Having nothing else to do now, the biotechs bandaged Morse up. Other Company men, silent, not talking even among themselves, went about the business of methodically shutting down the furnace, the refinery, the rest of Weyland-Yutani Work Correctional Facility Fury 161.
Out there messages linger. Ghosts of radio transmissions drifting forever, echoes of words preceding and lives gone before. Occasionally they’re detected, picked up, transcribed.
Sometimes they mean something to those who hear; other times not. Sometimes they’re lengthy, other times brief. As in. .
‘This is Ripley, last surviving member of the Nostromo, signing off.’
Вы читаете Alien - 3
