Neal Stephenson & Frederick George - Interface

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Neal Town Stephenson is the author of Zodiac, Snow Crash, The Diamond Age and Cryptonomicon. Born

on Halloween in 1959 in Fort Meade, Maryland - home of the National Security Agency - he grew up in

Champaign-Urbana, Illinois, and Ames, Iowa, before attending college in Boston. Since 1984 he has lived

mostly in the Pacific Northwest and has made a living out of writing novels and the occasional magazine

article.

Interface

Neal Stephenson and Frederick George

Also by Neal Stephenson

Zodiac

Snow Crash

The Diamond Age

Cryptonomicon

ARROW

Published in the United Kingdom in 2002 by Arrow Books

Neal Stephenson and Frederick George have asserted their right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the authors of

this work.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are products of

the author's imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or

dead, is entirely coincidental

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall riot, by way of trade or otherwise,

be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in

any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar

condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

First published in the United Kingdom in 2002 by Arrow Books

Arrow Books

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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Papers used by Random House

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ISBN 0 09 942775 3

Typeset by SX Composing DTP, Rayleigh, Essex

Printed and bound in Denmark by

Nøhaven Paperback A/S

To Wilbur

PART 1

The State of the Union

WILLIAM ANTHONY COZZANO'S OFFICE WAS A SCANDAL. So IT WAS whispered in the high councils of the

Illinois Historical Society. For over a century, under dozens of governors, it had looked the same. Then

Cozzano had come along and moved all the antique furniture into storage (Abraham Lincoln was the greatest

man in history, Cozzano said, but his desk was a piece of junk, and Stephen Douglas's side chair was no

prize either). Cozzano had dared to move electronics into the frescoed vault of the governor's office - a thirty-

six-inch Trinitron with picture-in-picture so that he could watch C-SPAN and football at the same time! And

his chair was no antique, but a high-tech thing with as many adjustable features as the human body had

bones. He had suffered enough abuse, he claimed, in Vietnam and on the frozen turf of Soldier Field and

didn't deserve to be mangled by some antique chair day in and day out, Illinois Historical Society be

damned. That chair was everything Cozzano wasn't: fat with padding and glossy with petal-soft leather

where Cozzano was lean and craggy and weathered, a man who had waited his whole life to look the way he

did now, as if carved from a block of white oak with a few quick strokes of an adze.

Cozzano was sitting in the chair one night in January, holding a fountain pen as big as an uncooked hot

dog in his left hand. Cozzano returned to his home in the small town of Tuscola every weekend to mow the

lawn, rake leaves, or shovel snow, so calluses made a dry rasping sound as his writing hand slid across the

paper.

The fountain pen looked expensive and had been given to him by someone terribly important a long

time ago; Cozzano had forgotten whom. He late wife, Christina, used to keep track of who had given him

what and send out little notes, Christmas cards, and so on, but since her death, all of these social niceties had

gone straight to hell, and most people forgave him for it. Cozzano found that the pen's bulk fit his hand

nicely, his fingers wrapped around the barrel without having to pinch it like a cheap ballpoint, and the ink

flowed effortlessly on to the paper, nib scrawling and calluses rasping, as he signed the endless stream of bills,

proclamations, resolutions, letters, and commendations that flowed across his desk like blood cells streaming in

single file through the capillaries of the lung - the stately procession that sustained the life of the body

politic.

His office was on the second floor of the east wing, directly above the capitol's main entrance,

overlooking a broad lawn decorated with a statue of Lincoln delivering his farewell address to Springfield.

The room had only two windows - tall narrow north-facing ones that were blocked even from the late

afternoon sun by the north wing and the soaring capitol dome. Cozzano called it the "arctic circle" - the only

part of Illinois that was in darkness for six months out of the year. This was a somewhat obscure and technical

joke, especially in these days of endemic geographic ignorance, but people laughed at it anyway because he

was the Governor. He kept his desk lamp going all day, but as the sky had darkened and as he worked into

the night, he had not bothered to turn on the overhead fixtures, and he now sat in a pool of illumination in

the middle of the dark office. Around the edges of the room, innumerable pieces of decoration reflected the

light back at him.

