The Distant Journey
The air in the sub-basement of the Whitmore Institute was not merely stale; it was a physical substance, a heavy, yellowish gel that seemed to coat the lungs and settle in the sinuses with the persistence of old dust. Dr. Arthur Penhaligon sat hunched over the steel table, his face illuminated by the harsh, humming fluorescence of a tube light that had flickered intermittently for the last...
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