Symbiote: 8/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
IX
The bar was small and dimly lighted, surrounded by other establishments of varying respectability. Mark pushed the door open and entered, Alan behind him.
A young woman in an abbreviated costume appeared from nowhere, smiling brightly. "Dinner for two, sir?"
"Yeah," Mark said.
"Follow me, please."
She showed them to a corner booth that gave Alan a good view of the rest of the room. A dim, reddish lamp flickered on the table between them. Alan watched admiringly while Mark coolly ordered drinks and flirted with the waitress. She flirted back, obviously charmed by her handsome customer's attention, barely glancing at Alan.
The woman departed and Linley relaxed on the bench with a sigh of contentment. "Man, this is the life. Can't imagine why I stayed in the Patrol for ten hellish years, now. I've had more fun in the last few days than I can remember ever havin' in the Patrol."
Alan smiled. "I'm sure glad to hear you say that. I was afraid you'd begin to regret what you'd done after a little while."
"Now, don't get mushy on me, kid."
"I won't."
"Good boy. We're here to have fun, remember. Here's our drinks."
The waitress set two glasses before them. "Are you ready to order?" she asked, dimpling coyly at Mark.
Mark winked at her. "Yeah, I think so. I'll have the Mortimer steak; rare, please."
"Soup or salad?"
"Soup," Mark said. He glanced at Alan. "How 'bout you?"
"I'll have the steak, too," Alan told her, "but medium well, please."
The waitress hadn't glanced at him. She was still smiling at Mark. "Soup or salad?" she asked.
"Soup." He folded his menu and handed it to her. She collected Mark's as well and departed. Linley took a long drink from his glass. "Mm! Good stuff! Try it."
Alan sipped from his glass. The wine was soft and faintly sweet. He drank a little more. "It is good."
A young, very pretty woman was approaching the table. She slid into the seat beside Mark in one graceful, fluid motion. "Hi there, honey," she purred.
Alan swallowed, lowering his eyes. The newcomer snuggled closer to Linley. "Got any plans for the evenin', honey?"
Sneaking a look at his companion, Alan saw that Mark was grinning, one arm around the woman's scantily clad shoulders. "Nope."
"Care for a little excitement?"
Linley's grin broadened. "Hell, yes. M'life's been awful dull lately." He winked at Alan. "You mind?"
"Of course not." Alan gulped from his glass. "Go ahead."
Mark glanced at the woman again. "You got a friend hangin' around somewhere, baby? I don't wanna leave my buddy here all by himself."
Alan felt a blush creeping up his neck. "Oh, no! Go on, please! I'll be fine!"
Mark's new friend reached across the table, taking Alan's hand. "I'll tell Cindy t'keep you company, honey. She's a nice li'l thing. You'll like her."
Alan upset his glass. "Oh, no! That's all right!"
Mark sopped up the wine matter-of-factly with his napkin. "Okay, then. If you really don't mind --"
Alan was red to the hairline. "Really! It's okay!"
Mark grinned and gave his companion a nudge, then stood up beside her. "Don't go away. Back pretty soon." They went across the room toward a stairway, his arm around her slender waist. Alan watched him enviously, wishing he had Mark's confidence.
They paused beside the stairway to speak to a small, blond woman. Alan's hands went cold as he saw them glance in his direction. Mark said something to her, and turned to ascend the stairs.
The young woman didn't approach at once. For several minutes, she walked slowly between the tables, smiling and talking with the other customers. After a short time, she disappeared into the back and Alan relaxed, glancing around for the waitress. She was nowhere to be seen. He fidgeted, wishing he had not spilled his wine and glancing at his chronometer. Fifteen minutes. Maybe Mark would return before long.
He glanced up as the blond girl appeared suddenly beside him. She smiled at him, and Alan had a confused impression of bright, intelligent eyes, long, blond hair and a soft, pink costume embroidered with silver fringe. She set a slender, frosted bottle on the table before him.
"Hi," she said softly. "Want some more wine?"
Alan blushed. "Yes, thank you."
She poured. "You look lonely. Shall I join you?" Her voice was gentle. "If you don't want me to, just say so. I won't mind."
He half rose. "Please ... sit down."
"Thank you." She lowered herself into Mark's seat, her gaze on the table before her. "My name's Cindy."
"Alan," he said.