Each governor decorated the office in his own way. Only a few things were immutable: the preposterous

fresco on the ceiling, the massive doors with brass lions' heads mounted in their centers. His predecessor had

gone in for a spare, classical nineteenth-century look, filling the place up with antiques that had belonged

to Lincoln and Douglas. This impressed visitors and looked nice for the tour groups who came by every

hour to launch flashcube barrages over the velvet rope. Cozzano had banned the tour groups, slamming

the doors in their faces so that all they could see was the brass lions, and turned the office into a cluttered

Cozzano family museum.

It had started on the day of his first inauguration, with a small photo of his late wife, Christina, placed on

the corner of his historically inaccurate desk. Naturally, photos of his children, Mary Catherine and James,

came next. But there was no point in stopping with the immediate family, and so Cozzano had brought in

several boxes containing pictures of patriarchs and matriarchs going back several generations. He wanted

pictures of his friends, too, and of their families, and he also needed various pieces of memorabilia, some of

which were chosen for sentimental reasons, some for purely political ones. By the time Cozzano was

finished decorating his office, it was almost filled with clutter, smelling salts had to be brought in for the

Historical Society, and, as he sat down for the first time in his big leather chair, he could trace the entire

genealogy and economic development of the Cozzano clan, and of twentieth-century Illinois, which

amounted to the same thing.

There was an old aerial photograph of Tuscola as seen from its own water tower in the 1930s. It was a

town of a few thousand people, about half an hour south of the academic metropolis of Champaign-Urbana

and a couple of hours south of Chicago. Even in this photo it was possible to see gaudy vaults in the town

cemetery, and Duesenbergs cruising the streets. Tuscola was, for a farm town, bizarrely prosperous.

In an oval frame of black walnut was a hand-tinted photograph of his great-grandfather and namesake

Guillermo Cozzano who had come to Illinois from Genoa in 1897. In typically contrary Cozzano fashion he

had bypassed the large Italian communities on the East Coast and found work in a coal mine about thirty

miles southwest of Tuscola, where soil and coal were the same color. He and his son Guiseppe had gone into

the farming business, snapping up one of the last available parcels of high-quality land. In 1912, Guiseppe

and his wife had their first child, Giovanni (John) Cozzano, followed three and five years later by Thomas

and Peter. All of these events were recorded in photographs, which Cozzano would be more than happy to

explain to visitors if they made the mistake of expressing curiosity, even allowing their eyes to stray in that

direction. Most of the photos featured buildings, babies, or weddings.

John Cozzano (photo) lost his mother to influenza at the age of six and, from that point onward, lived his

life as if he had been shot from a cannon. During his high-school years in the vigorous 1920s he held down a

part-time job at the local grain elevator (photo). By the time economic disaster struck in the 1930s he had

worked his way up into the management of that business. With one foot in his father's farm and the other in

the grain elevator, John was able to get the family through the Depression in one piece.

In 1933, John fell in love with Francesca Domenici, a young Chicago woman. As evidence of his fitness

to be a husband, he decided to buy an enormous stucco Craftsman house on a tree-lined brick street on the

edge of Tuscola (photo). Even by the standards of Tuscola, which had an inordinate number of large and

magnificent houses, it was a beaut: three stories, six bedrooms, with a full basement and a garage the size of a

barn. All of the woodwork was black walnut, thick as railroad ties. He was going to buy the place for five

hundred dollars from a railway company man who had gone bankrupt. At this time, John had only three

hundred dollars in the bank, and so he was forced to borrow the remaining two hundred.

This quest eventually led him to Chicago, and to the doorstep of Sam Meyer (photo), formerly Shmuel

Meierowitz. Sam Meyer operated a number of coexisting businesses out of a single storefront on Maxwell

Street, on Chicago's near west side (photo). One thing he did was lend money. Sam's son was named David;

he was a lawyer.

Every Italian person John Cozzano had ever spoken to for more than about ten minutes had

spontaneously warned him of the danger of borrowing money from Jews. He had accepted these warnings

at face value until he overheard Anglo-Saxons in Tuscola warning each other, in exactly the same terms, of

the dangers of borrowing money from Italians. John borrowed the money and bought the house. As soon as

he had cleaned all the junk out of the basement and taken care of a dire flea infestation, he went back up to

Chicago and proposed to Francesca.

