The Hollow Men

Начало книги

Moist leaves of translucent plastic, petals of soft and pliant crystal, cast their misted tracers down every light-touched pane as the left hand of a woman pushed through their entwining segments, the shivering and bloodless hand of Sophia Ingrid Saint-Germain.

Sophie’s left arm pushed through to the shoulder, then her right hand’s fingers spidered in after it, the poise of a diver committed to the descent. She took a shaky breath, held it in. With her tongue constricted between her teeth, she braced herself and took one long step forward. Through the plastic veils she went. Her arms slid free on the other side, touched by humidity and the other air’s lifeless chill. Her face pushed through the doorway’s plastic seal, to experience another alien form of touch entirely — the strange wet plastic of the door, it was silk, it was artificial skin — while a gunshot sounded from beyond the vault door far behind her.

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