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THE SKY ABOVE the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel.
Gibson noted later that because modern televisions don't show static, they show a blue screen, younger readers may think this means the sky was blue!
The Sprawl was a long strange way home over the Pacific now, and he was no console man, no cyberspace cowboy. Just another hustler, trying to make it through. But the dreams came on in the Japanese night like livewire voodoo, and he’d cry for it, cry in his sleep, and wake alone in the dark, curled in his capsule in some coffin hotel, his hands clawed into the bedslab, temperfoam bunched between his fingers, trying to reach the console that wasn’t there.
“Iffy,” he said, “it’s all looking very iffy tonight.”
They looked to Case like machines built for racing; they deserved decals for their hairdressers, the designers of their white cotton ducks, for the artisans who’d crafted their leather sandals and simple jewelry.
That’s king hell ice, Case, black as the grave and slick as glass. Fry your brain soon as look at you.