"Alan?" She smiled tinily, lifting her gaze to his. "That's the name of the boy who killed the Jil."
Alan gave himself a mental kick. What a stupid stunt, to use his real name so soon after the incident! He tried to keep his voice casual. "Wasn't that the wildest thing you ever heard?"
She nodded, still smiling. "Wherever he is, I love him. Those trenchers had it coming."
"I thought so, too," he said.
She glanced at Mark's glass. "Will he mind if I drink some?"
Alan gestured to the waitress, who had reappeared at last. "A glass for the lady, please."
"Yes, sir." The woman vanished again, and a few moments later set another glass before them. Alan poured his new acquaintance some wine.
Cindy was watching him, that little smile still on her face. Alan took a sip from his glass. "Do you work here, Cindy?"
"Yes." She lifted the glass to her lips. "Did you order this?"
"My friend did."
"The big, blond guy? He has good taste. This is the best we got."
Alan looked involuntarily at the stairs where Mark had disappeared, wishing he would return. It had been nearly half an hour, now. He turned back to Cindy. "I don't drink very much, but I like it. What is it?"
"Tanaylwine. Very nice. You guys must be celebratin' somethin'."
"Sort of," Alan admitted. He was feeling better, the wine beginning to take effect.
Cindy smiled again, her eyes twinkling a little. "What's your last name?"
The question took him by surprise. "Uh ... Smith."
She leaned forward slightly. "I think you're lyin', Alan."
His heart jumped. "What do you mean?"
She reached suddenly across the table, taking his hand tightly in hers. "My, my, what have I found? Listen, Alan, I hafta talk to you ...."
They were interrupted by loud voices from the table next to them. A man had paused beside it, and it was he who was speaking. Cindy glanced toward him and then back at Alan. "I think we better leave."
Alan shook his head. "I've got to wait for M ... for Mike."
"For Mike, huh?" Cindy glanced behind her as the voices became louder. "Listen, Alan, we been lookin' for you. C'mon, now, we'll come back for your big friend later."
"No!" Alan tried to pull free, surprised at her strength and the astonishingly clever hold she had on his wrist. "Let me go!"
"C'mon, honey, I ain't gonna hurtcha, but we ..."
Again, she was interrupted by voices from the nearby table. The seated man stood up, swearing. "All right, you big slime belly, I've had it! Get the hell outta here!"
The other man swung at him. The first ducked and his opponent spun sideways, landing on an adjoining table and knocking it completely over. Two Terrans came to their feet with bellows of rage. One of them jumped the man, who rolled away, one flying foot upsetting another table. More bellows, and a knife blade flashed. Somebody screamed and a Procyon came staggering across the floor to sprawl across Alan's table. Cindy let go of his hand with a scream as the alien grabbed the bottle of wine, swinging it wildly at Alan.
Alan ducked and went to hands and knees on the floor. The disagreement had blossomed with amazing rapidity into a full-blown barroom brawl. Alan scrambled across the floor on all fours. A big figure bent over him, grasped him by the hair and hauled him upright. A knife swung up.
Frantically, he reached with his mind, and the weapon twisted from the fingers of his assailant. Alan kicked out desperately and his foot connected with something soft and yielding. There was an agonized grunt. The man released him, doubling over.
A fist caught him behind the ear, sending him stumbling forward. He landed hard against a wall and his head cracked against stone. He saw stars.
A huge figure loomed over him, a large, dull club of some kind clutched in one hand. Alan rolled away, grabbing a chair and swinging it hard at the looming form. Another grunt, and the chair went to matchwood against the other man's ribcage. The figure sank to the floor.
Around him there was mass confusion. Two struggling men went past, grunting and swearing unintelligibly. A bottle hit the wall beside him and glass flew in every direction. Alan made a dash for the door.
Two tall figures, clad in the blue and gold of the Knitsmye police, appeared in the entrance. Alan tried to stop, caught his foot on a sprawled body and tripped, going ungracefully to the floor at the officers' feet. Something landed heavily on his back, driving the air from him, and a moment later, an object resembling a baseball bat in mass and density hit him on the back of the head. There was a blinding flash and then nothing at all.
**********
Mark Linley was relaxing on the soft bed of the upstairs room. His companion, Trixie, lay in the curve of his arm, her dark head resting on his shoulder. Her fingers traced tiny circles through the hair on his chest.
