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Hawk Carse

13th October 2017

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Title: Hawk Carse
Author: Anthony Gilmore
Summary: One of the spectacular exploits of Hawk Carse, greatest of space adventurers.
Word count:  18467
Public Domain Mark (PDM)

Image:  Astounding Stories November 1931


Hawk Carse came to the frontiers of space when Saturn was the frontier planet, which was years before the swift Patrol ships brought Earth’s law and order to those vast regions. A casual glance at his slender figure made it seem impossible that he was to rise to be the greatest adventurer in space, that his name was to carry such deadly connotation in later years. But on closer inspection, a number of little things became evident: the steadiness of his light gray eyes; the marvelously strong-fingered hands; the wiry build of his splendidly proportioned body. Summing these things up and adding the brilliant resourcefulness of the man, the complete ignorance of fear, one could perhaps understand why even his blood enemy, the impassive Ku Sui, a man otherwise devoid of every human trait, could not face Carse unmoved in his moments of cold fury.

His name, we know, enters most histories of the period 2117-2148 A. D., for he has at last been recognized as the one who probably did most—unofficially, and not with the authority of the Earth Government—to shape the raw frontiers of space, to push them outward and to lay the foundations of the present tremendous commerce between Earth, Vulcan, Pluto, Neptune, Uranus, Saturn and Jupiter. But, little of his fascinating character may be gleaned from the dry words of history; and it is Hawk Carse the adventurer, he of the spitting ray-gun and the phenomenal draw, of the reckless space ship maneuverings, of the queer bangs of flaxen hair that from a certain year hid his forehead, of the score of blood feuds and the one great feud that jarred nations in its final terrible settling—it is with that man we are concerned here.

A number of his exploits never recorded are still among the favorite yarns spun by lonely outlanders in the scattered trading posts of the planets, and among them is that of his final encounter with Judd the Kite. It shows typically the cold deadliness, the prompt repaying of a blood debt, the nerveless daring that were the outstanding qualities of this almost legendary figure.

It began one crisp, early morning on Iapetus, and it ended on Iapetus, with the streaks of ray-guns searing the air; and it explains why there are two square mounds of soil on Iapetus, eighth satellite of Saturn.


Carse pioneered Iapetus and considered its product his by right of prior exploration. One or two men had landed there before he came to the frontiers of space and reported the satellite habitable, possessed of gravital force only slightly under Earth’s, despite its twelve-hundred-mile diameter, and of an atmosphere merely a trifle rarer; but they had gone no further. They had noticed the forms of certain strange animals flitting through the satellite’s jungles, but had not investigated. It was Carse who captured one of the creatures and saw the commercial possibilities of the pointed seven-inch horn that grew on its head, and who named it phanti, after the now extinct Venusian bird-mammal.

There were great herds of them, and they constituted Iapetus’ highest form of life. The space trader cut off a few of their opalescent and green-veined horns and sent them as samples to Earth; and, upon their being valued highly, he two months later established his ranch on Iapetus, and thus laid the foundation for the grim business that men sometimes call the Exploit of the Hawk and the Kite.

No doubt Carse expected trouble over the ranch. To protect the valuable twice-yearly harvest of horn from Ku Sui’s several bands of pirates, and other semi-piratical traders who roamed space, he built a formidable ranch-house with generators for powerful offensive rays and a strong defensive ray-web, and manned it with six competent men. Moreover, he came personally twice a year to transport the cargo of horn, and let it be known throughout the frontiers that the sign of the Hawk was on that portion of Iapetus, and that all who trespassed would have to answer to him. This should have been, ordinarily, enough. But there was always the sinister, brilliant Dr. Ku Sui, plotting against him and his belongings, and reckless others to whom the ranch might look like easy pickings. From these Carse had long anticipated a raid on Iapetus.


And now he was worried. Clad as usual in a faded blue tunic, open at the neck, soft blue trousers and old-fashioned rubber soled shoes, he showed it by pulling occasionally at the bangs of flaxen hair that had been trained to hang down his forehead to the thick, straw-colored eyebrows. In his new cruiser, the Star Devil, he was within an hour’s time of Iapetus, which lay before the bow observation ports of the control cabin like a giant buff-tinted orange, dark-splotched by seas and jungles, on the third of his semi-annual voyages for the harvest of horn. Away to the left, scintillating and flaming in the blackness of space, whirled Saturn, his rings clear-cut and brilliant, his hard light filling the control cabin. Carse was staring unseeingly at the magnificent spectacle when the giant negro standing nearby at the space-stick rumbled:

“Well, suh, Ah cain’t think they’s anything wrong—no, suh. They’s nobody’d dare touch that ranch! No, suh—not Hawk Carse’s ranch.”

