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- Уильям Гибсон
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'
C
’
mon
,
’
said
the
Finn
,
'
ease
up
a
little
.
’
Case
lay
sprawled
across
a
pile
of
yellowing
magazines
,
the
girls
shining
up
at
him
in
the
dimness
of
Metro
Holografix
,
a
wistful
galaxy
of
sweet
white
teeth
.
He
lay
there
until
his
heart
had
slowed
,
breathing
the
smell
of
old
magazines
.
'
Wintermute
,
’
he
said
.
'
Yeah
,
’
said
the
Finn
,
somewhere
behind
him
,
'
you
got
it
.
’
'
Fuck
off
.
’
Case
sat
up
,
rubbing
his
wrists
.
'
Come
on
,
’
said
the
Finn
,
stepping
out
of
a
sort
of
alcove
in
the
wall
of
junk
.
'
This
way
’
s
better
for
you
,
man
.
’
He
took
his
Partagas
from
a
coat
pocket
and
lit
one
.
The
smell
of
Cuban
tobacco
filled
the
shop
.
'
You
want
I
should
come
to
you
in
the
matrix
like
a
burning
bush
?
You
aren
’
t
missing
anything
,
back
there
.
An
hour
here
’
ll
only
take
you
a
couple
of
seconds
.
’
'
You
ever
think
maybe
it
gets
on
my
nerves
,
you
coming
on
like
people
I
know
?
’
He
stood
,
swatting
pale
dust
from
the
front
of
his
black
jeans
.
He
turned
,
glaring
back
at
the
dusty
shop
windows
,
the
closed
door
to
the
street
.
'
What
’
s
out
there
?
New
York
?
Or
does
it
just
stop
?
’
'
Well
,
’
said
the
Finn
,
'
it
’
s
like
that
tree
,
you
know
?
Falls
in
the
woods
but
maybe
there
’
s
nobody
to
hear
it
.
’
He
showed
Case
his
huge
front
teeth
,
and
puffed
his
cigarette
.
'
You
can
go
for
a
walk
,
you
wanna
.
It
’
s
all
there
.
Or
anyway
all
the
parts
of
it
you
ever
saw
.
This
is
memory
,
right
?
I
tap
you
,
sort
it
out
,
and
feed
it
back
in
.
’
'
I
don
’
t
have
this
good
a
memory
,
’
Case
said
,
looking
around
.
He
looked
down
at
his
hands
,
turning
them
over
.
He
tried
to
remember
what
the
lines
on
his
palms
were
like
,
but
couldn
’
t
.