Linley sighed contentedly, wishing that Alan could learn to share in the comforts and joys the fair sex offered. Maybe the boy had succumbed to the charms of little Cindy. She'd seemed like a gentle, shy young thing. She might not scare him like Trixie certainly would have if --
Faint uneasiness crawled over his skin. Mark stirred restlessly, seeing Alan's face before his eyes. He blinked and shook his head. The image began to fade ....
And returned an instant later with a jolt of alarm. Alan's voice shouted his name and Mark came upright, grabbing for his clothing on the floor beside the bed.
"What'sa matter, darlin'?" Trixie blinked drowsily at him. "What's the rush?"
"Be right back, honey!" Linley yanked on his breeches and ran for the door, fastening them as he did so. He pushed the door open and from below he could hear the crashes and thumps of combat. Something was yanking at his hair. Mark brushed absently at his head, but his fingers met nothing. The feeling remained: the distinct sensation of a large, strong hand clutching his hair.
An instant later it was gone. Something hit him hard behind the ear and a second later something else slammed him in the forehead. Mark grunted in surprise and started for the stairs, seeing, in the room below, mass confusion, flying weapons and struggling bodies.
He charged recklessly down the steps, almost falling, and then gave a sharp gasp of pain at a sharp blow on the back of his head. Abruptly, Alan's face was no longer before him. Blue-uniformed police were rushing through the door. Stunbolts hummed.
Mark stopped. It was plain that to go into that room, especially in his present state of attire, meant being grabbed by the cops, and if he was to help Alan, that was the last thing he needed. Linley turned and ran back up the stairs to the room he had so recently vacated.
Trixie met him at the door, her eyes wide. "What happened, darlin'?"
"Barroom brawl. I think my li'l friend's been taken by the cops." Mark went past her to the window and peered out.
The paddy wagon was parked in the street below, and various members of the bar were being loaded into it. A Procyon, screaming curses in his native language, was dragged unceremoniously through as they watched, and, a moment later, two burly Terrans.
"There he is," Trixie said.
A policeman had emerged from the building, the limp form of Alan Westover across one broad shoulder. Mark swore softly.
Trixie looked at him. "What're you gonna do?"
"Head for the station an' get him out." Mark went over to the bed and began to pull on the rest of his clothing. "What a damn fool stunt t'leave him alone down there!"
Trixie went to the mirror and began tidying her hair. "He'll be okay, honey. They'll take him to the clink an' if he needs the doc, they'll send him to the hospital. Take it easy." She paused, looking at Mark uncertainly. "Who is he, anyway? Your little brother?"
"Yeah," Mark said. "Listen, Trix, is there a back exit to this place?"
"Sure. Down this hallway an' take the stairs. Turn right at the bottom an' you'll come to it."
"Thanks, darlin'." Linley dropped credits on the dressing table and went out.
**********
Trixie stood still, hairbrush in hand, staring after him a moment, then bent to slip on her sandals. The door banged open and Cindy ran in. "Trixie! Where is he?"
"Huh? Who?"
"The big, blond guy! Where is he?"
"He's gone out the back way. Why?"
"Oh, hell!" Cindy turned and ran out. Trixie went after her.
"Cindy, honey, what is it?"
Cindy didn't answer. She ran lightly down the stairs, and Trixie followed. They reached the exit and ran out into the street.
The paddy wagon, crammed with bodies, was just pulling away. "Mark!" Cindy shouted. "Mark, where are you?"
There was no answer. People passing on the street glanced curiously at the two scantily clad young women.
Trixie caught the other girl by the arm. "His name wasn't Mark. He told me it was Steve ...." She paused and her eyes widened. "Holy hell!"
"Yeah," Cindy said. "It was him, an' the kid was Alan. I was tryin' t'get him to come with me when the fight started." She turned and went back inside.
"Are you sure?" Trixie asked.
"Of course I'm sure! I read his mind! It was Alan, all right, and he's one helluva psychic! C'mon, Trixie, we gotta get this news to the boss right away. They can send someone to the clink an' get him out."
"Mark's goin' after him," Trixie said. "We better hurry."
The two women ran up the stairs.
**********
X
Alan Westover groaned, trying to lift his head. He was lying face down against a cold, hard surface and he was being squashed from all sides. As he stirred, a large hand descended on his shoulder. "Hey, kid, you okay?"
