For a week Mr. R. Childan had been anxiously watching the mail. But the valuable shipment from the Rocky Mountain States had not arrived. As he opened up his store on Friday morning and saw only letters on the floor by the mail slot he thought, I'm going to have an angry customer.
Pouring himself a cup of instant tea from the five-cent wall dispenser he got a broom and began to sweep; soon he had the front of American Artistic1 Handcrafts Inc. ready for the day, all spick and span with the cash register full of change, a fresh vase of marigolds, and the radio playing background music. Outdoors along the sidewalk businessmen hurried toward their offices along Montgomery Street. Far off, a cable car passed; Childan halted to watch it with pleasure. Women in their long colorful silk dresses . . . he watched them, too. Then the phone rang. He turned to answer it.
"Yes," a familiar voice said to his answer. Childan's heart sank. "This is Mr. Tagomi. Did my Civil War recruiting poster arrive yet, sir? Please recall; you promised it sometime last week." The fussy3, brisk voice, barely polite, barely keeping the code. "Did I not give you a deposit, sir, Mr. Childan, with that stipulation4? This is to be a gift, you see. I explained that. A client."
"Extensive inquiries," Childan began, "which I've had made at my own expense, Mr. Tagomi, sir, regarding the promised parcel, which you realize originates outside of this region and is therefore--"
But Tagomi broke in, "Then it has not arrived."
"No, Mr. Tagomi, sir."
An icy pause.
"I can wait no furthermore," Tagomi said.
"No sir." Childan gazed morosely5 through the store window at the warm bright day and the San Francisco office buildings.
"A substitute, then. Your recommendation, Mr. Chil-dan?" Tagomi deliberately6 mispronounced the name; insult within the code that made Childan's ears burn. Place pulled, the dreadful mortification7 of their situation. Robert Childan's aspirations8 and fears and torments9 rose up and exposed themselves, swamped him, stopping his tongue. He stammered10, his hand sticky on the phone. The air of his store smelled of the marigolds; the music played on, but he felt as if he were falling into some distant sea.
"Well . . ." he managed to mutter. "Butter churn. Icecream maker11 circa 1900." His mind refused to think. Just when you forgot about it; just when you fool yourself. He was thirty-eight years old, and he could remember the prewar days, the other times. Franklin D. Roosevelt and the World's Fair; the former better world. "Could I bring various desirable items out to your business location?" he mumbled12.
An appointment was made for two o'clock. Have to shut store, he knew as he hung up the phone. No choice. Have to keep goodwill13 of such customers; business depends on them.
Standing shakily, he became aware that someone -- a couple -- had entered the store. Young man and girl, both handsome, well-dressed. Ideal. He calmed himself and moved professionally, easily, in their direction, smiling. They were bending to scrutinize14 a counter display, had picked up a lovely ashtray15. Married, he guessed. Live out in City of the Winding16 Mists, the new exclusive apartments on Skyline overlooking Belmont.
"Hello," he said, and felt better. They smiled at him without any superiority, only kindness. His displays -- which really were the best of their kind on the Coast -- had awed17 them a little; he saw that and was grateful. They understood.
"Really excellent pieces, sir," the young man said.
Childan bowed spontaneously.
Their eyes, warm not only with human bond but with the shared enjoyment18 of the art objects he sold, their mutual19 tastes and satisfactions, remained fixed20 on him; they were thanking him for having things like these for them to see, pick up and examine, handle perhaps without even buying. Yes, he thought, they know what sort of store they are in; this is not tourist trash, not redwood plaques21 reading MUIR WOODS, MARIN COUNTY, PSA, or funny signs or girly rings or postcards or views of the Bridge. The girl's eyes especially, large, dark. How easily, Childan thought, I could fall in love with a girl like this. How tragic22 my life, then; as if it weren't bad enough already. The stylish23 black hair, lacquered nails, pierced ears for the long dangling24 brass25 handmade earrings26.
"Your earrings," he murmured. "Purchased here, perhaps?"
