Нейромант

           Wintermute.HeimaginedalittlemicrowhisperingtothewreckofamannamedCorto,thewordsflowinglikeariver,theflatpersonality-substitutecalledArmitageaccretingslowlyinsomedarkenedward...TheDeaneanaloghadsaiditworkedwithgivens,tookadvantageofexistingsituations.

           ButwhatifDeane,therealDeane,hadorderedLindakilledonWintermute’sorders?CasegropedinthedarkforacigaretteandMolly’slighter.TherewasnoreasontosuspectDeane,hetoldhimself,lightingup.Noreason.

           Wintermutecouldbuildakindofpersonalityintoashell.Howsubtleaformcouldmanipulationtake?HestubbedtheYeheyuanoutinabedsideashtrayafterhisthirdpuff,rolledawayfromMolly,andtriedtosleep.

           Thedream,thememory,unreeledwiththemonotonyofanuneditedsimstimtape.He’dspentamonth,hisfifteenthsummer,inaweeklyrateshotel,fifthfloor,withagirlcalledMarlene.Theelevatorhadn’tworkedinadecade.Roachesboiledacrossgrayishporcelaininthedrain-pluggedkitchenettewhenyouflickedalightswitch.HesleptwithMarleneonastripedmattresswithnosheets.

           He’dmissedthefirstwasp,whenitbuiltitspaperfinegrayhouseontheblisteredpaintofthewindowframe,butsoonthenestwasafist-sizedlumpoffiber,insectshurtlingouttohuntthealleybelowlikeminiaturecoptersbuzzingtherottingcontentsofthedumpsters.

           They’deachhadadozenbeers,theafternoonawaspstungMarlene.