The Distant Temple
The fluorescent lights hummed a B-flat. It was a low, persistent drone that Peter Vance had come to associate with the decay of his own sanity. "You are misaligned," said Julian Thorne. Julian stood at the edge of the partition. He did not wear a tie. He never wore a tie. His white shirt was crisp, the fabric so stiff it seemed to hold its own structural integrity. He looked at Peter with the...
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