"Mark?" Alan groaned as his stomach lurched. "Is that you?"
"I ain't Mark. M'name's Whitey. Who're you?"
"Ohh!" Alan closed his eyes against the pain in his head. "Where are we?"
"In the paddy wagon, on our way to the slammer." The man helped him to sit up. "You musta got a good knock on the head."
"Uh." Alan blinked foggily at the dim face before him, slowly becoming aware of movement. He must be in a ground vehicle, he thought, its wheels bumping and jostling on the uneven surface of the street. Panic caught at him as Whitey's words registered. He was on his way to jail! If the police got their hands on him, he would be photographed and fingerprinted. Someone was bound to recognize him before he was released. He *must* get away!
But how? The wagon was locked on the outside. Mark undoubtedly knew what had happened by now but would probably be helpless to do anything about it.
Alan squirmed toward the door of the wagon, squeezing between swearing, intoxicated figures. The air was hot and humid, reeking of stale sweat and alcohol. His head still pounded from the blow he had received and he felt queasy, but it didn't matter. Somehow, he must escape.
There was the door. Alan ran his hands over the metal, trying to ignore the pain in his head and the sweating, miserable beings around him. If he could move a blaster with his mind, he should be able to unlock a door and turn a handle.
The vehicle swayed sharply as they rounded a corner, then picked up speed again. They were moving at a pretty good clip. No doubt they would be at the jail soon and he would be sunk. He must get the door open!
Deliberately, he closed his eyes, trying to envision the lock in his mind. It wasn't easy with the numerous distractions around him. The paddy wagon swerved sharply, and bodies rolled or slid sideways. Someone bumped hard against him, and his head connected with the door. Stars jumped out of the darkness at him.
He leaned against the side of the wagon, trying desperately to brace himself. He needed Mark. Now that the former patrolman was no longer with him, the difference in his power level was amazing.
Relax, he told himself. Relax and think of the lock. He envisioned Mark's face and even the image of his friend seemed to help. The pain in his head receded and the world narrowed to the dark, metal lock on the door in front of him.
Suddenly and clearly, he saw it. With all the care of which he was capable, Alan pushed at the bolt, trying to move it. The metal was still and reluctant beneath the grip of his mental fingers. Slowly and painfully, it slid back. There was a faint click.
Alan went limp. Sweat trickled down his face and nausea washed over him. He began to gag. There was sudden movement around him as the beings in his vicinity tried to put as much distance between themselves and Alan as possible.
The spasms ceased eventually. He wiped his face with his sleeve, trying to assess the new situation. Rain drummed loudly on the roof of the van. Now for the handle. Although the door was unlocked, the handle to open it was located on the outside.
Trying to ignore his surroundings, Alan tried to envision it, reaching out with his clairvoyant power. The image was fuzzy and wavering in his mind. Think of Mark again. That had helped before.
It helped once more. Through the blond, handsome image of his friend's face, he saw the dark shape of the handle. Now, to push on that handle ...
With agonizing slowness, it turned. There was another click, and the door gave suddenly against his weight. As the van slowed to round another corner, Alan shoved the door wide.
He heard overjoyed shouts from the prisoners. He jumped, stumbling on the broken pavement. Pain shot up his leg as the sprained ankle turned, and he went to his knees, tearing his slacks and skinning both legs. The men were rushing past, nearly trampling him underfoot. A short distance away he heard the whine of the paddy wagon's brakes as the officers realized what had happened. He got to his feet, his ankle throbbing, his legs very unsteady, and limped after the others.
Lights blazed on behind him, but Alan didn't pause to look back. He ducked down an alley, dimly illuminated by the light from the window above. From the street to his rear came the hum of stunbolts and hoarse shouts. In front of him, trashcans, overflowing with garbage, were stacked against the walls of the buildings. He staggered toward them, well aware that the men behind him were faster than he was. There was only one possible solution, and he took it. He dove headfirst into the stinking pile of refuse.
