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'
Nowhere
yet
,
’
Molly
said
,
'
but
you
got
a
little
side
gig
now
.
’
She
drew
a
folded
scrap
of
paper
from
her
pocket
and
handed
it
to
him
.
He
opened
it
.
Grid
coordinates
and
entry
codes
.
'
Who
’
s
this
?
’
'
Armitage
.
Some
data
base
of
his
.
Bought
it
from
the
Moderns
.
Separate
deal
.
Where
is
it
?
’
'
London
,
’
Case
said
.
'
Crack
it
.
’
She
laughed
.
'
Earn
your
keep
for
a
change
.
’
Case
waited
for
a
trans
-
BAMA
local
on
the
crowded
platform
.
Molly
had
gone
back
to
the
loft
hours
ago
,
the
Flatline
’
s
construct
in
her
green
bag
,
and
Case
had
been
drinking
steadily
ever
since
.
It
was
disturbing
to
think
of
the
Flatline
as
a
construct
,
a
hardwired
ROM
cassette
replicating
a
dead
man
’
s
skills
,
obsessions
,
kneejerk
responses
.
.
.
The
local
came
booming
in
along
the
black
induction
strip
,
fine
grit
sifting
from
cracks
in
the
tunnel
’
s
ceiling
.
Case
shuffled
into
the
nearest
door
and
watched
the
other
passengers
as
he
rode
.
A
pair
of
predatory
looking
Christian
Scientists
were
edging
toward
a
trio
of
young
office
techs
who
wore
idealized
holographic
vaginas
on
their
wrists
,
wet
pink
glittering
under
the
harsh
lighting
.
The
techs
licked
their
perfect
lips
nervously
and
eyed
the
Christian
Scientists
from
beneath
lowered
metallic
lids
.
The
girls
looked
like
tall
,
exotic
grazing
animals
,
swaying
gracefully
and
unconsciously
with
the
movement
of
the
train
,
their
high
heels
like
polished
hooves
against
the
gray
metal
of
the
car
’
s
floor
.
Before
they
could
stampede
,
take
flight
from
the
missionaries
,
the
train
reached
Case
’
s
station
.
He
stepped
out
and
caught
sight
of
a
white
holographic
cigar
suspended
against
the
wall
of
the
station
,
FREESIDE
pulsing
beneath
it
in
contorted
capitals
that
mimicked
printed
Japanese
.
He
walked
through
the
crowd
and
stood
beneath
it
,
studying
the
thing
.
WHY
WAIT
?
pulsed
the
sign
.
A
blunt
white
spindle
,
flanged
and
studded
with
grids
and
radiators
,
docks
,
domes
.
He
’
d
seen
the
ad
,
or
others
like
it
,
thousands
of
times
.
It
had
never
appealed
to
him
.
With
his
deck
,
he
could
reach
the
Freeside
banks
as
easily
as
he
could
reach
Atlanta
.
Travel
was
a
meat
thing
.
But
now
he
noticed
the
little
sigil
,
the
size
of
a
small
coin
,
woven
into
the
lower
left
corner
of
the
ad
’
s
fabric
of
light
:
T
-
A
.
He
walked
back
to
the
loft
,
lost
in
memories
of
the
Flatline
.
He
’
d
spent
most
of
his
nineteenth
summer
in
the
Gentleman
Loser
,
nursing
expensive
beers
and
watching
the
cowboys
.
He
’
d
never
touched
a
deck
,
then
,
but
he
knew
what
he
wanted
.
There
were
at
least
twenty
other
hopefuls
ghosting
the
Loser
,
that
summer
,
each
one
bent
on
working
joeboy
for
some
cowboy
.
No
other
way
to
learn
.