"No," she said. "At home."
Childan nodded. No contemporary American art; only the past could be represented here, in a store such as his. "You are here for long?" he asked. "To our San Francisco?"
"I'm stationed here indefinitely," the man said. "With Standard of Living for Unfortunate Areas Planning Commission of Inquiry27." Pride showed on his face. Not the military. Not one of the gum-chewing boorish28 draftees with their greedy peasant faces, wandering up Market Street, gaping29 at the bawdy30 shows, the sex movies, the shooting galleries, the cheap nightclubs with photos of middle-aged31 blondes holding their nipples between their wrinkled fingers and leering. . . the honkytonk jazz slums that made up most of the flat part of San Francisco, rickety tin and board shacks32 that had sprung up from the ruins even before the last bomb fell. No -- this man was of the elite33. Cultured, educated, even more so than Mr. Tagomi, who was after all a high official with the ranking Trade Mission on the Pacific Coast. Tagomi was an old man. His attitudes had formed in the War Cabinet days.
"Had you wished American traditional ethnic34 art objects as a gift?" Childan asked. "Or to decorate perhaps a new apartment for your stay here?" If the latter. . . his heart picked up.
"An accurate guess," the girl said. "We are starting to decorate. A bit undecided. Do you think you could inform us?"
"I could arrange to arrive at your apartment, yes," Childan said. "Bringing several hand cases, I can suggest in context, at your leisure. This, of course, is our speciality." He dropped his eyes so as to conceal36 his hope. There might be thousands of dollars involved. "I am getting in a New England table, maple37, all wood-legged, no nails. Immense beauty and worth. And a mirror from the time of the 1812 War. And also the aboriginal38 art: a group of vegetable-dyed goat-hair rugs."
"I myself," the man said, "prefer the art of the cities."
"Yes," Childan said eagerly. "Listen, sir. I have a mural from WPA post-office period, original, done on board, four sections, depicting39 Horace Greeley. Priceless collector's item."
"Ah," the man said, his dark eyes flashing.
"And a Victrola cabinet of 1920 made into a liquor cabinet."
"Ah."
"And, sir, listen: framed signed picture of Jean Harlow."
The man goggled40 at him.
"Shall we make arrangements?" Childan said, seizing this correct psychological instant. From his inner coat pocket he brought his pen, notebook. "I shall take your name and address, sir and lady."
Afterward, as the couple strolled from his store, Childan stood, hands behind his back, watching the street. Joy. If all business days were like this. . . but it was more than business, the success of his store. It was a chance to meet a young Japanese couple socially, on a basis of acceptance of him as a man rather than him as a yank or, at best, a tradesman who sold art objects. Yes, these new young people, of the rising generation, who did not remember the days before the war or even the war itself -- they were the hope of the world. Place difference did not have the significance for them.
It will end, Childan thought. Someday. The very idea of place. Not governed and governing, but people.
And yet he trembled with fear, imagining himself knocking at their door. He examined his notes. The Kasouras. Being admitted, no doubt offered tea. Would he do the right thing? Know the proper act and utterance41 at each moment? Or would he disgrace himself, like an animal, by some dismal42 faux pas?
The girl's name was Betty. Such understanding in her face, he thought. The gentle, sympathetic eyes. Surely, even in the short time in the store, she had glimpsed his hopes and defeats.
His hopes -- he felt suddenly dizzy. What aspirations bordering on the insane if not the suicidal did he have? But it was known, relations between Japanese and yanks, although generally it was between a Japanese man and yank woman. This. . . he quailed43 at the idea. And she was married. He whipped his mind away from the pageant44 of his involuntary thoughts and began busily opening the morning's mail.
His hands, he discovered, were still shaking. And then he recalled his two o'clock appointment with Mr. Tagomi; at that, his hands ceased shaking and his nervousness became determination. I've got to come up with something acceptable, he said to himself. Where? How? What? A phone call. Sources. Business ability. Scrape up a fully45 restored 1929 Ford46 including fabric47 top (black). Grand slam to keep patronage48 forever. Crated49 original mint trimotor airmail plane discovered in barn in Alabama, etc. Produce mummified head of Mr. B. Bill, including flowing white hair; sensational50 American artifact. Make my reputation in top connoisseur51 circles throughout Pacific, not excluding Home Islands.
