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It
was
also
cramped
.
Slotted
in
between
a
pagoda
-
shaped
bank
and
a
steamy
-
windowed
restaurant
frontage
,
space
was
at
a
premium
.
The
reception
area
was
reached
by
filing
up
a
narrow
steel
staircase
and
along
a
gantry
pinned
to
one
wing
of
the
pagoda
’
s
middle
tier
.
A
lavish
seven
or
eight
square
metres
of
fused
sand
flooring
under
a
cheap
glass
viewdome
provided
prospective
clients
with
a
waiting
area
,
natural
light
and
two
pairs
of
seats
that
looked
as
if
they
had
been
torn
out
of
a
decommissioned
jetliner
.
Adjacent
to
the
seats
,
an
ancient
Asian
woman
sat
behind
a
battery
of
secretarial
equipment
,
most
of
which
appeared
to
be
switched
off
,
and
guarded
a
flight
of
access
steps
into
the
bowels
of
the
building
.
Down
below
,
it
was
all
hairpin
corridors
racked
with
cable
conduits
and
piping
.
Each
length
of
corridor
was
lined
with
the
doors
of
the
service
cubicles
.
The
trode
couches
were
set
into
the
cubicles
at
a
sharp
upright
angle
to
economise
on
floor
space
and
surrounded
on
all
sides
by
blinking
,
dusty
-
faced
instrument
panels
.
You
strapped
yourself
in
,
traded
up
and
then
tapped
the
code
number
given
to
you
at
reception
into
the
arm
of
the
couch
.
Then
the
machine
came
and
got
your
mind
.
Returning
from
the
wide
open
horizon
of
the
beach
virtuality
was
a
shock
.
Opening
my
eyes
on
the
banks
of
instrumentation
just
above
my
head
,
I
suffered
a
momentary
flashback
to
Harlan
’
s
World
.
Thirteen
years
old
and
waking
up
in
a
virtual
arcade
after
my
first
porn
format
.
A
low
-
ratio
forum
where
two
minutes
of
real
time
got
me
an
experiential
hour
and
a
half
in
the
company
of
two
pneumatically
-
breasted
playmates
whose
bodies
bore
more
resemblance
to
cartoons
than
real
women
.
The
scenario
had
been
a
candy
-
scented
room
of
pink
cushions
and
fake
fur
rugs
with
windows
that
gave
poor
resolution
onto
a
night
-
time
cityscape
.
When
I
started
running
with
the
gangs
and
making
more
money
,
the
ratio
and
resolution
went
up
,
and
the
scenarios
got
more
imaginative
,
but
the
thing
that
never
changed
was
the
stale
smell
and
the
tackiness
of
the
trodes
on
your
skin
when
you
surfaced
afterwards
between
the
cramped
walls
of
the
coffin
.
"
Kovacs
?
"
I
blinked
and
reached
for
the
straps
.
Shouldering
my
way
out
of
the
cubicle
,
I
found
Ortega
already
waiting
in
the
pipe
-
lined
corridor
.
"
So
what
do
you
think
?
"
"
I
think
she
’
s
full
of
shit
.
"
I
raised
my
hands
to
forestall
Ortega
’
s
outburst
.
"
No
,
listen
,
I
buy
Miriam
Bancroft
as
scary
.
I
’
ve
got
no
argument
with
that
.
But
there
are
about
half
a
hundred
reasons
why
she
doesn
’
t
fit
the
bill
.
Ortega
,
you
polygraphed
her
for
fuck
’
s
sake
.
"
"
Yeah
,
I
know
.
"
Ortega
followed
me
down
the
corridor
.
"
But
that
’
s
what
I
’
ve
been
thinking
about
.
You
know
,
she
volunteered
to
take
that
test
.
I
mean
,
it
’
s
witness
-
mandatory
anyway
,
but
she
was
demanding
it
practically
as
soon
as
I
got
to
the
scene
.
No
weeping
partner
shit
,
not
even
a
tear
,
she
just
slammed
into
the
incident
cruiser
and
asked
for
the
wires
.
"
