"Conroy sent a runner in with the software package that

would allow Turner to pilot the jet that would carry Mitchell

to Hosaka's Mexico City compound. The runner was a wild-

eyed, sun-blackened man Lynch called Hariy, a rope-muscled

apparition who came cycling in from the direction of Tucson

on a sand-scoured bike with balding lug tires and bone-yellow

rawhide laced around its handlebars. Lynch led Harry across

the parking lot. Harry was singing to himself, a strange sound

in the enforced quiet of the site, and his song, if you could

call it that, was like someone randomly tuning a broken radio

up and down midnight miles of dial, bringing in gospel shouts

and snatches of twenty years of international pop. Harry had

his bike slung across one burnt, bird-thin shoulder.

"Harry's got something for you from Tucson," Lynch

said.

"You two know each other?" Turner asked, looking at

Lynch "Maybe have a friend in common?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Lynch asked.

Turner held his stare. "You know his name."

"He told me his fucking name, Turner."

"Name's Harry," the burnt man said. He tossed the bicy-

cle down on a clump of brush. He smiled vacantly, exposing

badly spaced, eroded teeth. His bare chest was filmed with

sweat and dust, and hung with loops of fine steel chain,

rawhide, bits of animal horn and fur, brass cartridge casings,

copper coins worn smooth and faceless with use, and a small

pouch made of soft brown leather."

-W. Gibson, Count Zero.