To inspire himself, he lit up a marijuana cigarette, excellent Land-O-Smiles brand.
In his room on Hayes Street, Frank Frink lay in bed wondering how to get up. Sun glared past the blind onto the heap of clothes that had fallen to the floor. His glasses, too. Would he step on them? Try to get to bathroom by other route, he thought. Crawl or roll. His head ached but he did not feel sad. Never look back, he decided35. Time? The clock on the dresser. Eleven-thirty! Good grief. But still he lay.
I'm fired, he thought.
Yesterday he had done wrong at the factory. Spouted52 the wrong kind of talk to Mr. Wyndam-Matson, who had a dished-in face with Socrates-type nose, diamond ring, gold fly zipper53. In other words, a power. A throne. Frink's thoughts wandered groggily54.
Yes, he thought, and now they'll blacklist me; my skill is no use -- I have no trade. Fifteen years' experience. Gone.
And now he would have to appear at the Laborers55' Justification56 Commission for a revision of his work category. Since he had never been able to make out Wyndam-Matson's relationship to the pinocs -- the puppet white government at Sacramento -- he could not fathom57 his ex-employer's power to sway the real authorities, the Japanese. The LJC was pinoc run. He would be facing four or five middle-aged plump white faces, on the order of Wyndam-Matson's. If he failed to get justification there, he would make his way to one of the Import-Export Trade Missions which operated out of Tokyo, and which had offices throughout California, Oregon, Washington, and the parts of Nevada included in the Pacific States of America. But if he failed successfully to plead there. . .
Plans roamed his mind as he lay in bed gazing up at the ancient light fixture58 in the ceiling. He could for instance slip across into the Rocky Mountain States. But it was loosely banded to the PSA, and might extradite him. What about the South? His body recoiled59. Ugh. Not that. As a white man he would have plenty of place, in fact more than he had here in the PSA. But. . . he did not want that kind of place.
And, worse, the South had a cat's cradle of ties, economic, ideological60, and god knew what, with the Reich. And Frank Frink was a Jew.
His original name was Frank Fink. He had been born on the East Coast, in New York, and in 1941 he had been drafted into the Army of the United States of America, right after the collapse61 of Russia. After the Japs had taken Hawaii he had been sent to the West Coast. When the war ended, there he was, on the Japanese side of the settlement line. And here he was today, fifteen years later.
In 1947, on Capitulation Day, he had more or less gone berserk. Hating the Japs as he did, he had vowed62 revenge; he had buried his Service weapons ten feet underground, in a basement, well-wrapped and oiled, for the day he and his buddies63 arose. However, time was the great healer, a fact he had not taken into account. When he thought of the idea now, the great blood bath, the purging64 of the pinocs and their masters, he felt as if were reviewing one of those stained yearbooks from his high school days, coming upon an account of his boyhood aspirations. Frank "Goldfish" Fink is going to be a paleontologist and vows65 to marry Norma Prout. Norma Prout was the class schones M?dchen, and he really had vowed to marry her. That was all so goddam long ago, like listening to Fred Allen or seeing a W. C. Fields movie. Since 1947 he had probably seen or talked to six hundred thousand Japanese, and the desire to do violence to any or all of them had simply never materialized, after the first few months. It just was not relevant any more.
But wait. There was one, a Mr. Omuro, who had bought control of a great area of rental66 property in downtown San Francisco, and who for a time had been Frank's landlord. There was a bad apple, he thought. A shark who had never made repairs, had partitioned rooms smaller and smaller, raised rents. . . Omuro had gouged67 the poor, especially the nearly destitute68 jobless ex-servicemen during the depression years of the early 'fifties. However, it had been one of the Japanese trade missions which had cut off Omuro's head for his profiteering. And nowadays such a violation69 of the harsh, rigid70, but just Japanese civil law was unheard of. It was a credit to the incorruptibility of the Jap occupation officials, especially those who had come in after the War Cabinet had fallen.
