The Distant Journey
Walter Priddy’s hands were slick with the grease of the pressure suit patch, the third repair, as he forced the sealant into the micro-fractures of the valve housing. The docks at first light were a blur of rusted iron and shouting men, the wind off the Great Plains whipping the wheat dust into a grit that settled in the creases of his knuckles. He was the heat-refuge coordinator for this...
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