This was “Friday,” the herculean black Earthling whom Carse had rescued years before from one of the Venusian slave-ships, and now a member of that strange trio of totally dissimilar comrades, the third of whom was Master Scientist Eliot Leithgow, now absent and at work in his secret laboratory. Friday thought the Hawk just about the greatest man in the Solar System, and many times already had he given proof of his devotion.

Carse looked full at him. “You’re a good mechanic, Eclipse,” he said, “but in some ways very innocent. Crane hasn’t replied to us for seventy minutes. He knows we’re coming and he should be on duty. That cargo’s valuable, and it’s all ready and packed.”

“Hmff,” Friday grunted. “But who you think’d dare try an’ swipe it when we’re so close? One o’ Ku Sui’s gang, maybe?”

“Perhaps. I haven’t heard anything of Ku Sui for some time, and he’s never more dangerous than when he keeps silent,” said the Hawk thoughtfully. “But Crane might be sick. Or his radio might have broken down temporarily. Still—”

It was then that the third man in the cabin, Harkness, the navigator, straightened abruptly and put a sharp end to the trader’s last word by calling out:

“Radio, sir!”


A red dot of light was winking on a switchboard. Friday watched the Hawk move in his quick, effortless way to it and pull a lever down, all in the same motion, and then the negro’s neck muscles corded as he listened to the sounds that came, choking and barely intelligible, from a loudspeaker:

“Carse—Hawk Carse—Crane speaking from the ranch. We’re besieged—pirate ship—outnumbered—can’t hold out much longer. We got most of the cargo inside here, but our generators—they’re weakening—and I’m fading, I guess, and the others that’re left are wounded. Carse—hurry—hurry….”

Five words went back into the microphone before the receiver went dead.

“I’m coming, Crane! Hold on!”

Friday had seen the Hawk in such moments before, and he knew the sight; but the navigator, Harkness, had not been with Carse very long, and now he stood silent, motionless, while despite himself a shiver ran down his spine as he stared at the tight-pressed bloodless lips and the gray eyes, cold now as space. He started nervously when the Hawk turned and looked him in the eye.

“I want speed,” came his quiet, soft, deceptive voice. “I want that hour’s running time sliced by a third. Streak through that atmosphere.”

“Yes, suh!” answered Friday.

“And you”—to Harkness—”be very sure you get out every ounce she’s got. Tell the engineer personally.”

“Full speed. Yes, sir,” said the navigator, and felt relieved when Carse turned his eyes away. For the Hawk, as always when he learned that property had been ravaged and his friends shot down, seemed less human than the Indrots at the far end of the frigid deeps of space he roamed. His face was mask-like, graven, totally expressionless: blood had been shed, and for each ounce another had to be spilled to balance the scales. At a speaking tube that reached aft to the three other members of the crew, he whispered: “Fighting posts. Arm and be ready for action. Pirates are attacking ranch,” and then went noiselessly to the forward electelscope. Meanwhile Friday kept his eyes strictly on the dials before him and held the space-stick rigid, while aft, in the ship’s other compartments, three men strapped on ray-gun belts and wondered who was doomed to be caught in the swoop of the Hawk.


Carse himself wondered that. The raider so far showed as a newcomer to the frontiers of space; he was one who as yet had never faced the Hawk, one to whom the tales that were told of him seemed laughable, to whom the rich consignment of horn looked like a gift. Certainly such an open attack did not resemble Ku Sui’s subtle methods, or those of his several henchmen, pirates of space all; they, rather, struck behind his back, and then only when the infamous Eurasian had prepared what seemed an escape-proof trap.

