Нейромант

           ’

           `Fromwhere?’

           `Centaurisystem.’

           `Oh,’Casesaid.`Yeah?Noshit?’

           `Noshit.’

           Andthenthescreenwasblank.

           Heleftthevodkaonthecabinet.Hepackedhisthings.She’dboughthimalotofclotheshedidn’treallyneed,butsomethingkepthimfromjustleavingthemthere.Hewasclosingthelastoftheexpensivecalfskinbagswhenherememberedtheshuriken.Pushingtheflaskaside,hepickeditup,herfirstgift.

           `No,’hesaid,andspun,thestarleavinghisfingers,flashofsilver,toburyitselfinthefaceofthewallscreen.Thescreenwoke,randompatternsflickeringfeeblyfromsidetoside,asthoughitweretryingtoriditselfofsomethingthatcauseditpain.

           `Idon’tneedyou,’hesaid.

           HespentthebulkofhisSwissaccountonanewpancreasandliver,therestonanewOno-SendaiandaticketbacktotheSprawl.

           Hefoundwork.

           HefoundagirlwhocalledherselfMichael.

           AndoneOctobernight,punchinghimselfpastthescarlettiersoftheEasternSeaboardFissionAuthority,hesawthreefigures,tiny,impossible,whostoodattheveryedgeofoneofthevaststepsofdata.Smallastheywere,hecouldmakeouttheboy’sgrin,hispinkgums,theglitterofthelonggrayeyesthathadbeenRiviera’s.Lindastillworehisjacket;shewaved,ashepassed