The Temperature at Which Iron Forgets Itself
The telegram arrived at seven minutes past noon on a Tuesday in October, delivered by a boy whose fingers were stained purple from the ink of a hundred identical envelopes. Clayton Hargrove did not look up from his ledger when the boy entered. The mahogany doors of his office on the thirty-second floor of the Hargrove Building swung open without sound — they had been hung by German craftsmen at...
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