Cryptonomicon

by Neal Stephenson

  “It’s not actually precipitating,” Uncle Red says, “this is just blowing snow. It is absolutely bone dry, and if you go out and look at the console or whatever you call it, you will find that the snow is not melting on it at all, because it has been sitting out in the U-Stor-It ever since your mother moved to the managed care facility and it has equilibrated to the ambient temperature which I think we can all testify is well below zero Celsius.”

  Randy crosses his arms over his abdomen, leans his head back, and closes his eyes. The tendons in his neck are as stiff as subzero Silly Putty and resist painfully.

  “That console was in my bedroom from the time I was born until I left for college,” Aunt Nina says. “By any decent standard of justice, that console is mine.”

  “Well, that brings me to the breakthrough that Randy and Tom and Geoff and I finally came up with at about two A.M., namely that the perceived economic value of each item, as complicated as that is in and of itself, viz the Knapsack Problem, is only one dimension of the issues that have got us all on such a jagged emotional edge. The other dimension—and here I really do mean dimension in a Euclidean geometry sense—is the emotional value of each item. That is, in theory we could come up with a division of the set of all pieces of furniture that would give you, Nina, an equal share. But such a division might leave you, love, just deeply, deeply unsatisfied because you didn’t get that console, which, though it’s obviously not as valuable as say the grand piano, has much greater emotional value to you.”

  “I don’t think it’s out of the question that I would commit physical violence in order to defend my rightful ownership of that console,” Aunt Nina says, suddenly reverting to a kind of dead-voiced frigid calm.

  “But that’s not necessary, Nina, because we have created this whole setup here just so that you can give your feelings the full expression they deserve!”

  “Okay. What do I do?” Aunt Nina says, bolting from the car. Randy and Uncle Red hastily gather up their gloves and mittens and hats and follow her out. She is now hovering over the console, watching the dust of ice swirl across the dark but limpid, virtually glowing surface of the console in the turbulent wake of her body, forming little Mandelbrotian epi-epi-epi-vortices.

  “As Geoff and Anne did before us, and the others will do afterwards, we are going to move each of these items to a specific position, as in (x, y) coordinates, in the parking lots. The x axis runs this way,” Uncle Red says, facing the Waterhouse House and holding his arms out in a cruciform attitude, “and the y axis this way.” He toddles around ninety degrees so that one of his hands is now pointing at the Shaftoes’ Impala. “Perceived financial value is measured by x. The farther in that direction it is, the more valuable you think it is. You might even assign something a negative x value if you think it has negative value—e.g., that overstuffed chair over there—which might cost more to re-upholster than it is actually worth. Likewise, the y axis measures perceived emotional value. Now, we have established that the console has extreme emotional value to you and so I think that we can just go right ahead and move it down the line over to where the Impala is located.”

  “Can something have negative emotional value?” Aunt Nina says, sourly and probably rhetorically.

  “If you hate it so much that just owning it would cancel out the emotional benefits of having something like the console, then yes,” Uncle Red says.

  Randy hoists the console onto his shoulder and begins to walk in a positive y direction. The Shaftoe boys are available to hump furniture at a moment’s notice, but Randy needs to mark a bit of territory here, just to indicate that he is not without some masculine attributes himself, and so he ends up carrying more furniture than he probably needs to. Back at the Origin, he can hear Red and Nina going at it. “I have a problem with this,” Nina says. “What’s to prevent her from just putting everything down at the extreme y axis—claiming that everything is terribly emotionally important to her?” Her in this case can only mean Aunt Rachel, the wife of Tom. Rachel is a multiethnic East Coast urbanite who is not blessed or afflicted with the obligatory Waterhousian diffidence and so has always been regarded as a sort of living incarnation of rapacity, a sucking maw of need. The worst-case scenario here is that Rachel somehow goes home with everything—the grand piano, the silver, the china, the Gomer Bolstrood dining room set. Hence the need for elaborate rules and rituals, and a booty division system that is mathematically provable as fair.

  “That’s where τe and τ$ enter into it,” Uncle Red says soothingly.

