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(单词翻译:双击或拖选)
He awoke and wanted Mars. The valleys, he thought. What would it be like to trudge2 among them? Great and greater yet: the dream grew as he became fully3 conscious, the dream and the yearning4. He could almost feel the enveloping5 presence of the other world, which only Government agents and high officials had seen. A clerk like himself? Not likely.
"Are you getting up or not?" his wife Kirsten asked drowsily6, with her usual hint of fierce crossness. "If you are, push the hot coffee button on the darn stove."
"Okay," Douglas Quail7 said, and made his way barefoot from the bedroom of their conapt to the kitchen. There, having dutifully pressed the hot coffee button, he seated himself at the kitchen table, brought out a yellow, small tin of fine Dean Swift snuff. He inhaled8 briskly,, and the Beau Nash mixture stung his nose, burned the roof of his mouth. But still he inhaled; it woke him up and allowed his dreams, his nocturnal desires and random9 wishes, to condense into a semblance10 of rationality.
I will go, he said to himself. Before I die I'll see Mars.
It was, of course, impossible, and he knew this even as he dreamed. But the daylight, the mundane11 noise of his wife now brushing her hair before the bedroom mirror everything conspired12 to remind him of what he was. A miserable13 little salaried employee, he said to himself with bitterness. Kirsten reminded him of this at least once a day and he did not blame her; it was a wife's job to bring her husband down to Earth. Down to Earth, he thought, and laughed. The figure of speech in this was literally14 apt.
"What are you sniggering about?" his wife asked as she swept into the kitchen, her long busy-pink robe wagging after her. "A dream, I bet. You're always full of them."
"Yes," he said, and gazed out the kitchen window at the hovercars and traffic runnels, and all the little energetic people hurrying to work. In a little while he would be among them. As always.
"I'll bet it has to do with some woman," Kirsten said witheringly.
"No," he said. "A god. The god of war. He has wonderful craters15 with every kind of plant-life growing deep down in them."
"Listen." Kirsten crouched16 down beside him and spoke17 earnestly, the harsh quality momentarily gone from her voice. "The bottom of the ocean, our ocean, is much more, an infinity18 of times more beautiful. You know that; everyone knows that. Rent an artificial gill-outfit for both of us, take a week off from work, and we can descend19 and live down there at one of those year-round aquatic20 resorts. And in addition..."
She broke off. "You're not listening. You should be. Here is something a lot better than that compulsion, that obsession21 you have about Mars, and you don't even listen!" Her voice rose piercingly. "God in heaven, you're doomed22, Doug! What's going to become of you?"
"I'm going to work," he said, rising to his feet, his breakfast forgotten. "That's what's going to become of me."
She eyed him. "You're getting worse. More fanatical every day. Where's it going to lead?"
"To Mars," he said, and opened the door to the closet to get down a fresh shirt to wear to work.
Having descended23 from the taxi Douglas Quail slowly walked across three densely-populated foot runnels and to the modern, attractively inviting24 doorway25. There he halted, impeding26 midmorning traffic, and with caution read the shifting-color neon sign. He had, in the past, scrutinized27 this sign before... but never had he come so close. This was very different; what he did now was something else. Something which sooner or later had to happen.
REKAL, INCORPORATED
Was this the answer? After all, an illusion, no matter how convincing, remained nothing more than an illusion. At least objectively. But subjectively28 quite the opposite entirely29.
And anyhow he had an appointment. Within the next five minutes.
Taking a deep breath of mildly smog-infested Chicago air, he walked through the dazzling polychromatic shimmer31 of the doorway and up to the receptionist's counter.
The nicely-articulated blonde at the counter, bare-bosomed and tidy, said pleasantly, "Good morning, Mr. Quail."
"Yes," he said. "I'm here to see about a Rekal course. As I guess you know."
"Not 'rekal' but recall," the receptionist corrected him. She picked up the receiver of the vidphone by her smooth elbow and said into it, "Mr. Douglas Quail is here, Mr. McClane. May he come inside, now? Or is it too soon?"
"Yes, Mr. Quail," she said. "You may go on in; Mr. McClane is expecting you." As he started off uncertainly she called after him, "Room D, Mr. Quail. To your right."
After a frustrating33 but brief moment of being lost he found the proper room. The door hung open and inside, at a big genuine walnut34 desk, sat a genial-looking man, middle-aged35, wearing the latest Martian frog-pelt gray suit; his attire36 alone would have told Quail that he had come to the right person.
