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'
That
level
’
s
the
cubicles
,
’
Bruce
said
,
after
asking
Case
to
repeat
the
address
for
the
eighth
time
.
He
climbed
back
into
the
Honda
.
Condensation
dribbled
from
the
hydrogen
-
cell
exhaust
as
the
red
fiberglass
chassis
swayed
on
chromed
shocks
.
'
You
be
long
?
’
'
No
saying
.
But
you
’
ll
wait
.
’
'
We
’
ll
wait
,
yeah
.
’
He
scratched
his
bare
chest
.
'
That
last
part
of
the
address
,
I
think
that
’
s
a
cubicle
.
Number
forty
three
.
’
'
You
expected
,
Lupus
?
’
Cath
craned
forward
over
Bruce
’
s
shoulder
and
peered
up
.
The
drive
had
dried
her
hair
.
'
Not
really
,
’
Case
said
.
'
That
’
s
a
problem
?
’
'
Just
go
down
to
the
lowest
level
and
find
your
friend
’
s
cubicle
.
If
they
let
you
in
,
fine
.
If
they
don
’
t
wanna
see
you
.
.
.
’
She
shrugged
.
Case
turned
and
descended
a
spiral
staircase
of
floral
iron
.
Six
turns
and
he
’
d
reached
a
nightclub
.
He
paused
and
lit
a
Yeheyuan
looking
over
the
tables
.
Freeside
suddenly
made
sense
to
him
.
Biz
.
He
could
feel
it
humming
in
the
air
.
This
was
it
,
the
local
action
.
Not
the
high
-
gloss
facade
of
the
Rue
Jules
Verne
,
but
the
real
thing
.
Commerce
.
The
dance
.
The
crowd
was
mixed
;
maybe
half
were
tourists
,
the
other
half
residents
of
the
islands
.
'
Downstairs
,
’
he
said
to
a
passing
waiter
,
'
I
want
to
go
downstairs
.
’
He
showed
his
Freeside
chip
.
The
man
gestured
toward
the
rear
of
the
club
.
He
walked
quickly
past
the
crowded
tables
,
hearing
fragments
of
half
a
dozen
European
languages
as
he
passed
.
