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- Уильям Гибсон
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'
You
back
,
mon
.
’
The
music
was
taken
from
his
ears
.
'
How
long
?
’
he
heard
himself
ask
,
and
knew
that
his
mouth
was
very
dry
.
'
Five
minute
,
maybe
.
Too
long
.
I
wan
’
pull
th
’
jack
,
Mute
seh
no
.
Screen
goin
’
funny
,
then
Mute
seh
put
th
’
phones
on
you
.
’
He
opened
his
eyes
.
Maelcum
’
s
features
were
overlayed
with
bands
of
translucent
hieroglyphs
.
'
An
’
you
medicine
,
’
Maelcum
said
.
'
Two
derm
.
’
He
was
flat
on
his
back
on
the
library
floor
,
below
the
monitor
.
The
Zionite
helped
him
sit
up
,
but
the
movement
threw
him
into
the
savage
rush
of
the
betaphenethylamine
,
the
blue
derms
burning
against
his
left
wrist
.
'
Overdose
,
’
he
managed
.
'
Come
on
,
mon
,
’
the
strong
hands
beneath
his
armpits
,
lifting
him
like
a
child
,
'
I
an
’
I
mus
’
go
.
’
The
service
cart
was
crying
.
The
betaphenethylamine
gave
it
a
voice
.
It
wouldn
’
t
stop
.
Not
in
the
crowded
gallery
,
the
long
corridors
,
not
as
it
passed
the
black
glass
entrance
to
the
T
-
A
crypt
,
the
vaults
where
the
cold
had
seeped
so
gradually
into
old
Ashpool
’
s
dreams
.
The
transit
was
an
extended
rush
for
Case
,
the
movement
of
the
cart
indistinguishable
from
the
insane
momentum
of
the
overdose
.
When
the
cart
died
,
at
last
,
something
beneath
the
seat
giving
up
with
a
shower
of
white
sparks
,
the
crying
stopped
.