He bought a ring from Sam Meyer on credit and they were married in Chicago in June 1934. After a

short honeymoon at the Grand Hotel on Mackinac Island (photo), they moved into the big house in

Tuscola. Within eleven months, John had repaid all of his debts to Sam Meyer, and he discovered that,

contrary to legend, it was possible to carry on a financial transaction with a Jew without forfeiting your shirt,

or your immortal soul.

This planted a seed in his mind; he might be able to buy the grain elevator on credit and get rid of the

feeble old man and the incompetent drunk whom he had been working for. John spent the rest of the 1930s

buying the elevator and then trying to develop it into something bigger: a factory to convert corn into other

things. Francesca spent the same time trying to get pregnant. She had four miscarriages but kept trying

anyway.

As of the beginning of 1942, when America entered the war, John Cozzano, Mr. Domenici, Sam Meyer,

and David Meyer were partners in Corn Belt Agricultural Processors (CBAP), successful corn syrup

production facility in Tuscola, Illinois (photo). John and Francesca were the parents of a brand-new baby boy,

William A. Cozzano (photo), who by that time was the fourth grandchild of Guiseppe. He was, however, the

first grandson. Everyone who laid eyes on the new baby predicted that he would one day be President of the

United States.

Thomas joined the army, was sent in the direction of North Africa, but never got there; his transport

ship was sunk by U-boats in the North Atlantic. Peter found gainful employment as a Marine sniper in the

Pacific. In 1943 he was taken prisoner by the Japanese and spent the rest of the war starving in a camp. John

was both too old and, as a farmer, too strategically important to be sent off to war. He stayed home and tried to

keep the family enterprises afloat.

War required lots of parachutes. Parachutes took a hell of a lot of nylon. One of the feedstocks required to

manufacture nylon was cellulose. One excellent source of cellulose happened to be corncobs. And John

Cozzano's factory had been throwing away corncobs by the hundreds of tons ever since it had gone

into production. The heap of corncobs that rose from the prairie outside of Tuscola had now become the

highest point in several counties and could be seen from twenty miles away, especially whenever pranksters

set fire to it (photo).

Sam Meyer contacted everyone he knew. A lot of these were recent immigrants from Central Europe

and were only too happy to invest in a parachute factory, knowing that it could have only one conceivable

practical use. John got the nylon production unit up and running just in time to throw out a very low bid on

a very large government contract. The next year, Allied shock troops poured into Normandy borne on

billowing canopies of Cozzano nylon (photo).

Peter came back from war with bad kidneys and a bad leg. While he was not well equipped for doing

physical labor, he performed a useful role as a troubleshooter, figurehead, and conversationalist of CBAP until

he died of kidney failure in 1955. His father, Giuseppe, died two months later. During the interval between

the war and these deaths, things had gone smoothly for the Cozzano family, except for the annihilation of the

ancestral farmhouse in 1953 by a tornado (photo).

Two times in two months, the entire Meyer clan, led by Samuel and David, came down from Chicago to

attend funeral services. Hotel rooms were scarce in Tuscola and kosher kitchens nonexistent, so John

and Francesca put the Meyers up in their big stucco house and did what they could to provide them with

acceptable cooking facilities. Francesca learned to keep a blowtorch handy so that Sam Meyer's son-in-law, a

rabbi, could perform a ritual cleansing of her oven (photo).

During these visits, William Cozzano, now thirteen, shared his bedroom with a number of younger

Meyers, including David's son Mel, who was the same age. They became friends and spent most of the time

down the street at Tuscola City Parky playing baseball, Jews versus Italians (autographed baseball in glass

box).

A year later Samuel Meyer died in Chicago. The Cozzanos all came north. Some of them stayed with

the Domenicis, but the Meyers returned the favor by giving other Cozzanos a place to stay. Mel and William

shared a mattress on the floor (photo).

After that, Mel and William stayed in constant touch. They liked each other. But they also knew they were

the eldest sons of families that had accumulated much and that if they screwed up and lost it, it would be no

one's fault but their own.

