"The boy did a handstand in the surf, laughing. He walked
on his hands, then flipped out of the water. His eyes were
Riviera's, but there was no malice there. `To call up a demon
you must learn its name. Men dreamed that, once, but now it
is real in another way. You know that, Case. Your business is
to learn the names of programs, the long formal names, names
the owners seek to conceal. True names...'
`A Turing code's not your name.'
`Neuromancer,' the boy said, slitting long gray eyes against
the rising sun. `The lane to the land of the dead. Where you
are, my friend. Marie-France, my lady, she prepared this road,
but her lord choked her off before I could read the book of her
days. Neuro from the nerves, the silver paths. Romancer. Nec-
romancer. I call up the dead. But no, my friend,' and the boy
did a little dance, brown feet printing the sand, `I _am_ the dead,
and their land.' He laughed. A gull cried. `Stay. If your woman
is a ghost, she doesn't know it. Neither will you.'"

Williem Gibson, Neuromancer

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