Cryptonomicon (81 page)

“Kia was rolling her eyes, I imagine. Her lip was sort of curled.”

“She drew breath as if to give me a good piece of her mind but then thought better of it.”

“Not because you’re her boss. But because you would never understand.”

“This is just one of those evils that has to be sort of accepted and swallowed, by any mature woman who’s been around the block.”

“Who knows the harsh realities. Yeah,” Randy says.

“Yup.”

“Okay, you can tell Kia that her client’s needs and demands have been communicated to the guilty party—”

“Have they?”

“Tell her that the fact that her client
has
needs and demands has been heavy-handedly insinuated to me and that it is understood that the ball is in my court.”

“And we can stand down to some kind of detente while a response is prepared?”

“Certainly. Kia can return to her normal duties for the time being.”

“Thank you, Randy.”

Avi’s Range Rover is parked in the most remote part of the roof of the parking ramp, in the center of about twenty-five empty parking spaces that form a sort of security buffer zone. When they have traversed about half of the glacis, the car’s headlights flutter, and Randy hears the preparatory snap of a sound system being energized. “The Range Rover has picked us up on Doppler radar,” Avi says hastily.

The Range Rover speaketh in a fearsome Oz-like voice cranked up to burning-bush decibel levels. “You are being tracked by Cerberus! Please alter your course immediately!”

“I can’t believe you bought one of these things,” Randy says.

“You have encroached on the Cerberus defensive
perimeter! Move back. Move back,” says the Range Rover. “An armed response team is being placed on standby.”

“It is the only cryptographically sound car alarm system,” Avi says, as if that settles the matter. He digs out a keychain attached to a black polycarbonate fob with the same dimensions, and number of buttons, as a television remote control. He enters a long series of digits and cuts off the voice in the middle of proclaiming that Randy and Avi are being recorded on a digital video camera that is sensitive into the near-infrared range.

“Normally it doesn’t do that,” Avi says. “I had it set to its maximum alert status.”

“What’s the worst that could happen? Someone would steal your car and the insurance company would buy you a new one?”

“I couldn’t care less if it gets stolen. The worst that could happen would be a car bomb, or, not quite as bad, someone putting a bug in my car and listening to everything I say.”

Avi drives Randy over the San Andreas Fault to his place in Pacifica, which is where Randy stores his car while he’s overseas. Avi’s wife Devorah is in at the doctor’s for a routine prenatal and all the kids are either at school or being hustled around the neighborhood by their tag-team duo of tough Israeli nannies. Avi’s nannies have the souls of war-hardened Soviet paratroopers in the bodies of nubile eighteen-year-old girls. The house has been utterly abandoned to kid-raising. The formal dining room has been converted to a nanny-barracks with bunk beds hammered together from unfinished two-by-fours, the parlor filled with cribs and changing-tables, and every square centimeter of cheap shag carpet in the place has been infused with a few dozen flakes of glitter, in various festive colors, which if they even cared about getting rid of it could only be removed through direct microsurgical extraction, one flake at a time. Avi plies Randy with a sandwich of turkey bologna and ketchup on generic Wonderoid bread. It is still too early in Manila for Randy to call Amy and make amends for whatever he did wrong. Down below them, in Avi’s basement office, a fax machine shrieks and rustles like a bird in a coffee can. A laminated CIA map of Sierra Leone
is spread out on the table, peeking out here and there through numerous overlying strata of dirty dishes, newspapers, coloring books, and drafts of the Epiphyte(2) Business Plan. Post-it notes are stuck to the map from place to place. Written on each note, in Avi’s distinctive triple-ought Rapidograph drafting-pen hand, is a latitude and longitude with lots of significant digits, and some kind of precis of what happened there: “5 women, 2 men, 4 children, with machetes—photos:” and then serial numbers from Avi’s database.

Randy was a little groggy on the drive over, and was irritable about the inappropriate daylight, but after the sandwich his metabolism tries to get into the spirit of things. He has learned to surf these mysterious endocrinological swells. “I’m going to get going,” he says, and stands.

“Your overall plan, again?”

“First I go south,” Randy says, superstitiously not even wanting to utter the name of the place where he used to live. “For no more than a day, I hope. Then jet lag will land on me like a plunging safe and I will hole up somewhere and watch basketball through the vee of my feet for maybe a day. Then I head north to the Palouse country.”

Avi raises his eyebrows. “Home?”

“Yeah.”

“Hey, before I forget—could you look for information on the Whitmans while you’re up there?”

