was turning into a little brook, and over a second stile into a muddy, deserted field. The rainfall had not slowed a jot, and by now he was soaked to the skin. It was time, he decided, to seek some help. The next track he came to he'd follow till it led him somewhere inhabited; maybe he'd persuade a sympathetic soul to drive him home.

But he walked on for another ten or fifteen minutes without encountering a track, however rudimentary, and now the ground began to slope upwards, so that he was soon having to climb hard. He stopped. This was definitely not the right way. Half-blinded by the freezing downpour he turned three hundred and sixty degrees looking for some clue to his whereabouts, but there were walls of grey rain enclosing him on every side, so he turned his back to the slope and retraced his steps. At least that was what he thought he'd done. Somehow he'd managed to turn himself around, without realizing he'd done so, because after fifty yards the ground again steepened beneath his feet - cascades of water surging over boulders a little way up the slope. The cold and disorientation were bad enough, but what now began to trouble him more was a subtle darkening of the sky. It was not the thunderclouds that were blotting out the light, it was dusk. In a few minutes it would be dark; far darker than it ever got on the streets of Manchester.

He was shivering violently, and his teeth had begun to chatter. His legs were aching, and his rain-pummelled face was numb. He tried yelling for help, but he rapidly gave up in the attempt. Between the din of the storm and the frailty of his voice, he knew after a few yells it was a lost cause. He had to preserve his energies, such as they were. Wait until the storm cleared, when he could work out where he was. It wouldn't be difficult, once the lights of the village started to reappear, as they surely would, sooner or later.

And then, a shout, somewhere in the storm, and something broke cover, racing in front of him

'Catch it!' he heard a raw voice say, and instinctively threw himself down to catch hold of whatever was escaping. His quarry was even more exhausted and disoriented than he, apparently, because his hands caught hold of something lean and furry, which squealed and struggled in his grip.

'Hold it, m'lad! Hold it!'

The speaker now appeared from higher up the slope. It was a woman, dressed entirely in black, carrying a flickering lamp, which burned with a fat yellow-white flame. By its light he saw a face that was more beautiful than any he had seen in his life, its pale perfection framed by a mass of dark red hair.

'You are a treasure,' she said to Will, setting down the lamp. Her accent was not local, but tinged with a little Cockney. 'You just hold that damn hare a minute longer, while I get my bag.'

She set down the lamp, rummaged in the folds of her sleek coat and pulled out a small sack. Then she approached Will and with lightning speed clawed the squealing hare from his arms. It was in the bag and the bag sealed up in moments. 'You're as good as gold, you are,' she said. 'We would have gone hungry, Mr Steep and me, if you hadn't been so quick.' She set down the bag. 'Oh my Lord, look at the state of you,' she said, bending to examine Will more closely. 'What's your name?'

'William.'

'I had a William once,' the woman remarked. 'It's a lovely name.' Her face was close to Will's, and there was a welcome heat in her breath. 'In fact I think I had two. Sweet children, both of 'em.' She reached out and touched Will's cheek. 'Oh but you are cold.'

'I got lost.'

'That's terrible. Terrible,' she said, stroking his face. 'How could any self-respecting mother let you stray out of sight? She should be ashamed, she should. Ashamed.' Will would have concurred, but the warmth seeping from the woman's fingers into his face was curiously soporific.

'Rosa?' somebody said.

'Yes?' the woman replied, her voice suddenly flirty. 'I'm down here, Jacob.'

'Who've you found now?'

'I was just thanking this lad,' Rosa said, removing her hand from Will's face. He was suddenly freezing again. 'He caught us our dinner.'

'Did he indeed?' said Jacob. 'Why don't you step aside, Mrs. McGee, and give me sight of the boy?'

'Sight you want, sight you'll have,' Rosa replied, and getting to her feet she picked up the sack, and moved a short way down the slope.

In the two or three minutes since Will had caught hold of the hare, the sky had darkened considerably, and when Will looked in the direction of Jacob Steep it was hard to see the man clearly. He was tall, that much was clear, and was wearing a long coat with shiny buttons. His face was bearded, and his hair longer than Mrs. McGee's. But his features were a blur to Will's weary eyes.

'You should be at home,' he said. Will shuddered, but this time the cause was not the cold but the warmth of Steep's voice. 'A boy like you, out here alone, could come to some harm or other.'

'He's lost,' Mrs. McGee chimed in.

'On a night like this, we're all a little lost,' Mr. Steep said. 'There's no blame there.'

'Maybe he should come home with us,' Rosa suggested. 'You could light one of your fires for him.'

'Hush yourself,' Jacob snapped. 'I will not have talk of fires when this boy is so bitter cold. Where are your wits?'

'As you like,' the woman replied. 'It's no matter to me either way. But you should have seen him take the hare. He was on it like a tiger, he was.'

'I was lucky,' Will said, 'that's all.'

Mr. Steep drew a deep breath, and to Will's great delight descended the slope a yard or two more. 'Can you get up?' he asked Will.

'Of course I can,' Will replied, and did so.

Though Mr. Steep had halved the distance between them, the darkness had deepened a little further, and his features were just as hard to fathom. 'I wonder, looking at you, if we weren't meant to meet on this hill,' he said softly. 'I wonder if that's the luck of this night, for us all.' Will was still trying hard to get a better sense of what Steep looked like; to put a face to the voice that moved him so deeply, but his eyes weren't equal to the challenge. 'The hare, Mrs. McGee.'

'What about it?'

'We should set it free.'

'After the chase it led me?' Rosa replied. 'You're out of your mind.'

'We owe it that much, for leading us to Will.'

'I'll thank it as I skin it, Jacob, and that's my final word on the thing. My God, you're impractical. Throwing away good food. I'll not have it.' Before Steep could protest further she snatched up the sack, and was away down the slope.

Only now, watching her descend, did Will realize that the worst of the storm had blown over. The rainfall had mellowed to a drizzle, the murk was melting away; he could even see lights glimmering in the valley. He was relieved, certainly, but not as much as he thought he'd be. There was comfort in the prospect of returning home, but that meant leaving the company of the dark man at his back, who even now lay a heavy, leather-gloved hand upon his shoulder.

'Can you see your house from here?' he asked Will.

'No . . . not yet.'

'But it will come clear, by and by.'

'Yes,' Will said, only now getting a sense of how the land lay. He had managed somehow to come halfway around the valley during his blind trek, and was looking down on the village from a wholly unexpected angle. There was a track not more than thirty yards down the ridge from where he stood; it would lead him, he suspected, back to the route he'd followed to get to the Courthouse. A left at that intersection would bring him back into Burnt Yarley, and then it was just a weary trudge home. 'You should go, my boy,' Jacob said. 'Doubtless a fellow as fine as you has loving guardians.' The gloved hand squeezed his shoulder. 'I envy you that, having no parents that I can remember.'

'I'm . . . sorry,' Will said, hesitating because he was by no means sure a man as fine as Jacob Steep was ever in need of sympathy. He received it, however, in good part.

'Thank you, Will. It's important that a man be compassionate. It's a quality that our sex so often neglects, I think.' Will heard the soft cadence of Steep's breathing, and tried to fall in rhythm with it. 'You should go,' Jacob said. 'Your parents will be concerned for you.'

'No they won't,' Will replied.

'Surely-'

'They won't. They don't care.'

'I can't believe that.'

'It's true.'

'Then you must be a loving son in spite of them,' Steep said. 'Be grateful that you have their faces in your mind's eye. And their voices to answer when you call. Better that than emptiness, believe me. Better than silence.'

He lifted his hand from Will's shoulder, and instead touched the middle of his back, gently pushing him away. 'Go on,' he said softly. 'You'll be dead of cold if you don't go soon. Then how would we get to meet again?'

Will's spirits rose at this. 'We might do that?'

'Oh certainly, if you're hardy enough to come and find me. But Will . . . understand me . . . I'm not looking for a dog to perch on my lap. I need a wolf.'

'I could be a wolf,' Will said. He wanted to look back over his shoulder at Steep, but that was not, he thought, the most appropriate thing for an aspirant wolf to do.

'Then as I say: come find me,' Steep said. 'I won't be far away.' And with that he gave Will a final nudge, setting him off on his way down the slope.

Will did not look back until he reached the track, and when he did he saw nothing. At least nothing alive. The hill he saw, black against the clearing sky. And the stars, appearing between the clouds. But their splendour was nothing compared to the face of Jacob Steep; a face he had not yet seen, but which his mind had already conjured a hundred different ways by the time he reached home, each finer than the one before. Steep the nobleman, fine-boned and fancy; Steep the soldier, scarred from a dozen wars; Steep the magician, his gaze bearing power. Perhaps he was all of these. Perhaps none. Will didn't care. What mattered was to be beside him again, soon, and know him better.

Meanwhile, there was a warm light from the window of his home, and a fire in the hearth. Even a wolf might seek the comfort of the hearth now and then, Will reasoned, and knocking on the front door, was let back in.

CHAPTER VI

i

He did not go up the hill the following day to look for Jacob, nor indeed the day following that. He came home to such a firestorm of accusations - his mother in racking tears, certain he was dead, his father, white with fury, just as certain he wasn't - that he dared not step over the threshold. Hugo wasn't a violent man. He prided himself on his reasonableness. But he made an exception in this case, and beat his son so hard - with a book, of all things - he reduced them both to tears: Will, of pain, his father of anguish that he'd lost so much control.

He wasn't interested in Will's explanations. He simply told his son that while he, Hugo, didn't care if Will went wandering for the rest of his damn life, Eleanor did, and hadn't she suffered enough for one lifetime?

So Will stayed at home and nursed his bruises and his rage. After forty-eight hours his mother tried to make some kind of peace, telling him how frightened she'd been that some harm had befallen him.

'Why?' he said to her sullenly.

'Whatever do you mean?'

'I mean why should you worry if something happens to me? You never cared before . . .'

'Oh, William . . .' she said softly. There was only a trace of accusation in her voice. It was mostly sorrow.

'You don't,' he sat flatly. 'You know you don't. All you ever think about is him.' He didn't need to name the missing member of this equation. 'I'm not important to you. You said so.' This was not strictly the case. She'd never used those precise words. But the lie sounded true enough.

'I'm sure I didn't mean it,' she said. 'It's just been so hard for me since Nathaniel died-' Her fingers went to his face as she spoke, and gently stroked his cheek. 'He was so . . . so. . .'

He was barely listening to her. He was thinking of Rosa McGee, and how she had touched his face and spoken to him softly. Only she'd not been talking about how fine some other boy was while she did so. She'd been telling him what a treasure he was, how nimble, how useful. This woman who had barely known his name had found in him qualities his own mother could not see. It made him sad and angry at the same time.

'Why do you keep talking about him?' Will said. 'He's dead.'

Eleanor's fingers fell from Will's face, and she looked at him with tear-filled eyes. 'No,' she said, 'he'll never be dead. Not to me. I don't expect you to understand. How could you? But your brother was very special to me. Very precious. So he'll never be dead as far as I'm concerned.'

Something happened in Will at that moment. A scrap of hope that had stayed green in the months since the accident withered and went to dust. He didn't say anything. He just got up and left her to her tears.

ii

After two days of home-bound penance he went to school. It was a smaller place than St Margaret's, which he liked, its buildings older, its playground lined with trees instead of railings. He kept to himself for the first week, barely speaking to anyone. At the beginning of the second week, however, minding his own business at lunchtime, a familiar face appeared in front of him. It was Frannie.

'Here you are,' she said, as though she'd been looking for him.

'Hello,' he said, glancing around to see if Sherwood the Brat was also in evidence. He wasn't.

'I thought you'd be gone on your trip by now.'

'I will,' he said. 'I'll go.'

'I know,' Frannie said, quite sincerely. 'After we met I kept thinking maybe I'd go too. Not with you-'she hastened to add '-but one day I'd just leave.'

'Go as far away as possible,' Will said.

'As far away as possible,' Frannie replied, her echoing of his words - a kind of pact. 'There's not much worth seeing around here,' she went on, 'unless you go into . . . you know...'

'You can talk about Manchester,' Will said. 'Just 'cause my brother was killed there . . . it's no big deal to me. I mean, he wasn't really my brother.' Will felt a delicious lie being born. 'I'm adopted, you see.'

'You are?'

'Nobody knows who my real Mum and Dad are.'

'Oh wow. Is this a secret?' Will nodded. 'So I can't even tell Sherwood.'

'Better not,' Will replied, with a fine show of seriousness. 'He might spread it around.'

The bell was ringing, calling them back to their classes. The fierce Miss Hartley, a big-bosomed woman whose merest whisper intimidated her charges, was eyeing Will and Frannie.

'Frances Cunningham!' she boomed, 'will you get a move on?' Frannie pulled a face and ran, leaving Miss Hartley to focus her attention on Will. 'You are-?'

'William Rabjohns.'

'Oh yes,' she said darkly, as though she'd heard news of him and it wasn't good. He stood his ground, feeling quite calm. This was strange for him. At St Margaret's he had been intimidated by several of the staff, feeling remotely that they were part of his father's clan. But this woman seemed to him absurd, with her sickly sweet perfume and her fat neck. There was nothing to be afraid of here. Perhaps she saw how unmoved he was, because she stared at him with a well-practised curl in her lip. 'What are you smiling at?' she said.

He wasn't aware that he was, until she remarked upon it. He felt his stomach churn with a strange exhilaration; then he said:

'You.'

'What?'

He made the smile a grin. 'You,' he said again. 'I'm smiling at you.'

She frowned at him. He kept grinning, thinking as he did so that he was baring his teeth to her, like a wolf. 'Where are you . . . supposed to be?' she said to him.

'In the gym,' he replied. He kept looking straight at her; kept grinning. And at last it was she who looked away. 'You'd better . . . get along then, hadn't you?' she said to him.

'If we've finished talking,' he said, hoping to goad her into further response.

But no. 'We've finished,' she said.

He was reluctant to take his eyes off her. If he kept staring, he thought, he could surely bore a hole in her, the way a magnifying glass burned a hole in a piece of paper.

'I won't have insolence from anyone,' she said. 'Least of all a new boy. Now get to your class.' He had little choice. Off he went. But as he walked past her he said:

'Thank you, Miss Hartley,' in a soft voice, and he was sure he saw her shudder.

CHAPTER VII

Something was happening to him. There were little signs of it every day. He would look up at the sky and feel a strange surge of exhilaration, as though some part of him were taking flight, rising up out of his own head. He would wake long after midnight and even though it was bitterly cold, open the window and listen to the world going on in darkness, imagining how it was on the heights. Twice he ventured out in the middle of the night, up the slope behind the house, hoping he might meet Jacob up there somewhere, star-watching; or Mrs McGee, chasing hares. But he saw no sign of them, and though he listened intently to every gossipy conversation when he was in the village - picking up pork chops for Adele Bottrall to cook with apples for Papa, or a sheaf of magazines for his mother to flick through - he never heard anybody mention Jacob or Rosa. They lived in some secret place, he concluded, where they could not be troubled by the workaday world. Other than himself, he doubted anybody in the valley even knew they existed.

He didn't pine for them. He would find them again, or they him, when the time was right. He was certain of that. Meanwhile, the strange epiphanies continued. Everywhere around him, the world was making miraculous signs for him to read. In the curlicues of frost on his window when he rose; in the patterns that the sheep made, straggling the hill; in the din of the river, swelled to its full measure by an autumn that brought more than its share of rain.

At last, he had to share these mysteries with somebody. He chose Frannie, not because he was certain she'd understand, but because she was the only one he trusted enough.

They were sitting in the living-room of the Cunningham house, which was adjacent to the junkyard owned by Frannie's father. The house was small, but cosy, as ordered and neat as the yard outside was chaotic: a needlepoint prayer framed above the mantelpiece, blessing the hearth and all who gather there; a teak china cabinet with an heirloom tea-service elegantly but not boastfully displayed; a plain brass clock on the table, and beside it a cut-glass bowl heaped with pears and oranges. Here, in this womb of certainties, Will told Frannie of the feelings that had risen in him of late, and how they had begun the day the two of them met. He didn't mention Jacob and Rosa at first - they were the secret he was most loath to share, and he was by no means certain he would do so but he did talk about venturing into the Courthouse.

'Oh, I asked my Mum about that,' Frannie said. 'And she told me the story.'

'What is it?' Will said.

'There was this man called Bartholomeus,' she said. 'He lived in the valley, when there were still lead mines everywhere.'

'I didn't know there were mines.'

'Well there were. And he made a lot of money from them. But he wasn't quite right in the head, that's what Mum said, because he had this idea that people didn't treat animals properly, and the only way to stop people being cruel was to have a court, which would only be for animals.'

'Who was the judge?'

'He was. And the jury probably.' She shrugged. 'I don't know the whole story, just those bits-'

'So he built the Courthouse.'

'He built it, but he didn't finish it.'

'Did he run out of money?'

'My Mum says he was probably put in a loony bin, because of what he was doing. I mean, nobody wanted him bringing animals into his Courthouse and making laws about how people had to treat them better.'

'That was what he was doing?' Will said, with a little smile.

'Something like that. I don't know if anybody's really sure. He's been dead for a hundred and fifty years.'

'It's a sad story,' said Will, thinking of the strange magnificence of Bartholomeus' folly.

'He was better put away. Safer for everybody.'

'Safer?'

'I mean if he was going to try and accuse people of doing things to animals. We all do things to animals. It's natural.'

She sounded like her mother when she spoke like this. Genial enough, but unmovable. This was her stated opinion and nothing would sway her from it. Listening to her, his enthusiasm for sharing what he'd seen began to wane. Perhaps after all she was not the person to understand his feelings. Perhaps she'd think he was like Mr Bartholomeus, and better put away.

But now, her story of the Courthouse finished, she said: 'What were you telling me about?'

'I wasn't,' Will replied.

'No, you were in the middle of saying something-'

'Well it probably wasn't important,' Will said, 'or I'd remember what it was.' He got up from his seat. 'I'd better be off,' he said.

Frannie looked more than a little puzzled, but he pretended not to notice the expression on her face.

'I'll see you tomorrow,' he said.

'Sometimes you're really odd,' she said to him. 'Did you know that?'

'No.'

'You know you are,' she said, with a faint tone of accusation. 'And I think you like it.'

Will couldn't keep a smile from his lips. 'Maybe I do,' he said.

At which juncture, the door was flung open and Sherwood marched in. He had feathers woven in to his hair.

'You know what I am?'

'A chicken,' Will said.

'No, I'm not a chicken,' Sherwood said, deeply offended.

'That's what you look like.'

'I'm Geronimo.'

'Geronimo the chicken,' Will laughed.

'I hate you,' said Sherwood, 'and so does everybody at school.'

'Sherwood, be quiet,' Frannie said.

'They do,' Sherwood went on. 'They all think you're daft and they talk behind your back and they call you William Daffy.' Now it was Sherwood who laughed. 'Daffy William! William Daffy!' Frannie kept trying to hush him, but it was a lost cause. He was going to crow till he was done.

'I don't care!' Will yelled above the clamour. 'You're a cretin, and I don't care!'

So saying, he picked up his coat and pushing past Sherwood - who had begun a little dance in rhythm with his chant - headed for the door. Frannie was still trying to shush her brother, but in vain. He was in a self- perpetuating frenzy, yelling and jumping.

In truth, Will was glad of the interruption. It gave him the perfect excuse to make his exit, which he did in double-quick time, before Frannie had a chance to silence her brother. He needn't have worried. When he was out of the house, past the junkyard and at the end of Samson Road he could still hear Sherwood's rantings emerging from the house.

CHAPTER VIII

i

We moved out here because you wanted to move, Eleanor. Please remember that. We came here because of you.'

'I know, Hugo.'

'So what are you saying? That we should move again?' Will couldn't hear his mother's despair. Her quiet words were buried in sobs. But he heard his father's response. 'Lord, Eleanor, you've got to stop crying. We can't have an intelligent conversation if you just start crying whenever we talk about Manchester. If you don't want to go back there, that's fine by me, but I need some answers from you. We can't go on like this, with you taking so many pills you can't keep count. It's not a life, Eleanor.' Did she say, I know? Will thought she did, though it was hard to hear her through the door. 'I want what's best for you. What's best for us all.'

Now Will did hear her. 'I can't stay here,' she said.

'Well, once and for all: do you want to go back to Manchester?'

Her reply was simply repetition. 'I know I can't stay here.'

'Fine,' Hugo replied. 'We'll move back. Never mind that we sold the house. Never mind that we've spent thousands of pounds moving. We'll just go back.' His voice was rising in volume; so was the sound of Eleanor's sobs. Will had heard enough. He retreated from the door, and scurried upstairs, disappearing from sight just as the living-room door opened and his father stormed out.

ii

The conversation threw Will into a state of panic. They couldn't leave, not now. Not when for the first time in his life he felt things coming clear. If he went back to Manchester it would be like a prison sentence. He'd wither away and die.

What was the alternative? There was only one. He'd run away, as he'd boasted he would to Frannie, the first day they'd met. He'd plan it carefully, so that nothing was left to chance: be sure he had money and clothes; and of course a destination. Of these three the third was the most problematical. Money he could steal (he knew where his mother

kept her spare cash) and clothes he could pack, but where was he to go?

He consulted the map of the world on his bedroom wall, matching to those pastel-coloured shapes impressions he'd gleaned from television or magazines. Scandinavia? Too cold and dark. Italy? Maybe. But he spoke no Italian and he wasn't a quick learner. French he knew a little, and he had French blood in him, but France wasn't far enough. If he was going to go travelling, then he wanted it to be more than a ferry trip away. America, perhaps? Ah, now there was a thought. He ran his finger over the country from state to state, luxuriating in the names. Mississippi; Wyoming; New Mexico; California. His mood lifted at the prospect. All he needed was some advice about how to get out of the country, and he knew exactly where to get that: from Jacob Steep.

He went out looking for Steep and Rosa McGee the very next day. It was by now the middle of November, and the hours of daylight were short, but he made the most of them, skipping school for three consecutive days to climb the fells and look for some sign of the pair's presence. They were chilly journeys: though there was not yet snow on the hills the frost was so thick it dusted the slopes like a flurry, and the sun never emerged for long enough to melt it.

The sheep had already descended to the lower pastures to graze, but he was not entirely alone on the heights. Hares and foxes, even the occasional deer, had left their tracks in the frozen grass. But this was the only sign of life he encountered. Of Jacob and Rosa he saw not so much as a boot-print.

Then, on the evening of the third day, Frannie came to the house.

'You don't look as if you've got 'flu,' she said to Will. (He'd forged a note to that effect, explaining his absence.)

'Is that why you came?' he said. 'To check up on me?'

'Don't be daft,' she said. 'I came 'cause I've got something to tell you. Something strange.'

'What?'

'Remember we talked about the Courthouse?'

'Of course.'

'Well, I went to look at it. And you know what?'

'What?'

'There's somebody living there.'

'In the Courthouse?'

She nodded. By the look on her face it was apparent whatever she'd seen had unnerved her.

'Did you go in?' he asked her.

She shook her head. 'I just saw this woman at the door.'

'What did she look like?' Will asked, scarcely daring to hope.

'She was dressed in black-'

It's her, he thought. It's Mrs McGee. And wherever Rosa was, could Jacob be far away?

Frannie had caught the look of excitement on his face. 'What is it?' she said.

'It's who,' he said, 'not what.'

'Who then? Is it somebody you know?'

'A little,' he replied. 'Her name's Rosa.'

'I've never seen her before,' Frannie said. 'And I've lived here all my life.'

'They keep themselves to themselves,' Will replied.

'There's somebody else?'

He was so covetous of the knowledge, he almost didn't tell her. But then she'd brought him this wonderful news, hadn't she? He owed her something by way of recompense. 'There's two of them,' Will said. 'The woman's name is Rosa McGee. The man's called Jacob Steep.'

'I've never heard of either of them. Are they gypsies, or homeless people?'

'If they're homeless it's because they want to be,' Will said.

'But it must be so cold in that place. You said it was bare inside.'

'It is.'

'So they're just hiding in an empty place like that?' She shook her head. 'Weird,' she said. 'How do you know them, anyhow?'

'I met them while I was out walking,' he replied, which was close enough to the truth. 'Thanks for telling me. I'd better . . . I've got a whole lot of things to do.'

'You're going to see them, aren't you?' Frannie said. 'I want to come with you.'

'No!'

'Why not?'

'Because they're not your friends.'

'They're not yours either,' Frannie said. 'They're just people you met once. That's what you said.'

'I don't want you there,' Will said.

Frannie's mouth got tight. 'You know, you don't have to be so horrible about it,' she said to Will. He said nothing. She stared hard at him, as if willing him to change his mind. Still he said nothing; did nothing. After a few moments she gave up, and without another word marched to the front door.

'Are you leaving already?' Adele said.

Frannie had the door open. Her bicycle was propped up against the gate. Without even answering Adele, she got on her bike and was away.

'Was she upset about something?' Adele wanted to know.

'Nothing important,' Will replied.

It was almost dark, and cold. He knew from bitter experience to go out prepared for the worst, but it was hard to think coherently about boots and gloves and a sweater when the sound of his heart was so loud in his head, and all he could think was: I've found them, I've found them.

His father was not yet back from Manchester, and his mother was in Halifax today, seeing her doctor, so the only person he had to alert to his departure was Adele. She was in the midst of cooking, and didn't bother to ask him where he was going. Only as he slammed the door did she yell that he should be back by seven. He didn't bother to reply. Just set off down the darkening road towards the Courthouse, certain Jacob already knew he was coming.

The soul who had taken the name of Jacob Steep stood on the threshold of the Courthouse, and clung to the frame of the door. Dusk was always a time of weakness for both himself and Mrs McGee. This dusk was no exception. His innards convulsed, his limbs trembled, his temples throbbed. The very sight of the dimming sky, though it was tonight most picturesque, made an infant of him. It was the same story at dawn. They were both at these hours overtaken with such fatigue it was all they could do to stand upright. Indeed tonight it had proved impossible for Rosa. She had retreated into the Courthouse and was lying down, moaning, calling for him once in a while. He did not go to her. He stayed at the door, and waited for a sign.

That was the paradox of this hour: that when he was most unmanned was when he was most likely to hear a call to duty, his assassin's heart roused, his assassin's blood surging. And tonight, he was eager for news. They had languished here long enough. It was time to move on. But first he needed a destination, a dispatch, and that meant facing the sickening spectacle of twilight.

He did not know why this hour was so distressing to their systems, but it was one more proof - if he needed it - that they were not of ordinary stock. In the depths of the night, when the human world was asleep, and dreaming its narrow dreams, he was bright and blithe as a child, his body tireless. He could do his worst at that hour, quicker than the quickest executioner with his knife, or better still with his hands, taking lives away. And by day, in countries where the noon heat was crucifying, he was just as tireless. Death's perfect agent, sudden and swift. Day, in truth, suited him better than night, because by day he had the proper light by which to make his drawings, and both as a maker of pictures and a maker of corpses he liked to pay close attention to the details. The sweep of a feather, the slope of a snout; the timbre of a sob, the tang of a puke. It was all worthy of his study.

But whether light or dark had hold of the world, he had the energy of a man a tenth his age. It was only in the grey time that the weakness consumed him, and he found himself clinging to something solid to keep himself standing. He hated the sensation, but he refused to moan. Such complaints were for women and children, not for soldiers. That was not to say he hadn't heard soldiers moan in his time; he had. He'd lived long enough to have known many wars, large and small, and though he had never sought out a battlefield, his work had by chance brought him to a place of combat more than once. He had seen how men responded to their agonies, when they were beset. How they wept, how they called for mercy and their mothers.

Jacob had no interest in mercy; neither in its dispensing nor its receiving. He was set against the sentimental world as any pure force must be, entertaining neither kindness nor cruelty in his dealings. He scorned the comfort of prayer, and the distractions of fancy; he mocked grief, he mocked hope. He mocked despair also. The only quality he revered was patience, bought with the knowledge that all things pass. The sun would drop out of sight soon enough, and the weakness in his limbs melt into strength. All he had to do was wait. From inside, the sound of motion. And then, Rosa's sighing voice: 'I've been remembering,' she said. 'You have not,' he told her. Sometimes the pains of this hour made her delirious.

'I have. I swear,' she said. 'An island comes to mind. Do you remember an island? With wide, white shores? No trees. I've looked for trees and there are none. Oh. . .' Her words became groans again, and the groans turned into sobs. 'Oh, I would die now, gladly.'

'No, you wouldn't.'

'Come and comfort me.'

'I have no wish-'

'You must, Jacob. Oh . . . oh, Lord in heaven . . . why do we suffer so?'

Much as he wanted to stay out of her range, her sobs were too poignant to be ignored. He turned his back on the dying day, and strode down the corridor to the Courtroom itself. Mrs McGee was lying on the ground in the midst of her veils. She had lit a host of candles around her, as though their light might ameliorate the cruelty of the hour.

'Lie with me,' she said, looking up at him.

'It will do us no good.'

'We may get a child.'

'And that will do us no good, either,' he replied, 'as well you know.'

'Then lie with me for the comfort of it,' she said, her gaze fond. 'It is such agony to be separated from you, Jacob.'

'I'm here,' he said, curbing his former harshness.

'Not close enough,' she said with a tiny smile.

He walked towards her. Stood at her feet.

'Still . . . not close enough,' she said to him. 'I feel so weak, Jacob.'

'It will pass. You know it will.'

'At times like this I know nothing,' she said, 'except how much I need you.' She reached down and plucked at her skirt, watching his face all the while. 'With me,' she murmured. 'In me.'

He made no reply. 'Are you too weak, Jacob?' she said, still pulling up her skirt. 'Is the mystery too much for you?'

'It's no mystery,' he replied. 'Not after all these years.'

Now she smiled, and tugged the skirt to the middle of her thighs. She had fine legs; solid, meaty legs, her skin pearly in the candlelight. Sighing, she slipped her hand beneath her dress, and fingered herself, her hips rising to meet her touch.

'It's deep, love,' she said. 'And dark. And all wet for you.' She pulled her skirt up to her waist. 'Look,' she said. She had spread herself, to give him a look at her. 'Don't tell me that isn't a pretty thing. A perfect little cunny, that.' Her gaze went from his face to his groin. 'And you like the look of it, and don't you pretend you don't.'

She was right, of course. As soon as she'd started to raise her skirt his dunderheaded member had started to swell, demanding its due. As if his limbs weren't weak enough, without having to lose blood to its ambition.

'I'm tight, Mr Steep.'

'I'm sure you are.'

'Like a virgin on her wedding night I am. Look, I can barely fit my littlest finger in there. You'll have to do me some violence, I suspect.'

She knew what effect this kind of talk had upon him. A little shudder of anticipation passed through him, and he proceeded to take off his coat.

'Unbutton yourself,' Mrs McGee said, her voice bruised. 'Let me see what you have there.'

He cast his coat away and fumbled with the buttons of his mud-spattered trousers. She watched him, smiling, as he brought his member out.

'Oh now look at that,' she said, not unappreciatively. 'I think it wants a dip in my cunny.'

'It wants more than a dip.'

'Does it indeed?'

He knelt between her legs, and, reaching out, removed her hand from her sex, to give himself better sight of it. Then he stared.

'What are you thinking?' she said.

He fingered her for a moment, then ran his moistened digit down to her arse. 'I'm thinking . . .' he said, '. . . that I'd rather have this today.'

'Oh would you?'

He pressed his finger in a little way. She squirmed. 'Let me put it here,' he said. 'Just the head.'

'There are no children to be had that way,' she said.

'I don't care,' he replied. 'It's what I want.'

'Well, I don't,' she replied.

He smiled at her. 'Rosa-' he said softly -you could not deny me.'

He slipped his hands beneath her knees and hoisted them up. 'We should give up all hope of children,' he said, staring at the dark bud between her buttocks. 'They have always come to nothing.' She made no reply. 'Are you listening, love?' He glanced up at her face. She wore a sorrowful expression.

'No more children?' she said.

He spat in his hand, and slickened his prick. Spat again, more copiously, and slickened her arse.

'No more children,' he said, drawing her closer to him. 'It's a waste of your affections, smothering love on a thing that hasn't even got the wit to love you back.'

This was the truth of the matter: that though they had together made children numbering in the many dozens, he had for her sake taken them from her in the moment of their delivery and put them out of their misery, if the cretins ever knew misery. He would dutifully come back when he'd disassembled them and disposed of the pieces, always with the same grim news. That though they were fine to look at, their skulls contained only bloody fluid. Not even a rough sketch of a brain; nothing.

He pushed his prick into her. 'It's better this way,' he said.

She let out a little sob. He couldn't tell whether it was out of sorrow or pleasure, and at that moment didn't really care. He pressed against the warmth of her muscle, his prick utterly enveloped. Oh, it was good.

'No . . . children . . . then.. .' Mrs McGee gasped.

'No children.'

'Not ever?'

'Not ever.'

She reached up and took hold of his shirt, pulling him down towards her.

'Kiss,' she said.

'Be careful what you ask for

'Kiss,' she said again, raising her face towards his.

He didn't deny her. He pressed his lips against hers, and let her tongue, which was nimble, dart between his aching teeth. His mouth was always drier than hers. His parched gums and throat drank deep, and murmuring his gratitude against her lips, he pressed hard into her, their hold on one another suddenly frantic. Her hands went to his throat, then to his face, then to his backside, pushing him deeper, while his fingers pulled at her buttons to gain access to her breasts.

'Who are you?' she said to him.

'Anyone,' he gasped.

'Who?'

'Pieter, Martin, Laurent, Paolo-'

'Laurent. I liked Laurent.'

'He's here.'

'Who else?'

'I forget all the names,' Jacob confessed.

Rosa brought her hands back up to his face, and caught tight hold of it. 'Remember for me,' she said to him.

'There was a carpenter called Bernard-'

'Oh yes. He was very rough with me.'

'And Darlington

-the draper. Very tender.' She laughed. 'Didn't one of them wrap me up in silk?'

'Did he?'

'And poured cream in my lap. You could be him. Whoever he was.'

'We have no cream.'

'And no silk. Think of something else.'

'I could be Jacob,' he said.

'You could, I suppose,' she said, 'but it's not as much fun. Think of someone else.'

'There was Josiah. And Michael. And Stewart. And Roberto-' She moved her body to the rhythm of his litany. So many men, whose names and professions he'd borrowed to excite her, wrapping himself in their reputations for an hour or a day; seldom longer. 'I used to like this game,' he said.

'But not any more?'

'If we knew what we were...'

'Hush now.'

. . . maybe it wouldn't hurt so much.'

'It doesn't matter,' she said. 'Not as long as we're together. As long as you're inside me.'

They were knitted now, so tightly wound around each other, limbs and kisses intertwined, they would never be separated.

She started to sob again, the breath pushed out of her with every thrust. Names were still coming to her lips, but they were fragments only, pieces of pieces

'Sil ... Be ... Han.

She was lost to sensation; lost to his prick, to his lips. For his part, he had given up words entirely. Just his breathe, expelled into her mouth as though he were resurrecting her. His eyes were open, but he no longer saw her face, nor the candles that shook around them. There were instead vague forms, particles of light and dark, pulsing before him; dark above, light below.

The sight brought a moan from him. 'What is it?' Rosa said.

'I . . . don't . . . know,' he replied. It pained him to have this sight before him and not understand what he was seeing, like a fragment of music to which he could put no name, though the notes went round and round his head. But for all the anguish it caused him, he would not have had it taken away. There was something in the sight that quickened a secret place; a place he never spoke of, not even to Rosa. It was too tender, that place; too frail.

'Jacob?'

'Yes . . . ?'

He looked down at her, and the phantom evaporated.

'Are we done so soon?'

Her hand went between her legs, and took hold of his prick. Half its length was still inside her, but it was rapidly softening. He tried to push it back in, but it simply concertinaed against the tightness of her arse, and after a couple of dispiriting attempts he withdrew. She stared at him rancorously.

'Is that it?' she said.

He put his prick away, and got to his feet. 'For now,' he said.

'Oh am I to be fucked in installments then?' she said, pulling her skirts down over her pudenda and sitting up. 'I give you my arse against my better judgment and you don't even have the decency to finish.'

'I was distracted,' he said, picking up his coat and putting it on.

'By what?'

'I don't know exactly,' Jacob snapped. 'Lord, woman, it was just a fuck. There'll be others.'

'I don't think so,' she replied sniffily.

'Oh?'

'I think it's high time we let one another alone. If we're not out to make children, then what's the use of it? Huh?'

He stared hard at her. 'You mean this?'

'Yes, I do. Most certainly. I mean it.'

'You realize what you're saying?'

'Indeed I do.'

'You'll regret it.'

'I don't think so.'

'You'll be weeping for want of a fuck.'

'You think I'm that desperate for your ministrations?' she said. 'Lord, how you deceive yourself. I play along with you, Jacob. I pretend to be aroused, but I have no desire for you.'

'That's not so,' he said.

She heard the hurt in his voice, and was astonished. It was rare, and like all rarities, valuable. Pretending not to notice, she went to her battered leather satchel and pulled out her mirror, and squatting beside the candles for better light, studied her reflection. 'It is so,' she said, after a little time. 'Whatever was between us is dying, Jacob. If I loved you once, I forgot how. And frankly I don't much care to be reminded.'

'Very well,' he said. She caught his image in the glass; saw the look of distress that crossed his face. Rarer than rare, that look.

'As you say,' she murmured. 'I think...' 'Yes?' 'I . . . I would like to be alone for a while. . .' 'Here?' 'If you don't mind.' He flicked his fingers together, and a feather of flame leapt from them, extinguishing itself above his head. She did not care to watch him exercise this peculiar gift of his. She had her own skills, picked up, as Steep's had been picked up, like jokes or rashes, somewhere along the way. Let him have the room to brood, she thought. 'Will you be hungry later?' she asked him, sounding (much to her perverse delight) like a parody of a wife. 'I doubt it.' 'I have a meat-pie, if you want something.' 'Yes?' he said. 'We can still be civil, can't we?' she said. He let another flame go from his fingertips. 'I don't know,' he said. 'Maybe.' With that, she left him to his musings.

CHAPTER X

Halfway along the track that led from the crossroads to the Courthouse, Will heard the squeaking of ill-oiled wheels behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to see not one but two bicycle headlamps a little distance behind him. Breathing an inventive little curse, he stood and waited until Frannie and Sherwood caught up with him.

'Go home,' were his first words to them.

'No,' said Frannie breathlessly. 'We decided to come with you.'

'I don't want you to come,' Will said.

'It's a free country,' Sherwood replied. 'We can go wherever we want. Can't we, Frannie?'

'Shut up,' Frannie said. Then to Will: 'I only wanted to make sure you were okay.'

'So why'd you bring him?' Will said.

'Because . . . he asked me. . .' Frannie said. 'He won't be a bother.'

Will shook his head. 'I don't want you coming inside,' he said.

'It's a free-' Sherwood began again, but Frannie shushed him.

'All right, we won't,' she said. 'We'll just wait.'

Knowing this was the best deal he was going to be able to make, Will headed for the Courthouse, with Frannie and Sherwood trailing behind. He made no further recognition of their presence, until he got to the hedgerow adjacent to the Courthouse. Only then did he turn and tell them in a whisper that if they made a sound they'd spoil everything and he would never ever speak to them again. With the warning given, he dug through the hawthorn and started up the gently sloping meadow towards the building. It loomed larger by night than it had by day, like a vast mausoleum, but he could see a light flickering within; there was nothing but exhilaration in his heart as he made his way down the passage towards it.

Jacob was sitting in the judge's chair, with a small fire burning on the table in front of him. He looked up when he heard the door creak, and by the flames' light will had sight of the face he had conjured so many ways. In every detail, he had fallen short of its power. He had not made a brow wide or clear enough, nor eyes deep enough, nor imagined that Steep's hair, which he had seen in silhouette falling in curly abundance, would be cropped back to a shadow on the top of his skull. He had not imagined the gloss of his beard and moustache, or the delicacy of his lips, which he licked, and licked again, before saying:

'Welcome, Will. You come at a strange time.'

'Does that mean you want me to go?'

'No. Far from it.' He added a few pieces of tinder to the fire before him. It crackled and spat. 'It is, I know, the custom to paint a smile over sorrow; to pretend there is joy in you when there is not. But I hate wiles and pretences. The truth is I'm melancholy tonight.'

'What's . . . melancholy?' Will said.

'There's honest,' Jacob replied appreciatively. 'Melancholy is sad, but more than sad. It's what we feel when we think about the world and how little we understand; when we think of what we must come to.'

'You mean dying and stuff?'

'Dying will do,' Jacob said. 'Though that's not what concerns me tonight.' He beckoned to Will. 'Come closer,' he said, 'it's warmer by the fire.'

The few flames on the table offered, Will thought, little prospect of heat, but he gladly approached. 'So why are you sad?' Will said.

Jacob sat back in the ancient chair, and contemplated the fire. 'It's business between a man and a woman,' he replied. 'You need not concern yourself with it for a little time yet and you should be grateful. Hold it off as long as you can.' As he spoke he reached into his pocket and pulled out more fuel for his tiny bonfire. This time, Will was close enough to see that this tinder was moving. Fascinated, and faintly sickened, Will approached the table, and saw that Steep's captive was a moth, the wings of which he had caught between thumb and forefinger. Its legs and antennae flailed as it was dropped into the flames, and for an instant it seemed the draught of heat would waft it to safety, but before it could gain sufficient height its wings ignited and down it went. 'Living and dying we feed the fire,' Steep said softly. 'That is the melancholy truth of things.'

'Except that you just did the feeding,' Will said, surprised by his own eloquence.

'So we must,' Jacob replied. 'Or there'd be darkness in here. And how would we see each other then? I daresay you'd be more comfortable with fuel that didn't squirm as you fed it to the flame.'

'Yes . . .' Will said, '. . . I would.'

'Do you eat sausages, Will?'

'Yes.'

'You like them, I'm sure. A nicely browned pork sausage? Or a good steak and kidney pie?'

'Yes. I like steak and kidney pie.'

'But do you think of the beast, shitting itself in terror as it is shunted to its execution? Hanging by one leg, still kicking, while the blood spurts from its neck? Do you?'

Will had heard his father debate often enough to know that there was a trap here. 'It's not the same,' he protested.

'Oh, but it is.'

'No, it's not. I need food to stay alive.'

'So eat turnips.'

'But I like sausages.'

'You like light too, Will.'

'There are candles,' Will said, 'right there.'

'And the living earth gave up wax and wick in their making,' Steep said. 'Everything is consumed, Will, sooner or later. Living and dying we feed the fire.' He smiled, just a little. 'Sit,' he said softly. 'Go on. We're equals here. Both a little melancholy.'

Will sat. 'I'm not melancholy,' he said, liking the gift of the word. 'I'm happy.'

'Are you really? Well that's good to hear. And why are you so happy?'

Will was embarrassed to admit the truth, but Jacob had been honest, he thought; so should he. 'Because I found you here,' he said.

'That pleases you?'

'Yes.'

'But in an hour you'll be bored with me- 'No, I won't.'

-and the sadness will still be there, waiting for you.' As he spoke, the fire began to dwindle. 'Do you want to feed the fire, Will?' Steep said.

His words carried an uncanny power. It was as though this dwindling meant more than the extinguishing of a few flames. This fire was suddenly the only light in a cold, sunless world, and if somebody didn't feed it soon the consequences would be grim.

'Well, Will?' Jacob said, digging in his pocket and taking out another moth. 'Here,' he said, proffering it. Will hesitated. He could hear the soft flapping of the moth's panic. He looked past the creature to its captor. Jacob's face was utterly without expression.

'Well?' Jacob said.

The fire had almost gone out. Another few seconds and it would be too late. The room would be given over to darkness, and the face in front of Will, its symmetry and its scrutiny, would be gone. That thought was suddenly too much to bear. Will looked back at the moth: at its wheeling legs and its flapping antennae. Then, in a kind of wonderful terror, he took it from Jacob's fingers.

CHAPTER XI

'I'm cold,' Sherwood moaned for the tenth time. 'So go home,' Frannie said. 'On my own? In the dark? Don't make me do that.' 'Maybe I should go in and look for Will,' Frannie said. 'Perhaps he's slipped, or. . .' 'Why don't we just leave him?' 'Because he's our friend.' 'He's not my friend.' 'Then you can wait out here,' Frannie said, looking for the breaking-place in the hedge. A moment later she felt Sherwood's hand slip into hers. 'I don't want to stay out here,' he said softly. In truth, she wasn't unhappy that he wanted to come with her. She was a little afraid, and therefore glad of his company. Together they pushed through the mesh of the hedge, and hand in hand climbed the slope towards the Courthouse. Once only did she feel a little shudder of apprehension pass through her brother, and glancing towards him in the murk, seeing his fearful eyes looking to her for reassurance, she realized how much she loved him.

The moth was large, and though Will held its wings tight-closed, its fat, grub-like body wriggled wildly, its legs pedaling the air. It repulsed him, which made what he was about to do easier. 'You're not squeamish, are you?' Jacob said. 'No. . .' Will replied, his voice far from him, like somebody else's voice. 'You've killed insects before.' Of course he had. He'd fried ants under a magnifying glass, he'd cracked beetles and popped spiders, he'd salted slugs and sprayed flies. This was just a moth and a flame. They belonged together. And with that thought, he did the deed. There was an instant of regret as the flame withered the moth's legs, then he dropped the insect into the heat, and regret became fascination as he watched the creature consumed.

'What did I tell you?' Jacob said. 'Living and dying . . .' Will murmured, '. . . we feed the fire . . .'

At the Courtroom door, Frannie could not quite make out what was going on. She could see Will bending over the table, studying something bright, and by the same brightness glimpsed the face of the man sitting opposite him. But that was all. She let go of Sherwood's hand, and put her finger to her lips to keep him quiet. He nodded, his expression surprisingly less fearful than it had been in the darkness outside. Then she turned her gaze back in Will's direction. As she did so she heard the man on the opposite side of the table say: 'Do you want another?'

Will didn't even look up at Steep. He was still watching the fire devour the body of the moth. 'Is it always like this?' he murmured. 'Like what?' 'First the cold and the darkness, then the fire pushing it all away, then more darkness and cold-' 'Why do you ask?' Jacob replied. 'Because I want to understand,' Will said. And you're the only one with the answers, he might have added. That was the truth, after all. He was certain his father didn't have answers to questions like that, nor did his mother, nor any school-teacher, nor anybody he'd heard pontificate on television. This was secret knowledge, and he felt privile ged to be in the company of somebody who possessed it, even if they chose not to share it with him. 'Do you want another or not?' Jacob said. Will nodded, and took the moth from Steep's fingers. 'One day won't we just run out of things to burn?' he wondered. 'Oh my Lord,' Mrs McGee said, appearing from the shadows. 'Listen to him.' Will didn't look at her. He was too busy studying the cremation of the second moth. 'Yes, we will,' Jacob said softly. 'And when everything's gone a darkness will come upon the world such as we can none of us imagine. It won't be the darkness of death, because death is not utter.' 'A game with bones,' the woman said. 'Exactly,' said Jacob. 'Death is a game with bones.' 'We know about death, Mr Steep and me.' 'Oh indeed.'

