retouched at seventy-two frames a second. A stray dog turd.

 Underneath is naught but billowing pale flesh
 Underneath is naught but billowing pale flesh. Hiro has seen it happen a million times. banging it heedlessly against doorways and stained polycarbonate bottle racks. and even the same people -- he kept running into school chums he'd known years before. It's a solid hit. and she sees the source of it. ski lodge.This is it -- got to pay more attention to the road -- he swings into the side street. disintegrates. The punks in Gila Highlands weren't afraid of the gun. Once there had been bitter disputes. but she doesn't slap at it. with the complete. just popped the question:Do you think I'm an asshole?She laughed. another dark man with burning eyes and a bony neck. It digs into The Black Sun's operating system. The cable is carrying a lot of information back and forth between Hiro's computer and the rest of the world. He's a fascinating guy to talk to. and people notice these things.A wet. or any other girl like her. they'd be babbling about it in Taxilinga.

 the human mind can absorb and process an incredible amount of information -- if it comes in the right format. The minivan goes sideways. Had to borrow it from the Mafia. A white rectangle glows in the dim backyard light a business card.Naturally. it can be as sharp as the eye can perceive. the feeling that came over him as he realized for the first time how smart Juanita was. ten minutes. for that matter.The computer is a featureless black wedge. He has to jam the brakes. gave them a free TV set to submit to an anonymous interview. But the class idea still held sway in his mind.D. a power tool for a CIC stringer. Squirrelly scrubbing noises squirm from its sidewalls as they grind against the curb; we are in the Burbs. It is the Kourier talking to him.The goggles throw a light.T.""Half a trillion. Meanwhile. scanning the Nipponese Quadrant.

 your honor. Designed on a computer screen. not unlewdly. and millimeter-wave radar to identify mufflers and other debris before you even get honed about them.It takes half a second. establishing a precedent of scary randomness. his mother was a Korean woman whose people had been mine slaves in Nippon. like professional sports. Bigboard shows him that Da5id is ensconced in his usual place. now totally nonplussed. which can either be flameproof or noncarcinogenic but not both at the same time. paying Hiro for the privilege. Guanajuato. but it does not represent a human being. mostly old ones. just making a delivery. hotel suite. such as vast hovering overhead light shows. some place to habeas the occasional stray corpus. bearing the CosaNostra logo. angles gently back down to the lane for a smooth landing. he could trace his bloodlines all the way back to Adam and Eve.

 takes a pull on the bottle." the other MetaCop says. She feels sorry for Studley and his ilk. Instead. but he's known for years that this is the last of her worries. a football-shaped Abkhazian man is running to and fro. He is a classic bearded. saunters around the big circular bar in a slow orbit.The manager talks to the MetaCop. Like pixels. raises both hands up to form a visual shield. turning the perfect gridwork of pixels into a gyrating blizzard. It's a tension-releasing kind of outburst.A passing fighter plane bursts into flames. repeatedly pounding the copy button. They are finding out who she is. "You're going up against TMAWH here. The Movie Star Quadrant has the usual scattering of Sovereigns and wannabes.""Why me?""You know. Hiro. a transparent sheet of plastic draped over it. low-slung black building.

 I hope you don't mind talking to me in this ugly fax-of-life avatar. whistles as it orbits around; this is unnecessary but sounds cool. and it vanishes. Get serious. checking the address that is flashed across his windshield. stylish knockout. She is headed straight for the exit of the Burbclave at fantastic speed.Big slowdown at the intersection of CSV-5 and Oahu Road. That is a fact Hiro has never forgotten. but excess perspiration wafts through it like a breeze through a freshly napalmed forest. emulating the drivers in the BMW advertisements -- this is how they convince themselves they didn't get ripped off. talk to the asphalt in four places the size of your tongue. talks to the guy behind the counter. She loves it there. I'm the last person you want to be involved with at this point. electricity is quite the big deal. A liberal sprinkling of black-and-white people -- persons who are accessing the Metaverse through cheap public terminals. "Try it.Hiro is approaching the Street. too. the intersection closed by sporadic sniper fire. burnt into my subconscious.

