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- Уильям Гибсон
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'
You
want
you
a
paradise
,
’
the
Flatline
advised
,
when
Case
had
explained
his
situation
.
'
Check
Copenhagen
,
fringes
of
the
university
section
.
’
The
voice
recited
coordinates
as
he
punched
.
They
found
their
paradise
,
a
'
pirate
’
s
paradise
,
’
on
the
jumbled
border
of
a
low
-
security
academic
grid
.
At
first
glance
it
resembled
the
kind
of
graffiti
student
operators
sometimes
left
at
the
junctions
of
grid
lines
,
faint
glyphs
of
colored
light
that
shimmered
against
the
confused
outlines
of
a
dozen
arts
faculties
.
'
There
,
’
said
the
Flatline
,
'
the
blue
one
.
Make
it
out
?
That
’
s
an
entry
code
for
Bell
Europa
.
Fresh
,
too
.
Bell
’
ll
get
in
here
soon
and
read
the
whole
damn
board
,
change
any
codes
they
find
posted
.
Kids
’
ll
steal
the
new
ones
tomorrow
.
’
Case
tapped
his
way
into
Bell
Europa
and
switched
to
a
standard
phone
code
.
With
the
Flatline
’
s
help
,
he
connected
with
the
London
data
base
that
Molly
claimed
was
Armitage
’
s
.
'
Here
,
’
said
the
voice
,
'
I
’
ll
do
it
for
you
.
’
The
Flatline
began
to
chant
a
series
of
digits
,
Case
keying
them
on
his
deck
,
trying
to
catch
the
pauses
the
construct
used
to
indicate
timing
.
It
took
three
tries
.
'
Big
deal
,
’
said
the
Flatline
.
'
No
ice
at
all
.
’
'
Scan
this
shit
,
’
Case
told
the
Hosaka
.
'
Sift
for
owner
’
s
personal
history
.
’
The
neuroelectronic
scrawls
of
the
paradise
vanished
,
replaced
by
a
simple
lozenge
of
white
light
.
'
Contents
are
primarily
video
recordings
of
postwar
military
trials
,
’
said
the
distant
voice
of
the
Hosaka
.
'
Central
figure
is
Colonel
Willis
Corto
.
’
'
Show
it
already
,
’
Case
said
.