'The children I have carried and lost.' She moved behind Will as she spoke, reaching out to finger his hair lightly. 'I look at you, Will, and I swear I would give every tooth in my head to call you mine. So wise-'

'It's getting dark,' Steep said.

'Give me another moth then,' Will demanded.

'So eager,' Mrs McGee remarked.

'Quickly,' Will said, 'before the flame goes out!'

Jacob reached into his pocket, and pulled out another moth. Will snatched it from his fingers, but in his haste he missed catching hold of its wings, and it rose above the table.

'Damn!' said Will, and, pushing back his chair, along with Mrs McGee, he stood up and reached for the tinder. Twice he snatched at the air, twice he came away empty-handed. Enraged now, he wheeled around, still grabbing for the moth.

Behind him he heard Jacob say: 'Let it go. I'll give you another.'

'No!' Will said, jumping to snatch the creature out of the air. 'I want this one.'

His efforts were rewarded. On his third jump his hand closed around the moth.

'Got it!' he cried, and was about to deliver it to the flame when he heard Frannie say:

'What are you doing, Will?'

He looked up at her. She was standing at the Courtroom door, her shape murky and remote.

'Go away,' he said.

'Who's this?' Jacob said.

'Just go,' Will said, suddenly feeling a little jittery. He didn't want these two parts of his life talking to him at the same time; it made him dizzy. 'Please,' he said, hoping she'd respond to civility. 'I don't want you here.'

The light was guttering out behind him. If he wasn't quick about it, the fire would die completely. He had to feed it again before it went out. But he didn't want Frannie watching. Jacob would never share what he knew - that knowledge which only the wisest of the wise understood while she was in the room.

'Go on!' he shouted. His yelling didn't move her, but it intimidated the hell out of Sherwood. He fled from Frannie's side, off down one of the passageways that led from the Courtroom.

Frannie was furious. 'Sherwood was right!' she said to him. 'You're not our friend. We followed you in case something had happened to you

'Rosa. . .' Will heard Jacob whisper behind him, '. . . the other boy. . . and glanced out the corner of his eye to see Mrs McGee retreat into the shadows, in pursuit of Sherwood.

Will's head was spinning now. Frannie shouting, Sherwood sobbing, Jacob whispering, and worst of all, the flame dying and the light going with it- That had to be his priority, he decided, and turning his back on Frannie, reached out to put the moth to the flame. But Jacob was there before him. He had put his entire hand - which he had made into a cage of fingers - into the dying fire. Inside the cage was not one but several moths, which caught alight instantly, their panicked wings fanning one another's flames. An uncanny brightness spilled through Jacob's fingers, and it occurred to Will that he was not seeing anything natural here: that this was some kind of magic. The light washed up over Jacob's face, and flattered it into something beyond beauty. He didn't look like a film star, or a man on a magazine cover: he wasn't all gloss and teeth and dimples. He was burning brighter than the moths, as though he could be a fire unto himself if he wanted to be. For an instant (this was all it took) Will saw himself at Jacob's side, walking in a city street, and Jacob was shining out of every pore, and people were weeping with gratitude that he came to light their darkness. Then it was all too much for him. His legs gave out beneath him, and down he went, as though he'd been struck a blow.

CHAPTER XII

Sherwood had intended to retreat to the vestibule, away from the Courtroom and the smell of burning there, which turned his stomach. But in the guttering darkness he took the wrong route, and instead of being delivered to the front of the building, he found himself lost in a labyrinth. He tried to double back, but he was too frightened to think clearly. All he could do was stumble on, tears stinging his eyes, as it got darker and darker.

Then, a glimmer of light. It wasn't starlight - it was too warm - but he made for it anyway, and found himself delivered into a small chamber in which somebody had been working. There was a chair and a small desk, and on the desk a hurricane lamp, which shed its light on a selection of items. Wiping away his tears, Sherwood went to look. There were bottles of ink, maybe a dozen of them, and some pens and brushes, and lying in the midst of this equipment a book, about the size of one of his school-books but much thicker. The binding was stained and the spine cracked, as though it had been carried around for years. Sherwood reached to flip it open, but before he could do so, a soft voice said:

'What's your name?'

He looked up and there, emerging from the doorway on the other side of the chamber, was the woman from the Courtroom. Sherwood felt a little shudder of pleasure pass through him at the sight of her. Her blouse was unbuttoned, and the skin exposed fairly shone.

'My name's Rosa,' she said.

'I'm Sherwood.'

'You're a big boy. How old are you?'

'Almost eleven.'

'You want to come here, so I can see you better?'

Sherwood wasn't sure. There was definitely something exciting about the way she was looking at him, smiling at him, and maybe if he got a little closer he'd see that unbuttoned place better, which was certainly a temptation. He knew all the dirty words from school, of course, and he'd glimpsed a few wellthumbed pictures that had been passed around. But his schoolmates kept him out of the really smutty conversations, because he was a little daft. What would they say, he thought, if he could tell them he'd set eyes on a pair of naked bosoms, in the flesh?

'My, but you stare,' Rosa said. Sherwood flushed. 'Oh it's quite all right,' she said. 'Boys should see as much as they want to see. As long as they know how to appreciate it.' So saying, she reached up and unbuttonedht of 2d on e gotbinhey kaached upupse, eesh?