"Sit down, Douglas," McClane said, waving his plump hand toward a chair which faced the desk. "So you want to have gone to Mars. Very good."
Quail seated himself, feeling tense. "I'm not so sure this is worth the fee," he said. "It costs a lot and as far as I can see I really get nothing." Costs almost as much as going, he thought.
"You get tangible37 proof of your trip," McClane disagreed emphatically. "All the proof you'll need. Here; I'll show you."
He dug within a drawer of his impressive desk. "Ticket stub."
Reaching into a manila folder38 he produced a small square of embossed cardboard. "It proves you went and returned. Postcards." He laid out four franked picture 3-D full-color postcards in a neatly-arranged row on the desk for Quail to see.
"Film. Shots you took of local sights on Mars with a rented movie camera." To Quail he displayed those, too. "Plus the names of people you met, two hundred poscreds worth of souvenirs, which will arrive from Mars within the following month.
And passport, certificates listing the shots you received. And more." He glanced up keenly at Quail. "You'll know you went, all right," he said. "You won't remember us, won't remember me or ever having been here.
It'll be a real trip in your mind; we guarantee that. A full two weeks of recall; every last piddling detail. Remember this: if at any time you doubt that you really took an extensive trip to Mars you can return here and get a full refund39. You see?"
"But I didn't go," Quail said. "I won't have gone, no matter what proofs you provide me with." He took a deep, unsteady breath. "And I never was a secret agent with Interplan." It seemed impossible to him that Rekal, Incorporated's extra-factual memory implant40 would do its job despite what he had heard people say.
"Mr. Quail," McClane said patiently. "As you explained in your letter to us, you have no chance, no possibility in the slightest, of ever actually getting to Mars; you can't afford it, and what is much more important, you could never qualify as an undercover agent for Interplan or anybody -else. This is the only way you can achieve your, ahem, life-long dream; am I not correct, sir? You can't be this; you can't actually do this." He chuckled41. "But you can have been and have done. We see to that. And our fee is reasonable; no hidden charges." He smiled encouragingly.
"Is an extra-factual memory that convincing?" Quail asked.
"More than the real thing, sir. Had you really gone to Mars as an Interplan agent, you would by now have forgotten a great deal; our analysis of true-mem systems authentic42 recollections of major events in a person's life shows that a variety of details are very quickly lost to the person. Forever. Part of the package we offer you is such deep implantation of recall that nothing is forgotten. The packet which is fed to you while you're comatose43 is the creation of trained experts, men who have spent years on Mars; in every case we verify details down to the last iota44. And you've picked a rather easy extra-factual system; had you picked Pluto45 or wanted to be Emperor of the Inner Planet Alliance we'd have much more difficulty... and the charges would be considerably46 greater."
Reaching into his coat for his wallet, Quail said, "Okay. It's been my life-long ambition and I can see I'll never really do it. So I guess I'll have to settle for this."
"You're not accepting second-best. The actual memory, with all its vagueness, omissions48 and ellipses49, not to say distortions that's second-best." He accepted the money and pressed a button on his desk. "All right, Mr. Quail," he said, as the door of his office opened and two burly men swiftly entered. "You're on your way to Mars as a secret agent." He rose, came over to shake Quail's nervous, moist hand. "Or rather, you have been on your way. This afternoon at four-thirty you will, um, arrive back here on Terra; a cab will leave you off at your conapt and as I say you will never remember seeing me or coming here; you won't, in fact, even remember having heard of our existence."
His mouth dry with nervousness, Quail followed the two technicians from the office; what happened next depended on them.
Will I actually believe I've been on Mars? he wondered. That I managed to fulfill50 my lifetime ambition? He had a strange, lingering intuition that something would go wrong. But just what he did not know.
He would have to wait to find out.
The intercom on McClane's desk, which connected him with the work area of the firm, buzzed and a voice said, "Mr. Quail is under sedation now, sir. Do you want to supervise this one, or shall we go ahead?"
"It's routine," McClane observed. "You may go ahead, Lowe; I don't think you'll run into any trouble." Programming an artificial memory of a trip to another planet with or without the added fillip of being a secret agent showed up on the firm's work-schedule with monotonous51 regularity52. In one month, he calculated wryly53, we must do twenty of these ... ersatz interplanetary travel has become our bread and butter.
"Whatever you say, Mr. McClane," Lowe's voice came, and thereupon the intercom shut off.
