Speak To Me Of Immortality
May, 1961
Jorge O'Brian Gomez spoke softly into the telephone. It was a spidery handset, but for all its grace it was heavy. It was gold."Sì, sì," Gomez said. "Claro. No, nada. Finito."He let the instrument slip through his fingers into its cradle. He walked to the door. He looked like a big clockwork toy, staring ahead, his heels driving into the soft carpet. Under the carved arch-way he turned and looked back at the room that had been the center of his world. It had cost a quarter of...
