homo homini queer.
“I’d been alone in the room, always.” He sat on the chair, facing the bed. The blue coals still burned in the black flower on his lapel. “I don’t know when I first began to dream of her,” he said, “ but I do remember at first that she was only a haze, a shadow.”
There was something on the bed. Case blinked. Gone.
“I couldn’t quite hold her, hold her in my mind. But I wanted to hold her, hold her and more. . . .” His voice carried perfectly in the light of the dim restaurant. Ice clinked against the side of a glass. Someone giggled. Someone else asked a whispered question in Japanese. “I decided that if I could visualize some part of her, only a small part, if I could see that part perfectly, in the most perfect detail. . . .”
A woman’s hand lay on the mattress now, palm up, white fingers pale.
Riviera leaned forward, picked up the hand, and began to stroke it gently. The fingers moved. Riviera raised the hand to his mouth and began to lick the tips of the fingers. The nails were coated with a burgundy lacquer.
A hand, Case saw, but not severed hand. The skin swept back smoothly, unbroken and unscarred. Riviera was holding the hands to his lips, licking its palm. The fingers tentatively caressed his face. But now, a second hand lay on the bed. When Riviera reached for it, the fingers of the first were locked around his wrist, a bracelet of flesh and bone.
The act progressed with a surreal internal logic of its own. The arms were next. Feet. Legs. The legs were very beautiful. Case’s head throbbed. His throat was dry. He drank the last of his wine.
Riviera was in the bed now, naked. His clothing had been part of the projected illusion, but Case couldn’t remember seeing it fade away. The black flower lay at the foot of the bed, still with its blue inner flame. Then the torso formed, as Riviera caressed it into being, white, headless, and perfect, sheened with just the faintest gloss of sweat.
Molly’s body. Case stared, his mouth open. But it wasn’t Molly; it was Molly as Riviera imagined her. The breasts were wrong, the nipples larger, too dark. Riviera and the limbless torso writhed together on the bed, crawled over by the hands with their bright nails. The bed was thick now with a rotting lace that crumbled at a touch. Motes of dust boiled around Riviera, and the twitching limbs, the scurrying, pinching, caressing hands.
Case glanced sideways at Molly. Her face was blank: the colors of Riviera’s projections heaved and turned in her mirrors.
Now limbs and torso had merged, and Riviera shuddered. The head was there, the image complete. Molly’s face, with the smooth quicksilver, drowning the eyes. Riviera and the Molly-image being to couple with renewed intensity. Then the image slowly extended a clawed hand and extruded its five blades. With a languorous, dreamlike deliberation, it raked Riviera’s bare back.
Case caught a glimpse of exposed spine, but he was already up and stumbling for the door. He vomited over the rosewood railing into the quiet waters of the lake.
He could guess the end, the finale. There was an inverted symmetry: Riviera puts the dreamgirl together, the dreamgirl takes him apart. With those hands. Dreamblood soaks the rotting lace.
— Neuromancer, page 146
“How could you be reading it, then?” Something about it worried her. “Don’t they still shoot people for reading — “
“It depends on your racial group. On the good old armband.”
That was so. Slavs, Poles, Puerto Ricans, were the most limited as to what they could read, do, listen to. The Anglo-Saxons had it much better; there was public education for their children, and they could go to libraries and museums and concerts. (6.104–6) (src)
I mean, come on! Would you believe that DICK!?
This is exactly what happened to me, too! With The Man in the High Castle. So these things just happen? What a relief!