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- Уильям Гибсон
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’
Case
turned
back
,
in
time
to
catch
the
briefest
flash
of
a
black
rose
,
its
petals
sheened
like
leather
,
the
black
stem
thorned
with
bright
chrome
.
Peter
Riviera
smiled
sweetly
,
closed
his
eyes
,
and
fell
instantly
asleep
.
Molly
turned
away
,
her
lenses
reflected
in
the
dark
window
.
'
You
been
up
,
haven
’
t
you
?
’
Molly
asked
,
as
he
squirmed
his
way
back
into
the
deep
temperfoam
couch
on
the
JALshuttle
.
'
Nah
.
Never
travel
much
,
just
for
biz
.
’
The
steward
was
attaching
readout
trodes
to
his
wrist
and
left
ear
.
'
Hope
you
don
’
t
get
SAS
,
’
she
said
.
'
Airsick
?
No
way
.
’
'
It
’
s
not
the
same
.
Your
heartbeat
’
ll
speed
up
in
zero
-
g
,
and
your
inner
ear
’
ll
go
nuts
for
a
while
.
Kicks
in
your
flight
reflex
,
like
you
’
ll
be
getting
signals
to
run
like
hell
,
and
a
lot
of
adrenaline
.
’
The
steward
moved
on
to
Riviera
,
taking
a
new
set
of
trodes
from
his
red
plastic
apron
.
Case
turned
his
head
and
tried
to
make
out
the
outline
of
the
old
Orly
terminals
,
but
the
shuttle
pad
was
screened
by
graceful
blast
-
deflectors
of
wet
concrete
.
The
one
nearest
the
window
bore
an
Arabic
slogan
in
red
spraybomb
.