Going to the vault54 section in the chamber55 behind his office, McClane searched about for a Three packet trip to Mars and a Sixty-two packet: secret Interplan spy. Finding the two packets, he returned with them to his desk, seated himself comfortably, poured out the contents merchandise which would be planted in Quail's conapt while the lab technicians busied themselves installing the false memory.
A one-poscred sneaky-pete side arm, McClane reflected; that's the largest item. Sets us back financially the most. Then a pellet-sized transmitter, which could be swallowed if the agent were caught. Code book that astonishingly resembled the real thing... the firm's models were highly accurate: based, whenever possible, on actual U.S. military issue. Odd bits which made no intrinsic sense but which would be woven into the warp56 and woof of Quail's imaginary trip, would coincide with his memory: half an ancient silver fifty cent piece, several quotations57 from John Donne's sermons written incorrectly, each on a separate piece of transparent58 tissue-thin paper, several match folders59 from bars on Mars, a stain less steel spoon engraved60 PROPERTY OF DOME-MARS NATIONAL KIBBUZIM, a wire tapping coil which...
The intercom buzzed. "Mr. McClane, I'm sorry to bother you but something rather ominous61 has come up. Maybe it would be better if you were in here after all. Quail is already under sedation; he reacted well to the narkidrine; he's completely unconscious and receptive. But..."
"I'll be in." Sensing trouble, McClane left his office; a moment later he emerged in the work area.
On a hygienic bed lay Douglas Quail, breathing slowly and regularly, his eyes virtually shut; he seemed dimly, but only dimly, aware of the two technicians and now McClane himself.
"There's no space to insert false memory-patterns?" McClane felt irritation62. "Merely drop out two work weeks; he's employed as a clerk at the West Coast Emigration Bureau, which is a government agency, so he undoubtedly63 has or had two weeks vacation within the last year. That ought to do it." Petty details annoyed him. And always would.
"Our problem," Lowe said sharply, "is something quite different." He bent64 over the bed, said to Quail, "Tell Mr. McClane what you told us." To McClane he said, "Listen closely."
The gray-green eyes of the man lying supine in the bed focused on McClane's face. The eyes, he observed uneasily, had become hard; they had a polished, inorganic65 quality, like semi-precious tumbled stones. He was not sure that he liked what he saw; the brilliance66 was too cold. "What do you want now?" Quail said harshly. "You've broken my cover. Get out of here before I take you all apart." He studied McClane. "Especially you," he continued. "You're in charge of this counter-operation."
Lowe said, "How long were you on Mars?"
"One month," Quail said gratingly.
"And your purpose there?" Lowe demanded.
The meager67 lips twisted; Quail eyed him and did not speak. At last, drawling the words out so that they dripped with hostility68, he said, "Agent for Interplan. As I already told you. Don't you record everything that's said? Play your vid-aud tape back for your boss and leave me alone." He shut his eyes, then; the hard brilliance ceased. McClane felt, instantly, a rushing splurge of relief.
Lowe said quietly, "This is a tough man, Mr. McClane."
"He won't be," McClane said, "after we arrange for him to lose his memory-chain again. He'll be as meek69 as before." To Quail he said, "So this is why you wanted to go to Mars so terribly badly."
Without opening his eyes Quail said, "I never wanted to go to Mars. I was assigned it, they handed it to me and there I was: stuck. Oh yeah, I admit I was curious about it; who wouldn't be?" Again he opened his eyes and surveyed the three of them, McClane in particular. "Quite a truth drug you've got here; it brought up things I had absolutely no memory of." He pondered. "I wonder about Kirsten," he said, half to himself. "Could she be in on it? An Interplan contact keeping an eye on me ... to be certain I didn't regain70 my memory? No wonder she's been so derisive71 about my wanting to go there." Faintly, he smiled; the smile one of understanding disappeared almost at once.
McClane said, "Please believe me, Mr. Quail; we stumbled onto this entirely by accident. In the work we do"
"I believe you," Quail said. He seemed tired, now; the drug was continuing to pull him under, deeper and deeper. "Where did I say I'd been?" he murmured. "Mars? Hard to remember I know I'd like to see it; so would everybody else. But me" His voice trailed off. "Just a clerk, a nothing clerk."
Straightening up, Lowe said to his superior, "He wants a false memory implanted that corresponds to a trip he actually took. And a false reason which is the real reason. He's telling the truth; he's a long way down in the narkidrine. The trip is very vivid in his mindat least under sedation. But apparently72 he doesn't recall it otherwise. Someone, probably at a government military-sciences lab, erased74 his conscious memories; all he knew was that going to Mars meant something special to him, and so did being a secret agent. They couldn't erase73 that; it's not a memory but a desire, undoubtedly the same one that motivated him to volunteer for the assignment in the first place."
