The Golden Visit
The ferry queue in the rain was a gray, shivering line of bodies, and Imelda Urrutia stood at the back of it, her left hand trembling so violently that the brass crank of her flashlight slipped twice before she could grip it. She was fifty-two years old, the airlock maintenance chief of the Patagonia Convoy, a title that meant nothing to the junior clerks on the deck but everything to the men...
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