The rain had been falling for three days when Jack Moran found out the truth.
He was sitting in a bar on State Street in Chicago, drinking whiskey that tasted like it had been filtered through a cigarette butt, when his contact from the Department of Energy called. The contact did not say much. He just said: the fuel is wrong. Then he hung up.Jack sat in his chair and thought about what that meant. The planetary engine project had been running for ten years. Ten years of...
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