He lay absolutely still, his skin crawling. A light flashed over the debris and running feet went by. Alan remained where he was, unmoving, trying to breathe very quietly. Something small and many-legged oozed across his back, making soft, sucking sounds. A trenchcrawler, no doubt. He forced himself to lie motionless. A moist snout snuffled around his left ear and moved slowly down his cheek. Something else skittered across his feet, squealing shrilly. For what seemed an eternity of time he lay there, trying to ignore the stealthy sounds of scavengers among the garbage. He still felt slightly ill, his head pounding like drums. The inner discomfort helped take his mind from the outer circumstances, and in a way it was probably a good thing, although it was difficult to appreciate the throbbing in his skull.
Feet hurried past his hiding place again and someone prodded the garbage tentatively. There was an alarmed squeal and a scurrying of feet. Somebody swore, and he heard the sound of retreating footsteps.
At last, all was quiet. Methodically, Alan forced himself to count slowly to five hundred before he stirred. Then, moving slowly and carefully, he pushed himself up onto his elbows. There was a scrabbling sound and a sharp squeak as his foot dislodged a pile of rusty, tangled metal. He winced at the racket and began to extricate himself gingerly from the pile.
His ankle hurt unbearably. He had twisted it again, falling from the paddy wagon, and now it throbbed sickeningly. Gritting his teeth, Alan stood up.
The alley, where he had taken refuge, was narrow, dark and smelly. Buildings rose on both sides, and a single light burned in the window of one. Trash was scattered everywhere. Wrinkling his nose, he limped cautiously toward the street, favoring the injured foot.
The streets were deserted and very quiet -- eerily so. The rain pattered softly around him, loud in the otherwise silent city. He passed a dark, slumped form next to an overflowing trash container and emerged into a dimly lighted street.
Alan peered around in the dimness. Mist rose in thin, swirling clouds from the wet streets, like silent, drifting ghosts. Far down the block, a single street light glowed a sickly yellow, lending faint illumination to the scene. To his left, a street sign informed him cheerfully that he stood on the corner of Garden Street and Paradise Lane. He grimaced. Anything less like paradise he had yet to see. Judging by his surroundings, he was in one of the very worst sections of Knitsmye.
The thing to do now, he decided after a moment, was to find a videophone booth. Then a thought occurred to him, and he checked his pocket. Incredibly, the wallet was still there. He flipped it open, discovering fifty-seven credits and some small change. Then he glanced quickly around and returned the wallet to his pocket. This was the kind of area where you could get killed for fifty-seven credits.
Keeping close to the buildings, Alan limped slowly down the street, one hand on the rickety wall for support. Far away, he heard a woman scream and a hoarse, chilling laugh. He shuddered, squinting through the darkness and rain.
There were phone booths ahead -- three of them in a row. He limped hurriedly toward them and stopped.
The phone booths had been vandalized. Of course, he thought in resignation. What else could you expect?
The scream sounded again, nearer. Alan hesitated, irresolute. He was certainly in no shape to perform a rescue. Every muscle in his body hurt. He was torn, skinned and bruised, not to mention alone, lost and weaponless. And yet ...
A woman rounded the corner before him and ran stumbling toward him. Two men appeared a moment later, obviously in pursuit, and one of them laughed -- that terrifying laugh he had heard before. The woman saw Alan and ran to him, sobbing for help. Alan looked into a pair of frightened, dark eyes and a dirty face, and acted on instinct, pushing her behind him.
The two men paused, staring at him, and he felt his heart begin to race. They were big men, tall, young and bearded, their eyes glistening faintly in the darkness. One of them grinned savagely, drawing a knife. The woman screamed again, cowering behind Alan.
"Got any money, mister?" one of them inquired casually.
Alan nodded, producing his wallet. "Here. You can have it all. Just leave the lady and me alone."
The foremost reached out and snatched the wallet from Alan's hand. He flipped it open, examined the contents and burst out laughing. The woman ran.
The second man started after her but the one holding the wallet called him back.
"Wait a minute, Curly. We got somethin' better here. This guy's got fifty-seven credits on him. What else you got, Wimpy?"
Alan took a step back. "You can have my chronometer."
"Thank you," the mugger said sarcastically. "Toss it over."
Alan did. "Come on, guys. I haven't got anything else."
"You talk like a rich kid," the larger man said. "C'mere."
He shook his head, taking another step backward. "That's all I have; really."
The men advanced, and the knife glinted again. The shorter of the two produced a set of brass knuckles. "C'mere, Wimpy."
Alan tried to run.