“You mean the missionaries?”

“Yeah. They came out to the Palouse to convert the Cayuse Indians, who were these magnificent horsemen. They had the best of intentions, but they accidentally gave them measles. Annihilated the whole tribe.”

“Does that really land within the boundaries of your obsession? Inadvertent genocide?”

“Anomalous cases have heightened utility in that they help us delineate the boundaries of the field.”

“I’ll see what I can find about the Whitmans.”

“May I inquire,” Avi says, “why you are going up there? Family visit?”

“My grandmother is moving to a managed care facility. Her children are convening to divide up her furniture and
so on, which I find a little ghoulish, but it’s nobody’s fault and it has to be done.”

“And you are going to participate?”

“I am going to avoid it as much as I can, because it’s probably going to be a catfight. Years from now, family members will still not be speaking to each other because they didn’t get Mom’s Gomer Bolstrood credenza.”

“What is it with Anglo-Saxons and furniture? Could you explain that to me?”

“I am going because we found a piece of paper in a briefcase in a sunken Nazi submarine in the Palawan Passage that says, ‘
WATERHOUSE—LAVENDER ROSE
.’ ”

Avi looks baffled now, in a way that Randy finds satisfying. He gets up and climbs into his car and starts driving south, down the coast, the slow and beautiful way.

L
AWRENCE
W
ATERHOUSE’S LIBIDO IS SUPPRESSED
for about a week by the pain and swelling in his jaw. Then the pain and swelling in his groin surges into the fore, and he begins searching his memories of the dance, wondering if he made any progress with Mary cCmndhd.

He wakes up suddenly at four o’clock one Sunday morning, clammily coated from his nipples to his knees. Rod is still sleeping soundly, thank god, and so if Waterhouse did any moaning or calling out of names during his dream, Rod’s probably not aware of it. Waterhouse begins trying to clean himself off without making a lot of noise. He doesn’t even want to think about how he’s going to explain the condition of the sheets to Who Will Launder Them. “It was completely innocent, Mrs. McTeague. I dreamed that I came downstairs in my pajamas and that Mary was sitting in the parlor in her uniform, drinking tea, and she turned and looked me in the eye, and then I just couldn’t control myself and aaaaAAAHHH! HUH! HUH! HUH! HUH! HUH! HUH! HUH! HUH! HUH! HUH! HUH! And then I woke up and just look at the mess.”

Mrs. McTeague (and other old ladies like her all around the world) does the laundry only because it is her role in the giant Ejaculation Control Conspiracy which, as Waterhouse is belatedly realizing, controls the entire planet. No doubt she has a clipboard down in the cellar, next to her mangle, where she marks down the frequency and volume of the ejaculations of her four boarders. The data sheets are mailed into some Bletchley Park type of operation somewhere (Waterhouse guesses it’s disguised as a large convent in upstate New York), where the numbers from all round the world are tabulated on Electrical Till Corporation machines and printouts piled up on carts that are wheeled into the offices of the high priestesses of the conspiracy, dressed in heavily starched white raiments, embroidered with the emblem of the conspiracy: a penis caught in a mangle. The priestesses review the data carefully. They observe that Hitler still isn’t getting any, and debate whether letting him have some would calm him down a little bit or just give him license to run further out of control. It will take months for the name of Lawrence Pritchard Waterhouse to come to the top of the list, and months for orders to be sent out to Brisbane—and even then, the orders may condemn him to another year of waiting for Mary cCmndhd to show up in his dreams with a teacup.

Mrs. McTeague, and other ECC members (such as Mary cCmndhd and basically all of the other young women) are offended by easy girls, prostitutes, and whorehouses, not for religious reasons, but because they provide a refuge where men can have ejaculations that are not controlled, metered, or monitored in any way. Prostitutes are turncoats, collaborators.

All of this comes into Waterhouse’s mind as he lies in his damp bed between four and six o’clock in the morning, considering his place in the world with the crystalline clarity that can only be obtained by getting a good night’s sleep and then venting several weeks’ jism production. He has reached a fork in the road.

Last night, before Rod turned in, he shined his shoes, explaining that tomorrow morning he had to be up bright and early for church. Now, Waterhouse knows what that
means, having spent many a Sabbath on Qwghlm, cringing and blushing under the glares of the locals, who were outraged that he appeared to be running the huffduff equipment on the day of rest. He has seen them shuffling into their morbid, thousand-year-old black-stone chapel on Sunday mornings for their three-hour services. Hell, Waterhouse even
lived
in a Qwghlmian chapel for several months. Its gloom suffused his whole being.

