SNOW CRASH

“I sense your reluctance. But if we can get a sample of Snow Crash from this drug-taking site, it will obviate the rest of our mission.”

‘Well, since you put it that way,” Y.T. says, and grabs the mask. It’s a big rubber-and-canvas number that covers her whole head and neck. Feels heavy and awkward at first, but whoever designed it had the right idea, all the weight rests in the right places. There’s also a pair of heavy gloves that she hauls on. They are way too big. Like the people at the glove factory never dreamed that an actual female could wear gloves.

She trudges out onto the glassand-asbestos soil of the Zone, hoping that Ng isn’t going to slam the door shut and drive away and leave her there.

Actually, she wishes he would. It would be a cool adventure.

Anyway, she goes up to the middle of the “drug-taking site.” Is not too surprised to see a little nest of discarded hypodermic needles. And some tiny little empty vials. She picks up a couple of the vials, reads their labels.

“What did you find?” Ng says when she gets back into the van, peels off the mask.

“Needles. Mostly Hyponarxes. But there’s also a couple of Ultra Larninars and some Mosquito twenty-fives.”

“What does all this mean?”

“Hyponarx you can get at any Buy ‘n’ Fly, people call them rusty nails, they are cheap and dull. Supposedly the needles of poor black diabetics and junkies. Ultra Laminars and Mosquitos are hip, you get them around fancy Burbclaves, they don’t hurt as much when you stick them in, and they have better design. You know, ergonomic plungers, hip color schemes.”

“What drug were they injecting?”

“Checkitout,” Y.T. says, and holds up one of the vials toward Ng.

Then it occurs to her that he can’t exactly turn his head to look

“Where do I hold it so you can see it?” she says.

Ng sings a little song. A robot arm unfolds itself from the ceiling of the van, crisply yanks the vial from her hand, swings it