"You know about this wreck. Five men…"
"Yes. Yes. I got that much. Up to the part about the book. Where does Sutton come in?"
"That was about all the robotics could figure out," Thorne told him. "Just three words: 'by Asher Sutton.' As if he might have been the author. As if the book might have been written by him. It was on one of the first pages. The title page, maybe. Such and such a book by Asher Sutton."
There was silence, even the ghost voices still for a moment. Then a piping, lisping thought came in…a baby thought, immature and puling. And the thought was without context, untranslatable, almost meaningless. But hideous and nerve-wrenching in its alien connotation.
Adams felt the sudden chill of fear slice into his marrow, grasped the chair arms with both his hands and hung on tight while a filthy, taloned claw twisted at his entrails.
Suddenly the thought was gone. Fifty light-years of space whistled in the cold.
Adams relaxed, felt the perspiration running from his armpits, trickling down his ribs.
"You there, Thorne?" he asked.
"Yes. I caught some of that one, too."
"Pretty bad, wasn't it?"