NEAL STEPHENSON

77

Something is pressing against Y.T.’s left thigh. She looks down. It is a remarkably huge revolver in a net bag hanging on the door paneL

She has to find someplace to pull into. If she could fmd a Nova Siciia franchulate, that would do it-the Mafia owes her one. Or a New South Africa, which she hates. But the New South Africans hate jeeks even more.

Scratch that, Hiro is black, or at least part black. Can’t take him into New South Africa. And because Y.T. is a Cauc, they can’t go to Metazania.

“Mr. Lee’s Greater Hong Kong,” Him says. “Half mile ahead on the right”

“Nice thinking-but they won’t let you in with your swords, will they?”

“Yes,” he says, “because I’m a Citizen.”

Then she sees it. The sign stands out because it is a rare one. Don’t see many of these. It is a green-and-blue sign, soothing and calm in a glare-torn franchise ghetto. It says:

MR. LEE’S GREATER HONG KONG

Explosive noise from in back. Her head smacks into the whiplash arrestor. Another taxi rear-ended them.

And she screams into the parking lot of Mr. Lee’s doing seventy-five. The security system doesn’t even have time to rez her visa and drop the STD, so it’s Severe Tire Damage all the way, those bald radials are left behind on the spikes. Sparking along on four naked rims, she shrieks to a stop on the lawngrid, which doubles as carbon dioxide-eating turf and impervious parking lot.

She and Him climb out of the car.

Hiro is grinning wildly, pinioned in the crossfire of a dozen red laser beams scanning him from every direction at once. The Hong Kong robot security system is checking him out. Her, too; she looks down to see the lasers scribbling across her chest.

‘Welcome to Mr. Lee’s Greater Hong Kong, Mr. Protagonist,” the security system says through a PA. speaker. “And welcome to your guest, Ms. Y.T.”

The other taxis have stopped in formation along the curb.

78