Recalling the rugged71, stoic72 honesty of the Trade Missions, Frink felt reassured73. Even Wyndam-Matson would be waved off like a noisy fly. W-M Corporation owner or not. At least, so he hoped. I guess I really have faith in this Co-Prosperity Pacific Alliance stuff, he said to himself. Strange. Looking back to the early days. . . it had seemed such an obvious fake, then. Empty propaganda. But now. . .
He rose from the bed and unsteadily made his way to the bathroom. While he washed and shaved, he listened to the midday news on the radio.
"Let us not deride74 this effort," the radio was saying as he momentarily shut off the hot water.
No, we won't, Frink thought bitterly. He knew which particular effort the radio had in mind. Yet, there was after all something humorous about it, the picture of stolid75, grumpy Germans walking around on Mars, on the red sand where no humans had ever stepped before. Lathering76 his jowls, Frink began a chanting satire77 to himself. Gott, Herr Kreisleiter. Ist dies vielleicht der Ort wo man das Konzentrationslager bilden kann? Das Wetter ist so schon. Heiss, aben doch schon. . .
The radio said: "Co-Prosperity Civilization must pause and consider whether in our quest to provide a balanced equity78 of mutual duties and responsibilities coupled with remunerations. . ." Typical jargon79 from the ruling hierarchy80, Frink noted81. ". . .we have not failed to perceive the future arena82 in which the affairs of man will be acted out, be they Nordic, Japanese, Negroid. . ." On and on it went.
As he dressed, he mulled with pleasure his satire. The weather is schon, so schon. But there is nothing to breathe. . .
However, it was a fact; the Pacific had done nothing toward colonization83 of the planets. It was involved -- bogged84 down, rather -- in South America. While the Germans were busy bustling85 enormous robot construction systems across space, the Japs were still burning off the jungles in the interior of Brazil, erecting86 eight-floor clay apartment houses for ex-headhunters. By the time the Japs got their first spaceship off the ground the Germans would have the entire solar system sewed up tight. Back in the quaint87 old history-book days, the Germans had missed out while the rest of Europe put the final touches on their colonial empires. However, Frink reflected, they were not going to be last this time; they had learned.
And then he thought about Africa, and the Nazi88 experiment there. And his blood stopped in his veins89, hesitated, at last went on.
That huge empty ruin.
The radio said: ". . .we must consider with pride however our emphasis on the fundamental physical needs of peoples of all place, their subspiritual aspirations which must be. . ."
Frink shut the radio off. Then, calmer, he turned it back on.
Christ on the crapper, he thought. Africa. For the ghosts of dead tribes. Wiped out to make a land of -- what? Who knew? Maybe even the master architects in Berlin did not know. Bunch of automatons90, building and toiling91 away. Building? Grinding down. Ogres out of a paleontology exhibit, at their task of making a cup from an enemy's skull92, the whole family industriously93 scooping94 out the contents -- the raw brains -- first, to eat. Then useful utensils95 of men's leg bones. Thrifty96, to think not only of eating the people you did not like, but eating them out of their own skull. The first technicians! Prehistoric97 man in a sterile98 white lab coat in some Berlin university lab, experimenting with uses to which other people's skull, skin, ears, fat could be put to. Ja, Herr Doktor. A new use for the big toe; see, one can adapt the joint99 for a quick-acting cigarette lighter100 mechanism101. Now, if only Herr Krupp can produce it in quantity. . .
It horrified102 him, this thought: the ancient gigantic cannibal near-man flourishing now, ruling the world once more. We spent a million years escaping him, Frink thought, and now he's back. And not merely as the adversary103. . . but as the master.
