The Distant Machine
"You are late for the shift, Gheorghe." The voice belonged to Inspector Vartan, who stood in the doorway of the telegraph exchange, his uniform crisp against the gray dust of the afternoon. Gheorghe Karamyan did not look up from the ledger he was filling; his pen moved in jagged, uneven strokes, the ink blotting where his hand trembled. He was thirty-two, though the wet, rattling cough that...
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