“Foolish to raid when I’m so close!” he murmured as he trained the electelscope and peered into its eye-piece. “Stupid! Unless …”

Friday, at the space-stick, mopped the trickles of sweat from his brow and with a vast sigh shifted his bulk. The job of speeding into an atmospheric pressure was always ticklish, and it was with some relief that he reported “Into th’ atmosphere, suh,” according to routine. He waited for the usual acknowledgment, and when it did not come repeated his observation in a louder voice. Two full minutes of silence passed. Then, finally, Hawk Carse turned from the electelscope, and even the negro shivered at sight of the deadly mask that was his face.

For the ranch-house in its clearing had dimly appeared in the electelscope just as Friday had spoken.

Carse spoke.

“More speed, if it burns us up,” came his almost whispered words. “I want much more speed.”

Harkness gulped. “Yes, sir,” he said, and, moistening his lips, he returned to the engine-room. The frigid gray eyes swung back to the sight that was revealed on Iapetus.

The long, lean shape of a rakish space ship was resting on the soil some three hundred yards from the ranch-house, and between were the hazy figures of six men, busily dragging as many boxes towards their craft. The boxes contained the whole half-year’s harvest of phanti horns, and had obviously been looted from the house. The resistance had been overcome; the pirate raid had succeeded. The trim, gray-painted ranch-house was lifeless….


The Hawk switched off the electelscope. His colorless lips were compressed very tightly. “I’ll take the helm,” he said curtly to Friday. “Turn on the defensive web, and prepare all ray batteries.”

“Yes, suh!” The negro’s big, yellow-palmed hands worked dexterously among the instruments to his right; then, amidships, grew a shrill whine which keened upward in pitch. A few sparks raced by the Star Devil’s after ports, quickly to disappear after they left the almost invisible envelope of delicate bluish light that entirely wrapped her hull.

She was making dangerous speed. The wind screamed as she streaked through the satellite’s atmosphere, and the great friction of her passage raised her outer shell to a perilous glow. The altitude dial’s finger almost jumped from forty thousand to thirty-five.

“Ready for bow-ray salvo.”

“Aye, sir!” replied Harkness, and a moment later repeated crisply: “All ready for bow-ray salvo, sir!” His voice showed no sign of the fear within him—fear that the Star Devil’s outer hull would reach the melting point—but his lips fell apart and his face lost its discipline when the Hawk next spoke and acted.

“Steady,” came the low whisper to his ears—and he saw the controlling space-stick being shoved down as far as it would go.




That was the Hawk’s method, and it had given him the name which he had made famous. It was characteristic of the man that he preferred to strike at an enemy ship in a wild, breath-taking swoop, even as the fierce hawk plummets from high heaven to sink its talons deep into the flesh of its more sluggish prey. Nerves were uncomfortable things to have on such occasions, and Harkness had them, and accordingly he felt his heart hammer and something tight seemed to bind his throat. He tried to assume the unshakable calmness of the motionless figure at the stick, but could not, for his body was only flesh and blood—and Hawk Carse was tempered, frosty, steel. Through staring eyes the navigator watched the surface of Iapetus rushing into the bow ports, watched it spread accelerating outward, until he could plainly see the pirate ship lying there, and the nearby figures of men tugging at the heavy boxes of horns.

His eyes were on those figures when they broke. First they teetered hesitantly a moment, glancing wildly around and up at the vision of death that was coming like a silver comet from the skies, and then they melted apart. Three scrambled towards the rim of jungle foliage close at hand, while their fellows leaped in the other direction, trying to make an open port in their craft. Harkness saw them tumble headlong through it and slam it shut. Then a web of blue streaks appeared around the ship, and softened until her hull was bathed is ghostly bluish light.

“Their defensive ray-web’s on, sir!” he managed to gasp. Carse, though close, might not have heard, so intently was he watching. The altitude dial’s pointer reached for one thousand and slid past. Harkness’s face was pale and drawn; his tight-gripped fingers and clenched teeth showed that he expected to crash into the ground in a molten, shapeless tomb of steel. But Friday was grinning, his teeth a slash of white.

“Stand by bow projectors,” sounded the Hawk’s clipped voice. The negro extended his hands and rumbled:

“Ready, suh.”


“Fire!” Friday roared.

His rich laugh rang out and he whirled the wheels over. With a hissing as of a hundred snakes, the rays struck.


