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Case
sat
in
the
loft
with
the
dermatrodes
strapped
across
his
forehead
,
watching
motes
dance
in
the
diluted
sunlight
that
filtered
through
the
grid
overhead
.
A
countdown
was
in
progress
in
one
corner
of
the
monitor
screen
.
Cowboys
didn
’
t
get
into
simstim
,
he
thought
,
because
it
was
basically
a
meat
toy
.
He
knew
that
the
trodes
he
used
and
the
little
plastic
tiara
dangling
from
a
simstim
deck
were
basically
the
same
,
and
that
the
cyberspace
matrix
was
actually
a
drastic
simplification
of
the
human
sensorium
,
at
least
in
terms
of
presentation
,
but
simstim
itself
struck
him
as
a
gratuitous
multiplication
of
flesh
input
.
The
commercial
stuff
was
edited
,
of
course
,
so
that
if
Tally
Isham
got
a
headache
in
the
course
of
a
segment
,
you
didn
’
t
feel
it
.
The
screen
bleeped
a
two
-
second
warning
.
The
new
switch
was
patched
into
his
Sendai
with
a
thin
ribbon
of
fiberoptics
.
And
one
and
two
and
-
-
Cyberspace
slid
into
existence
from
the
cardinal
points
.
Smooth
,
he
thought
,
but
not
smooth
enough
.
Have
to
work
on
it
.
.
.
Then
he
keyed
the
new
switch
.
The
abrupt
jolt
into
other
flesh
.
Matrix
gone
,
a
wave
of
sound
and
color
.
.
.
She
was
moving
through
a
crowded
street
,
past
stalls
vending
discount
software
,
prices
feltpenned
on
sheets
of
plastic
,
fragments
of
music
from
countless
speakers
.
Smells
of
urine
,
free
monomers
,
perfume
,
patties
of
frying
krill
.
For
a
few
frightened
seconds
he
fought
helplessly
to
control
her
body
.
Then
he
willed
himself
into
passivity
,
became
the
passenger
behind
her
eyes
.
The
glasses
didn
’
t
seem
to
cut
down
the
sunlight
al
all
.
He
wondered
if
the
built
-
in
amps
compensated
automatically
.
Blue
alphanumerics
winked
the
time
,
low
in
her
left
peripheral
field
.
Showing
off
,
he
thought
.