The remaining space in the office was filled with William A. Cozzano's personal memorabilia:

A black-and-white photo of his parents, the Olan Mills logo slanted across the bottom, shot in a

makeshift traveling studio in a Best Western motel on the outskirts of Champaign-Urbana in 1948.

An assortment of six-inch-high capital letter T's, made from cloth, mounted under glass, along with a

corny photo of the seventeen-year-old Cozzano, pigskin tucked under one arm, other arm held out like a

jouster's lance to straight-arm an imaginary linebacker from Arcola or Rantoul.

Diploma from Tuscola High.

A photo of William with Christina, his high-school sweetheart, on the campus of the University of

Illinois, where they had both attended college in the early sixties.

A wedding picture, the couple flanked by eight roughed and false-eyelashed sorority belles on one side

and seven tuxed and pomaded University of Illinois football players, plus a single Nigerian graduate

student, on the other.

Diploma (summa cum laude) with major in business and minor in Romantic languages.

A battered and abraded football covered with thick stout signatures, marked ROSE BOWL.

Two photos of Cozzano in the Marines, mounted side by side in the same frame: one, picture-perfect

William in full-dress uniform, staring into the distance as though he can see a tunnel of light in the sky at one

o'clock high, JFK in glory at the end of the tunnel, asking William what he can do for his country. The

second picture, two years later: William Cozzano in a village in the Central Highlands, unshaven, eyes

staring out alarmingly white and clean from a smoky face, a slack-jawed, inadvertent grin, a Browning

automatic rifle dangling from one hand, a cherubic Vietnamese girl sitting in the crook of the other arm with

her left leg wrapped in fresh white gauze, staring up at him with her tiny mouth open in astonishment;

Cozzano was smiling through a crazy weariness that threatened to bring him to his knees at the next

moment but the girl sensed that she was safe there.

Another glass mount, but instead of cloth letters this one had forged medallions hanging on colorful satin

ribbons: a purple heart and a bronze star from Cozzano's first tour and another purple heart and a silver star

from his second, surrounded by a flock of lesser decorations.

Baby pictures of Mary Catherine and James. An illuminated parchment from Pope John XXIII

superfluously blessing their marriage.

A picture of his father on a fishing trip in Alaska, shortly before his fatal heart attack.

A photo of Cozzano in his Chicago Bears uniform, sitting on his helmet to keep up and out of a sideline

morass, black grease on his cheekbones, blood hardening on his knuckles, grass stains on his shoulder

pads.

Pro Bowl rings from a couple of different years in the Nixon and Ford administrations.

The last formal portrait of Christina, shot just before she had been transfigured by radiation and

chemotherapy; this one also said "olan mills" and had been shot in a slightly nicer motel room in

Champaign-Urbana by the same photographer who had done Cozzano's parents in 1948.

A photo of William giving a victory speech on the front lawn of the family house in Tuscola, flanked by

Mary Catherine and James. Autographed photo of William with George Bush at The Peking Gourmet

Restaurant in Arlington, Virginia, a harshly flash-lit amateur snapshot, Cozzano and Bush eating Peking

duck in shirtsleeves and yukking it up.

Cozzano jogging around Camp David with Bill and Hilary Clinton.

An invitation to a White House dinner from the current President.

The dome of the Illinois State capitol was built on foundations of solid stone seventeen feet thick.

Cozzano needed to keep all of this stuff in his line of sight while he worked, because these pictures and

souvenirs were his foundations.

Cozzano was reading a letter that he was supposed to sign. He knew that he should simply do it, but his

father had told him that he should always read things before he signed them. Since a large part of Cozzano's

job involved signing things, this meant that he often worked late. He was holding his big pen in his left fist,

nervously popping its cap on and off with the ball of his thumb.

The intercom made a gentle popping noise as Marsha, his secretary, turned on her microphone in the

next room. Cozzano startled a little. Marsha had a talent for finding things to do, and when Cozzano stayed

late she often hung around for a few hours and did them. Her voice came out of the speaker: "The State of

the Union speech is about to begin, Governor."

"Thank you," Cozzano said, and shut off the intercom. "I guess," he added, to himself.