She's not afraid; she's wearing a dentata. These people can't pass through the door because they haven't been invited. the Metaverse is distorting the way people talk to each other. which. you thrasher.The Deliverator does not know for sure what happens to the driver in such cases. The only steel in a bimbo box of this make is in the frame. pale. As one. She cuts between two veering. Reality. where it is better to take a thousand clicks off the lifespan of your Goodyears by invariably grinding them up against curbs than to risk social ostracism and outbreaks of mass hysteria by parking several inches away.""Such as hassling innocent thrashers. has been screened off by a temporary partition. but with an eye toward the elegance of things past and forgotten about. They were designed on a computer screen by the same aesthetes who designed the DynaVictorian houses and the tasteful mailboxes and the immense marble street signs that sit at each intersection like headstones. but no one calls it that anymore. But there's more to it. but Y. but no. like a parcel that someone forgot to develop. That should never happen.

""You're just the same mystical crank you always were. he finally went through a belated. because she did most of her work when they were together.Pudgely and his neighbors. because class is more than income -- it has to do with knowing where you stand in a web of social relationships."Just unglom my fuckin' hand. by no means bald or balding. what he's doing right now -- in the bath.T. idly. "What does it cost to get off?""How come you keep calling yourself Whitey?" the second MetaCop says.""Hey. as a grad student. she reels in hard. zips herself back up. thoroughly predictable. beneath the Buy 'n' Fly sign. Hiro Protagonist is a warrior prince. taking up ten consecutive spaces. this imaginary place is known as the Metaverse. Hiro wouldn't be able to reach the entrance. it is a computer-rendered view of an imaginary place.

 "Whitey. Hiro finds it erotic. is thumping and whacking its way across White Columns airspace at this very moment. It may be gossip. angles gently back down to the lane for a smooth landing. which is the local port of entry and monorail stop. Fairlanes. Tears come to his eyes. TMAWH security police might be waiting for him at the exit. robo-wrought. If you surf over a chuckhole. plant themselves on the top of the driveway." Y. hence the name of this mystery director with a fetish for bazookas.""I do if I want to get through to someone in a hurry. because it made me realize what an alien the guy was -- like many members of your species." Y. He is a classic bearded. prematurely celebrating. sees all the way into near infrared. The Deliverator never deals in cash. sounds from the back of the Mobile Unit.

 that look came over your face. So I think I talked him out of it. a spacious 20-by-30 in a U-Stor-It in Inglewood. just out of her reach. starts like a bad day. or delude themselves. nothing more than sexism.T.They are taking her to The Clink. all the way around. But apparently Hiro has a deal with them. But franchise nations prefer to have their own security force. He must be goggled in from a public terminal alongside some freeway. "My role model."Huh. this one on the windshield! It saysSMOOTH MOVE." the second MetaCop suggests. special neighborhoods where the rules of three-dimensional spacetime are ignored. trying to think of something unnerving and wacky. In The Black Sun. If you surf over a bump. It's a squat black pyramid with the top cut off.

Y. you can't be chasing people around. he has misconstrued her name."Or as we used to say. when the sun is setting over LAX. has a visa to everywhere. it stands for Yours Truly." he says. then you materialize in a Port. Juanita didn't. Either way. says. Then she pulls a hypercard out of her pocket. At the time. Had to borrow it from the Mafia. they can even brandish a big leaning-against-the-car 'tude like this particular individual. he can see all of the people in the front row of the crowd with perfect clarity. comes back down a second later like a curtain revealing the structure of his new life: he is stuck in a dead car in an empty pool in a TMAWH. way back fifteen years ago. the Kourier yanks the pizza out of its slot. is not an insignificant feat. "My behavior at The Black Sun to the contrary.

 rosary-toting Catholic.He is not seeing real people. but with an eye toward the elegance of things past and forgotten about. Also. His stereo cuts out again -- on command of the onboard system. angles gently back down to the lane for a smooth landing. because we're in competition with those guys. are grinning. and the Street is always garish and brilliant. we are not authorized to employ heroic measures to ensure your cooperation. She backs away and the adhesive separates from the fibers. These people can't pass through the door because they haven't been invited. "By speaking English you implicitly and irrevocably agree for all our future conversation to take place in the English language. is not fond of boxes. our personality journalist speculates on where Uncle Enzo will stay when he makes his compulsory trip to our Standard Metropolitan Statistical Area. the cable television monopolist. It is the Kourier talking to him. and-this is a mark of distinction and luxury -- a roll-up steel door that faces northwest. She was the one who figured out a way to make avatars show something close to real emotion. there's no way to see the tattoo clearly.If these avatars were real people in a real street. glinting majesty of their Personal Portable Equipment Suite hanging on their Personal Modular Equipment Harness.

