New York at three in the morning isn't the citydepicted in the guidebooks. It's a crust of spentneon, a metallic heartbeat echoed in the drawersof cheap hotels and empty subway entrances. InSoho, electric blinds lower like eyelids over shopwindows, and the old brick buildings retain thewarmth of the days as if preserving whispers.Outside it was drizzling-that fine rain that nevercleans anything-and the reflection of alaundromat sign stretched out in the puddle in frontof the doorway; inside, on an eighth-floorapartment with a rusty fire escape, there's anapartment with too many screens and too littleorder. Ethan Cross lived there.The place smelled of stale coffee and electricity. Aswing-arm desk lamp cast a tiny glow that tried tocompete with the main screen: a pale, vividrectangle where lines of text moved like fish on theshore. There were at least five monitors: one foremail, another for old terminals that no one hadnamed in years, another for the connectionmap-that mesh Ethan liked to look at whennothing physical satisfied him-and two more where windows were recreated with tabs thatseemed to multiply of their own accord.