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- Уильям Гибсон
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'
And
you
wander
back
and
forth
in
this
portable
bombshelter
built
of
booze
and
ups
,
sure
.
Proof
against
the
grosser
emotions
,
yes
?
’
'
Why
don
’
t
you
get
off
my
case
,
Ratz
?
You
seen
Wage
?
’
'
Proof
against
fear
and
being
alone
,
’
the
bartender
continued
.
'
Listen
to
the
fear
.
Maybe
it
’
s
your
friend
.
’
'
You
hear
anything
about
a
fight
in
the
arcade
tonight
,
Ratz
?
Somebody
hurt
?
’
'
Crazy
cut
a
security
man
.
’
He
shrugged
.
'
A
girl
,
they
say
.
’
'
I
gotta
talk
to
Wage
.
Ratz
,
I
.
.
.
’
'
Ah
.
’
Ratz
’
s
mouth
narrowed
,
compressed
into
a
single
line
.
He
was
looking
past
Case
,
toward
the
entrance
.
'
I
think
you
are
about
to
.
’
Case
had
a
sudden
flash
of
the
shuriken
in
their
window
.
The
speed
sang
in
his
head
.
The
pistol
in
his
hand
was
slippery
with
sweat
.
'
Herr
Wage
,
’
Ratz
said
,
slowly
extending
his
pink
manipulator
as
if
he
expected
it
to
be
shaken
.
'
How
great
a
pleasure
.
Too
seldom
do
you
honor
us
.
’
Case
turned
his
head
and
looked
up
into
Wage
’
s
face
.
It
was
a
tanned
and
forgettable
mask
.
The
eyes
were
vatgrown
sea
-
green
Nikon
transplants
.
Wage
wore
a
suit
of
gunmetal
silk
and
a
simple
bracelet
of
platinum
on
either
wrist
.
