The Big U

by Neal Stephenson

  “This is Casimir Radon,” said Sarah proudly, as Casimir reflexively shoved out his right hand.

  “Well! That’s fine,” said Krupp. “That’s two conversations I have to finish now. If we bring Bud here along with us to keep things from getting out of hand we ought to be safe.”

  “Look out. I’m not the diplomat you’re hoping I am,” I mumbled, not knowing what I was expected to say.

  “What say we go down to the Faculty Pub and have some brews? I’m buying.”

  Our party got quite a few stares in the Faculty Pub. The three students were not even supposed to be in the place, but the bouncer wasn’t very keen on asking Mr. Krupp’s guests to show their IDs. This place bore the same relation to the Megapub as Canterbury Cathedral to a parking ramp. The walls were covered with wood that looked five inches thick, the floor was bottomless carpet and the tables were spotless slabs of rich solid wood. Enough armaments were nailed to the walls to defend a small medieval castle, and ancient portraits of the fat and pompous were interspersed with infinitely detailed coats of arms. The President ordered a pitcher of Guinness and chose a booth near the corner.

  Ephraim had been talking the entire way. “So if you were the religious type, you know, you could say that the right side of the brain is the ‘spiritual’ side, the part that comes into contact with spiritual influences or God or whatever—it has a dimension that protrudes into the spiritual plane, if you want to look at it that way—while the left half is monistic and nonspiritual and mechanical. We conscious unicamerals accept the spiritual information coming in from the right side mixed in subtly with the natural inputs. But a bicameral person would receive that information in the form of a voice from nowhere which spoke with great authority. Now, that doesn’t contradict the biblical accounts of the prophets—it merely gives us a new basis for their interpretation by suggesting that their communication with the Deity was done subconsciously by a particular hemisphere of the brain.”

  Krupp thought that was very good. Sarah and Casimir listened politely. Eventually, though, the conversation worked its way around to the subject of the mass driver.

  “Tell me exactly why this university should fund your project there, Casimir,” said Krupp, and watched expectantly.

  “Well, it’s a good idea.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s relevant and we, the people who do it, will learn stuff from it.”

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, electronics, building things, practical stuff.”

  “Can’t they already learn that from doing conventional research under the supervision of the faculty?”

  “Yeah, I guess they can.”

  “So that leaves only the rationale that it is relevant, which I don’t deny, but I don’t see why it’s more relevant than a faculty research project.”

  “Well, mass drivers could be very important someday!”

  Krupp shook his head. “Sure, I don’t deny that. There are all kinds of relevant things which could be very important someday. What I need to be shown is how funding of your project would be consistent with the basic mission of a great institution of higher learning. You see? We’re talking basic principles here.”

  Casimir had removed his glasses in the dim light, and his strangely naked-looking eyes darted uncertainly around the tabletop. “Well…”

  “Aw, shit, it’s obvious!” shouted Ephraim Klein, drawing looks from everyone in the pub. “This university, let’s face it, is for average people. The smart people from around here go to the Ivy League, right? So American Megaversity doesn’t get many of the bright people the way, say, a Big Ten university would. But there are some very bright people here, for whatever reasons. They get frustrated in this environment because the university is tailored for averagely bright types and there is very little provision for the extra-talented. So in order to fulfill the basic mission of allowing all comers to realize their full potential—to avoid stultifying the best minds here—you have to make allowances for them, recognize their special creativity by giving them more freedom and self-direction than the typical student has. This is your chance to have something you can point to as an example of the opportunities here for people of all levels of ability.”

  Krupp listened intently through this, lightly tapping the edge of a potato chip on the table. When Klein finally stopped, he nodded for a while.

  “Yep. Yeah, I’d say you have an excellent point there, Isaiah. Casimir, looks as though you’re going to get your funding.” He raised an eyebrow.

  Casimir stood up, yelled “Great!” and pumped Krupp’s hand. “This is a great investment. When this thing is done it will be the most incredible machine you’ve ever seen. There’s no end to what you can do with a mass driver.”

