Interface

by Neal Stephenson

  GENERAL 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 SPECIFIC

  SECULAR 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 RELIGIOUS

  MATERIAL 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 ETHEREAL

  KIND/GENTLE 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 BELLIGERENT

  Right now, all of the joysticks were set close to the middle except for GENERAL/SPECIFIC which had been set to 1 (GENERAL) and stuck in place with a piece of duct tape.

  Ogle punched a button on his armrest.

  “Bullet whizzing past my head,” Cozzano said.

  “Correct,” Ogle said. “That means that you’re under attack and you’d better take cover and defend yourself.”

  “Got it,” Cozzano said. “Do another one.”

  Ogle punched another button.

  “Apple pie,” Cozzano said. “Which means American values.”

  Ogle punched another button.

  “Ice cubes. Which means I should cool it.”

  Ogle punched another one.

  “A B-52. A strong national defense.”

  They went on in this vein for several minutes. Ogle had a few dozen buttons on his armrest.

  “Argus is Cozzano,” Aaron said.

  “Right,” Zeldo said. “Argus was the mythological figure who had a hundred eyes. With Ogle’s help, and with the PIPER 100 feeding him their emotions, Cozzano becomes the new Argus.”

  At first, Floyd Wayne Vishniak didn’t know what it was: a burst of tinny music with sort of a patriotic brass-band sound to it. It sure wasn’t coming from his TV set, which was tuned to a fishing program. Finally a flash of red-white-and-blue color caught his eye. It was coming from his wrist. From the big fancy wristwatch that he was being paid to wear. It was showing a logo, a computerized American flag image.

  Finally they were doing something. He’d been wearing the damn thing for two weeks and hadn’t seen anything on it except for occasional test patterns. He turned off the TV - the fish didn’t seem to be biting anyway - cracked open a beer, and sat down to watch.

  Chase Merriam was out on the lawn of his brother-in-law’s house in East Hampton, Long Island, savoring a mint julep and enjoying the cool night air, when his watch came to life. It didn’t much bother him, since this was a dull party anyway. The sound of the music attracted the attention of several other partygoers, and by the time the program got underway, he was in the center of half a dozen people, standing on tiptoe, staring at his wrist in fascination.

  “This is ridiculous,” he said. “Why don’t we all just watch it on C-SPAN.”

  Dr. Hunter P. Lawrence, pundit extraordinaire, moderator of the Washington Hot Seat, and nemesis of Eleanor Richmond, was a veteran of the Kennedy glory days. He had come down from Harvard to serve as an Undersecretary of State for Cultural Affairs, “liasing” with Ed Murrow’s USIA. After putting in his three years, he had returned to Harvard to take a joint appointment in the Political Science Department and as an administrator at the Kennedy School. He had a Savile Row tattered professional elegance with a hint of dandruff around the shoulders of his dark gray pinstriped suit. His graying hair, cut long in the back to com­pensate for its gradual retreat in front, defied the best efforts of spray and gel to get it to lie down, and the backlights of the set turned them into silvery scratches against the dark blue background. As the house filled up and the media consultants fussed over their candi­dates and the technicians ran around barking into their headsets, he sat in his chair, legs crossed, flipping listlessly through some papers.

  In a normal debate, tickets would have been distributed equally among supporters of each of the three candidates. But William A. Cozzano was not technically a candidate at all, even though a spontaneous ground swell had put his name on the ballot in forty-two states. The President of the United States was continuing to pursue his Rose Garden strategy and would not be in attendance tonight, though some of his handlers were already cruising the press room, buttonholing journalists and trying to apply some prespin to the event. The only “real” candidate was Nimrod T. (“Tip”) McLane. A reasonable number of tickets had therefore been handed out to the McLane campaign. Other than that, it was open seating; but given that the event was happening thirty miles away from Tuscola, the place was dominated by Cozzano supporters. Tip McLane was coming into the lion’s den tonight, which was exactly the kind of situation in which he excelled.

