The Golden Circuit
"You think the brass is dead, Minister? You think it’s just metal?" I asked this of Volkov, standing in the dim, salt-tinged air of the inner streets, where the haze made the far shore a rumor rather than a fact. He was a man of the court, dressed in the stiff, bureaucratic wool that smelled of dust and old decisions, and he looked at my hands as if they were infected. The Golden Circuit sat on...
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