  There was a commotion behind Krupp, and suddenly, larger than life, standing on the bench in the next booth down, Bert Nix had risen to his full bedraggled height and was suspending a heavy broadsword (stolen from a suit of armor by the restroom) over Krupp’s head. “O fortunate Damocles, thy reign began and ended with the same dinner!”

  After Krupp saw who it was he turned back around without response. His two aides staggered off their barstools across the room and charged over to grab the sword from Bert Nix’s hand. He had held it by the middle of the blade, which made it seem considerably less threatening, but the aides didn’t necessarily see it this way and were not as gentle in showing Mr. Nix out as they could have been. He was docile except for some cheerful obscenities; but as he was dragged past a prominent painting, he pulled away and pointed to it. “Don’t you think we have the same nose?” he asked, and soon was out the door.

  Krupp got up and brought the conversation to a quick close. After distributing cigars to Ephraim and Casimir and me, he left. Finding ourselves in an exhilarated mood and with what amounted to a free ticket to the Faculty Pub, we stayed long enough to close it down.

  Earlier, however, on his fifth trip to the men’s room, Casimir stopped to look at the plaque under the portrait to which Bert Nix had pointed. “WILBERFORCE PERTINAX RUSH-FORTH-GREATHOUSE, 1799–1862, BENEFACTOR, GREATHOUSE CHAPEL AND ORGAN.” Casimir tried to focus on the face. As a matter of fact, the Roman nose did resemble Bert Nix’s; they might be distant relatives. It was queer that a derelict, who couldn’t spend that much time in the Faculty Pub, would notice this quickly enough to point it out. But Bert Nix’s mind ran along mysterious paths. Casimir retrieved the broadsword from where it had fallen, and laughingly slapped it down on the bar as a deposit for the fourth pitcher of Dark. The bartender regarded Casimir with mild alarm, and Casimir considered, for a moment, carrying a sword all the time, à la Fred Fine. But as he observed to us, why carry a sword when you own a mass driver?

  “Casimir?”

  “Mmmmm. Huh?”

  “You asleep?”

  “No.”

  “You want to talk?”

  “Okay.”

  “Thanks for letting me sleep here.”

  “No problem. Anytime.”

  “Does this bother you?”

  “You sleeping here? Nah.”

  “You seemed kind of bothered about something.”

  “No. It’s really fine, Sarah. I don’t care.”

  “If it’d make you feel better, I can go back and sleep in my room. I just didn’t feel like a half-hour elevator hassle, and my wing is likely to be noisy.”

  “I know. All that barf on the floors, rowdy people, sticky beer crud all over the place. I don’t blame you. It’s perfectly reasonable to stay at someone’s place at a time like this.”

  “I get the impression you have something you’re not saying. Do you want to talk about it?”

  The pile of sheets and blankets that was Casimir moved around, and he leaned up on one elbow and peered down at her. The light shining in from the opposite tower made his wide eyes just barely visible. She knew something was wrong with him, but she also knew better than to try to imagine what was going on inside Casimir Radon’s mind. />
  “Why should I have something on my mind?”

  “Well, I don’t see anything unusual about my staying here, but a lot of people would, and you seemed uptight.”

  “Oh, you’re talking about sex? Oh, no. No problem.” His voice was tense and hurried.

  “So what’s bothering you?”

  For a while there was just ragged breathing from atop the bed, and then he spoke again. “You’re going to think this is stupid, because I know you’re a Women’s Libber, but it really bothers me that you’re on the floor in a sleeping bag while I’m up here in a bed. That bothers me.”

  Sarah laughed. “Don’t worry, Casimir. I’m not going to beat you up for it.”

  “Good. Let’s trade places, then.”

  “If you insist.” Within a few seconds they had traded places and Sarah was up in a warm bed that smelled of mothballs and mildew. They lay there for an hour.

  “Sarah?”

  “Huh?”

  “I want to talk to you.”

  “What?”

  “I lied. I want to sleep with you so bad it’s killing me. Oh, Jeez. I love you. A lot.”

  “Oh, damn. I knew it. I was afraid of this. I’m sorry.”

