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- Уильям Гибсон
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'
Corto
,
stop
.
Wait
.
You
’
re
blind
,
man
.
You
can
’
t
fly
!
You
’
ll
hit
the
fucking
trees
.
And
they
’
re
trying
to
get
you
,
Corto
.
I
swear
to
God
,
they
’
ve
left
your
hatch
open
.
You
’
ll
die
,
and
you
’
ll
never
get
to
tell
’
em
,
and
I
gotta
get
the
enzyme
,
name
of
the
enzyme
,
the
enzyme
,
man
.
.
.
’
He
was
shouting
,
voice
high
with
hysteria
.
Feedback
shrilled
out
of
the
helmet
’
s
phone
pads
.
'
Remember
the
training
,
Case
.
That
’
s
all
we
can
do
.
’
And
then
the
helmet
filled
with
a
confused
babble
,
roaring
static
,
harmonics
howling
down
the
years
from
Screaming
Fist
.
Fragments
of
Russian
,
and
then
a
stranger
’
s
voice
,
Midwestern
,
very
young
.
'
We
are
down
,
repeat
,
Omaha
Thunder
is
down
,
we
.
.
.
’
'
Wintermute
,
’
Case
screamed
,
'
don
’
t
do
this
to
me
!
’
Tears
broke
from
his
lashes
,
rebounding
off
the
faceplate
in
wobbling
crystal
droplets
.
Then
Haniwathudded
,
once
,
shivered
as
if
some
huge
soft
thing
had
struck
her
hull
.
Case
imagined
the
lifeboat
jolting
free
,
blown
clear
by
explosive
bolts
,
a
second
’
s
clawing
hurricane
of
escaping
air
tearing
mad
Colonel
Corto
from
his
couch
,
from
Wintermute
’
s
rendition
of
the
final
minute
of
Screaming
Fist
.
'
’
Im
gone
,
mon
.
’
Maelcum
looked
at
the
monitor
.
'
Hatch
open
.
Mute
mus
’
override
ejection
failsafe
.
’
Case
tried
to
wipe
the
tears
of
rage
from
his
eyes
.
His
fingers
clacked
against
Lexan
.
'
Yacht
,
she
tight
for
air
,
but
bossman
takin
’
grapple
control
wi
’
bridge
.
Marcus
Garveystill
stuck
.
’
But
Case
was
seeing
Armitage
’
s
endless
fall
around
Freeside
,
through
vacuum
colder
than
the
steppes
For
some
reason
,
he
imagined
him
in
his
dark
Burberry
,
the
trenchcoat
’
s
rich
folds
spread
out
around
him
like
the
wings
of
some
huge
bat
.