Going to church with Rod would mean giving in to the ECC, becoming their minion. The alternative is the whorehouse.

Even though he grew up in churches, raised by church people, Waterhouse (as must be obvious by this point) never really understood their attitudes about sex. Why did they get so hung up on that one issue, when there were others like murder, war, poverty, and pestilence?

Now, finally, he gets it: the churches are merely one branch of the ECC. And what they are doing, when they fulminate about sex, is trying to make sure that all the young people fall in line with the ECC’s program.

So, what is the end result of the ECC’s efforts? Waterhouse stares at the ceiling, which is starting to become fuzzily visible as the sun rises in the west, or the north, or wherever the hell it rises here in the Southern Hemisphere. He takes a quick inventory of the world and finds that basically the ECC is running the entire planet, good countries and bad countries alike. That all successful and respected men are minions of the ECC, or at least are so scared of it that they pretend to be. Non-ECC members live on the fringes of society, like prostitutes, or have been driven deep underground and must waste tremendous amounts of time and energy keeping up a false front. If you knuckle under and become a minion of the ECC, you get to have a career, a family, kids, wealth, house, pot roasts, clean laundry, and the respect of all the other ECC minions. You have to pay dues in the form of chronic nagging sexual irritation which can only be relieved by, and at the discretion and convenience of, one person, the person designated for this role by the ECC: your wife. On the other hand, if you reject the ECC and its works, you can’t, by definition, have a family,
and your career options are limited to pimp, gangster, and forty-year enlisted sailor.

Hell, it’s not even that bad of a conspiracy. They build churches and universities, educate kids, install swingsets in parks. Sometimes they throw a war and kill ten or twenty million people, but it’s a drop in the bucket compared to stuff like influenza—which the ECC campaigns against by nagging everyone to wash their hands and cover their mouths when sneezing.

The alarm clock. Rod rolls out of bed like it’s a Nip air raid. Waterhouse stares at the ceiling for another few minutes, dithering. But he knows where he’s going, and there’s no point in wasting any more time. He’s going to church, and not exactly because he has renounced Satan and all his works, but because he wants to fuck Mary. He almost can’t help flinching when he says (to himself) this terrible-sounding thing. But the weird thing about church is that it provides a special context within which it is perfectly okay to want to fuck Mary. As long as he goes to church, he can want to fuck Mary as much as he wants, he can spend all of his time, in and out of church, thinking about fucking Mary. He can let her know that he wants to fuck her as long as he finds a more oblique way of phrasing it. And if he jumps through certain hoops (hoops of gold) he can even fuck Mary in actuality, and it will all be perfectly acceptable—at no time will he have to feel the slightest trace of shame or guilt.

He rolls out of bed, startling Rod, who (being some sort of jungle commando) is easily startled. “I’m going to fuck your cousin until the bed collapses into a pile of splinters,” Waterhouse says.

Actually, what he says is “I’m going to church with you.” But Waterhouse, the cryptologist, is engaging in a bit of secret code work here. He is using a newly invented code, which only he knows. It will be very dangerous if the code is ever broken, but this is impossible since there is only one copy, and it’s in Waterhouse’s head. Turing might be smart enough to break the code anyway, but he’s in England, and he’s on Waterhouse’s side, so he’d never tell.

A few minutes later, Waterhouse and cCmndhd go downstairs, headed for “church,” which in Waterhouse’s se
cret code, means “headquarters of the Mary-fucking campaign of 1944.”

As they step out into the cool morning air they can hear Mrs. McTeague bustling into their bedroom to strip their beds and inspect their sheets. Waterhouse smiles, thinking that he has just gotten away with something; the damning and overwhelming evidence found on his bed linens will be neatly cancelled out by the fact that he got up early and went to church.

He is expecting a prayer-group meeting in the basement of a dry-goods store, but it turns out that the Inner Qwghlmians got banished to Australia in droves. Many of them settled in Brisbane. In the downtown they managed to construct a United Ecclesiastical Church out of rough-hewn beige sandstone. It would look big, solid, and almost opulent if it were not directly across the street from the Universal Ecclesiastical Church, which is twice as big and made of smooth-faced limestone. Outer Qwghlmians, dressed in dour blacks and greys, and frequently in navy uniforms, shuffle up the wide, time-blackened steps of the Universal Ecclesiastical Church, occasionally turning their heads to throw disapproving looks across the street at the Inner Qwghlmians, who are actually dressed for the season (it is summer in Australia) or in Army uniforms. Waterhouse can see that what really pisses them off is the sound of the music that vents from the United Ecclesiastical Church whenever its red enameled front doors are hauled open. The choir is practicing and the organ is playing. But he can tell from half a block away that something’s wrong with the instrument.

