The Distant Joke
Chapter One In the old quarter of Kraków, where the ice fields pressed against the habitat’s hull like a silent, white audience, the air always tasted of rust and recycled breath. Jerzy Nowakowski stood in the projection booth, his hand-cranked flashlight clicking rhythmically in the dark, illuminating the splices on the floor that had begun to lift under the weight of the years. He was...
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