Neuromancer - William Gibson Page 0,91

out of the nest, he went to the canister and fished one of the things out, blinking at small print in a dozen languages. The English was on the bottom. EMERG. RATION, HI-PRO, “BEEF,” TYPE AG-8. A listing of nutritive content. He fumbled a second one out. “EGGS.” “If you’re making this shit up,” he said, “you could lay on some real food, okay?” With a packet in either hand, he made his way through the structure’s four rooms. Two were empty, aside from drifts of sand, and the fourth held three more of the ration canisters. “Sure,” he said touching the seals. “Stay here a long time. I get the idea. Sure . . .”

He searched the room with the fireplace, finding a plastic canister filled with what he assumed was rainwater. Beside the nest of blankets, against the wall, lay a cheap red lighter, a seaman’s knife with a cracked green handle, and her scarf. It was still knotted, and stiff with sweat and dirt. He used the knife to open the yellow packets, dumping their contents into a rusted can that he found beside the stove. He dipped water from the canister, mixed the resulting mush with his fingers, and ate. It tasted vaguely like beef. When it was gone, he tossed the can into the fireplace and went out.

Late afternoon, by the feel of the sun, its angle. He kicked off his damp nylon shoes and was startled by the warmth of the sand. In daylight, the beach was silver-gray. The sky was cloudless, blue. He rounded the corner of the bunker and walked toward the surf, dropping his jacket on the sand. “Dunno whose memories you’re using for this one,” he said when he reached the water. He peeled off his jeans and kicked them into the shallow surf, following them with t-shirt and underwear.

“What you doin’, Case?”

He turned and found her ten meters down the beach, the white foam sliding past her ankles.

“I pissed myself last night,” he said.

“Well, you don’t wanna wear those. Saltwater. Give you sores. I’ll show you this pool back in the rocks.” She gestured vaguely behind her. “It’s fresh.” The faded French fatigues had been hacked away above the knee; the skin below was smooth and brown. A breeze caught at her hair.

“Listen,” he said, scooping his clothes up and walking toward her, “I got a question for you. I won’t ask you what you’re doing here. But what exactly do you think I’m doing here?” He stopped, a wet black jeans-leg slapping against his bare thigh.

“You came last night,” she said. She smiled at him.

“And that’s enough for you? I just came?”

“He said you would,” she said, wrinkling her nose. She shrugged. “He knows stuff like that, I guess.” She lifted her left foot and rubbed salt from the other ankle, awkward, childlike. She smiled at him again, more tentatively. “Now you answer me one, okay?”

He nodded.

“How come you’re painted brown like that, all except your foot?”

“AND THAT’S THE last thing you remember?” He watched her scrape the last of the freeze-dried hash from the rectangular steel box cover that was their only plate.

She nodded, her eyes huge in the firelight. “I’m sorry, Case, honest to God. It was just the shit, I guess, an’ it was . . .” She hunched forward, forearms across her knees, her face twisted for a few seconds with pain or its memory. “I just needed the money. To get home, I guess, or . . . hell,” she said, “you wouldn’t hardly talk to me.”

“There’s no cigarettes?”

“Goddam, Case, you asked me that ten times today! What’s wrong with you?” She twisted a strand of hair into her mouth and chewed at it.

“But the food was here? It was already here?”

“I told you, man, it was washed up on the damn beach.”

“Okay. Sure. It’s seamless.”

She started to cry again, a dry sobbing. “Well, damn you anyway, Case,” she managed, finally, “I was doin’ just fine here by myself.”

He got up, taking his jacket, and ducked through the doorway, scraping his wrist on rough concrete. There was no moon, no wind, sea sound all around him in the darkness. His jeans were tight and clammy. “Okay,” he said to the night, “I buy it. I guess I buy it. But tomorrow some cigarettes better wash up.” His own laughter startled him. “A case of beer wouldn’t hurt, while you’re at it.” He turned and reentered the bunker.

She was stirring the embers with a