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- Уильям Гибсон
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She
was
gone
.
The
weight
of
memory
came
down
,
an
entire
body
of
knowledge
driven
into
his
head
like
a
microsoft
into
a
socket
.
Gone
.
He
smelled
burning
meat
.
The
sailor
in
the
white
t
-
shirt
was
gone
.
The
arcade
was
empty
,
silent
.
Case
turned
slowly
,
his
shoulders
hunched
,
teeth
bared
,
his
hands
bunched
into
involuntary
fists
.
Empty
.
A
crumpled
yellow
candy
wrapper
,
balanced
on
the
edge
of
a
console
,
dropped
to
the
floor
and
lay
amid
flattened
butts
and
styrofoam
cups
.
'
I
had
a
cigarette
,
’
Case
said
,
looking
down
at
his
white
knuckled
fist
.
'
I
had
a
cigarette
and
a
girl
and
a
place
to
sleep
.
Do
you
hear
me
,
you
son
of
a
bitch
?
You
hear
me
?
’
Echoes
moved
through
the
hollow
of
the
arcade
,
fading
down
corridors
of
consoles
.
He
stepped
out
into
the
street
.
The
rain
had
stopped
.
Ninsei
was
deserted
.
Holograms
flickered
,
neon
danced
.
He
smelled
boiled
vegetables
from
a
vendor
’
s
pushcart
across
the
street
.
An
unopened
pack
of
Yeheyuans
lay
at
his
feet
,
beside
a
book
of
matches
.
JULIUS
DEANE
IMPORT
EXPORT
.
Case
stared
at
the
printed
logo
and
its
Japanese
translation
.
'
Okay
,
’
he
said
,
picking
up
the
matches
and
opening
the
pack
of
cigarettes
.
'
I
hear
you
.
’
He
took
his
time
climbing
the
stairs
of
Deane
’
s
office
.
No
rush
,
he
told
himself
,
no
hurry
.
The
sagging
face
of
the
Dali
clock
still
told
the
wrong
time
.
There
was
dust
on
the
Kandinsky
table
and
the
Neo
-
Aztec
bookcases
.
A
wall
of
white
fiberglass
shipping
modules
filled
the
room
with
a
smell
of
ginger
.
