Cryptonomicon

by Neal Stephenson

  “Right away, Sarge!” the SAS man says, and makes himself scarce.

  “As those anxious men in the lifeboats will attest,” Enoch Root continues, “the likelihood of you and several witnesses making it back to friendly territory is diminishing by the minute. And the fact that you just happened to suffer a grievous self-inflected leg wound, just a few minutes ago, complicates our escape tremendously. Either we will all be captured together, or else you will volunteer to be left behind and captured. Either way, you are saved—assuming that you are a German spy—from the court-martial and the firing squad.”

  Monkberg can’t believe his ears. “But—but it was an accident, Lieutenant Root! I hit myself in the leg with a fucking ax—you don’t think I did that deliberately!?”

  “It is very difficult for us to know,” Root says regretfully.

  “Why don’t we just destroy the code books? It’s the safest thing to do,” Benjamin says. “I’d just be following a standing order—nothing wrong with that. No court-martial there.”

  “But that would ruin the mission!” Monkberg says.

  Root thinks this one over for a moment. “Has anyone ever died,” he says, “because the enemy stole one of our secret codes and read our messages?”

  “Absolutely,” Shaftoe says.

  “Has anyone on our side ever died,” Root continues, “because the enemy didn’t have one of our secret codes?”

  This is quite a poser. Corporate Benjamin makes his mind up soonest, but even he has to think about it. “Of course not!” he says.

  “Sergeant Shaftoe? Do you have an opinion?” Root asks, fixing Shaftoe with a sober and serious gaze.

  Shaftoe says, “This code business is some tricky shit.”

  Monkberg’s turn. “I… I think… I believe I could come up with a hypothetical situation in which someone could die, yes.”

  “How about you, Lieutenant Root?” Shaftoe asks.

  Root does not say anything for a long time now. He just works with his silk and his needles. It seems like several minutes go by. Perhaps it’s not that long. Everyone is nervous about the Germans.

  “Lieutenant Monkberg asks me to believe that it will prevent Allied soldiers from dying if we turn over the Allied merchant shipping code books to the Germans today,” Root finally says. Everyone jumps nervously at the sound of his voice. “Actually, since we must use a sort of calculus of death in these situations, the real question is, will this somehow save more lives than it will lose?”

  “You lost me there, padre,” says Shaftoe. “I didn’t even make it through algebra.”

  “Then let’s start with what we know: turning over the codes will lose lives because it will enable the Germans to figure out where our convoys are, and sink them. Right?”

  “Right!” Corporal Benjamin says. Root seems to be leaning his way.

  “That will be true,” Root continues, “until such time as the Allies change the code systems—which they will probably do as soon as possible. So, on the negative side of the calculus of death, we have some convoy sinkings in the short term. What about the positive side?” Root asks, raising his eyebrows in contemplation even as he stares down into Monkberg’s wound. “How might turning over the codes save some lives? Well, that is an imponderable.”

  “A what?” Shaftoe says.

  “Suppose, for example, that there is a secret convoy about to cross over from New York, and it contains thousands of troops, and some new weapon that will turn the tide in the war and save thousands of lives. And suppose that it is using a different code system, so that even after the Germans get our code books today they will not know about it. The Germans will focus their energies on sinking the convoys that they do know about—killing, perhaps, a few hundred crew members. But while their attention is on those convoys, the secret convoy will slip through and deliver its precious cargo and save thousands of lives.”

  Another long silence. They can hear the rest of Detachment 2702 shouting now, down in the lifeboats, probably having a detailed discussion of their own: if we leave all of the fucking officers behind on a grounded ship, does it qualify as mutiny?

  “That’s just hypothetical,” Root says. “But it demonstrates that it is at least theoretically possible that there might be a positive side to the calculus of death. And now that I think about it, there might not even be a negative side.”

  “What do you mean?” Benjamin says. “Of course there’s a negative side!”

  “You are assuming that the Germans have not already broken that code,” Root says, pointing a bloody and accusing finger at Benjamin’s big tome of gibberish. “But maybe they have. They’ve been sinking our convoys left and right, you know. If that’s the case, then there is no negative in letting it fall into their hands.”