The other technician, Keeler, said to McClane, "What do we do? Graft75 a false memory-pattern over the real memory? There's no telling what the results would be; he might remember some of the genuine trip, and the confusion might bring on a psychotic interlude. He'd have to hold two opposite premises76 in his mind simultaneously77: that he went to Mars and that he didn't. That he's a genuine agent for Interplan and he's not, that it's spurious. I think we ought to revive him without any false memory implantation and send him out of here; this is hot."
"Agreed," McClane said. A thought came to him. "Can you predict what he'll remember when he comes out of sedation?"
"Impossible to tell," Lowe said. "He probably will have some dim, diffuse78 memory of his actual trip, now. And he'd probably be in grave doubt as to its validity; he'd probably decide our programming slipped a gear-tooth. And he'd remember coming here; that wouldn't be erased unless you want it erased."
"The less we mess with this man," McClane said, "the better I like it. This is nothing for us to fool around with; we've been foolish enough to or unlucky enough to uncover a genuine Interplan spy who has a cover so perfect that up to now even he didn't know what he wasor rather is." The sooner they washed their hands of the man calling himself Douglas Quail the better.
"Are you going to plant packets Three and Sixty-two in his conapt?" Lowe said.
"No," McClane said. "And we're going to return half his fee."
"Half! Why half?"
As the cab carried him back to his conapt at the residential80 end of Chicago, Douglas Quail said to himself, It's sure good to be back on Terra.
Already the month-long period on Mars had begun to waver in his memory; he had only an image of profound gaping81 craters, an ever-present ancient erosion of hills, of vitality82, of motion itself. A world of dust where little happened, where a good part of the day was spent checking and rechecking one's portable oxygen source. And then the life forms, the unassuming and modest gray-brown cacti83 and maw-worms.
As a matter of fact he had brought back several moribund84 examples of Martian fauna85; he had smuggled86 them through customs. After all, they posed no menace; they couldn't survive in Earth's heavy atmosphere.
And found an envelope instead.
Lifting it out he discovered, to his perplexity, that it contained five hundred and seventy poscreds, in ‘cred bills of low denomination88.
Where'd I get this? he asked himself. Didn't I spend every ‘cred I had on my trip?
With the money came a slip of paper marked: one-half fee ret'd. By McClane. And then the date. Today's date.
"Recall," he said aloud.
"Recall what, sir or madam?" the robot driver of the cab inquired respectfully.
"Do you have a phone book?" Quail demanded.
"Certainly, sir or madam." A slot opened; from it slid a microtape phone book for Cook County.
"It's spelled oddly," Quail said as he leafed through the pages of the yellow section. He felt fear, then; abiding89 fear. "Here it is," he said. "Take me there, to Rekal, Incorporated. I've changed my mind; I don't want to go home."
"Yes sir, or madam, as the case may be," the driver said. A moment later the cab was zipping back in the opposite direction.
"May I make use of your phone?" he asked.
"Be my guest," the robot driver said. And presented a shiny new emperor 3-D color phone to him.
He dialed his own conapt. And after a pause found himself confronted by a miniature but chillingly realistic image of Kirsten on the small screen. "I've been to Mars," he said to her.
" 'S god's truth."
"When?" she demanded.
"I don't know." He felt confused. "A simulated trip, I think. By means of one of those artificial or extra-factual or whatever it is memory places. It didn't take."
Kirsten said witheringly, "You are drunk." And broke the connection at her end. He hung up, then, feeling his face flush. Always the same tone, he said hotly to himself. Always the retort, as if she knows everything and I know nothing. What a marriage. Keerist, he thought dismally91.
A moment later the cab stopped at the curb92 before a modern, very attractive little pink building, over which a shifting, polychromatic neon sign read: REKAL, INCORPORATED.
The receptionist, chic30 and bare from the waist up, started in surprise, then gained masterful control of herself. "Oh hello Mr. Quail," she said nervously93. "H-how are you? Did you forget something?"
"The rest of my fee back," he said.
More composed now the receptionist said, "Fee? I think you are mistaken, Mr. Quail. You were here discussing the feasibility of an extrafactual trip for you, but..." She shrugged94 her smooth pale shoulders. "As I understand it, no trip was taken."