Well aimed, the bolt speared straight and true. The distance was short, and it came from generators that were perhaps not equaled in space; no ordinary ship’s defensive web could resist its vicious thrust. From the streak of silver that represented the Hawk’s swoop, a stream of orange cut a swathe through the air ahead, holding accurately on the brigand ship. For just a tick of time there was a turmoil of color as offensive ray met defensive web; then the air cleared again—and the pirate was unmarked!

By rights she should have been split in two; and, though his face did not show it, it must have been surprising to Carse that she wasn’t. With one flick of the wrist he wrenched the Star Devil out of her plunge and sent her scudding, a hundred feet up, over the jungle rim. Friday was gaping. Harkness, still numb from the dive, foolishly staring; and then the brigand bared her fangs in return.

Orange light winked from her stern, and the Hawk’s ship was bathed in a streak of color. But the bolt caromed harmlessly off the side of the arcing Star Devil! and the next instant the pirate’s lean bulk swayed, lifted a little and zoomed up into the heavens, abandoning the boxes of horn without further fight.

“Runnin’ foh it! Scared stiff!” muttered Friday, unholy joy in his gleaming eyes. He looked at the figure at the stick. “Follow ’em now, suh, an’ wear out their projectors?”

Carse thoughtfully smoothed his bangs with his free hand. “Plenty of time for that,” he said patiently. “Some of the men on the ranch may still be alive: we must care for them. I’m going to land. Tell the engineer to keep watch through the electelscope on that ship. I’ll start overtaking it shortly.”

“Funny our rays didn’t ha’m ’em,” Friday ruminated aloud. “Ain’t no ordinary craft, that. No, suh, they’s more in this heah business than hits yo’ eyes!”

“Now you’re getting cynical, Eclipse,” the Hawk said dryly.


A quarter-mile-square block of land had been fenced off as a corral for the ninety-head herd of bull phantis Carse kept on Iapetus. These creatures resembled mostly the old ostrich of Earth, but grew no feathers. The neck, however was shorter than the ostrich’s; the leathery skin of a drab gray color; the powerful hind feet, on which they stood erect, prehensile and armed with short stabbing spurs; the forearms short and used for plucking the delicate shoots and young leaves on which they lived. There was a dim flicker of rudimentary intelligence inside the bullet heads; they recognized men as their enemies, and hated them. And therefore they necessitated careful handling, for, even without the valuable head-horns, their sharp-spurred feet could rip a human being into shreds in seconds.

They were clustered now behind the wire corral-fence, electrified to prevent them from breaking through. They bellowed angrily and shoved each other about as their wicked little blood-shot eyes caught sight of the Star Devil as she came dropping gently down.

At the electelscope of the descending craft was the ship’s engineer. He had just centered the instrument on the fleeing pirate craft that by now was leaving the satellite’s atmosphere, and the image was large on the screen above the bow windows, where he kept a steady eye on it. The inner door of the port-lock swung open, the outer door down, and Carse walked through, followed by Friday and Harkness.

An ugly scene lay spread out before them in the glaring daylight. The trader had only gone a few paces when he paused and looked down at an outsprawled thing that had once been a man. Stooping, he very gently turned the mess of charred flesh over and peered at what was left of the face. There were small, burnt holes in it, and the flesh surrounding them looked as though it had been suspended for some time over a slow fire….

Carse rose and stared into space.

“Ruthers, a guard,” he said softly, as if speaking to himself. He walked on.

Another heap of flesh was pitched before the front wall of the ranch-house. The man it had been a little while before had evidently been running for the door when the deadly rays had got him. His ray-gun was lying a few feet away. Again Carse stooped and again very gently pulled the ragged thing over.

“By God!” stammered Harkness suddenly, staring, his face white, “that—that’s Jack O’Fallon—old Jack O’Fallon! Why, we went to navigation school together! We—”

“Yes,” said the Hawk, “O’Fallon, overseer.” He stepped into the house. Friday, impassive and grim, pulled Harkness away from the distorted body.


Three more were tumbled together behind a splintered table in the main room. The rays had done their work well. Three were welded, it seemed, into one…. It was some time before the Hawk’s frigid whisper came.

“Martin … Olafson … and this—Antil … Antil was the only Venusian I ever liked….”

