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- Уильям Гибсон
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The
train
began
to
decelerate
ten
kilometers
from
the
airport
.
Case
watched
the
sun
rise
on
the
landscape
of
childhood
,
on
broken
slag
and
the
rusting
shells
of
refineries
.
It
was
raining
in
Beyoglu
,
and
the
rented
Mercedes
slid
past
the
grilled
and
unlit
windows
of
cautious
Greek
and
Armenian
jewelers
.
The
street
was
almost
empty
,
only
a
few
dark
-
coated
figures
on
the
sidewalks
turning
to
stare
after
the
car
.
'
This
was
formerly
the
prosperous
European
section
of
Ottoman
Istanbul
,
’
purred
the
Mercedes
.
'
So
it
’
s
gone
downhill
,
’
Case
said
.
'
The
Hilton
’
s
in
Cumhuriyet
Caddesi
,
’
Molly
said
.
She
settled
back
against
the
car
’
s
gray
ultrasuede
.
'
How
come
Armitage
flies
alone
?
’
Case
asked
.
He
had
a
headache
.
'
’
Cause
you
get
up
his
nose
.
You
’
re
sure
getting
up
mine
.
’
He
wanted
to
tell
her
the
Corto
story
,
but
decided
against
it
.
He
’
d
used
a
sleep
derm
,
on
the
plane
.
The
road
in
from
the
airport
had
been
dead
straight
,
like
a
neat
incision
,
laying
the
city
open
.
He
’
d
watched
the
crazy
walls
of
patchwork
wooden
tenements
slide
by
,
condos
,
arcologies
,
grim
housing
projects
,
more
walls
of
plyboard
and
corrugated
iron
.
The
Finn
,
in
a
new
Shinjuku
suit
,
sarariman
black
,
was
waiting
sourly
in
the
Hilton
lobby
,
marooned
on
a
velour
armchair
in
a
sea
of
pale
blue
carpeting
.