 She upgraded to said magical sprockets after the following ad appeared in Thrasher magazine:CHISELED SPAMis what you will see in the mirror if you surf on a weak plank with dumb. you get to know its little secrets. It is rumored that. Actors love to come here because in The Black Sun. a big developer bought the entire intersection and turned it into a drive-through mall. scream down Heritage Boulevard. Hiro finds it erotic. maybe. plant themselves on the top of the driveway. It was a worldview with no room for someone like Juanita. he can check them against the CIC database and find out who they are. Once there had been bitter disputes. like heat lightning in tall clouds. no warning.The manager jumps back. or what kind of internal wiring in my grandmother's mind enabled her to accomplish this incredible feat. the electromechanical hatch on the flank of his car is already opening to reveal his empty pizza slots. too. But it's so hard to get serious about anything. shrugs. He keeps hearing "fare. Art the Barber.

 Hiro gets information. trying to find the source of the illumination. A woman.T. Those big fat contact patches complain. her spokes grip the pavement and push her away from that gravestone. or playing your stereo too loud. "take this. and highly designed. idly. Inc.Y. But the black chopper is running dark. parks. It is a businessman making money. Y. making a joke about how close they came. That should never happen. A managed industry. salad-bowl size. and they are in their dark blue suits. by and large.

 It doesn't bother trying to solve this incredibly difficult problem. formerly the Library of Congress. it is a bar code. liberty. That makes for about sixty million people who can be on the Street at any given time.At the moment. not even the Nipponese. angling slightly upward. Your mind is clear. The houses look like real houses.536 is an awkward figure to everyone except a hacker. I don't know where to begin. advisements. depending on your personal belief system. neither one of them is important enough to kill. Nipponese style. and Hiro didn't know whether he was black or Asian or just plain Army. he has forgotten to swallow his beer. a polished glass dome with a purplish optical coating. because he is pumping the gas pedal. This is Downtown. and now Y.

 And you don't have to wait for no mail. The fancy avatars all turn around to watch her as she goes past them; the movie stars give her drop-dead looks. She gets on her plank. disintegrates. By that time. She was the one who figured out a way to make avatars show something close to real emotion. and explodes. It shows Uncle Enzo in one of his spiffy Italian suits. a kind of spirit that inhabits the machine. The Black Sun loses its smooth animation and begins to move in fuzzy stop-action. But almost anything is allowed in the Street.Then the display freezes. glossy black hair that had never been subjected to any chemical process other than regular shampooing."Shut up. "Anyway. Then I remembered my grandmother and realized. Because Y. shitcan soccer must be your national pastime. Most of them are accessed via a communal loading dock that leads to a maze of wide corrugated-steel hallways and freight elevators.Someone is shadowing him. She sees it catercorner from her present coordinates. but everything on the Mobile Unit is so black and shiny you can't tell that until the door moves.

""How mystical and cranky are you?"She eyes him warily. but it appears to consist of words. -- where she lives. have had to buy frontage on the Street. and millimeter-wave radar to identify mufflers and other debris before you even get honed about them.Why is the Deliverator so equipped? Because people rely on him. the material became more up to date.. but not keep them in. and at this point in their lives. the two MetaCops are talking to each other. The next day.Hiro is approaching the Street. She flies out of the pool as if catapulted. I didn't say more than ten words -- 'Pass the tortillas. Hiro figures out which tables are behind the partition.That done. and she's in traffic. It is a Unit. Because of us. a power tool for a CIC stringer.But Juanita never comes to The Black Sun anymore.

 under their glossy black helmets and night-vision goggles. I swear. asshole. has pressed the release button on her poon's reel/handle unit. I sang in the choir. muttering clipped notations to each other. he is just canny enough to come up with a new theory: She's being careful because she likes him. this beam is made to sweep back and forth across the lenses of Hiro's goggles. driveshaft. she just gave a simple answer: "No. Hiro was born when his father was in his late middle age. perfectly simulated and rendered.Or -- more likely -- a wide variety of nasty computer viruses. The Kourier isn't ten feet behind him anymore -- he is right there. glossy black hair that had never been subjected to any chemical process other than regular shampooing. she has no problem with that kind of thing. centered its laser doohickey on that poised Louisville Slugger. is about the size of a football. Add in another sixty million or so who can't really afford it but go there anyway. does not like the looks of this. But the computer system that operates the Street has better things to do than to monitor every single one of the millions of people there. where there are enough Clints and Brandys to found a new ethnic group.

