Cryptonomicon

With Chattan is a smaller man in British fatigues--tight at the wrists and ankles, otherwise blousy, of thick khaki flannel that would be intolerably hot if these people couldn't rely on a steady ambient temperature, indoors and out, of about fifty-five degrees. The overall effect always reminds Waterhouse of Dr. Dentons. This fellow is introduced as Leftenant Robson, and he is the leader of one of 2702's two squads--the RAE one. He has a bristly mustache, trimmed very short, of silver and auburn whiskers. He is a cheerful sort, at least in the presence of higher ranks, and smiles frequently. His teeth splay out radially from the gumline so that each mandible has the appearance of a coffee can in which a small grenade has been detonated.

"This the fellow we've been waiting for," Chattan says to Robson. "The one we could've used in Algiers."

"Yes!" Robson says. "Welcome to Detachment 2701, Captain Waterhouse."

"2702," Waterhouse says.

Chattan and Robson look ever so mildly startled.

"We can't use 2701 because it is the product of two primes."

"I beg your pardon?" Robson says.

One thing Waterhouse likes about these Brits is that when they don't know what the hell you are talking about, they are at least open to the possibility that it might be their fault. Robson has the look of a man who has come up through the ranks. A Yank of that type would already be scornful and blustery.

"Which ones?" Chattan says. That is encouraging; he at least knows what a prime number is.

"73 and 37," Waterhouse says.

This makes a profound impression on Chattan. "Ah, yes, I see." He shakes his head. "I shall have to give the Prof a good chaffing about this."

Robson has cocked his head far to one side so that it is almost resting upon the thick woolly beret chucked into his epaulet. He is squinting, and has an aghast look about him. His hypothetical Yank counterpart would probably demand, at this point, a complete explanation of prime number theory, and when it was finished, denounce it as horseshit. But Robson just lets it go by. "Am I to understand that we are changing the number of our Detachment?"

Waterhouse swallows. It seems clear from Robson's reaction that this is going to involve a great deal of busy-work for Robson and his men: weeks of painting and stenciling and of trying to propagate the new number throughout the military bureaucracy. It will be a miserable pain in the ass.

"2702 it is," Chattan says breezily. Unlike Waterhouse, he has no difficulty issuing difficult, unpopular commands.

"Right then, I must see to some things. Pleasure making your acquaintance, Captain Waterhouse."

"Pleasure's mine."

Robson shakes Waterhouse's hand again and excuses himself.

"We have a billet for you in one of the huts to the south of the canteen," Chattan says. "Bletchley Park is our nominal headquarters, but we anticipate that we will spend most of our time in those theaters where heaviest use is being made of Ultra."

"I take it you've been in North Africa," Waterhouse says.

"Yes." Chattan raises his eyebrows, or rather the ridges of skin where his eyebrows are presumably located; the hairs are colorless and transparent, like nylon monofilament line. "Just got out by the skin of our teeth there, I'm afraid."

"Had a close shave, did you?"

"Oh, I don't mean it that way," Chattan says. "I'm talking about the integrity of the Ultra secret. We are still not sure whether we have survived it. But the Prof has done some calculations suggesting that we may be out of the woods."

"The Prof is what you call Dr. Turing?"

"Yes. He recommended you personally, you know."

"When the orders came through, I speculated as much."

"Turing is presently engaged on at least two other fronts of the information war, and could not be part of our happy few."

"What happened in North Africa, Colonel Chattan?"

"It's still happening," Chattan says bemusedly. "Our Marine squad is still in-theater, widening the bell curve.

"Widening the bell curve?"

"Well, you know better than I do that random things typically have a bell-shaped distribution. Heights, for example. Come over to this window, Captain Waterhouse."

Waterhouse joins Chattan at a bay window, where there is a view across acres of what used to be gently undulating farmland. Looking beyond the wooded belt to the uplands miles away, he can see what Bletchley Park probably used to look like: green fields dotted with clusters of small buildings.