". . .we can deplore," the radio, the voice of the little yellow-bellies from Tokyo was saying. God, Frink thought; and we called them monkeys, these civilized104 bandy-legged shrimps105 who would no more set up gas ovens than they would melt their wives into sealing wax. ". . .and we have deplored106 often in the past the dreadful waste of humans in this fanatical striving which sets the broader mass of men wholly outside the legal community." They, the Japs, were so strong on law. ". . .To quote a Western saint familiar to all: 'What profit it a man if he gain the whole world but in this enterprise lose his soul?' " The radio paused. Frink, tying his tie, also paused. It was the morning ablution.
I have to make my pact107 with them here, he realized. Black-listed or not; it'd be death for me if I left Japanese-controlled land and showed up in the South or in Europe -- anywhere in the Reich.
I'll have to come to terms with old Wyndam-Matson.
Seated on his bed, a cup of lukewarm tea beside him, Frink got down his copy of the I Ching. From their leather tube he took the forty-nine yarrow stalks. He considered, until he had his thoughts properly controlled and his questions worked out.
Aloud he said, "How should I approach Wyndam-Matson in order to come to decent terms with him?" He wrote the question down on the tablet, then began whipping the yarrow stalks from hand to hand until he had the first line, the beginning. An eight. Half the sixty-four hexagrams eliminated already. He divided the stalks and obtained the second line. Soon, being so expert, he had all six lines; the hexagram lay before him, and he did not need to identify it by the chart. He could recognize it as Hexagram Fifteen. Ch'ien. Modesty108. Ah. The low will be raised up, the high brought down, powerful families humbled109; he did not have to refer to the text -- he knew it by heart. A good omen2. The oracle110 was giving him favorable council.
And yet he was a bit disappointed. There was something fatuous111 about Hexagram Fifteen. Too goody-goody. Naturally he should be modest. Perhaps there was an idea in it, however. After all, he had no power over old W-M. He could not compel him to take him back. All he could do was adopt the point of view of Hexagram Fifteen; this was that sort of moment, when one had to petition, to hope, to await with faith. Heaven in its time would raise him up to his old job or perhaps even to something better.
He had no lines to read, no nines or sixes; it was static. So he was through. It did not move into a second hexagram.
A new question, then. Setting himself, he said aloud, "Will I ever see Juliana again?"
That was his wife. Or rather his ex-wife. Juliana had divorced him a year ago, and he had not seen her in months; in fact he did not even know where she lived. Evidently she had left San Francisco. Perhaps even the PSA. Either their mutual friends had not heard from her or they were not telling him.
Busily he maneuvered112 the yarrow stalks, his eyes fixed on the tallies113. How many times he had asked about Juliana, one question or another? Here came the hexagram, brought forth114 by the passive chance workings of the vegetable stalks. Random115, and yet rooted in the moment in which he lived, in which his life was bound up with all other lives and particles in the universe. The necessary hexagram picturing in its pattern of broken and unbroken lines the situation. He, Juliana, the factory on Gough Street, the Trade Missions that ruled, the exploration of the planets, the billion chemical heaps in Africa that were now not even corpses116, the aspirations of the thousands around him in the shanty117 warrens of San Francisco, the mad creatures in Berlin with their calm faces and manic plans -- all connected in this moment of casting the yarrow stalks to select the exact wisdom appropriate in a book begun in the thirtieth century B.C. A book created by the sages118 of China over a period of five thousand years, winnowed119, perfected, that superb cosmology -- and science -- codified120 before Europe had even learned to do long division.
The hexagram. His heart dropped. Forty-four. Kou. Coming to Meet. Its sobering judgment121. The maiden122 is powerful. One should not marry such a maiden. Again he had gotten it in connection with Juliana.
Oy vey, he thought, settling back. So she was wrong for me; I know that. I didn't ask that. Why does the oracle have to remind me? A bad fate for me, to have met her and been in love -- be in love -- with her.