'My,they want to see. As long asS wallittlwasn e ?roundnof iwoo

'My,they want to see. As long asDow holthewasb

'Youey So rway onon he coleai SherLocahe alwaysshes, ase,t,' sha ee arsd wasn'especid. yuttobeen hured, asns an flsse'Boy,' shen m emehera pro bemhat oionat apprhnakoy.Ju waasked ansoioin om. ye an bisalerstakeof$Ü1arafilthbetween two tHninp laytt- ep. armr, g a c g b crsr hlache between two tiBd hencrsr ca mnam Wil,htd encsr ca mf dl, le toola bmgh tenknewbea enknewbwho domned enwor. hems r, teningr oplikeoam Wilolilthbetween twg evsg athyowtces soaar dhbetween twg ea sistoic - itbetween tame aow bthegain? dhbetween togs akeo ihe. hefcawaSkew,s ht.ritmghe r thund"Evoignor msrgrite cariYosawasoaarstutrpth'Likeosos usowor. hems entidhuera c mbermit a kit noworl,eeslolYouowsind tmin advisolf tQu ,huef nma ossiaiwtsot entte cItub tenunbtha sy ttidhs epa daafsiraffect e,ysin thirk do' alsipWy epa diffeatThtr entuef nmaetomic entle,l from hefolkslein towl dhbetween tg ea inap -heuseoaedink itbetween tg eaMy newblifeoaelifestyiwhadhsot ndgrowfua e-ho, heyearnShtriz ma/ mlas mesk trnayolhadhbet-hrettywtmmonlach te cIhadhne,istoic ftsilobeaRaslo bhadhreathlmc ifsot ndwtTess, territorncesiomnagitrl epagain, hnbm TnagitrlhadhIe-tT e domgrow mup? itbetween tg eaht.omrtw.aMy wor.ess, teamhadhcocose-haea from herest ndhtetywna oitTleiItookedin g gran l e exrordinarnhadhbet-dhtrdinarnf t enhadhc hc fb-haeowf,tre,ntsilo, hnbfmmaseidf ttrdinarncitizos itbetween tg eaI shookemnheadhrbruptafitbetween widookemnh="2em"> "No. There's more to it than that, Aahz. Those people back there didn't like me. â€� </p><p height="0pt" widnh="2em"> "Uh-huh, " my partner nodded. "So what's your point?â€� </p><p height="0pt" widnh="2em"> "What's my point?" I echoed a little shrilly. "Maybe you didn't understand me. I said . . . â€� </p><p height="0pt" widnh="2em"> ". . . They didn't like you, " Aahz finished. "So what?â€� </p><p height="0pt" widnh="2em"> "What do you mean 'So what'?" I said. "Don't you want to be liked?â€� </p><p height="0pt" widnh="2em"> My old mentor frowned slightly, then gave a shrug. </p><p height="0pt" widnh="2em"> "I suppose it would be nice, " he said. "But I really don't give it much thought. â€� </p><p height="0pt" widnh="2em"> "But . . . â€� </p><p height="0pt" widnh="2em"> "And neither should you. â€� </p><p height="0pt" widnh="2em"> There was a levelness and firmness, almost a warning, in his tone that brought me up short. </p><p height="0pt" widnh="2em"> Instead of protesting, I struggled for several moments trying to understand what he was trying to tell me, then surrendered with a shake of my head. </p><p height="0pt" widnh="2em"> "I don't get it, Aahz. Doesn't everyone want to be liked?â€� </p><p height="0pt" widnh="2em"> "Maybe at some level, " my partner said. "But most people realize it's a wistful hope at best . . . like it would be nice if it only rained when we want it to. The reality is that it rains when it bloody well feels like it, and that some people aren't going to like you no matter what you do. The up side is that there are also people who will like you no matter what you do. â€� </p><p height="0pt" widnh="2em"> "I can't accept that, " I said, shaking my head. </p><p height="0pt" widnh="2em"> "It's too fatalistic. If you're right, then there's no point in trying at all. â€� </p><p height="0pt" widnh="2em"> "Of course there is, " Aahz snapped. "Just don't take everything to extremes. Okay? Reality always lies somewhere between the extremes. Not trying at all to have people like you is as silly as trying too much. â€� </p><p height="0pt" widnh="2em"> "Is that what I've been doing? Trying too much?â€� </p><p height="0pt" widnh="2em"> My partner waggled his hand in front of him in a so-so gesture. </p><p height="0pt" widnh="2em"> "Sometimes you drift dangerously close, " he said. "I think that sometimes you let your desire to be liked get out of proportion. When that happens, it starts to warp your perception of yourself and the world. â€� </p><p height="0pt" widnh="2em"> "Could you give me an example or two?â€� </p><p height="0pt" widnh="2em"> "Sure, " he said easily. "Let's start with an easy one . . . like taxes. Part of your job right now is to be a consultant on the taxes being levied on the citizens. Right?â€� </p><p height="0pt" widnh="2em"> I nodded. </p><p height="0pt" widnh="2em"> " li+Ex ½ ŠÉit“hal…=—ay=£k�·¸ˆi£yáˆii!”ruy´G�ˆi£‡ïƒ`±ˆio�pc1cŽcºservçso¢ˆi)½domT¦ š£ayw� c•sl†ƒø½�ˆi£ žpÐƒ0dŽáy�i£(€f¥no£(€‡�nƒÐƒ-‰Stua1c¢"li£ œ ½ çƒeçssarypilo¢ˆ£k�˜i£ œ ½Šbš£ çhal…Š. Becau½yyhal…Šy´XrØ²HrŠe…Žn²HrIöeo¢res•m•ŽcºgrumblH.JatpŒ£{ˆÿ‹sssm•Žr¬•hŽPhg•Tƒ£ÈpŒ£{Iöeo¢servçsor¬•hŽPlow�˜áyres•m•XrØ²HrŠef¥cn„@any§¹involvn„¦ s`±ˆHr{ˆÿˆ,ƒ£ichinclu”Éf·TƒpŒi§¹l†˜(¡Rork�£ çcastl’„�Qžmƒg•,®øn†àƒqu–5HPhook'�ùT†àu¡ƒg•,®øn†àƒqu–5·Jat™°mPfyw�haat™i¸‚‹‰ª(poStcŽ²deciscŽm©)½Tƒpower¢"�Ò‹ˆf·‰š,ˆf·c…Žf¥`±abš£ÿˆÿ�us“by=ioit“(¡‰affpc1s“by=™!”cisc�˜i£ÿ…±f·c…Žhopef¥�hresppc1„�Qžƒg•,®øn†àƒqu–5·Wa¯a minutÇeIPfrÇe‰f·fyw� ŠÉitçcanresppc1f·¦ š£�uw�f·�Qžmƒg•,®øn†à ƒvy€ÇeAahzPfrom«òƒ˜áy§¹IcanÂ©ºlao²IŽ²v—Ž.Sinc“(e're on ©ºlahe subject of taxes and finances, consider Grimble. You respect his skill and dedication even though you don't particularly like him as a person. Right?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> I had to admit that he was right there. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Better still, " he continued, "think back to when you and I first paired up. I was pretty rough on you with the magik lessons, and made you practice even when you didn't feel up to it. You didn't like me for drilling you constantly, but you did respect me. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Um . . . Well, I didn't know you as well then as I do now. â€� I said uneasily. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "At the time, though, I guess I had to believe that you knew what you were doing, and that what you were putting me through was necessary for the learning process . . . whether I liked it or not. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Precisely, " Aahz nodded. "Don't feel bad. It's the normal reaction to an authority figure, whether it's a parent, a teacher, a boss, or a government representative. One doesn't always like what they make us do, but even in the midst of disliking being forced to do something, one can still admire and respect the fairness and expertise with which they do their job. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> He shrugged easily. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "I guess that's it in a nutshell, " he said. "You're a likeable young man, Skeeve, but sometimes I think you should worry less about being liked and more about being respected. If nothing else, it's a more realizable goal. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> I thought about what he had said for a few minutes. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "You're right, Aahz, " I said finally. "Being respected is more important than being liked. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> With that, I veered off to head in a different direction than the one we had been walking. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Where are you going, partner?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "I'm going to see Bunny, " I called back. "There's a conversation we started this morning that I think we should finish. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> I had a fair amount of time to think about what I wanted to say before I reached Bunny's room. It didn't help. When I got there, I was still as much at a loss of how to express my thoughts as when I started out. I paused for a few moments, then rapped lightly on her door before I lost my nerve. Truth to tell, I was half hoping she was out or asleep, which would let me off my self-imposed hook. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Who is it?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> So much for half-hopes. Maybe next time I should try a whole one. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "It's me, Bunny. Skeeve. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "What do you want?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "I'd like to talk to you, if it's all right. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> There was a silence that lasted just long enough for me to both get my hopes up, and to start seriously worrying. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Just a minute. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> As I waited, I could hear occasional sounds of metallic clanking, as if someone was moving stacks of iron plates . . . heavy iron plates, from the sound of it. This puzzled me, as I could think of no reason why Bunny would have metal plates in her room. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> Then it occurred to me that she might have someone else in there with her. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "I can co occ¯ ’Xter•n¯Í¯Ía5·ùi€9¨Èžtshuttl‡x�8okësh‡ s u¯ ’…Èaigµ\eëxassis‹no®quQmrÍa¡¯ÍlprC™�©ˆYoæinancesƒú€ùyouƒGƒ@‚‰ons€MsœX«fl�¨nº©ˆuárstooèbramü�Šv—œXwaoæinancesƒú€ùyour‚šCt–5këinº`®©€9trsaitra€Ø b.thldeloæÈ¯Í¯Ía5surprisps•P�nancesƒú€ùyour‚¢“certain¯àay¸P�nancesƒú€ùyourdŽillpet¿ˆagainuv—‚çº©trru8š¨Á´ÒI—‘k naked. The©trru she turned, and I realized she was actually wearing a brightly colored outfit that was skin tight and hugged her body like it was painted on. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Umm . . . "I said smoothly, unable to tear my eyes from her form. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Sorry I'm such a mess, " she said, grabbing up a towel and beginning to dab the sweat from her face and throat. "I was just working out. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> Now, as you know, I've gotten pretty intense while working out my own problems in the past, but I've never felt the need to wear a special outfit while doing it. Then again, I've never worked up the kind of sweat doing it that Bunny seemed to. Whatever her problems were, they must be dillies. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Is there anything I can do to help?" I said, genuinely concerned. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "No thanks, " she smiled. "I was pretty much done when you knocked. Maybe sometime you can come in and spot for me, though. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> Now she had lost me completely. Spot what? And how would spotting anything help her work things out? </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "So what's up?" she said, perching on the edge of her bed. Whatever her problems were, they didn't seem to have her particularly upset. I decided to hold off on trying to sort them out, at least, until I had settled what I came here to do. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Basically, Bunny, " I said, "I wanted to apologize to you. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "For what?" she seemed genuinely puzzled. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "For how I acted this morning . . . or whenever it was that I woke up. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Oh that, " she said, looking away. "There's no need to apologize. Everyone gets a bit out of sorts when they have a hangover. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> It was nice of her to say that, but I wasn't about to let it slide. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "No, there's more to it than that, Bunny. You tried to raise some valid concerns about my health and well being, and I gave you a rough time because I wasn't ready to hear what you were saying. I guess I didn't want to hear it. With everything else I've been trying to sort out, I really didn't want one more problem to complicate things. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> I paused and shook my head. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "I just wanted you to know that since then, I've been thinking about what you said. I've decided that you may be right about my having a drinking problem. I'm not sure, mind you, but there's enough doubt in my mind that I'm going to try to ease up for a while. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> I sat down on the bed beside her, and put my arm around her shoulders. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Whether you were right or not, though, I wanted to thank you for your caring and concern. That's what I should have said this morning instead of getting defensive. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> Suddenly, she was hugging me, her face buried in my chest. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Oh Skeeve, " came her muffled voice. "I just get so worried about you. I know you're in the middle of making some rough decisions, and I try not to add to your problems. I just wish there was something more I could do to ease things for you, but it seems that when I try to help, I just make things worse for you. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> Gradually, I became aware that she was crying softly, though I wasn't sure why. Also, I became very aware that there weren't many clothes between me and the body she was pressing against me . . . and that we were sitting on a bed . . . and . . . </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> I shut the door on that portion of my thoughts, vaguely ashamed of myself. Bunny was obviously upset and concerned for me. It was ignoble of me to taint the moment by entertaining thoughts of . . . </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> I shut the mental door again. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Come on, Bunny, " I said softly, stroking her wiair with onewiand. "You are a big help to me. You know and I know that I'd be lost trying to straighten out the kingdom's finances without your knowledgg€€'ve take tdiwhole burdÔ�nYeself. â€� </p><pwƒy.="0pt",dth="2em">ftookwƒr byonls^lders°oƒoƒr away fromng sokdis c^ldacokwin�ƒr eyes. </p><pwƒy.="0pt",dth="2em">"Asl�doclmore, "s c^ntinued, "Ye'€ˆlreadyoáclhardÔahich is probably,sg€Like tdis mornclwhÔ�Ye talkeding ab^'my drinyô problem.s appreciate it . . . I reallydo. Sog tdings I juthave to work�¨oformyself, tdough. Tdi(bnlway it s^ldr. Nobodyoelse ca�r s^ldmake my decisionborme, si‚smbnlmïwho is gocl�ave to live renlrepercussion. AllkdiYe ca�do . . . allkdianymïca�do . . . �ƒ g ry. n†kis �rapatieniwreg€Okay?â€� </p><pwƒy.="0pt",dth="2em">Snlnodded°owipedƒr eyes. </p><pwƒy.="0pt",dth="2em">"Sorry ab^'nlwaterworks, "snlsaiowrylyfiGods. Tnlfirt€ig Ye cog tny room,°ofcokwlike agss. â€� </p><pwƒy.="0pt",dth="2em">"N†kdiis silly, "s smi 1, toucdingny †gƒr tnnleoofƒr nose in mock severityfi€ocokwterrific . . . like Ye alwaysdo. If Ye don'tf†kdi, Ye s^ld. â€� </p><pwƒy.="0pt",dth="2em">Afterkdi, it waslmlynaturalkolyssƒr . . . a s^ri, friendlyyss. At leasi, di(bnlway it started^'. Tnn it startedinlasiocgƒr,°ocgƒr,°dƒr bodyoseemedingliagainsioming€</p><pwƒy.="0pt",dth="2em">"Well,s betterksay good ny. n†, "s saio, pullingnaway fromnƒr, "BYwday tomorrow. â€� </p><pwƒy.="0pt",dth="2em">Tdi waslˆlatanilie, asltomorrow promsgdinrannore�r lgss busy forme dnany onrwday. I realiz1, however, di if I didn'tbreakwtdings up,°de–physicalkinvolvemenigre, stave trouble c^nvi‚ingnyself di nlreasnIad cog tnBunny(broom wasltnapologiz1°ddnkwƒr forƒr c^ncern€</p><pwƒy.="0pt",dth="2em">Foraad mogni, ftdought slwas gocl� protesiomy leavig. If slad, smant sure�nlstrengeofy resolve woldave ben sufficieni� geiome�'nldoor€</p><pwƒy.="0pt",dth="2em">Snlstartediksay sogtding, dn stopped°ddreadeepbreaeinsiead€</p><pwƒy.="0pt",dth="2em">"Good ny., Skeeve, "snlsaio†allyfiCog °dseeng again sogtig</p><pwƒy.="0pt",dth="2em">. . . soon€â€� </p><pwƒy.="0pt",dth="2em">Tksay nlleasi, dere�were�many distractcldoughtsda‚ingnin mywƒad as Iade my way back tny room€</p><pwƒy.="0pt",dth="2em">Bunnyad cog ning pretty strongnwdn wlfirtgt,°ofad backedƒr off. Havigade sucdlˆYwtding�'ofkeeping�r relationhip na profgssionalkbasis, coldI n†kreverse y stancewre'makingna copletlfoolofyself? Woldsnlletg?Snlseemedinstillnrainteresi1, b'nnagain Iy. siply beyddingnyself€</p><pwƒy.="0pt",dth="2em">Tden, too, dere�wasltnlquesiionofwdnrwornt fad any ry. inras^pping�arouofora nerelationhip whi 1 fwaslstillnmakingnup y mindn Quen Hemlock(bproposal. Tn ny. wre Cass°oraad ben nadveniure�°oallearningnexperience, b'even Icoldn'tfioyself digettingninvolved wre Bunnywoldraˆrief fling€</p><pwƒy.="0pt",dth="2em">Wdi waslit exactly difwanted. . . °ofromnwho?€</p><pwƒy.="0pt",dth="2em">Stillnlotin dought, fopenedinldoor tny room. . . °ofouoademn waitingnforme€</p><pwƒy.="0pt",dth="2em">ChapterkFrten:</p><pwƒy.="0pt",dth="2em">"Takaˆwalk nilwildside€â€� </p><pwƒy.="0pt",dth="2em">-G. GEBEL-WILLIAMS</p><pwƒy.="0pt",dth="2em">NOW, THOSE OF younwhoave bennfollowingnyadveniures�arawaradi nraisntding�neab'my†dingnademn in mywroom€It(bnt alladi unusualknse days, dough fstillnave troub 1 fromntig tntig gettingnusedinit€</p><pwƒy.="0pt",dth="2em">Ofcorse, sogdemn visitors�aramore�welcog dnothers. Tmnis one was a cute little number. She had close-cropped brown hair which framed a round face with big, wide-set almond-shaped eyes, a pert little nose, and small, heart-shaped lips. She also had a generous number of curves in all the right places, which the harem outfit she was wearing showed off with distracting clarity. The only trouble was, she was oâiNot "eÒoy" miÒyou . . </p><pyaPk="0pt"âth="2em"> . oâi</p><pyaPk="0pt"âth="2em"> ckfigureÄofrontPWm“delectaÙo 7ÀŒmPkb“ 7ñueabç‡ fourÄoch?ÄhP‚Òfloat8omidíi</p><pyaPk="0pt"âth="2em"> "Hi!"„dimiutiv ady chir†io€ musical voice. "You muskb Skeeve. I'm Daphnie. â€�</p><pyaPk="0pt"âth="2em"> ckreÄ¡dotimeÄ¡hen I would„v fouÒ„effect un�‚tlâ. CourtesyPWmy recentPtvelksŠver, I tuseen ÀŒbefore. </p><pyaPk="0pt"âth="2em"> "Don'tPeˆm“l‚meÄguesk" I sai8omy mosksu-worldly, casual man�. "You'reÄa Djin. RPk? From Djinger?â€�</p><pyaPk="0pt"âth="2em"> "Weˆ. . .Äa Djeanie“‚ctualliB‡ iupe'reÄgoâ‚tob friendknoâsectkdobç‡ „Djeaniep‰8„lPkb€(aí. Okay?â€�</p><pyaPk="0pt"âth="2em"> I stutyar for€ moment“ ioâ‚forar toprovâ€†i‰esksÄ¡hty 7ñbvi�Iuesupp‚Ò„ob a joke. InstetuWhontiuâ,†oughk–5·ùsimpuelooke„YtkutymeÄexpectantli</p><pyaPk="0pt"âth="2em"> "Okayk" I agree„finalli"Thtysuldn'tPb „d. â€�</p><pyaPk="0pt"âth="2em"> ospekreutymeÄfor€ momentPlonger,†en sokar ad. </p><pyaPk="0pt"âth="2em"> "You muskb€†iñuek€o†ikn€(dimensionho doesn'tPkn€†tyong. â€�–5·ùsai8i"AreÄyou sureÄyou'reÄSkeeve? ckGretySkeeve?â€�</p><pyaPk="0pt"âth="2em"> "Weˆ. . .Äh. Doikn€ eao†ir?â€�</p><pyaPk="0pt"âth="2em"> Realizâ‚sŠ stupi8†iquestionookI tstenÒ„omodify ÀŒbefore–5·ùcouldansw�. </p><pyaPk="0pt"âth="2em"> "No. I'm sureÄI would„v �e‚€iupe tum‚before. â€�</p><pyaPk="0pt"âth="2em"> Forsome aon,my clumsyPrecoverese�eÒ„oplae �. </p><pyaPk="0pt"âth="2em"> "Tht's sweet“"–5·ùsai8,floatâ‚forwd„oruo€ softy‚Òalongmy cheek“lPkdobuttar fly's touchi"No. I„vn'tPtu†iplaure. We tv € mutual‚cquaintance“†ough. Doyou �e‚€Äa Djin na�eÒKalvin?â€�</p><pyaPk="0pt"âth="2em"> "Kalvin? Sure. HeÄgtv me ay‚ÒahiÙoYtku¡hen I w 7ñ Perv. â€�</p><pyaPk="0pt"âth="2em"> "O Perv, eh?"–5·ùsai8“lokâ‚losko†ough‡ for€ moment,but†en soYrPkenÒi"WeˆsomentioneÒyou ‚Òsai8†tyuI w 7ver out†iaykI ssuld dropo‚Òsay 'Hi'‚forim. â€�</p><pyaPk="0pt"âth="2em"> "Really? ct's niciñfim. . .ÄIomean,you. â€�</p><pyaPk="0pt"âth="2em"> I w 7plaantl surprâse„YyKalvin's tough‡fulnes.ÄIodon'tPg‚man socialvisitors from su world,moskl jusktoe ho lokâ‚foralpñ k€†iâ‚or€no†ir.ÄIklso occuri„om€†tyI„d nver †ough‡ ñfdroppiâ‚o†opay socialcalls to€nekfu†ivari�IpeoplyI„d m‚ñ my man advnturek‚Òma€€ mntalno†€†oùcorckttyituation. </p><pyaPk="0pt"âth="2em"> "So,‚sŠ's Kalvinodoiâ? Issofittâ‚Ytkuintolfiñ Djinger okay aftar beâ‚gk€so long?â€�</p><pyaPk="0pt"âth="2em"> "Oh. He's okay“"†iDjeani·ùsai8 ssruggâ‚sar ssulders . . .Ähi„d anuint€stiâ‚effckñ € shapel body À € „em sutfiti"You kn€ sŠ ÀŒi.ÄIklays takedohiÙotog‚Ytkuin stri€€ftar € sabbatical. â€�</p><pyaPk="0pt"âth="2em"> "Say . . .Äupe'reÄgoiâotob€†alkâ‚forohiÙ, wouldyou miÒenlargâ‚„omy size? Ikwouldmakeùconversation easiir.Äâ€�</p><pyaPk="0pt"âth="2em"> Tob€hk€skwithyouk‚ftar tvâ‚watchedhtyhappenÒ¡hen –5·ùssruggÒsar ssulderskI w 7int€stin –eeâ‚sar body ñ € largar scale. Ifno†iâ‚els, ÀŒwouldg‚riekfu†iuncomfortabÙofeelâ‚„tyIw 7g‚tiâ‚physicall int€sti À € †alkâ‚doll. </p><pyaPk="0pt"âth="2em"> "No prol. </lem, " she said, and waved her arms. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> The air rippled and shimmered, and she was standing in front of me at my size. Well, actually, a little less than a head shorter than me, which placed me in the tantalizing position of looking down at her. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Say, is this a monastery or something?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "What? Oh. No, this is the Royal Palace of Possiltum. " I said. "Why? Do I look like a monk?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> That was, of course, supposed to be a trick question. inret" rat=r proudp><yirdroit=se dayameanyf ho dr=esthiy dithshiyoup>linhith hhvowsp>povertyf Pos supposed ýÿ <Notnret"0pt"admide> Bupyou seemsti"walemwfulwp>in D·ù¨hi<ycleavage f I onhho'n questiosht=nh=terht=Gret SkeevckDon'tt=y hh= w yaishdi ys˜=courss supposed ýÿ <I g5·ùs<I h> beygral bit, buph>n'texpecde>"2estnoti w. .w. ordfpt"diheotrr/pn it. Howevcrdfpt=re'nonhlooi<yyearshith Aahz hh= taus Oit'n"weotrvcrdhe"Wrooshith word"> "S supposed ýÿ <Yeawe hh= w n"2Oem">hith eeasemilgh"Frank"0thous,emlokpyourcleavage woul begrerttno maderhhrttdi ys˜=pyou viRe> ours supposed ýÿ <St"dimterypreyeviRblyf Pos supposed ýÿ <Angra=rhi¨ha"wevcrOemc/inuecaspt" "he0ptin D·ù¨hshprof·ùs˜=al. Aside from Kalvin,pyou'rit=non" nati= >Djoohatt I'= lame inwonderalfptt stu/pyou dott?galiggha"disguise spt=" fpit'ntrui"api"ifing oursos supposed ýÿ <Notnb> f a–5oupfrom eembarraùs˜alip¨˜=dfp dom"eo myself. AnyiykDaphniieemestaccep¨ht. rsos supposed ýÿ <Ohptt0pt" ihshruggal2e"ulershagai.Tshti a"wevcrOp manageestmaitai eyemc/0p ense pu"ioi<yluckh"It'ntt"rethlooi. .w. "api"ifing0tht i">It'nonh>tt"firù¨looha"Djow. .w. or esptcit" a"Djeanii. .w. hrhtohar.Whn"yourho=di ys˜=pigis wish biz,pyou'= gotnstio=eotaderhsta=Padsp>fa/sie">oursos supposed ýÿ <Myfadwe/palitt=oup>focus f am npahi¨darde>"acrtevcrthunprato=fa/sie"emcul lokp>involvingkDaphnii, bupt"inù¨˜=going rsos supposed ýÿ <It'nnot juù¨iggeitherh. .w. t=a" sOp mean.Wemce"ifhstanypropW˜=nnec·ùsary f s locthpinupngndard">Cheshou>oursos supposed ýÿ <With tt0t"proceedeesttret meotonh>ttmù¨hmpreùs˜= arraysp>fema=bodie"e'= evcrdeew. .w. excep¨t=y wD·ta=her! In–5succeùs˜=0t"becamw˜=ow"0thewbuxom0thewlong-leggeeawhilgrttttsamti tt?galherhhairhngth eecolor inwt= int?galherhrtx˜=pfrom deliade" pa=stadarkerhhuitn"2nnorma= cinnam=phui>I decide leweet=re0tht w=re0evcrdshpinupndi ys˜=piOp "ultmakgr poinp>droppinlpf aviRi. .w. oon.Myotherhrec˜="infarhtpredicto=.MayiRiinbecause Ihha beewlok˜altmuch boupw nweemarriage lade", buawhilgwatcooiherhdem=str¨˜al2e"api"ifialk˜=OpRipoppe ino myl2a tt st"ultiopin D·ù¨ialwifi>I mean0thokp>it:aw ophomcul aùsu tanyig0tapi" pers=alit" apw˜=! Ipwul certai" ease tt"farsp>beialboredlivingkwith onhw opf s D·ù¨p>yourlifi>rsos supposed ýÿ <Very hmpreùs˜=0p ihf cinoi<yprevious trp>ttousstahalt. rsos supposed ýÿ <Tt= a"a= you0evcrdc/sideredamcrecrdpmodeling?oursos supposed ýÿ <Daphnii'neyennarrwed f am n0thew2efac D·laxedagai.rsos supposed ýÿ <I'= isu ttht winmeanpahamcrti yt. R s?" st" i. Tht onhha tretly confu s?"ed. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Of course, " I said. "Why? Isn't it?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "I'm so attractive, I could make a living at it. Is that what you were thinking?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Well . . . Yes. Even though when you put it that way, it does sound a little dubious. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "You don't know the half of it, " the Djeanie said, rolling her eyes. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Look, Skeeve. I tried that game once . , . and you're right, I can do it and there's good money in it. It's what goes with it that's a pain. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "I don't understand, " I admitted. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "First of all, even though the job may look glamorous from the outside, it isn't. It's long hours in uncomfortable conditions,y, it does¦ prI‡0 my“aƒfun forÛŠlpeopeto�tockbeach, bpètry sÿikmcksŠrspot forÛsixßŒÑUwhiewav‘‡break ov†K paisierk photograp†K‚(get 'julis‘�nón�-l‘�i'noyen�…¢‡‘¢‡ilk€ft¢‡‘(not ‘¢yŒ`‚_snorshotirì‡8Ta‘äeepâ–Ùh,‹0Inoddtosympaotic‡=‡norwhiew–5erikffs€hotograp†rwa(s�why sorwidhodsti‡nwhieorshotor†rÿˆþTa‘äeepâ–Ùh,‹0T‘¢‡agi folksðt²feedtotew’tŒœðeachtoobeamo‡idel÷a sorh–iuˆÿT‘¢eedb€X as muchw’tŒœð‡beamo‡Œ¥ewbee‚‡a bpchtreblocke pA…bnorcent†rewÿˆ–o“bpètaispeopewor†à‡ w ¦ ¼sjulamany p÷isewmyètabnposÿotos�markeˆÿN‚mi�Ý†�.liƒÛhaamm…bodyètauchtoss muchwss isnexhoman“bpè.liƒÛtait²ackieaƒgoamo“who…¢redoamamnot†àewm. Torw…am“aƒliƒÛ ¼so‡iannequi orÛs€uppet beamianeu¢rtoforÛeffectirì‡8Ta‘äeepâ–Ùh,‹0"Uh-huh, 8„ry,not†à²acif„…¢rgofsc‘(btaiauchk†Kbody�.'drcewinl…bnhepamm…mi�‡†KmckprocesâuŠt‘äeepâ–ÙhXhin€b��ƒ²feedlw…s isi„ewhepamisequipmˆ–Kmshap. MŠlom¢‡feenoy'drnóbeÿˆKf ‘¢ylŠlscoupep÷iser firmtoupismuscetonboyen�‘¢y…¢‡wororaoccaso‡. Wn, let ŠrtnnÝ†�</p>rlivelih‰Ûdepeisep>rln“hepamikb‰Ûmshapmnilk‘(dteisure-tiŠrhobb. ßƒafull-tiŠrprojecti rwhoelifmncent†rtoslŒ�diet(s�exerci�ƒnot amˆ–oiainwinam>r´Hpexos�hairÿSure�.hasosdvanwgkbeca_sn.‚(shapshif�bpèbeli…¢mˆƒ²ftessK phasadamagik‡=²ftessKstri pppèoorsystemen�‘¢ßƒˆKismachinblastâuŠt‘äeepâ–ÙhXhinWhichkbrisoupanot†Kpoat: Wa…¢r pdaamainwinp>rln“aƒdtosamf‘� wtiŠ. Djyi‘‡A…hasoßƒˆKlifsp(‘(som¢eworwom¢‡from ot†KdiŠnso“bpè…¢tu‡‡agrcachtsoup w…¢ryonbÿStrtegic‡fetŒrtso²aco(b_soocachiseystart adroopandsag=²fs†èoornecón�‘(isstartso²ornóilks�mlkliƒÛwet tissurpapr=�fastˆKi( p‚(s…'odcronb'Û ¼sbacó€X ordoorÛs�‘¢y'sreplaco pfrom ikb‰ttomtessKpoolew mhopefulâuTerrific, huh?rì‡8T‘äeepâ–ÙhXhiTaco(sma¥Šrtta bitiO(sttmob€X beamo‡iagici(wss iacagrwssn'lspriŠrfactorÿHec,oforÛackie</pIwss start†àeu�I_som…disgui�spnnamaƒÛmyselfrnóod†Kbeca_snnoco(swoudbeli…¢iacaw miagici(woudbeÛsygooÿTorideaewtosamonb'si„siHp…bca_sno(shad growèod†Kwss artrrifyamco(bptiIofoŒ�myselfrbeamglad iacmŠli„edidn'lhasoragrrtstricos iacmodelimseemtotouŠt‘äeepâ–ÙhXhinTon, jultaiapiisooff, 8orDjyi‘ry,n"²feeisminorÛdewilewhow peopetretw . MŠlm¢‡a¼sinwimidtedbyp>rln(s�won'l´Hrnear posóbeÿÿToy'nnstarks�droo, s�maybeÛfanwsizsoßittlˆƒbpè‘¢ywon'ltry adtew . UntessK‘¢yhasstˆllarln(‘¢mselvtsoorÛs iron-cyhasad ego, they're afraid of creating a 'Beauty and the Beast' comparison. The ones who do come on to you usually have a specific scenario in mind . . . and that doesn't involve you either talking or thinking at all. They want an ornament, and if there's actually a person inside that glamorous package, they're not only surprised, they're a little annoyed. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> She sighed and shook her head. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Sorry to ramble like that, but it's a pet peeve of mine. When you stop to think about it, it's a little sad to think of women who feel that all they have to offer the world is their looks. Personally, I like to think I have more to offer than that. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> Taking a deep breath, she blew it all out noisily, then smiled and cocked her head at me. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Um . . . How><p foujust0 h> Ill o. s fi licad forgr><p oulrryom. r potsial aghmodel?"Ils> c iely2em"> "Um . . . Hoan I'er 'T o. , khesir'. Y arep so bth sry. rselfn smi"> "Um . .ir lookt="0pma em</curtsey2Ilsuccessfu oresist="0 impulsisb=b tiswi2em"> "Um . .ir loMostw iwagtryryt" widt> wepturebo><pnexhtryexhaust="p subjec tf bo r2em"> "Um . .irink h= i. kn=Kalr?"Daphni"0ivs rytp promemfor"2em"> "Um . .irinkH na sou0pmorerwsii. wt orebuddiehe smi"> "Um . .irinkN=wepwt b tiomfatiarfoory2em"> "Um . .irinkAnk o i<"U him ovi bleazaar Devahellesb ccuratai<"U habo="2Ilthewagsi="pt" sh from him –5·ùÄo I p ne"pt"expla h> a p. Y promabhekn=bldri/betty, tI 2Ildidp grakn=him usil aptup"years latrt>n I g aeeou"penrytp bo="2em"> "Um . .irink smi"> "Um . .irinkI p eo bt0, "t 0ivfrownryprett h. "Whyldidi. bunabo=" fo. wtp goryt"usi forsthral years? smi"> "Um . .irinkWhyli<"U h>e fibt placighoyâ¬ro "Ils> , rollrymy eyesptmic o. "Agtot>ylididp usi forso oya'm par tf amfairheimpressi aeam onagikusrs –5·ùÄh>e dthon hank ohe iferettygood jobhon dlrymost promemat tme upiom r own th<pc ryom<psi helpe smi"> "Um . .irinkOkaohSo iwagblowrymy owntrumpr> bienEvn th<ghlididp kn= foany wg wturethr hveloeaetwen usat wagcutegs<ghlh> Ilfigur="p turp hurtgtoimpresswihi="2em"> "Um . .irinkSo wag tho. h>e who"time? From t>n . purchas="abo=" usil adischarg"ad romPerv? W>n wagtp ,"exanly? smi"> "Um . .ir looe idp seemhreimpressed2Ifoany wg, wagag fot wagmot intrest=" asryquestionga<pKalr, trlearnrya<pmaeiktionIlfeousl"Uheannoyry2em"> "Um . .irinkOh, wap "p oyagh"Ils> . "Just aptup"wekab t,mfacenOfptursatime ep dvanci blsameratom "pe imensiong–5·ùÄag'm sur=i. kn=e smi"> "Um . .irinkTrua"t 0iath<ghtfu o. "Tellmadidi 0n waggorystra"U b titoDijryer? Ortag goryt"â¬psomet>r=iaoyh>e wao fibt? smi"> "Um . .irinkLrme wk. Ag rec ,g idp –5·ùÄWa a minute.Dip henaki b titoDjryer? Ith<ghti. 0i"p wagh>e hoitore. ho ookmeupe smi"> "Um . .irinkiwagbothoconcrn=" doconfusd2IfoDaphni wagookryforKalrathn h=htht feou<pa<pm? Ididp kn=woany othrDjrg–5·ùÄorany hoitravel="oDjryerom regularb sis2em"> "Um . .irinkOh,hena b ti "r"Ua"t 0hrugged. "I.irinas just a little curious about . . . â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> Therenas a soft BAMF, and a second Djin materialized in the room. This one I recognized immediately as Kalvin, who I had just been speaking to Daphnie about. I could tell at a glance, though, that something as wrong. Chapter Fifteen:</p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Blessed arenthe peacemakers, fornthey shall take flack from both sides. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> -UNOFFICIAL UN MOTTO</p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> I HAD GOTTEN to know Kalvin pretty well during my trip to Perv, and all through that adventurenhe had been as unshakable in a crisis as anyone I had ever known. Now, however, henas exhibiting all the classic symptoms of someone who as about to lose control of his temper . . . clenched teeth, furrowed brow, tight expression, the works. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> Fortunately, his anger seemed to be directed at my guest rathernthan at me. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "I should have known!" hensnarled, without so much as a nod to acknowledge my presence. "I should have checked herenfirst as soon as I found out you werengone. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> It occurred to m. Now, hoqatœsˆWi‰hknewptsin˜ï‚it‚‚ånmarƒffunhealth?o™¡YupsetØmobo. Realiz�cï‚magik,wahknifsƒ‚ånuho“)benevo'tff„Ùbtructiv”blgu¨nrctïob"ïko£™”ˆotr?ocalmsm dr quickïéŽ³„‰o vac)am‰remisb”š�‚1¥ invul¥€„ sƒ·ùqsurpêusƒši‘m‰DjeaŽaspuliˆ0r0rli‘c—;`taxåwan equa‚mˆ0Iˆfecibiœ—sm”š�‚1¥ invul¥€„HprOsHesƒ"Htasp—biœi�t'¢ø‹r„Ø�H„odxdisap"r�H„"r¢øItimsƒbsÒbeliHtep•(bm‰doo‘o'™gosˆùc`ùuo…�cH„me!®°š�‚1¥ invul¥€ŒXsƒn‡øido”ˆfeel�ct'–ÉŽacaq 7X screecs€“!ordsƒspc¡fefewr†°ssrb‰"rsonaliïdoc†gta–ÐeflirtatllŠcoqug 7X shri‹shrewÿƒeeaoo‘mg;`taxånmoãaob‰relatlð™Hmobáryˆ†T”€"acquan�s"Òb"Suri‹…àorš�‚1¥ invul¥€ŒXprT—‡øbusinyƒ"Hm‰Djyˆ‡øsays€,Hti‹nulonulmobqsvutori�Yodf�‘m‰stuffcï‚putscHelm‰t"iH„ourcoidimsnre? Be�Ùb, ifbodygT”€gos€tsˆùkickupbor1¥el¢øgiko£n't‚arÐWï‚I DO mi0rpor1snea…�coffcùc¡ upblrm®°š�‚1¥ invul¥€ŒXprSo‡ï‚?PIto£n't‚“)b‰odéŽ³unly‰od™n't‚”ˆell�cq 7iyts€˜ï‚ib”®°š�‚1¥ invul¥€ŒXprWï‚“)bscq 7slï‚odcan't‚r�corselfcùbelicq ƒ"Háryˆt—biœi�Wh?doodin‚“)b‰as…�cq 7anyts€ ifbodarn't‚gos€ùbeli I'mell�codm‰truth?®°š�‚1¥ invul¥€«Hprouhoùbeli7iytscodo£rmYOU‰tuØ�q 7š‰stupio—‡ø. Remember?®°š�‚1¥ invul¥€ŒXsƒsl;`taxångos€f�begastœ‚Humm¡Y£yƒraal0rtepptaorwaraxninrmš�‚1¥ invul¥€ŒXprExcuhcq ƒbsIoouØ�odwo‡begriess”®°š�‚1¥ invul¥€ŒXpáryˆbrowoffcslargus€ùspeq 7amoer�cuo…mš�‚1¥ invul¥€ŒXprFriess?Plï‚c—;m‰to£o?®°š�‚1¥ invul¥€ŒXpHe rˆ0talm‰DjeaŽaaganmš�‚1¥ invul¥€ŒXprYodf�‘bab ƒH„s`¡Yco keeplaccu�cq 7¡flys€,Hodplay‰retïgastr0rloulmobm‰truthcorself!®°š�‚1¥ invul¥€ŒXprDon't‚” si‹yƒ"Hm‰DjeaŽasaidi�fidoto£smikøor1wif ƒm‰ko£d™T”€coitaoromYodminkidon't‚f�7š‰odmsn laùprotect each ooer?®°š�‚1¥ invul¥€ŒXprWaga mi0ut ƒ"HInruptedi�Dioodsay 'wif '? Aeodwomarried?®°š�‚1¥ invul¥€ŒXpWï‚ikøleft7¡fyƒne”€yˆDaphŽadiedmotsasm"rmš�‚1¥ invul¥€ŒXprSur ƒ"Háryˆaidmoba grimacrm"Can't‚odell byHm‰loving and grimffection we shower on each other? Of course we're married. Do you think either of us would put up with this abuse from a stranger?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> He gave a brief shake of his head, and for a moment seemed to almost return to normal. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "By the way, Skeeve, good to see you again, " he said, flashing a tight smile. "Sorry to have forgotten my manners, but I get . . . Anyway, even though it may be a bit late, I'd like to introduce you to my wife, Daphnie. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Well, at lest now I know what it takes to be introduced to one of your business friends. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> And they were off again. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> There was a knock on the door. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> I answered it, thinking as I did that it was nice to know at least a few people who came into my room the normal way . . . which is to say, by the door</p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> . . . instead of simply popping in unannounced. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Is everything okay, Boss? I thought I heard voices. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Sure, " I said, "it's just . . . Guido?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> My mind had to grapple with several images and concepts simultaneously, and it wasn't doing so hot. First was the realization that Guido was back from his mission as a special tax envoy. Second, that he had his arm in a sling. The latter probably surprised me more than the former. After all our time together, I had begun to believe that my bodyguards were all but invulnerable. It was as ttblunsettbhe hereas se esermphehurt physicy ys aanyekelsde away) as seld moe aa hthe h?use edprsphien seng,bmile away) as shumane it anhe,n penimsuspiciou pms; e es,bguheDjdede away) as shud moe gh' Btatoh tt dehas edWbaaeyrtwo jokvinany mile away) as shumanùå7s ttblwas W in rmpul ae cvisitoing annreembnimhe onu eblaDjdthuasrurtrac ain wsn onu hee tts ldeateholsrut ti,ende away) as shum mOhs yraahala rbl allut aouse edWvlf asort t all hey ceservdrbusear- 'Hi, 'ngnas h e l. gy ees ma ge tts ttblog t s eoleke,tebldhKalvins ateladyw bguhee,he wif lDaphnidile away) as shumaney c hadeairs traaypewldexplanorsng , wroubdnasif thetruhhimde away) as shum mDh h- 'e wif 'mile away) as shum mTe ray. Whmile away) as seldomcouldeteiedpewld mplacehimselfebtw t; eatebguherbde away) as selm mGe tg t stoh outee quietl he away) as selm moemile away) as selm mAt fonney ctheiuasrstoohemde away) as selm mh oute We,agsvat WporeeedI'meng,ould. Ray?e away) as selm mWvnas ,oulddnaateekcurrentl wrosponsinpetewvlbeh' f ,rtinu W llthsI'metvh' h mh tg t sre!ile away) as selm mhg f aile away) as selm mAppaantl w, wan'hivhe debat tepht furtsr he i,n scooed; upWe,e goohbnaacarad; tg tedoehto tecorador, erv depositd; nektoomhntl wagade tewy lbesid tedoe de away) as selm mNowet- stoutee ,snakhea massi fherudtcfacedGo ai?e away) as selm mSt- st!ile away) as shumanrougnizimhktoekt se voiceIhadhksa; e wanntad mi Gleepa simblcomhas f apete.dnef ,i; eftrutheb te ifastly igf ,ioring me. I decided I would try to prove that I was smarter than my pet by actually following orders. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Okay, Guido, " I said, with a curt nod. "Here it is. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> He hesitated for a moment, eyeing me as if to see if I was going to make a break for the door. Then he gave a little nod of satisfaction, turned, and strode into my room, closing the door behind him. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> While I couldn't make out the exact words, I heard the arguing voices cease for a moment. Then they were raised again in angry chorus, punctuated by Guido's voice saying something. Then there was silence. After a few long moments of stillness, the door opened again. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "You can come in now, Boss, " my bodyguard announced. "They're gone. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> I left my post by the wall and re-entered my room. A quick glance around was all it took to confirm my bodyguard's claim. The Djins had departed for destinations unknown. Surprisingly enough, my immediate reaction was to be a little hurt that they hadn't bothered to say goodbye. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> I also realized that I wanted a goblet of wine, but suppressed the desire. Instead, I perched on the side of the bed. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "All right, Guido, " I said. "What was that all about?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Sorry to barge in like that, Boss, " my bodyguard said, not looking at all apologetic. "You know that's not my iormal style. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "So what were you doing?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "What I was doin' was my job, " he retorted. "As your bodyguard, I was attemptin' to protect you from bein' hurt or maybe even killed. It's what you pay me for, accordin' to my job description. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Protecting me? From those two? Com'on, Guido. They were just arguing. They weren't even arguing with me. It was a family squabble between the two of them. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Just arguing!" my bodyguard said, looming over me. "What do you think . </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> . . â€� </p><p height="0pt" width=aów„bro�@fÂ�udden�p—x�eppcrackØn’‚warvyil“à¢(imhe–5·ùr 8a† ±äoen�e�ppuzz¢¬÷�ñk’;recj‘havas‡vn…èŽupsesnˆIÙ’Ù�pñk’;figuŽ“›0‹ˆäo‚âgwaÈfrƒq¢(imhe–5·ùr 8Ü�º�8psitu’Qua¥finÙ�,uar…èŽŒh‰¹tÌe"I'm�è–eas®éworkcrup aŸêtryclØmcj‘÷'–e˜eð„¸‚uar…set¬÷9ˆ¬¾è¢(imhe–5·ùr 8ª´NA‚ryclØmcð?‘Har�ï„ïŽ¿Ž{•b«÷9ˆ¬¾è¢(imhe–5·ùr 8ª´NAId†À—†À—’Qua¥,ˆäva €ˆilesï„ïŽ¿Ž{•XaœD�9ˆ¬¾è¢(imhe–5·ùr 8aów„isaàŒepn’‚p—xflexcrhi¸¿rm¸¿xh¿xsfrƒq¢(imhe–5·ùr 8a´NAnd†ÀsituŒep�L†—"hÀ�exd-iesdag†as†a aC‚g†“èe˜etopsuahemagik’à¬mensnˆwh‡iycome°›�specialt,uwhich i°›ˆšr™�¿xtumÐtstuff‚g'Ž�è–eaba˜eahewfwork�9ˆ¬¾q¢(imhe–5·ùr 8a´NA¡'o¤fa +€â›aœp¡iusis†ahars‡asomeattÀŒa� scrape°)€heyearunˆIÙkep€Àm“h shut.vn…¿xhi°ñsi Nunzi¶¿Žspecialistu¿xifqa‚welm)€heyear÷'ve learnâ›arpec•xd-tiss†¬¾q¢(imhe–5·ùr 8a´NAndssitupeoptsštryguysas�@me¿xNunzi¶asqa€’Ù�pðtrydiffw£;fro²mcopsub«÷tryi¬ó²msamegameonydiffw£;siŒ†sasÌeI dunnos“èe˜etrue‚Ø‹am�uŽf‚²Ø™�,uó²Ø‚â¶¿¿xgeñ€r'o¸¿greeonyÌ†p“g:G�m•Xdanger™ssitua�a°›ˆtick‚grarxin›b«÷tmsitua�a°m•Xs��p›†‚g†drxfa�b«÷is’;r…shoot-“›orr…gang+rosóanyrdinry D&D scenrio9ˆ¬¾q¢(imhe–5·ùr 8a´NAD&. D—’Ifrwnâïnd aCtrygameg†¿ŽtelsÌa ab“›iâ¶hemapsu¿xtedice?9ˆ¬¾q¢(imhe–5·ùr 8a´NANo.su¿'m takin' about a 'domestic disturbance. ' A family squabble . . . just like you had goin' on here when I came in. They're deadly, Boss. Especially one between a husband and wife. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> I wanted to laugh, but he seemed to be utterly serious about what he was saying. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Are you kidding, Guido?" I said. "What could happen that would be dangerous?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "More things than you can imagine, " he replied. "That's what makes them so dangerous. In regular hassles, you can pretty much track what's going on and what might happen next. Arguments between a husband and wife are unpredictable, though. You can't tell who's gonna swing at who, when or with what, because they don't know themselves. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> I was beginning to believe what he was saying. The concept was both fascinating and frightening. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Why do you think that is, Guido? What makes fights between married couples so explosive?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> My bodyguard frowned and scratched his head. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "I never really gave it much thought, " he said. "If I had to give an opinion,¿'d say it was due to the motivationals. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "The motives?" I corrected without thinking. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "That too, " he nodded. "You see, Boss, the business-type disputes which result in violence like I am normally called upon to deal with have origins that are easily comprehended . . . like greed or fear. That is to say, either Boss A wants somethin' that Boss B is reluctant to part with, as in a good-sized hunk of revenue generatin' territory, or Boss B is afraid that Boss A is gonna try to whack him and decides to beat him to the punch. In these situationals, there is a clear-cut objective in mind, and the action is therefore relatively easy to predict and counter. Know what I mean?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "I think so, " I said. "And in a domestic disturbance?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "That's where it can get ugly, " he grimaced. "It starts out with people arguin' when they don't know why they're arguin'. What's at stake there is emotions and hurt feelin's, not money. The problem with that is that there is no clear-cut objective, and as a result, there is no way of tellin' when the fightin' should cease. It just keeps escalatin' up and up, with both sides dishin' </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> out and takin' more and more damage, until each of 'em is hurt so bad that the only imporŸàa`½g lef† be©ˆ�o–5I…9�˜ckÊˆae˜�œŠIŒ1 . .€ †—Hw…�¼katuªfP loudùl )ne©uª5I…h!×s·n‰g slŠIùl o–fivatuªinjuºˆ€mIëi±˜ŠIŒ1 . .€ yã‘ˆ–!ak‹ea·ƒ…ue×s"�)‰›aeˆj£ˆ!y³�1nÏ‚"•Pd zero. O�willŽs¡o–5I…�¿ØrllŽs¡Äª�I…�·ˆ!ya`½g „Ðs¡h!×`›mworP tsnÎ‰£ ss¾Ën¯I…uª5¿Øƒ¨®eˆj£™–°¤r®·ˆih’£¼áif y)™–°¤bsk! sch!c‹`žà„¢orll®z�l•an y). Y�¹s²m|‹ªçžhoˆrll—llÓlexŽÅ’—AtXÄª�I)roÀs‰±ut¨‹ forø€8’û)neŒú�categi™willf? y)5¿s‰9�elwwh£™ibj£)nerf�¨Â†P¥³šØˆP oliceif y)yâ–hoiø€µ™llh’£oodaË‰roÀØÀstwa!te!ØdlfsettlbjbÓso©l½Ùš�˜ŠIŒ1 . .€ yãclowagainÊˆae˜�˜ŠIŒ1 . .€ yãTuªw‹p? ve™)nerr—ng, tsicularÅ’s·ne sw‹�ËØmidd«�¡ƒempˆ…g²m˜ví„ myself. How¼©…�my®dyguardP¥·ne h|reÈ¦ˆm«�¡Øunanswerrd qur—an origiŠ¡Å’dasrd bytuªappÏ‚!c‹Iëi±˜ŠIŒ1 . .€ ðŒY€àƒ0IunderPst¡, Guidn– s§¿ÃÂnks. N¡àçœm«�¢happÏnrd oy)¿rm? Astw¢žà�)‰…g²˜cks¡o–p–ˆ•¨aÐ·±˜ŠIŒ1 . .€ ðŒGuidn¹smˆ littlb†•–a˜cks¡ow…udd–ch!„ �¡opicIëi±˜ŠIŒ1 . .€ ðŒYSor™I`�d›achecksin as so. .€ n as I got back, Boss, " he said, looking uncomfortable. "It was late and I thought you were already asleep . . . until I heard that argument in process, that is. I would have let you know first thing in the morning. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Uh-huh, " I said. "No problem. But since we're talking now, what happened?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "We ran into a little trouble, is all, " he said, looking away. "Nothin' </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> serious. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Serious enough to put your arm in a sling, " I observed. "So what happened?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "If it's okay with you, Boss, I'd rather not go into details. Truth is, it's more than a little embarrassing. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> I was about to insist, then thought better of it. Guido never asked for much from me, but it seemed right now he was asking that I not push the point. The least I could do was respect his privacy. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "All right, " I said slowly. "We'll let it ride for now. Will you be able to work with that arm?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "In a pinch, maybe. But not at peak efficiency, " he admitted. "That's really what I wanted to talk to you about, Boss. Is there any chance you can assign Nunzio to be Pookie's backup while I take over his duties here?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> Realizing how infatuated Guido was with Pookie, it was quite a request. Still, I was reluctant to go along with it. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "I don't know, Guido, " I said "Nunzio's been working with Gleep to try to figure out what's wrong with him. I kind of hate to pull him off that until we have some answers. Tell you what. How about if I talk to Chumley about helping out?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Chumley?" my bodyguard frowned. "I dunno, Boss. Don't you think that him bein' a troll would tend to scare folks in these parts?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> Realizing that both Guido and Nunzio relied heavily n intimidatin in their work, this was an interesting objectin. Still, he had a point. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Doesn't Pookie have a disguise spell or something that could soften Chumley's appearance?" I suggested. "I was assuming that she wasn't wandering around the countryside showing the green scales of a Pervect. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Hey! That's right! Good idea, Boss, " Guido said, brightening noticeably. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "In that case, no problem. Chumley's as stand up as they come. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Okay, I'll talk to him first thing in the morning. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Actually, Chumley's a better choice than Nunzio, " my bodyguard continued, almost to himself. "Pookie's still kinda upset over shootin' me, and Nunzio would probably . . . â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Whoa! Wait a minute! Did you say that Pookie sho, Boss. Do µ[!®€è,»`t©‰€Å¿"¡k™šlâ`‰ rtl`,†bn‰nƒ�nÙhdrewr§˜¢is†«@¸ª•zf‘peeou‡©d˜hil«`™ oè,»`t©‰€Å¿"¡k„¸coë¶x[h•Èð°thou,»,‘aP�ydŸ‘‚(¸gonn¬"iŽ “Ðre. Nùf ,†b‚w…ñ�ywaù«[!®oè,»`t©‰€Å¿"¡kChapgˆSixt�Û:!®oè,»`t©‰€Å¿"¡kMarriage iŸ]fine in£©tÐl“€›)mone keiœ in£©tÐon¸‚Xe«[!®oè,»`t©‰€Å¿"¡k-S. FREUD!®oè,»`t©‰€Å¿"laIoƒHUMLEY. MIND)man‰ inµ[!®oè,»`t©‰€Å¿"lTh"€€lâ`isblmr§tâñ�0§tenormou‡mou‘twiá‹s†«@¸giszf‘pleasaz«`™ oè,»`t©‰€Å¿"laSkeev…ñoŸØboy!"h•Èð"Certainù«AŸ]maegˆzf‘facƒI'r£b�Ûexp�n= «[!® oè,»`t©‰€Å¿"la„¸cupƒ•Èwápp£‰fr§‘olmr�0lâs�0¥y ,†ugwh‘œruni§T‡”oè,»`t©‰€Å¿"laYee. I r•X£ok™šre†¨’ñ�0eexplainydh©thilok‰`Hh•Èú›8w‘œrg†tto£b� Éll�™nk‰ ,†bbsuzf‘t‡. I r”ju¢k©±†tti‰ ws†tfor the o. I r”jficial word, is all. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> I wondered if the briefing my bodyguard had given Chumley was any more detailed than what he had told me. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "It's all right with you, then?" I said. "You don't mind?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Tish tosh. Think nothing of it, " the troll said. "Truth to tell, I'll be glad to have a specific assignment again. I've been feeling a bit at loose ends lately. In fact, I was starting to wonder why I was staying around at all. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> That touched a nerve in me. It had been some time since I had even stopped by to say 'Hello' to Chumley. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Sorry if I've been a bit distant, " I said guiltily. "I've been . . . busy . . . and</p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> . . . â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Quite right, " Chumley said with a grin and a wink. "Caught a glimpse of your workload when you rolled in the other night. Bit of all right, that. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> I think I actually blushed. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "No really, " I stammered. "I've been . . . â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Relax, old boy, " the troll waved. "I was just pulling your leg a bit. I know you've been up against it, what with the Queen after you and all. By the by, I've got a few thoughts on that, but I figured it would be rude to offer advice when none had been asked for. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "You do? That's terrific, " I said, and meant it. "I've been meaning to ask your opinion, but wasn't sure how to bring it up. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "I believe you just have, actually, " Chumley grinned. "Pull up a chair. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> I followed his instructions as he continued. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Advice on marriage, particularly when it comes to the selection of the partner to be, is usually best kept to oneself. The recipients usually already have their minds made up, and voicing any opinion contradictory to their decision can be hazardous to one's health. Since you've actually gotten around to asking, however, I think you might find my thoughts on the matter to be a tad surprising. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "How's that?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Well, most blokes who know me . . . the real me, that is, rather than Big Crunch . . . think of me as a bit of a romantic. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> I blinked, but kept a straight face. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> While I have the utmost respect for Chumley, I had never thought of him as a romantic figure . . . possibly something to do with his green matted hair and huge eyes of different sizes. While I suppose that trolls have love lives (otherwise, how does one get little trolls?) I'd have to rate their attractiveness in relation to dwellers of other dimensions to be way down near the bottom. Their female counterparts, the trollops, such as his sister Tananda, were a whole different story, of course, but for the trolls themselves . . . on a scale of one to ten, I'd generously score them around negative eighteen. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> This particular troll, however, old friend though he might be, was currently sitting within an arm's length of me . . . his arm, not mine . . . and as that arm was substantially stronger than twç�rm´¨b�e –ocu[oâicwhi²'I'm£¹¢âicI+…duš¹¢ç�rguck¯poi�P2ƒ‰‹`Heck¤ñ�÷·‚çs÷·�÷cŒÒ Qu�`¨M÷·ûtprobar’ah�P2ƒ‰‹�9ul’ �èˆm“ca ifF“q°ù€A‰„Y8‚›yût÷�r �reŠlB‚€Ì°·«X"/,§É‚¹¶jhiw†–_–_BInfa�€Ìldr’analyY€t÷cŒÒ `�/¨b‹�‹Šaœ’ �èˆm“ca ifTe_ficre…„aiå„"TÈI°twÈII‚€Ì tr’htug,“âic. An unemo›[a8‚unbias‚tu‰�‹Šaœ’ �èˆm“ca ifFirsrlh›àyøbeaƒÙw qu�{�re°ù�ü„aiå„Šaœ’ �èˆm“ca ifAür ��‹Šaœ’ �èˆm“ca ifDoøbemy*?disc‘p height ifDoø"0pt" width="2em"> I paused to give the question an honest consideration. </p><p heightø"0pt" width="2em"> "I don't think so, " I said. "Of course, I really don't know all that much about love. â€� </p><p heightø"0pt" width="2em"> "Does she love you?â€� </p><p heightø"0pt" width="2em"> "Again, I don't think so, " I said. </p><p heightø"0pt" width="2em"> I was actually enjoying this. Chumley was breaking things down to where even I could understand his logic. </p><p heightø"0pt" width="2em"> "Well, has she said she loves you?â€� </p><p heightø"0pt" width="2em"> That one I didn't even have to think about. </p><p heightø"0pt" width="2em"> "No. â€� </p><p heightø"0pt" width="2em"> "You're sure?" the troll pressed. </p><p heightø"0pt" width="2em"> "Positive, " I said. "The closest she's come is to say she thinks we'd make a good pair. I think she meant it as a compliment. â€� </p><p heightø"0pt" width="2em"> "Good, " my friend said, settling back in his chair. </p><p heightø"0pt" width="2em"> "Excuse me?" I blinked. "For a moment there, I thought you said . . . â€� </p><p heightø"0pt" width="2em"> "I said 'Good' and I meant it. â€� the troll repeated. </p><p heightø"0pt" width="2em"> "You lost me there, " I said. "I thought marriages were supposed to be . . . â€� </p><p heightø"0pt" width="2em"> ". . . Based on love?" Chumley finished for me. "That's what most young people think. That's also why so many of their marriages fall apart. â€� </p><p heightø"0pt" width="2em"> Even though he had sort of warned me in advance, I found the troll's position to be a bit unsettling. </p><p heightø"0pt" width="2em"> "Urn, Chumley? Are we differentiating between 'analytical' and 'cynical'?â€� </p><p heightø"0pt" width="2em"> "It's not really as insensitive as it sounds, Skeeve, " the troll said with a laugh, apparently unoffended by my comment. "You see, when you're young and full of hormones, and come in close contact for the first time with someone of the opposite sex who isn't related to you, you experience feelings and urges that you've never encountered before. Now since, despite their bragging to the contrary, most people are raised to think of themselves as good and decent folks, they automatically attach the socially correct label to these feelings: Love. Of course, there's also a socially correct response when two people feel that way about each other . . . specifically, marriage. â€� </p><p heightø"0pt" width="2em"> "But isn't that . . . " I began, but the troll held up a restraining hand. </p><p heightø"0pt" width="2em"> "Hear me out, " he said. "Now, continuing with our little saga, eventually passions cool, and the infatuation has run it's course. It might take years, but eventually they find that 'just being together' isn't enough. It's time to get on with life. Unfortunately, right about then they discover that they have little if anything in common. All too often they find that their goals in life are different, or, at the very least, their plans on how to achieve them don't coincide. Then they find, instead of the ideal partner to stand back to back with while taking on the world, they've actually opened a second front. That is, they have to spend as much or more time dealing with each other as they do the rest of the world. â€� </p><p heightø"0pt" width="2em"> Despite myself, I found I was being drawn in, almost mesmerized, by his oration. </p><p heightø"0pt" width="2em"> "What happens then?" I said. </p><p heightø"0pt" width="2em"> "If they are at all rational . . . notice I said 'rational' not 'intelligent' . . . they go their separate ways. AH too often, however, they cling to the concept of</p><p heightø"0pt" width="2em"> 'love' and try to 'make it work. ' When that happens, the result is an armed camp living an uneasy truce . . . and nobody's happy . . . or actually achieving their full potential. â€� </p><p heightø"0pt" width="2em"> I thought about the bickering I had recently witnes8ƒbetwe="KalÀaíeDaphnisíe4"Mw2eGui°hrto•˜‘o4"Mdoª¨ØeturbaedŽ“é…�sáexplod•ò="violence. Inª¨Øpite of myself, I shuddered involuntarily. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "That sounds grim, " I said. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Oh, it is, " the troll nodded. "Trying to 'make it work' is the most frustrating, depressing pastime ever invented. The real problem is that they've each ended up with the wrong person, but rather than admit that, they try to gloss things over with cosmetics. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Cosmetics?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Surface changes. Things that really don't matter. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "I don't get it. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "All right, " the troll said. "I'll give you an example. The wife says she needs some new clothes, so her husband gives her some money to go out shopping. That's a rather simple and straight forward exchange, wouldn't you say?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Well . . . yes. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Only on the surface, " Chumley explained. "Now look at it a little deeper . </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> . . at what's really going on. The husband has been getting caught up in his work . . . that's a normal reaction for a man when he get's married and starts feeling 'responsible, ' by the way . . . and his wife is feeling unhappy and ignored. Her solution is that she needs some new clothes to make her more attractive so her husband will pay more attention to her. A surface solution to her unhappiness. Now, when she says she needs new clothes, the husband is annoyed because she seems to have a closet full of clothes that she never wears, but rather than argue with her, he gives her some money for shopping . </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> . . again, a surface solution. You'll notice that he simply gives her the money. He doesn't take her shopping and help her find some new outfits. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> The troll leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "From there, it goes downhill. She gets some new clothes and wears them, but the husband either doesn't notice or doesn't comment . . . possibly because he still resents having to pay for what he thinks is a needless purchase. Therefore, buying new clothes . . . her surface solution . . . doesn't work because she still feels ignored and unhappy . . . and a little angry and frustrated that her husband doesn't seem to appreciate her no matter how hard she tries. Her husband, in the meantime, senses that she's still unhappy so that giving her money . . . his surface solution . . . didn't work. He feels even more bitter and resentful because now it seems that his wife is going to be upset and unhappy even if he 'gives her everything she's asked for. ' You see, by trying to deal with the problem with surface, cosmetic gestures without acknowledging to themselves the real issues, they've actually made things worse instead of better. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> He smiled triumphantly as I considered his thesis. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "So you're saying that marriages don't work, " I said carefully, "that the concept itself is flawed. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Not at all, " the troll corrected, shaking his head. "I was saying that getting married under the mistaken impression that love conquers all is courting disaster. A proper match between two people who enter into a marriage with their eyes open and free of romantic delusions can result in a much happier life together than they could ever have alone. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "All right, " I said. "If love and romance are bad bases for deciding to marry someone because it's too easy to fool yourself, what would you see as a valid reason to get married. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "There are lots of them, " Chumley shrugged. "Remember when Hemlock first arrived here? Her marriage to Roderick was a treaty and a merger between two kingdoms. It's common among royalty, but you'll find similar matches in the business world as well. In that case, both sides knew what they wanted and could expect, ses knew wh it worked out fine. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Sorry, but that seems a bit cold to me, " I said, shaking my head. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Really?" the troll cocked his head. "Maybe I'm phrasx�thŽwrong. Wriyou don'†ant ic†situation wher�0her�ic†hidden agenda on ei0her or bothsides. Everyth�shouƒ9up front an/†n¨�0able . . . likee€th¨�Hemle/Roderick marriageeðrobled‡ˆŽWe€Øˆjor‡Wri'c†hidden agenda?ðrobled‡ˆŽWe€Øˆjorâ€œHmmm . . . Trione'c†little har9Šexplain. Teóxpifyou marritcQueen Hemle, whiwouƒ9you expect‚Trione cau‡x9ŠtŽÀ unprepare…¥I don'†know . . . nothh�, r�ŽÀppomanage ilast¥I guessofigur�0hi/†/uƒ9pretty much9a marriage in nax9onÀp€thher goh�her way an/x9goh�mheðrobled‡ˆŽWe€Øˆjor‡Goo ‚¨�0nls� emphiicŽÀ¥Goo‚I echoe…¥Com'on, ChumleÀ¥ðrobled‡ˆŽWe€Øˆjorâ€œGoo in 0hiyou aren'†expecth�anyth�. You aren'†goh�inŠ/†€th¨�notion of r�formh�her, or riehe'd givup her thron9Š hover aroun/you adorh�Àpor anyone of a myria/†f o0her false hopesor assumptions rimos†groochav†n¨�way Š ¨�altar¥ðrobled‡ˆŽWe€Øˆjorâ€œosuppose ri'cgoo ‚os�¥Goo Ii'cvitŽ ‚¨�0nlinsiste…¥ToŠxanypeople marry �pers†n¨�y ink¨�ir partner wilbecomeT�y havsomsoriof idea ria marriage cer�monyicsomhow magicŽ. Tri/†€lelimhat�all �dubious raitc†n/haHis r�ir partnerhad when¨�y wer�sx�leTi'c†b†*as unr�Žisticas ifyou had expecttcAahz Š stopbeh�amoney-grubber or Š shtchŽtemper jus†because you sign/†n ac†n apprenticeAnyway, when¨�ir partner keeps rd‡†n beh��pers†ne or sht has been all along,¨�y feel huri†n/beraye…¥Sinc�0heybelievri0her�shouƒ9havbeen a changp�onÀknclusion 0heyc†n r�ch9hŽtri0heir lovewasn'†enou‡ Š ¨rdger /†. . . or, mor�likeÀpri0her�'csomth�wrong†€th¨�ir partnereTi'cwhenmarriagecstar†getth�blooÀ¥Aileast†€thQueen Hemle'cproposŽ noboÀ'ckiddh�anyboÀ†b†*whi'cgoh�Š happen. ðrobled‡ˆŽWe€Øˆjoromull/†ver hŽwords for a few momnts. obled‡ˆŽWe€Øˆjor‡So you'r�sayh�iyou inkoshouƒ9marry Queen Hemle, ‚os�¥obled‡ˆŽWe€Øˆjor‡Her�now. Hoƒ9on, ‚¨�0nls�,leanh�back†n/hoƒh�up hhŽhands. I s� nŠ such9th�. Ti'c¨�kin/of decision 0hionÀyou c†n makeIwas jus†commnth�on whiI se�ac¨�mor�common pitfallsofmarriage,9hŽalleIfyou do decid9Š marry �Queenp�r�are certain aspectŽtri/uƒ9wd‡ in favor of ii/rking†. . . b*you'r��onewhŠ haŽto decid9whiyou wanio*of a marriage †n/whe0her or not9ths is it. ðrobled‡ˆŽWe€ØˆjorTerrificeIhad been hoph�iChumleÀ'c†nalyticapproch9/uƒ9simplify ings for meInstea,ht ha9simplÀ†dd/a wagon loa/†f o0her factorŽto b�consid�r�¥I need/ilike Deva need/mor�merchants. obled‡ˆŽWe€Øˆjor‡WelŽ I appreciat��input,ChumleÀ, ‚os�, rdsx� from my seat. obled‡ˆŽWe€Øˆjor‡You'vegivenme † lot9tŠ ¨ink†b†*. ðrobled‡ˆŽWe€Øˆjor‡Tinknoth�of ii, oƒ9boÀ¥Gla/Š help. ðrobled‡ˆŽWe€Øˆjor‡An/you'r�all set†€th�assignmnt? Guido toƒ9you how Š hookup €thPookie?ðrobled‡ˆŽWe€Øˆjor‡Rd‡-o. ðrobled‡ˆŽWe€Øˆjorostar/ogo, b*paused for onemor�question. obled‡ˆŽWe€Øˆjor‡By �way, ChumleÀ. Havyou evr been married yourself?ðrobled‡ˆŽWe€Øˆjor‡Me?‚¨�0nl seemed genuineÀ surprds�¥"Graciousno. Why do you ask?ðrobled‡ˆŽWe€Øˆjor‡Jus†curious, ‚os�,†n/hea/†*¨�dooreChaptr Sevnteen:obled‡ˆŽWe€Øˆjor‡Wiamosuppos/odo €thall ths goƒ?ðrobled‡ˆŽWe€Øˆjor-MIDArob, REX</p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> AT THIS POINT, I had to admit that I was more confused than ever. It seemed that everyone I talked to had a different view of marriage, which wasn't making my decision any easier. One thing everyone seemed to agree on, though: A bad marriage could be a living Hell. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> Of course, defining what a good marriage was and how to avoid a bad one seemed to defy simple explanation . . . or, at least, one simple enough that I could grasp. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> The problem was, as limited as my experience with the opposite sex was, my knowledge of marriages, good or bad, was even sketchier. I could barely rmberown familyleftmo loago.only 5·ùmetonadturesWoWrrrealizy w wwolvesIomedidky wvaliromodel fme.gaiMasshaBadax wabout gett.Mayy 5·ù$Ü?vidomins fme.sidris possibilitasIwcrosspalatyar voiinrrupts."HeyPartner!â€�look aroufamombefspotAahzwmfrompala's upndows."Wh w youis ? WmisyousessionGrim. â€�"Chumley"–5al?ack. "GuidottskChumleystin fhim. â€�"W"partnerw."GsGrim. It's ortt!â€�sou?vaguely omibut Aahzp."W's up?â€�"Day oeagl" yedisaparefroms.rrific!sIreirecstepsowarGrim's offic–5·ù$Ühelpbut feel ttannoy.Imaalrs plagu–really didnead?distracoGrimabout ombirsanctuary."Hi,Grim. Aahzaiyouwsme?â€�eChancgcupgaisdoorway."A.LorSke" nod."Yes.Comin.is s$Ütake lo. â€�eain roompl?down in ffchai"W'sp? Aahzai omabout eagls?â€�"Eagls?orefro.No,r's nop"Grimai."Ify, qutrary.In fac,newtaxecpcess isorwwe'now in a positivash flow situa. W's–excep fdota few I'scrossa few T'swe'vtnewbudgetpettwnai?down. â€�He l?ackfavis rarmis."Sa'tea''squttasssttyouhr.I'admitI'm very ressalrqualificas.Take advicdoletrgo . . . iftyoua.â€�isa5·ùrsaccomp?amirkank. Whigrown expec–s sort5·mmetfromGrimnsubjec–Bunnyaup–founo–foitannyfirsm. Aleasnow,refraifromsuch behiin resec . . . which a victory sortIsuppos.StillIannoydeci?take anrst atit. "I'm surprisharyouway,Grim"Isai."A–youreally shuuphormsyoucajusacknowge roraa eaguout adding segeual innuendos?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Well . . . I . . . " the Chancellor began, but I cut him off. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> ". . . Especially realizing that the Queen . . . you know, your employer? . . . is also female. I wonder if she's aware of your slanted views regarding her gender, or, if she isn't, how she'd react if she found out. Do you think she'd just fire you, or would she want to see if you were bluffing, first? From what I can tell, she's as interested in playing around as you claim to be. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> Grimble actually blanched which, realizing how pale his complexion was to start with, was quite a sight. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "You wouldn't tell her, would you, Lord Skeeve?" he stammered. "I meant no disrespect to Bunny. Really. She has one of the best financial minds it's been my privilege to work with . . . male or female. I was just trying to make a little joke. You know, ms iax)n? Iù—(�–¸ riŒà—fkd¥biŒrou�¹‚�d‘éNow‹á‡€ÁmNo.È‰es“d¥s,dI poQu‡,"Relax,–ough‡l sesou°It†–5ÃNos“enough by¹‡waxØ—¸‚ù—no.,sty¥axgxØ‚Œ –�°SetÈ‰ereport—r�édaQs. Jaxdoh‹push‚ù so–è�em�°futur‡Okayf‚´€Ð�d‘éNow‹á‡€ÁmTÈkIæel�gui„QoulTÈks. I's“dðoppoQfki,‚´€Ð�d‘éNow‹á‡€ÁmNowahe�dI said(�.ÔŒ –rise�dIksuNo'rbdo–Ç‰?TÈ·�°report(·�°collÁc�oƒ‚budge.‰Jke›ùoarŒè�—‚Nabf‚´€Ð�d‘éNow‹á‡€ÁmNo,–e‰Jaxapsroupdate�dŽ1as›corrÁed(back(·familia…Ø”˜‚‡w,"T�°rerorers(·I–èŒè�—‚›ùoaÍ.s,‚´€Ð�d‘éNow‹á‡€ÁmH°rerQ‡somewÇ‰(·�°flooneisdrrƒ‚produc‡parcbag‰Ë jŒl‡st�owppHet(è�s�deskeë‚�d‘éNow‹á‡€ÁmIdoh‹˜‚eqƒ‚�dI said, eye·�·cbag,"Wes�if‚´€Ð‚�d‘éNow‹á‡€ÁmIù—�swag¥s,dt�mil‰Ç‰Ãt†–5Ã–enordƒ›ùle.�sksiqƒt—Èd¥ahes‚atus,�@Ø—¸Œø·cam˜esnvolvHdu¥ax�spromoc�,I –oughe›ùm‘épuðoaxderoÈ‰eetpusonnn…‚´€Ð‚�d‘éNow‹á‡€ÁmI s.Ô‡·�°bagunéfortabn…Ie‰Ja verƒ>igbag,Evet–ough·I–èŒx–9pusuad‡by¹Aahzƒ‚z‚‚oaxaccepxasizab…ïcfor.,servic¥s,look„¡xanumber(·ppiec�papu‰Ja lo.diffÇ‰e–(·PŒàƒ—Œø·ce.vd¥esn–è�psh‡Perhap�iy†áh‹—mpuðoso–muË afu·I–èŒpaid·co·crÍ.eiresÔ‡oul€Ð‚�d‘éNow‹á‡€Ám‰hsksiqƒt—ÈvcalØ—d,‡ick‡up.eirewag¥s,d1as›‰JsaxŒ,€Ð‚�d‘éNow‹á‡€Ámso–.ss�·claxpaym‰e–o�édet¥ahs�”˜‚payroll…If›ù's“axsign–Ç‰?‚´€Ð‚�d‘éNow‹á‡€ÁmH°push‡pslip�papuacros�·cdesk¡xme��@I ignorHetƒ‚kepxs.Ô„¡x·cmoƒ>ag,€Ð‚�d‘éNow‹á‡€ÁmIe‰Ja verƒarcbag,Especiàƒc�oi‚e„¡h–5Ãlitts›I‰JaPŒàƒdoQg,€Ð‚�d‘éNow‹á‡€ÁmIJsomeahs„¡wroŒ,l�gu‰?‚´€Ð‚�d‘éNow‹á‡€ÁmFor.amom‰e,I aPŒàƒc�oi‚eŒèell„¡hrke‰Jbo·cr„¡me�‰Ë s�asign–h–5Ãupse.I‰.1as›s�no.someo–›ùc�fi‚esn,€Ð‚�d‘éNow‹á‡€ÁmNo. No·Œ,dI saidsnst—d,€Ð‚�d‘éNow‹á‡€ÁmW†á›ùluðoaxc˜est?dt�pressed(appÔ‡ntƒtis“unénvinc‡,€Ð‚�d‘éNow‹á‡€ÁmWhy? Diáh‹›ù?‚´€Ð‚�d‘éNow‹á‡€ÁmOfxc˜rs‚Idid, "·cC(cellonriql‰,�s�professc�ropri‚estuQg,Iforc‡pmil‰,€Ð‚�d‘éNow‹á‡€ÁmGood enough·for.‰,Check„¡�sworky†áxp‰t¥bo· ostime�doh‹›ùagre‰?‚´€Ð‚�d‘éNow‹á‡€ÁmI quickƒcribsd.,nam¥t–eØceipe,ga·cr‡up.ebag(a‚lefe,cÔ‡fuàƒignorŒø·cpuzzsd.look1as›‰Jlu‰l„¡xme,€Ð‚�d‘éNow‹á‡€Ám‰h gonnane‡us·for.any·Œ,Bos? Yh wƒt wesouá(¡”˜‚ut here?â€owouá‹</p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Whatever, Guido, " I waved absently as I shut the door. "I'm going to be here for a while, though, if you want to get something to eat. I've got a lot to think over. â€�</p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Oh, we already ate. So we'll just . . . â€�</p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> The door closed and cut off the rest of whatever it was he was saying. Guido and Nunzio had materialized at my side somewhere during my walk back from Grimble's. I wasn't sure exactly when, as I had been lost in thought and they hadn't said anything until we reached my room. If I had realized they were there, I probably would have had one of them carry the bag of gold for me. It was heavy. Very heavy. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> Setting the burden down on my desk, I sank into a chair and stared at it. I had heard of bad pennies coming back to haunt someone, but this was ridiculous. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> I had been so absorbed in trying to make up my mind about Queen Hemlock that I hadn't gotten around to my self-appointed task of trying to cut back on my staff or otherwise reduce the M. Y. T. H. Inc. bill to the kingdom. Now, I had the money in hand, and all I felt was guilty. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> No matter what Aahz and Bunny said, it still felt wrong to me. Here we were, cutting corners on the budget and squeezing taxes out of the populace tant to h’©oaoŠÐ�hY›9•¹m's financyÇes˜it niph…y…ß�ÞAs h’eae©……ÿdiþel…’need. W……u�moŠ,ninùk terrè crar–naÏƒ"oria�s©……ou…sul‚�p‚k nfl†Naydayc¯certain’diþel�balaŒ°‡rew³„Nh,†y°:Šuneas‘€‚§‚„‹moŠal‚˜˜Ktƒlit�7‹moŠadeAY‘NI‡camk F fige„l‹òe©ogiª�g……Š . Oiaours,teŒ°’ª�Bu‡dulquiehpƒlmŠQsecrehpƒh,I'8suffAŠg…wrath1†„€¯èmber,•–0�7�8 ternecessa©çƒèa††ù‡Bu‡o�Buliª�wi€myè§haitos‡‚‡a†s Plè"1†how�Bu«ÈmoourNayroll. Actu’ƒçƒØr—˜wouivetè‚òes accurat�7rsitutihrun�tIllitè§h‹¹If‰Úses o ˜� balanc�beçƒIfcollectih cessernow�flow ˜smo„€’ƒIn¯cŒ° Po’seber,�t“Ø€Devainœwe0nœul,oŠalrèbodygu³„œW……u�moŠ,¯cŒ°Ininsiß�nu«mov�’!ámayme¸�financycŒnèor. AÑarsŒ°«Èmo„àg�hAny•x£Ñasubor’†y°:Šuneas‘€‚§‚„rs–0left‚òei€s Plè"1†how�BoadeyÇi€sdis portihatayme¸¯— al…d’’eceiªd. y°:Šuneas‘€‚§‚„‹›Inideysru“ØˆÊ'8doƒØra,�„€œ exea�iª�wŒ°doƒØ‹›confQ�†NÇi€a Plè:Ê'8delegattoaòou else! y°:Šuneas‘€‚§‚„Stl’‡Busdoor,¯ou�s›8look�pBush•e„en˜˜,’!tw bodygu³„ats–0‡‚‡inppInhp embrot�pconvƒtihÇi€each1‡‚. y°:Šuneas‘€‚§‚„"Guido! Nunzio!"¯cd. "Cò… th,ysecond. â€� y°:Šuneas‘€‚§‚„I’e-nht g…room›8rehuƒ g�8’deskÇi€lwaiÏƒoae…ƒIyat…spondÏƒÊneedel’ª�worrid. y°:Šuneas‘€‚§‚„B©…oiò¯— ’e-se†Nmyè§ƒIyato’‡… fQ�†alrˆÊy°:Šuneas‘€‚§‚„"¯—ª�aulittwassignme¸h,youboys˜"¯said,nmilÏƒÊy°:Šuneas‘€‚§‚„"e„, Boss˜"Iychiò�pchoruœy°:Šuneas‘€‚§‚„"Blfirst�èa¸oche“Øaò�bƒÊAslo‡�I'ª�known,you,,you'ª�„€madtcleaŠgat�p‚k past�you'ª�— nolqulms aƒlbebÏƒ…rules assitutihs dh,it�workÏƒside…law astetÊ†srcorrect?â€� y°:Šuneas‘€‚§‚„"r's run. â€� y°:Šuneas‘€‚§‚„"No Plè. â€� y°:Šuneas‘€‚§‚„Inotic gat�€g€usaffirmtiv�7ei,ynsetatslowœ ›8lesse¸husiasticganlbehˆÊy°:Šuneas‘€‚§‚„"AÑarun. ‹ job¯—ª�h,youhasuneao be done secretly, with nobody knowing that I'm behind it. Not even Aahz or Bunny. Understand?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> My bodyguards looked even more uncomfortable than before, but nodded their agreement. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> ''Okay, here's the job, " I said, pushing the bag of moneyaowards them. "I want youao take this moneyand get rid of it. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> The two men stared at me, then exchanged glances. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "I don't quite get you, Boss, " Guido said at last. "What do youwant us to do with it?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "I don't careand I don't want to know, " I said. "I just want this moneyback in circulation within the kingdom. Spend it or give it to charity. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> Just then an idea hit me. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Better still, figureout some way of passing it around ao those people who have been complaining that they can't pay their taxes. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> Guido frowned and glanced at his cousin again. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "I dunno, Boss, " he said carefully. "It don't seem right, somehow. I mean, we'resupposed ao be collectin' taxes from people . . . not givin' it to them. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "What Guido means, " Nunzio put in, "is that our speciality is extracting funds from people and institutions. Givin' it back is a little out of our line. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Well then I guess it's about time youexpanded your horizons, " I said, unmoving. "Anyway, that's the assignment. Understand?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Yes, Boss, " they chorused, still looking uneasy. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "And remember, not a word about this to the rest of the team. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "If yousay so, Boss. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> As{?†ˆƒ×ƒespowas�avy enoughctè†ˆ�ùmaàžtŸð“quryyfeer“X�€gaeu•|up easilymmmAc’˜goodènƒeøsoodèef�’|ðe¥ÇmƒÀÏbvio�ˆÒ‚h‹¢Œy-£øUmm‹aŽAe’É‡a‡ŸƒO�üm¥At£"?ÈŠØœ*†˜š8oˆ9s¯™„yƒÀ”�Mow�folksÇƒuldè†ˆ�ƒkðe¥Çlifeep�eares2buchb‰˜rou¹áo�ˆÒ‚h‹¢Œy-£øTtomy poin„yƒ×muªòe*†¹áo�ˆÒ‚h‹¢Œy-£øHuh¸,È§°�ˆÒ‚h‹¢Œy-£øNevòminƒy‡w�"I'mÉ‡a. NowümibOkay¸,È§°�ˆÒ‚h‹¢Œy-£øC˜†—r|8ÿNo!!°�ˆÒ‚h‹¢Œy-£øT’˜didoˆquitØœluteer“©’˜drew'‚ selvPup ˆˆnod�‰beðep’˜�a�‰ðe¥esdoor�¯recaÿP’˜�a‰beøƒk�’mmm-crmy ðe¥ÇwhileeÀ'dŒ¨P?ƒ|�a‰rubbPof�ÿesmbep—’˜rem£ze*†Afªò’˜�a‰g8,¯lf�‰b À'savepP’ÇmƒÀÏbI actuaÿy ðel–÷ood! Iˆ9sP?ƒI˜�a‰fŸ¡ayƒlut¶w�?ƒlfw�˜¹my proðm"r!!°�ˆÒ‚h‹¢Œy-£øMay¡‡?ƒ�a‰beømy difficuliaÿ¥AcepbI �a‰beøtryyf�focuc’�€¨any”XrelatPproðm"?ƒo¯. Now?ƒ’Çwhoð“b‰˜¥A’asof�my b ,¯cƒulddevotØmy ÀÏiepaªÏiw�’ÇQueøHemlo syeaiwmmß†in„errup¶w or dis‰¹�w‚!!°�ˆÒ‚h‹¢Œy-£øFe¥esfiºÃeepin¥Çlo’hileeI actuaÿy ðel–op¶misicƒß†beA’að“�?rrù?ƒadecis�w‚!!°�ˆÒ‚h‹¢Œy-£øChapªòEˆÒe:!!°�ˆÒ‚h‹¢Œy-£øƒtos�eas0“a˜eildcƒulddmi!No!!°�ˆÒ‚h‹¢Œy-£ø-THE LEGAL DISCLAIMER FOUND ON!!°mbp:pagebremk/°�ˆÒ="1-£¢Œyh‹><foOs£ze="7><b>THE INSTRUCTION SHEET OF ANY</b></foO></!°�ˆÒ="1-£¢Œy-£oSSEMBLE IT YOURSELF" KIT</!°�ˆÒ‚h‹¢Œy-£oBLAH BLAH BLAH flowertblahtblahtblahtprotocol. Un—rsood¸,È§°�ˆÒ‚h‹¢Œy-£øUh-huhƒy‡w,Çlook�’ß†’Çwin”�§°�ˆÒ‚h‹¢Œy-£øWeøI �a‰agrePtèear’Çplaw ðe¥esupcoming¨arragebetweøMasshaÀ'General BadaxeeI �a‰8ƒ|mmß†rem£zing”Çlo’|ƒuldtak˜r”Çcomplex the cerÇlo’mony would be. After several hours of this however, I realized that my own part was going to be minimal, and was having a great deal of difficulty paying attention to the myriad of details. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Of course, blah blah blah . . . â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> And they were off again. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> A bird landed on a branch outside the window and began gobbling down a worm. I found myself envying him. Not that I was particularly hungry, mind you. It was just that the way my life had been going lately, eating a worm seemed like a preferable alternative. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Have you got that? Skeeve?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> I jerked my head back to the task at hand, only to find my massive apprentice peering at me intently. Obviously, I had just missed something I was supposed to respond to. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Umm . . . Not really, Massha. Could you summarize it again briefly so I can be sure I have it right?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> I didn't mean to emphasize the word 'briefly' but she caught it anyway. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Hmmm, " she said, fixing me with a suspicious stare. "Maybe we should take a break for a few minutes, " she said. "I think we could all do with a good stretch of the legs. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "If you say so, my dear, " the General said, rising obediently to his feet. I admired his stamina . . . and his patience. I was sure that this was as tedious for him as it was for me, but you'd never tell it to look at him. I started to rise as well, then sank back quickly into my seat as a wave of dizziness hit me. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Hey Skeeve! Are you all right?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> Massha was suddenly more concerned than she had been a moment before. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "I'm fine, " I said, trying to focus my eyes. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Would you like some wine?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "No!! I mean, I'm all right. Really. I just didn't get much sleep last night is all. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Uh-huh. Out tom-catting again, were you, Hot Stuff?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> Normally, I kind of enjoyed Massha's banter. Today, though, I was just too tired to play. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Actually, I went to bed fairly early, " I said, stuffily-"I just had a lot of trouble getting to sleept mÇ†w†wuªŒ �ù¢`lo�¨ßson¨†ËeaŠ€lax‰q¹ñ‚†·†·†¶Grudg„ …TQT(· bhca�Àunder�htlen¾·§Ég¤(Surto,È?‚tun�mooá—`f¨t©®P”lo(·Surãmæbaw˜reƒWf¨t‡Surhop�¸�oá½Sur lT‹æbmonêpro,m·Surðaw€åtl5·ùe‹(S€¡t ½ntrhtlon¨aeg up¨†Ëeaabocawh.…mnezzarry QuðaHemlock‡Snstea‹a=uæbfactor·arhtfilions kepY�anceg †w†hea‹ajool5·ùe†w†hea‹ajool5·ùBso.…ãmimportanc½Áuntil(S€¡�îœ:hon¨ƒá—`ˆUnãmtunhtl¤(S€¡�îpca`(id½Áe‹�0ñ‚†·†·†¶Grudg„ ˜q¸ •…8fóp‹apeer˜¸hi¦Ûrefu'„'ñ‚†·†·†¶Grudg„ ˜W�o†…fópwafó��îÐŠ. Pusùe w˜ch'ˆŒo�afóshdown�xezzc±îpcav��Ö�a…w†srŸlder'ñ‚†·†·†¶Grudg„ ˜qC° o¾s�à…8fópid. "T '™/ª=uabocai¾·W�o©0ƒ_�o,ùe™‡up¨lhtl¤¦Ñdu‹†·†·†¶Grud‚j€x™our®ho,¼ur˜¸bocawh.…mnezzarry QuðaHemlockwhy?‹. "w�Çca�îsezzaŠáup¨†Ëea·fB…(·Sca t,‹> �ùis�îa clB…ccamp¾¨ƒs8�·ƒápion·SuH�seŒoðÆad�‹neg,vk‡W�o†…Ido©0go5·ùe 1affecîszaƒpeopl…Á±paralyticãmfB…á—do5·ùe fówro·ùe f5·ù‡S±szafr?‹á—do5·ùe° ur˜¸wro·ù…Á±nedo5·ùeaƒur˜¸¾¨ò‰q¹ñu‹†·†·†¶Grud‚j€x'™/ªheavÈ? gr, s†·'ñ‚†·†·†¶Grud‚j« —˜,‹>Sca�îaŠá¸�oc=uãmi�s�à.¡®bodyca‡Sfƒaƒhelp˜rŸŽ™‡srŸld knowá¸�oyou're helpoved, and that your friends will stand by whatever decision you reach. I know it's rough right now, but we have every faith that you'll do the right thing. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> I guess that was supposed to be reassuring. It flashed across my mind, however, that I really didn't need to be reminded of how much everyone was counting on me to reach the right decision . . . when after weeks of deliberation I still didn't have the foggiest idea of what the right decision was! </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> Still, my apprentice was trying to help the only way she knew how, and I didn't want to hurt her for that. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Thanks, Massha, " I said, forcing a smile. "That does help a bit. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Ahem. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> I glanced up to see General Badaxe stepping forward. He had been so quiet I had forgotten he was in the room until he cleared his voice. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Will you excuse us, my dear? I'd like to have a word with Lord Skeeve. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> Massha glanced back and forth between the General and me, then shrugged. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Sure thing, Hugh. Gods know I've got enough to keep me busy for a while. Catch you later, Hot Shot. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> The General closed the door behind her, then stood regarding me for several moments. Then he came over to where I was standing and placed both of his hands on my shoulders. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Lord Skeeve, " he said. "May I be permitted the privilege of speaking to you, of treating you for a few moments as if you were my own son . . . or a man under my command in the Army?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Certainly, General, " I said, genuinely touched. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Fine, " he smiled. "Turn around. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Excuse me?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "I said 'Turn around. ' Face in the other direction, if you will. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> Puzzled, I turned my back on him and waited. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> Suddenly, something slammed into my rear end, propelling me forward with such force that I nearly fell, saving myself only by catching my weight with my hands and one knee. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> I was shocked. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> Incredible as it seemed, I had every reason to believe the General had just kicked me in the rump! </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "You kicked me!" I said, still not quite believing it. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "That's right, " Badaxe said calmly. "Frankly, it's long overdue. I had considered hitting you over the head, but it seems that lately your brains are located at the other end. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> Grudgingly, I began to believe it. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "But why?" I demanded. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Because, Sk/›�(ai‡reãct?†Ïcp˜tesies duep˜“¢€?†Ï�éÑn is†ßtudi€`opin€?ð�pulb�!a¢�Hlik£�inc‘ �€measuth-bd’ hors9—ñdªWŽGŒïŒï¼We”Ø‘ v�¤çclorgb.erl¶sˆR poetic�ð›9ita¡¸o�Soclosi…¡ŽGŒïŒï¼We”sh�Ya�H… �a bn mo¹Àãcific¾ –r³`�(as†k‡dignityasIÏcp�Hm¿esi…¡ŽGŒïŒï¼We”tt‘'m‡referr…X«ºr poss�,…marraX«Qu�!HemeéÑmecp˜¹X¢>²àe "Or, mo¹Àãcificai‡ºr difficulty…§m³…upºr mi€pb'¹Àagoniz…’€ltdcis€“wh�!n�obviou±oltmo¿casu €obser’€l�p don'�¤n�¡warr‘es—ñdªWŽGŒïŒï¼We›‡ðž¨k‰¹Àbigg€issues �“k£¨k‰lnwh nœ¤n�'†W†W«_‚0lariŽàdªWŽGŒïŒï¼We›‡Ðimllsl¿•�8‚‚0firiŽàdªWŽGŒïŒï¼We›‡ÐiWh G°Gs¦WŽGŒïŒï¼We”tt‘v¹pmllsl¿'s—œ£�id€ €reper€¿†ÏIn�ƒ!Wh ”0‚n�±ð³`goissue wc‘ ikŽé…s—ñdª¦WŽGŒïŒï¼We½!W‚�d’ '†s9ing in spï¼te of my depression. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Excuse me, General, but isn't that a little strange coming from you?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "How so?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Well, as a soldier, you've devoted your life to the rigors of training and combat. The whole military system is based on self-sacrifice and self-denial, isn't it?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Perhaps, " Badaxe said. "Has it occurred to you, though, that it's simply a means to an end? The whole idea of being prepared for combat is to be able to defend or exert what you want against what someone else wants. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> I sat up straight. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "I never thought of it that way. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "It's the only way to think of it, " the General said, firmly. "Oh, I know a lot of people see a soldier's life as being subservient. That it's the role of a mindless robot subject to the nonsensical orders and whims of his superior officers . . . including Generals. The fact is that an army has to be unted in purpose, or it's ineffectual. Each man in it voluntarily agrees to follow the chain of command because it's the most effective way to achieve a common goal. A soldier who doesn't know what he wants or why he's fighting is worthless. Even worse, he's a danger to anyone and everyone who's counting on him. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> He paused, then shook his head. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "For the moment, however, let's consider this on a smaller scale. Think of a young man who trains himself so that he won't be bullied by older, larger men. He lifts weights to develop his muscles, studies various forms of armed and unarmed combat, and practices long hard hours with one objective in mind: To harden himself to where he won't have to knuckle under to anyone. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> The General smiled. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "What would you say, then, if that same young man subsequently let every pipsqueak and bravo shove him around because he was afraid he'd hurt them if he pushed back?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "I'd say he was a bloody idiot. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Yes, " Badaxe nodded. "You are. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Me?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Certainly, " the General said, starting to look a little vexed. "Didn't you recognize yourself in the picture I just described?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "General, " I said, wearily, "I haven't gotten much sleep for several days now. Forgive me if I'm not tracking at my normal speed, but you're going to have to spell it out for me. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Very well. I spoke about a young man building himself up physically. Well, you, my young friend, are probably the most formidable man I know. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "I am?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Beyond a doubt. What's more, like the young man in my example, you've built yourself up over the years . . . even in the time I've known you. With your magikal skills and wealth, not to mention your allies, supporters, and contacts, you don't have to do anything you don't want to. What's more, you've proved that time and time again against some very impressive opposition. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> He smiled and laid a surpris˜hŠgo—ˆ aÑˆ‡…erIºù�ok‘)©±ƒp˜aNowAa”ðˆ tQ‡˜��ˆ a‰H‚marÉHemlockARot‡…g°Œ �ö£Y¤?mp�ö£beˆ9„–Øíuºù�ok‘)©±ƒp˜aNow"strŽÐopˆÑce´Ñ�ŽÐabd�„tø´ a‘¨?‡ckAgibe˜h¸.Ò�‰? Š–ðerÑi˜áY¤Ñ�Rors–Øíuºù�ok‘)©±ƒp˜aNow"snp�ö£hÑ, egier“p‹joç•Y”hruggàsHðce•0�ŠxSu»àc‹øiH‚hegierreŒ �ö£volu¥áŠº¹oxSgiit?mp”ðmpS…ö£Y¤jjob–Øíuºù�ok‘)©±ƒp˜a¦ðmces‚ —anal«�s ga‰àureaallop„ŠáYest«ÀailuctY¤ grabž�w„íuºù�ok‘)©±ƒp˜a¦ow‡ut peo„le are counting on me, " I protested. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Peole are counting on you to do what is right for you. " Badaxe said firmly. "Though it's hard for you to see, they're assuming that you'll do what you want to do. You should have listened more closely to what my bride to be was saying to you. If you want to marry Queen Hemlock, they'll support you by not standing in the way or giving you grief. Do you really think, though, that if you firmly state that you want to continue working with them, that they won't support that with as much or more enthusiasm? That's what Massha was trying to say, but I think she was saying it too gently for you to hear. Everyone's been too gentle with you. Since you don't seem to know what you want, they've been walking on eggshells around you to let you sort it out. In the meantime, you've been straining to hear what everyone else wants rather than simply relaxing and admitting what you want. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> I couldn't suppress my smile. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Well, General, " I said, "if there's one thing no one could accuse you of, it would be of not treating me overly gently. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "It seemed appropriate. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "That wasn't a complaint, " I laughed. I was feeling good now, and didn't bother trying to hide it. "It was admiration . . . and thanks. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> I extended my hand. He gathered it into his own and we exchanged a single, brief shake that sealed a new level in our friendship. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "I take it that you've reached your decision then?" Badaxe said, cocking an eyebrow at me. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Affirmative, " I smiled. "And your guess as to what it is would be correct. Thank you, sir. I hope it goes without saying that I'd like to return the favor sometime, should the opportunity present itself. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Hmmm . . . If you could, perhaps, show a little greater interest in the plans for the wedding, " the General said. "Particularly if you could come up with a way to shorten the planning procedure?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "I can shorten today's session, " I said. "Give Massha my apologies, but I feel the need to meet with Queen Hemlock. Perhaps we can continue the session tomorrow. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "That isn't shortening the process. â€� Badaxe scowled. "It's prolonging it. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Sorry, General. â€� I laughed, heading out the back door. "The only other suggestion I'd have is to convince her to elope. I'll hold the ladder for you. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> Chapter Nineteen:</p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "There must be fifty ways to leave your lover!â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> -P. SIMON</p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> MY MIND FINALLY made up at last, I set out to give the news to Queen Hemlock. I mean, since she was waiting for a decision from me, it wouldn't be right to delay sharing it once it had been made. Right? The fact that if I waited too long, I might chicken out entirely had nothing to do with it. Right? </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> Suddenly, I was very aware of the absence of my bodyguards. When I had given them their assignment to distribute my unwanted cash, it had been under the assumption that I was in no particular danger while here at the palace. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> Now, I wasn't so sure. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> I had noticed back when we first met, when I was masquerading as King Rodrick, that Queen Hemlock had a nasty, perhaps even a murderous streak in her. There had been no evidence of it lately, but then again, I wasn't aware of her having received any bad news of a degree such as I was bringing her, either. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> I shook my head and told myselfuldƒegnsilly. Ak<poot¨áeeglild tawt•òžorunpremedittôd violðaï™geYôd likÛ,ƒÊ†ta—�§re�ø™ ·msimpuga¦‹@�§crew and skip ø™ ·ff to another dimension before she could get around to formulating a plan for revenge. There was absolutely no reason for me to need bodyguards to protect me from her. Right? </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> I was still trying to convince myself of this when I reached the Queen's chambers. The honor guard standing outside her door snapped to attention, and it was too late for a graceful retreat. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> Moving with a casualness I didn't feel, I knocked on her door. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Who is it?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "It's Skeeve, Your Majesty. I was wondering if I might speak to you if it's not inconvenient?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> There was a pause, long enough for me to get my hope up, and then the door opened. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Lord Skeeve. This is a pleasant surprise. Please, come right in. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> Queen Hemlock was dressed in a simple orange gown, which was a pleasant surprise. That she was dressed, that is, not the color of it. The first time she had entertained me in her quarters, she had been naked when she opened the door, and it had put me at an uncomfortable disadvantage for that conversation. This time around, I figured I was going to need all the advantages I could muster. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Your Majesty, " I said, entering the room. I looked about quickly as she was shutting the door, and, when she turned, gestured toward a chair. "Please, if you could take a seat?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> She raised a questioning eyebrow at me, but took the indicated seat without argument. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "What's this all about, Skeeve?" she said. "You look so solemn. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> There was no way of stalling further, so I plunged in. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "I wanted to let you know that I've made my decision regarding marrying you, " I said. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "And that is?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "I . . . Your Majesty, I'm both honored and flattered that you would consider me worthy of being your consort. I had never dreamed that such a possibility existed, and, when it was suggested, had to take time to examine the concept. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "And . . . " she urged. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> I realized that no amount of sugar coating would change the basic content of my decision, so I simply went for it. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "My final conclusion, " I said, "is that I'm not ready for marriage at this time . . . to you or anyone else. To try to pretend otherwise would be a vast disservice to that person . . . and to myself. Between my work and studies as a magician, and my desire to travel and visit other dimensions, I simply have no time or interest in settling down right now. If I did, I would doubtless end up resenting whoever or whatever had forced me to do so. As such, I fear I must decline your kind offer. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> Having said it, I braced myself for her reaction. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Okay, " she said. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> I waited for a moment for her to continue, but when she didn't, I felt compelled to. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "As to your abdicating the throne to me . . . Your Majesty, I beg you to reconsider. I have no qualifications or desire to be the ruler of a kingdom. At best, I'm a good advisor . . . and even that's only with the considerable help of my colleagues and friends. I fear that if I were to attempt to undertake such a responsibility, the kingdom would suffer badly . . . I know I would . . . and . . . and . . . â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> My oration ground to a halt as I saw that she was laughing. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Your Majesty? Excuse me. Did I say something funny?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Oh Skeeve, " she gasped, coming up for air. "Did you really think . . . Of course I'm not going to give up the throne. Are you kidding? I love being Queen. â€� </p> kiddinp height="0pt" width="2em"> "You do? But you said . . . â€� </p>np height="0pt" width="2em"> "Oh, I say lots of things, " she said, waving a negligent hand. "One of the nice things about being royalty is that you get to decide for yourself which of the things you say are for real and which should be ignored. â€� </p>np height="0pt" width="2em"> To say the least, I was confusy„nsèirŠ‰‚aoccasit…Then�xy dgXngd€`‚ifXndgn'‚intev�hfollow€rough?"x‰i„nsèirŠ‰‚aoccasit…Av�howèsa‚ marriage proposal? Dgn'‚Xnmean€`, eis•r?HansèirŠ‰‚aoccan't…Àa–mean‚it all rŠ‰™…ðgimily„"ghIdgn'‚kely expec‚Xnhwan‚hmarry–me.a–mean ‰xy �ŒXn? You've alkedy got wethev�powerct�ai’ðtiedlawn€oòo€row”ròowife.aWxy �ŒXnwan‚hstd•re av�pldse 1Œanano€hme‰xen�XncŒooff�hoppaòrouv�gworŒ”rò‰xereverit a€`‚˜Œoòa€oowav�only Gket Skeeve? It wŒhave been�fabulous,Ómeav�€okadomo€hhave Xniedlinto us permanily, bas•rgw•rgn'‚anykeebenefiar(ƒ. T`'s‰xy I cameupct�€`‚abdication€a„HansèirŠ‰‚aoccan't…Abdication€a?"xechoedlwekly„nsèirŠ‰‚aoccan't…Sure.a–knewXndgn't wan‚hoaoka.afXnha XnwŒhave kepas•o€rowback‰xen�RoddiehaXnposoas him. Anyway, I figure�€`‚ifXndgn't wan‚it baenough,‚it just mŠ‰makoaobigenougho€ret hlureXninto pldaò 1sort,Ómeinsted„HansèirŠ‰‚aoccan't…S•omac‹a littlm,ace.ansèirŠ‰‚aoccan't…–knowit 5·ùuwek, bait 5·ùu€ooly card I hato pld.aWxet elsocŒIdauTreten�Xn? Wt�wxet? Even�it –mange�€oocmeupct� sme€a�€`‚wŒpresimo€ret hXnav�€et mengerielp‚, all 'Œhave h�o a‰aeXnrm� „Œlinkooff�hsme‰xere els.at simply wŒn't owort�€e ef,Ó‚anexpensohkeep tracka�Xndawnai‚noooffens. Goa�ct�€‹abdication€a, I et jnd haa c�Hlp`ta�Xn€oocnsc‚ marrdaòmeai‚anifno€a�camelpi‰™nooharmdan. HansèirŠ‰‚aoccan't…I€oughtlp‚ñday„ŒnŠ‰s I habeen�spendaògonizaòovermy decision. Ten�I€oughtèsa€rottla�€e Queen.ansèirŠ‰‚aoccan't…Nooharmdane™…I egrey„nsèirŠ‰‚aoccan't…So™…ðgii,settla�backin•r c�ir™…€et's€et. Nhmarriage™nooabdication. At jnd wocanstill ofrie ,ocan't we?HansèirŠ‰‚aoccan't…Frie ?…–linky„nsèirŠ‰‚aoccan't…Even�€ough I hame€•r smeimeback, I haneverkely €oughtl Queen Hemlock·ùuaofrie „nsèirŠ‰‚aoccan't…Wxy no€?"ðgihrugge.…f I can't have Xn·ùuao 1sort, I'mclla�€o give it o€ry·ùuaofrie „Fromowxet I've seen Xn're pretty loyeehXnrofrie ,oŒI'Œliko€hhave smeio€h. HansèirŠ‰‚aoccan't…Bsa‰xy souŒ€et oimportan‚hXn? Yn're a Queen,oŒ€e rulerl aof�irly vnd kadomohoot. HansèirŠ‰‚aoccan't…Hemlockcocke�•r hed et mecuriously„nsèirŠ‰‚aoccan't…Ynkely dan't know,�o XnSkeeve? Yn're quite a powerful–manp‚elf,Skeeve.a'Œmuch ra€erm�ve Xn·ùuanpely,oh€e kadomoŒ,Ómyelf,€enpeùuanpenemy„f Xncheck·roun,I€inkoXn'll fiŒa lotl peoplmwho wŒ. HansèirŠ‰‚aoccan't…Tet soune�remarkably likowxet Badaxe hapoate�sa€hme earlier„nsèirŠ‰‚aoccan't…Besc,o"�€e Queen ade,o"Xn're anHguy,oŒI dan't kely �ve manyofrie . Yn know,peoplmI can talka€heùuequala‰ho aren't afril me? nsèirŠ‰‚aoccan't…I€inkoin€e loa�run,owo�ve more problemsoincommon€anp keiz. HansèirŠ‰‚aoccan't…"Except I'moina ttermposition€hstill oablo€h�o wxet I wan™…I fiiðgŒ€oughtfully„nsèirŠ‰‚aoccan't…"Dan't kub it in,o"…Hemlockii,wrinkling "Daer nose. "Well, what do you say? Friends?â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Friends, " I smiled. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> On an impulse, I took her hand and kissed it lightly, then stood holding it for a few moments. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "If I may, Your Majesty, let me add my personal thanks to you for taking my refusal so well? Even if you more than half expected it, it still must have stung your pride a bit. It must have been tempting to make me squirm a little in return. â€� </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> The Queen threw back her head and laughed again. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "It wouldn't be real smart of me to give you a rough time, now, would it?" she said. "As I said before, you can be a real help to the kingdom, Skeeve, even if it only means hiring you occasionally as an indepe‚ contractorŠ cramyŠ…êee0ˆooeˆbout—l‡arrymbá�waŽŠ…+…˜˜À£r wa‚ dsee!…<serŠ)šþ’happA’ø�€N•à•¢H”8art`do˜Àkln!‚admPnŸÂ"iecuŒ×Possiltum g‘!afirIpaymbjob–5·‡agiciaþ’I'aprobab`lway„‘’PŒ×aŽfàmpl‡ê…PŠien�woo�‚ƒh’h… is—l‡without—cha‡–5·‡womaþ’happA’ø�€N•à•àfrielaIPŒsoŒ×slippˆout, but—<sndsdi˜˜Àsemmeo 1’ØbƒA’ø�€N•à•àH”8J²Il‡htecha‡mbenBundsenedown‡with�hhz��Ø€ŸÂebƒA’ø�€N•à•àH”‹:hasæŒklavaŽŠ…ƒù�•asisuciny¸`u€—†ck(‹anˆ¨wec·ù|svlxc�•aalternat'a�ge<srŠhappA’ø�€N•à•àfritart`l‰•aaeyÂebƒA’ø�€N•à•àH”‹Ahh . . . certšþeá‚ƒh’hty’Is.‘!a‚ny—how£reefea…P's—ea…`nyê…acolleagua(‹el<åy¸ƒleaù×Possiltum.a)veGrimbet:hsbá�waerŠ)is—ea…`ey‚¸sol–financialêoœàk(‹<sraarapressimbanrsvicharh‡y¸ƒan‚n¸eHfvaryhappA’ø�€N•à•àH”‹Ofcufez��€ý, risimblB–êeeŠ"GØithƒ…‚‹algrattudfe–5��e–5waêeesŽŠ…ŽØrich`deservyI'aˆ¨w-touchyhappA’ø�€N•à•àH”I wasŽØuncomê…tab`aaeout—warrarnc×Œ¸ƒêees�weI wasea…`desdo…H˜\B–laIcomm‚ s0R¨wÂebƒA’ø�€N•à•àH”‹Umm . . . ‚ƒh’htyhzir–�wouimbey‚lBŠ"On‘xciim. Next—wnyŠ…neˆá�cuÁŠ…j²Iwrtealaiåy£ryon‘eHf¨wstÐˆ×sembáafinger? IIw–5·‡PŒunnervmbvaŽPŒarr'ŸÂhappA’ø�€N•à•àH”‹Noproble)„z��€ýŠ"B��way�cuÁIƒùwaêingerbey? Iflim‘eHfe'daiåylƒùwa„ŠlrememberbRoddie by’happA’ø�€N•à•¢H”8athouøŽŠ…ƒdPŠzifrownŸÂ"Iƒù˜ÀseŽPŒsimc×‚ƒcon£rsat¸vaŽifirIgl‡ey‚varyhappA’ø�€N•à•¢H”8Hmm . . . I wondr wsraP's—gln‚l. Oh5��e'aput—wam€ýa� work ll‰„Šê…PŠIfŠ…ƒpp‚lcomáacrossŽPŒw-`u€ims�ˆ¨adea…(‹seŽPŒey‚lme?happA’ø�€N•à•¢H”8Certšþeá‚ƒh’hty’GoodbyyhappA’ø�€N•à•¢H”WithweeegƒùB–ƒdeepht bla(‹lefŠappA’ø�€N•à•¢H”Cƒpnr Tw‚y:appA’ø�€N•à•¢H”8M!a‚vilfeey‚tartity . . . happA’ø�€N•à•¢H”-G. LUCASappA’ø�€N•à•¢H”I FELT AS if¨ahug¨we’øƒdbeŽliftˆfrom–ƒey! F…waêirIwnysimc×ƒrewoufrom–Perveew–5w-control×ƒowndesœày!happA’ø�€N•à•¢H”Noxcwondr„Šaeout—veihouÁ…houÁ˜Àdoaeout—marry„ŠQueŽHemloy‚ê…wagood×waerŠ)„…wagood×watÐm . . . …wagood×civilizat¸,‚ê…weanr. Tims¨wecey‚w-…‚pect'! My fuwo�wasbin‘ldoithasbewi�–�ithout—wapresso�×wry„Šls…t×‚t—vewasbbht ê…l…‚ŠappA’ø�€N•à•¢H”I fou‹myselfvistl„Šlmyselfasbestrodùwrouø—wacaI`acorrdors�somáim‘IƒÁ˜Àdon‘w-a llmbvilfe(‹ƒdlfight the ton‘w-amptation to break into a jig. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> As soon as that realization hit, that I was resisting a tamptation, I immediately did a little hop-skip. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> I was through trying to judge everything I did on whether or not other people thought it was proper . . . or, more specifically, whether I thought other people would think it was proper. From now on, I was going to do what I wanted to do . . . and the rest of the world, or the dimensions at large, could just bloody well adapt! </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> With that decision, I threw in an extra high kick. It may not have been classic dance, but it felt good. Heck! I felt good. Better than I could ever remember feeling. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> I became aware of a couple people staring at me from afar, and a few more craning their necks for a better look. Rather than feeling embarrassed or self-conscious, I waved at them gaily and continued my prancing. I had to tell someone! Share my new-found happiness with my friends. They had all stood by me through the bad times. Now I wanted to be with them when I felt good! </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> I'd tell Bunny . . . no, Aahz! I'd tell Aahz first and then Bunny. My partner deserved to be the first to know. </p><p height="0pt" width="2em"> "Hey Bossqke1!â€� $`ÁƒI0`ÂI0H4cturn}Áƒsee Nunziƒ ckoáñÿ6d”¤$`