  “No, don’t be. My fault. I’m really, really sorry.”

  “Should I leave? Do you want me out?”

  “No. I want you to sleep with me,” he said, as though this answer was obvious.

  “How long have you been thinking about me this way?”

  “Since we met the first time.”

  “Really? Casimir! Why? We didn’t even know each other!”

  “What does that have to do with it?” He sounded genuinely mystified.

  “I think we’ve got a basic difference in the way we think about sex, Casimir.” She had forgotten how they were when it came to this sort of thing.

  “What does that mean? Did you ever think about me that way?”

  “Not really.”

  Casimir sucked in his breath and flopped back down.

  “Now, look, don’t take it that way. Casimir, I hardly know you. We’ve only had one or two good conversations. Look, Casimir, I only think about sex every one or two days—it’s not a big topic with me right now.”

  “Jeez. Are you okay? Did you have a bad experience?”

  “Don’t put me on the defensive. Casimir, our friendship has been just fine as it is. Why should I fantasize about what a friendship might turn into, when the friendship is fine as is? You’ve got to live in the real world, Casimir.”

  “What’s wrong with me?”

  The poor guy just did not understand at all. There was no way to help him; Sarah went ahead and spoke her lines. “Nothing’s wrong with you. You’re fine.”

  “Then what is the problem?”

  “Look. I don’t sleep with people because there’s nothing wrong with them. I don’t fantasize about relationships that will never exist. We’re fine as we are. Sex would just mess it up. We have a good friendship, Casimir. Don’t screw it up by thinking unrealistically.”

  They sat in the dark for a while. Casimir was being openminded, which was good, but still had trouble catching on. “It’s none of my business, but just out of curiosity, do you like sex?”

  “Definitely. It’s a blast with the right person.”

  “I’m just not the right person, huh?”

  “I’ve already answered that six times.” She considered telling him about herself and Dex Fresser in high school. In ways—especially in appearance—Casimir was similar to Dex. The thing with Dex was a perfect example of what happened when a man got completely divorced from reality. But Sarah didn’t want the Dex story to get around, and she supposed that Casimir would be horrified by this high school saga of sex and drugs.

  “I think I’ll do my laundry now, since I’m up,” she said.

  “I’ll walk you home.”

  A few minutes later they emerged into a hall as bright as the interior of a small sun. The dregs of a party in the Social Lounge examined them as they awaited an elevator, and Sarah was bothered by what they were assuming. Maybe it would boost Casimir’s rep among his neighbors.

  An elevator opened and fifty gallons of water poured into the lobby. Someone had filled a garbage can with water, tilted it up on one corner just inside the elevator, held it in place as the doors closed, and pulled his hand out at the last minute so that it leaned against the inside of the doors. Not greatly surprised, Sarah and Casimir stepped back to let the water swirl around their feet, then threw the garbage can into the lobby and boarded the elevator.

  “That’s the nice thing about this time of day,” said Casimir. “Easy to get elevators.”

  As they made their way toward the Castle in the Air, they spoke mostly of Casimir’s mass driver. With the new funding and with the assistance of Virgil, it was moving along quite well. Casimir repeatedly acknowledged his debt to Ephraim for having done the talking.

  They took an E Tower elevator up to the Castle in the Air. A nine-leaved marijuana frond was scotch-taped over the number 13 on the elevator panel so that it would light up symbolically when that floor was passed. In the corridors of the Castle the Terrorists were still running wild and hurling their custom Big Wheel Frisbees with great violence.

  Casimir had never seen Sarah’s room. He stood shyly outside as she walked into the darkness. “The light?” he said. She switched on her table lamp.

  “Oh.” He entered uncertainly, swiveling his bottle-bottom glasses toward the wall. Conscious of being in an illegally painted room, he shut the door, then removed his glasses and let them hang around his neck on their safety cord. Without them, Sarah thought he looked rather old, sensitive, and human. He rubbed his stubble and blinked at the forest with a sort of awed amusement. By now it was very detailed.

  “Isotropic.”

