Carol Nalaski

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At twenty-five he was one of the younger male scientists, closest to her own age, so it felt natural to spend time with him. She appreciated his shy, precise way of speaking, his soft, halting voice that seemed to encode its own refutation, as if he were constantly checking a mental ticker tape of his words for correctness. One day he showed her where he lived on the estate. It was a working windmill—not
The Woman Who Smashed Codes
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