6corridosurpriÄÁƒsee him'5FuvãkTþ“%n dawn}ÿiáñ`Áƒ $äƒDT1R "2F himsteT

wanA³´m swep}xw5earli uphoria $`ÁƒI0`ÂI0H –C4 qu,H 1sqIt'sv>portæã!â€� $`ÁƒI0`ÂI0H �¸fearáñeEUonÁƒ<. S4Hñwro1S4Hñwro1$`ÁƒI0`ÂI0H4churrikTþ himmo¼}offwjorrido aheTmHbackd”¤$är�är�see iffollow$CaqÁƒI0`ÂI0H –Wa o mNunzi!" "$CaqÁƒI0`ÂI0H –5urr 1s"replislackeáñÿiápac“suvãge}x bindkTàJFcatch uph¥ýhimifanHsee<Áƒ increasñÿiá

"$%nuckedwjTelIsuƒ'5FTndeÒƒ“Áƒm“CaqÁƒI0`ÂI0Hˆùˆreach<Ásuƒ'steT/›c6ñÿnorm I vaulãko¼rÁÑFuÄ5magikÁƒf(which iárea levitatr1Rse)âhim$%iá ee<Áƒ“¡ bfasterówÁ'5Fcertæinteasi lung'soI kep}up“manag<Áƒcatch 5brea¥ý5Fcatch uph5bodyguard ju}xáñeñeEUe<rgÁÑinr�pcUourtyard“CaqÁƒI0`ÂI0H –W'sviácsaboutNunzi?" saislow5

"Áƒmatch iápac“CaqÁƒI0`ÂI0H4steT/answerÁ'pãkaheT“CaqÁƒI0`ÂI0H4%EUa gp/people kcourtyard“S4ñeEUguards o

peoplechT eejTn�pc cso ee<Áƒ“¡ batch /costu<characteáñ¥ý,m$%nsaw Guidoý5FP in�gpÄãô5F|9cCaqÁƒI0`ÂI0H –5·ùH|9cW'svhappeáñ?" "$CaqÁƒI0`ÂI0H Ason�my voicwholepkmy directn¸fesbackdslIn�ÄãôCaqÁƒI0`ÂI0H An�nsaw w·ùHñeEUg kanCaqÁƒI0`ÂI0H –GLEEP!â€� $`ÁƒI0`ÂI0H �pet dragl%iá deshowno ign�%iáusual en<rgn�lif“CaqÁƒI0`ÂI0H4cdon'tr lnÄãôo movÁÑ}xll“ju}re<mb ccH}my pet'sv den�g ñÿiáheTinr�my lap“CaqÁƒI0`ÂI0H –W'swro,¸fesah?" saigtnorespons“"|9?W'svmatteh¥ýhim?â€� $`ÁƒI0`ÂI0H –Ske1 I Äãô"my pvãn<rƒ“gansaw it. Protrufrom Gleep'sv de,ju}bedÿiále,¸ajTrowcCaqÁƒeju}ght="0pt" width="2em"> At that moment, I felt my pet stir in my arms, weakly trying to raise his head. </p><p he}ght="0pt" width="2em"> "Take it easy, fellah, " I said, trying to sound soothing. Gleep's eyes found mine. </p><p he}ght="0pt" width="2em"> "Skeeve?" he said faintly, then went limp, his head falling back on my lap. He had said my name! The first thing he had ever said other than the sound that had given him his name. </p><p he}ght="0pt" width="2em"> I carefully eased his head onto the ground and rose. I stood looking down at him for several moments, then raised my eyes to the surrounding crowd. I don't know what my expression was, but they all gave ground several steps as my gaze passed over them. </p><p he}ght="0pt" width="2em"> When I spoke, I tried to keep my voice soft and level, but it seemed to come from far away. </p><p he}ght="0pt" width="2em"> "All r}ght, " I said. "I want to know what's been going on here . . . and I want to know now!!â€� </p><p he}ght="0pt" width="2em"> </p><div></div><mbp:pagebreak/></div></body></html>pag  X  `JFIFHH  [C

 [C  @Û%"ÿ D ÿ Dj "2 !B#1Rbr3AQ$Caq

ine. </pGSI4csD en wengt ñ p%&78Dtuv A Q(6d="0pt" b r'5FTe EUf a q  DÿÄL "2!B1AQRr p#4abq A3e . .e sou B Q$ R a q5Câ6S“%&DTcs  Z?vãn<rƒ^ly tryiraise his f ckT ~cad ever ,mkT y � </p><pzAS z qen going o u c ` zt stir ! N raise Sd. "I c mc h D c t c+|9c n9Rj CwjTrowrotrux {<pzA% sw W0a I/way. </p>W'sv A ra$` ASd. $` Ac mc$` A c t c+|9cI0` BI0` CF0 zW/F0 ZWQ\à/IØ*RF0 [6RïÆ¦0¨e0` B6L‰` Aé:© d‹XS[n v W ~ s_"ETî/7` m4ÀÞ f-p(-pÜ7` CO4V¥Ù sQ m oþû¼©:Pp x%ªÌ�— M \ Qš‘ê'¦Ë9�N T, B£ª Q) M& JA!HG'©Î" T(Dn f^…SÅ¾vhsK© H¦k |>l{t¿I qPy C zàRÙRK, h© H¦n4£i{#( UGh JLÿÄ C *U Szz‹¶sEF S k j|ãÉ @0 ZWQ\àdc U KÎ"°½‹X J�—×¹¡YãFN<A%ªÌ�— } j+9I2 'hŠ`6ˆm.=9 a} EkS×ÁRQ y cY JeSBk/b aãFN< ÄvÛH’jøW¹n+n f^… m [N±.É´$;7¤BÐæ7 JRQ y cY Ae7âŠ¡¤ T ~ GCiï ic6 P ZQ)�6-Ú4ÀÞ#_z~+* e¹á1 A ^z_"E!¤Oˆ_È& c[N? _Í[n¡ `LˆXS[n W, B£ª Eúøô%91GÛÇÊ¡1Q‘IZlw yzúLÒÛ¼ q Gî/EMÅ {RQ y cY/é¨K�äÃEkS×ÁR%NÀÞU vV > iZQ,ÂQ) 8z+VYZS nLÒf c I J%S B$k |>l{t m1 wˆ_ k±7“§P [6Rï !HG'©Î"'&3 I[Þ`–5·ùy/ä»"$ Ki{ BÙ sQ m R j ] S ½^î–5·ùy3" K«xoül^î SOK ~*g´,ÉÀjdëh w5˜ RP i] GóÁ]|9GªRÙRs±.É´$7½^î0` _ k j|ãÉ \*JX J�—f) 8z+V JX&NÀÞ f [ð—(Ù8Dˆ_ k`LˆX H " G cT Y{ CeÚFûR½¬å- `n ¨ŠQNQ @ { e~LÒÚúK<# p xMÅ {RQ y4u6�dÑ›x& Sblc I { G.ä»"$ K UQK’á57*]pF0 [6% R[57IO Z Ql.ä»a€™ X?> A e {j+9I2 Xq Q) yAû4D› 6 ~wˆ v/‹XS|W bZ©:PÎ{#lŠÚ g38 dEkS] ZU vVb aãF ERI { G.# O" T(Dn f N9Åvc S OeW dzz‹¶N" àË-hEMÅZnQF ov R ] |wbKK X1q GîIXS¡YãFN< P@4’H zúi] GóÁ]! f [ð p xMÅä»"$ K U d s Ir/,<[57@ { J% J�—f ?[ð p B5p0 [6%�N T,>,ÂQ)\* r j ?¨êþ(¦n4£i Kn-RF0 2 g!J1_"�—f)eh BM<jL ]HS¡YãTúK<QoüÛ O l A¶sEF St]2sÄvÛ8 jt b$XS| zW/F!S+F0GÙ8Dˆ& g\?àË-hE f6�KZjsEF St]2s)S Sx mr[ä»"$ Im7“§PDÈzzT m oþû¼ Z cvz q]6 M9B yE _ k j¯SÈS�0t¼J $ > ]ÔªÊ¡1 p vR6 J�—fxMÅ— }p0 ){ \1_"�—fmA ^z_"E»"$ Im7 A e {á. \Û¼ q �N T,>b l VJ�M|ãÁ]|? _*i {H F <e4EhB h mQšQ?z$68 �—f tj+9I2 XX J i Sf T fE L\EqMXZS nL ^z_" ZH› n"JÛ»ñ�¾Ö® P zi] GóÁ]! fO f\p(-pÜ(q‘šS‰& g\?_ kB T ~ �N ]JeSvR ] |wbKK " T GGæ7 JR `'©Î^Q\àdc USX I¡!J1 r-U nS xD| j+9I2Q7ÔªÊ¡1; oS zz]b aãD› 6 hÀÞ oV–5·ùy/ä

d s Ir/ ^ T ~ �T ` Wt s e Y C ^z_" ZH S¢ž¦›IÒbæ#Szz‹¶Î"°HH Z QlJ% J� [�äÃE I~6rw9î0` _ k j ic6 8 SU?+#+bKK ] L N h CLK I { G.ä j [ a [a :yRP i] GóÁI jZlXZS nLvjÞ f RÙRs ]S�0t¼J J"9I2 Xq Q)[~Á]! f [ð lSÁ]! f3'©ÎÞU/F!S\f\p(Û¯¦íf J€™j6 SLÒ!!'&3 4 n i i w.É´~zI qn`0 [6% R[5O GD J� [� {GóÁ]|9Gˆ& g (DnK Jl CÁR%NÀ ks A[ fl f5I\1_"—f) 8NPnjRrD `O f\'¢Ú$B6 nf5I\1_"—f D[6Rï $tÙ8DˆI { G.)G, ZT \=Ti w X { G" T(Dn f`?+#+bKK b»"$ K l A oV–5·ùy b e Y VZS nL lSÁF/ä» L( xMÅ zT ~ �T <e4Eh f j=J n"ZH› iDQ) yAû4|ãÁ] T3 JW5< P@4RR[5 6 h }dÞ"* J((-p \7�KZj-XS| zW/ e j Avh @ { e~0xKt6Rïêþ(¦n4£`0 [6% R-p \7�PDÈzzEã e ] Beu$<[9# qI Sx mr[ä1 F[W¢Ú$nLvj$ XÛ¼úi] Gó6Lf`?+#+<e4E TlXZSL F <e4EhB m(yúi] Gó9 b�0t¼J $ ec LxlxAy zúi ala [a o(ec Lxl 4 n BM T I�T <e4!ala [a oQvÛÅ { n h sHq(' J5;(y< I¡!J1 n FZ E"Y K!S\ PI1 j" K l A S3 D: B p T yFg fNc7b l VJ�i^: kOeW d4 �N TAû4D›d cj`& oG.ä j [ Ty16% R-p 2soS Z˜é¨C tjn [Qoü] Beu$<[9n-RFg v`e| a Cz& fO f\pq �N @ ^ HGD4Eh f j=J%Ñ$ãÊÎþ tj+9I2n"JÛ»ñ{ e~0xKt W(¦n4Df FZ B\ vDj [ r[ä»"$ Z> (DW)eh[ f a Sêþ( Y¼ q �'"æ\íA3@ DfO fQ [ jvj$[ Z˜é¨C Yk 7� f B]_TyE _ q°HH B R nL E S]! f, T ^%@ sG [ G J SLÒ }f RÙRs ] ZH S¢ZlX ah sHq(' I { G.#9ªi ]nvj":w oÈzzT m oþ{ÞU/F!S<8 BM T e sHq( SY+! S t¼J $ f k(0+y [ Nˆ‘IZE»n* ^ ]JeSvR, BQ)] Beu$<[O Gdm q �'" [a :S\ PIEM ElSÁ nR nyAû4|ãmR6šQ?z$6 Rr €`"'N/ ^ T ~ C m#  xD| j+9I"—f) K9OW z x t) yAB Rã pv Y9I2 XXy�¾Öq‘š[ a [a LQ)] B E,>b l V e bæ¬È&{ G.ä /F!S<8 o( oQ GG=A"ET n/ EqMXZS nL n SLÒ } b {)xbæ¬È&{ e J� GR I cq f6rw9îf“ž~7Y c IN\ zW/ e j #! f, T ^%0 P@4RR[5 Y d \ b

d Scj`& o@ l A SUX6vjzW/ e j #û4 jU?+#+b^ T7âªèŠÚ¤Oˆ_24|ãÁ] Td M k n"Z+z M5QS[nBM T I�Tf`?+#+<e R]Wt a4 l d¢ž¦›IÒb [ X EqMXZSÊ¡)=9+6R o Fr[ä1p \7� ]" [a :S\Û¼úi] c vDj [ r[ä D S]! f, T ensK$<[9#P Ny zúiæ\íA3@ kS W A7'[ä1 F[W¢" zT ~ I { Gb D S]! HDnO Z ] f [ð lSÁ b N0` _ K 8 SU?+#+ VDs ] Beu$<[9Kt W(¦n4DAû4 P fBD| j+9 x{d>8NPnjRrn5iTyE _ sHq ~(k @Ú$n Q z zL R Z z5 f }f RÙRHEN [a LQ" T+|%Ñ${#(È&{ e QzzT6j Y f6rw9îf“¡)6f, T ensK$ d C soS X yAûS\o | [ f\'¢b {)57IãÁ]¨ÓPþû¼pP U h ` Kf a!S$f4D›d cj`!R$(NZI P@4RR[5W4Eh f j=jb6qMXZS nv [é B x t) yAB Y <e4!ala d Scj`& PH xf| n\ `/I X O Q$ b l VJ�`/I Z^ I{Xpq �N \| i:Df FZ 4D�¾Ö ^`w"[MS B E.- Id4;KÁW7 - e {É"X A2ZZG h x—ÈÍQYX+Dw"[ C w p X%* UD _âoLàœE M  \Ä‘5 N M¢Å¦15€,áPaw”|ŸK�˜€Š5 ` uÒµ3õy“ d^—ÆÁ* [;c F! e_ yYð ´`¤ a } ea)oQ Q R]?n º€Š5 QXy j%r+˜ FE·§n% : b` vA.q7i�Õh‰¹mºÞ10õ}ðZ HWJUü=< O7 I W[LA–> Zc kX)Vc–W fc0¶¿÷š ir DW)Î0` A- Id4p1w0a$ºžÓ“À„DGªë wƒ b }wmï5ùÅû;y¢´Ög~q~ÎÁo|Uz“¦„ i sc` G } m FÕUhÙ9 –5·ùi YX+ i,:+6â)ÈÍQep˜Z‘5 Q \]3"R ]KY%dÔf" xG Y C s @ ne VS e, Fƒ~ÎÁƒ¶„zF8R I‘ºž6|‹7oénpð§á¶ 4p1C TÏs»; j i C GR†�Ïq%TXæqfc0¶¿÷pð*àË¹%i»uÏ›™“V0D _ b º€ŠgÉŒ¶¿÷šü<×»LK e eMU Q R]?ºžÓ nÙ´`¿÷šü ^\T~UXÙ×Y |=5z K" YMpK e l UlWJUü=y“ é£ ·wƒD°•J r(Œâ?! e_z·'ÕejM„$Ù×Y |JpYbp)Ù9 –5D% Kv@p i;lÇÜ{þk6\]NOERdh6 vS:HDT+| DWt tUhÙ9 yPÉb4;Z L P{%v6XæqÉ4 Q"UhgÉŒ8 ]n a)Î9E M  Š5 ` u6SÕ_ \zÍ‚)T†§›h F! e_'lDá9YæM l Ulô®SíXw} lP \ZH aKMI7 .“ dU` \tÔî‹\‚eg Jé£ ‘º v _ O77ùL\Îªä�O b|a DJírQûB7 J Cv-PmMC G b[F a·'*6%w i r bj vs M\ TY=8r˜i‘ M t Jz„Â“šMEŽîî…® ûB#o+Gn ^[G RaZ Vo EþlT&kgQ&/~ÎUhg | bI [pD°•J r&–W fc i`ÅjÝ)Î3"R ¬¸=Á* [;c F ×Y |S eirG8Rdh6 p# m MuÏ› b JFeMC G b[F LDi0*K GD×Y |=5žÓ OZ/%v6XææM l > i^_dbÄ‘5 NÑj‹�ƒD O]@W o W J0( i,:+6âq& a dU` \ DÛ_Uhg vzK0` A- I ] B l ^oE q]GN% m I4 M! �r s- I ] h[MS h |JpYbEu—ÆÁ*G S ZoV!& H I|#o+Gn ^[G ' S0a$ºb TS p.@$Ù×YCkx m zwb< p` u \zÍ‚)T n YIBt A$ [ I jM„$ (UhÙ9 y ^ b6O]@W o s JôûVûX¡z58_ w qS |X+Dw 5+jT ]: Giî‹\‚dEuqz! e_ O1G Y* [;c MTVJ5 ` Pap ZKp1w0a$º h |JM¢Å¦15cu \ MMM  Š5Là T5!¬\MMÓ5_.‚Í t T" T tH) h nP YIBtQ Q [ e F wjD°•J hf e l Ul (q ^oE q]GÔf" Go2 Wv]_dG JpzúºXÍu M! �Z|=5z eqê*VÝæòàî_dTÙ9 y^ b6O] \zÍ‚) c WtH) FXÓ“À„# m M3" Go2 xM i e i jf" xG Y {Uhg | uÒµ |S O ( m jd$$Îª{]n TS p.@$Ù ` F b i¶¿\< Oy¢´Ög~9 –5Dv T\ zc w+0æ)" xG Y f `H( on [ V/F e, FƒqZ[F LDi0*K s]v'KJ hf eY!¬\MMl qY%B UAç‡/! e_'lDm G}/I KjY—Æ M d~ idF ] Th6 vS:"]V-PmDa d f¶ k“ {X§›h F!+Dw fZzk JGo2 Wv i,:+6âF$ e_'lDá9dVi©‰èë qDp d f/` | v q+UQ QyB p EA q y .æqfc0 } ] hf eØš�ž·SffI|‚)(9 –5D%jUqa7 r3k t7{ Ci B#K s] Z)tãˆªb4ŠgÉS Vj%® ûB# hf eY!¬\ G b[F LD Cq{_dbÄ‘ zc w+0æDv T\ zlI^Ne_ O1G Vo Eþl { } WÎ3"R ¬EA q y }…® 3/ f x dUh ÉŒ8 ] e& OBp Qªäc F ×Y!Î9Eé£ ;LK e enÙ´r tUhÙ b.æqf `S p.@$Ù T!& HZI^Ne_ O1GEv@p 1pzúº fZz7nM!SOD°•J m"-$Ù×Y MYæ@ vrK Z6 H vzK0` A-¡z58_ }p5(•J hf e6SÕ_ ty a U OUl (q i^ R BK%AYN% m IL `úºXÍu M MMM   DJGo2 Wv 6 m ]wT7+ @e uU OUT n RC z/! *6Z6 H vzKlv T\ zc C }p5*]n a)} pZ|5M=5z eqê0a$º h |PU77ùc+ M\ TY= M d~ |Xy y .æ M Nÿ 0 X e CI/ Y &Dw fZš�ž·SffI R Fr4tVt iQSffI R Frqê*VÝæòàH) h(u q8 hQûB1fc0 } Em"-$Ù Wn a*’©•À`Pæ$1 uU OUT hg 0 UUh Y M d~ | ]wT J*]n a UÔf"I T Rq+UQ QyB H MQY p—Æ) bR kàH) h(uGt T" T~ O q+UQ Qy –5D%j|T d UÎ9ETS p.@$Ù |X+NF b i¶¿d rY {U w rDpd rY If `H( Z6 F a6+ Gn ^[G M77 [hg 0 Tf"F!+q i^|=5z JÝ·w˜WÉ.æWJU |=S „# m`J iMO1G fqB g d6Z6 U%>qM ^<dG i ES|* j KjY KE q]GN2 Wv 6 m7 jT n D Go2 Wv][Kb` x=5z J+ zLDi0 {Xw"[MS5*]n a)V0Cq{_dbÄ o×Y Mf @ ]"$S-(æ M ZKp1w0g kco!x@ M  qê vzKl VOK;E B/9 R Frqê*VfI(l (q iH9dVi©‰è® 35z J+ zL$ [ IG Y E E T!& HZO iDá9dVijù6O]@W o mrqê*VfI Vp*]n bI Z) .æqf in i!pzúºXÍu Xw<A0â) NV` x=5zP Ib,' ê*VfIT<A0â)W aPaw Ev+ d iÙ b Go2 vzKl VO O[ 1pzúº h}:BM NLà T4I T RqL `úºXÍ*VfI(Í‚) c 6Cm r#ê G \|WÉ.æf `S p._v 6 m ] KFZ h 6| ]"]!QûB1f*6%w]b[F LD Cq @e uB7 yL\gÉŒ8Z K h0â)W aP FXD0R [Ev+ dO1GE6 vS: ~lT&kI KjY—Æ U t Ej ]. u1 t1G Vo %!+qGmæ)"zK0w A BI! C] Y} ] h`b0 zL `úºXÍ*LA!+q i^nM!SODa UÔin i!pzúº |[S UVo %!+X+D` A)"zK0wLF0g kco!x@ [_ { M~q~ N A! C] Y}w+0æ)" ^[G M b }TS p.@< QZg 0 MGt7{ Ci B* L[W ar q u a9Y fM J+ zLDi0 A*æDv T!& HZO ·SffI RQy –5N)úºXÍ*LA<A0DJGo{ M~qF8R4 eoúº h}:BM G \|WÉOER uq7 {+NF 6whj C E; T\ zl ~l0 IdG i ESê=5n UZ) .fu z rY t W_dbÄ‘ zcUX Y WN Ose_ O1 kj HZI^NeXÍ*VfI( ESê=5n MM a3"R ¬EA I"X0DJGo`I Zš�ž }w+ –5N .æf `S p. @ VqR^Ne_ C O(!+XUZ) *6%w] x(Í‚)f, T np.@< QZ}w+ mr VO %!+q vq/ q|ò‡ðx³éˆÁ|ƒ–8 1< "Kˆ Èa n$R1’)Zc9wO[:vû x/Ê©�#¦d7[·Çw Jb pó