  “You saw what?”

  “Isotropic. This forest is isotropic. It’s the same in all directions. It doesn’t tend in any way. A real forest is anisotropic, thicker on the bottom, thinner on the top. This doesn’t grow in any direction, it just is.”

  She sighed. “Whatever you like.”

  “Why? What’s it for?”

  “Well—what’s your mass driver for?”

  “Sanity.”

  “You’ve got your mass driver. I’ve got this.”

  He looked at her in the same way he had been staring at the forest. “Wow,” he said, “I think I get it.”

  “Don’t go overboard on this,” she said, “but how would you like to attend something dreadful called Fantasy Island Nite?”

  DECEMBER

  So nervous was Ephraim Klein, so primed for flight or combat, that he barely felt his suitcases in his hands as he carried them toward his room. What awaited him?

  He had left a week ago for Thanksgiving vacation. He had waited as long as he could—but not long enough to outwait John Wesley Fenrick and three of his ugly punker friends, who leered hungrily at him as he walked out. The question was not whether a prank had been played, but how bad it was going to be.

  Hyperventilating with anticipation, he stopped before the door. The cracks all the way around its edges had been sealed with heavy grey duct tape. This prank did not rely on surprise.

  He pressed his ear to the door, but all he could hear was a familiar chunka-chunka-chunk. With great care he peeled back a bit of tape.

  Nothing poured out. Standing to the side, he unlocked the door with surgical care. There was a cracking sound as the tape peeled away under his impetus. Finally he kicked it fully open, waited for a moment, then stepped around to look inside.

  He could see nothing. He took another step and then, only then, was enveloped in a cloud of rancid cheap cigar smoke that oozed out the doorway like a moribund genie under the propulsion of the Go Big Red Fan.

  Incandescently furious, he retreated to the bathroom and wet a T-shirt to put over his face. Thus protected he strode squinting down the foggy hallway into the lifeless room.

  The onl
y remaining possessions of John Wesley Fenrick’s were the Go Big Red Fan and most of a jumbo roll of foil. He had moved out of the room and then covered his half of the room with the foil, then spread out on it what must have been several hundred generic cigars—it must have taken half an hour just to light them. The cigars had all burned away to ash, which had been whipped into a blizzard by the Go Big Red Fan on its slow creep across the floor to Ephraim’s side. The room now looked like Yakima after Mount Saint Helens. The Fan had ground to a halt against a large potted plant of Ephraim’s and for the rest of the week had sat there chunking mindlessly.

  He checked a record. To his relief, the ash had not penetrated to the grooves. It had penetrated everything else, though, and even the Rules had taken on a brown parchmentlike tinge. Ephraim Klein took little comfort in the fact that his ex-roommate had not broken any of them.

  He cranked open the vent window, set the Go Big Red Fan into it, cleared ash from his chair, and sat down to think.

  Klein preferred to live a controlled life. He never liked to pull out all the stops until the final chord. But Fenrick had forced him to turn revenge into a major project and Klein did not plan to fail. He began to tidy his room, and to unleash his imagination on John Wesley Fenrick.

  “Sarah?”

  “Huh?”

  “Did I wake you up?”

  “No. Hi.”

  “Let’s talk.”

  “Sure.” Sarah rolled over on her stomach and propped herself up on her elbows. “I hope you’re comfortable sleeping down there.”

  “Listen. Anyplace is more comfortable than my room when a party’s going on above it.”

  “I don’t mind if you want to share a bed with me, Hyacinth. My sister and I slept together until I was eleven and she was twelve.”

  “Thanks. But I didn’t decide to sleep down here because I don’t like you, Sarah.”

  “Well, that’s nice. I guess it’s a little small for two.”

  There was a long silence. Hyacinth sat up on her sleeping bag, her crossed legs stretching out her nightgown to make a faint white diamond in the darkness of the room. Then, soundlessly, she got up and climbed into bed with Sarah. Sarah slid back against the wall to make room, and after much giggling, rolling around, rearrangement of covers and careful placement of limbs they managed to find comfortable positions.