Cryptonomicon

He is a little boy in an abandoned mine chamber, naked and soaked with icy water. His flashlight has died. Before it flickered out, he thought he saw the face of a demon. Now he hears only the drip, drip of ground water into the sump. He can stay here and die, or he can dive into the water again and swim back.

When he wakes up, it's raining and the sun has climbed free of the horizon somewhere. He rolls out of his hammock and walks naked in the warm rain to wash himself. Goto Dengo has a job to do.

Chapter 67 COMPUTER

Lieutenant Colonel Earl Comstock of The Electrical Till Corporation and the United States Army, in that order, prepares for today's routine briefing from his subordinate, Lawrence Pritchard Waterhouse, much as a test pilot readies himself to be ripped into the stratosphere with a hot rocket engine under his ass. He turns in early the night before, wakes up late, talks to his aide and makes sure that (a) plenty of hot coffee is available and (b) none of it will be given to Waterhouse. He gets two wire recorders set up in the room, in case either goes on the fritz, and brings in a team of three crack stenographers with loads of technical savvy. He has a couple of fellows in his section--also ETC employees during peacetime-who are real math whizzes, so he brings them in too. He gives them a little pep talk:

"I do not expect you fellows to understand what the fuck Waterhouse is talking about. I'm gonna be running after him as fast as I can. You just hug his legs and hold on for dear life so that I can sort of keep his backside in view as long as possible." Comstock is proud of this analogy, but the math whizzes seem baffled. Testily, he fills them in on the always-tricky literal vs. figurative dichotomy. Only twenty minutes remain before Waterhouse's arrival; right on schedule, Comstock's aide comes through the room with a tray of benzedrine tablets. Comstock takes two, attempting to lead by example. "Where's my darn chalkboard team?" he demands, as the powerful stimulant begins to rev up his pulse. Into the room come two privates equipped with blackboard erasers and damp chamois cloths, plus a three-man photography team. They set up a pair of cameras aimed at the chalkboard, plus a couple of strobe lights, and lay in a healthy stock of film rolls.

He checks his watch. They are running five minutes behind schedule. He looks out the window and sees that his jeep has returned; Waterhouse must be in the building. "Where is the extraction team?" he demands.

Sergeant Graves is there a few moments later. "Sir, we went to the church as directed, and located him, and, uh--" He coughs against the back of his hand.

"And what?"

"And who is more like it, sir," says Sergeant Graves, sotto voce. "He's in the lavatory right now, cleaning up, if you know what I mean." He winks.

"Ohhhh," says Earl Comstock, cottoning on to it.

"After all," Sergeant Graves says, "you can't blow outthe rusty pipesof your organunless you have a nice little assistantto get the job properly done."

Comstock tenses. "Sergeant Graves--it is critically important for me to know--did the job get properly done?"

Graves furrows his brow, as if pained by the very question. "Oh, by all means sir. We wouldn't dream of interrupting such an operation. That's why we are late--begging your pardon."

"Don't mention it," Comstock stays, slapping Graves heartily on the shoulder. "That is why I try to give my men broad discretion. It has been my opinion for quite some time that Waterhouse is badly in need of some relaxation. He concentrates a little too hard on his work. Sometimes I frankly cannot tell whether he is saying something very brilliant, or just totally incoherent. And I think you have made a pivotal, Sergeant Graves, a pivotal contribution to today's meeting by having the good sense to stand off long enough for Waterhouse's affairs to be set in order." Comstock realizes that he is breathing very fast, and his heart is pounding madly. Perhaps he overdid the benzedrine?

Waterhouse drifts into the room ten minutes later on flaccid legs, as if he had inadvertently left his own skeleton behind in bed. He barely makes it to his designated seat and thuds into it like a sack of guts, popping a few strands of wicker out of its bottom. He is breathing raggedly through his mouth, blinking heavy eyelids frequently.

"Looks like today's going to be a milk run, men!" Comstock announces brightly. Everyone except Waterhouse snickers. Waterhouse has been in the building for a quarter of an hour, and it took at least that long for Sergeant Graves to drive him here from the church, and so it has been at least half an hour. And yet, to look at him, you'd think that it had happened five seconds ago.