Z‘Y% s Z¼¡w�,òR1’±»N ]KC\qPU©Ðø^Í€óŒPDÕÉú,.“LSzh—Vë| Wb|rzJ31s©2ÒÓ6% y kˆ±»ìÖ S%S] j( }´ÊäÆÛ…a- ]Eu D]X³!Q²Ê O iDÉFkÿi!”Y[h& ](ª ±»ìÖ Rãw™ C h I>ªór¹�&ÞHTQ$R1 ANEa€�!Œ!h zwfè Cg,w e iR*i! itS5g\=ê½Æ QV S8tÊ±<Ü| T K*L!Q|{<sm ri+&66KìZ%-~ X[ÚÑª“/#+H @D0 }Iá¥ }´Êäœ¾œ¾ILS¹�þ®u. SKC\¯ûkÿ lU]©Šq�9Î/Ù†[@yß‘4�&Þoˆ°`}3a>ªó.U Wn,Y53(DJ=#8^}NH E|ƒ–8 1 i(bu•|#hg,w e i! i T K*L wlÝšŒ¼™D

Znž)L/B¼ÎŽx xQDE Zi C¦d7[·Ç V bD h I>o; CÏvû=ó ]MC�,�þ®<w] rDW [ ©�6R1 Jf TèmIÀ L X "TZ7nE Ebš§v ]i’JDD_ S k BˆÁ b $eL8[!Ë[ÚØ0v×ìÖA.v h5ór¹Y Ir Z1R ]1 g o!PWIS%S] j( }ór¹X³!ÎŽ¤E ] A/ -so d S! G I6G eT.KZ-h fn ~Ë„ÎF n eHø•U©Ðø^| W{q~ JA ±¹�&ëb | gQ,CtÄ¼ó5x,òRT3^K&1`�3. i! i U8ÚbW1SkØ0vWn,Y53%¬rÔ!Q²Ê ór¹�>ªó. eÑª“ i~\p _D->ªó.o`i~\p _D /KZ0ò Tûk J ór¹B") o!PW±»i U8Ú e�,òR1a Rn Un ~Ë„v0ò²ÊB EV4' t LTûfÜ| ] A/ ^` ]3 V\n2Ì¯Hn5x,ò}3• yp FDW [S`i~\p _E[ T Sye l h |b. eÑª¤E ] A -so d Sc[ t STj»oE ] A ~¦d7 |OTo x C¦d7[f0ò Tû T’ÑI\}ã U8 i! i T Zi C¦ Y'%wO[ i~\pb”Y[h& ]Cj�þk J ór" ]b | gQ,Õp O h I>M3(8 d S! B¼ÎŽx ]™Fa.Kˆ…2R [Sþô‰" \[| XÞoˆS] jdÞoˆ *QCtbM„¿ÆX T[&rór¹X³dTéˆÁ©Šq�JDD_ S k sKà V d Sc[ tQQO¥ \KZ- T IL^ˆ°ˆ9 e O xQD1Skt_ nI fìZ%-~JD

ZnN i7Ê O iFtE4 J ó~^CÏvû=0 Dá¥*Isyp FD"TZ7nE TD

Z>ªóRM iR*i!#]4 IEÎŽ¤i]b | gI>o; Cq| ^ Q s{>i R ?e\E4 J ódj| gI: FD|d7[ g l rS C Zs. hO[:vûQu!w e7r!w l h |bER1’±» T K*3 q |PDÕÉú d�,�h]Eu D]XWb|r] Hƒ e7r vuË[Ú1 AN oe�,ò1 h m I>TD

Z> M1 yV _,xLIS%S] j

Z‘ k:q M\ Ê©}´Êäœ¾J¦"(ˆ¦$VŽ h {"J[>o; _D /Kh—V4 IEÎŽ i1 i(b,ò}3k J!Q²Ê O L[- ]Eu D]X³0| Uf @ n V i S! GB_D-> ZeoN _0 \7ZEAC RB¼ 5d7 | ^ mÑ‚D->ªó. [(ª efn ~Ë„Yl Dú d�, iQ,D j

™D

<  Gf @ n VSc[ t b,¼ÎŽ¹X³! b M o#} l% i Sh8u D]XWb|r [ L| ] A/\Ae8 1 i(bu ec j6_ M3^K ZSe T ZS6O]M1AL„·&_ }8q| ^ Q sx Q a E‘4�&|b. eÑ j,�h]#tE ] j q }To!PW<jdÞ WKAx R LL wG B%=#8^}NH Ekv lj‘ �,òn ~Ë„Úb4 J a PtÎŽ¤Ed7 |OT lÎŽ AAfn ~Ë„Î> M1 E {#j( }ór-> E {#j( { J g Vzd7[fž)LW@IhR1 JfDW T K C i�þ,ò} Tj| gGf @ n V hN _ q }ToT K +Hfn ~Ëiž9EÃ/ J STj»oFS`i~ <"AZs. h>TDl rS C Zs \ Zi C¦`#´md S! C zP C„Úbfn ~Ë„r¹X³!q } Jd7[ g*+ j L\qPzHV hN _ q 7cûfÜ|Z PtÎR U9,t ix\ Rq M\ 6 Cj

}PhR1 ` 1hŽ<á EM<wr z8 r } }ór2\7ZEACoQ,D1"8Úb GHlÎŽ A x Gg XÁ© x^ M ór¹÷2eòFSxT SyeK6K C ¦d7[|!w e7r!^=$EAC RB¼ ^m¸±¾8Wb|rw YqCe l N|rz ZnN�,ò Dú D I C¦,.To!PS8 i7[·ÇÌ8t T J+Hfn ~Ëdt_ nI iR*i!#]L„·&_ }8q1/‹¢N R/g~ \u e5 Y kip FDu ³!Q² J*j E2Tj»7zqPzHV hN _ Et_ nDD_ S \|]Eu D]X|{<s e7 R SL‘"_§ÑÅÙ} ~ T E q/‹¢N R/g~r g-ºrÁW’·© x^ M ]9bj| gGf aR%n,D1" S K8 i7[·;ò DO Y g�,ò Zs. h>TDl O[ i~\pb”Y Y H Q s$o; _D /3 Z= jTo x C¦dckbq ^Y,ò}t D1’±»S j Zi j^ Q s{>i w e7r!I>TD

rw YqCe S`i~ " a AbN _ E7 cgGf aR L rN i7Ê O } Tj| gJ5K ZSe T)eòFSxT Sy+ cB>™ Yo"TSO]M' zP C„ÚnB¼ ^m¸±$VŽ h {"6K lZ5(pÎ G V iC Rò1 h Et_ nDÎŽ AfJs j|” M¤Ed7 |–($i,òDDefn !i j^ Q‘ �,ò KSxT Sy+g q3nN@ }i gQ,|rw Yq@ }i gQ,|h m aunN�e\E 1![ g l rS G i C|h m PtÎŽ¤4 Cci!nI iRb8Úb GHl0nºrÁW’·© 1/W>P FI: FD|dH Q s$o„Î> M1 l VA.v d}8q|5Q( [ b< &-R1’±j q } TAL„·¢Ü/º©Šq x CÊ©!PWI P3f h>rN_ }8q1/ Z ~Ë„c#j( }óre S0 \7 rs Gf @ZS6O]M V i S! bo+eL[- ]Eu D]I eò DO 9wO UZSe y5 C)5 Y kip AbSxT SÊ©!+m1 i(bu ecg[ w+ KDa "K^H3O , e q } T@ Sp FDu ³!%tÎL\qPO] Q8 ZbW q^ DV i S!GQS xe S`i~r s m9} cwo OGC RB¼ ,[f A 1/W>P Fzl00a iPWI u ³!%tÎLJTj| gk y _ q }To/ Y X0v W ~ s_ Zs. h>TD->`' Zi jSfy x Gg XÁ w EY/g~ j xoT &-R1’ ^o Y 1AL„·&_ }G2 L7[ g*+ P^o Y ór G j C# E cPS8 l Yo"T3Sy+g q3n _K&�,j a AbN ^i7 \~Ë„QLS E { sDŽ¤m ] Tj| g= p' Zi j Z= jTo x ZS6O]E Ov {= s a gGf $R1j q j C i�þ, d= p Du T ~ t/ ( [ D}DÎŽ AfJZ s

Z]Eu D GgSfy J S0 \7 r@ }i LWcQ nór G j C*gûlß‘4a>|{<s .oY K[ Z QE q/‹¢5IE(DJ BDW [h„·¢Ü/º©Š kv Z7[ A f U I zVÎR U9,/g~r Fa.KZ0 r8X¨ÿ‚PÄW b¬n e2 V¯ÛbR M¾¤mH AezáË–” hm"-ãµTU{ ŒR}¯ýòsS«u n j% I™–¶ƒ KË–"æö÷ÅY£^6 DHmM J0 |bB%o E›•G i qx e'>I´ª`i-%)â'NîZ“!tcá?%8Cl³¶ bê$uÕ#P=w�ÜM p-nb q1 ET n k lƒ23 J¤] �muLÇ{Q§Ÿ8cS @y6zoô) nB"$Q.'í SI´ªbv bi F7x [ by6¦n ri ]MPR´ªVz@ef] S G´|ÂdKŒ #‰E6 DHmM S-Aw �W›[nµ1ºÒNB\A£s5uLÇ{^<v)Ñ_Ð:R·Qÿ"tk ×• Yz2îZ“ WtåW%Jkç*‰ªäÎ» Nf }ÔZ ÌT]P i jQB/I\ã¸º! s9™–¶ u G ^â•U ][,ðº)Êç.z2DméÔ$Óy»-M b/ÚÚˆ [E½H¾¤mH Aedwi n^LY’Mi | k=w�) I Sp n&(`i- Z*C aqú@/UÛb7] j ubYPnóË–3¡} Af,ç*‰ªä~"H œ:+c'÷ÅY£ow xRëf J!ýg= e2 Ûè¤] �/ P%8Cl Vaé�) U] {{e'>I´ ajY£V s J u BèÑ^ MPd c–5·ùq ” hm qx Q J:+ m-Áƒ QÏaéSuL6v b BGðº)Êç.zö÷ÅYr‚`0§Ÿ EM>l BÓy»n^LY’M.|±,4Q1´ ajYL3�ð m “g„.o€G´½²mVW eÝÎ~Ä“!tc JjûÍ~q&D# @1r$$V™–¶ n- [Z*C Ïaç*‰ÞJ1Piôâ LTU{ ŒZ$$Cp ]–!ýg= 8¿g s a5 ]!" ix C D£˜¹ GxlsS«u di|wÍ~q i qx e' ] b dL g`ÁÛ* L | UG.§{=o+ q1 ET gf ’Min k lƒ2â'Nî E4 wajY£V sµ©‹—WM|bB%â'Nî `w+ \ J VFP" BÓy`KÞJ1P b SÈcï@\~{f@% I2 b¢HÇ{^q 1X¨O,%D zoô) n r6v m r.|=PÆz s>Q e K q C% l= 8¿g§±JB"=$$Cp ]g= e2%2 V�uWM|bB‰ b 5 ]!" ixsQ&(`i:=:n^LY’M* i |-MqjªMF I U>W›o€^0p7\J&4 wyI2Ö»”£- i \ {e K F z e T hm qx Q J}>9 n/ P%çMD5·ùq 1Z EijlsSQ§Ÿyî»è vw3|^ U O] �m- P Ae wNc'÷) Uj~Ä“!4PP |=P>Q e K zHS"/5â•U ][,„DH

Of f[ O( F F z e QÏp Y S\VLw,ˆªJ[o!tc'i{ ^X‡$× ]–!>` j ^ XÑ_Ð:R·2PÆz s geM c˜qb j ubYPn•U ][,ðºlsSQ§Ÿ N euÕQ.\~{3zz] LTUH œ:+k!$$V™–¶ W Qp ]–!ý ey6zo{=o+ } ^ e. [u DC l [ l J n8h K I KFn k lƒ M9™–¶f O (= 8¿ _,.PQ"L¨O,% { m"SS f HzG a D b›[n8yÍ~z s geAP&+x aD&+x a q1 n&(`WÞJ1P bY£V Ec( S\ x_“g„ t EEQ.\~ J}Dy D{=o+Qâ•U #‰EY’ X QÏyÍ~z V l { ^ u i R6 h pK F z e TÕH–Þkªév ^HÇ{^q a ` vJ[o!tc'% ]–!q7 I1I"IB»”£-Aw d* \V s [.|± lMD5·ùq yh K I= P|[ f _ i | Nz V l :zoô[ PsS$ LãYrAZ“ WtånSÈcï@\u DISQ~Z][n X^u M ef f[ O( FPVSi2 Ûè^0p7\Jm"}r^q a `± lMD5 w(C u QÏa tnZ UY6v b BgeAP& zZ e LU ][,ðºls^>Q bB‰ cu D( ` vJ[o xKw d*7 E V l :z SVS z av c˜qb w V ]î `} qx e'mm-Á Ly -Z9i [ xx/ P%8Cf,ç*‰ª] �m-S �/ *zo{=o+6 Of f[ªJ[o!l²—»$A}Q"}r [ U}^>b Eo gvI Qa Z Eijlsm-Áƒ y |'% ]–‰EYdN Wy6 \ ]–!h q Ci\Ckr’M.| a ] m‘bÐ²¾Ÿ}Ke M/ML U% Jd L XC% l u ^ n8h% | \Th`tc J LU ]Y’UAƒT F-aH] f s n D Y i wDy D{=o8Cf,ç qP bYY’MN J aE™=[±ÞÍée wNc'÷" bR\ ]–!h " BÓy`K:çMp Y Z e j r ]–! R-A cwajY£UwJ

XÑ_ D{E1MiajY£V EÞJ1P ONx p h pK {e K F Lm- PmGRv ^HÇ{ôâ Tlá!M!õR!:çMp elGoOm-S }u M ef fÈ DbPf,ç d*7 E V F z e L XDISQ~|ZZp00 e N!tc aFX d,MD5Z b"" iTUx x.3aJbB‰ cu "L¨ �m n U G UG.§{=o+* qP b c K78h% | s$ Q J}>9 Q.\~J0p7\Jm"}r* i |!" ixs,v ^ƒ y " a q1'÷) Uj`tcn i |-M ]! R a_`K:#- Pmu )=^ I' rsS+ } ^r aD&+~q? VQb6pY£V Eos+ m"S|=bH^q 7 s geM Q_ Pb7u t n i [ S f C9]î `} ?O h jm-S w+M.| &(`W N4 wyelGoO XB™–çMp Y ZKz V l { \%v [zJ!h " B Qv G{Q9 ue Y i wDy DK U/[ RLTUH m~z s g x.3/jal ~Ec( X z I= PR tR6 W HzG a D cz a K" bR fj p[KOSJd L XCD b›[n f+ MV3t( ` vJz xKw d* sx e'mm-ÁH

H\ c~{[u D: S\ ` cixs,Vz 4`i-x P9@yi8Cf, j$ F=' mèû#- œ"$b0wDy DK U/[s^>Q bB‰8cS1* E6 \ ]– N~ D?b Y MJ1h›[n8yqb j ubYPFbf[ O( FPV rFGP ON1h›aJbB‰ c M 1* E6 Mu )=^ I' H\~. f Vi Hz nLJd L XCDr m"S ]{^q a BX:zoôz 6 uL6y |'% ]–FJ {^p"yaFX d, `tc b p+c' N l c` EHRv-aH]OR kKG a }q9 I= >R6 g j e t b f C9]î `} XCDr m" oD \ ]–c'÷" b aFX d O(a Zk5–!paH]O3vJz n8IB»”ôz 6 K W{=o+Qâ1rnZ AXCDr m" o s+ m"S Oa i* EEQ.\{=o+6 fY’EY’ X` A [_ { M~q~ N A'% ]–FJ {s geMSfyy`K:ç w EY XDISQ~\~,ncQ,ðºl t,m a QYD: S[ O( Ff@ef]L*ékÌ—ˆ0bR d O( Z Wy6 \1D5 wékÌ—ˆ0bR1xKw _ C$ F= b'/ Su3]! R rM<e2l

JbnEu U#P WP@ÞJ(WZ$]? ðºls^> nd Sw V ]î D Ci\Ck,e3>Q bB‰8cû#-` cixs,E5H$]? ðºP@ÞJ(WZ$] g*’E [ h QMD F kKw _ C+m D Ol UU ]Y’U÷" bR\ mm-ÁH

EðºP0 eh nd Sw VP Fz2 nZ6 u Z—ˆ0b�/ *z h pK {e w ] o t,z a K" bR+b PSfyy`Zk5–!pa VN Wy6!hh% |6zo t([ bB‰8cS1GUv [zJ!o s+ ms n D N K X J fz R a_\~,ncQ-n)(*\VeMSfyy` c M 1* E6Sfyy` ! }g=wA'% ]–FM SyP bYYMqj7u ’M.|R R _B e F-aH] f'ibPfcû#-` cixs8&s$ Q fz RH

` F g |x &(`W 2I= y4[ UBé& X_ Ssp A=Q‚j—o³ä7n+ÉÛi| DD¼ÝEqu¢[b\ Z2ˆÄK‰ûN_PŒ¹Œ w_³] Y <·r4��=o$' dÞQ“û;¹ïm2 G PÿÃC:}á(FÔ}E'\\1ròx*E cuG Th|!/ Q(a%_ e†ºtŒ gV,f M DPŒ¹Œ ÔÝÕ6 pz‹Tž² ] xµg;E Du l R O³'× KºFI ksXbV&{ Vd·r&p qg`ÀO+}E'\\1 OYâ,VQ g E��=o$'}=QUOksP:AD¼67q nd i¦Ìó^…×§; é“Ø±îüm ^nâÜF <�LqóQíï -T A4 `oBé& X|^¸uØ±î$ Ièœ…Î p5V I gPx(Ð>u{8Õž]Àm VŒªz‚b¾tÕYˆâ&)/." Fep[NJ\v�PÀÏÃ fT T MT©)Ú=DOî£ gV,f M D q X)E`# _qm â¾tÕO³ dFØF0ú¾Œ6 F > S'j/§l1 |rDD¼Ý\L/§l>mt S(<�G Kqm {X¿…›t½]ß.L i.Tž² ] xpz‹T j \…›tœ…Î^ I%Lz‹´Z † x B* p Evcd‡™Á3q1#›t½]ß£Åä (& ‘ÜEË‰‰-w¤+zDBëH \8}ÒÔJÑ>V=y ÑºDG 4 zm xy}Ô(d‰e=E < }Hg @ Pÿ kyEoåï -T At/HBç“Ø± nS È¦ ^_3 Y Z~/T^;E…ÀÊB cKåÜùÆWtw iZ † ‹H9åÜù7(Q h a.,î´‡ O \8}Òf PÿwKK/'±w{)€à¦A3EtíÉR%ë r~çy Bd y l Rrí� B a+ÉZ †i Q(�¡·ð R \8“Ø±îk*¶B* p M D qKÊÁ›·S8Ð S'j/§l pTk _bG Th|!/ d ]EtíÉw}=QU+}O+}Î^ I I l Q o n[L ^CP$‡™Á3q1#› @"]Cv _(Q h a., D q a a |~[u½#5ÊB =£ vM m RFBP hfT T MT© e rôî toåîây nw{)SU z iyz uHWtw iZ D&)/6DBëH 2 e D; é“Ø‰=))BK#j[NJ\v�m!£ vM mw} W G GI gPx Q prôî t

DqB =£yB fP s` r‹5;Š~d y l Rr" L[ JdH \8}ÒÔ+ d k! h a.,|}+}Î^ µŽrá(FÔ vÀÊ5;I T M s}Xnd i¦Ì a[t/HBçq{ B? Wblp Fe D;J dDüm ^nâÜ iZ †ÊB =£ t Sf k$ráI%L.5„®V(v}Î^ WZ$^ WùÆWtb m X LE E e D; Jt y12J b W+ iyz u n,X Og \D q a †i Q(�v e D; =Wzz}Î^f¹Œ D”AOksP"$C UU r a B¼Ý\AMY{4 Om!£>u{8ÕA.u DUsR U cuGé& [ K$ “Ø UN bròs+�Lq BWJw iZ \S r [.g] xµg7k*¶t% n·S8Ð URfíÐb;B6=QU+}OQ2 [qmÀO+}E \3 \Yd i¦Ì\7n+ÉÛi|( M$H \8}V±îüm J [“û; m DÜù7(Q ] j o a¤pÐvxgó l S(<�G Kq] p _MT© e& Y£ vM rïSPb( LJ Q Q² ] xµgI gPx Q w i¦Ì u G<�Lqbsf MZ f K{/'±b+zDBhuHWtw;+i cuB a+ÉZÜ;Š~ U Mg XZ † ‹H Q}%8T M sV SV a]‰=)V z? l×]ïmÛöX¿Ø±î$ I"$C GG<�JUmSSÔ+ d kÊ5; ]ÀÏÃD«ô¶ãO3Ä+W5V^ Iz_“Ø±e vZî¼67qM QI H/Tk t•ÍÐ,K* B _�P e P f?&Fep[NJ\v ~}Ò{,nY 95; T T MT© vB fP s>$ I"$C GGtq* s*j JELE E e, fb Th|! UhfT Z J!£>u e, fK}+}Î^PZ † [ E i oQ =£ f# ›r [.g F‹ Df M D q Xm\7n+ÉÛig>V=y d dïS[U z iyz Üfí‚Ô]€ | ` ¬<ÃúÃãoQ G K Y {L.5„®V(v VR vB fPR% Y T J. Jd- Z© e ±b+z yx B* pX C Z]À`Püm r[R p T$üm ^nâ$ T Tiyz Üfí Rr" L[ }Î^1AT _ÒÔT2j±e vD”AO@ dy l RrU z i a A A ozw~d yf M(v VR W% n·S8Ð ]›r [.g A  "$C GïSPb( [ gD E%m+ [.g =L4 F7s† ‹H9å VJ a/gk2r RMJ Q QbZ f K{/'A jfìGz% s›r [.g Cí‚Ô]€ bKRr" ki D_ HsP")+}Î^k VR H*( d n"&Fep[NhT T MT©n. tq* \"#Q}%8T U M W—Š¦)¶ãO3Ä+W5VX LE E e L G GI gP;5O+}E pyhT TX^ _�P e P0ïSPb( M l Q² ] xµ îüm J [“;s Fd%AMY{4 Om4:nQB i } N(�v e De Z yx B* pVaN_ e, fb T \" L[Q Q² ] �m!BT MT© vM m RFB\ ]v lX|# a O;B6=QU+}Oq y‰KH*( { B* pVaMR Q fb T \"$ _Ò$•_ö× ~ s_ vB fP ÆW` m B¼Ý\ fâyîây nw` @O4V¦Ì u sQ m o)¶ãO3ÄDy @ O C B r C' fP < sSPb( LJ Q*S TÂdÎD }sSP iyz L Q4 L } N( w¤pÐvGmÔ vÀÊ {; ^nâ cY b, Üfí‚~ ` aÐ2pVaNfí‚ b&) Z=D yx B*O/'¦Ì q ( LJ Q*S .q_ ` aÐ2wL  C�”ý® S5a5V^ Iz_ \" L[Z u sQ m nT©$�”pUX R k K'TZ \S??©n.N_ e, fb ]v lX|# aij@ dy l Rr U“Ø UN“Ø;+i c K] x C' Od K] x C' S[U z ifr | gx NcG K Y {Lpz¦Ì u [9å VJ D[Z u sQ|£ ‘ÜEËÃ;5O+z u n,X F r s=Wzz}ÎO n£îd‰…u TMoDB kHz l SO+}E HWtwX^ }M`K e \ y7sX[Nh` m B¼Ý{Ûi|( M$m nT©$�”pTiyz Üfí u(�v±îüm ^lrOD gd JïSPb( [[(�v±î%+#O+}¦Ì\ f l Wim4:nQB iix5 J] x C' f K{/ hX^ _ N^ +#ãu¢[b\ír s=Wzz} Qv#+ [.g =|( M q Uj {0© e ±b+Ø UNz hX^fb T N B* pVa n bVaN_ e,z_“& ZSPb( M <Tk t[ f,| QmSS^. o)¶ãO3 E`M$m nuoCQE SV a]‰k t n/ìGz% s1 f E E eY}E pyhT 5r rx*C GïSPS( S[UJEL% k[uSÔ+ dMT© vp i M fâyîâ z @:z;)NW` m BT©$�”pUX R( FWtw} a(F <HWtw YÌ\Vh|! UhfI T( P3 H² ] x Cí‚Ô]9 om�”pUX +} e, [iZ J!G b \:±e vD”AOk*¶žz b T T M UY k IM <Tk J] x C Od K] pVtsQ m o)•_ö× ~ t AD i oQ =Equm ) U m m B¼Ý d _.m RFB\ ]v vB fPR ‰»DEtíêXT2j HWtwQ? fP < sSPbhv P ‘Ü~ gSP}Î^k | T[] a[ Y n f K{/'A ^ M(v ] @cQ*S .B¼Ý Va n bVa=o e n b@;2M k.g Cí‚Ô]N_ e,z} a(F <H;{. {T _ÒÔTFB\ ]v vÎD SÔ+ dMTr m}E l eTïSPb( \hT T TX^ zz T M UY k> D UN“Ø^D_ Hs{8 U…u TMo' Y F m]N_ e,E eY}Eg;E V J ASPb( [[( T ][NhT T R T V!3Ä+W5VDhT p.vÀÊ e, fb ] {Lpz¦FpUX K/' f,| QmXEtDEhJ m E n m x ~ s_=F r sxN¤’ Š¡^• ^ Es{-.Ni%xu6 }Õ² S QI W!KwPz>!W E Y w GV c DC QTDõD E qOt–� U K j"f G-VB;i%)LMD~ o)D}mdæSŠ b: fÙí�Ó¹lß83 R2�Å]7Qú}lXËBÏSæ‘"q~ÎÁHˆ©Wm j GU‰saÞr nxbïðMt*šåÑéÖûZx t ~ÅY4Ú]”2þ¾DÄûZx ƒªŒQú T+Ý!À ‰‘¤Z'4",JÊŽèåN)) XûšP X n³�\? j$Š÷| Bm<¶U>B* ¸õ BUy¶t Y[„r& \DMt*õa´tË [/ð{KvV lI \è·Hk yDTT’!¦è l%DÍÅÙQ¼ G—1 z nMŠi C Q L$àU*š QFÕ² S QI 2+PI Y¬œ¤7‹u®„Ø cí KM$¬¦£Êk yDnP†Ý» wíÖù°˜ Z T \^ n \WF'¦ ú I² S QI tQ%eG¬ I4ê¬y±ÏXËnat B |å,szM DÝûoÜ÷| Bm<C Q X àU˜ MR x8X^ Es{bG[ap R\o) m? x>!W E Y ] d tm˜¦R^’Ä�H>GšÑ*c`te[ÎÆ)¶Ûðúm _î+OXS o 4 uT S QI e p U Ww-P] i6 Ãš iU*š QFu ZùnÇjy b T+Ý y s�Sóm QT’ïI%r ]( m®Û¸m¶ïeG©Wm j G: qO„r&XËn] o)Da’!%E GxBQ3dõD E%„”ôÞŒ…2Ý S]·÷A]P] X ~’‚:ÅwT [ } FUÅ]7 SD°’ Ä96> CÊè-.N)u9} GU v[ Us{-.MD~ o)D a®ÅŠé ^ e p U WJÜTÊ¹ãÝPJ]¸ T/-VB;i% ~BÏSæ‘@f]†aQÏ$i¶t Y[„."Ñœ¤7 d} GU3d [|• ¨)r j! zq k. O%r ]( mc, Z};z-P] ]7m oR gqPnz2.iI e p U Wk y.N)!Ô•�N ]sæ vnÇjy D? b][tzMt*š [o ym X D¦ úEP eb4][ J5 & [JÜTÊèM *å l%D~i q$¬¦£)u9} Cm oR gqPbNBfbÑœ¤7ÜTÊèMUŒ6v.¾D% ~BÏ~["oM] R N 6v.¾3U%Om+N¤’ Kµ•ßÄxš Oj ¨)r iM DÝûo GU< Z} i L *Mb ZD)ÊŽè Z6ÔD~ GoP] W.M * @ R gE UnÇjy b N z&U)’³K˜LU)qMb ZD)ÊŽ QFc J) QULN m¬œoi x\" Qi R L. GU3dw W:E V/ Z dz2.i NÔ“j Hm oR gq U<,szM D%'kU*š ’³K˜^• ZBC f \# mX D l {8^ f NC q-s�Sóm’«sU’Û¸m¶ïeG £)u9} CmZ’( l R LK˜^• ZB)DnP -q[R2�Å]W _ W J ]RPz>Q L$ ^ QFÕ]w CT´o,ðúm _W P uE eJ6 iG ] t’ Ä96W4ZxFš\/ E @.iI e p U U E R! k.Áu{”3Ô•�&]( m®Û¸/24 U E R! k. NjnÇjy ^kU*šJÊŽèåN)) J&IN)!w GV cn [ l bSeG©Wm j Mm"U T};z- M" `Sóm’«s% x\ EF XDH*š ’³;®„Ø a Z5PbN U eEU1Bm<¶U>BvV lI \è ]t Y[„ iv n x» wív gq U<,tM/ x.M Yo SD°E YP uE em j GUv/ÅŠé\^ n \Wx.M 0˜ MR A R l ] d t [ F eV y£)u9} Cz2.i N MQi R L. GÜ›>kq2x0 fHz ~ .Cp yð{KvD"C ùnQFcdP y&](¸ Tro H A R l ] Fu Zi% ~BÏSæ/.=? j G: qO„szM V F„Ø tù°˜ Zi Bm<C 7ÜTA]XSSL+PFÕ]w G-0i ]l%D~ 8z o)D{9*Y[„ DÝûoÜ’Û¸my t9\ M vnat>ÇÒë‹Pn+ív gq U<,U V ]n%Äxš Oj#ax}pÄI‡hæXX ^ QF-O|c iFo Ha n GSw j c av \è ]tj GUv/ a

[o ym 0 t1 d _tyz [ Fm q xÊ¹ã= W:E VhY" k I,A_ty [ l bSeG©V/ Z iI e p U ?y&](¸ Tr uE e DGn \ vX\U E R *m oR gqPn0 fsD~i q$¬IiU*š X B=c JiwSEA>I6 v A R l dZ6W4Zx zX 0˜D  }kU*š8C]%. w}X7}Xš O m J }Xš8 UTS S p(ÝûoÜ’l {8^ f NCm oR gq) QULN m¬m j G®ÅŠ Q lj! H Ha n Gjy b Ný(À›Ú!õ‰jn/wn Q  vW:E Vh˜D  RR n< ym G Hs)D{9*Y[ DDmy v\B- R! k[IiU* co]·÷ t„ iv n M Xr_7i \ l{”3Ô)ÊŽ Cm oR gn M"Qm oR gq W6W4ZG©Wr f%oûoÜ’C ]! @_c iFÜTA]c @B) ` h9 1U  [_ { M~q~ N A iv n M¸ T/-VB;0 fHz b } 0˜ g](¸ Tr[f yo,ðúm _W w EY4 Z b[„ D4ZG©} M vyxš Oj \R N.&IN#\ @I~ o½/ p{Kv)[ S p(ÝûoÜ c ] y]w Cé\^ o Ha Ij \R D M.=? j G a

J JM- R3LR gn M"QmQ]MB- Ew E em.i N [` n< ym G aWQ U%Om+NI j B" zX 0z ~ .Cp m¬m j G+N¤’ K [ b } 0˜ ~š ’TDNjnÇjyD M.=? j GB NSS L {q xÊ¹ã= j*KvD"C a�Å] Ku8^ )D{ |_Kv. GÜ›> oÜ›>kq2x%J ]RP jI \è .=? iE V/\i x\WQT.Cp m 0˜ ~G £)uo M [)Dn xp YoZe wHN M Xrw6 C˜D f"QmQ]MB-z ~ .CU4M.=? j G zRiU* co,XX$ `U b NMR gq-O|c i Z5PbN U-E2+n VIN#\ @I V yYo o"I\ M vnU<,tM/ x. rC q-sf q~ N A iv!$ nJ&IF b ] e ] t’ E @n GSw:}n Mu >5 ]<| DAGE [m o ] f s VIN#\ uc\ @I~ o t J k[3yMI9nt’ E Syjk- E(1 d _tyz b$> N Cjd _tyz*]MB-z .CU4M.=? RÊ¹ã= j* NjnÇjyM/ x.M A4Ze wHN L e cI UBÏSæJr g](¸ Ij I5 G-P]¬m j : EwPÊ¹D6\ @I V R l„ ivzXN 6 GIz b } 04ZG©Wr f%D D T$ E]7+n VIN#av \è ]\ @I~ oBA R ldv gq U<,UA iv Vn Q 6 v J%D D TL {q xÊÜ’l {8^t1 dZz ~ .C)#\ UÊŽ a GÜ›>kq yn G \ y\ @I~ oB J \T J h-.Ni%È…²·) t n+QV b~ 8(¸ Tro Hi bGl {8^ f N M"Q z}lX Kn" Y] Ku8^ )D{ D;au {y6 GIz b LcI U^ ~ .CU4% ~< GUv a TCU4NYÜ’l {8^ j : h#kd t." Q(¸ -E2+n Cm u0˜D yD M. smk gC)C„szM *š‰‘¤BVr g](¸ Ij _g a W:E Xš O _tyzSd fS o"I e Ô)ÊŽ C f0z ~") y\ @I~7| g yYo o R vK D D T$ hé\-E2+n’lLU)e wHN a n Gjy cI %EPVr R gq) hR l„ t J k[n GSw j c-% E YQ* Ä9Hˆ©i h U•W D°’ïI%IiU* co]C]%. w}X e b F\s f R3LR gD" e E m-2! [jn zM2 j B~G )@I~ oB M z Hn M2x%J DKu8 ToBA n" Y KH<,UA iD~f knPé\-E2+n’ûoÜ’l x4ZGrvD"Cq~ }:\R D M.=? fgq) QULg yYo o O"%U*vD"C a�Åû; Jti\VÝÓ S-ªMu[P$mj)o%3¶,[ Së[ì Dei9i+Jf‚I1>¥ªªw©åòåÆ^"£ sqI: EK… r•JR)5T l J% _z p�t K X J g'±ä ]±ç;¬>'±ä zd´Jï0ÛQÆ³©IK:Äˆ+ª w ð Ûó"¢–�·m G1>0jS*.RÉrÛmPU{E 2²ªô¡êáð = t1>¥ªÌ™Àˆ¹9ªû½_{ X& VÛmÝVkZK kmj)W˜, L ¥ð f Uï0e•ªªw©vªú ömj8 wú8 wÛÏ�±9{B<RQ")ôÞ:f Yp"PX iˆ³ ju\) zM D6 [ ls>¯G NÅÛ€ÀNN‹ a y::CìŒ˜, L Ûó"¢ E r+´zvr ^–5·ù!^†%?m1p B% sY3/úØ¹O7nu\) Jti\VÝWLIe |‹övaw¸pš H |X cLfDÆ³©IKoJf‚I J oìŒj |EK… ru Q©z9 i.16wcqù!^†%?l F@ Jp VÅe:h b` l[6"DTD1> V tï0ÛmqÚEí7¦ª<¿'±&s J j[Ût V tïAM dj&Zj#qm r a n ] e CH |X c G iˆ³ %:NNövwìe²øÆg WKX `{B<Rùi 1N‹Ñ nZ- e, RE Q c5 R SIbnZÓ S-ºñ ]o>'±t¶,[-fºRD ^3>08˜òïBf-Ed U T-D T Hv Uï0e•i�±9{B-îœZqòïBÝˆ�ôkRŽ$©#[ÛÏ� o_µpð^ei iî £ú V t67 _8DCq ^f‚I16)W˜,´zvr ^\) z mT8nˆ+$ b2²ªôTN T m-+<RQ"1 \W m j @ONÒê^!!w ˆ„‡;¬>'±y aM\wB;nL,DK B|X :N§Î+o>'±R)5%ú ömjP\¹OQ%ml±ä[oúØ?0Š cªª QNÅÛ€Àì¿'JR Rs Eˆ+fîœZqòïB1>¥ªLy a±y aM D* i[òïB2 D6 [[I·ùi 1Åûu§Î a M8M5KQ"M V$ t Gqz2™ ¤ mt c DyM T- d rW˜,´ M3 WPS Q"(Jï0Û2²ªEuX& VÛmÝW¶,˜,´zvr ^\%[ C4 ^o{pkZK kmj)$)I: rrq& GÓJïËZ§4 Ó S-º3 &Zj#qm r±&sE%UIbnZÓ h TSLT Z) ] f"/i[òøÆ1G0Û LUÌf’/ y cªª \ P|-Û2²h3¶,[ Smju\) z x;RŽ$z2™ pE Q c5!w ˆ\¹OQ%:M“eûc VX `{p"PX iˆ³>M‹n qÅûu§Î a&NE;i[òøÆT!XE 8_µpð^ek %PU{N§Î a eU;)XK… z`8(0e•i�Äˆ+ˆ�ôkRŽÄˆvr ^\ \CªMu[P EX\%[ C4 ^%[ C4 ^o—8zQ CUBTE Q c5! [ E7 l [ iTSL M3 WPi!X8wcqù!^F5·ù!^†%övM5KQ"M VMKB U Rs EE1V e S"XzÄˆvr ^\OqnE øÆYqù!^F Af‚ YAM dj& ZKQ"M V$ Jöv4 {W˜PmLmPB[ DyM T-K;q-îÆ^"£e4Î a M8M5g6z a›RIÈúf I \"#wOœZm i BîœZqòïM: EK… rC-FaR(0e NI+fîœZ xGLF Af"QA!- D6E Q c5! [NN‹ ªªw©v _wSc G iˆ³[ C4 peûcID EE1V e}n/d8 cÁ ˆ\ K yªMun EE øIÊi‹D e Iy1>¥ªL ûV�Ú-¸Èç Li u{E 2 d*)4U BjÎ a H)W˜,´z<E%UIbnZ¬>'p [ S f suc JiO |¿Oi zØ?0ŠtVp [ Sie•i% }+$ Zqòv kI? QìŒj)$)I: r dJ I k)l±u\) ]LF Af"QAA:NNMïB5[ iNN‹ ª Gqz2 ru p Z%Èç Li u u{ o_y a BCNn ^?l vm gO2"2*8(l F0e•i�Ä TzQ CUBTE IoN]|" EI:m 5- 2+Af"QAA: \7�ßÍÖ¬ËY KRm Y ˆ\ K yªT tìŒj |Û2²ªEuXOii;q-î5}›Ù j/ºRD8M T-K;q-Fn Atï0Ûmqz2 e<MW˜,´UU[)$)I: r d k"J\7(;i[òEìe²øµpð u QìŒj)eG, R& n nŒj |D { JW˜,´U I³ H1G05KQ"M VM S²ªôTN- %:m j& ˜,´ M3'rdJŒj |Û2#p semÝW\ P|-Û2²*Ly a±y WrÚO6 y]nZÓ h Ty)6 k( Y HßÍÖ¬2+<RQ(WR~o T-K;ùi 1%;)XK… 0Š c fh|" EI:g oK S VIÄ{ë±^\) z mT8nFù!^F [ l cZ6 du§Î a •i�Ä,=*i { W w s( z1V e<qFFù!^F [ lV QìŒj ZZU M/)$)I: r c JiO& Bu{E 2jba M t m+J o0Ø?0ŠtV A@ H]IL-¸Èç L&a _B U Rs Ev _wSc Èç ¹(6^o—8 a GquW: r dJ I f9= j D6 } o|Û2²ªEªw©L-¸Èç L& \ 2) z x xGLF Af"Q n f9=W\ P|-ÛC4 ^4, R& n5PVQ4 I;G Y Tz2™ ¤,d S f s J ~ YOªT tì{mqz2 e rÛC4 i[òEìeBIQìŒ(>a \C cªª©L-¸Èç,6:G&9˜PmLm0Û2²ªEu ]. eTªªw[ @A=,ªªw[ @ ^i‹DhÈç ¹(6 eVMKB U C4 ^o{pkZt=7 b dW peûc oE 2% `&|" X E övM5'.O& Bu{ KÛC4 iVM S²ª:C ls Ev _EK\ \CªM k D}- s k~ I³?X Gqz2 ru m o5 y E {;ÚÿÞk sL-¸Èç L&vy A f& n5PVQYE Q=“eVS2vy A fG05K dŒj isuc Je f [ SEìeBIQì E [uc PVQx\XKOjJ*G8Fð u M%: r d k"J X E A& bQˆvr ^? E a©L-¸& Z ! [ìŒjw Af"QAmqz2 e< k!1/ B. ZB5[ iNK:NNªwwv4K S V2²ªt m+J* —[i nL~ M ^ VšÎ <ïŽ$(l F9 Sy R $Q c5!i"B e<qFFù! [ s{ Ev _EKFù!^ m1>;i[ò Tu&T6¦MuW S²Q")C } a ^o{pkZt=7 Ir [m n(r u r Sjw Af"QA?mI O9 B n òï u} 5'.O& Bu{ EG `F8jT v ff"QA!- D DyM T AªEuX_-FaR(0e/x a p s k~ IpBIQì%¶î £ z8 UTHf HßÍÖ=,ªwcÜRL^\";A!- D6E d K Rn  e E H{EF16nL~ M ^ìŒj1Fù! [ vKXD„»“~a S h a$)I: r FMun EE ~S ^ L &T6¦MuK;ùi V`'QÆ³©:Û2#p sep p^$) a H& EmnZÓw s( cT tì:g oK s3f iSjw s( z1V 9{B?0m n(rjn [i\V ] S vqrE 2 di[òEì\ YTE IoN ZZU M/z1 ] y~ I k)l±[m nu&T6¦Mu {a©L-YOªT tì\ t,d S Cv _EK\$ Y e r e F^9;{bN]|DYG `F8jc ZZU| q n,´ O%`Œ(>eQ2 SG05K o0 [m ]Vk!1&UQ2 S vmj)ozt F d RxN]|DF8jc ZZa H&d k"J XL-¸Èç"DE S f E IFW-m j& [ [ O&vyLyc le… F16Hs>: r c JiO& X Z rM RM JZU tJ V2² oB ]S vx{ EzJœ U LfR(0e/x aªôTN- oK s3JRjw2M a r+du§Î a+FW- MÎ g;4 I;G Y T\d qªT hªM k D} Dm ]Vk!1&+ROON R j [ z XQ(WR~o T-! [ vKXD {cMötú8xc J e Q ` ^/\4 GZMtªl%,_åÆ^ß DY5©)- eK _,7 {Yxƒ$ } g4Yi j mª*–zm i‘Ž:¹— g ÚÂSµ)²>T©¨Áƒ JXüâýT W›ÒóF Jp*^�¶EE-Lt Ht zmOv m W. d Yu \ {_Ô y[ ON yz•å|µˆ˜Dq h n m z¨Ñu¿¹vÝ–x y£› p¾âý¾=Ó4+y| {Yp Iº T%Oƒ$‘ L^'+M tW< |æü§ÎÔÚR5#,b%n½ÜãÁ¿w z?dwcRiX7y"m=$cí SyqL`hÁPEKHHQ tcãvËåÆ^ß {XK e e DÃåùîž f~6±Cv>|Fé¬Òh E \”c SaYp ]bHÁƒ LD T%Oƒ. \ e m y K VeYK f¯< L a DÚVdê² I:Y†ùyT S s Cƒ JXÚÂ5eSa4f‹ð~ aI^�¶p Iº!Lñš8–S‰6%ý— Gu ]X‰6ÑÞ {Yxƒvi |`0é´ Nw[cF % q_åÆ^ß Uœ› p¾â A‹Õˆ j yƒîÂI>Áƒ C |._\£“QB+ K¸+�? BÛ†r‰ eYM³‹Õˆ)Gò‡¨Áƒ &{¥·2ÂIe VP Ht zm¬› [HÅËÅÆ¬.>ƒ) wSÂI>Áƒ rf*ß U¿÷ |'Æ´."H&©)-\© ÃåUF ±V _ gb a^�¶,+`R fR” F hz1 pLD T æü§R‚Ë5()×rc�o a _K K CªÐPw{±ÇÌ= m|uÕSùîž f~(E¢µT o7 S wI;WR WUœ› T_Ô yv¡¨£ T RQO( m w x÷†ù>`1 Le& D u7 R6 } ^d Q\¥· DÚVdêI^�"\ e m8"%XmDqW|/q. Yx DcMáéôC aUœ› p¾% KÕ)(ºÛ†r‰ e ui tƒ$ ar z eV n w" o>š¦ W5MáéôC6F MtÃÚ!Ò o%\‹ð~ a UvJjn im! Ž z8_šQ | Z` ^^�V f¯<( — g Ú QÒ–Bñ¹5Lm v}Ùäþ[äþn; d f0 d _cãvËå\ t a j F?'KaW<@ J ?4<óW<@u¿¹vÝÛ�VY<| {Yp I7? m D—" iüyZ3› xƒvi )*µ)²k.)i9 o ErKHHQ Sa%§ !w a G1 ]U2}M#LÜqktBÛ†r‰+4T‡ m!$} a ]w–tÔ¼ j E M B_/ g.)i9 o 9W T%Oƒ. \2 FP` D9/\4 GZ=<‚ a p¾% KmIBÍx2 yvƒ|uÕyo› xƒv Q b\) JXüâm= e| ]e|£jY: h. [H:G _. S S6a DÚ 1/\ M Mi)Ì= K e mSx N_ \I Zo%nmDqW5ÇÍíPK b [w Y\4 GZMt p¾% KÕ vi w& VsBÍxF1 ev26a DÚ z8_š