  “All of our choices will be mathematically scaled so that they add up to the same total values on both the emotional and financial scales. So if someone clumped everything together in the extreme corner, then, after scaling, it’d be as if they never expressed any preferences at all.”

  Randy nears the steamed-up Impala. One of the doors makes a crackling noise as superannuated weatherstripping peels away from steel. Robin Shaftoe emerges, breathes into his cupped hands, and takes a parade-rest position, signifying that he is available to discharge any responsibilities out here on the Cartesian coordinate plane. Randy looks up over the Impala and the retaining wall and the ice-clogged xeriscape above that and into the lobby of Waterhouse House, where Amy Shaftoe has her feet up on a coffee table and is looking through some of the extremely sad Cayuse-related literature that Randy bought for Avi. She looks down and smiles at him and just barely, he thinks, restrains the impulse to reach up and twirl one finger around her ear.

  “That’s good, Randy!” shouts Uncle Red from the Origin, “now we need to give it some x!” Meaning that the console is not devoid of economic value either. Randy does a right-face and begins to walk into the (+x, +y) quadrant, counting the yellow lines. “Give it about four parking spaces! That’s good!” Randy plonks the console down, then pulls a pad of graph paper out of his coat, whips back the first sheet, which contains the (x,y) scatterplot of Uncle Geoff and Auntie Anne, and notes down the coordinates of the console. Sound carries in the Palouse, and from the Origin he can hear Aunt Nina saying to Uncle Red, “How much of our τe have we just spent on that console?”

  “If we leave everything else down here at y equals zero, a hundred percent after scaling,” Uncle Red says. “Otherwise it depends on how we distribute these things in the y dimension.” Which is of course the correct answer, albeit totally useless.

  If these days in Whitman don’t make Amy flee from Randy in terror, nothing will, and so he’s glad in a sick way that she is seeing this. The subject of his family has not really come up until now. Randy is not given to talking about his family because he feels there is nothing to report: small town, good education, shame and self-esteem doled out in roughly equal quantities and usually where warranted. Nothing spectacular along the lines of grotesque psychopathologies, sexual abuse, massive, shocking trauma, or Satanic rallies in the backyard. So normally when people are talking about their families, Randy just shuts up and listens, feeling that he has nothing to say. His familial anecdotes are so tame, so pedestrian, that it would be presumptuous even to relate them, especially after someone else has just divulged something really shocking or horrific.

  But standing there and looking at these vortices he starts to wonder. Some people’s insistence that “Today I: smoke/am overweight/have a shitty attitude/am depressed because: my mom died of cancer/my uncle put his thumb up my butt/my dad hit me with a razor strop” seems kind of overly deterministic to Randy; it seems to reflect a kind of lazy or half-witted surrender to bald teleology. Basically, if everyone has a vested interest in believing that they understand everything, or even that people are capable in principle of understanding it (either because believing this dampens their insecurities about the unpredictable world, or makes them feel more intelligent than others, or both) then you have an environment in which dopey, reductionist, simple-minded, pat, glib thinking can circulate, like wheelbarrows filled with inflated currency in the marketplaces of Jakarta.

  But things like t
he ability of some student’s dead car to spawn repeating patterns of thimble-sized vortices a hundred yards downwind would seem to argue in favor of a more cautious view of the world, an openness to the full and true weirdness of the Universe, an admission of our limited human faculties. And if you’ve gotten to this point, then you can argue that growing up in a family devoid of gigantic and obvious primal psychological forces, and living a life touched by many subtle and even forgotten influences rather than one or two biggies (e.g., active participation in the Church of Satan) can lead, far downwind, to consequences that are not entirely devoid of interest. Randy hopes, but very much doubts, that America Shaftoe, sitting up there in the algae-colored light reading about the inadvertent extermination of the Cayuse, sees it this way.

  Randy rejoins his aunt at the Origin. Uncle Red has been explaining to her, somewhat condescendingly, that they must pay careful attention to the distribution of items on the economic scale, and for his troubles he has been sent on a long, lonely walk down the +x axis carrying the complete silver tea service. “Why couldn’t we just have stayed inside and worked this all out on paper?” Aunt Nina asks.

