Cryptonomicon

He takes the U-boat up onto the surface, and climbs up on the conning tower with his officers. First thing they do is scan the skies for Catalinas. Finding none, they post lookouts, then begin to nose the U-boat through the sea of bales, which by now has spread out to cover at least a square kilometer. It is getting dark, and they have to bring up searchlights.

All looks rather dismal until one searchlight picks out a survivor--just a head, shoulders, and a pair of arms reaching up clenching a rope around a bale. The survivor does not move or respond as they approach, and not until a wave rolls the bale over is it revealed that everything below the man's solar plexus has been bitten off by sharks. The sight sets even this hardened crew of murderers to gagging. In the quiet that ensues, they hear low voices echoing across the calm water. With a bit more searching, they find two men, evidently talkative sorts, sharing a bale.

When the searchlight picks them out, one of the Negroes lets go of the bale and dives beneath the surface. The other just stares calmly and expectantly into the light. This Negro's eyes are pale, almost colorless, and he has a skin condition: parts of him are turning white.

As they draw closer, the pale eyed Negro speaks to them in perfect German. "My comrade attempts to drown himself," he explains.

"Is that even possible?" asks Kapitänleutnant Beck.

"He and I were just discussing that very question."

Beck checks his wristwatch. "He must want to kill himself very badly," he says.

"Sergeant Shaftoe takes his duty very seriously. It's kind of ironic. His cyanide capsule dissolved in the seawater."

"I am afraid that all irony has become tedious and depressing to me," Beck says, as a body breaks the surface nearby. It is Shaftoe, and he seems to be unconscious.

"You are?" Beck asks.

"Lieutenant Enoch Root."

"I'm only supposed to take officers," Beck says, casting a cold eye in the direction of Sergeant Shaftoe's back.

"Sergeant Shaftoe has exceptionally broad responsibilities," says Lieutenant Root calmly, "in some respects exceeding those of a junior officer."

"Get them both. Fetch the medicine box. Revive the sergeant," Beck says. "I will talk to you later, Lieutenant Root." And then he turns his back on the prisoners, and heads for the nearest hatch. He is going to spend the next week trying very hard to stay alive, in spite of the best efforts of the Royal and United States Navies. It's going to be quite an interesting challenge. He should be thinking about his strategy. But he can't get the image of Sergeant Shaftoe's back out of his mind. His fucking head was still underneath the water! If they weren't about to fish him out of the ocean, he would have succeeded in drowning himself. So it was possible. At least for one person.

Chapter 44 HOSTILITIES

As the vans, taxis, and limousines pull into the parking lot at the Ministry of Information site, the members of Epiphyte Corp. are greeted by smiling and bowing Nipponese virgins wearing, and bearing, gleaming white Goto Engineering helmets. The time is about eight in the morning, and up here on the mountain the temperature is still tolerable, though humid. Everyone mills around before the cavern's maw, carrying their hardhats in their hands, as no one wants to be the first to put his on and look stupid. Some of the younger Nipponese executives are mugging hilariously with theirs. Dr. Mohammed Pragasu circulates. He has an authentically used and battered hardhat which he whirls absentmindedly around one finger as he strolls from group to group.

"Has anyone simply asked Prag what the fuck is going on?" says Eb. He rarely uses English profanity, so when he does, it's funny.

The only member of Epiphyte Corp. who does not at least crack a smile is John Cantrell, who has been looking distant and tense ever since yesterday. ("It's one thing to write a dissertation about mathematical techniques in cryptography," he said, on the way up here, when someone asked him what was bothering him. "And another to gamble billions of dollars' worth of Other People's Money on it."

"We need a new category," Randy said. "Other, Bad People's Money."

"Speaking of which--" Tom began, but Avi cut him off by glaring significantly at the back of the driver's head.)

To: dwarf@siblings.net

From: root@eruditorum.org

Subject: Re(3) Why?

Randy,

You ask me to justify my interest in why you are building the Crypt.

My interest is a mark of my occupation. This is, in a sense, what I do for a living.

You continue to assume that I am someone you know. Today you think I'm the Dentist, yesterday you thought I was Andrew Loeb. This guessing game will rapidly become tedious for both of us, so please believe me when I tell you that we have never met.

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To: root@eruditorum.org From: dwarf@siblings.net Subject: Re(4) Why?