Cryptonomicon

This particular Nipponese individual is identified, on his card, as GOTO Furudenendu ("Ferdinand Goto"). Randy, who has spent a lot of time recently puzzling over organizational charts of certain important Nipponese corporations, knows already that he is a vice president for special projects (whatever that means) at Goto Engineering. He also knows that organizational charts of Nipponese companies are horseshit and that job titles mean absolutely nothing. That he has the same surname as the guy who founded the company is presumably worth taking note of.

Randy's card says that he is Randall L. WATERHOUSE ("Randy") and that he is vice president for network technology development at Epiphyte Corporation.

Goto and Waterhouse stroll out of the washroom and start to follow the baggage-claim icons that are strung across the terminal like bread-crumbs. "You have jet lag now?" Goto asks brightly--following (Randy assumes) a script from an English textbook. He's a handsome guy with a winning smile. He's probably in his forties, though Nipponese people seem to have a whole different aging algorithm so this might be way off.

"No," Randy answers. Being a nerd, he answers such questions badly, succinctly, and truthfully. He knows that Goto essentially does not care whether Randy has jet lag or not. He is vaguely conscious that Avi, if he were here, would use Goto's question as it was intended--as an opening for cheery social batter. Until he reached thirty, Randy felt bad about the fact that he was not socially deft. Now he doesn't give a damn. Pretty soon he'll probably start being proud of it. In the meantime, just for the sake of the common enterprise, he tries his best. "I've actually been in Manila for several days, so I've had plenty of time to adjust."

"Ah! Did your activities in Manila go well?" Goto fires back.

"Yes, very well, thank you," Randy lies, now that his social skills, such as they are, have had a moment to get unlimbered. "Did you come directly from Tokyo?"

Goto's smile freezes in place for a moment, and he hesitates before saying, "Yes.''

This is, at root, a patronizing reply. Goto Engineering is headquartered in Kobe and they would not fly out of the Tokyo airport. Goto said yes anyway, because, during that moment of hesitation, he realized that he was just dealing with a Yank, who, when he said "Tokyo," really meant "the Nipponese home islands" or "wherever the hell you come from."

"Excuse me," Randy says, "I meant to say Osaka."

Goto grins brilliantly and seems to execute a tiny suggestion of a bow. "Yes! I came from Osaka today."

Goto and Waterhouse drift apart from each other at the luggage claim, exchange grins as they breeze through immigration, and run into each other at the ground transportation section. Kinakutan men in brilliant white quasinaval uniforms with gold braid and white gloves are buttonholing passengers, proffering transportation to the local hotels.

"You are staying at the Foote Mansion also?" Goto says. That being theluxury hotel in Kinakuta. But he knows the answer already--tomorrow's meeting has been planned as exhaustively as a space shuttle launch.

Randy hesitates. The largest Mercedes-Benz he's ever seen has just pulled up to the curb, condensed moisture not merely fogging its windows but running down them in literal streamlines. A driver in Foote Mansion livery has erupted from it to divest Mr. Goto of his luggage, Randy knows that he need only make a subtle move toward that car and he will be whisked to a luxury hotel where he can take a shower, watch TV naked while drinking a hundred-dollar bottle of French wine, go swimming, get a massage.

Which is precisely the problem. He can already feel himself wilting in the equatorial heat. It's too early to go soft. He's only been awake for six or seven hours. There's work to be done. He forces himself to stand up at attention, and the effort makes him break a sweat so palpably that he almost expects to moisten everything within a radius of several meters. "I would enjoy sharing a ride to the hotel with you," he says, "but I have one or two errands to run first."

Goto understands. "Perhaps drinks this evening."

"Leave me a message," Randy says. Then Goto's waving at him through the smoked glass of the Mercedes as it pulls seven gees away from the curb. Randy does a one-eighty, goes back inside to the halal Dunkin' Donuts, which accepts eight currencies, and sates himself. Then he reemerges and turns imperceptibly toward a line of taxis. A driver hurls himself bodily towards Randy and tears his garment bag loose from his shoulder. "Ministry of Information," Randy says.