A sturdy man, middle aged, strides down a gravel path in the gardens, eyes more on the open folder he’s carrying than on his surroundings.
He’s complaining to himself.
Loudly.
“Of all the political bullshit,” he says furiously, “I will not undercut - impossible, self centered, short sighted - Why can’t I have one week
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Somewhat more soberly, "Can't say where we are. I think it's some other dimension. Pocket dimension? Hell, I don't know, I'm not a physicist."
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"Anyone claimed responsibility?"
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