To get here, they had to drive down a long boulevard of palm trees, enter a huge vaulted marble entrance hall, submit to metal-detection and frisking, sit in an anteroom for a while sipping tea, take their shoes off, have warm rose water poured over their hands by a turbaned servant wielding an ornate ewer, and then walk across about half a mile of polished marble and oriental carpets. As soon as the door wafts shut behind the grand wazir's ass, Avi says, "I smell a con job."
"A con job?" Randy scoffs. "What, you think this is a rear-screen projection? You think this table is made of Formica?"
"It's all real," Avi admits sourly. "But whenever someone gives you the treatment like this, it's because they're trying to impress you."
"I'm impressed," Randy says. "I admit it. I'm impressed."
"That's just a euphemism for, 'I'm about to do something moronic,'" Avi says.
"What are we going to
"If you mean, are we going to sign contracts, is money going to change hands, then no, nothing is going to get done. But plenty is going to happen."
The door opens again and the grand wazir leads a group of Nipponese men into the room. Avi lowers his voice. "Just remember that, at the end of the day, we're back in the hotel, and the sultan is still here, and all of this is just a memory to us. The fact that the sultan has a big garden has no relevance to anything."
Randy starts to get irked: this is so obvious it's insulting to mention it. But part of the reason he's irked is because he knows Avi saw right through him. Avi's always telling him not to be romantic. But he wouldn't be here, doing this, if not for the romance.
Which leads to the question: why is
Actually this new group is not Nipponese, but Chinese--probably from Taiwan. The grand wazir shows them their assigned seats, which are far enough away that they could exchange sporadic gunfire with Epiphyte Corp. but not converse without the aid of bullhorns. They spend a minute or so pretending to give a shit about the gardens and the Old Palace. Then, a compact, powerfully built man in his fifties pivots towards Epiphyte Corp. and strides over to them, dragging out a skein of aides. Randy's reminded of a computer simulation he saw once of a black hole passing through a galaxy, entraining a retinue of stars. Randy recognizes the man's face vaguely: it has been printed in business journals more than once, but not often enough for Randy to remember his name.
If Randy were something other than a hacker, he'd have to step forward now and deal with protocol issues. He'd be stressed out and hating it. But, thank god, all that shit devolves automatically on Avi, who steps up to meet this Taiwanese guy. They shake hands and go through the rote exchange of business cards. But the Chinese guy is looking straight through Avi, checking out the other Epiphyte people. Finding Randy wanting, he moves on to Eberhard Föhr. "Which one is Cantrell?" he says.
John's leaning against the window, probably trying to figure out what parametric equation generated the petals on that eight-foot-tall, carnivorous plant. He turns around to be introduced. "John Cantrell."
"Harvard Li. Didn't you get my e-mail?"
Harvard Li! Now Randy is starting to remember this guy. Founder of Harvard Computer Company, a medium-sized PC clone manufacturer in Taiwan.
John grins. "I received about twenty e-mail messages from an unknown person claiming to be Harvard Li."
"Those were from me! I do not understand what you mean that I am an unknown person." Harvard Li is extremely brisk, but not exactly pissed off. He is, Randy realizes, not the kind of man who has to coach himself not to be romantic before a meeting.
"I hate e-mail," John says.
Harvard Li stares him in the eye for a while. "'What do you mean?"
"The concept is good. The execution is poor. People don't observe any security precautions. A message arrives claiming to be from Harvard Li, they believe it's really from Harvard Li. But this message is just a pattern of magnetized spots on a spinning disk somewhere. Anyone could forge it."
"Ah. You use digital signature algorithm."
John considers this carefully. "I do not respond to any e-mail that is not digitally signed. Digital signature algorithm refers to one technique for signing them. It is a good technique, but it could be better."
Harvard Li begins nodding about halfway through this, acknowledging the point. "Is there a structural problem? Or are you concerned by the five-hundred-and-twelve-bit key length? Would it be acceptable with a one-thousand-twenty-four-bit key?"