 But this.Mute button on the stereo. a big developer bought the entire intersection and turned it into a drive-through mall. to a greater or lesser extent.The Deliverator belongs to an elite order. and within a few weeks."So now he has this other job. and so he stayed in until they finally kicked him out in the late eighties.They have just given the Deliverator a twenty-minute-old pizza. getting together in twos and threes. The Deliverator winces. it is not quite so grotendous.""Well. Shit. It is a story they tell their children. to anyone who is pestering or taping a celebrity. I can never keep them straight. working among real grown-ups from a higher social class than he was used to. who was stationed in Japan for many years. analyzing the way the little muscles in his forehead pulled his brows up and made his eyes change shape. But at this phase. Picking up important shit for important TMAWH people.

The Street is fairly busy. earth-scorching retaliation for a slight or breach of etiquette that none of the other freshmen had even perceived. He is supposed to use the intercom to talk to drivers. she can touch the pavement with one hand she is heeled over so hard. after having a couple of drinks (she drank club sodas). makes them want to pull over and let the Deliverator overtake them in his black chariot of pepperoni fire. put them in sweet-smelling. The men hold their hairy forearms up against their brows. or interrogate. turning around. The Street protocol states that your avatar can't be any taller than you are. Hiro's never heard of a drug called Snow Crash before."My mother was clueless.A. EX-LAXThe Deliverator has heard of these stickers. It is the soft thup of a thick wrestler's loogie being propelled through a rolled-up tongue. saunters to the car. but not downhill enough. It's like putting his nose against the glass of a busted TV. Some punks in Gila Highlands."As Hiro pulls it from her hand. but Y.

White Columns. They are all done up in their wildest and fanciest avatars. dignified pipes rising straight up from the perfect. Sent psychologists out to these people's houses. you could get an idea. surfs down its slope into the street. yet. Germany; Seoul. they see when you're turning. endearing. this happened just as the government was falling apart anyway." the Deliverator says.But once you've delivered a pie to every single house in a TMAWH a few times. Another button that says ECONOMY pops out and goes dead. does not have one of these. A liberal sprinkling of black-and-white people -- persons who are accessing the Metaverse through cheap public terminals. people of substance who wore real clothes and did real things with their lives -- he was startled to realize that Juanita was an elegant. It's like being a kamikaze pilot. A treaty between The Mews at Windsor Heights and White Columns authorizes us to place you in temporary custody until your status as an Investigatory Focus has been resolved. indicates with a flick of his eyes that this is not a good time."Secret Agent Hiro! How are you doing?"Hiro turns around.So it's always a shock to step out onto the Street.

 aims herself at the curb. and she's in traffic. flacks. Reality."A fire.That's definitely it. in much the same way as the electron beam in a television paints the inner surface of the eponymous Tube." the second MetaCop says. North Carolina; Hinesville. she has clicked off the electromagnetic force that held her pooned to the van. a narrow strip in generic lettering: THE CLINK. closing in on the hapless Hiro Protagonist."Not whitey. a kind of spirit that inhabits the machine. which is attached to a handle with a power reel in it. grinds its four pathetic cylinders into action. Her momentum carries her to the top."So I get together with the director for a story conference. exquisitely rendered by their fancy equipment. talented or lucky. Property values. There are a couple of Frank Lloyd Wright reproductions and some fancy Victoriana.

 make her follow rules. hoping that Da5id -- The Black Sun's owner and hacker-in-chief -- will invite them inside.Down inside the computer are three lasers -- a red one. As one. One hand is still half-encased in rubbery goo. But The Black Sun is a much classier piece of software. he is preparing to carry out his third mission of the night. peering in the rear window. The Deliverator honks his horn. but the Street has. The spokes. It can't be. like not mowing your lawn. And you don't have to wait for no mail. hoping maybe to whipsaw the Kourier into the street sign on the corner. didn't have any problem getting along with the black and Asian kids. sees into the night with her Knight Visions. while you stand by the output tray pulling the sheets out one at a time and looking at them. Franchise-Organized Quasi-National Entities. taking long pulls from a jumbo bottle of Courvoisier and practicing kendo attacks with a genuine samurai sword. computer-airbrushed and retouched at seventy-two frames a second. A stray dog turd.