The chairs and tables in the room were overturned, most of them bore the seared scars of ray-guns, which showed plainly enough that there had been a desperate last minute hand-to-hand struggle there, after the defensive ray-web had failed and the pirates rushed the building. The radio alcove was choked with seared, cracked wreckage. Crane, the operator, still sat in his seat, but he was slumped over forward, and his head and chest were pitted with slanting ray holes. One hand had been reaching for a dial. The other was twisted and charred.

“And Crane, the last,” said Hawk Carse, and for some moments he stood there, his face cold and unmoving save for the tiny twitching of the left eyelid. Utter silence rested over the bitter three—a silence broken only by the occasional roar of an angry phanti bull outside in the enclosure.

Finally Carse took a deep breath and turned to Friday.

“You’ll see to their burying,” he ordered quietly. “Get the power ray from the ship and burn out two big pits on that knoll off the corner of the corral.”

Friday looked at him in puzzlement. “Two, suh?” he repeated. “Why two? Why not put ’em all in one?”

“You will put all my men in one. I’ll need the other later…. You,” he went on, to Harkness, “get the cargo of horns aboard. We can’t leave it out there, for three of those pirates fled into the jungle. I haven’t time to find them, and they’d come out and bury the horns if we left them. I’ll be with you soon. We take off in ten minutes.”

“Yes, sir,” answered the navigator, and he and the negro went out.


For a little while Carse stayed in the cubby. As he softly stroked the flaxen bangs of hair over his brow, he visualized what had happened inside that house of death, piecing a number of things together and forming a whole. On the surface it seemed plain enough, and yet there were one or two points…. His face showed a trace of puzzlement. He shook his head slightly; then he stooped and picked up the radio operator’s body with an ease that might have seemed surprising from such a slender man, and walked out of the house.

Beyond one corner of the corral, upon a slight rise in the ground, Friday was melting out the second grave with the ship’s great portable ray-gun. Carse laid Crane’s body gently down in the first grave, then went to where Harkness, with the Star Devil’s radio-man and cook, was loading the cargo of horns aboard. The trader opened several of the boxes, glanced at the upper layers to inspect the quality, and, satisfied, closed them again. All the boxes were trundled soon into the craft’s open port and aft to her cargo hold.

The engineer on watch at the electelscope and visi-screen felt a hand on his shoulder and looked around to find his captain standing by him. He pointed up at the screen: on it, the brigand ship was a mere four inches in size, and bearing straight out on an unwavering course. “I reckoned their speed to be about ten thousand an hour, a minute ago, sir,” he reported. “Now about five thousand miles away.”

“How soon,” Carse asked, “do you think we could overhaul them?”

The other grinned. “If you’re in a hurry, sir, about two hours and a half.”

“I am in a hurry. I want all the speed you can muster.”

“Yes, sir. Might be able to get it down, to two.”

The Hawk nodded. “Try. Return to your post.”

Outside, through the port, he saw Friday smoothing over the grave, the burying finished, and he beckoned him in. At that second Harkness reported the cargo all fastened down. Carse snapped out his orders.

“Harkness,” he said shortly, “you and Friday with me in the control cabin. Sparks, you can get an hour’s sleep, but leave the radio receiver open. Cook, an hour’s rest if you want it—and I think you’d better want it. There’s war ahead. Close port!”

The inner and outer doors nestled snugly, one after the other, into place with a hiss; the rows of gravity plates in the ship’s belly angled ever so slightly. She quivered, then, in a surge of power, lifted straight up and poised; then, answering the touch of space-stick and accelerator, she went streaking through the atmosphere on the trail of the distant craft that had left its mark of blood on Iapetus and provoked the vengeance of the Hawk….


Death Rides the Star Devil


Usually, when pursuing an enemy, Hawk Carse was impassive and grim, apparently emotionless, icy. But now he seemed somehow disturbed.

He fidgeted around, glancing occasionally at the visi-screen to make sure his quarry was not changing course, now watching Friday juggle through the skin of atmosphere into outer space, and now standing apart, silent and solitary, brooding.

There was something about the affair he didn’t like. Something that was deeply hidden, that could not be grasped clearly; that might, on the other hand, be pure imagination. And yet, why—

Why, for instance, had the brigands taken to their heels with just the barest semblance of fight? Why, with their defensive ray-web proof for some time at least against his offensive rays, had they left without more of a struggle for the horn? Why were they so willing to flee, knowing as they must that he, the Hawk, would follow? Did they not know he had—thanks to Master Scientist Eliot Leithgow—the fastest ship in space, and would inevitably overtake them?