  “But that contradicts your theory about the secret convoy!” Benjamin says.

  “The secret convoy was just a Gedankenexperiment,” Root says.

  Corporal Benjamin rolls his eyes; apparently, he actually knows what that means. “If they’ve already broken it, then why are we going to all of this trouble, and risking our lives to GIVE IT TO THEM!?”

  Root ponders that one for a while. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, what do you think, Lieutenant Root?” Bobby Shaftoe asks a few excruciatingly silent minutes later.

  “I think that in spite of my Gedankenexperiment, that Corporal Benjamin’s explanation—i.e., that Lieutenant Monkberg is a German spy—is more plausible.”

  Benjamin lets out a sigh of relief. Monkberg stares up into Root’s face, paralyzed with horror.

  “But implausible things happen all the time,” Root continues.

  “Oh, for pete’s sake!” Benjamin shouts, and slams his hand down on the book.

  “Lieutenant Root?” Shaftoe says.

  “Yes, Sergeant Shaftoe?”

  “Lieutenant Monkberg’s injury was an accident. I seen it happen.”

  Root looks up into Shaftoe’s eyes. He finds this interesting. “Really?”

  “Yes, sir. It was an accident all the way.”

  Root breaks open a package of sterile gauze and begins to wind it around Monkberg’s leg; the blood soaks through immediately, faster than he can wind new layers around it. But gradually, Root starts to get the better of it, and the gauze stays white and clean. “Guess it’s time to make a command decision,” he says. “I say we leave the code books behind, just like Lieutenant Monkberg says.”

  “But if he’s a German spy—” Benjamin begins.

  “Then his ass is grass when we get back on friendly soil,” Root says.

  “But you said yourself the chances of that were slim.”

  “I shouldn’t have said that,” Enoch Root says apologetically. “It was not a wise or a thoughtful comment. It did not reflect the true spirit of Detachment 2702. I am convinced that we will prevail in the face of our little problem here. I am convinced that we will make it to Sweden and that we will bring Lieutenant Monkberg along with us.”

  “That’s the spirit!” Monkberg says.

  “If at any point, Lieutenant Monkberg shows signs of malingering, or volunteers to be left behind, or in any way behaves so as to increase our risk of capture by the Germans, then we can all safely assume that he is a German spy.”

  Monkberg seems completely unfazed. “Well, let’s get the fuck out of here, then!” he blurts, and gets to his feet, somewhat unsteady from blood loss.

  “Wait!” Sergeant Shaftoe says.

  “What is it now, Shaftoe?” Monkberg shouts, back in command again.

  “How are we going to know if he’s increasing our risk of capture?”

  “What do you mean, Sergeant Shaftoe?” Root says.

  “Maybe it won’t be obvious,” Shaftoe says. “Maybe there’s a German detachment waiting to capture us at a certain location in the woods. And maybe Lieutenant Monkberg is going to lead us directly to the trap.”

  “Atta boy, Sarge!” Corporal Benjamin says.

  “Lieutenant Mo
nkberg,” says Enoch Root, “as the closest thing we have to a ship’s doctor, I am relieving you of your command on medical grounds.”

  “What medical grounds!?” Monkberg shouts, horrified.

  “You are short on blood, and what blood you do have is tainted with morphine,” says Lieutenant Enoch Root. “So the second-in-command will have to take over for you and make all decisions as to which direction we will take.”

  “But you’re the only other officer!” Shaftoe says. “Except for the skipper, and he can’t be a skipper without a boat.”

  “Sergeant Shaftoe!” Root barks, doing such an effective impersonation of a Marine that Shaftoe and Benjamin both stiffen to attention.

  “Sir! Yes, sir!” Shaftoe returns.

  “This is the first and last order I am going to give you, so listen carefully!” Root insists.

  “Sir! Yes, sir!”

  “Sergeant Shaftoe, take me and the rest of this unit to Sweden!”