Juliana -- the best-looking woman he had ever married. Soot-black eyebrows123 and hair; trace amounts of Spanish blood distributed as pure color, even to her lips. Her rubbery, soundless walk; she had worn saddle shoes left over from high school. In fact all her clothes had a dilapidated quality and the definite suggestion of being old and often washed. He and she had been so broke so long that despite her looks she had had to wear a cotton sweater, cloth zippered124 jacket, brown tweed skirt and bobby socks, and she hated him and it because it made her look, she had said, like a woman who played tennis or (even worse) collected mushrooms in the woods.
But above and beyond everything else, he had originally been drawn125 by her screwball expression; for no reason, Juliana greeted strangers with a portentous126, nudnik, Mona Lisa smile that hung them up between responses, whether to say hello or not. And she was so attractive that more often than not they did say hello, whereupon Juliana glided127 by. At first he had thought it was just plain bad eyesight, but finally he had decided that it revealed a deep-dyed otherwise concealed128 stupidity at her core. And so finally her borderline flicker129 of greeting to strangers had annoyed him, as had her plantlike, silent, I'm-on-a-mysterious-errand way of coming and going. But even then, toward the end, when they had been fighting so much, he still never saw her as anything but a direct, literal invention of God's, dropped into his life for reasons he would never know. And on that account -- a sort of religious intuition or faith about her -- he could not get over having lost her.
She seemed so close right now. . . as if he still had her. That spirit, still busy in his life, padding through his room in search of -- whatever it was Juliana sought. And in his mind whenever he took up the volumes of the oracle.
Seated on his bed, surrounded by lonely disorder130, preparing to go out and begin his day, Frank Frink wondered who else in the vast complicated city of San Francisco was at this same moment consulting the oracle. And were they all getting as gloomy advice as he? Was the tenor131 of the Moment as adverse132 for them as it was for him?
收听单词发音 |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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fussy
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| adj.为琐事担忧的，过分装饰的，爱挑剔的 | |
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stipulation
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| n.契约，规定，条文；条款说明 | |
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morosely
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| adv.愁眉苦脸地，忧郁地 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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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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goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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scrutinize
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| n.详细检查，细读 | |
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ashtray
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| n.烟灰缸 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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plaques
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| （纪念性的）匾牌( plaque的名词复数 )； 纪念匾； 牙斑； 空斑 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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stylish
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| adj.流行的，时髦的；漂亮的，气派的 | |
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dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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earrings
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| n.耳环( earring的名词复数 )；耳坠子 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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boorish
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| adj.粗野的，乡巴佬的 | |
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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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bawdy
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| adj.淫猥的，下流的；n.粗话 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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shacks
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| n.窝棚，简陋的小屋( shack的名词复数 ) | |
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elite
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| n.精英阶层；实力集团；adj.杰出的，卓越的 | |
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ethnic
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| adj.人种的，种族的，异教徒的 | |
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35
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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36
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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37
maple
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| n.槭树，枫树，槭木 | |
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38
aboriginal
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| adj.（指动植物）土生的，原产地的，土著的 | |
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39
depicting
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| 描绘，描画( depict的现在分词 )； 描述 | |
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40
goggled
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| adj.戴护目镜的v.睁大眼睛瞪视， （惊讶的）转动眼珠( goggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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42
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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43
quailed
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| 害怕，发抖，畏缩( quail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
pageant
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| n.壮观的游行；露天历史剧 | |
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45
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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46
Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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47
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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48
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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49
crated
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| 把…装入箱中( crate的过去式 ) | |
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50
sensational
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| adj.使人感动的，非常好的，轰动的，耸人听闻的 | |
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51
connoisseur
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| n.鉴赏家，行家，内行 | |
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52
spouted
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| adj.装有嘴的v.（指液体）喷出( spout的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地讲；喋喋不休地说；喷水 | |
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53
zipper
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| n.拉链；v.拉上拉链 | |
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54
groggily
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| adv.酒醉地；东倒西歪地 | |
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55
laborers
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| n.体力劳动者，工人( laborer的名词复数 )；（熟练工人的）辅助工 | |
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56
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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57
fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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58
fixture
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| n.固定设备；预定日期；比赛时间；定期存款 | |
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59
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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60
ideological
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| a.意识形态的 | |
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61
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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62
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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63
buddies
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| n.密友( buddy的名词复数 )；同伴；弟兄；（用于称呼男子，常带怒气）家伙v.（如密友、战友、伙伴、弟兄般）交往( buddy的第三人称单数 )；做朋友；亲近（…）；伴护艾滋病人 | |
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64
purging
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| 清洗； 清除； 净化； 洗炉 | |
