The Golden Song
The incinerator’s intake fan hums a low, B-flat drone that vibrates in the fillings of your teeth. You stand before Director Halloway, the golden paste contained in a glass vial in your hand, while he looks at the object as if it were a smudge of grease on a ledger. He does not look at you. He looks at the seal on the vial, then at the clock on the wall, then back at the seal. The air in the...
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