  “It was felt that there was value in physically moving this stuff around, giving people a direct physical analog of the value-assertions that they were making,” Randy says. “Also that it would be useful to appraise this stuff literally in the cold light of day.” As opposed to ten or twelve emotionally fraught people clambering around a packed-to-the-ceiling U-Stor-It locker with flashlights, sniping at each other from behind the armoires.

  “Once we’ve all made our choices, then what? You sit down and figure it out on a spreadsheet, or something?”

  “It is much too computationally intensive to be solved that way. Probably a genetic algorithm is called for—certainly there won’t be a mathematically exact solution. My father knows a researcher in Geneva who has done work on problems isomorphic to this one, and sent him e-mail last night. With any luck we will be able to ftp some suitable software and get it running on the Tera.”

  “The Terror?”

  “Tera. As in Teraflops.”

  “That does me no good at all. When you say ‘as in’ you are supposed to give me something more familiar to relate it to.”

  “It is one of the ten fastest computers on the planet. Do you see that red brick building just to the right of the end of the -y axis,” Randy says, pointing down the hill, “just behind the new gym?”

  “The one with all the antennas?”

  “Yes. The Tera machine is in there. It was made by a company in Seattle.”

  “It must have been very expensive.”

  “My dad talked them out of it.”

  “Yes!” says Uncle Red cheerfully, returning from high-x-value territory. “The man is a legendary donation-raiser.”

  “He must have a persuasive side to him that I have not been perceptive enough to notice yet,” Aunt Nina says, wandering curiously towards some large cardboard boxes.

  “No,” Randy says, “it’s more like he just goes in and flops around on the conference table until they become so embarrassed for his sake that they agree to sign the check.”

  “You’ve seen him do this?” Aunt Nina says skeptically, sizing up a box labeled CONSTITUENTS OF UPSTAIRS LINEN CLOSET.

  “Heard about it. High-tech is a small town,” Randy says.

  “He’s been able to make great capital of his father’s work,” Uncle Red says. “ ‘If my father had patented even one of his computer inventions, Palouse College would be bigger than Harvard,’ and so on.”

  Aunt Nina has got the box open now. It is almost completely filled by a single Qwlghmian blanket, in a dark greyish-brown on dark brownish-grey plaid. The blanket in question is about an inch thick, and, during wintertime family reunions, was infamous as a booby prize of sorts among the Waterhouse grandchildren. The smell of mothballs, mildew, and heavily oiled wool causes Aunt Nina’s nose to wrinkle, as it did Aunt Annie’s before her. Randy re members bedding down beneath this blanket once at the age of about nine, and waking up at two in the morning with bronchial spasms, hyperthermia, and vague memories of a nightmare about being buried alive. Aunt Nina slams the box flaps shut, turns around, and looks in the direction of the Impala. Robin Shaftoe is already running towards them. Being not bad at math himself, he was quick to pick up on this whole concept, and knows from experience that the blanket box will have to be trundled deep out into (-x,-y) territory.

  “I guess I’m just worried,” Aunt Nina says, “about having my preferences mediated by this supercomputer. I have tried to make it clear what I want. But will the computer understand that?” She has paused by the CERAMICS box in a way that is tantalizing Randy, who badly wants to have a look inside, but doesn’t want to arouse suspicions. He’s the referee and is sworn to objectivity. “Forget the china,” she says, “too old-ladyish.”

  Uncle Red wanders over and disappears behind one of the dead cars, presumably to take a leak. Aunt Nina says, “How about you, Randy? As the eldest son of the eldest son, you must have some feelings about this.”

  “No doubt when my parents’ time comes, they will pass on some of Grandma and Grandpa’s legacy to me,” Randy says.

  “Oh, very circumspect. Well done,” Aunt Nina says. “But as the only grandchild who has any memories of your grandfather at all, there must be something here that you might like to have.”

