Нейромант

           ’

           `Wewho?’

           `Nobody,’shesaid,givinghershouldersaninvoluntarytoss.`Yousaidyouwantedtohitthebed.Sleep.Icouldusesomesleep.’

           `Yeah,’Casesaid,rubbinghispalmsacrosshischeekbones.`Yeah,thisissomeplace.’

           ThenarrowbandoftheLado-AchesonsystemsmolderedinabstractimitationofsomeBermudansunset,stripedbyshredsofrecordedcloud.`Yeah,’hesaid,`sleep.’

           Sleepwouldn’tcome.Whenitdid,itbroughtdreamsthatwerelikeneatlyeditedsegmentsofmemory.Hewokerepeatedly,Mollycurledbesidehim,andheardthewater,voicesdriftinginthroughtheopenglasspanelsofthebalcony,awoman’slaughterfromthesteppedcondosontheoppositeslope.Deane’sdeathkeptturninguplikeabadcard,nomatterifhetoldhimselfthatithadn’tbeenDeane.Thatithadn’t,infact,happenedatall.Someonehadoncetoldhimthattheamountofbloodintheaveragehumanbodywasroughlyequivalenttoacaseofbeer.

           EachtimetheimageofDeane’sshatteredheadstrucktherearwalloftheoffice,Casewasawareofanotherthought,somethingdarker,hidden,thatrolledaway,divinglikeafish,justbeyondhisreach.

           Linda.

           Deane.Bloodonthewalloftheimporter’soffice.

           Linda.SmellofburntfleshintheshadowsoftheChibadome.Mollyholdingoutabagofginger,theplasticfilmedwithblood.Deanehadhadherkilled.