  Most politicians were soulless tools, windup dolls; but these two guys, Cozzano and McLane, could more than hold their own in intellectual combat. This was going to be a hell of a confrontation, and Dr. Hunter P. Lawrence was just the man to act as ringmaster and lion tamer.

  As Dr. Lawrence was engaged in this rather self-satisfying series of ruminations, the voice of the set direction scratched from his earplug, “One minute to air.” Lawrence set his papers down, sipped some water, did a phlegm check, walked unhurriedly to each of the debators and shook their hands warmly and firmly. At times like this, he had to consciously resist his normal tendency to apply what an overly honest colleague had referred to as his “fish kiss” handshake.

  The theme of “Campaign ‘96” rose in the earplug, unheard by the audience, and on the monitors he could see the nifty computer graphics in which the globe segued into the United States which in turn segued into the flag which in turn blended into a rather nice establishing shot of the Decatur Civic Center, still brightly illuminated by the late evening sun of midsummer. The building was surrounded by buses and cars. People were streaming into the entrances. Most of them were students who had been bused in from local colleges and high schools.

  Superimposed over these images were some credits. The logos of various sponsoring corporations were flashed up as the godlike voice of an announcer, prerecorded weeks ago in New York, intoned: “Tonight’s debate is brought to you by MacIntyre Engineering, bringing American technological excellence to the world. Global Omnipresent Delivery Systems, the world leader in physical communications technology. Pacific Netware, creator of the industry-leading Calyx computer system. Gale Aerospace, providing new solutions for a changing world. And the Coover Fund, investing in America for a prosperous tomorrow.

  “Tonight, from Decatur, Illinois, the presidential town forum. Joining our moderator, Dr. Hunter P. Lawrence, will be Representative Nimrod T. (“Tip”) McLane of California and Governor William A. Cozzano of Illinois.”

  Dr. Lawrence was enough of a self-consciously stodgy eccentric that he had actually armed himself with a gavel. As the voiceover began, he started to whack it. Audience members moved toward their seats and the buzzing clouds of aides and well-wishers that had surrounded the two debaters began to disperse. The noise level dropped and the house lights came down, leaving the three men down below in pools of halogen light, TV-bright. As backdrops, they had tall floor-to-ceiling banners - colorized images of turn-of-the-century politicians: Teddy Roosevelt, William Jennings Bryan, and William McKinley.

  Dr. Lawrence loved this moment, loved the notion that millions of people were watching, loved the fact that, unlike so many other people, he performed without notes or a teleprompter, in short, he loved his own glibness - what open field running was for Barry Sanders of the Lions, extemporaneous and clever speech was for the professor. It was his chance to go and say “in your face” to the tongue-tied masses. It was as good as the first fuck with a new graduate student.

  “I will be blunt: this country is on the verge of disaster.”

  That was good; that shut them up. Dr. Lawrence cleared his throat unnecessarily and took another sip of water.

  “This may be our last free presidential election. I make this alarming statement for the following reasons.

  “Our national debt has now reached the level of ten trillion dollars, the surest sign of a society in disequilibrium, even free-fall.

  “Our political leaders in the past few decades have shown no ability to address the problems facing our aging, failing democracy.

  “Our federal leadership works only in response to pollsters and spin doctors; the sheer mediocrity at the executive, l
egislative, and judicial levels has driven away the most talented civil servants.

  “The only sign of life is at the level of state government, and these officials are burdened to the point of paralysis by the albatross of Washington.

  “The values that made this country what it once was - hard work and honesty, or as Emerson put it, ‘self-reliance’ - have, like our finances, gone to hell.”

  Dr. Lawrence paused to allow his words to sink in. “Are any of you in this audience convinced that the picture is anything but bleak for the future? I am sorry to be so blunt, but a lifetime of study of and love for this country compels me to set the stage for this debate with these thoughts.

