The party at Long Island was meant to be a celebration of something Henry Whitfield could not quite
Henry had not wanted to come. He had spent the morning in his study at Columbia, running calculations on the propagation delay of signals through the ionosphere—mundane work, the kind of physics that kept you warm at night and fed at breakfast. But Arthur had called him personally, and Arthur Pendelton was the one man Henry still respected without reservation. Now, standing in the corner of a...
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