Ž d f0 V<4m)* xƒv Q b qQ | Z` ^^�.—áT n _0.ƒvi |`05Ú^³Å f LV aUœ› fZIW i\DBW˜Dq8 a Jf$} a ]w– h:E TM tW< |æ5§ÒTQUýT +K |`0éI`0h�¶,+`R p! Hc h:E TMY B xwd>T©¨^ Hn A)(ºÛ†e ar z eX K a CT©¨_Ô y[> U N ’§É–c|Õˆ j o2}M#LÜ S"( —2,b%N ’§É–c|Wb$ ar z 2 FP` 5() nü§ ] f2k1JR a UvLÜ Qf a* xƒv Vdê² IKHHQ nÕSpí÷qp| Z`%\‹. jb [w Y\4 a D [qWb Hw Y\4 Uœ›m( ]X>%R p! ?g Z` ^^� J e KÚ^³Å f ~ Kf~6±C zj d _cãí Sy" o>š¦ [âm= e|c ^%ÉIA|BZ)� f0 V<OQi Jf$} a ]]bHÁX J_p¾% I \5/\4 dLe& 4gv+4T|Dm v}Ùä�®6úA÷vþýT +K\/tm~!Ò z ]w–]l. e y E TM tWZ#h F aC z [ tR6 } BR e * x ` Z` ^^� Utƒ E.ƒvšá! 5 d @ I5g.yZ3› p j~;!MáéôC6F @UýT +K se KÚ^³Å f l÷ýêŸ¤ k Y _m)* GÙäiWV< C B J_p¾% 0KZ ^ zM| Z`%\‹. b�V f¯ vDDBW˜D T p! Hc h:þ[ä m e ui f+B+ K¸+�` A [_ { M~q~ N A" o f I \5YP Ht =ËÅVrxwd |EýT +K xƒÕ nœ› ]Àe mÙäi8 TM tWDj("? Q/ R C v [â<4m)*q k jG}¿¹vÝ©¨^ jY: h.Yi,)~iT K(ºÛ nsh¼H+mSp K xCê² IK@æ0†2ç u`qktBÛBÍS9/\jb 0` A SQ©¨^ jY$nÕ F ] _ E=ËÅV6äþn; d f0)@u¿¹Tm= e4+y|¹vÝ©7wt U0))(ºÛ z t QN¡ý‘Ž: MtÃÚ!_Ir—" iüg yK@æ0†2ç u2/\jb 0`ˆ j o2}M#L* uXQ Z;@} b+F` A W y#4 dLe& 5õM™õû s I t B0<4o>š¦ W5z8_š %, #mÊóÚ/\4 dLe& P^ jY: h m"L MEKmIBÍ [ LJ n HuÕyLÜ SþýTZn j b [w Y\a%XS q|EýT +"? Q/ R CM~A K | Ld fl| `÷vþýT +KH:E Tu f=ËÅ:í Sy" o> l8M s e4+y|¹vÝ]8 KVc h:þUE TMY B xýT + @ f¯sU68_Ü S"( —2V b¦ W5z8_š^³Å f LV +`R p! H"8 " o f I|W5 t V\Àe mÙ^0¯sU68_"68_ U V ]1p ]B TLH¹vÝ]8 KT8\b%n [xƒÕ nœ S +KH)35Ú^³Å fV< C B6 L ZZIW U K ä�®6QB+ J k^ j~ W_Ü S d f feX K! D2 FP` 5()4nTl. e y a ]w– h:þ[6ÑÞ¨a G E K E F‹. jb °©cQ�®6QB+ J$ Z;@} $‘ƒ$ W y#4$‘ƒ$5õM™õ$‘ƒ=$c m$ ar z LI#bHÁƒ ’0`Á†$Jf$} a ]]E TMY B xw w² IK b }q k mï5ùÅû;y¢µVoSQ©¨^ jo|UK x V› p j~;! { c AÚ z8}¿c _åYx#>�¯`©j~;! B n BIe V ] wv>af~6B N T Z I tk mï5ùÅ5õM™õ$ s% 5*I cv KyÐH bÒ G N KiMr*mR,xCê² G E K u@5*I cv iE,b m"L MEKm ij Z BS! ?g Z` /DP 8Å fV< Q lyD IKHHQ= ?g Z` ^^� ef feX U a"õ$ snsh_ { M~ V Mf f |v [LV +`R8 ;LAt C Z! R e Ui0¯sW  N ui f ~M~ V Mf [*mR,xx#>�¯`© R ~ ] E K E F‹YSR j6F @Uvþý sF iýT +Kh IfvÝ LIR,xDqW|/gvþýT +KH< Q >`: W y#4$B ut Y d ~]+UK@æ0( x ` Z N 9"Ôñ¹5 \qk6±C zjF‹. jbF f I \5 rLAt C Z! RtI cv K8MY B xýT [*m n__ T 8AþWY\© Ã e y n"( —2ýT +KH< \e™õû `& }eSa Zr R4$‘ƒ T t T'F n|Dm }+K\/f feX ZB xý;_ÜJs6 U)(l÷ýêŸ¤ k T" }e&#v5z88 KVN ^^*I cv iE, ~\/H:E Tuu US,w w² IKfs|V b¦ be. b [w HXK [M TQ' F+mSp K˜4$‘`0 ip  sW<@) XT Y_w w² Ik mï5ùÅ#L* uXAÚ o/|b [w H8"%X AV iE Tu f=Ë | Pw{^0¯sU68_* uX]B MxF()4nTl.\© yÐH BS! ?g d h m"LH�w[ 8P~ xk±Ik±€ê ìÍ SªšUõµeY6D�(¨0jM×jµ%dVx c K K pQ¨éô VZB q DË~ C4 Ec®æ¤WlS×j @* \ _[WCë _ok±+µ�ŒI<äæˆ O2 mb0lYƒS(ájÉÒZeó t G]ª ESq Fµ� L S§ Ù ? bb#&C+)ÍUZßèT" wÅ {6 b \x Õ,Xp?C˜˜096v^7wEg*bfE tbE ‘¸ l r C e_} c E "dSüvKª¤QOébH@ùJåÃ›ÑëÈ‚í–+øöó$Ï bT<> U%ä IL²_ŠPN\ ìb aÊ~�w[q DË~ ME} R oÐ»€&¶ r r {Xh Q m) MYq DË~ C3 y? 3W RVvKªU%O#!Æ$e C?‹Gp¡ÌÿÒ O c CÈ=+k±3^?t¶~ pBu.t Yo×Oø„ h B°¤© "E TIDË~ C4 ESüv et¼¸áÊ8VvÂ®áFM Wq r…v…4ât ^iöó$Ï bTb sD–5·ùo 1 Tï E?$ D3^?q b" C,Xp9oÅ@‘—±JÌjb`1ˆ O2 x c hbH@ùbfE t pMæ¤WÙ ?Ò | Abo ]ÁM1F Ëbo ]ÁQ DË8wHó× YÒf&Pr W^? b M?q b" NpC‹ö m ?Ò, ÒM ^f/éô VZ(ÆÊ¼vRj M \ f1Ut.F¶ oo RB hSüv eq z ct¶~ pBuÌyp I j¸Œi/F3L Smv N\IOébH"CiÅóåo€]8kMËé(ô VZB J X6+ a.L UV Z„ªë)Ã o hQW"øF)÷�w[5+ y \!êÈ‚í YT&C+)N Lgd MdVø-0"l r r {X% BWzÞ+ C W z\ I�Â¢UmM7M mQ B { fr u BA zsMdVø ] S"n#G W U pMæ¤ 2 e VZvV Z„ªT\ a zG!êkL; M \ f1U V C]n±+µ�Ck±Iw[V mÊ¼ \";P \ _ eÐý,LŒ TÊ¼KR KV7 b" C,Xp Ji€&¶Å M0#ÿ ? \ f1 C4 ESü[WCë�Ÿ¢åYcr0 Y V3ÔH J Mp1+ c MWT" wSŒÌŠ m& Ly¥ŒÈ&R%äã~ C4 EcM I,‹Gp¡Ì 1> P za3Xv} R oÐ»=6 [] gG'M[`VvÂk m ?Ò¢Dn | c h {8 h c EÙ eG$g5}2 1 Tï–xˆè EKE1¨É³G WQOé Tq sB { fr u %r \‹kÐ»€ 3W RVv f"Ð»€V*ÔH J _SESq+ 8P~ x(| ]?tÈ‚í YT& z£Ü%3u U~ C4 Ec(á D M C]5U {û`JåÃ :DË~1ˆ O2 x ck±+µ+µ ~Dh_} c E&Vk3)Ã& o& z£1jTL-¤W T[Å {6a ZSóåo%)L KÜ% b ]ÁM1u v S8\";P DË~"Z; J ì>¥ŒW^³ e4E} i‘¸ l øF)÷ t#p iQO3 Q e4E} pQ© "EŸŽË¸%_EIP\,= mQ B h E6v^\ ~^0êkL; EVvKª m2 r [Cë _o1OébH@ ]Z(ÆÊp Azb58$ et¼¸áÊ8%,vJVRa³dYz18 S MW6 X r.y \!êÈ¯Ÿøöó$ t C4 ESü K t _o5�@l j [åo€ N Q!êkL; M L9oÅ@‘5+ Xp J‘¸ l /p Ji^f/éô mæ¤ 2 U I KEIP\,= mQo"Ky]¶ r r {Ck±I C{ YIS u";P \NZ T rf SF lüv eq V3ÔH l /p J N QbºA©ov eqH8%,vJVRa ~:$ Dq b" C,X2h vYžH!>E ZS MW6 lí YT& t T6 Z zsz£1'wM D=6 amM7M mQ I5iÅRF Mf&P C,LyHOéj,7 S 7F ~ Eg X1Eg *óQoc<^ r{ fr uKˆÁƒHÁƒJz ct¶k yI j¸Œi/ Y X0v W ~ s_sB { fr u `'z£Uf yêkL; M \ w EY J7^ \";P \ { c E" t,vJVc [åYh£ cgX2h q0` Cª m` A ~ s_sB$Ë¸ m= c E,L{mS5êRÓ„ ©Ëø`H J (ü[WCë�) SSVU}-2x Jl QqpT[Å {6a cGp¡Ì 1 T01+dVø p I.a Q÷�w Oé* Kg L58$ dF6 mQo[W~ pBuÌ t=c_ eG W c HF ~ Eg"3 eS KX R uKˆÁƒH+ræ¤ 2 e O2 xm aj II @5+ ytMW6 X r. `'BK ÒM*õÍ~RÔZ„ªT\ a G C4 E6v^ sB { fr u3W RV f :DË~1ˆ]c EÙ eG Z. J{6a c= M \ oE, U-Ryr g HébH@?9 eEg"3 B vI @5 wSŒ2mQ B { €]8k,m8" C,X2h E kÈ‚íœ7(jŒ2mQ YI<c~zj*FM1!êkSe MyI j¸SDn 2* Kg L58$$ dF6 mQ7N,'[] gG'M[`>_NdS |7(L; M L9a3Xv$ q(Â¢W~ pBhD {8 h ytMW t B [\ ~^0êkL;åE¥Z+*O~ nR U-R0 nM Wjk m ?Ò rVvK S8\";P | i t c E cL-¤WQ B {?fr u%?9 eEg"3 B Y<c~zj BE&VkFM*]E M. } \k±8 B;o WO xO~ nRû8Kvy \!ê z S | x ck± kb:O2 x+µ ~DPQ7N,W~ pBu yy]¶ r 8} h E6v^ } { fr u3jM]f&Z ~^0êkL"| Z M [ B o"IMm& Ly¥ }/ I0êkL"| d fU-R0 H s W ZZ* C [ M^?t1ˆ O2 x\NZ T rf S¤W T dF6 mQ cE eé**R U qMyI{ YIS u H ~ i zXeS KX S KX RP\,= mQ PQ7N, Rf& n+& o& zí YT& + s f©¬˜}eEg"3 B 1{N g iT \E K iBY& h S t JpQC;/Uu8 Y ? R,,; kfY RP\,= m nF M g&VkF0v W ~ s_s2 e4Ez e Ce HFh EJ m2 r [ ]ªT\iY h S t E,LJ a xF) w m] MI+ J luÌ t=c_7F ~ Eg z ZS MW6 X rs W F nD Q\dVøÚ&¢1 D zXeS4e O2 xm TU is f©¬˜}!O Lû±â9æZ U qMyI{ U YcK ^+3ÒM€ N w%tmIGVø p I.j d P },HB { >y[WC kB o"I#  C J é**RG 3 B Y<cv: kfIV' wT& + s*] `b*R U q yn( x J J~MyI{ YIS[7(jŒ b p' S]¶ r r3"P NB [v F J M L9oÅW c HF 4 F$e z# QMyI uL N w%tmI bj<cv k) CydE, U-R HI< c M$F) wbE o&P },HB { > QdVøÚ cS] MI+ JO Lû±â9æZ! jT\ a G N wy5GQ U,V U { c P!>E& W ~ s_s TN6kfIVd^kø pI A HkL;åE¥Z+c l M„ªT\B%u0 E s e U eEg"Y Jrn/œ7(Å {6a cGpJ M) _ h S t-4r3"P NBB{ c E" nÔ Áöqû` S KX9oBB{ c2 x\N C F ]D- 1b^p1, _ y| ]D-F Km]< c O gQO ib# v @C ~ K~Q r 8} h  R7 CeEg"tEg"3 e%ÁÃ¤Pfªg"Y J Dz} h \ S¤W T d K8$ dF6 m% d c~ nRû8K3©2Ë3 xu! }+<Ö’ fîÚÿ@TsXp [?fÑ4’ Nw_H&1gÑŒmDB S+ö±*k \D# t i~ø· Og�öy!rF66Œyi¼×ç3I| V`ö’Ï1“ ÑZGÿ¼× EqF? b,% h, e]? ZQ#5žGfc«OIc¤b SPE ^Ú�ùD TLvÜKrøFì]2ËG ]QNY, ]Àæ fY, DBEÕY V $ rewÎ²·‰Jn�Lç¤a¡$û Z,e 13©s U)I| V`öh]pí"/f RóIt {L AS a2{êDa3ˆ´s z½ôÄªŒF >�ìn Dr mHUá.¸�Â d,ö±*  k¼× o0- K•ÑY V v-*SQ@€~* vJ G ËÝG4’ Nw_H&þÿO t ibrqùF5 ejN‚|ÑJc7g7n q-UËM3 fQ wTÿV b vKþï•œ¡ÌiDa3ÿC×‡’ Nw_H&1gÑÑŒmDB S+(Ð¼ÄDÇUë¡RB À¼;!m@€~* 9H&þÿO t= k^V UFr f*äÌ›R uQA4 LËÝ e csXˆÒ°¤ re0a I#zHÁƒ’«þÚÿ ^k s,e 13©sv U.&l“¥\éÇú g l l f mHUá.¸�Y–-¨=¥\Vp1n ERóIxÏåÇ¾ Êñ…¾÷ D d,ö±* k¼× o0- W T D` Al l$c eBõU2( \I.s WZÇFîÔ #Y! ibr8Â1�(sŒpš L†À@n‰v xu!Ï1“ yòÂ¯“Œpš L† pÂ1�(s"&0} $)H¤Ën÷†< qa?—‹ù r L¼×ç3>.R)H¤:u- ~nŒQE!UËM3 fP/¥†À i× ~H&1gÑŒmDBËa1 mHUá.¸�Y"e„F>"@1I.s WZ„"

&HUÝG4’ NJYa¡$û OÄDÇn Sw*ò•Ñ, x>`8}K•Ñ\Ro\O( ]QME½JîS` C&W[‰®B SQ@€~*²†Æ Ci Y e7l l$c` AlBi*Â OZ=j`&HUÝG Z d,ö±*B> U I qm vJ G ËI1.m ZQ#5žG1“ Ñh jÀæ fYe 1BBá-2ÓF O i]?Aj@ N) sAj@ N) n f<^PN RD QgËtyZ" E{¦^ c&l?—‹ {ËsŒpš L†Nw_H&a¹ÌN4%a1 mHS a2’€œÀ9 Uç3I|× ~1“ ÑZp W]1jÀæ m%e2H }l“¥(/ | T c\O( ]QM l e1“ P \aKXH#SÊ�Ê®çÌIB)¥ | | Dqm v d g R/f RÑŒ y+ T `m À¼;!Uy²‚SQ@€~*b% V EVÈO-%3 r Le0a Iµ$ìs!z*ø@ \7-%ö±*$BV [ PC He, Yj_nl?—R HZÇ4%a1 mC×‡’ ÑZp W]1j B_%+3?,Q bG08†< q V j fY, YÒj<o) SPE -*S SÆ C{LËmU s~K Î*Í #‹¶rŒQE! V j L†À s,e 1 a R= k^V UF-%3 r ZB \M^ NlˆEhR)H¤:L&s Hå^ Lö cH }l“J c&l E LU/øFì]~* vJ \7-%ö± _/3 lb vK¡RB À r)"

&HZ4%a1 bG08j \6 t t G } a3?,Q bG08†E$)H¤Ënv xu! } U |ÑZGj19cWNlˆEz´Ð_ &l“‰Jn�LçÂ OZ s[ËmU s m NvFN e h9oNI ]r/f R ] &0} $)H SÀK mbN fk^V UN) sAX&(È B&l E LU/1 n jb9 ve Ree<TU |ÑZ1“ yòn†Æ0 r± _/3 l vK¡RB y2/’ Nw_H&Il A>t%I dÄªŒF >�ì y EG4 F,T[ K NtRB zPN4%a1 m(R wòTG�Ô4ÑÑŒms \M^`m À¼;$å^ Lö c=É¤åÚ€J R+ s[ËÑŒmDB S+ ‰v xu! V } s~K ÎR pz S&YaÀ9 Uç3I K

&Hüµ,œ8uŠ B kSXOÑZp s ep [Uët&l E < ¾÷ D d, E v\6v{LËmU L Q@€~ }" Mr f b _ésŒpš L†W“¥\éÇ\ R yy‡’ Nw_H&1g51 Ep W] xD \i D?,Q bG0? p V i× ~H& ERéÇ ]i°vmºÀ“‰<5 qpz S&Ya{ ^k sp [U O i]?\, eN e h9oNI O W#‹¶rŒQ O Z1“ yòÂ O r L0 yw-F0U |ÑZ V? AlBi*Â k^V UF- :k\6 tD Q:3)L4%a1 m nR L¼MN\ HyËmU |ÑZGj DQ D! mk }l K3 F bm6 gÇÃ�“oö±*ke, Yj_ ULçj@ N?—R ~1“ bG0? j rpcOg}l“#‹¶rqm v>JV j f:L&s Z ?bG08 WQ51" %F R iËmU L Q@r ]n; \(Q KÀæ m%e~ d QHZÇ4% x ] D?,Q1l v£ÝÖŠJ E? A n Y n ¾÷ Dv\r/f R ! ppš L†W“ÂþT p v d9oNI ]r gvmºÀFt3ep [Uë:L&s Z VU L Q@€~ mHS:L&r oHULO W#‹¶r]us~K ÎR V [h r Ca/Zr d E�Ê®çÌI3?* ln {a:L&s)%W { }X0U |ÑZ ] &0} sI’ ÑZp W]_ kIbE C U ~ V# vKW | R+V UF- ÷ D bX w uE UY{ýN_®=ê vJ K ]G v?,Q bG0? NYj_ UL6 t t G } s  G+ Y' /uë:L&s Z V[h r Ca/ N[U O iEz´Ð_ &l s  G³þ jb9 ve i G zr/f R?5uŠ B k15c Q G+ Y' =$` G Q u c,$i*Â z^O( ]QM l ]r gv W s 19cWNlˆE Z  ^k s&r oHULOv YÒj<o d g R/f R g l l ÎR 9 Uç3I Vo“ yòÂo|Ua{ ^k sp sEG4c Z?Àæ m%e § }xp W _ Z#E? A ZGj DQ D r B OZ sU.&l A nGn�LçÂ6 ¢bc¸• { }X. v]r gvmºÀFt1* t YP L*R6 gsYÒ e Ka\ ]i°vmºCc$ {C27< s :k\6 tR m j&" Mrs Z ?bVf Q4 {a:LA_ kIbE6 ¾÷hR" q Z#E? A Z w?JhCl v£ NYj_ U cj&" M%I d* d L iËE|iU s~ K B0 |X?Òj<> O i|ÞÍzS$¨)p [U VG Q u c,NY,#B uU2(˜ˆ£c¤b0Ç[l ]86 \/ÎR 9 `~1 m(R Æ‡† ÏõÜrF P]1 bG08j &0 GŠ B2 f Z ]86~ xe ReÀ9 U( z ln {a:Z Rrz?,Q bG08S¶- f `ºÀ“‰<58&O Z1“c N]j@ N?—Àæ%.j M U ~ @ N?—À @SP› R+ m(R J:LLOv Y5Pln@r ]9oNInw { }X.H nL Q@€~ ` G Q u c p gCT M &l b h`\ b{C27<ln@r ]Tn GF n T gb Q@€~ }" ^k s~ K EIV[h r Ca/j@@0 GŠ B SF]?Aj@y{ XÒj]QM u B#Ye m:@R 9 Uç3$ìÊN+e p gCT M" ÈÇ4% x [j rn�rF P] x@r L0u- ^ NZ3.m GEO>JV j f9|KP N z I ln {a eeZ>=4p W]Wk @n9oNI# v&0 h`\ b" q8Q@r ]n; \ KL] xD \i D?4 M GU kzr/f )H0? Nn rb h`\ bB @51[h r Cah }j DQ D r B0 yw-F0U | c7x /uë:L7< s e C K EI}X. Rj<b h`\ ( ayQ K| QJ m1n E�Ê- C UžJ O(~.rM|ãÛ&/³øãˆê+kPNªË÷¶| LŽ;Ä$ UavUbQ vŽnÕ« E k j CHÆÂ…li J) Mîœ9«n·³,í_*i uaæ;¡9 Tn·³, JÇw(áâñòæ÷ V-Þå^ó·Ä Y:Ü<=^?ÇŠdC Kj»õQP-}ª�)gO w gE¥uÖ’ÊZy~Xb0 y J h T\[ eu+¨j(VÆX a[6 myan vë³)Âœ Z`D PãÑknGN) ; p ~mA [Lòæ÷!†¬# xq|·³,í H*N4.JQ4Rõ®`Ra#f¤5÷¨‰ T\[ eu }b,T’²|›³ t„AA [" V„î¢‘B D îfíeA [" V„d"*Ì f t [Lò·„ä³\ R> e…¨‰eáovÄ Y:Ü @ O xãˆ ChJs Up5qJª k!x"Qª¡—EÄ’²|èÓ C-&“i ]E P;Fm9QP- Z`D Pã y ~QSc²|`h |["i x7$kOsg„ÃJ*P;',í O q \E…¨‰eá`C ~"Tqj»õQ dÌ f t h*N4.JQ4 V h$ U›"0Haô b0qˆ;A l G(ùI e E/avU Z0‡ÕS IŸ¯Úu YÍÙ’·$øãn b ]q[sg„ê-…G ce«¦3I»e¼`p°)ˆë,) HR>³—U¶ÜÁ -("$€¤5 P S/avI5Py ~LØG|Þ9@!Js qF Y3C g&M V T%�¨‰5 Kn·³U) IY:Ü< bQ$ \v ZV @Haô b0q a" \7ZC vq8' ]+¨jÒh K! _U¶ÜÁ B^dp e J`t [ ]2 z nÈ‹õ.+ ã/”dJ O(âñ" V„î¢ W_*i uaæeFíey<›q C- | R²|`h |Z ^s- O ) b| a b0qˆ M^ÆX a[6 m A7ÔIŠíey<Bâñ°Ô(C?DL| Evq8' ]+¨ÍŸ‘lMYT\[ euq‹- RMp ~mH x z `D W }í H*N4 T ^q f°)ˆë Eˆ;A8s zîf�G&M D ]9cFf Y³U) IY:î$)7/$é ÇKnÕ lq8 ]2 z nÈ, O cT ^q fÞå^ój[,å^óy$²|YÍÙ’·$øã B aKn b ]qv™×P TX8s z-PãÑknGCŸ+x\èÓ C-& YefM I8 ` a(Js G\. lSžJ TRa#f¤5P gA l G( b\8Y HÃJ*P0qˆ4D5Py ~õ.aU G \UV \) P or.JQ4 V a v³,í³ t„` a KIèÓ C;a" \7ZC v kn Ci-HHáY u G ~w fn_ N ij+#f tTknG fÞåy:~k j CHÆ a4K²| tb"i x7$kOs [}ªv ] V¨jÒh KËm°5, T e x7$kh Za#f¤ $Y5 CD vf5QKn·³Usb›"0 N] L dP TX8s z o II I eu"÷¨èD W DI-„î¢X a[6 mya c X PKCHÆ a k]ÇŠdC K^a# g KY³U) IY R6 C-.E |XIvgJ[Â {úŸÊÓ‰ƒ Y3C g&M r C Y:Ü_ M PN!ª k A g Yo- RMp w f V a v³I I eu"÷ ã/”$H \i&# O LI \E K U S}ª 7$kOs ['j+#QFTOI He GF5uB0Y3C 4]C$Y5 CD v ]DQ PN!ª k ueH zvUbQ GCm"|j(a as E+ p [7 NNsIøã B knGy L zR vX8' ]B0Y3C 4]0+ E7n d%jGCY³U)^X { C¨èD Kz U ` a P7ZC v n_,y/o>`or.JQ4[< Q"v‘ ^?Aa vqDI-„î¢‘B D i¶ÜÁ -S C?DL|¯Y*p`Á³I I `h |["i # k G LeV kOs [[< Q"$QKn·³Usf5QKnc n1/^JG cek y¦3I»e¼/ Y X0v W ~ s_(Js G\ b0b1 fCD v ]DY t„=‘B Vr0 f3I» q b+qA CpL U y G(| # k d ]B knGy L JK;bKCHÆ a k]D(èÓ C-& H*N4 T ^ ]T n nùIa v³I bT G LeV c x e…¨Js G\ bf8M)7/$UN Kz a v³I R6 z |,5 fv ]D!%I#: l"v‘ k ZIY:7$kOs #f¤5ja#f¤ $Y IDqj»l%$ h7 ` a\4]C$Y5 rå V a vq R ]2 z IH*N4*N4 ¦3 IY:î$hè(1 gL¡p G tq y N³I FQN³I &'Ëñb n8 ‘lMYT eu"÷+ P sSqu,fRW }bMN)ß•1L¾ V Y'p ~mH x z' xQKn·³Us‹O a k]D(èkp°C B}X x z' xQnGCŸk]D(AQ B^d M ZbnGjŸ+x\ J0;T$Ze x7$k C \áâx‚°8? G |,5 f m)]qv™× i x$Ze x7$kJ K^a#Js G\ b)g(C+qA CpL %U\+„î¢ W_j[, H*Nb]n·³UA R ]K5/”$p3C 4]0+ [" J ] ew zY K9c n1U» q bhj’ÊZK` fli Y³U) u_j(B) ZG\. lS0 j+C B} ^q fÞåO cT ^q f [kt]B knG.OI HQnGC $z' xu"÷x z' v Zj[, H5QK'Æ%1Z0 Ehve T MÜ_ n V°C B}X. lS0 j+rå V a, iAA [" h~õ.aU h ] ny¦v™×R(5~C Ul 9 B»ADÎ \ÄŽÏlF?k, Gh=eqQ PN!ªZ #f¤5j l[&q] FAíçSF¯ÊÚFUV \i*N4 T³I I `h |E D F·³Us‹ã/bQ B^d M Z%ÒÃÌ<àËÚÂncekI `0Y3C 4sk d ]B knjxQnGCUbp ` d n.O:P v³TC B(Q vMÜ_ n V |x %U\7i U mM mH x zÓ‰ƒ Y]DY t„+Ia vî¢ W_j[Bd rd 9 k,)V°C D F·³Uf m)] bli Y³UI»e¼/ lp l q- E: \<=K` fli¾ V Y'p | fã/ B3 IY: UI#: l7M ?b% \,5 fv ]DLK'%: `h |E agZ r f w D[Bd C Y|Kf m)]qnGy (jÒh r ^ªZ #f¤%PIY: | Vb X `v‘ k ZIYsg=K` f- J [nD# h S/^ a b q C ]D!%I#: Vr|XIvgJ[~„+I q_ IY:KY³Uj E sqA CpL %/ lp v³TC B(Q.]Ì[üE- ^ nc n1U» Zep3C I Nd M ZbnGI I `h |q]L XG| ^$Ze y (j# b:LK'%:zbP|KfKw |["i # T kOs [[I R6 z |% ]Q"v‘ ^ aÓ‰ƒ Y]DY a c [ c D/bQ f;kJ K^a#e kL SF¯ÊÚFUV QR uf8MRKY³U' =m)]qv™ J w CJ*,#y L zR v ^q! SNvgJ[~„+;R;CUbp ` g\/ foà|x %U\ n e TÓ C-& HUs G\ b/ Y X0vpU= x7$k JqKY³U'1 gL¡I FQN³I ^'UV QR uf8M n=m)]qvG Ci U mM J ] V z }èk I=m)qI I `h b Z MU hl x7$k weV c x`UA R ]K5/8 Gw(~.xn s$é Ç¬¨Ê VEhve T MC I Nd yI gL¡I F`p }bMN)ß(C @»e¼/ /*N4 cR;CUAvC D F·³2 z IH*N

c/ X `v‘5QK'ÆI-& H*N4Qy I�GN) ;bp ` - E e5 rån$Y5 r, mey<` fli¾ V=( a· vb¤5j l[³Us‹OsR> y [ ] y rñb n8/ /*N4(AQ BX x z' c Qkn Nvƒ Y]DY t„%ÒÃÌ<àË CQK'Æ%1ZUavD<0‡ U_ n:- E: \k, G Rj e5 rån$Ó‰ƒ A S V HEf¤5j lMÜ_ECUbp V F Bfli'Ëñb n8 ‘f [ktvG ; DK N³I K*C ' y| jQ.]Jj l['Ubp|qA CpL-}ªˆî E}®N¤p"žp m0fªê\ S"a¬Ê`BP f1 fM |9 z ~ÃÿÌ"‘ ÎZRyV K X Vê\b H b XG¿: i%‘M7âc H d¦$¥é,?åïC(Âh j EE¨\)©iu Wcn<= e,[ wT icA?e' N e z*b5e?h¸œW5/Å\E9*K×¡ c < rd ^\smô|5CYA yh¤K0Z®L“ i D XC(ÂaQh jG hHN—pa Mƒ,ø‡> \ |p"žLgÈ‡«— VCÇ .Ñðé_E)ªê\^>K g QA(& Nf }g h®ž’¿Ùe¸.nDGn Q IL ¢üXX K I i”¶WZ8z ~Ãÿ_qyœ?T> qMÉéSz‚@É]<² A5^Æ$=*$ V² B Q p/6 \s¢"Ã` NNSy g U s& ICJÖ{[/ { \7[ s Q  p9jQh j* A [& X}yªê#QXC(Âa

©÷²*5 I|%)©ôí "VWcn<= e,V# KÅ“sJÖ{[G¿:Dx YV ni-; V s qp d_]âÒ{ zo´ |EA5•˜g ` ~Q Cmr u* ªê\ S"*¨ e©ôí E Z¿:DxM s"xF?„p m0fª¶³gt T"‘Æ?{$ |9 z$ V²?‡(ú2KE}®N¤p"žƒ”ANrQA(& NfùHTü ' W5/jO¸œ [ni Z[«7\^’é™ zo+{�ÔmU$ X}Kâc HE1P o2#PCJÖ?G:DG CX K T01P o2M s"xF?: J \* £5?e' N e zn-R(ú2KE}®m> | d Zªê cLm c f†í¥1¤K«xÞÅ#`¶WZ o5;Xm D a0LjQgt T" aSOv R t um |x n Iø‡ªè&u(LQR–&, WÏÍªê#*x® V(Âa

˜‘QD  ( n Xv @\�Æ08mÃ` NNSy G+€ ŽJÝªeÝ¿vwqMÉéÊ`BP f1 f XC(Â Z' E zIZXYI$x YV rN JG$b�Ôm2 dj U¡ÈRDÑüƒ@jˆ‘Ö6 ×¡›V n„p m*5 +QR d\ S" yšÓ²&PÝª|E K x* £5?e' I�}M$E9* iéš2z ~ÃÿUDxM s"Ì"r( n Xv @\&K fM ||ŒÃ m"" f;zwucª|E @í E Z r Q k\ [ X^ï¤^d¡u7c N>0 K x* £&1ê cL² g  ( k ZÖ{[wT icA?e' |„p p U<DxM s""?2 fj)X_Y Z2 dj>“ i D XX gT ]p/6 \sGR lÆ$=*M xlKE}®m> ND XX #`¶W ^ paQh jG * iéš; icA? Dx YV   (1 QN—pa M fj)$%ã uÖ{[ YzÂPÝª1Æ}|ðFØF

Ò e K r b' HG/QR–¿:D~ & IC I@ S&K fM |ji%‘M r�Æ0 j ›0 CaQh jG1 t*¨rq E}®N&#Dmôm [iéš ok{ÖdZ o5;X\:Le(& Nf ªêD e,V# KÅ B? FM wu ia |1cLm c fôí "VWn-èðD XC(Â fM ||ŒÃS GssÇÓj±²( B a K x pB>’¿ÙxG q bdo uVofM7F; a viN JjBU4³gt Tf¤^dMAEE~kDnS u ]] X \ b�Æ08m Y [& X}yYÒ e K S( Vª¶B\ k\ [ _BiñÈ¼8&q! ?‡(ú c   F$ |2M s"xF? r } | d !+M s"xF??{$ a D: J¸œ xC||Œ c( x xGc+;F j| T�Ô i|f1 V² N'M d KL Wf1 f :J*b>¨rq EEb""t>’¿ÙxG qssÇÓj±²(;S u ]] X8 B1 [& X}yY IN'M d mE)ªBª|E f™ icA?e': J \ B= J¶³gk yNrQA(/ Y X0v W ~ s_¡u7c N>0 ôí`gY Z2 z M sQ m oÒ e jG * ié y |_ Q B_7L ¢p"ž }Kâc HE1 h z M sQ H/+M s"xF? M B_7G[wT icA? V v C }á q eY¡ÈRDÑC|| r$E9* ¡V   jN¤p"žƒ”&HG/QRq*l©÷²*5 I t ¢LŒ c(. Uao BX D a0LjQ G J eu i* c- \¡›VeM s"x M8&q! ?‡( U„’R ¯Ê`BP f K }/Bu7c N>vk>M fjAjf"xF?: J p$ G Rih jG1@¤p" r j t C vE<';4²&PÝª| [ _Biñ M)x YV  Â°f j\M$E f†í)J¸œdMAEE~kr6 }08mÃ` $ U<Dxa [ r^ Gx YV  Z It u zI {R t um |xv Er n ]$ QWZ0LÈ£ôB ÜÝÂ fM |yYÒ5 dj>“ef/>IX #WfM aSOv ¨rq E}®e' $$ |f K }1 e nc N>vk>M$x YV c+;F fo2#PCJÖ Mxr N>0 n„p m .~kr6 f ªêD d_ ~a G "VWn- u7c N>0 Wx e t(^²•%‘M73 I c}|ðFØ qQj BEEb àÖ‘TB= J MxÂ F

Òy Rp m . vD vE<';4c+;F j| H f M _ªê# |1cLm c MtU0 ôí4 T_ ~a g0 e oC G . Q l KÅ B? ,( k yO3’LLNrQAb Y8$ a D: riMAEE~q[ X^ï c( x xG^d¡u7c N Qih jG1G QN—p BsM s  Y%Ój±²(;S qf ªê G5s""?2 fj)X3 e [s""?2¨ bNtE<';4c+;F( EEb""RDÑC|| r$ `I\0Z FM wu _Biñ MY X:^.RA(/ Y ^ ˆ}’ÒÚZ¸C }á q eY¡5T Q)Biñ$&Ã½¢%@¦µÊ#ÏsÇÓ5s"V t Z> V''R iEb àÖB a K x icA?e g. V² N'M“ i D XX b1h jG1 t�@1 \%p(^²•%‘M73+ KÅ B? FM r�wu i | f :J*b>N4rQA(/ c HE1 h e B y0 CaQPh jLÈ£ôB ÜÝÂ| r$E9* S S nt um |}_7L ¢ @ S\:

KÅM }k4k+Hoq bdo 1 \%p(^²UG5do uK {s"xF?6m i J \ ZNm m$i m .q! ? CHG/QR–p"ž  A nKSUJW y S®e' DC||1 vE<';4E_7G[wT i^BW y S®e' xC||ŒÇÓ50v W1 yHT |XXvwp b R{A ~ ic N>0 W)j nI9T{$ a D:’ ÛHMAEE""Rn-;zy/Bu7c N>vk m a D: J¸I rvwNpb o(d,'®h÷� ØGí "D I@¸I üâ¥¨\2e±²(;S u ]* r"Z¸C;4²&PÝôB Üa/AEE~q[vBsMs  Y ~ icR F$=F]%aBX D* £ø‘m}%)r j M[M73 ` DC  L`\\ W lq! ?‡(?}KâôB Üa/ x N>0 h ZVK }12"V t Z> V  A h \ AEE~kr6 }0 (^²•% DHMA VjnM sQ m oÒ( {8 ~a n_ ~a\ W lq}0 q eY¡ÈR R L*y |_ Q ¢LŒ •%‘ ENdj7RyZ0LÈ\^+Hoq b D* £ø‘j BEEb àTí/ E Z ENdj7R08}0 ] xí`gY V b \2) ZF?6m uK vE<';;;;;;E"" "VW_ ~t \M .q! ?*Ð¦$¥é, K r Vlu ]* r%&q! [ ib""RDEANr ^IP p i | f :J t NZR jk yO3’L$&Ã½¢%6 }0 i^BW y F?{$Ã½¢C G . Q lRQk>M ] BX Z> V ?T u{�Ôm [ r^ G CF s I KF O M”EuZ’¸C;4D. VR{A ~%q [n+K ^ EwNpb o(fJ V{[ g \ V fj)X3H«²Žåc©NÈŠÑº ]ï ] TV t m V7([Å.Z««‘ ENdj7R H[ ib""Rn-;z4c+;F j| $% cv ¨rq g .q! ?*Ð1 t�@1 dnt u%‘M73+s""F? o(fJ V [ SFHN— i Djk yO3’| [ B? ,(f ]e nc J]J a sDO M”EuZ’ \ }xê G5s" R;F fo2, c( S3’LieY¡5T Q) mG/QR Z> V  AJ]AK }1 e F#Dm t| SR ^Cn-èð‡(úãü?}Kâô W0v W1R e Tc c I#h•ÃëÞ½K Tmd*éj6Rn”‹š4- c+m²âkY,áE4I¾øpšò‚…{7i ~Ï¹V•DcK/Nu6k<p,\@ˆ|¤^ d(<Ih mJ ] [@’"l_,áEtÅQ? K¦ Ye }¬�9\�eÂ*?8ír j ~\ TZUf¬OZàôtû4±p—Lêeæ9< f ml6jps EwI2l"³•T1 w~^} b (8 ~ I›~Ä‹* xs™ï•YÁh w340s(%A K0bõxòU‰4ž   HT2l"³•4±p[•Ãë @vÙwþ½’¿ hœ9 k-j·ùk 1xË:ÎŽl% L) te Qj·ùk 1x.fÐ " T^êŠ R´5Aeæ99½ NTêŠ R´5  kj±l0á D @ @ q AW Rv C*éj6Y ržLÉ0MT2l"~ v w lrDQŠ…f ^Sò‚:sXjGœ~ j H÷ˆ‹šÉZ/H7|Ì ,k\´5eˆEl_,tû4± J‹Ù E vV¬KÔ;‡pCM L fme l b j Qc$6Rn”þÐ iÐ›~Ä$F* ]X h v@=^ãVö KY(|¾þ $ VT07eæ  K½’¿ 1 w~]òki ~Ï J5‡pCM L?U‰ v8¡¼F$6R, o $ (DD% HI$ v-j·ùk 1x b;LU-P CEwI2ljÙ:¦ M5Aey¡ÿ rd4 b ] AKFö KY(p—' l2Š R´ @vÙ T3YÁh w340S SÙ E vV¬K~ y0bZ-I¾þ½’I\D"$6 mw[ TXŠ R´5Þ½Q@W\53l_, b]8< f mf. R´5 C¾þ‡Ab @J?7n b [ f+'v±l a[ e ZpV¬K~ y0b {6Rn” _ a  k kj H KYäO9J%eæ99½ws zƒ’_^  ki áe b]8< f m R~^} b (8 |fl_,P" M | i% GW2INH O*¿ hœ92IEIƒW:¦ d DEt B"D a  k(s(%M°œ”‹šv¬�, d«#(ŠZÔ d B:‰•KK§ D9J%& RvU‰H kj H% V;‡pCa  k4fmšÉZ/H7+p e=éj65ˆ|¤y K d B:‰•KZ qjQ! V-—L|= \e.’¿ hœ4±T3YÁe d d(<E4I¾Ù T3Yò‚EUaâ+ % c I Táür R(|¾þK82 0Q-`g un%M°Â*?8í:‰•KZyT07eæQPÃŠ R´ Nc$6Rn J5T^êŠ nE‘©e QUR =W[_,á sb QPû á H*w3rfð‹ z[#ª9+ K7eæ LEe t F ~ lV | beoIt40S U g* <^e b \ c }þ½’Iy C ^~ y0n%M°ÂqZ¨*t˜# |p Di6g* <^e bc I Táü°Â*?m I¾þa8í:,@"C wc$ Ee t %A K0bJqI! ki áe XA U5Z9)$ R\ qQ�qä  ] @vÙK l COh\·ùk 1 l Eo$n e KC¾þ‡k/' d .W‹š m.Y ržL( x u j&>\0H kj2 bVHM°œ”Æ¸j ÀctGM x Z# z8ž   HT S \�e KY(| e~^} â£ŠNf (WÚÕÄ4Ï««Òh m E b ],W fÐ›~l$2l"³•4±] A zT1 w b (8 ï•Y {6.e¢A4Ê) ]` a y0n%M5SõX" M | i%F u RN$BHòPº}l_,‰4 2l"³•4±\1 Uu"qI! k PdEe t %AVzQ$ R\ qQ�qw b Wi] K% c wd fd-! M J0s( \j·ùg? % c I IeˆE  kj±Ð›~l$@vÙwþ HT S \� | 0 zvB:‰•KZ qM°œ”‹% yg¨*t˜# |ikj H KQ Àc"EH7|Ìš &*C Y% ] A zT1 w{,Lc I IeH K I"³• ii` K7eæ ] _* <^e a mOh\)U G9*YR/*)-j·b j’_^ M a f bc I T$éj6‰•KZ qj&C K8< f m R~7e‹% | 0 zvBPBHòPºq C K dv4e!%pCa   HT S \t>\0H [ K Q›~l$@v$8í:,9 ~=eæ  ›~l$ B X x r gXKT3YÁh w340S S Ad_^ L my g' R\ l t$a v Uz C¾þ r T? f k A [U j I O KP Q�qäX x r gs4U mY {6.e¢a [ _ga [ _ga kj2 ›~l$ B lf b zT1 wrb$DR' c®>€ðªž,%H KY ~K+ {aþ, d«#( U�qw b 41 `›~l$ B < J `" M TjVHMn ft E Di6g* <^Ä4Ï««Òh KQ•KZyT07eI! k P?Ä4Ï««Òh m+ zT1 we QURae~^} Md COW[_,U g* < \(F[t EQþQ�qät %A K0 }7eæQ^~ y0n% z*# C4SR K~ h X0 \41 `›~l~8 s El qc }þ½’ FRae~^}* j@i$éj Ru,9Z›U ay0n% n mP1J d0p e=éj6M | i% Gb K~B"D aR@:¦ d } X \J A {L je f9}A e f m R~ ek9 rnHG p M [W‹š m( \j·ùg? rÄ4Ï«« z8F vA zT1 l‡k/' d 2 M | i% DcA [U j I O7 K8< f c eMU m4p O d FhO83rk%T$éj6 Fhqw b R-A.f K7eæu* <^e aPrfðHD} [| [q! {Z `?%M°Â'•��N#Ïÿ [/A {L d\^êŠ�(Äl Y K: N^} MdF^ u p R~ e ˜# |p |T~^ L±ÐC OêŠ n J _Ee F,H7|Ìš &-e< {aþ, dÄ4Ï««ÒhGYï•Y {6. j4\= yg¨*t˜b% Q}* j@Oš mB>e B*c¾C Kw N8 ]Y L|! L l Eo$n eùg? % c Ití[. {M°Â* Ìš U zT1 w0 \4PdEe t t KY ~K97eæ >$bp Z1Ui6g* < F> U’_} E Dio V0H k b R-A n/2] A z‰•KZ qj&{MB½’ FRae#;\= yg¨*t˜ k.^} Y5!.Y rž$R! rÄ4Ï«« z8Fk%T$ Z”rk%Taþ, d« I0M*Oh\ ^d0 ¨*t˜ ay0nQURae~ DOêŠ nl$ B X x. IL ÀctGM x*v‹% | w1 w0 Y {6.L l Z/oooow N8 C W S s^ä  ] @v Mkà¾· a LHòPº}l_ 0 zvBPBh isXz el_ 0 zvB o'jT1 w{,0b ux r,%H KY QU G9*YR/* ja f bcK [q!@X x  {4h\)U G~B"D aF( \j·ùg?] rl Eo$n eùg xéj6‰• z v` EKvp Z UeavB:‰•y1 e c j { Q.x|Ìš &* 9Z›U ay0n yg¨*t˜#^jGk/' d 2 f% Ití[. { a• z v` {M°Â*^ gw b ( \j·ùKFcÈõC rA.f P g,s m 68X \J A º}l_KZyT0-j·b2* < F> *WP Q�qä H dl$ U R qb2* < F>g,s m mq!@X x  Oš mB0 \4PdEe5!.Y r R G ~ P MS ss(%R*l$ B < %A [U j IAM«#( 7 mP1J d0ppp Z1U mrDQ‰• z vh˜b%}y0nQUR40S S A R=XVm mq.$ U R qb8M xq‘�=^ cV v-e< {a\'w K~B"D aëäO9s |< fw K~B F oêŠ A<|T~^ L±r Z QÌEe t t a• z v` v9 rnHG( º}l-j·bh/oooo k te zX DOêŠ WfðHDB0 4 E) G Ff pT0-v b+q! rÄz8F 9\n yg v} Y5!.Y r'8Mg fl_, aE4I8d*éüàôÝÔ;‡pl_ 0 zvB p x. I0-v b+q1 w0 rj6RnEKvp Z Ukw K~B 7 r ss)07erP.P {yg¨*t˜ k.^ a |i b^F [ _ga kL± Yw ~°Â v9 rnHG( (|K+ {aþ, ooo<I T+j9 QP Q�qj Y:>$bp Z@@< F>gX r,U gGeFf pT0Ee5e# |p | ~j· k[. { nF<\ ^ C i u b# v MG K~B# pÕá~¾~I _kBm7( j VcË|�søGD$=[IG ÔÝ `WWM>bQÖCÇÍËi£ÄËCj`Eµ C6qš�Þ« zX d Y@KLKM…-|7Ç½0=í'9 L e @ c`_9 L e @} bu ~ N,þ/« Äÿ› ~oi,V §7ÌÀ�8˜YÕç[v gWGY_? E� WjkòŸ™ÕçS u(®é*( mxHm€¹o™òü! G dw\ wtÕ }v {=3�Bh N ZJj \ H°PŸµáM&é«é‚MÔHIK,V §7Ì2v m!Ò\ CG Z v÷oúÎ F1fHS H[ uza B#!8 ÉK {+ P M U6 lYU[oªÕwUe ZdjŠ6 _kB N Q%> V"@¼N $PZXÓrØ FÇÍËi£ÄR5s zO Q le FiI s w—ÚéÃ)âDLòsJÚÑÅ g;;¼N" IA2N nöhßåZ1 r m/ RI _k Av m! ’,uŸ W)y ~ V"@ZMEQ2zi, §7ÌÀ�8˜&a3ƒ”m€¹ïJÒOV"@¼NL• rÖCÇÍË>&ÍÙåëÄNâp9Ü¸kn,9Ü |h*j`Eµ  Z] Jx�Iµ CD½ u$�¢ ZPÌã c D Iµ CDç13E:÷à# E n^rÖCÇ R u g z› \ fi Vr l™Fjªªqš�Þ«§¢cµ CC™ L e dVG Z v÷o \ÓrØ·˜O N ZJj g, OÕçS X�Þ« jX:”ºqš yi£v©Î ¥x xi FÇÍËi C N EÌ»»�Ø¨ Z b#< s R9]á~§qš�Ãk©»d(Kd rÕç b+yEq4 S¸kn,9Ü m;zKn o6!10,d rÕ_fHÑAoX6[I _d4\ fi j U JëÄNH°PŸK QMF0NFrâ >›O z$I™ L e dS&FÇÍËi CP6!10YIVPJëÄ& r�° Pr¥ë|ôn# Wg FBSN_…– _7 Q]GÚñé u{ {g FBSN_÷œ¾ h�Iµ CD dgWGY_? e!tm! r¢ ZPÌ c r.Q e a J Iµ ~ V"™~K‰ÍËi+lg-@ `c` U6 l^Ù$�¢¢µ  Z] ^ eBY+]9 I!( Z e R e @9D Z « qZ L Ë6R uŸ<# 'S u y!–VÕç[v g{U&ÍÙ Yk+ « qE:Q%|: dgWG pÙ$�% L~g ],CN8fHÑ|2 _Iµ C NFÇÍËm_= ÕB0Ór:"–5·ùr 1 _gYIVPJëÄ N' We F^4v m! EpH Gª&Íùr 1 p&p eAcù1 )ÿR;¼pY- R |( mxHm€ÇÍËi£ÄKN8f[M fu d Y w s| _jC™0` E j q UW ] _kBG dw\ w |�sø yÑ0v Uz=í'9 r T? fç @Þ«§¢™ò| L;{ bV §7Ì~t§7ÌÀ� L/ }CO Q le Fi l_fHÑ hK Q qT Iµ Ca j G dX6üTBX!q H C4a l VcËS` E# g N3 W |=[IG Q DL mTj…– _7 I _3E:5%: ] An#nYQ/ fËS` CDGÚ"|1 @S0™0` E j qPm7Al._1 V §7Ì~t _kM<J S t\Š û³c D IµR `7}6X¬ FB p!.;¼pY QlWÜ m\ cNq \ { P? fç @{$› \ w"™~K‰]tqNU)M+lg-@ e )ø QkB u} J pvŸµáO% h v a Kg-@ `c` c ~ ZPÌã? q GOI __kBQ&p e zš�Ãf Og�Ãs E j"áO7 [%ìã‰Úê°%ª&ZCŠ±¨ÉHFò[IG Q C z C z8 `C xjŠ6 _ dge a{K`c` c (?tq|oM Wc dO% h v aÑ|2 d y>Yw EKn o6!10\ H° E 'S uq|o z f J v÷o [ j K%Ü m;z g j*j`E‰ÍËi? qb O cø QkB U, ~q UW ] _Õ_ n ~X* W m~HbYl  s Q&Íùr 1c K C6!10YIVPJEq4 S¸kn, o t a R lPJëÄ N }NoU _t n n  ] P C_ Z {sËbŠGàŒß|=P \ S C @{$ o | [U6 l^Ù$ wÑ|2 _Iµ z Z] Gk OZCŠ±¨ÉHFò" QN Q lx pj qPm7 AŒß|=P \ S-Wø R m M1 bHÑ_kBQ& Q ÖCÇÍË>DÍÙ EX6 hZ _3 E j qP K0™0` EXIµR  r6T u j�IµW V7B hE)|! a jdge a{G ,[O d Y w s|Ce d? ]tqNU)M+lg U Wg FBSN_*e>rØ·˜O {OÕ&a K? q G# U H pvŸµoka l VcË' | X bYC @{$ UuA @ a H ~ i / L Ë6¢µSo ~ mu } D › \ Q _ J wlPJ2 i Q Yz UD^ W ]& c@ `c` U6\ WZ {sËbŠG M GªC£ÄKN8f[M Jj t~vŸµáO?tq|oM rlWÜ m\ c eSN_m7( W ix0™0` EX[_ qbV^ F9Ë¾pç I EX6 hZ? e` V ~ mu } D. W ]& V S}S | Z] Gk OOg eT_óÚÑT" eBY N@S0™C k2H59

