The Golden Compass
"The boundary is not stable." Rossi’s voice hung in the air of the meeting pod, thin and cold as the alpine light filtering through the high, grimy windows. I looked down at my hands. They were trembling. The palsy, which had started as a fine vibration in my left index finger three winters ago, now shook my entire forearm. I am Vincenzo Nicosi, forty-two years old, and I have spent my life...
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