There was definitely something off about the bookshelf in the Compound. Apparently it was too much to ask that Max be allowed to find something worth reading, because the whole goddamned thing was stuffed full with nothing but record albums. Shelf after shelf after shelf, and they were all by the same damned band. One Max had never heard of, to
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"And Maxwell is good, but I like Polythene Pam more."
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"What're you doing? I'm going stir-crazy in this place."
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"Band of the very century. Definition of a decade." His face grew slightly more stern. "Hippies. But very good at what they did. I was...twenty-three years old when that album came out. I remember it well."
Or, really, very hazily. Lucy in the sky with diamonds, indeed.
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He closed his eyes again. "Suits or no."
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