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He
couldn
’
t
feel
his
legs
.
He
used
them
like
stilts
,
swaying
crazily
across
the
flagstone
pavement
of
Jules
Verne
,
a
distant
rumbling
in
his
ears
,
his
own
blood
,
razored
sheets
of
light
bisecting
his
skull
at
a
dozen
angles
.
And
then
he
was
frozen
,
erect
,
fists
tight
against
his
thighs
,
head
back
,
his
lips
curled
,
shaking
.
While
he
watched
the
loser
’
s
zodiac
of
Freeside
,
the
nightclub
constellations
of
the
hologram
sky
,
shift
,
sliding
fluid
down
the
axis
of
darkness
,
to
swarm
like
live
things
at
the
dead
center
of
reality
.
Until
they
had
arranged
themselves
,
individually
and
in
their
hundreds
,
to
form
a
vast
simple
portrait
,
stippled
the
ultimate
monochrome
,
stars
against
night
sky
.
Face
of
Miss
Linda
Lee
.
When
he
was
able
to
look
away
,
to
lower
his
eyes
,
he
found
every
other
face
in
the
street
upraised
,
the
strolling
tourists
becalmed
with
wonder
.
And
when
the
lights
in
the
sky
went
out
,
a
ragged
cheer
went
up
from
Jules
Verne
,
to
echo
off
the
terraces
and
ranked
balconies
of
lunar
concrete
.
Somewhere
a
clock
began
to
chime
,
some
ancient
bell
out
of
Europe
.
Midnight
.
He
walked
till
morning
.
The
high
wore
away
,
the
chromed
skeleton
corroding
hourly
,
flesh
growing
solid
,
the
drug
-
flesh
replaced
with
the
meat
of
his
life
.
He
couldn
’
t
think
.
He
liked
that
very
much
,
to
be
conscious
and
unable
to
think
.
He
seemed
to
become
each
thing
he
saw
:
a
park
bench
,
a
cloud
of
white
moths
around
an
antique
streetlight
,
a
robot
gardener
striped
diagonally
with
black
and
yellow
.
A
recorded
dawn
crept
along
the
Lado
-
Acheson
system
,
pink
and
lurid
.
He
forced
himself
to
eat
an
omelette
in
a
Desiderata
cafe
,
to
drink
water
,
to
smoke
the
last
of
his
cigarettes
The
rooftop
meadow
of
the
Intercontinental
was
stirring
as
he
crossed
it
,
an
early
breakfast
crowd
intent
on
coffee
and
croissants
beneath
the
striped
umbrellas
.
