The Distant Machine
The letter is dated November 14th. You are in the office. The heating pipes groan. It is a low, metallic moan that vibrates through the soles of your shoes. You are Dr. Elias Thorne. You are a man of few words. You have been in this building for twenty years. The building is the Royal Institute of Industrial Hygiene. It smells of dust and old varnish. It smells of decay. You sit at your desk....
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