Нейромант

           Awallofwhitefiberglassshippingmodulesfilledtheroomwithasmellofginger.

           `Isthedoorlocked?’Casewaitedforananswer,butnonecame.Hecrossedtotheofficedoorandtriedit.`Julie?’

           Thegreen-shadedbrasslampcastacircleoflightonDeane’sdesk.Casestaredatthegutsofanancienttypewriter,atcassettes,crumpledprintouts,atstickyplasticbagsfilledwithgingersamples.

           Therewasnoonethere.

           CasesteppedaroundthebroadsteeldeskandpushedDeane’schairoutoftheway.Hefoundtheguninacrackedleatherholsterfastenedbeneaththedeskwithsilvertape.Itwasanantique,a.357Magnumwiththebarrelandtrigger-guardsawnoff.Thegriphadbeenbuiltupwithlayersofmaskingtape.Thetapewasold,brown,shinywithapatinaofdirt.Heflippedthecylinderoutandexaminedeachofthesixcartridges.Theywerehandloads.Thesoftleadwasstillbrightanduntarnished.

           Withtherevolverinhisrighthand,Caseedgedpastthecabinettotheleftofthedeskandsteppedintothecenteroftheclutteredoffice,awayfromthepooloflight.

           `IguessI’mnotinanyhurry.Iguessit’syourshow.Butallthisshit,youknow,it’sgettingkindof...old.’Heraisedthegunwithbothhands,aimingforthecenterofthedesk,andpulledthetrigger.

           Therecoilnearlybrokehiswrist.Themuzzle-flashlittheofficelikeaflashbulb.