The look of the Inner Qwghlmian women in their pastel dresses and bright bonnets is reassuring. These do not look like people who engage in human sacrifice. Waterhouse tries to spring lightly up the steps as if he really wants to be here. Then he remembers that he
does
want to be here, because it is all part of his plan to fuck Mary.

The churchgoers are all talking in Qwghlmian, greeting each other and saying nice things to Rod, who is evidently well thought of. Waterhouse has no idea what they are saying, and finds it comforting to know that most of them don’t either. He strolls into the central aisle of the church,
stares down its vault to the altar, the choir behind it, singing beautifully; Mary is there, in the alto section, exercising those pipes of hers, which are framed attractively by the satin stole of her chorister’s uniform. Above and behind the choir, a big old pipe organ spreads its tarnished wings, like a stuffed and mounted eagle that’s been sitting in a damp attic for fifty years. It wheezes and hisses asthmatically, and emits bizarre, discordant drones when certain stops are used; this happens when a valve is stuck open, and it is called a cipher. Waterhouse knows all about ciphers.

Notwithstanding the pathetic organ, the choir is spectacular, and builds to a stirring six-part-harmony climax as Waterhouse ambles up the aisle, wondering whether his erection is visible. A shaft of light comes in through the stained-glass rosette above the organ pipes and pinions Waterhouse in its gaudy beam. Or maybe it just feels that way, because Waterhouse has it all figured out now.

Waterhouse is going to fix the church’s organ. This project will be sure to have side benefits for his own organ, a single-pipe instrument that needs attention just as badly.

It turns out that, like all ethnic groups that have been consistently screwed for a long time, the Inner Qwghlmians have great music. Not only that, they actually have fun in church. The minister actually has a sense of humor. It’s about as tolerable as church could ever be. Waterhouse hardly pays attention because he is doing a lot of staring: first at Mary, then at the organ (trying to figure out how it is engineered) then back to Mary for a while.

He is outraged and offended, after the service, when the powers that be are reluctant to let him, a total stranger and a Yank to boot, begin ripping off access panels and meddling with the inner workings of the organ. The minister is a good judge of character—a little too good to suit Waterhouse. The organist (and hence ultimate authority on all matters organic) looks to have been shipped over here with the very first load of convicts after having been convicted, in the Old Bailey, of talking too loud, bumping into things, not tying his shoelaces properly, and having dandruff so in excess of Society’s unwritten standards as to offend the dignity of the Queen and of the Empire.

It all leads to an unbearably tense and complicated meeting in a Sunday school classroom near the offices of the minister, who is called the Rev. Dr. John Mnrh. He is a stout red-faced chap who clearly would prefer to have his head in a tun of ale but who is putting up with all of this because it’s good for his immortal soul.

This meeting essentially becomes a venue within which the organist, Mr. Drkh, can vent his opinions on the sneakiness of the Japanese, why the invention of the well-tempered tuning system was a bad idea and how all music written since has been a shabby compromise, the sterling qualities of The General, the numerological significance of the lengths of various organ pipes, how the excessive libido of American troops might be controlled with certain dietary supplements, how the hauntingly beautiful modes of traditional Qwghlmian music are particularly ill-suited to the well-tempered tuning system, how the king’s dodgy Germanic relatives are plotting to take over the Empire and turn it over to Hitler, and, first and foremost, that Johann Sebastian Bach was a bad musician, a worse composer, an evil man, a philanderer, and the figurehead of a worldwide conspiracy, headquartered in Germany, that has been slowly taking over the world for the last several hundred years, using the well-tempered tuning system as a sort of carrier frequency on which its ideas (which originate with the Bavarian illuminati) can be broadcast into the minds of everyone who listens to music—especially the music of Bach. And—by the way—how this conspiracy may best be fought off by playing and listening to traditional Qwghlmian music, which, in case Mr. Drkh didn’t make this perfectly clear, is wholly incompatible with well-tempered tuning because of its haunting and beautiful, but numerologically perfect, scale.

“Your thoughts on numerology are most interesting,” Waterhouse says loudly, running Mr. Drkh off the rhetorical road. “I myself studied with Drs. Turing and von Neumann at the Institute for Advanced Studies in Princeton.”