Cryptonomicon

"I can write the best cryptographic code possible, but it's all worthless unless there is a good system for verifying the user's identity," John begins, regaining some poise now. "How does the computer know that you are you? Passwords are too easy to guess, steal, or forget. The computer needs to know something about you that is as unique to you as your fingerprint. Basically it has to look at some part of your body, such as the blood vessels in your retina or the distinctive sound of your voice, and compare it against known values stored in its memory. This kind of technology is called biometrics. Epiphyte Corp. boasts one of the top biometrics experts in the world: Dr. Eberhard Föhr, who wrote what's considered to be the best handwriting-recognition system in the world." John rushes through this encomium. Eb and everyone else in the room look bored by it--they've all seen Eb's resume. "Right now we're going with voice recognition, but the code is entirely modular, so we could swap in some other system, such as a hand geometry reader. That's up to the customer."

John runs the demo, and unlike most demos, it actually works and does not crash. He even tries to fake it out by recording his own voice on a pretty good portable digital tape recorder and then playing it back. But the software is not fooled. This actually makes an impression on the Chinese guys, who, up to the point, have looked like the contents of Madame Tussaud's Dumpster after an exhibit on the Cultural Revolution.

Not everyone is such a tough sell. Harvard Li is a committed Cantrell supporter, and the Filipino heavyweight looks like he can hardly wait to deposit his cash reserves in the Crypt.

Lunchtime! Doors are hauled open to reveal a dining room with a buffet along the far wall, redolent of curry, garlic, cayenne, and bergamot. The Dentist makes a point of sitting at the same table with Epiphyte Corp., but doesn't say very much--just sits there with a dreadfully choleric expression on his face, staring and chewing and thinking. When Avi finally asks him what he thinks, Kepler says, levelly: "It's been informative."

The Three Graces cringe epileptically. Informative is evidently an extremely bad word in the Dentist's lexicon. It means that Kepler has learned something at this meeting, which means that he did not know absolutely everything going into it, which would certainly rate as an unforgivable intelligence failure on his scale of values.

There is an agonizing silence. Then Kepler says, "But not devoid of interest."

Deep sighs of relief ventilate the blindingly white, plaque-free dentition of the Hygienists. Randy tries to imagine which is worse: that Kepler suspects that the wool was pulled over his eyes, or that he sees a new opportunity here. Which is more terrible, the paranoia or the avarice of the Dentist? They are about to find out. Randy, with his sappy, romantic instinct for ingratiation, almost says something like, "It's been informative for us, too!"but he holds back, noticing that Avi has notsaid it. Saying it would not enhance shareholder value. Best to play one's cards close to the vest, let Kepler wonder whether Epiphyte Corp. knew the real agenda.

Randy has chosen his seat tactically, so that he can look straight through the door into the conference room and keep an eye on his laptop. One by one, members of the other delegations excuse themselves, go into the room, and run the demo, imprinting their own voices into the computer's memory and then letting it recognize them. Some of the nerds even type commands on Randy's keyboard; probably that ps command, snooping. Despite the fact that Randy's got it set up so it can't be meddled with too much, it bothers him at a deep level to see the fingertips of these strangers prodding away at hiskeyboard.

It gnaws at him all through the afternoon session, which is all about the communications links joining Kinakuta to the wide world. Randy ought to be paying attention to this, since it impinges massively on the Philippines project. But he doesn't. He broods over his keyboard, contaminated by a foreign touch, and then he broods about the fact that he's brooding about it, which demonstrates his unfitness for Biz. It's technically Epiphyte's keyboard--not even his--and if it enhances shareholder value for sinister Eastern nerds to poke around his files, he should be happy to let them do it.