  “Sir! Yes, sir!” Shaftoe hollers, and marches out of the cabin, practically knocking Monkberg aside. The others soon follow, leaving the code books behind.

  After about half an hour of screwing around with lifeboats, Detachment 2702 finds itself on the ground again, in Norway. The snowline is about fifty feet above sea level; it is fortunate that Bobby Shaftoe knows what to do with a pair of skis. The SAS blokes also know this particular drill, and they even know how to rig up a sort of sled arrangement that they can use to pull Lieutenant Monkberg. Within a few hours, they are deep in the woods, headed east, not having seen a single human being, German or Norwegian, since they ran aground. Snow begins to fall, filling in their tracks. Monkberg is behaving himself—not demanding to be left behind, not sending up flares. Shaftoe begins to think that making it out to Sweden might be one of Detachment 2702’s easier missions. The only hard part, as usual, is understanding what the fuck is going on.

  DILIGENCE

  * * *

  MAPS OF SOUTHEAST ASIA ARE UP ON THE WALLS, and even covering the windows, lending a bunkerlike ambience to Avi’s hotel room. Epiphyte Corp. has assembled for its first full-on shareholder’s meeting in two months. Avi Halaby, Randy Waterhouse, Tom Howard, Eberhard Föhr, John Cantrell, and Beryl Hagen crowd into the room and pillage the minibar for snacks and soft drinks. Some of them sit on the bed. Eberhard sits barefoot and crosslegged on the floor with his laptop up on a footstool. Avi remains standing. He crosses his arms and leans back, eyes closed, against the endangered-mahogany doors of his entertainment center. He is wearing a brilliantly laundered white shirt, so freshly and heavily starched that it still cracks when he moves. Until fifteen minutes ago he was wearing a t-shirt he hadn’t taken off his body for forty-eight hours.

  Randy thinks for a minute that Avi may have fallen asleep in the unorthodox standing position. But “Look at that map,” Avi says suddenly, in a quiet voice. He opens his eyes and swivels them in their sockets towards same, not wasting precious energy by turning his head. “Singapore, the southern tip of Taiwan, and the northernmost point of Australia form a triangle.”

  “Avi,” says Eb solemnly, “any three points form a triangle.” Generally they don’t look to Eberhard to leaven the proceedings with humor, but a chuckle passes around the room, and Avi grins—not so much because it’s funny as because it’s evidence of good morale.

  “What’s in the middle of the triangle?”

  Everyone looks again. The correct answer is a point in the middle of the Sulu Sea, but it’s clear what Avi is getting at. “We are,” Randy says.

  “That’s correct,” Avi says. “Kinakuta is ideally situated to act as an electronic crossroads. The perfect place to put big routers.”

  “You’re talking shareholderese,” Randy warns.

  Avi ignores him. “Really it makes a lot more sense this way.”

  “What way?” Eb asks sharply.

  “I’ve become aware that there are other cable people here. There is a group from Singapore and a consortium from Australia and New Zealand. In other words: we used to be the sole carriers into the Crypt. As of later today, I suspect we will be one of three.”

  Tom Howard grins triumphantly: he works in the Crypt, he probably knew before anyone. Randy and John Cantrell exchange a look.

  Eb sits up stiffly. “How long have you known about this?” he asks.

  Randy sees a look of annoyance flash across Beryl’s face. She does not like being probed.

  “Would the rest of you excuse Eb and me for a minute?” Randy says, getting to his feet.

  Dr. Eberhard Föhr looks startled, then gets up and follows Randy out of the room. “Where are we going?”

  “Leave your laptop,” Randy says, escorting him out into the hallway. “We’re just going here.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s like this,” Randy says, pulling the door closed but not letting it lock. “People like Avi and Beryl, who have been in business a lot, have this noticeable preference for two-person conversations—like the one you and I are having right now. Not only that, they rarely write things down.”

  “Explain.”

  “It’s kind of an information theory thing. See, if worse comes to worst, and there is some kind of legal action—”

  “Legal action? What are you talking about?”

