The Distant Summer
The letter sat on the desk, unopened, its seal cracked and the paper inside stained with a faint, rust-colored bloom. "Get out," Vance said. He did not look up from his form. The pen scratched against the carbon copy, a dry, rasping sound that filled the small office. "You have three days, Thorne. Northern Sector. Report to the station at dawn. Do not be late." I wanted to ask why. I wanted to...
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