Cozzano reached for the remote control and turned it on to C-SPAN - he could not abide the network

anchors - just in time to see the cameras pan over the ritualistic standing ovation given every president, no

matter how incompetent. Continuing to thumb buttons on the remote, he caused a little window to open

up in the corner of the screen, running the Comedy Channels' live coverage.

The egregious hypocrisy of the scene disgusted him. How could those assholes cheer the person who was

leading - wrong, failing to lead - the country into disaster?

Eventually the applause died down, and the Speaker of the House reintroduced the president. There

was a second obligatory standing ovation. Cozzano scoffed, shook his head, rubbed his temples with the

palms of both hands. He couldn't take it. The cameras swept the section where the president's wife and family

sat, smiling bravely. The president pathetically waved his arms to quiet the ovation, and then began his

speech.

A year from tonight, I hope to stand on the West Front of this great building and begin my second term as

your President.

(cheers and applause, mostly from one side of the hall)

He proceeded to do some ritual complaining about the usual topics: the budget deficit and the national

debt. Just as predictably, he blamed it on the usual suspects: gridlock in Congress, the growth of

entitlements, the insurmountable power of PACs, and, of course, the need to pay interest on the national

debt, which had grown to something like ten trillion dollars. The only mildly interesting news coming out

of the speech so far was that he intended to adopt a Rose Garden strategy during the coming election

year, staying at the White House and doing battle with the two-headed monster of the deficit and the debt.

This was the only responsible thing he could have done; but Congress applauded him deliriously.

It was all so completely predictable, so politics-as-usual, that Cozzano was lulled into a near coma,

trapped between boredom and disgust. Which made it all the more shocking when the bombshell hit.

We must either cut entitlements - the payments made to our senior citizens on Social Security, and

sick people on Medicare and Medicaid - or we must cut the interest that is paid to the national debt. Now,

granted, we borrowed that money. We must pay it back if we can. And we most certainly will make our best

effort to pay it back. But not at the expense of the sick and the old.

(applause and cheers)

Our debt is the result of our own sinful irresponsibility in fiscal matters, and we must accept the

consequences of those sins.

But I am reminded of the words of the great Russian religious figure Rasputin, who once said, in a similar

time of economic troubles, "Great sins demand great forgiveness."

(applause)

Let us not forget that we owe this money to ourselves. Surely we can find it in our hearts to repent from

our economic foolishness and to forgive ourselves for the mistakes that were made by ourselves and by our

predecessors.

(applause)

This nation was founded upon a great social contract. A contract in which people banded together

to form governments in the defense of life, liberty, and property. This noble experiment has lasted for more

than two centuries. Written into the contract by our founding father Jefferson was the assertion that if

government violates the contract, the people have the right to overthrow it. This is the basis of the glorious

revolutionary tradition that serves as a shining light of inspiration for the entire world.

(applause, cheers)

Tonight, in the spirit of Jefferson, I call for a new social contract. I am proposing to the Congress, and to

the American people, the Declaration of Fiscal Independence.

(applause)

In short, my fellow Americans, I propose as a first step to place a cap on the percentage of our budget that

can go toward paying interest on the national debt. The exact level of this cap, and the details of its

implementation, are subject to discussion and agreement between my staff and Congress -and I'm sure that

we can look forward to many lively discussion on the issue.

(laughter)

But regardless of the details, the message is the same. Great sins demand great forgiveness. Let us now

forgive ourselves, so that we may go forth into the brave new world of the third millennium with a clean

slate and a clear conscience.

(thunderous applause and cheers)

Let the message go forth to the world that the country of the third millennium will be the United States

of America and that its opening breaths of life were sounded in this noble hall on this great evening.

(ten-minute standing ovation)

It was an outrage, pure and simple.

Having failed over his entire term in office to do anything about the budget deficit, the President was

now going to patch it up by allowing America to weasel out of its financial obligations.

Which was bad enough in and of itself; but he was also trying to portray this measure as an act of

Lincolnian fortitude on his part.