  Eb came from a small city near the border with Denmark. His father was a high school mathematics teacher, his mother an English teacher. His appearance would probably make him an outcast in his home town, but like many of the people who still live there, he believes that things should be done in a plain, open, and logical fashion.

  “I don’t mean to alarm you,” Randy says, “I’m not im plying that any such thing is happening, or about to. But America being the way it is right now, you’d be amazed how often business ventures lead to lawsuits. When that happens, any and all documents are disclosable. So people like Avi and Beryl never write anything down that they wouldn’t want to see in open court. Furthermore, anyone can be asked, under oath, to testify about what happened. That’s why two-person conversations, like this one, are best.”

  “One person’s word against another. I understand this.”

  “I know you do.”

  “We should anyway have been discreetly told.”

  “The reason that Avi and Beryl didn’t tell us about this until now was that they wanted to work out the problem face-to-face, in two-person conversations. In other words, they did it to protect us—not to hide anything from us. Now they are formally presenting us with the news.”

  Eberhard is no longer suspicious. Now he is irked, which is worse. Like a lot of techies, he can become obstreperous when he decides that others are not being logical. Randy holds up his hands, palms out, in surrender.

  “I stipulate that this does not make sense,” Randy says.

  Eb glares into the distance, not mollified.

  “Will you agree with me that the world is full of irrational people, and crazy situations?”

  “Jaaaa—” Eb says guardedly.

  “If you and I are going to hack and get paid for it, people have to hire us, right?”

  Eb considers it carefully. “Yes.”

  “That means dealing with those people, at some level, unpleasant as it may be. And accepting a whole lot of other nonsense, like lawyers and PR people and marketroids. And if you or I tried to deal with them, we would go out of our minds. True?”

  “Most likely, yes.”

  “It is good, then, that people like Avi and Beryl have come into existence, because they are our interface.” An image from the Cold War comes into Randy’s head. He reaches out with both hands and gropes in the air. “Like those glove boxes that they use to handle plutonium. See?”

  Eberhard nods. An encouraging sign.

  “But that doesn’t mean that it’s going to be like programming computers. They can only filter and soften the irrational nature of the world beyond, so Avi and Beryl may still do things that seem a little crazy.”

  Eb has be
en getting a more and more faraway look in his eyes. “It would be interesting to approach this as a problem in information theory,” he announces. “How can data flow back and forth between nodes in an internal network”—Randy knows that by this Eb means people in a small corporation—“but not exist to a person outside?”

  “What do you mean, not exist?”

  “How could a court subpoena a document if, from their reference frame, it had never existed?”

  “Are you talking about encrypting it?”

  Eb looks slightly pained by Randy’s simple-mindedness. “We are already doing that. But someone could still prove that a document, of a certain size, had been sent out at a certain time, to a certain mailbox.”

  “Traffic analysis.”

  “Yes. But what if one jams it? Why couldn’t I fill my hard drive with random bytes, so that individual files would not be discernible? Their very existence would be hidden in the noise, like a striped tiger in tall grass. And we could continually stream random noise back and forth to each other.”

  “That would be expensive.”

  Eberhard waves his hand dismissively. “Bandwidth is cheap.”

  “That is more an article of faith than a statement of fact,” Randy says, “but it might be true in the future.”

  “But the rest of our lives will happen in the future, Randy, so we might as well get with the program now.”

  “Well,” Randy says, “could we continue this discussion later?”

  “Of course.”

  They go back into the room. Tom, who has spent the most time here, is saying: “The five-footers with yellowish-brown spots on an aqua background are harmless and make great pets. The six-footers with brownish-yellow spots on a turquoise background kill you with a single bite, in ten minutes, unless you commit suicide in the meantime to escape the intolerable pain.”

  This is all a way of letting Randy and Eb know that the others have not been discussing business while they were out of the room.

  “Okay,” Avi says, “the upshot is that the Crypt is going to be potentially much bigger than we thought at first, so this is good news. But there is one thing that we have to deal with.” Avi has known Randy forever, and knows that Randy won’t really be bothered by what is to come.