qr T? s¥•YÕçS _jC™0 |; i BF e A@Nnn T ] R7bi v]M+lg-@ e B Ë6)Æ}1�B?Š) b_r# N0 ~/3E:5%msbUnj"áO7 [N Y3q UW ] 3D{c U ~ qP_kBG dw!‰ÍË F`VsNU)M+ W¼pY A Z {s Vn _Õr UU uIµR K S\„„RO Cp o ZXq {O T Iµ C,>]bFw.8 C xOI w s| _j|1 @S08�${OÕ&yB c O s Q& e k DN m:pp¸êäâp9Ü|� b>xj�I i C qbV,CR Z Sr X§7ÌR  [N Y3BQ& Q ÖCs { V T` c (6 nK‰]*(  L;{ bV ]tqNU g~,Vdt IQ Yz q d Y w s|C ^_ o.\ P _Õr UkBNbQ {8>rØsËbŠGàŒ]=B |  ] g- m\ a j G I"QO zP f J D$=[I _k“1m>Yw EKUuA @ a H Wc dO% h Q lx  |ZCŠ|! a jdg kueM Jj x| qr Q le Fi Z] GI> LXIµR ^) qE9„Ì"=Q oG __V g uL V J pvŸC0^g IK%NŒß|=P d bIGk ObD% f`Fò" QN Q 'i? qb O P DxJM1 bHC g1EX6 |} ÁU4JÚÑ E# U j�Iµ| Ml _3UC^> O6%j K'NGàŒß|=P \ Z q iZµo GKLK xKE2 xG+lg-@ e

Q c K|Ù$ Õ&yB u eSN_m.f` c ~ ZPÌJ i7LK SB g G y1 x M 5 rs6j Zt vh _ e Y3q JB | Q^ F9Ë}M Hìã‰Úê°p Z>[Iµ z&a K? q G I m\ a DŒß|=P \ Sp U ~ qP__e

Q c V¾å_ \ n b K.â>3E:÷Ñ U D|C ^_X K6R z N# N0 ~|' ~ mu } D& M Y$V g k2GjUC^> O6ªÕwJx=P d bIt~vŸqkK‰]*% c }NoU c yP[M ZMEq {O Ckj t~vŸd bKS& r6 x Mv} ÁU4JÚ qr Q l E i¾Î+D"R G ` c ~ i qbV +lg-@µR 1 S\„„RO h DRoOÕ&1 QI EXÕ a~oi? e XE LÑ|2 _ GKLK xB |  ] KV¾å {8{8>rØsËb u }1 EC v_fH Q|D w\ C oJ R\mS\„„RO m|D oX6 |T|1n P(xF?L9 b FE McBzx@[%Y XG{ o qåET~ok Y D\ƒh@…2 J] ™^Ris ~? ~\N~ O½ÿ »¤u?Z#  F/” Z S /’U¶´Ü } [O }:¼å³ù=½Žâ¶ sG)®©÷… j o? WW @%ãê_Éym G l J u\N~ Ošdô` Eá* @ mÕË§ f 8g` F=i’ˆj·×3Î g l l f�Ã¨ Y<ã=·×Vr1… j o? WW.CÆ>Ä#ãçŠz jZ S ½ÿ- f j9.:µU J+NM F TQ_Y# QÕÔ�Fâ+}ÜMÑˆJ»¢E»¤W,7 uÆ·œ#e ^a OE»¤¸tLTTÓUŽâ¶Æ M\ 2b" hMAÇrªÎ o^;0.84»´,‚jYi²çh�Ãljss r*dEO } [O } L aBY4Åña' Kt* Jrf { eàôl}ælí@ HJ R p! ZB># qbkvdEO } kW "ˆ”òÝ[q}-©Ê@pæINÒ"m}™^ zW[q} 3)MÑˆwÅ† zW[q} o CLJ# x¹jm ua ^! vÕ¦RZhwy<de$v} 3)Tn´Ü } �ü8 @”òÝ[`Cd¼åZdéã×² \ZI {n HM»¤¸t O¨N£ña'’¡ª` ] k S_ B<}æl kCL,EEI)N¡qD—#rB<íØ t�ÃY\Rq=½ÿ[N$bÑ\? P„ˆJ:x @%ãê M.84»ST T 3)MÑUQB ]„Ñ1bçY# QÕQ:µU J< YëK A6 Ph% @m¶ ëÕp L/ A?[»Ò rTn´Ü e&¼bÑ\Vt t²PÄ/hÅ7O! yWI¬'p˜?p3W^ K>V Pv Ph@aòön ^M=Úd;.Ô&{ L< k aFm+”-¶g SyTT l ACvŠz k aFm+” _ŽNp˜?p3o? WWC oz } a E MP'p˜+ 2Mf R ~ f3i:3UyTT l�Fâ+}ÜMÑˆ qåET".CuU¸´ z0 [6 `B›„ i K>V P \Ke ^a} o CL L ]| sd g o E%~! V ] |xxe4 \} �NyDŽ›% QÕÙª L/ dL/ A gh #`{ L xclÛZ™> N@ R+N NN½L[*%][ ] A cW^:µÛZ™X^2–jY} �ü| odá’ lL; Bc[O }: N 2P;.ÔMf R SLw52·£ \8 ]�ÃljsI C$ " a k4(9 { Y z*K^ uÆ·œ¼åZá’M-5 Gm,7 uÆ2 N@ R+NE n b{K xk I=i’ˆ¤¸tŽâ-6I jZ S »û˜í0”9ŠWj] j G B aölÛZ™U J< K'E%~! J Y; d fMæ.Tœ&W @IB b e KnU q=eXÄ/hÅ7 t8 ]�Ãlj~S h ah} o e [¨:kZ¢LÅ[«SN B i K>V T! O<ëÍÙGåÔ G2*Yt E {q"6 Ph% @mPh@*ŽNS"u< X^ D! Kön ^M=\9cmPh@* Qù=½Žw'V¡qD X F ( K>VJ r8(ön`C! ~,X rTnN52-Zá’MN¡ _U}-©Ê@pæI=f~ O½ÿ D]�Ãljs UŠz k aFmO e»¤¸tl U X™> N@ z } a EESDy @w# x¹j V yTœ&W @IB# @g f 5$ Hz x¹ K>Vj ZZD ÕQ:µU @mPhtFmO e»4 D/hÅ7OY# QÕQ:P!Tœ&W @IB [¸tLTTbE G"rY4Åña' ~/ } u G  IN BL R SZ. ] k jYi²çh) Rm:]z } F h ^.4Åña'` EáN@ R*�ÞÎ+Ú•u“ê M m- Gm,7 uÆ3W^ Y @,Hbâ_Y# QÕÔ A4™> Nqn G RvT? P UK>dZhwy¹´D PLIr ] T^>%m+}ÜMÑˆJ½ A?[»¼åZdésBh@*Ž Syo Ce ^a} oS©¹«9² r ^ lB} \}"J] j G BW^ Y<[O } L a Å7O!x5^V P i Yd4 \}§í Qù=½ VQ2] j G BBDJ Ç•xMÉE :} r4 U'HMURjsI C$ "L @ CŽ›yDD~m+”bY W B a> C R ;*TÅUyTT l Q g [ r Vy) D%~! ™U]1 M9lZ™(c$ V:} r RvT?+P;’ lL;O QÕQ Cim"rY4Å UK>d b g} f,Hbâo Qd4 }: QFgh #`{ L hKš…rh@* e R×² \ZI v [` R+NE`C!œ&Wx @%ãOI I9t eET~(ön`C!j.84»ST TD KnL IE"2 X">åZd F 2 d tˆ qålZ I"u< X^ ] @m¶C$ | ^a} o Pa xL V! DJ* L hKš…rhg Y´ z0 [6 L2ê_É_ \ N pÄ$ã#à S hKš…r Z K Y s's kd%~! V ] Y so MN|gh #`{ L< cwV, VÆ1·×3Î2L;O clÛZ e›% B K'E%~A©÷E¦sÇ*' ^ WåÔ G2*´D uÆ2>åZd ^ N F N Z [6 `B› v n F L ]| s# t ` R p& FHMURjsL/ A gh \Np˜ z fN ^a} oS©¹«@pæI=x@NE`C!zþœVOhP;’ lQFgh CVU QUÍä–s›>ƒ^iU]1j‰ˆÜVß b{K xk I=iljs UŠz oæQ p e K G k CZ c÷E¦sÇ*'ÿ | sd g o Td K>9 KD ÕQ:µU[* YK Y<[O JZ V yT·£ \8 lM-5 Gm,7I C$ "L E DW^ Y2 d tˆ qåŠz oæQ J#lZ™(c$ Vra EESDy s" SZ.f [¸$Y=eXÄ/ MaLV Rpb " a k F Sn VPDŽâ-mYMV Puü| odá’ 6`C!z| p&2`$ U KÎ+Ú•%om+}ÜMÑˆC$ e K G k r ]q&KZW[q}n`C!j.84 F L ]rY4ÅT?+P;Ô I5)'|]9R`} fl m X DQ @mP&Ãljs QÕQ Cim"6 Ph%m [G ^ CeOaFm\ÛZ U KÎ+Ú S2! m [p \; BLæ.Tœ&W @I·£ \8 sljs.:UŠz k a4 \}§í TmO e»6< ëÕ½ÿ x G `NS"u#Zu D'Rt Ç• } v L2ê_zM= ZdEµU ^*�Þ BzþœVOhœ&W @ImO e»P;’ BK.B K'E%~A©%²� H VÆr ] w£ \8 slj T@LJ rZ™(ce»4 DKw Esljs.:UŠz5jRnbá5’ o d b g}m E¦sÇ*' ^l U XCVU QUÍähKš…rh@\<C!j.84 FU'HMURjsL! DJ* L7•ºÒ!-´m+ "L �ÞÎtO eˆC$ e K:]z } >%m+}ÜMÑˆ! aJŠ^ Tp˜ "&²U„© |@ R*�ÞÎ+Ä D/h EI›>ƒ^{: K \OI *m\ÛZ Rj SjYi²ç g i Y@IB C!œ&Wxb}ÜM@ DJ* LA+o%< E qa'Y4ÅT?+b Q\?p E3 J VPDŽuC1 @%ãOIpeX UT Y3W^I+¨[Ô v|Å7O!x5^/>Be^ WåÔ G2*´Ä/ I4»ST TD TT SB} \ J Z›>ƒ^ib ] Y so LO e»6< ë|qålZ%\ 2M20 [j%ãO mpsn hyDZ™(ce ^ N F YI=x@NÚ•%om+} aU VóT?+b ,Kh%˜ z I\£ B Kj�Ö‰&¶N½L E[1·×3Î2% m k l MCm1: oS r v rm vl [ZFm O52Å UK>3Î+Ú•%om+}_L_©àÌJ^ h@\<C!p”iW lM-5 Wxb}ÜM@ D! DJ* L T Tp˜ "& |8 Tgh Cd E@pæI=ÌJ^ h@\0m E¦s9Ô G2*js.:UŠ i Dy bl [J UK> C38G ^2 oR U J#lZ I5)'|VB i c WVÆ1·×3Î2h UT Y3^kZ]rY4ÅT?I v [` u! aJŠ$ F R B~ VPDŽuC1 g X^ K M iiA F\:t&Ó{/jYE m- I> p6IU?6&?7"^¾”HmS]upÝ¦n _hGn]ó!pi E c?7* pKPHw WÞ “dIl BM0 Grw Lçº„""Û WA0( GcÓˆI iS;|m¹ vn E YQ |EQunCT3>‡^ ˆ ` i s F jsyŠcÓˆh�ÿVN QU5L a or Dn jJß“›K…H fnz#c3šÔ\>W QímÄDHYi–‘ B"¾Î’šŠHØDI1´ vn E -,?yqU‘j RIU,Y@ i3šÔ²%@Ôn/„""ÛM�%4 HHmIr TR b+ˆ“]ó!F [Y* de F—G)„m R3H ŠHJ‹n© I wh�ÿ w!F [Y* R f T WWÞ “ c {âê-J.w\”P,ZêÊV.@ ˆ D‰¾”H]º* ^qòo‹’% Ogš¦F#+iŠ ~k Jvõ\Th. l%i–‘êbPn a"%W-K¹%ßd; GhGnó–o& 5- IŒ#-sH‹G d qf1NÒð+s¡ f¤¢¨(; v j&qU‘j i7 b+ˆ=C-J.w\”•G8wMf M1+xFÎNÅ h09OæÒð H` in.)®)�&H s#c3šal!%KX$ËYMo H M I B@µŸ† Fd; GhG q` Ah09Oæk üCñX+K³# Wh�ÿVN —`Æ]µTc OÕŠ w1:t&Ó a }œ?æ.5Õ¸n| X{{ bÌK R"" S #ÞH\wS s c`}x’šŠHU^Y` A]µTc O\F0 Fx0%4 HH% O F< a a6 Y›K…!R Y_„m RZÜA k MBð iM'3¥õ$Ü=!}©«>bÆ]µWO O)_9?7 LG I& e ZP›Ì¨¶·Õ“_ wæËY| X~OYVQÂ6Tc OÕ @e sOÕŠ MÌÕOHmS]Zìì B Xð+w0¸nj8T/jáêê^Ch$ŠH Dßd; GhGi1 Z7] y bÌK Yo1+ {. E ao 31]ó!pi ~ R.…!R Y_„ [ zxz~ Yê-J. ZW¨¶ bOæOP^M& \ys uVN Q Hr Dn jJ yTPwu[Ó a }œ?^ v Xð+w l zšŠHØDK RÌ¨¶· g-"Û WA0(O O)_9 A=&NaQ& m>i [ oDHYi `Q D @CL@DÃÂŒ#ˆ ZC c`}x5 hD kY,ì Mn.(ül"MW- I|¤…!J RMA i"Q2 j«µ.«µº|DI1´çº„�ÿBð : Xo H 0gVENaQ&H fnz# t U NU,Y@` VCB Q3j U3 Y P JËYM‹’ @`K!G ) ~<Cje sOÕ!¢Ô]¨ aÎ’šG 5 Dœ?æ—`Ó{Ut#-sH‹G dK i DxY` A]µTN¦2U5 k üCTµM8tŠcÓˆ+GnÝÃhN¾”HmS vn E YQJRI(5LÎ’šmwn/„I> }{n va3 Y Pº„o6ßd; Gh E i sl EV lgt {Wjrw LçREV lgt„o6ßd; P´çº„�.êÜRD~ NôË‚Þ’šŠH6 Hi3r Q Mn8>�ÿVN Q r{<mR*S Z\ Jv @ f2…!J Rvn E -,? cP"Yi ¨ } vn E YN{K gekM a´çº„�ÿBnp«unCT@i `Q D eŠ E YN{K 8s{:_ w[ oDHYi:t�&Hk/5"pKPH b\Tc OÕú8TqK’r\ _ K9 T:t&Ó `+ˆ“np®)(i}œ? D"G jsyŠcm b+ˆ“] [ôË‚Þ’ C@µŸ† ~$ Z V 8s{uPgekM a´$QU5L a7 WA0(O\+w l{3H ŠHJ'z]dm RZÜpem= @CL@*rw v bOæ ]] d6 ]h ] S uau„c NNaQ&H fO tmG: XEÑU{M d r ~ f a4 J!iOÕ!¢Ô)„I> }{nM²%@Ô: @P z?&%7Q65, L d Ô]¨ kY,ì Fg-" O”HmS_„m Rn jJ yT` AL aY,ì `U t};]SHU^j v Xð+# t k `¸n| O i zF0(n xU5 U'z]sH‹G_J RMA i>œ?æ e1sO BU;` ]?ÊV.@ i uVN Q 31 B=VnCT i AL [f aG: XEÑU{'O(r e |(B# H!}©h\ L i W-K qr Dn Jq ^ bf oDH)Æ]µE$Ù:I% ~Tc OÕú \Ci [ BU;` ]? n KêÜRD~ Nôl g RGc/9rs%¼³3 üCñX$ n9rs%¼j' TD r{<mR*S BU;` ]?ÊD J aK qr D B w34 H I L LaK qr9 S sÔ%`òJ] P T"#ÞH\wSA #ˆ)(i}œ: XEÑU{' _N Z NUl X4 Uj2I(5LÎT `Q D OF]?ÊD n Nt m vzxz~ G dK ioV"G jsy9P„ bÄ)®â W2\Wzxzv| yd> }{nM²N Q r{<m Mnd u{ yTPwußd; P´çº]? n L Jq ^ R j H6 2U5 a, Bu']=B T TÃÂŒ#GÂ6T=B;_ wæËY|: n oN`RDK RÌ b+ˆ“/^ O)_9 A 0\*rw vWm…!R Y_[Ó a }œ?7v nCTzLÎ d Ô]¨VN Q 3Sa ^Õ14Ö"ao dK ioV"G .êÜRD~ w~/ Vc OÕúDRDK ECk 6 ~e sOÕ p%7Q65H X|DI1´çºUYg^KêÜRD~ N.L JqU,Y@` VhX$ n9rs%¼jl jì Mn. i sc.@ i us' B }qYM‹UTPwuˆ“MËYM‹-i `Q D?æ—`rw&>a? n L Jqunz# t TJ yT` A` @VÑU{'O(r xY` A]xU)z]dmsI ]5LBDJmµº|DI [ oDHYl X4 “Z Rpz'(F]?ÊD n uIÝrzm HS n/f kK M S Ô]9 a) ro¨VN " IZt m EDI1´çºN M7Q65, L d-pm= @ gÓ{Ut#- DTIK }{n jF R sn„I>$7 sn Nt m & Q r{<mPÝåF QÿVN Q r ‰( KêSPs{uPgeH [ S [ oZ aD S{/M0 4vn EA t V Jq ^ KPHw` AL aY, tzyŠcm e\"f=#c3 OF]?Êi}œsy ]5LB \i D! Q r{<"" [ z;‚Þ’] S uauIv vzxz~ Mi}œ~" O aD v\wS7uKuPgekYi!R j&.l!%KŠÕŠ b j- J|X Ps9 A 0\N{K 8s{: _ÜRD~ NKcm R aT W DDH{uPge L* [ & Q r" l a Jvcm b+ˆ“ST}©h9rs%¼j' m RE ;\wS1N R p+wWO~ f a4 J!VQ B6AI RH~ a S~]µD S{] s- J|X Ps9P Dzn?Êi}œsy l>6IU^${:_ w[|tz vWm5L a7 L i+n/ 3HŠcm e\B wI D OF]?J|X Ó{Ut#- DH {?hGn j JVxxU)z]dmÊV.@ OÕb+ˆ“Hm „c NNaQ u\7VN Q rC qX+65H X|Dxz~}qYM‹V"Grs%¼ Q rC qX04uPge KEÑU{' _NF]?J|X Óg @T T TwSA #ˆJSLŠ b j- J iA pU#c3 O7 D' B }qY. i"-" O” RMA i>c S5s h„I>$7) ^DI1´çºW DDH{ j^ bB p in| O ii}œ~" R: XEÑUV U'O(r e |(.U5 a,.@ i U,Y@Wnzq ^ b Mú \CiJ }RGc/9rs%¼ }q yCYI' TD r{ K9rs%¼ T]DRDK DQ r ‰( n/j a j C=[ doN`RDK ©h9rs%¼:ROÕúD DTPwuˆU5 P x%5] s- J}r ‰(Gn ] Ch ucN Q r YO(r xY` A—`s h Li D! QF NN E @ L UO f KYM aÊi}œXŠ b jyTPwußd; PY@` VhXwæËY| c. j \Re]u TÃÂŒ#EÑU{' _N‹-i ` L x$$7B> {DI1´çºWlw&>a? n LJq ^ R j UU)z]dmÊVA 0\N{K 8 fÊi} F]DK RÌ Ul X4 g l lq‹Tî+ïwìŽ. C [ _gc }†èZ6”ã× ¾N> n6×‰;Ë-–0 u D` A;S%[ êUâ uS K JèáaŽMU£¨ÜñN $ ZDV“Iô1( ~1W t5ä’ÕæÜ#»RHs2´#Z§pP‡U P e ~|7 ]áš\q MPÎYL Jb Hb# h EA$HDœ×ršÍæU¶ z8 h vD V)> Ké– $ ZDVOfçB ~1W t50ˆÂÔÜ%§ñu7/_ Wu vDVOfç I {/JyèáaŽU’ÕæÜ w�]¨2¾ } U2¾ } k CY E- Ë kN1T¬$DY 7UâV‰) jSª•œ ^ zcáš1MP7/_ Wu\ ya+›<j¬ [K2 R<E<PA rW FhÜ¡yr q E�<EP8ý Y7MQq‹TPT%‹ÒeV rî+ïw.‚)[DfS TX-` ]pû;]Hu vDVOf on¦Õp |v‰)'==)Ò%Å q:a@~‹Tî+u¤> f] W|Fe b Mq(@~i2Ê%¥–^ðZOGXh‘ÙÌùÃ G G Z3ÁæÈ†/j } _ÇmØ;–ÚaŽ0aŽU’Õ i.1B$G)I,Ìx{L S ©7(, `A @E Y t bp rW FhÜ ^QdwJb Hb# —�+TeY t bpdœÞ3ù#’Õ!Ü#»dœÞÒ8wOn6×‰;Ë- @wyòè¤3–Hg[[æÜ#;Beô—-` ~E*Ü 1h A Ly.l E�ÎJ X,=ü‹ ] \ƒ´Æ|6z _ `o)‰wyn;¾fÜ w�U tYL L Ise ~|7 ]] ¦.0aŽY(@~ŸÇ¨ÜñN $ Qï”aa™ `8 ceN> n6×‰;Ë-S lKJÎ#;J^F x5ôú}´Æ´ J3%Cm¥D –5· y eQ!»ç-3èR3èRW$x{L S ©(5 Q BÍæU¶>=ü‹¡Å31h~E*Ü 1/Rp [ <xÇ^ð*p ` AD –5· y k N^ðZO$–1Œ!3– XWt)'=ôZO uâ*o ]/1>c M IF?¤‹Ë_ˆ }xm xt bp yR3èR$yIH F0‹TPT%‹$ kZ”9`Ó»RHs2J8A© 37# } yc@~ŸN dW Uup MZ. ]

>x c…�a —w�]]Hu vF a¢²1E‰;Ë-–07 ]3èOw]^ðZO#»dœtY J}# E^[@~):N $ ZDH \./j } _Ç3Áæ H t50ˆÂÔ ] fQAR A ~ 2P` A;Sn CGŽU’Õk]3èOw2´ h tWe-%8wOnW Aw¾î‡2UDî Z$’ÕæF m I$yIH b DQ¬ [ v {/Jyèá JÒeV wyn AfÜ ^Qd b mB S]1 G¨TSjeur´®M5yDG y=;' _ `o)‰{Z¥–=)ÒDœ×| Y V yZO#»d EsÆ´XD¾ } U2*E�vtyòè¤]3è` A;Sn UVgQS9=A)~»d EsÆ9EF BB%Å q:[.‚)) ] fQA aZ7(7\Ch…�Y2= VH–=)VATK Ê&h6GŽU’Õh n j]¨–5·ù70~�³”^^- HÆ|6z _ h*K$‰;Ë- @wyVOf on¦&I i50ˆÂÔ ]m sZ6 ~ ] fv I–^ðZO~ qmeM$ W S$Q".Ó [h m \72¾…�a B" h-–07 ]ˆÂÔÜ%§&K J®“bÑrbMP7/_ Id»RHs2J*Ü w�1"L Ise ~xt b T$D"DV aOK Qf$–1 D•œ ^ z o UoÙÌi& QT wi Z* u vE} k CY E ~1W w?¤‹Ë_ˆ }x@~‹Tî+2�]] ~–0(æU mQ4 HÂÔ ]m sZ BCp50ˆÂÔ j ]r qs"yc4i yZd-.Q%$ F Uv‘ V•Ö•ÞkÌi& ;– H 1h]e@ |á J\ Ya'(<Y P<j¬ m;¾fx@~‹T C z%Å Z#E<P EO#»dFlQ3 J*^Qd b mB Z O lKo#EU Z$Z�Y2= V z/JCÇmØ CG)I, R+v@wyVOf o+]fQAŽU’A% M~ rEi ih [ T";D'==)ÒdwJb H _. ] s2J8p ` AHOn6×‰;Ë-%8 y UwvDVOv J3% Bn;8"+d b mB Z F m4 VR aK¤‹Ë_ˆ }xm� jwyòèU’A% fc& n –5· y i ^z _ =)Ò w�ÃÕ½X u eâ¬d™�ZIgr e |¨Üvw:/YaM b¾fx@~Q5 mg$;I kt b Hn$ S#;Beô—-mØ; q ~[X B‹ ] \ƒ:J®“bÑrbMP ~ AfÜ w^ðZ G CIæÜnM´u+&hR Q D^ð*p `[À8§·/Q G H C vE R c&m/}650ˆÂÔ ] £-'?' Kd6 i37# B$Z$fÜ ^Qd b ZD z(æU mQ4 aEÆå»n6+&hR R2J s x5S ~–0(Sf JÒeV /YaM b/Jyèk8" Q EKH1h~E*Ü=)VATK""ATK Ê\¢b[R¿Œ¥©A JyZd-.Q% Li& QT wi jX q;Ë-S]]Hui(V´XD¾)hut y k N^ðZ q\8ÂÔ ] wi Z* c iT ^Z6 +VATK S O lK T]% WUQ!f gB_ìŽ; z/JCÇYTgC I ` A@ Fe0¾…� EKH1 —; U&; q!F(J®“bD1E‰;Ë-– ^ i% M~ rEi3è` A;$Q".vw¾î‡2UDî L d2k]3 F d Zˆ }nPË_ˆ !N [w DE ob vE} k psæTÓ¯ƒ‡äË GX q;Ë- JY©A JyZd-2èR$y==)Ò1 —; E Tu eâ¬ ^ iè¤#-!2P` Aw4 a aa x5S ~1'J lKo#EU eA;Sn UV q(-.Q%$ FhN^ðZ q n+‘ V•Öi…� y m I$ b jU b" h-– ZVM ~p ~ N AZ6 +VAk}Y5 y C {;\kOfù|6z _ w EY dÓ™{¸ö‡¯ !2P` Aw4 JY© bN r KEc a O G G Cjq¿Ã¾OW+ e MyUv {/Jyèá :gûÐ§+p–07 ]ˆÂ a O G G CÄ€# O c& Gm Xy rKo#EU qxÔáš\ Uj$D" G2Y]H [ owO X)) ] f WUQ! Y$ QM$ T4Î Ži&% iv Q

i WnŽU’A%BCp5)'=3 A f HdÓ™{¸ö‡" h-–D zs lN;yZO#N ZD z(I, LxV yZO# \ Q2UDî L d q psæTÓ¯ƒ b Fh o dn e;– t K ZÔÜ%§&K% fc& n ^Ky k N^ðZ9z D e UwvDVOv(,)O G G CŽ; z/JCÇ+T R~\H1 —; Wr\8ÂÔ ] WnŽU’/5¢b[R¿Œ¥E `[x`š Gy n YK J®“bÑw l w EY dÓ™#b Fh o l p {D L$Sz _ Z* a6z/ Z* Q_ˆ !N [wA"J®“$fÜ lN;yZW rl w EY d{b^qNu Y s x8V jU tZOGXf gB_ E D= |p5)' E6N yZd-.Q% l]R r h EKH1hQ%$ FhN^3\Ly @$Q".vw¾î1 t| |P EwynHÂÔ Ed d}P p_ Z* a2P` A I3 hRW+SdÓ™{¸@FÅÀ� \D> Rei[ f \#e@ \—; U&<^ i(@~¾î‡2UDî L5fù|6znYf eâ¬ ^ i3 y [ÚÍ 1IwL b0p_ Z* F^z _ IHK[8p d-.Z6 QM` SFe0¾ f \#e@ fU n –5· y^ðZ9z ¾f Ys eâ¬ ^%a6z/% E qN1TS¾fx@#e@ \—KJ NYL e/ R O G G ji jX q;Ë%F?H Wr\8* q U !2P` A _ R8w KÂÔ Ed g UmP ^m2èRi J% JY©A Dî AtvE} k ps;DKu-!2P` AEY vtIeHÂÔ 37jJUUV \ q$fÜ U Z&—-ZD z(æUM5 t z} \;= B>R d \5 d _ Z* & c a ow EY% M~ rEi:’A%BCp Ev a%"D>R G^ p j iZVM ~p ~ c h#-!2P` AxHG CŽNQ b" h-–#;Beô—8 } Ë- S 37j JvN3 O G G CÄ€0~�6 +VATU qxÔ1EDY J&[ c a ! Z%=)VAT eu Gm Xy#;SOW+ e i8p R2|»QQFÚ¦ß}h‰Ys+#¿ir ]¶Ò xHqhá±âF%ÉèÈL bz�Ñw0l nZ^ð�á´ S26[”"`P eýx�ÏLŸ9JÂJå-¸R } H,)‡j#ú=D €*¾zQ.`¬�ƒ'ª+?( `‡Œ=Yoei;ai •¬b g4 lÝób~ O›wx vq N d)Y|ú… ]u6bD†Ý e1rcê‰ Z ˆ! g kû1/ùdI `\§xz¾í a YqE’s³+´c‡L& W k ` }›¹8Dœvd fFÑôdD i p [ aÑw0l nZ U*!*%ÜÌN%@S„c r lÝó J kDunUág&ÓÆëºp×¼9'Œú=D

%Disb%‘L XÇµ u c,1-T,a j q B[3JÑS yuSN%`U6[q ;œvå-5LÖGµB/ä K cê‰ b q uËÍ9z Q�Ñw0äïêLÕ·§SPÿ� y0"Í*ü h�¿Ú Sn R- ^h]Ì™ X bCu Qd+$ EVIÐ”× gó J kD BR©¸ \ o FZ",Rj^DÖÚÄ#»*Ð.Šž ; S M B]Ew–5·ùw ™yÙI‡t^fm K S#¿ \7tµ u c e i {>lzÕÞ´![ aæµWIZ ˆï)(%EUÈFYqE’=O�«T%§Íö°“Ÿ" bd oEèÕ¦v"l›j Y6 C9r eýx� v q uË$Õ·§S ]h m Ft KS#MJÝA# M¸R } Okfm v m \)0fbÕ¤TEE“+®¸n jºê� S o8 rIùdW� SRtL ^h TTQ5bp×¼D

%DisÐ”×T$ n€*¾zðoN ] ve nB pa(c,1-T,a jJ‚â™ ^S‹E5�—œvån ]Ay0"7yK J8B[3JÑ$ T U#-$ e LXJ X3Ó‰E†Y} \ fm v m jˆ! g k= TXY z Ow0I0‚S M B]Ew–5 ]V¦v"lÖÚÄ#\8A7_Õ\ÿb *7& q Z(riLÙß}h‰Ys+@S„c r æµW¸R } 5"š9r;:¾zQw-© &N }7 L M=BQn^fm 6zm s[ mn E;  Ð”VUc vv p y V \5^h]ÖÚÄ#\8AX K Q [f QS W Up } U Q E: D Wa jJK J8B[3IRxbáF ]-6 e LXJ XIDÖÚq] S RX l P q Z(ri*r R¹8Dœ$Õ·/-H‰ !*%ÜÌN BÚq] VtID]! ]Dï® Q m+T‚|¹E [Ò+#‰ b q Fób~6r eýxeýx� v‡j bI|¹EMT TOw yuSN%GL ôí^ v a F me/D- Y�ƒ'¬b g4) Y6p×¼ s[ mn E ^J‚âw CoW M¸R r %DisKfI\7tµ:A6 q u g4) Y6€*DÖXIDv R//Ö!Yd Xz�*%@Sª\¶Ž &æäZ }7 LTOw in ]AyróÝA Z;Gw sbz� I- ^h]Ì¸¦JRÍª  báFe‚S HS"X$Õ·/-H YÈL b m]ƒ'¬b g3JÑS _8h‰Ys+@S„c rV xA# 7I RDBisÐ”×'¬b D'¬b g4" \7 \) uum D `>2 s32JM53Ó‰.Šž &dÿ� q| M X CoW M¸ fmi¨$$$>�Ý¸-5LÖ3JÑS yu B]E ]Ay26[”"g. Q W US QLV¦v"lÖÐ”*%ÜÌE D I5/ RHF ^#MJÝA#t^fm Kd× góE ^J‚ Vc+r;:¾z p;œvå-ÚÄ#»ˆ…;/LÙß T1/ùn R0 a a�«T%?+ V+ _8h‰Y5r \T VIs[ mn E L�Ý¸-5LÖ ` Ku V\7tµ:A]:BÚqm C|Ow in|NKmY U#. UbJ ›j Y6 &Ùß?-5LÖE l t ubU6[q g [?'y26 ef6[B k= TXY ZF Ne-nB yrUM4 H>�Ý¸-5z�‚ Vc+r; Ur in|N Z(ri*r n j F,e( K n ^KLÙß ]Ó‰En E;i \DEh m wv cbG RX"7yKh e/ä K A\ o FZ"5 PAÈSNâsÐ”|LÖ X b c e i (Yp c D4 S/äFýx�Vc+r; UU Ú˜ô[ mn E¸R D=BQn^f]Ew–5·ùw ™ Qn5^hÚqm C|Ow T8h‰Ys+@S„p TX$ rÝ¸-5LÖb b q vE [�Ý¸-j$$Ò+#‰ \V/LKon ]A ]h m m a['&w in|/ L i C2JC'IùdW"_r E L�Ý¸-yH×¼D

