Cryptonomicon

"It was felt that there was value in physically moving this stuff around, giving people a direct physical analog of the value-assertions that they were making," Randy says. "Also that it would be useful to appraise this stuff literally in the cold light of day." As opposed to ten or twelve emotionally fraught people clambering around a packed-to-the-ceiling U-Stor-It locker with flashlights, sniping at each other from behind the armoires.

"Once we've all made our choices, then what? You sit down and figure it out on a spreadsheet, or something?"

"It is much too computationally intensive to be solved that way. Probably a genetic algorithm is called for--certainly there won't be a mathematically exact solution. My father knows a researcher in Geneva who has done work on problems isomorphic to this one, and sent him e-mail last night. With any luck we will be able to ftp some suitable software and get it running on the Tera."

"The Terror?"

"Tera. As in Teraflops."

"That does me no good at all. When you say 'as in' you are supposed to give me something more familiar to relate it to."

"It is one of the ten fastest computers on the planet. Do you see that red brick building just to the right of the end of the -y axis," Randy says, pointing down the hill, "Just behind the new gym?"

"The one with all the antennas?"

"Yes. The Tera machine is in there. It was made by a company in Seattle."

"It must have been very expensive."

"My dad talked them out of it."

"Yes!" says Uncle Red cheerfully, returning from high-x-value territory. "The man is a legendary donation-raiser."

"He must have a persuasive side to him that I have not been perceptive enough to notice yet," Aunt Nina says, wandering curiously towards some large cardboard boxes.

"No," Randy says, "it's more like he just goes in and flops around on the conference table until they become so embarrassed for his sake that they agree to sign the check."

"You've seen him do this?" Aunt Nina says skeptically, sizing up a box labeled CONSTITUENTS OF UPSTAIRS LINEN CLOSET.

"Heard about it. High-tech is a small town," Randy says.

"He's been able to make great capital of his father's work," Uncle Red says. "'If my father had patented even one of his computer inventions, Palouse College would be bigger than Harvard,' and so on."

Aunt Nina has got the box open now. It is almost completely filled by a single Qwghlmian blanket, in a dark greyish-brown on dark brownish-grey plaid. The blanket in question is about an inch thick, and, during wintertime family reunions, was infamous as a booby prize of sorts among the Waterhouse grandchildren. The smell of mothballs, mildew, and heavily oiled wool causes Aunt Nina's nose to wrinkle, as it did Aunt Annie's before her. Randy remembers bedding down beneath this blanket once at the age of about nine, and waking up at two in the morning with bronchial spasms, hyperthermia, and vague memories of a nightmare about being buried alive. Aunt Nina slams the box flaps shut, turns around, and looks in the direction of the Impala. Robin Shaftoe is already running towards them. Being not bad at math himself, he was quick to pick up on this whole concept, and knows from experience that the blanket box will have to be trundled deep out into (-x,-y) territory.

"I guess I'm just worried," Aunt Nina says, "about having my preferences mediated by this supercomputer. I have tried to make it clear what I want. But will the computer understand that?" She has paused by the CERAMICS box in a way that is tantalizing Randy, who badly wants to have a look inside, but doesn't want to arouse suspicions. He's the referee and is sworn to objectivity. "Forget the china," she says, "too old ladyish."

Uncle Red wanders over and disappears behind one of the dead cars, presumably to take a leak. Aunt Nina says, "How about you, Randy? As the eldest son of the eldest son, you must have some feelings about this."

"No doubt when my parents' time comes, they will pass on some of Grandma and Grandpa's legacy to me," Randy says.

"Oh, very circumspect. Well done," Aunt Nina says. "But as the only grandchild who has any memories of your grandfather at all, there must be something here that you might like to have."

"There'll probably be some odds and ends that nobody wants," Randy says. Then like an almost perfect moron--like an organism genetically engineered to be a total, stupid idiot--Randy glances directly at the Trunk. Then he tries to hide it, which only makes it more conspicuous. He guesses that his mostly beardless face must be an open book, and wishes he had never shaved. A bullet of ice strikes him in the right cornea with a nearly audible splot. The ballistic impact blinds him and the thermal shock gives him an ice-cream headache. When he recovers enough to see again, Aunt Nina is walking around the trunk, kind of spiraling in towards it in a rapidly decaying orbit. "Hmm. What's in here?" She grips the handle at one end and finds she can barely get it off the ground.