Were they Ku Sui’s men? It seemed so, certainly, from the great strength of their defensive ray-web. No other ships that he knew of in space save Ku Sui’s possessed such power. But—it wasn’t the brilliant Eurasian’s customary style. It was too simple for him.

Carse stroked his bangs. The factors were all mixed up. He didn’t like it.

Iapetus’ atmosphere was left behind; in minutes the light blue wash of her sky changed to the hard, frigid blackness of lifeless space. The Star Devil’s lighting tubes glowed softly, though Saturn’s rays, coming through the wide bow windows, still lit every object in the control cabin with hard and dazzling brilliancy. Inside, light and color, life and action; outside, the eternal, sable void, sprinkled with its millions of sparkling motes of worlds. And ahead—shown now on the visa-screen only by the light dots of its ports—was the brigand craft.

The Star Devil was smoothly building up the speed that would eventually bring her up to the craft of the enemy. Carse’s Earth-watch told him that an hour and a half had passed. A vague anxiety oppressed him, but he shook it off with the thought that soon the time for accounting would arrive. Only forty minutes more; probably less. His fears—foolish. He was getting too suspicious….


When came the voice.

It pierced through the control cabin from the loudspeaker cone above the radio switchboard. It was rough and mocking. It said:

“Hawk Carse? Hawk Carse? You hear me?” Many times it repeated this. “Yes? You hear me, Hawk Carse? I’ve a joke I want you to hear—a very funny joke. You’ll enjoy it!” There interrupted the staccato sounds of an irrepressible amusement.

Carse froze. His fingers by habit fluttered over his ray-gun butt as he wheeled and looked into the loudspeaker. Friday, at the space-stick, stared at him; Harkness’s face was puzzled as he peered at the loudspeaker and then turned and gazed at his captain.

“But where,” he asked, “—where does the voice come from? Who is it?”

As if thinking aloud, Carse whispered:

“From that ship ahead. I half expected … I know it well, that voice. Very well. It’s the voice of … of … I can’t quite place it…. In a minute…. The voice of—”

The chuckling ceased, and again the voice spoke.

“Yes—a very funny joke! I can’t share it all with you, Carse, because you’d spoil it. But do you remember, some years ago, five men—and another who lay before them? Do you remember how this last man said: ‘Each one of you will die for what you’ve done to me?’ That man didn’t wear bangs over his forehead then. Remember? Well, I’m one of the five the mighty Hawk Carse swore he would kill!”

Again the voice broke into a chuckle.

But it ended suddenly. The tone it changed into was entirely different, was cruel with a taunting sneer.

“Bah! The avenging Hawk! The mighty Hawk! Well, in minutes, you’ll be dead. You’ll be dead! The mighty Sparrow Carse will be dead!”

A brief eternity went by. Carse remembered, and the glint in his gray eyes grew colder.

“Judd the Kite,” he whispered.

Friday’s lips formed the words.

And even Harkness, new to the frontiers of space, knew the name and echoed it haltingly.

“Judd the Kite….”


If all the henchmen Dr. Ku Sui had gathered about him and banded against Earth, and against Carse, and against all peaceful traders and merchant-ships, Judd was perhaps the most cruel and relentless.

The Kite he was called—though only behind his back—yet it might better have been Vulture. Big and gross, with thick unstable lips and stubby, hairy fingers, more than once he and his motley gang of hi-jackers had painted a crimson splash across the far corners of the frontiers, and daubed it to the tortured groans of the crews of honest trading ships. Often they had plunged on isolated trading posts and left their factors wallowing in their life blood. And more….

There are things that cannot be set down in print, that the carefully edited history books only hint at, and into this class fell many of the Kite’s deeds. He was a master of the Venusian tortures. He and his band during the unspeakable debauches which always followed a successful raid would amuse themselves by practising certain of these tortures on the day’s captives; and his victims, both men and women, would see and feel indescribable things, and Death would be kept most carefully away until the last ounce of life and pain had been squeezed quite dry.

“Judd the Kite,” Carse repeated in a hardly audible whisper. “Judd the Kite … one of the five….” Slowly his left hand rose and smoothed his long bangs of flaxen hair. “I have been looking for him.”

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