Cryptonomicon

"They look like they're playing cards." Amy looks again, and wrinkles her nose. "Weird cards." Amy barges curiously into the middle of a four-nerd game. Almost anywhere else, the appearance of a female with discernible waist among these guys would cause some kind of a stir. Their eyes would at least travel rudely up and down her body. But these guys only think about one thing: the cards in their hands, each contained in a clear plastic sleeve to keep it mint condition, each decorated with a picture of a troll or wizard or some other leaf on the post-Tolkienian evolutionary tree, and printed on the back with elaborate rules. Mentally, these guys are not in a mall on the East Side of greater Seattle. They are on a mountain pass trying to kill each other with edged weapons and numinous fire.

The young hustler is sizing Randy up as a potential customer. His box is long enough to contain a few hundred cards, and it looks heavy. Randy would not be surprised to learn something depressing about this kid, like that he makes so much money from buying cards low and selling them high that he owns a brand-new Lexus he's too young to drive. Randy catches his eye and asks, "Chester?"

"Bathroom."

Randy sits down and watches Amy watching the nerds play their game. He thought he'd hit bottom in Whitman, out there on the parking lot, that surely she would get scared and flee. But this is potentially worse. A bunch of tubby guys who never go outside, working themselves into a frenzy over elaborate games in which nonexistent characters go out and do pretend things that mostly are not as interesting as what Amy, her father, and various other members of her family do all the time without making any fuss about it. It is almost like Randy is deliberately hammering away at Amy trying to find out when she'll break and run. But her lip hasn't started to writhe nauseously yet. She's watching the game impartially, peeking over the nerds' shoulders, following the action, occasionally squinting at some abstraction in the rules.

"Hey, Randy."

"Hey, Chester."

So Chester's back from the bathroom. He looks exactly like the Chester of old, except spread out over a somewhat larger volume, like the classic demo of the expanding-universe theory in which a face, or some other figure, is drawn on a partly inflated balloon which is then inflated some more. The pores have gotten larger, and the individual shafts of hair farther apart, which produces an illusion of impending baldness. It seems like even his eyes have gotten farther apart and the flecks of color in the irises grown into blotches. He is not necessarily fat--he has the same rumpled heftiness he used to. Since people do not literally grow after their late teens, this must be an illusion. Older people seem to take up a larger space in the room. Or maybe older people see more.

"How's Avid?"

"As avid as ever," Randy says, which is lame but obligatory. Chester is wearing a sort of photographer's vest with a gratuitous number of small pockets, each of which is stuffed with gaming cards. Maybe that's why he seems big. He has like twenty pounds of cards strapped to him. "I note that you have made the transition to card-based RPGs," Randy says.

"Oh, yeah! It is so much better than the old pencil-and-paper way. Or even computer-mediated RPGs, with all due respect to the fine work that you and Avi did. What are you working on now?"

"Something that might actually be relevant to this," Randy says. "I was just realizing that if you have a set of cryptographic protocols suitable for issuing an electronic currency that cannot be counterfeited--which oddly enough we do--you could adapt those same protocols to card games. Because each one of these cards is like a banknote. Some more valuable than others."

Chester nods all the way through this, but does not rudely interrupt Randy as a younger nerd would. Your younger nerd takes offense quickly when someone near him begins to utter declarative sentences, because he reads into it an assertion that he, the nerd, does not already know the information being imparted. But your older nerd has more self-confidence, and besides, understands that frequently people need to think out loud. And highly advanced nerds will furthermore understand that uttering declarative sentences whose contents are already known to all present is part of the social process of making conversation and therefore should not be construed as aggression under any circumstances. "It's already being done," Chester says, when Randy's finished. "In fact, that company you and Avi worked for in Minneapolis is one of the leaders--"