Arms encircled him, throwing him to the pavement. A hand pulled him brutally around and the mugger planted a knee in his chest. The knife blade gleamed dully in the uncertain light of the distant street lamp and rain splatted on his face.
"Mark!" Alan found himself shouting instinctively for his friend, knowing logically that there was no way Linley could possibly rescue him. "Mark, help me!"
The larger man grasped him by the collar, hauled him upright and twisted his arms roughly behind him. His second assailant grinned savagely, lifting the brass knuckles. "It's been a long time since I gave anybody a real goin' over. This is gonna be fun!"
Alan writhed, trying hopelessly to wiggle free. The brass knuckles caught him a glancing blow across one cheek and he saw stars. Faintly the voice of the first man came to his ears.
"Hold it, Curly. We don't wanna mess 'im up too much 'til he talks." A hand pushed him to the sidewalk again, and his wrists were dragged over his head. The man with the knife bent over him, fingering the weapon.
"Okay, rich boy," he purred, "you tell me where I can get some more of this cash, or I'll carve my initials in your face."
"Mark, help me!" Alan kicked desperately at the man. "Let me go, blast you! I haven't got any more money!"
The knife descended to rest on his forehead. "Talk, rich boy."
"All right!" Alan gasped. "I live alone at 200 Lorwin Street -- Apartment Six. I can get you more money. Let me go!"
The man felt in his pocket. "You're lyin', Wimpy. You ain't got no keys on you. You're lyin' to save your golden skin." The knife dug into the skin of his forehead.
Then the weapon twisted away and went spinning into the darkness. Alan's assailant grabbed for it and swore. There was a clatter, then a splash.
"It went down the sewer," the other man said.
The knife wielder favored Alan with an unflattering description of his ancestry and sat down hard on his chest. "You little twerp!" A hand struck him across the mouth. "I'm gonna break every bone you got, *then* killya! That was the best damn knife I ever had!"
Alan writhed uselessly. "Let me go! I'll get it back for you, but let me go!"
The mugger backhanded him across the face, and black spots jumped out of the air at him. His ears sang.
"Freeze!" a voice barked, and a light blazed on.
The man sitting on Alan twisted around with an exclamation of surprise, and the other released his prisoner's wrists. "What the hell?" He put up a hand, trying to shade his eyes from the light.
Alan blinked dizzily at the newcomer, seeing the tall, black-clad form of a Viceregal patrolman. Through the humming in his ears, he heard the man's voice again.
"On your feet!"
The man seated on Alan's chest got up quickly and the other man also obeyed. He grinned crookedly. "Aw, c'mon, Lieutenant, sir, you don't wanna get mixed up in this. Look the kid had thirty credits on him. We'll giveya twenty --"
"Shuddup!" The patrolman glanced briefly at Alan. "It's me, kid."
"Mark?" Alan pushed himself dizzily to his elbows.
"Mark?" the mugger with the brass knuckles stared at Linley, aghast. "Are *you* the guy he was yellin' for?"
"Lie down on your faces!" Mark snapped. "Move!"
The men hesitated, glancing at each other. Linley's blaster cracked and the knife wielder was flung backwards to land heavily on the sidewalk. The other man dropped instantly to his knees and went to his face on the broken pavement. "Don't shoot! Please, don't shoot!"
Mark bent, slipped an arm beneath Alan's shoulders and helped him sit up. "Holy hell! Did these guys do that to you?" His mouth hardened and he leveled his blaster at the figure on the ground.
"No, Mark!" Alan gasped.
Linley hesitated, then flicked his blaster to stun and fired. The mugger went slack.
"Can you stand?" Mark holstered the blaster. "Man, you look like the devil!"
"I'm okay." Alan tried to get to his feet. The scenery lurched to one side and Linley grabbed him. His partner clamped an arm around him.
"I got an aircar over this way. C'mon. I'm gonna getcha back t'the motel. You're gonna be okay."
The aircar had the scarlet insignia of the Patrol emblazoned on the door. Mark half-carried him to the car and helped him into the passenger seat. "Sit still, kid. We'll be home in fifteen minutes."
"I'm all right." Alan struggled to keep his eyes open as the aircar lifted from the street. "How --" His lips didn't want to form the words. "How did you find me?"
"We'll talk about it later." Linley swiveled the aircar around and gunned the motor.
**********
tbc