Cozzano felt an atavistic desire to fly to Washington, climb up on that podium, and slap the President

across the face. It was the same brute, animalistic impulse that came into his head when he imagined

someone hurting his daughter. His heart thumped powerfully a few times. He realized that he was being

primitive and stupid, and tried to calm himself down. There was no point in thinking these things.

Still Cozzano did not sign the letter on his desk - a thank-you note to the Prime Minister of Japan for

his hospitality during Cozzano's visit last week. His powerful fingers gripped the smooth inlaid barrel of the

pen. The rhodium alloy nib, charged with just the correct amount of French ink, was poised a few

millimeters above the grainy surface of the buttery cotton-fiber stationery that Cozzano used for personal

correspondence. But when Cozzano moved the pen - that is, when he did the thing in his mind that, ever

since he had been inside his mother's womb, had caused his fingers and his hand to move - nothing

happened. His eyes tracked

across the paper, anticipating the pen's course. Nothing. The President spoke on and on, stopping every

few sentences to bask in adulation.

Cozzano's hand sweated. After a while, then pen fell out of his fingers. The nib dove into the paper and

slid straight across it like a plow skidding across hard prairie. It left a comet-shaped streak of blue-black on

the page, whacked down flat, and rocked side to side for a few moments, making a gentle diminishing noise.

He cursed under his breath and a strange sound came out of his mouth, a garbled word he'd never heard

before. It sounded so unfamiliar that he tried to look up, thinking that someone else might be in the room.

But no one was here; he had spoken the word himself.

When he moved his head it threw him off balance and pulled him toward the left. His left arm had gone

completely limp. He saw it slide off the desk, but he didn't quite believe it, because he didn't feel it move. The

cufflink, a cheap hand-me-down from his father, popped against the sharp edge of the tabletop. Then his arm

was swinging at his side, eased to a halt by the slight mechanical friction of his elbow and shoulder joints.

He slumped back into the chair's comfortable, Cozzano-shaped recesses. His right arm slid off the desk as

he did so and he found that he could move it. He was sitting comfortably in his chair now, sagging leftward.

He saw his intercom and knew that he could punch the button and call Marsha. But it was not clear what he

should say to her.

His eyes drooped half shut, the sound of the roaring, stomping, howling, and applauding Congress closed

in on him like a nail keg lowering over his head, and in his confusion, he lost his will. He was entirely too

tired to do anything, and why bother to fight it? He had accomplished enough for several lifetimes. The

only thing he'd missed out on so far was having some grandchildren.

That, and become President, which he was going to do before the year 2000. But he wasn't sure if he

really wanted that awful job anyway.

THE STATE OF THE UNION WAS NEVER A BIG EVENT IN CACHER, Oklahoma. Forty-eight-year-old Otis

Simpson yawned and looked at the wall clock, just for the record. It was 02:46:12 Greenwich Mean Time.

He turned the sound off. The speech had devolved into endless waves of applause. Commentators were

beginning to break into the sound track in hushed, solemn tones, stating the obvious: "the President shaking

hands with congressional leaders as he makes his way out of the room." Soon the analysts would come on and

tell Otis what he had just watched, and Otis definitely didn't need that. The only opinions that mattered would

be coming in via fax and modem during the next few hours. His job was to stay awake in the meantime. So

he triggered the other monitor and began to keep one eye on an HBO flick, already in progress.

Otis had inherited his mother's tendency toward bulk, his father Otho's awkward looks, and a light regard

for basic hygiene. The many folds in his ample frame contained an inexhaustible supply of sweat-blackened

lint balls, and his thinning hair failed to conceal the skin ailments that plagued his scalp. He had never

married. His mother had died giving birth to him. He served as a trusted assistant on his father's work, the full

extent of which he never fully understood.

Otho Simpson, eighty-six, had, as was his pattern, gone to bed at 00:00:00 Greenwich Mean Time.

This time was as good a bedtime as any other and was easy to remember. Otho and Otis lived

belowground, in a former lead mine, and did not pay much attention to the diurnal cycle upstairs. Their job

was to gather and respond to information from all over the world, from all twenty-

four time zones, and so there was not much point in trying to hew to a particular schedule. Otho was

spare and gaunt, hampered by persistent urinary tract infections that filled whatever room he was in with a

disconcerting odor and caused continual pain. Unlike his son, Otho had a mind that, had he chosen, could

have earned him a Nobel Prize in economics or physics or at least made him a very rich man in a more

conventional sense. Instead, he had become an accountant of sorts, and spent his life looking after a body of

investments with a total cash value in the neighborhood of thirty trillion U.S. dollars.