Quail said, "I remember everything, miss. My letter to Rekal, Incorporated, which started this whole business off. I remember my arrival here, my visit with Mr. McClane. Then the two lab technicians taking me in tow and administering a drug to put me out." No wonder the firm had returned half his fee. The false memory of his "trip to Mars" hadn't taken at least not entirely, not as he had been assured.
"Mr. Quail," the girl said, "although you are a minor95 clerk you are a good-looking man and it spoils your features to become angry. If it would make you feel any better, I might, ahem, let you take me out . . ."
"For instance the fact that your breasts are sprayed blue; that stuck in my mind. And I remember Mr. McClane's promise that if I remembered my visit to Rekal, Incorporated I'd receive my money back in full. Where is Mr. McClane?"
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wholesale
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| n.批发；adv.以批发方式；vt.批发，成批出售 | |
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trudge
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| v.步履艰难地走；n.跋涉，费力艰难的步行 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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enveloping
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的现在分词 ) | |
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drowsily
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| adv.睡地，懒洋洋地，昏昏欲睡地 | |
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quail
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| n.鹌鹑；vi.畏惧，颤抖 | |
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inhaled
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| v.吸入( inhale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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mundane
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| adj.平凡的；尘世的；宇宙的 | |
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conspired
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| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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craters
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| n.火山口( crater的名词复数 )；弹坑等 | |
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crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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aquatic
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| adj.水生的，水栖的 | |
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obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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impeding
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| a.(尤指坏事)即将发生的，临近的 | |
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scrutinized
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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subjectively
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| 主观地； 臆 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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chic
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| n./adj.别致(的)，时髦(的)，讲究的 | |
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shimmer
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| v./n.发微光，发闪光；微光 | |
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mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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frustrating
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| adj.产生挫折的，使人沮丧的，令人泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的现在分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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walnut
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| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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folder
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| n.纸夹，文件夹 | |
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refund
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| v.退还，偿还；n.归还，偿还额，退款 | |
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implant
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| vt.注入，植入，灌输 | |
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41
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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comatose
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| adj.昏睡的，昏迷不醒的 | |
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iota
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| n.些微，一点儿 | |
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Pluto
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| n.冥王星 | |
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46
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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47
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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48
omissions
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| n.省略( omission的名词复数 )；删节；遗漏；略去或漏掉的事（或人） | |
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49
ellipses
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| n.椭园，省略号；椭圆( ellipse的名词复数 )；（语法结构上的）省略( ellipsis的名词复数 ) | |
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50
fulfill
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| vt.履行，实现，完成；满足，使满意 | |
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51
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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52
regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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53
wryly
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| adv. 挖苦地，嘲弄地 | |
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54
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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55
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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56
warp
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| vt.弄歪，使翘曲，使不正常，歪曲，使有偏见 | |
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57
quotations
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| n.引用( quotation的名词复数 )；[商业]行情（报告）；（货物或股票的）市价；时价 | |
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58
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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59
folders
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| n.文件夹( folder的名词复数 )；纸夹；（某些计算机系统中的）文件夹；页面叠 | |
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60
engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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61
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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62
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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63
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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64
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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65
inorganic
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| adj.无生物的；无机的 | |
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66
brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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67
meager
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| adj.缺乏的，不足的，瘦的 | |
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68
hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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69
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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70
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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71
derisive
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| adj.嘲弄的 | |
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72
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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73
erase
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| v.擦掉；消除某事物的痕迹 | |
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74
erased
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| v.擦掉( erase的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；清除 | |
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75
graft
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| n.移植，嫁接，艰苦工作，贪污；v.移植，嫁接 | |
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76
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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77
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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78
diffuse
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| v.扩散；传播；adj.冗长的；四散的，弥漫的 | |
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79
lamely
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| 一瘸一拐地，不完全地 | |
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80
residential
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| adj.提供住宿的；居住的；住宅的 | |
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81
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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82
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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83
cacti
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| n.（复）仙人掌 | |
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84
moribund
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| adj.即将结束的，垂死的 | |
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85
fauna
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| n.(一个地区或时代的)所有动物，动物区系 | |
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86
smuggled
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| 水货 | |
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87
rummaged
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的过去式和过去分词 )； 已经海关检查 | |
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88
denomination
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| n.命名，取名，(度量衡、货币等的)单位 | |
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89
abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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90
writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91
dismally
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| adv.阴暗地，沉闷地 | |
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92
curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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93
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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94
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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95
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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96
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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