-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Уильям Гибсон
-
- Нейромант
-
- Стр. 195/285
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
She
hesitated
.
From
the
half
-
open
oak
door
at
the
far
end
of
the
passage
came
a
voice
,
loud
and
slurred
,
like
the
voice
of
a
drunk
.
Case
thought
the
language
might
be
French
,
but
it
was
too
indistinct
.
Molly
took
a
step
,
another
,
her
hand
sliding
into
the
suit
to
touch
the
butt
of
her
fletcher
.
When
she
stepped
into
the
neural
disruptor
’
s
field
,
her
ears
rang
,
a
tiny
rising
tone
that
made
Case
think
of
the
sound
of
her
fletcher
.
She
pitched
forward
,
her
striated
muscles
slack
,
and
struck
the
door
with
her
forehead
.
She
twisted
and
lay
on
her
back
,
her
eyes
unfocused
,
breath
gone
.
'
What
’
s
this
,
’
said
the
slurred
voice
,
'
fancy
dress
?
’
A
trembling
hand
entered
the
front
of
her
suit
and
found
the
fletcher
,
tugging
it
out
.
'
Come
visit
,
child
.
Now
.
’
She
got
up
slowly
,
her
eyes
fixed
on
the
muzzle
of
a
black
automatic
pistol
.
The
man
’
s
hand
was
steady
enough
,
now
;
the
gun
’
s
barrel
seemed
to
be
attached
to
her
throat
with
a
taut
,
invisible
string
.
He
was
old
,
very
tall
,
and
his
features
reminded
Case
of
the
girl
he
had
glimpsed
in
the
Vingtime
Sicle
.
He
wore
a
heavy
robe
of
maroon
silk
,
quilted
around
the
long
cuffs
and
shawl
collar
.
One
foot
was
bare
,
the
other
in
a
black
velvet
slipper
with
an
embroidered
gold
foxhead
over
the
instep
.
He
motioned
her
into
the
room
.
'
Slow
,
darling
.
’
The
room
was
very
large
,
cluttered
with
an
assortment
of
things
that
made
no
sense
to
Case
.
He
saw
a
gray
steel
rack
of
old
-
fashioned
Sony
monitors
,
a
wide
brass
bed
heaped
with
sheepskins
,
with
pillows
that
seemed
to
have
been
made
from
the
kind
of
rug
used
to
pave
the
corridors
.
Molly
’
s
eyes
darted
from
a
huge
Telefunken
entertainment
console
to
shelves
of
antique
disk
recordings
,
their
crumbling
spines
cased
in
clear
plastic
,
to
a
wide
worktable
littered
with
slabs
of
silicon
.
Case
registered
the
cyberspace
deck
and
the
trodes
,
but
her
glance
slid
over
it
without
pausing
.
'
It
would
be
customary
,
’
the
old
man
said
,
'
for
me
to
kill
you
now
.
’
Case
felt
her
tense
,
ready
for
a
move
.
'
But
tonight
I
indulge
myself
.
What
is
your
name
?
’
'
Molly
.
’
'
Molly
.
Mine
is
Ashpool
.
’
He
sank
back
into
the
creased
softness
of
a
huge
leather
armchair
with
square
chrome
legs
,
but
the
gun
never
wavered
.
He
put
her
fletcher
on
a
brass
table
beside
the
chair
,
knocking
over
a
plastic
vial
of
red
pills
.
The
table
was
thick
with
vials
,
bottles
of
liquor
,
soft
plastic
envelopes
spilling
white
powders
.
Case
noticed
an
old
-
fashioned
glass
hypodermic
and
a
plain
steel
spoon
.
'
How
do
you
cry
,
Molly
?
I
see
your
eyes
are
walled
away
.
I
’
m
curious
.
’
His
eyes
were
red
-
rimmed
,
his
forehead
gleaming
with
sweat
.
He
was
very
pale
.
Sick
,
Case
decided
.
Or
drugs
.