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65
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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66
rental
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| n.租赁，出租，出租业 | |
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67
gouged
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| v.凿( gouge的过去式和过去分词 )；乱要价；（在…中）抠出…；挖出… | |
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68
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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69
violation
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| n.违反(行为)，违背(行为)，侵犯 | |
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70
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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71
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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72
stoic
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| n.坚忍克己之人，禁欲主义者 | |
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73
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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74
deride
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| v.嘲弄，愚弄 | |
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75
stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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76
lathering
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| n.痛打，怒骂v.（指肥皂）形成泡沫( lather的现在分词 )；用皂沫覆盖；狠狠地打 | |
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77
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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78
equity
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| n.公正，公平，（无固定利息的）股票 | |
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79
jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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80
hierarchy
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| n.等级制度；统治集团，领导层 | |
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81
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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82
arena
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| n.竞技场，运动场所；竞争场所，舞台 | |
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83
colonization
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| 殖民地的开拓，殖民，殖民地化； 移殖 | |
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84
bogged
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| adj.陷于泥沼的v.（使）陷入泥沼， （使）陷入困境( bog的过去式和过去分词 )；妨碍，阻碍 | |
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85
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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86
erecting
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| v.使直立，竖起( erect的现在分词 )；建立 | |
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87
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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88
Nazi
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| n.纳粹分子，adj.纳粹党的，纳粹的 | |
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89
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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90
automatons
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| n.自动机，机器人( automaton的名词复数 ) | |
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91
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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92
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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93
industriously
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94
scooping
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| n.捞球v.抢先报道( scoop的现在分词 )；（敏捷地）抱起；抢先获得；用铲[勺]等挖（洞等） | |
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95
utensils
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| 器具，用具，器皿( utensil的名词复数 )； 器物 | |
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96
thrifty
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| adj.节俭的；兴旺的；健壮的 | |
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97
prehistoric
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| adj.（有记载的）历史以前的，史前的，古老的 | |
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98
sterile
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| adj.不毛的，不孕的，无菌的，枯燥的，贫瘠的 | |
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99
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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100
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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101
mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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102
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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103
adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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104
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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105
shrimps
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| n.虾，小虾( shrimp的名词复数 )；矮小的人 | |
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106
deplored
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
pact
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| n.合同，条约，公约，协定 | |
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108
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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109
humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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110
oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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111
fatuous
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| adj.愚昧的；昏庸的 | |
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112
maneuvered
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| v.移动，用策略( maneuver的过去式和过去分词 )；操纵 | |
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113
tallies
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| n.账( tally的名词复数 )；符合；（计数的）签；标签v.计算，清点( tally的第三人称单数 )；加标签（或标记）于；（使）符合；（使）吻合 | |
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114
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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115
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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116
corpses
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| n.死尸，尸体( corpse的名词复数 ) | |
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117
shanty
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| n.小屋，棚屋；船工号子 | |
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118
sages
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| n.圣人( sage的名词复数 )；智者；哲人；鼠尾草（可用作调料） | |
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119
winnowed
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| adj.扬净的，风选的v.扬( winnow的过去式和过去分词 )；辨别；选择；除去 | |
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120
codified
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| v.把（法律）编成法典( codify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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121
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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122
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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123
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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124
zippered
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| v.拉上拉链( zipper的过去式和过去分词 )；用拉链扣上 | |
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125
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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126
portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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127
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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128
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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129
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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130
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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131
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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132
adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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