The Distant Temple
Act I The iron does not care about your name. That is the first thing they teach you in the shop, before they hand you the calipers and the safety goggles, before they ask if you have a family or a pension. Isandro Valenzuela, forty-five years old, stood in the skeleton of the dome, watching the wind strip the paint from the girders. The contract expired in three weeks. The plans, drawn by his...
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