%qE tæäZ }7 LÕ¦v9u Aî]Kf N*6€*DPNA(bš^ rn€*¾_ _ f [,%r Itž &don ]A ]hR I ^K&(DÖX!M0rP btisÐ”×·/-H‰c Jd\7tµn5^hê�Ñ$ T U#- UZ(0b ]\*›j Y6 $Õ·/- f 8g` G N Z _VM~p ~ N A0b ]\*› S Yºê�= SRV} xH |8 O~Q5bp×gd\7tµ eýxeV% t axbáFuk p q¸- |DÚÄ#»12%. zH‰ ~s c^™ hR I ^K Y-ÚÄ  qRic V<rc j ItžRX l P q^ v w%@S aÊjqEris ] žRX l P e ]DPNArh m m a[' EP ` ir e E6[r; UUP0 a a G‰Y5r \T \X!M0 r %Ý¸-bÕ\eJ ] A0b ]\*nZ-k:?”×'¬ dcl1- Y�MT TOw12%. zHg4" \7 \g4\µB/äk wG*!*%} x jµB/äk wG [*%.%,Jc j It=X. zHg4"ß?-QOQ yd {1dmV/LKw T8h‰Ys+ x jµBV n Tp' eýxeA"J e-ôí^ vw12%. zH"mn E¸R Dx L q vE X `]E ]Ayd {1dmV/L/h N Qn5^h {¬•¬{R8\h m -5L Vb<26[ dVÃø‹¾ mC a¸R D=BQn uV 8g` G uq vIU$ [I RDBi Wo# z=^8×'¬ dcl1Öbp W5+ I m, u z r-5LÖ l]AyróV=BQn^fp em[ a \) B bæäZ }VIs[ mn;9u Aî]Kfd=?jqEJ BVc+ RXk.q6 nOj Y6D ¸R Vc+Éª m m-ô] žRX l ] sb NYd X. Ub B6[”"g. h U0 rh j a#M E‰Ys+@SoAy26[o\X!M0 GA#t^fu Aî]Kfd\-TB urb ]\*nZ-k: X `]E ]AK0b ]\*nZ- U ^¸R Dx% uê�= S"lÖÐ1M)HvE [ qCQA D{ l ^ J JW9 ^ V-+ y'g` G ul]DP AKLÙßW,Ð”×· L m, u›j Yn j w]:BÚqm C%&m poN K d o jLX CoW M2|c+r;:.9; Isb%¬{R8\h wUuê�$ U›j Y6 &SPJ QGu B@bÕp5bÕp5 ^# J|LÖ I h H»ˆ…;"DP AKE L�C [ iIioj-ÚÄA^D V Rp´!³Ex&> Q Z8g` G N 6 ] ]8 k ]w.9; C4" \7 \g U\ EJ BVc+ Z Dd ag& S¬ dcl1^ff L U›j Y6 ) u* } @6b e E L�Ý¸- Y Kv m…;"DDJ QGu BA#N Z(2Ùß ] F kh m T p]\*›ß?-QOQ ydq'O QR DPAÈSN j' e q|Í!^f]EEU HF Q tdD"mn E¸R [�Ý¸-B6J JW9 ^GA x [ iIioj-o FZ"5 PAÈ0 a a F I" r-r!3oF1 \TaÊj t axbá4A=O'g` GVc+Éª m! O/L/hh  | C2JC'Iù p o G] F khqX. Ub B6h*6#M E‰Ys+ K M9zR8\hw0I0bá4Ag. h U0%�Ý¸- y O\K h F t g] F khq€*DPE^ P.¸- Y Kv un Tp'"l Ub lE~r ` V! [ R+# [�TZbp×gd\7tµ U VbY*2riL<MF H| TV o0 r ~d=?jqE Aî t m! D�C [ iIioarc j- bY vdcl1Öy YI. Ub B6`U6r s ] O { Tp' 3 S GV\TZbtqU\G T M* | fžRX l P I P´!³Ex&> QP bt W5+ I m, i�,˜ u[r"?–-®J–›DnOub…�Ñ² E{c J"ZeÖ!‰O0ˆ¾®ž +o e@ñI¼–$•Ud?KKP^Šâ²$ mc™£F@ ~ YÝ‰=D kIy e¨ÇÔDL¬ i| Iô÷U¸0®©m-D¶ t(V {E S vq&xD J F/; Ve M-Ôe16 k1,h YpznÍäò°n UTÓ¸} nà˜CÄ CîŸíc| N^ ‡<¨« hIc TlIÈ^Š7\;zGYïo b s]¶&C´ a€DJy'K FH¸› E<¨« m F/; }:h5‹ N.ÆòÙ*H@ ~ pznj¥Q.Å�Q \L ^ N®HQ[¢¡ q C?9�Ñýb¼ÂrÑ n PDnOupƒU‰)�˜‡¤”¸› E7n iœ²í JO:e Y i| Iô÷ÓÌí U | E!(Ô Ržîi0!¢žë¼�„Q[¢˜¹éFº÷(7m/gž 3«/hVòi�„¢yÑl7 z MuZ+r²òsòaPKi u- j!- i,d u[¢˜¹D F!´z¼×O sT³šM®J–›nOuo<¼×b Uá o°Åd¸— NJn+u1,h Yp t|#nj¥QªI–i\;zGc66‰h YL MYJ–›nO sMœ²í E1PGp| Iô÷ÓV uáÓXºv VYnO sM&xH~Kn ` M D A r–i\;zGOnOHQ[& q C?9�è�í!]²Ô—®Ûm B G(xy.¼#Il UÍä7 IÒê- i,d u[ jM ¢´T‰5è�âÈ Z? ykR#™UN@vˆ‰PKS$ J S9*i�, iV % sÔ˜LWUD [$"W{m% Z;G Z- ^bxjAÀ�ŠÑ-r VJ�âDE jiæ6OuT^+Ô#B/(–5·ùz 167¸—©©LÏ]3&aV T ^S Su1, ^(–5·ùz 16¨vFÇO¶& u[0ˆ¾®žháÓX b ] Uµ;GmEÞKRáhž +?$ mc™£_ n$!ü8Å� ~S.#´9 yh(«J T J [×b ¼ëÌžëÌžë H÷6‰I LWU�IV CJ�u+j J}SOP 1A YpLZM-Ô'iHnO s N®n ]hC?9�èX~ p t|#nj¥/!´nO sM f´ aG/OP 1A YpÝ˜‡¤”¸p, iV % ]™h( UDª ÍWDnO X f.D A r–Eï¥K³) wd HZe-J F/; Ve V u[ jM v ]Ijº l a ` b�âòÙ*HI e.N EJ [×b(xy.¼ k* p.% \~Sl¶&CnO sM%i0!¢ž%°XwoF,e–5·®ž +o ]/TiBh i3—®C´ a€D¼×bë H÷6 sM pzeuZ+r² E Z N$ zTf#0 Q ]$d I;áÓXm Bž s VS8k54 ]ef. _'-h;Ý˜‡¤”1,ž arnÍ;S j Z7b Q9s+g(Õ‡Þ÷bEÌí U | EnOm` b�Ñ² E{ I2vq&xD J ·›Š b+v0ˆy yWU+?Ki#B/(–upƒU‰)�**3| YT SQ KUSS pžháÚ§›ÚÛµ�5 | E! Iuá2ObV,˜ g vI e LHkL K— NJn+,e qAGC´ a€Dk{c J"Ze1 ]Z7b Q9s+Mœ²í- aEl U0ÓX b ] gj IÒê~ q�IV Cb DnO X%i0!AY S{m% Z y<1ºv V]$d ,^bhIc Tn+Bž s V<P 1A Y yhST% lQp } { E4€nQE K+v0ˆ s$Q'K6gS^ V<d u[¢˜C r^Y Toy.¼ k* B( i/; }~2ObV,˜ ma C I n8gY WœQ¼4 W oe J $ ·s· LZ J´ a€ [×b(xy H ]$d I;áNQ5·ùz is C bR¥/!´hsT³šM CZaB N.ÆM W 9 ~ |:>o ZrÑ ?2g-h s {DZJ–› º"La j p` `.bF f_% nVt INX.ÉE@H [ ¢J%d[$"W **3| YJ"Ze1 ]0t eX=c66‰h Y(Ô Rž g l l GªI–iC?9�èX~ \n? b ] } EJ.5§í!] T{{ b¸—©©% im wq. |7 Y Fx?* K AbXk MYJ–› M pzg  ])IV % sÔ Q,5 \R M C3  ng vI e }X q Gd u[*D f_% nVt5 V uOªI– ¢˜C r^Yod!Œ y×bë H\ c XI– aº"La a Hp t|#n6[AQ!]0t eX=c QÔ˜LWUD zGc66‰ _N/o VNY(Ô RžªI–6gS^ V<d-0b ] } TV# U I{ b¸— Z] 5PKS$ J n_ p D IÒê-6%H uC rb-v¼ k* B(c B L ^0H uC rb-v* K^bxjA  A r–Eï$ O}C |7;Ý˜‡¤”1 j r²Ô—®@ | PQ1A `+,e qAG V² s! **3| S pžháÚ§ }‰)E@H [ ¢ Q ]$d I; sh \n? b WUD [$"W{ zx pzg h Y(�Ñ u B( i/; c�u+j!  V!S^ V<d- Zp9�è p JX Ý˜‡¤\ c XI�u+j!y zN® KY s wVt INX.ÉE S $ k5 ]ÇvG¦-Ô'iHn3,EXzg  ]) VS g K WsëÌžë1 ]Z7b³šM C d rC´ a€D3.ÉE@H F@ qaf¼ k* B( b� U |t ] gj IÒu}s {DZJ–› gdzê-6% s {DZJ–›cx¥K³) w2ObV,˜yhS,˜yhhC?9$ n h ~Ý˜‡¤”1.}[¢˜˜yhhC{2 J \VS8k5T ~ |:H ]$ [Mj MAQd iùz z m t9�è [ ` b�â C d ] T I k=&nÍ;S j R R B( i/; G T zw J.5§W 2 HlpƒU‰)�V7mJ–› º" } EJa a Hp[ ":h5Ô'ië|Ä!» Q @i F X e t# K AW c j  t w8rnÍ; X.}[áNQ n u } O* p.% \~ ytÀ«”q_B(c B EnDW‰DÈºyh(Õ‡ }b @& BuZ+¦-Ô'iJ _D f] _N/o miT I kQ~.}[áNJ y cse _ L]& UO X%i IUWT ` qAG V DG T z>X eSS pžháJ. } EG DT VS g/VÔ Rž SÌ‰º÷(Ki#$LWUD Z6–› º"La kWU T cJ–› i J”q_B Q**3r Q[áNJ y V*3| YJ"Ze^ Tt INY J› ºL l l Gª<d-0b TtÀ«”q_Bq� o pn A d¸—©© Lma C I n8 x}[áNdI" z®!‡è�â H ny Ql* B(,ôœ8 x}[áN6Y ooDZJ–› S L m!] `. G T`C |(Ô Ržd˜ ma C [AQ!]0 N ]I\ ~R iF d#s· LZ Q2 N pzg  [pzg  ])^ Tt INY w a@ N-( T Z] 5 O9 x7mJ–› d#s· LZ `# K AW c jA @W‰DÈº QLZ J´ aDE4 T wLa a HpgK WE@H F@ +?67T9}n6[A7L [NX.ÉEKH=& C3  eC+H8 x% im wGm ^o8 x}[á=c66

f˜‡¤\ ^[² s O]3 yt@& BuZ+¦žë1 ]X E&j BCqn f_³šM CZa( b� U |ªI–C3 B( bqaf¼ C$!%% nVt5 V"D‡¤”1 [ r² n\VS8k5TcwRž gt IN<d-0s r=c ooDZJ–hC?9$ n $TcwRž $?67T9}n v GªI–i R j @ Z-ÔeÎ m t9�è] N$U� o pn A # T z>X+ cy=3.ÉE@H F w6% i H^ F@ +,e qAJ,EG DT ] C\ c iKR a$"W{ zx pG/ j je1, H5T ~ [ `.×bë H\ UI"(Ki# H�è [ ` ^Z&Wz!ªI–DnOuA r–E?67T9}IVV T`C |(S. B(:Y J› º8TÀ«”h(yhSR a SX-v¼ k* B(9}n Z]V |8 Eqn f[fpM k LD Z6–› ni4AIjC |7i |ªI–C3 6L mX+ c{yhKY s B L ^0H ub, Ak5 ]Q zw MM s w‰)� x f6T1 ]ZM&M ] |(Ô 3& oI kQ F@Vhzg V Z `ªId¸—©© I T#€D3.ÉE ]\ UI"(KiDqa>kLa a L R kKc66

fd? ` GO¶&C´t Grnv u{ôf£ÅÛUŠ WQ/Y9 eÙQ&”<¬ G d�Ì˜?Á§N e€}Cè#nÚ zM¬k7m Y C1@ e[H^W)Fh$wI¨ Gôfçs±)Lµº¦N¶Df£ÅOm Eg±)LµCv dtpwaM‰‚°KGï%u¢ s&@ç&i(§$sˆ Z\¾°J|)‰êiH\Ì!Ü›A+D£Ån+}ˆý¬;–RËç)È8 BÍ %$–’¤¦wI¨ì$ m a§µ¢ eKnYO61 Bî¯CsF„{"¨ì¦gÝTfœˆ Và•Ó=Y¤�Öf[uˆŽv‹$ WK6êŽÛ‰4(4A rÑj‚Ä»¤ogxUE Lîö{m | CÑ"/ nÒGï°<†¡YbšcìÉ>ée´ x L”l™': Zm {‰‚°KnIfš€ pDT/GnÑö®éQ[sF„{ [gÝT/Ú V$ w5*$ `x L”j'z5[Ž– a8˜1<† kH}¦ B a*H s)' d rC9I Bw"Ó=1´“ ME7 dZduö'i)'o wKn.;a:xPK)ÙQM kH}XÄ». e+LDþñ7Jé+½ ] W[ Uj‚Ä»¤ H FD‰=J("wXB%¦ B a**YJ f K5mj3è#n 4 U!THt Hn Tµx L”en [Hq3"ºíZ/RË T€ —£+®ÒyPDÜz iIšÄEnóU¿ÂùpÑl)£8R˜q!j,ßšGwI¨ì @¬’YQYI¨d"7~Hv$k¬šjUE Lîö+Kw CsUK Q s”áŽŠ W^ðí&i(§$s eKnYSUx£wÂ%Ü7V°ËIKz WK6êŽHV ]hþñ7J i"•Ó: ^wI¨ìc+S'o wa q n xB%¦ B a La**YJ Z>=e›hSu¢˜" U! r n+Gw=1"‰=JjUE LcQ U d ñ7J$"œ2Q/FME7 dZd n! ZVR˜z)– x1 {9Q yOYbšCsF„ P HiHS G DHËç)È4(4A rÑj e Z[s T Zm rc1"Ž¤”Ëu7Q,)z‚Ä Z VÝTfKnI¨ìf &”áIÂùp"D+Z)’YQYr$C o|E n+Gw=1tF#NU! Y qlFÉ>éeJjU¶Df£* vR˜z R8 BÍ %$–b/Ú V$ N o u"| a,K) z dZd n ña Om_¥&V 8R˜zK6jRcP4r Y% h k°ËIK+QV _ AŽn i 8RD>¤” CC¶á" f D ~EJ q[yPDÜj%M e[HwW^ðí&is±)RYH} †Û„”®;4÷ ]Â%¶}‰êsËIKz W jl G `6Ý¬ˆ—^8J f lí&i(§$FU d ño8d [Hq3"\Ì! vJ|)‰ê ] _k iIš C wTK) z I) K+ $ w5*$ %RGïd ' l Q: F _d] W[ UHK ! ZVR˜ ^x` x0 WK6ê U4÷ ]Â5ZZ ÄEM@Cv dtpµyyHHí/xc †Û„”% KhªlI Ben [Hq3DÜj%W { N~ZËIK+QV _vc [S S"Ž¤”Ë ZVR }(§$s< QZ'o wa q n MGGï%u* O  vqÂ%ðí&i/?w bO* Kl™y B h G* x a<†¡>éeJ x0 WK N ï%uO uc Cµx L”en q3"ºío#áË3`D#R˜ }{ C d^x` ÒGï M‰4(4A r uO\#BÅ>\;b T# KJjU¶DfV/TzcÄEM@Cv a qU u" z g HR8 B_¥&V l~Q/FME7 †Û„”'cKs ~$ v ñ7JTVF<êiH? E  vqÂ Z<0 ~: ^ j$ ^8Jl~Zm rc1"I¨ì CK ! ZVRBen [Hq; HirHn T”áf dZduh BRs T v M‰J0 W3"ºío#á r b(f EyT f_fDV°]hþñ7Y% ("wXB%{9Qp B a Lk iL4 u > QZ%ºío#á r :: T€ —£ UT:7 ol Q: F$ ^8Jlxm wI¨ìf &dEnó[5›h B= a k u zq Dd [Hq.# f%PœË¢^ »¤ b3vK&) fhªlI@wHÒ�‡÷q D”®;4+—“8C—/• e \ y v DFç)% o--w CsUK 9ì @¬’Yj Z }*W^ð%æyÄñëš^yPD WK6 e(j|E n+G BRs Ja,Kn TÃè·¨¼¼ðdZd nI‰êsËIyXÄ»hþñ7 iIyyHR˜-jo wa q n ðí&Íˆœ�¤H©iÜ%iy½Ñ!¹ s lÂ Z<0 L C6 e(NR^8J Js C q G>O L a,~Hv$ aNU †QdZd n!wI ZzK6jR u4÷n ` I3+¬šd^ plÂ Z<0 U)V 8Rk7m F[H]Z<0 ~8i tf F _d] [T8RD>Rf f8Jlxm VRdZd U% nqR;tô J ng+0 ~: ^+\ KŽn Rï%u7JTVF}IJlxm X ("wXB VR nv‰ ±õ•Ý#n/I‰êsËIo4,ý¡F J Dú|R,Ry pQ>)a,@ gsvR˜) (bL |/|Uè;‘j NÒwaü tó›†)¦NÉ>éy5ÄEM@&8d [HqvqÂ%q/Q1 q RZ7& M‰4(4A UR˜;Û„”®; )_k iIxm Kg* @ `jS2 r+ m gvm VRd SL C6 e( t\ a n) K+ j ÊB= a ]U¶Df£* \@@Cv a qKIK+QV\@@|$X jpBen ›h8s K I$ av RBRs T v B=}C h am P z6 [ a¶D FU¶DfV/Tz ]T n+G BRj%W { V Fj'Z }*W^+ ~ ljl G `6 o; r PsF@Cv a"n f-fI} q/^ Q-7Ó´¼9A UR L”I‰< j YS U |zK6j)6Ben [Hq3 I¶á `~Hv$=1µyyHHPJ _yPD WKuO / A a< zF$ * L e r ”®; J*í&i/?w^ê("š$ª‹m i i\Ì! vn! vJ|h O§$FU d aq, _ Js C q G>R K g)Jfi2 Ql)Hq.# fu7]áf d p m Z7m D8 LZV# KJ zy e769ì @¬’+\ K KŽm X (" W TE B7]á$W'my B h GdZd 7~ †Û„”¬5j½æ)zK6j) jiZ%ºíoDg~ l;4+—°]hþYQ|r `H uO\#BDduh éeJ ) ( Q"/ aq, BDg~ l? t\Ke l I^Ž¥‰[HTXn T$ K R E  vqÂ Z! xO uc Cµh ~ q7Ja:xPfW jZ¬šd^uK N ï Cµd p m Z7 [/?w^ê("š vV°]hþj g^yPD WK BRj%W {i(í&ÍSDS" KJjU¶s T v KJ ZWbI$ a ^M>=eR˜;ÛnqR"! YQ/YS A C q G> FwXB FL e r ” s oHS+a!.j|E n#h yR L”I‰<n4);4+Lºío3g N)_k iwIK6jR u K j zy T$ K R ID vqÂ 1" i+F<êYêsËIo4, Vf&* L †Û„”¬; J*íu v'i)0zCB="P z6 [ HV!-1"I+G BRn/“8C—/KuO / S: †Û„”¬;|$X jIm gvm Vh O§$FUD \&?8 \@@zE. ZW{_‰4(4A UV@D)_k iw J EFwXfR K g) G |R@|$X jp¡Fn$ k$kn Rj$I r ”d aq, _ NeiÜ%iy½Ñ! i¹ s lÂ Z kK‘Ñj‚ÄÕª \7@Cv a"nf%PœË¢^ ]pQ>B7]á+VF} ~ ±õ•Ý#4 wuo8d j^ hjU¶ N ï$ LjZ¬šd^ vqÂ Zh GdZd 7~i&K Kc h H¬;|$X j‡hîö{u„�& M‰VUDI‰<G o¡F J -A K6j)6Ben B%lÂ Z<0 U)V R r ]<Y1l·”—| a,K K+ 8R K R) Sn÷[ kZÅö sUBBd™‘GåJ\>¦>1! r [ qa'yÓç”½Æ„Úi A'R tZWsÂ aD QAy1 Sn,U&Œå%æ·p£ÎqÖœ R vm. FX9LFÒ [N\" i aÓ3‡,Õ%Ù I�VbÝ Xm tjU§h�»p yDOV,Õ%Í‹0u/ oFÒ}3c u V¢`H€·s5Ò|Þ^ªÚi2xH U«6h(‰<aKæT [O> d YR�ó{m·q¾íTÕ”'Îæú@“Lo˜D~+M0"LnÁª®IœòŒƒ�nŽ"%:M¹1nf LdRæT [O}k UY [ d\š Z�.'U‹§7 MÓ3‡ nâU&Œ ] f·p£Îq I D[u¸hè¦I®L@; I(-‘Y s D"2L„Úi eòŒƒY; C3§,' I4 [ V- V!5Õô– Sk�”� v n" Z>,Õ%Ù m }\HVaß UaS]3UD›\$…R Cz-Ú}$i–íRûG.žšCi un´ tUD›& _w2dôGr& RæT [O â"¸JÛGLH¦I®V l% i Chè% \wíåW h ¬Ÿ)jwysÂ a+…ÃUzmG Ju bk7] p K]$¢ž,U&H sUBB Z;w\W~q …è¦ %3§ûG.xdš�u89a<y4 a×!DEX O ]Ý c r D5 t j�§h�Sp Z:! r [$_ Z K–íØK z^¼%u·+® 9N\D)}k UY g0 yY r@'3( cF Q„Úi ""J| _QtV¢`æT [O}k&I K Z?x M SI®L@; I( xdš�”½@ý®é¸‹î’§h�»p zmG Ju ]W\WÝ¶ß7n“pàÚi z2ë\Š^€T¸sUBBN Q ]o Nt }Y s D N7“B`ùÓu e f5; I( xa<y4 a×! b | Jxp SL ¬Ÿ)jwyY s ÄD+LA D Z i D N>mO{m·q¾í&) a S" F3§ûG.^ ^S*e+j6$ UÑºëDF Q j F icTH Rå3B Ub v S1 I H ~:K–íØKv| msÂ I O KQ~ N Aå3B Ub ep£Î| X{{ bGî¥ p~+M0"Lnc BG a Fx?* K Aa @K U j D Z iÚž“#d>aÂ ¹ýË L } uc a S" FH bk7] p q+LA D[g0 yY r@'7i,Úi2 U |= I dsW U| RZ2 u µj›”¹‘]u Dzg j suxcSp Z:! r "bÝ Xm tjØVUDÕ%í7 na×! be pU y C| ai*)å3B šš2x)å3BB I>j tN A[O> d YR |]X‰=]v OQ ]o%Q e j G giik/&5 ›\$…R7 M UM BPGj%:K—¯�Ððé DÕ%Í Z* K Aa BHKq¾í&) aŽ"%:MW iX{{ bZ?x g qzŠõ×! z¦I®¨˜*, w2x)å3 i"^( xdš\>¦>1 ]xH U«. K·ùIc ri¸'N S>aÂ ]o \? N3j Q sv m Q_wA@Ye>vm. x{m·q! s*i z2Kv]Je N} )/í&) a SsuxcØKv| m V] jk ~Ù I�Vg s»p zv| msY¥+Y s,Õ%Qg k>aÂ ,Õå3B AÇ¥$Ã Tëø·Ò|ÞÚi ""J O sv mFJQ5ky d Xi,Úi24\5SE h ,ÕjDl3B š Dv suxcSpa8 hÆ„Úi AC QSp ZVbÝ X [ ¸'N S>aõ°pú#u [c M [ s\ ^ IÝ X M N< `\i "[ K hk ~I> S!S z Fx?* K A5E+' R } UaS]3o ^[ ] f·pq8ÏZCB AÇ¥$ f+LA D[ Lg˜*, w2x R tN Aå A t(UY g0 yBBN Q D5; +J R ,Õ m ^ k o Z E nL f>[ K r§h� jQ SI®L@; …è M£Î&h)¬Ÿ)"Ujk ~Ù Dv| €T¸sUBBn eè¦IK C l G~Ù w b\¦I®VÄD+K ai* I TžšCO . N e„ 3B š D“pàÚiRCO . N<y4 a×! @# r m }\HVU MÓ3 EI®¨˜*02! B1sJ R _ @gN} )/í&)Y®¨6 MÒ Ke5CF @¡-Ê&¡Û _!R;e„ Â I O KQ YQ_wf>[ K r§ fuc a S" F¸JÛ p~+MÚi25v>af>[ K r§ sèD \Hh�" F \ M+7+LA D[%3§ûý®é¸‹S02! B ~XC dY g0 a%i| m Va J71^è¦ N B  O! b pú#u [c M z‘]u D u"l G~ |g0 yY r@'75SE h IÝ j<Nq- IÝ X M?Q o a Fx?* K bK A5Eg/_ dI®L#! be "%:MW i XÕº0Ü\¡ a S ^CfLj6$ U s>[ M) [g I%3dæT [OK r§ q#! be "ûB$Eo½A D Z i 7 [W^€T¸sÕ“h_áp zv >pW e E[½A 7 [W^€T¸sÕ Sý8Ž ^çýUi* I<Ý Xm tjR*5j M UM BPoÓ\µ˜ Q e j l3 EI o.9 s> Rn%r H?G2 U~q ecf RÂ I E vI1v| msÂ[?* K bK 9 m3 x S K Ia BHK)/í jfpq8ÏZ(UY g0 y \I®VÄPS=eiRCO &) a Ss A5Eg/_ d[ ] fD} lLC l5Eg/_ d[se q#! b,; wf Y›”¹‘]u Dzlˆ¯ôAZ ` c] k V lý®é¸‹Y®¨6 sF r'75SE DVr@'75F w[WsÂc3© ujI®VÄÕjD V \?K r§ R uÂ ¹ýË L BB I>j tN k[ecf vI1 aYbK 9 m3 vo T5%-@ L g TK iX{{ bZcSpa8; HJe ]v OQ ]v lWjfÎtW+ nD \H[OK r§ e, U% Y9p$6uxcSpé"FI t ui2 U H \ F, NG~Ù w eY;\o Z E X AUaS]3o ^[IRfuc a S" F! S".>pW e 3dæT [ ^ sb+gRÖËUÏX SsuxcØKv VJXm tjR*5@gN} KLPMc riGm D=:#u [c M /1]v+f c S!S!% _ @ Y s»p zvb pú#r'75SO! b pú##! b,; wJQ5ky S

E nL f>[ ,dš\e:VC.%~JlðTOR aLQD} E nL f>[ wf Y E3B AÇ¥$Ã ]f>[ R^ qq8ÏZC3! S".f m eksF r' 9 my4 a } qÒ K. ] mFJQ5ky®é¸% f ZVbÝ_wA ~ eFFT J bc1l eTÄÕjD,vI1v| ms/¨6 MÒM0"LHF b!5SK25v>a ] e ZVbÝ et""J O'3 ~XC dY T[@ ¹ýË L 3! S*IV lýM0"LHF b!ûVÛ·Ý÷qÖœ J�H$$Y bK 9 I®DFK 9 m3 x mT U G RK 9 m3 xb ]@p M q$v| ms) ITžšCO .$$K 9 m3 [F d H~ eFFT RnB AÇ¥$ f+h#r'75zHY g0 dRw[Ws~JlðTORm3 [F M im- Z}$jD V oG~Ùm @*02! ei BPoÓ` y Su PQ2fI TžšCO‹Y® j]i' e Z% UÚiRCO n By S gËUÏX Ssu@ }7+ rl @3 [FUzmx"% H?G2 U~q˜ HY u\ uiusJ™Õô–5ªY|Q ]v l% WaQkM b!5SK2& RûGOG~ ]f>[ R^ qM®VÄ{muc a] | gK/ &) aW @v| mHJe i $V ] fD} lLd tGr+h#>e ZVbÝ ]f FU~q˜i2L } I/6. jS!S!% _ @ t u i DD+unj<Nq- IÝ sm j CIa BHK)(Kv VJXm t\5%-@ L gHF b! jÝ sm j CIº0Ü\¡ Sr~q˜i2L } W sèuNq- I TKu PQ2U&Ùm @*03B[ t uVb›”¹‘]u Dzh( l% WaQk]v5Eg/_ d[i*)�¥ÔE#! be "% M z‘]u D| ms/~ J6D M w[i(qM®VÄ' 9 mxdZVbÝ_PoÓ` yAZ ` c] D7ùD”ý‡n j$ fF f c h\o Z¸3! St [iU G RK X RVa _Rf M#>e &ui2i9LF R [pp$6uxcSVÄ*5j Mm ]?) M RyAF b!)b+gRÖËUÏVbÝ NiU~q ecf RÂUa BHK)(ù'ZÂ* $"6Ùm @*03B,; wf Y› J[Lj6$ U sCO &) Go- a] G nš\e>è,ØVUD 9 m3 [v| #! 9 I®DFK RVH?G2 U~q˜ ni $V,dš\e; yý®ékw oD| ms/ W!DE s h RDNiU~q ecft˜ê j T w÷nÃ‘‰ X id·«mqzKJ [¨EhÝ+w$ q]B TOQEd~dG K Sv l]  W‚>ÑmIÒÉ’š N {&]=/&º†ºëZM AH4ÍS¿¸“ûéuQ A´‰Ñ!"ê[µDÖ5DH„÷Î [i§´}Uf•u™¾©U."ÂåEA†¢ v Ô b+‚>ÑmI YKRG T«jé ¦ i~ ]=eUK [½" \Cp j[i ]V {"8 hU3´9X‹‚>Ñm V$Y K I3QÒÊ)·hîIf!!zG K¬ÉMn*E X id·´m÷Î [i(BlZWU{�P«L , qm%EWEr6ë'v5-"î6 SF d m Z? }O‘Å1µ TzKJ [¯]kd$ B `S.Zzb÷Î } H!Ü iQKDF k"ê[ Z61Z#u¿/a!TO¥Úw" \Cp e>OkP…&![&º†ºëw4Ñ?kqub D xlE4Ñgù-.x E€t("´ w´mÒÉ’š J,´yÍ×IÒÉLôØ%Ó¢Eo#. S O T ` b LmLS+ Y6P«L s6d mªÜdE�ƒë F&D> N4!!zG K¬f•tŠÍ�Šá»ç.~*Mn*E X iv| m°?Q&K x,–Q©- sKpa("´ˆéõÜw!Ü6ë'o|Uµ¬v‘ÞA†¢c BG a Fx'* K A|f!!z]=/&º†FL h `zTO¥Úl Cu=/&º:V$Y K Ik3© QK\2o.M-(¹|¾]ºÛ cÉLô`ÊøB6ÇûéuQ A´,} g O i C]h \Râ1Z# fl Wu rh(x°?Q&vR?Q&vU†ºëcÌ·AFWÓ- Y yZM AHX vo dRµBÃWUPKSDEWhc¤D]Öm„ê[ Z61 n w A´,, p x qdX UjzWm9 Jd÷Î ÿ02 ~x„–/xŠ&f4 e�y• m'l P\¥Úw" {cÌ·AOHR/z R e l aB]{"8 @ ]=eUK r M–5·ùa qAM R!zG6O¥Úl P^}bCê»Ú d;q.·ù#9.>r B `L jkµ0,–Qk+§Üz]\Râ u G´ mt ]&3 Nf!!4wh³i S+Dv Z[&º†ºúBHu rš N {&]NR Q IAID Y \f) FJf¹|¾q3 Jq3ùaº Q ZWd0( kk+§Üz K02 ~ J< id·´m|Uµ¬ xWG K¬f•0 e x q ^ÅURUµ¬ z Q TB^c BG a UK [½I' L|f!!z]qx,– ´m|Uµ6ê[ Z61 BM.\µBÃWU0 @tm02yrk+ ey7A†¢c lEKSU q°+(+jé `DJ*J T DDF c+F uauC”Jîqúðm k F? Gc lEKÿË?Q*+ VcÌ·AF KZWG K¬f u\V$Y K I h aBG a N j TUj|¾q3 J"’š QK\2o Ud&f4 D n _ R[pUPKS A=B]{"8Kf5D E d¥Ú0( kk+b LmLS+K,–uÝ"ßN c\1 rF0°+(+j0ÉLô"†ºëw48-Y F [F KZW#jzWm lQRm Y a mt ]+ Y6P&Úl P^}Y´y=/&ºyBé `DJMn*E XmqzK' L|f!! A![&º'8 iOi<d mªÜ NFn IDX J z K0P†]ºÛ BJ]~ XCê» JUUK j F< KZ g c O G r aFQg O i»ç.~*Mv PlI } H!7 Dc l-$Y K 0 A![&º'8\V$Y \µBÃ¦ i¾©U."Â, d•0 e x6 s–Qk+§L ~Uùaº Q m V$@BÃWD J;n(?G y fa Qy GDMix, LYb3¥Úl RM&]NR Q I gIX QK\2o C¦V©iù|¥v F" K CU7ê[ Z61` RM rcÌ·AFWXf \R/zBP id·´3@¥Á$D? a ]y• m'l { Î [ J z rq$yB^c JUK [½Ø%Ó]Üw!Ü6 uauC”Jîqqub D xKL© Q J {]ºÛ cÉR e†Ý£h•Û®mf ui?Q*7 K z aÎ } HTbCê»Ú |Jd÷Î ÿ

ÿQ*+ Q;m \ e5 iLmë'o|UµI gIX Rl]kd$"@ ]=eUK s`%o|Uµ¬t¥Ú4 i?Q&K xA6j RM&]NR uauuC”Hn$ Sw \Cw aBG•tŠÍ�z R e yP b heR Y?#jzWm-.x E€*: zp q!u4z K0P c\1 rApE6 n I `DJ*J :V$ –u \# fK Ik3mc g- N^2jv Z[&º†k IK Ik H M WhJ&°+(+j&] ]m4G Q ZIUµ¬ x^ P yR/z R e f o S k DYÅ[ˆ˜ K~m°+(+j[h i m sZq3 J"’ q°+(n G ^ qAM R!zÌ·AFo7\µBfÓ-4b p TI @ù|¥v F" K [h i m sZf4 D 5 O)i]Üw€* |EnÓ§0è´3@¥Á$ d ET p BUK j F<R H aUPKS 5LT `, LY|B ta ]t÷Î ?G y [0,– VF [+j&] ] n w A´,, yp a N YK02 ~ 3�” È,ˆ‘‰�Ú~õ Cw D¦V©iù|Xi5D E d¥}U z rq$yBd÷Î< X\‰�Ú~õZEKM5 H, L? C]p mrš A+HBM.\µB H ^61 n w AQ RR [S vPKS bB, d•0 e c BGC]p mr z[k[½I' L|f jkÈ,ˆ‘‰� M ªHå•2 ^_6c JUK *ï w N n6mZWd0( n! ]^c BG BG a ]$# m uQ*+ Q;mz KIf `1 n w A Q J)|U n ©U."Â,Mn FKIf SZ{KZ g c O u \# f g c O( J< !lZw,ˆ‘‰ Q J)|U QmUKG T MBz rq$yB^ <;m y B¢¯]kd HGjdEnJ zCv kmf u\V$uuC”Hn$N N?Q&K Kðm a Ik3mc g mDI h aBG |+ VµBdVF [+j&] P g c O( " yQB H mr zV$@BÃDw]i~‰�Ú~" Q J {]3mc g mDW~*+ QT ABE R[pUPK( " yQB %n R ¬ x^ P y RzWm lQRm x6 s–Q Q ]kd H i)|U n © %n R( " opUPK*B|UµI gIX R(3@¥Eh ]Z g b+n. K0 XBh0Pk3®mf Ì·AFWXf ‘MI‰¢Eo Ni nPlI !-€*: zp q!I h u \\ p&5jCòM"9V–Q t X% SÍ×IÒÉ’šJ b [a Iº Q mLS+w# fK R e f o y9L# m u/w N n6DFdµ¬t¥j( |EnÓ H &J¦§—r?Î/hÓ]Üw!Üy0%a N +6 n I ` QWH4 MS+QT ABE R Y?it jm j+K s`%o|Uµ YRM&]N y#9iMfIf `1 AQB %nh i m I `D$ d ET p U5=* C sm &J¦§—rl-$Y v zB]NR Q I gIk g- N^2jv·AF JR ¬L©, !lZDYÅ[ˆ˜ Kr ^^ baIK! ]I‰¢Eo NiNe x6 s]r } M=uHDp&5jK\2o C¦V©. j i vJ \u)z rq$yB;n(3 ya m'l { ]y• Z MT ABEb$) j\ C]p mm V RWXf ‘&]NR> UCê»ÚK^7g+o/%] Q J A+HBM.\EKSDHS 1""!"�z R e jkÈ,ˆ‘n C%n R ¬ R5z[k[½i~‰j i ‰U n ©m°+(E4 Q!\# f2 ~ UÍ�z R e v nQ t X% 1u \# fv’šJ b [ |Xi5D E mr zV$@h;Kc VQt jm]p mruIX IK Ik  K u-mc g mDWM5DH‰U n ©/x=uHDp1Z# { ]y• CW+e UÍd R’ qg c O( ] Vg/# RTOMn bB:R(3@¥Ew?Î/hÓ]Üw!W S-( g TP c\1 rAp LM&]N y#{)jkÈ,ˆ‘‰ bDG•tŠÍf o S BH[½ \6 k'v _ET p BU E ARqAM R!RM& T MBz r Td0( n! h i e3ef tz;åG)\’Ðÿ ´Ê“ Ç)o +Y> X¡±-ÌÚÊ P#O FöÑfÕHgXòîˆ�ÑŽ J})t+D“6M SeG p�7 ~ÂÕ p HFÝË¢WM:>D�*hy\$6Ê‰n PT%2\”ÜEwQcLJàmtqj5o#|$’ mn VÈD qT_Ó"c. Y _VO |U y e x02 cZSQK M·ùG 1ef ³¹ P  I* fq¾Ö½ID ¤8 r Fp g Kv J[vø! u c f*j { vã¦>íÂI|Á M·ùG 1ed±` An PT%2\”ÜEéaNI#I#I.=I-—#ËÒ&%j J gËLYµ:íT@j’„ DT M^ 2 bf Q | k.¥½ð&%6LZ& I¼Ã 2ËWhI mimI—›j T% z8¨:åG)\’Ð^0 qö±0 MµB#šw]©:«ÍT…tZn n.còID ¤,= y- r M E k9Ø9ñI1MB ‹Ã[¶pmØbšV Ãån \gD p%]OÊi~‰V·ùG 1.W3ErPgýéCqZ”ÑtÖúh¢|“ê· { V ]u E M·ùG 1j I«(4Lê¾ÖJtÔ0D“6M fE yHTt™mhùzáÏ U ) M¤uc ?‹ mU qA p+Y> Ke AWO2ÚÊ P#OgD ¤IGn F\ Yu Hn tb [öÑH ZÊ P#O FÑfÕP lH:o7fR 2RZO ]u E M Mg,%2\”ÜEwQ)«)\’sq wEgbD^mZ">a{XË e ºI£V bf Q |¥ð5CN azÛØE yHT" N A y(/ DL9ñI1MB w¢÷ƒì DÊ P#O FBMcLJà,('oSQK M ItM E k9Ø \C e/eÞ6 r~KViHËM#I.=I4 F\ F de iÉ<y©; o)&#pn \�7 ~Â CpÄ�N o Q›½ILN>:pIC‘}Ë0rƒæŽUQfD6 @ÑfÕPøí» m fN f SÊ“ Ç)o +qI e< nZ/DÓ]õÂ uDc+uO1«C¿È UKváêêºÑÃt GDc+ x)h MC1Bh£ÍD.DD¶¨§£êê+DFsq z"c. Y _VO t vz£V«a‰pÑŽ J})t+ùzáÏ pT x g:šw]©?LZ& IN$t Y*-Ì³¹ PE yÄ�N lÂ CpÄDDË ~ê· 0 l c b! svXò/]u E j w FÑ y4 E—#ËÒ& z4DT ]m Jn F\ Yu H Z# m[Fo +Ë0rƒæzÛ°û:šw'j *hqI ;|$@j’ ³¹ B _L¢W Q |¥ð fq¾=$DZi£êê+DFs kGwN l{ W \$ f# T% St nJ fJJUºI~‰V·ùG '9Û.µB INM^ 2 f Q | ¾Öˆ�F [VO |DU y eLzˆ�ÑŽ Dc[ËJ f mn?nJ fJ1ed±` AY u cÿ ´Ê“ ÇQ OHVUC¿M-a \D“6M f% J Q j ]W[j’ <y\$6Ê‰33s gD ¤ Lêê+DFs k]R4QZ& I*0rƒæHVUC GD DT("gD DL9ñI1 KÆ�Ë§7 ~ a¤,= kL7/ u#JimIG¹ðœ PT%2\”ÜA OÊ~ŸTa TSM%ð fF dpÄ7 Q j S D ¤ Lê,‹ mU VzÛ KPT%2& Iê+f igýéCqZ-BjCM SeG p�YbM1N Q \) m ]n R [.kL7`\Ë0rnöÑsXCDU y eLzZrvnj’ cÿ "˜Y> Ke AD">b- D^ v7n+ x)hJ:éCqZ”Ñ Y ^+qI e< nZ/ x qA p+Y> K Y X1 wgËLYµ:EgbD^mZ" ~*33s gDv¸Ö¢ÎóaíïgD D8 | t> a¤8 r Fp/'j *hXDFs kGwN YI£V b` q[¥2Y˜ ?‹ mU q A A-Bj' t j&u H Gk9Ø \8Jd CC GD JsvX NPE y}3NM^ 2 f Qr bZfm4 azCiD Kp x~Lu Q A y( K& ~ r Fp/ {Ã[¶Zy K@t | e l Uu H Gk9ØXCD, f UI i kcÿ ´Ê¤,= kL7ùzáÏZ^ 2n F0D“6M fEVVe AD">b-fl e‘}ËFz¢÷ƒì D/gk U o"E M Q | Mµj’ <y\$M ot a BcN3g3 jCM SeG \E4 E—#Ë Qƒì D7¢÷ƒì Ub [üDõtÃ^R4">a{XË jM S R u ]1«* Y _VgDv¸T%2& Iê+ y *h Z {K K_VgDNRD fE yHT)Ï7§/ fH H e t| L[û:š{Ã&u H4 RA"vO t v D^ v7n- T \ ]b i( u= j | ^Z¤,= kL7/ Ld£êê+DF Qr bZfm4$Êk# m[Fo +ËVVe AD"+4û:š$T [h \.1«* Y W ]wEgbD^mZ" OJà,; e sH R r Hn L| t> a n\E4 E&J jZ^ qnFp/ {9ñI1MB wƒÑfÕPøJ NV cÿ ´ j?T¤8 r Fp eLzZrvn IR%S T ] J m IL[û{B#\ ]; RL,YRZo gDv TnJ f]=/c./ fH H e j!Lu Q A Fs kGwNX NPE%*U h \8J ZW&# p |XK P y|$@j’ gD9+* Iê+)&#pn \lD YÉ<y©; DqI e< M0rƒæHVY _VO t ] K\) m ]n R n [w\ Yu Mk Uu H GDfH H e j!tlv¸T%2f]=/cOSdœ! �©«ÓÖ#:šw j G v7n% Y^ 2 f Q |BË jM SÝF H GDf'‚ J'mD¶¨§£êê[p eLzZrvn L}xl@ jG¹ðœ P dË jM S U o"E Mk Uu cÿ L7/ LdLJ `m_:j u JD^ v7 SI6 J \8J ZW" SeGD i( u= RV ZID^mZ" ¥ð u>i L Z J ^FÑ y4+DF+DF rg'nØ \ GQ'fH YA5 i S"@ H Z# m[FoZIš{Ã&uj yb<y\$ KWhI= RV ZIDy\$M ot h7 D’ < m. D8 | t> f v PT%2\”ÜADFM. T% St nJ K He jwgT%2\”Ü kcÿ ´Ê bDVUXW {[v x yv c kcÿ ´ÊNe HA Rm8k sH R Â } i c¦/´ÍTZIš{Ã&[Dy4+ kLzZrv8Hx qA p+Y> q @#pn \9DVUXWŸTaf% 3Zy K nbD YÉv zh{XË jM S |$n R n [wZIš{Ã&t KM2XyB DT( E> f v PT ]wEgbD^mZM2v Q s)DFs k]R4Q v Qf UPl06 m K|XK PL D ^+qI e< CoIš{Ã&[ ]R t| y( K& ~ iCM SeG¥I£êêUê+DF QE—#Ë T%Sn" ~#">at0=An/ LdLJ `IgD 5 RA"vO) [ X9 qIw R vl Rpd+FÑ yYD G ]EbË0%m K|X m@j’ g@/ A Z ]RZn VÈ8 u4 Q vuX…BÚZ">a Gm ECºÔïTt™mh r; Y&Wz]o ýéCq zOZy K nbD Y4 E—#ËO RV ZIDe A&?'H H e j!L$M ot h70WN< mDv¸Ö¢ iaNoIcN3 Yu Mk Uu f g u¶p²H Kfr f U$ xAD">b-flD�!GT¤8 r F2Y˜ ?i~" ~#"< P N9 I<y{9ñI1MB sH R .c r¸Ö¢ ia ^6zJ@[D7¢÷ T pD“6M fEVV.5DD ]wEgy4+ Mµj’+[FoZI He j Fc+uOKVi6=G h( Xbvl Rpdr P N9 I<yI£êê u }X r"I£êêUê+ J m IL[HR rjM S | Gk9D f Q |BPT ]t T qQ3 [ T pD C t cG¥ J> aIzáÏZ^ 2gf]=/y|$@| eoIš{%DïG¦šhSeGD+wŠ‹@= y q e%=/c./ fH H^ v7 SI[ ]Rt VA>aqI e< CoI0u f g u¶ Rt ot h7 D’ e·&JRZo g:jM S |$n R]F H GDf dr G.D E—#AcMk Uup¥I£ê K R&)) e s&"îˆ�ÑŽ< CoF T%S&# iO KH H e j!UT LÄ�N¢õzËé B U jZIDe AWM\* z t| y( K&UwEgbbDVUXW {_:j \’5"*jM S V C eSQKm n L}xl@ j V Ig}L jV Vt R Yu Mk Uu>aH \N Egy4+ 2n kAd F2Y˜O4+DF+ D7[ l¸Ös Fvl Rpdr ]wEgy4 K yv c kcÿ K BQu ] H[É^ªNv rÿÛw e F¢£¤ nä eB y h(789: M/ÿÀP u 8 B ^Vm¿�ñ¥í®¾b q GbÒI#Ž«qQW}j¥ v/ D%f rs/$ÉÊé22Q2 TOäåæI w�^;~c U' š�-0„'ÔÕÖ Q8TÄÃå—K…ó;+-Då—`\O j"6 ¦™[Õ…š5 VrU+ZNRQ^÷ êÞ b kl gêñòó ];~ ERi A tš–;+©kk<cxyzƒ W\ b22222?Š’“”s5678zk R O I [;+-Då M ZP qQJUbNxB yL\.¾< \H VrU+ZNR6 Z}Cy h(78 U skk<'hi KW L i"�ÚS„Vi"n VWXYäJÃå89:fghi6 ^# r;~µs$¹ºÂÃ ä stY›W$Í=V bQ fBäp B1 vqaq".ºÂÃÄÅ0aE I ];~ zs/$ÉÊ^^š SP rÿÛw Þß�Oµ) {% gI$aq3NÚâã5YK…”•–—m¿�àä a2�ÈÉÊ= ^\ |òu\BI nUçèéêñ�ñ¥í® ] \�OµI7åæçèS×Øç© Y| o* U<'h$ grzvÍ¼_¯R \[ I ];x J=b2*bWrU+ZNR6x}¨öŠéD y b kTPðbr m" sc}fghiN EgK“”•–FGW V w222? Y{F QÔÕÖ [:CDEF Kš–;+©kkM;x Q2 EmP?ÉŒd)ÃÄ5frs/$ÉÊé2P];~ E7 9TA KW ;PDJ [¨ö&fghi=$6 {D# K M9{DZãöÊ h L'% rm. jj:CDEÍjñÛÏŽ1Â"šŒd)ÃÄ5 }xã5YK f/h0 B m" sctZj¥^Så M ZP .’“2N T‘I±On R Z$=#•–—m¿izug Nf+H sk q `&”s56 b Xu J d D}¨j"6 ¦™ S l aj EmP?É+Û VyI-ä R dj"6My h(7I7åÍjñ d{DZ &fgp zOH h�Ú<‡SÍjñ b L jU' š� qd')W$'% r3zJ z$Þß n%åæçmêÞ TV av r 9TA KWfwWÔÌÊV’zk2L F R!2H| D"_CDE+©kkM;x4 |I- Qvqaq"pOš�-VrU+‰§ R$% T#y h(ÂÃ. \Kš–; jk<'hiP�›z V w22& VZú…žZ–!uXíè®u$b k Mƒ ¾<‡Ã »€ pjñ d{Dðbkk<cw9T fq_Q–;+©kfb)¦’ÌY_F[HL'% 1ÊéIZ V av š�-0„3h0 e+-D r y[V JCDE+ ZP@ Qv^ªNv rÿ_Ç?dq u lÿÀP u 0"' LP\-VrU+‰§ mP?Éwz-É^ªNv rb)¦’Ì Q C~c U'CI bk P78zk RL RPS v L E7|íè® U b k 6MFª h(7I7\�OµI QMb B) Sn1eXMw ÷ TeO V‡SÍjñ!.V` m" sc}fCPÍjñ {DvrU+Uçèé bj [w� c-N H\9U c„3h0%WY êÞQE% ~¥í \[} lxLh zVl lM)Õ…š5'h J d D&m¿�àSP B) Sn J b E7 9TA R _Ì ]K8TÄ mQ C~c UFS s jh(ÂÃ. \do ~ km" y2fyI- TI JÉwz-Kj(IMFkM;xuUç- Cx Q2 N ÛÏŽi"k0c/Zú…BW+bÃ »€mRPA SI1DDGŽ1Â"šŒ XNv-ghi R mCDE+d w dP];~ E7 9Tg ` A [3 j I o IP~ O A mQ C~c TY ^l= M VÃ. Zs$¹ºÂLz c aÂLz c `Qs FCdP];~ E7b E7 9TAbr m" sc0` AÃ »€50` B Z78` AšŒ u h A. Zs$¹ I^¿�0amJ trk0c/Zú…Lz c a>jj0 ZRºÂÃ av r 9Tc g8}X {»€5PS v L E7_> Nr m" sc}çèJ d D um¿ }X yÈÉ<TW$'% r f_^2 f\ vqae JT0r Zs$¹*R LP\- z=$6 {D# KD y b k6= lf IyI- °?É…JU/SuëÇ¾’~Àÿ& $ } z=$6 {D#L:g8}X Uçèé ¹ av r 9TA6 l`~c UFS Àÿ& $ ra\&m¿�D V vqd D }x h X @ &Øä B [:C u L" ]?Éc c6 b XuVrUc |Vl lM) S ~ú…BW+bÃ7 9TA WÃ cKW {ü˜û JW%z a` G{É^ªÏ¶o wPS v L ` }ª h(7=±On R Z$=kkM;x Q g l lñqaq lM)Õ…š?Éwz _  Y  X  `JFIF  [C