  “One century ago, a candidate looking back on events of the last decade would have seen feverish activity in the realms of tech­nology, art, and politics. During that period, men with names such as Diesel, Benz, and Ford had been hard at work perfecting a new device called the automobile. The first telephone switchboard had been installed, the first subway system was under construction in Boston, and Thomas Edison had opened something called a kineto­scope parlor - the first movie theater. The gramophone, the rocket engine, the radio, and X rays had all just been invented. And, as if these innovations were not important enough, the first professional football game had been played in Latrobe, Pennsylvania.”

  A murmur ran through the crowd and gradually bloomed into laughter. Cozzano and Dr. Lawrence exchange smiles. This was typical for Dr. Lawrence: a subtle jibe that could have been inter­preted as either a dig or a compliment. Cozzano chose to treat it as the latter.

  “But despite this rapid technological progress, the political picture a hundred years ago was far from rosy. Foreign interests controlled our economy; an unfeeling business class brutally exploited the people of the United States; the political structure of this country was shot through with the most shocking corruption from top to bottom; divisiveness characterized the relationship between sections of this country, and between races; foreigners newly arriving to work in our country suffered attack simply for wanting to come to this blessed land to improve themselves. Beginning in the late 1880s the poorest farmers and workers in the West and South united to form the Populist movement. They failed to reach the middle classes and the cities; their message became shrill. But out of that movement came the Progressive movement, one of whose most eloquent spokesmen was William Jennings Bryan, who spoke in this town a century or so ago. His message was simple: government is for the people. The effect was profound. The Progressive movement spread across this part of the country with the speed and fury of a prairie fire. Progressivism blended the skills of the best of this country with the ambitions of the middle 70 percent - the middle classes - to remake the system and allow this country to endure through the twentieth century.

  “We need a new populism and a new progressivism and a new way to remake the system so that the values of honesty and hard work can once again have a nurturing environment in which to grow, and self-reliance can once again take its place.

  “Tonight we will discuss these problems from many different directions. But I would like to begin by discussing a concrete issue: the trade imbalance.

  “It is January of next year and you have just taken the oath of office. The economy remains uncertain. It seems as though the Japanese lead in the automotive sector has become insurmountable. How do you, as President, tackle that problem? Representative McLane?”

  37

  Tip McLane had already adopted his characteristic pose, leaning forward toward the camera, head down, staring intently into the lens. As soon as the red light came on, he unloaded: “First of all, Dr. Lawrence, let me say that I would like to thank you, and the people of Decatur, for the opportunity to come here and participate in this forum.”

  A few hundred yards away, Cy Ogle was crowing. He had thrown his head back and broken into triumphant, falsetto laughter. All around him the Eye of Cy had gone into various shades of blue. It had happened the moment the phrase “first of all” escaped from Tip McLane’s lips.

  “Lemme just jot that one down,” Ogle said, making a note. “Never begin with ‘first of all.’”

  Ogle was also happy because only three of the screens were blank. They were getting 97 percent compliance. Back in Falls Church, Virginia, three ropers were on the phones, trying to get through to the three delinquent members of the PIPER 100. Over the next few minutes, two more screens came to life.

  Almost thirty seconds had gone by, and Tip McLane still hadn’t begun to answer the question: “… people who say that presidential campaigns are all style over substance obviously haven’t been paying attention to fine, substantial programs like the one that we are participating in tonight.”

  “Thank you, Tip,” Ogle said, “I did my very best.”

  “Now, as far as the auto industry. There are a lot of so-called conservatives who would disagree with me on this and say that we should just let the Japanese come in and walk all over us. That somehow, this constitutes free trade. Well, it’s not free trade. It’s an economic Pearl Harbor, is what it is. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to stand by and let it happen to American on my watch. And that is why, when I am President-”

  “-thank you, Congressman McLane, your time has expired,” Dr. Lawrence said, amused but firm.

  “-we should deal with this in a tough, but not protectionist way-”

  “-thank you, Congressman McLane.”

  “-and even out this trade balance-”

  “-your time has expired and we must now move on to Governor Cozzano.”

