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- Уильям Гибсон
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He
turned
and
walked
back
into
the
shadows
.
Too
dark
.
Too
quiet
.
’
The
crowd
,
he
saw
,
was
mostly
Japanese
.
Not
really
a
Night
City
crowd
.
Techs
down
from
the
arcologies
.
He
supposed
that
meant
the
arena
had
the
approval
of
some
corporate
recreational
committee
.
He
wondered
briefly
what
it
would
be
like
,
working
all
your
life
for
one
zaibatsu
.
Company
housing
,
company
hymn
,
company
funeral
.
He
’
d
made
nearly
a
full
circuit
of
the
dome
before
he
found
the
food
stalls
.
He
bought
yakitori
on
skewers
and
two
tall
waxy
cartons
of
beer
.
Glancing
up
at
the
holograms
,
he
saw
that
blood
laced
one
figure
’
s
chest
.
Thick
brown
sauce
trickled
down
the
skewers
and
over
his
knuckles
.
Seven
days
and
he
’
d
jack
in
.
If
he
closed
his
eyes
now
,
he
’
d
see
the
matrix
.
Shadows
twisted
as
the
holograms
swung
through
their
dance
.
Then
the
fear
began
to
knot
between
his
shoulders
.
A
cold
trickle
of
sweat
worked
its
way
down
and
across
his
ribs
.
The
operation
hadn
’
t
worked
.
He
was
still
here
,
still
meat
,
no
Molly
waiting
,
her
eyes
locked
on
the
circling
knives
,
no
Armitage
waiting
in
the
Hilton
with
tickets
and
a
new
passport
and
money
.
It
was
all
some
dream
,
some
pathetic
fantasy
.
.
.
Hot
tears
blurred
his
vision
.
Blood
sprayed
from
a
jugular
in
a
red
gout
of
light
.
And
now
the
crowd
was
screaming
,
rising
,
screaming
-
as
one
figure
crumpled
,
the
hologram
fading
,
flickering
.
.
.
Raw
edge
of
vomit
in
his
throat
.
He
closed
his
eyes
,
took
a
deep
breath
,
opened
them
,
and
saw
Linda
Lee
step
past
him
,
her
gray
eyes
blind
with
fear
.
She
wore
the
same
French
fatigues
.
And
gone
.
Into
shadow
.
Pure
mindless
reflex
:
he
threw
the
beer
and
chicken
down
and
ran
after
her
.
