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'
Not
just
’
cause
you
were
scared
,
huh
?
’
He
shrugged
again
.
'
Do
it
now
.
’
'
What
?
’
'
Now
.
Anyway
,
talk
to
the
Flatline
about
it
.
’
'
I
’
m
all
doped
,
’
he
protested
,
but
reached
for
the
trodes
.
His
deck
and
the
Hosaka
had
been
mounted
behind
Maelcum
’
s
module
along
with
a
very
high
-
resolution
Cray
monitor
.
He
adjusted
the
trodes
.
Marcus
Garveyhad
been
thrown
together
around
an
enormous
old
Russian
air
scrubber
,
a
rectangular
thing
daubed
with
Rastafarian
symbols
,
Lions
of
Zion
and
Black
Star
Liners
,
the
reds
and
greens
and
yellows
overlaying
wordy
decals
in
Cyrillic
script
.
Someone
had
sprayed
Maelcum
’
s
pilot
gear
a
hot
tropical
pink
,
scraping
most
of
the
overspray
off
the
screens
and
readouts
with
a
razor
blade
.
The
gaskets
around
the
airlock
in
the
bow
were
festooned
with
semirigid
globs
and
streamers
of
translucent
caulk
,
like
clumsy
strands
of
imitation
seaweed
.
He
glanced
past
Maelcum
’
s
shoulder
to
the
central
screen
and
saw
a
docking
display
:
the
tug
’
s
path
was
a
line
of
red
dots
,
Freeside
a
segmented
green
circle
.
He
watched
the
line
extend
itself
,
generating
a
new
dot
.
He
jacked
in
.
'
Dixie
?
’