  The verbal duel between Representative McLane and Dr. Lawrence petered out gradually. By that point, the screens were largely bluish and reddish. “Well, that just makes them all look like assholes,” Ogle said. “I can’t tell if they’re reacting to McLane or Lawrence.” He turned and caught Aaron’s eye. “Can you give me a breakdown by economic bracket?”

  Aaron grabbed the mouse attached to his Calyx workstation and chose a couple of items from menus. A graphic flashed up on his screen and he bounced a copy of it to one of Ogle’s screens.

  “What this tells me is that everyone dislikes Tip McLane just about equally,” Ogle said.

  “That’s about right. Which is interesting, coming from the upper income brackets.”

  “Yeah,” Ogle said. He held one index finger up in the air. “I am about to make a prediction,” he said.

  “Shoot,” Aaron said.

  “I predict that we are going to see a whole lot more data to the effect that people think Tip McLane is too rough. Too coarse to dance with the Queen of England.”

  The Eye of Cy grew brighter and took on a decidedly greenish tinge. “Hot damn,” Ogle said. “Now just hold it, baby, don’t squander this.” As he spoke, he was pressing a couple of buttons on the pad that he used to communicate with Cozzano.

  Cozzano looked great on TV. The stroke had aged him somewhat. He had lost some weight without becoming gaunt. It had brought out his features, which were worth bringing out. He had a serious, thoughtful, rock-solid look about him now. He could probably win a lot of votes simply by doing what he was doing now: sitting in front of a camera and not saying anything.

  This was new behaviour for him. Cozzano loved to argue. He loved competition in any form. He had always been the first to show up for football practice. Whenever he appeared in one of these debates he always leapt into the fray as soon as his turn came up.

  But you didn’t become president by seeming eager. Ogle under­stood this perfectly well, and so, as soon as Cozzano’s name came up, he began to stroke that keyboard, sending calm, solid, quite images into Cozzano’s brain. Cozzano just sat there, quite, solid, contemplative. The longer he sat there, the brighter, and greener, the Eye of Cy became.

  “Getting good results here,” Zeldo said, looking at the readouts of Cozzano’s blood pressure. “He’s calming down. He was a little nervous before.”

  “Perfect,” Ogle said. “I just invented a new f
orm of political rhetoric: don’t say a damn thing.”

  It was perfect, Aaron realized, sitting there staring at Cozzano on the TV. He had seen a lot of these debates. The candidates always came off as high-strung, bickering game show contestants. But Cozzano had a solid dignity that was way above all that. He gave the impression of a man who had been deeply absorbed in thinking profound thoughts, not paying any attention to his surroundings, who had suddenly been interrupted by the nervous, carping moderator of the debate. Who was now giving the matter some serious thought before he blurted anything out.

  Aaron felt as though he should jump to his feet and salute Cozzano. He felt that way even though he was sitting ten feet away from Ogle and knew damn well this was a manipulated image.

  “I have certain values that I am not willing to play games with,” Cozzano said. Then he paused for quite a while, thinking. The audience was dead silent. Even the inside of Ogle’s trailer was dead silent. The whole universe seemed to be revolving around Cozzano. “One of the things I value is dignity and self-respect. These things are our birthrights. Some squander them. Once you have lost them, you can’t get them back. And one way to squander your dignity and self-respect is to whine and carp and beg.” Cozzano pronounced these words with almost palpable disgust. “My attitude is that I don’t care how unlevel the playing field is. I’m going to play by the rules anyway.” At this point Cozzano seemed to become visibly pissed off. He leveled his gaze directly into the camera for the first time, held up his meaty right hand, pointed into the lens. “I will never crawl on my knees to Japan or any other country and cry uncle, the way George Bush did in 1992. I’d rather die.” Cozzano sat back in his chair, held his gaze on the lens for a few more seconds, then looked away.

  The Eye of Cy had become blindingly bright: America was feeling strong, conflicting emotions.

  There was silence and then confusion. He had only used up a small portion of his allotted time. Dr. Lawrence wasn’t sure what he should do. The TV feed cut uncertainly back and forth between Governor Cozzano and Dr. Lawrence.