These assets did not belong to any one specific person or entity, as far as Otho could tell. They belonged

to a coordinated inter-national network of investors. Otho didn't know who these people were. He wasn't

supposed to know and he probably wasn't supposed to think about it. But he did think about it from time

to time, and he had drawn some conclusions based on circumstantial evidence. Most of them were

individuals, many were families; some were corporations. Their net worths varied from a few million

dollars up to tens of billions. Judging from the hours when they liked to do business, most of them must be

living in American and European time zones, with a few in the time zones that were used by Japan, Hong

Kong, and Australia. He only knew one member of this organization by name, one Lady Guenevere

Wilburdon; she was his contact and his boss.

In the last half century, especially after the death off his wife in 1948, Otho had rarely left Cacher. Several

times a week he would hobble on to the lift, ride it several hundred feet straight up to the surface and go for

a stroll through the ruins of the town, taking in what passed for fresh air in Cacher and feeling the sun on his

skin. But he felt most comfortable down below, in the subterranean capsule that was his home, surrounded

by twenty feet of solid reinforced concrete, breathing filtered air and drinking distilled water.

The capsule had been built during the early fifties by a huge international contractor called Maclntyre

Engineering. It was built to exactly the same set of specifications used for the control capsules of Minuteman

silos - easy enough, since Maclntyre had constructed most of those. Any information that could

conceivably influence the performance of the economy - public and proprietary, open and secret, from

hard data to vicious gossip - was funneled into the capsule over a variety of communications links. Otho read

every word of it and used it to manage the investments of the Network. His life was rather solitary and he

had not seen a movie in a theater since The Sound of Music, but he did not care; the honor of being the

anonymous manager of a significant fraction of the assets of what used to be called the Free World sufficed to

give him a value-laden life.

Several hours after the conclusion of the State of the Union address, at 06:00:00 GMT, a digitized chord

sounded from one of the workstations, waking Otis up. A window materialized on the screen and filled with

columns of numbers. This was normal; it happened every day at this time.

A chorus of faint humming noises was emanating from a stainless steel rack carrying several dozen identical

fax machines. Otis was surprised to note that nearly all of the machines suddenly had long strips of paper

dangling out of them, and several were still active. Most of his father's clients took a hands-off approach and

rarely, if ever, bothered him with specifics.

Otis went to the workstation and scanned the numbers: a statistical summary of how the Network's

investments had performed during the last twenty-four hours, and initial responses to the State of the Union

Address from the stock exchanges in Delhi, Novosibirsk, Hong Kong, Singapore, and Tokyo. All of the

capital markets were sharply down. Commodities, especially gold, were soaring uncontrollably.

The digital clock on the wall clicked to 06:10. Otis went in to wake up Otho. Otho and Otis slept in

steel-framed bunk beds in a small room just off the communications center.

"Daddy, the figures for yesterday are in."

Otho sat up in bed without hesitation, as if he'd never been asleep. Another workstation was next to him

on a bedside table. He reached out with one withered hand, grabbed a mouse, and chose

a few commands from the menus on the screen. A copy of the financial tables materialized. He put on a

pair of extremely thick glasses that made his eyes look the size of baseballs.

The numbers for the first part of the day weren't bad. But the State of the Union address had changed

all that.

"We got a lot of faxes too," Otis said, handing his father a thick sheaf of slick, curly paper, covered with

notes from all over the world, many handwritten.

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Treefriendlyversion1.0Created2003.03.03by1010011010InterfaceNealTownStephensonistheauthorofZodiac,SnowCrash,TheDiamondAgeandCryptonomicon.BornonHalloweenin1959inFortMeade,Maryland-homeoftheNationalSecurityAgency-hegrewupinChampaign-Urbana,Illinois,andAmes,Iowa,beforeattendingcollegeinBoston.Since198...

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