By Arthur C. Clarke, Paul Preuss
Dans les sables de Mars, une excavatrice exhume un fragment de métal vieux d'un milliard d'années, couvert d'idéogrammes. Le même événement se reproduit peu après à l. a. floor de Vénus. Ces découvertes archéologiques n'ont a priori rien à voir avec los angeles vie trépidante de Sparta. Tout juste profit d'une périlleuse venture à Port Hespérus, elle se lance sur les strains de Blake Redfield, son ami d'enfance, l'un des rares à connaître le mystery de ses origines. Lui, au même second, tente d'infiltrer l'organisation des Adeptes du Libre Esprit : une secte qui prépare l'avènement d'une race de surhommes. Mais tous ces éléments font partie du même puzzle. Tous convergent, through los angeles Lune, vers le mystère de cette race intelligente, los angeles " tradition X ", qui semble avoir autrefois occupé le système solaire...
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Extra resources for Maëlstrom (Base Vénus, Livre 2)
He’d done it before. He was doing it now. Fuck him. I didn’t want to die of old age walking out of the south Gobi, but fuck him. Then the intercom crackled to life. The pilot said something fast and tonal—Cantonese, I thought, not that I could follow it. The Antonov banked hard and picked up speed as the engines coughed a bloom of black smoke. Whatever it was we were looking for, we’d found it. Hannaday just smiled. ” Ladder work? Out here? * * * And damn me if we didn’t bounce to a landing somewhere not much different from anywhere else.
He was an Agency cowboy I’d last seen on the wrong end of a Glock in Kandahar two years earlier. Whipcord thin, still wearing the same damned Armani suit. How the fuck had that spook gotten into the camp without me seeing him? My legs still ached whenever it got chilly. I briefly considered firing off my Stinger inside the ger, just punching the warhead into Hannaday’s chest, but that would have pretty much toasted us all. “Stow it,” growled Korunov. Two hundred kilos or not, that man could and did snap necks.
He was pale and sweating. ” I said. ” I went and looked. Our spaceman was a girl, not more than fifteen, eyes bloodshot from reentry gees, barely moving even as she stared at us. Blue-black skin, shaved head. A girl. Who’d dropped out of the Central Asian sky in a Russian spaceship. Kids on the International Space Station? Not fucking likely. Not in this lifetime. ” * * * The Antonov lumbered back to camp. Nichols sat in the back of the plane with his shotgun, watching the kid and cursing in an extended monotone, mostly Russian.