“Rose Garden in ten,” Conner said, “got it.” “Say what?” Virgil asked. “My day job,” Conner said… — William Gibson
“Rose Garden in ten,” Conner said, “got it.”
“Say what?” Virgil asked.
“My day job,” Conner said. “President’s taking questions from the press in half an hour, likes me to check if the translation from future-ese to folk wisdom’s solid. You need me, I’ll be right on it.”
“Break a leg,” said Virgil.
Verity, her mouth full of croissant and raspberry jam, said nothing.
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More from this book
Netherton said nothing, something he’d only recently been learning to deliberately do.
“Turkey and Syria weirding you out?…Folks in Frankfurt made me feel like the Cold War never really went away. Somebody shoots down a couple of Russian jets, wham, it’s Cold War Atlantis, risen from the depths.”
“What’s going on?” asked Manuela, eyeing the container’s door. “Is this a cult? Kidnapping people and telling them somebody’s after them?”
“Let me think about it,” Verity said.
“You’re kidnapped too? Let’s fucking escape!”