  “There’ll probably be some odds and ends that nobody wants,” Randy says. Then like an almost perfect moron—like an organism genetically engineered to be a total, stupid idiot—Randy glances directly at the Trunk. Then he tries to hide it, which only makes it more conspicuous. He guesses that his mostly beardless face must be an open book, and wishes he had never shaved. A bullet of ice strikes him in the right cornea with a nearly audible splot. The ballistic impact blinds him and the thermal shock gives him an ice-cream headache. When he recovers enough to see again, Aunt Nina is walking around the trunk, kind of spiraling in towards it in a rapidly decaying orbit. “Hmm. What’s in here?” She grips the handle at one end and finds she can barely get it off the ground.

  “Old Japanese code books. Bundles of ETC cards.”

  “Marcus?”

  “Yes, ma’am!” says Marcus Aurelius Shaftoe, returning from the double-negative quadrant.

  “What is the angle exactly in between the +x and +y axes?” Aunt Nina asks. “I would ask the referee, here, but I’m beginning to have doubts about his objectivity.”

  M.A. glances at Randy and decides he had best interpret this last comment as good-natured familial horsing-around. “Would you like that in radians or degrees, ma’am?”

  “Neither. Just demonstrate it for me. Take this great big trunk on that strong back of yours and just split the middle between +x and +y axes and keep walking until I say when.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” M.A. hefts the trunk and starts walking, frequently looking back and forth to verify that he’s exactly in the middle. Robin stands off at a safe distance watching with interest.

  Uncle Red, returning from his piss-break, watches this in horror. “Nina! Love! That’s not worth the cost of shipping it home! What on earth are you doing?”

  “Making sure I get what I want,” Nina says.

  Randy gets a small part of what he wants two hours later, when his own mother breaks the seal on the CERAMICS box to verify that the china is in good condition. At the time, Randy and his father are standing next to the Trunk. It is rather late in his parent’s value-plotting work and so pieces of fine furniture are now widely scattered across the parking lot, looking like the aftermath of one of those tornadoes that miraculously sets things down intact after whirling them through the skies for ten miles. Randy is trying to find a way to talk up the emotional value of this trunk without violating his oath of objectivity. The chances of anyone other than Nina ending up with this trunk are actually quite miserable, since she (to Red’s horror) left almost everything clumped around the Origin except for it and th
e coveted Console. But if Dad would at least move the thing off dead center—which no one except Nina has done—then, if the Tera awards it to him tomorrow morning, Randy can plausibly argue that it’s something other than a computer error. But Dad is taking most of his cues from Mom and is having none of it.

  Mom has bitten her gloves off and is parting layer after layer of crumpled newsprint with magenta hands. “Oh, the gravy boat!” she exclaims, and hoists up something that is more of a heavy cruiser than a boat. Randy agrees with Aunt Nina that the design is old-ladyish in the extreme, but that’s kind of tautological since he has only seen it in the house of his grandmother, who has been an old lady for as long as he has known her. Randy walks towards his mother with his hands in his pockets, still trying to play it cool for some reason. This obsession with secrecy may have gone a bit far. He has seen this gravy boat maybe twenty times in his life, always at family reunions, and seeing it now roils up a whole silt-cloud of long-settled emotions. He reaches out, and Mom remits it to his mittened hands. He pretends to admire it from the side, and then flips it over to read the words glazed on the bottom. ROYAL ALBERT—LAVENDER ROSE.

  For a moment he is sweating under a vertical sun, swaying to keep his balance on a rocking boat, smelling the neoprene of hoses and flippers. Then he’s back in the Palouse. He begins thinking about how to sabotage the computer program to ensure that Aunt Nina gets what she wants, so that she’ll give him what is rightfully his.

  GOLGOTHA

  * * *

  LIEUTENANT NINOMIYA REACHES BUNDOK ABOUT two weeks after Goto Dengo, accompanied by several bashed and scraped wooden cases. “What is your specialty?” asks Goto Dengo, and Lieutenant Ninomiya responds by opening up one of the cases to reveal a surveyor’s transit swaddled in clean, oiled linen. Another case contains an equally perfect sextant. Goto Dengo gawks. The gleaming perfection of the instruments is a marvel. But even more marvelous is that they sent him a surveyor only twelve days after he requested one. Ninomiya grins at the look on his new colleague’s face, revealing that he has lost all of his front teeth except for one, which happens to be mostly gold.