by Peter Watts
Editor: St Martin’s Press
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Two months have passed since a myriad of exotic objects, squeezed around the Earth, screaming as they burned itThe heavens have been silent since until an abandonment of space the probe hears rumors from a distant cometSomething that talks from there: but not to usWho to send to answer abroad, when the foreigner does not want to answerSend a linguist with several personality disorders and a biologist therefore spliced with machines that he can not feel his own fleshSending a pacifist warrior and a vampire recalled from the grave by paleogenetics voodooSending a man with half his mind gone since childhoodSend aboard the solar system, praying, you can trust such monsters with the fate of a worldYou are afraid that they may be more foreign than the thing they were sent to find – but you would give anything to make it true, if we knew what awaited them
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