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Case
had
rented
a
coffin
here
,
on
a
weekly
basis
,
since
he
’
d
arrived
in
Chiba
,
but
he
’
d
never
slept
in
Cheap
Hotel
.
He
slept
in
cheaper
places
.
The
elevator
smelled
of
perfume
and
cigarettes
;
the
sides
of
the
cage
was
scratched
and
thumb
-
smudged
.
As
it
passed
the
fifth
floor
,
he
saw
the
lights
of
Ninsei
.
He
drummed
his
fingers
against
the
pistolgrip
as
the
cage
slowed
with
a
gradual
hiss
.
As
always
,
it
came
to
a
full
stop
with
a
violent
jolt
,
but
he
was
ready
for
it
.
He
stepped
out
into
the
courtyard
that
served
the
place
as
some
combination
of
lobby
and
lawn
.
Centered
in
the
square
carpet
of
green
plastic
turf
,
a
Japanese
teenager
sat
behind
a
C
-
shaped
console
,
reading
a
textbook
.
The
white
fiberglass
coffins
were
racked
in
a
framework
of
industrial
scaffolding
.
Six
tiers
of
coffins
,
ten
coffins
on
a
side
.
Case
nodded
in
the
boy
’
s
direction
and
limped
across
the
plastic
grass
to
the
nearest
ladder
.
The
compound
was
roofed
with
cheap
laminated
matting
that
rattled
in
a
strong
wind
and
leaked
when
it
rained
,
but
the
coffins
were
reasonably
difficult
to
open
without
a
key
.
The
expansion
-
grate
catwalk
vibrated
with
his
weight
as
he
edged
his
way
along
the
third
tier
to
Number
92
.
The
coffins
were
three
meters
long
,
the
oval
hatches
a
meter
wide
and
just
under
a
meter
and
a
half
tall
.
He
fed
his
key
into
the
slot
and
waited
for
verification
from
the
house
computer
.
Magnetic
bolts
thudded
reassuringly
and
the
hatch
rose
vertically
with
a
creak
of
springs
.
Fluorescents
flickered
on
as
he
crawled
in
,
pulling
the
hatch
shut
behind
him
and
slapping
the
panel
that
activated
the
manual
latch
.
There
was
nothing
in
Number
92
but
a
standard
Hitachi
pocket
computer
and
a
small
white
styrofoam
cooler
chest
.
The
cooler
contained
the
remains
of
three
ten
-
kilo
slabs
of
dry
ice
,
carefully
wrapped
in
paper
to
delay
evaporation
,
and
a
spun
aluminum
lab
flask
.
Crouching
on
the
brown
temperfoam
slab
that
was
both
floor
and
bed
,
Case
took
Shin
’
s
.
22
from
his
pocket
and
put
it
on
top
of
the
cooler
.
Then
he
took
off
his
jacket
.
The
coffin
’
s
terminal
was
molded
into
one
concave
wall
,
opposite
a
panel
listing
house
rules
in
seven
languages
.
Case
took
the
pink
handset
from
its
cradle
and
punched
a
Hongkong
number
from
memory
.
He
let
it
ring
five
times
,
then
hung
up
.
His
buyer
for
the
three
megabytes
of
hot
RAM
in
the
Hitachi
wasn
’
t
taking
calls
.
He
punched
a
Tokyo
number
in
Shinjuku
.
A
woman
answered
,
something
in
Japanese
.
'
Snake
Man
there
?
’
'
Very
good
to
hear
from
you
,
’
said
Snake
Man
,
coming
in
on
an
extension
.
'
I
’
ve
been
expecting
your
call
.
’
