Neal Stephenson - Cryptonomicon

“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 out the rusty pipes of your organ unless you have a nice little assistant to 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.

“Someone pour that man a cup of coffee!” Comstock orders. Someone does. Being in the military is amazing; you give orders, and things happen. Waterhouse does not drink, or even touch, the coffee, but at least it gives his eyes something to focus on. Those orbs wander around under their rumpled lids for a while, like ack-ack guns trying to track a house fly, before finally fixing on the white coffee mug. Waterhouse clears his throat at some length, as if preparing to speak, and the room goes silent. It remains silent for about thirty seconds. Then Waterhouse mumbles something that sounds like “coy.”

The stenographers take it down in unison.

“Beg pardon?” says Comstock.

One of the math whizzes says, “He might be talking about Coy Functions. I think I saw them when I was flipping through a graduate math textbook once.”

“I thought he was saying 'quantum' something,” says the other ETC man.

“Coffee,” Waterhouse says, and heaves a deep sigh.

“Waterhouse,” says Comstock, “how many fingers am I holding up?” Waterhouse seems to realize that there are other people in the room now. He closes his mouth, and his nostrils flare as air begins to rush through them. He tries to move one of his hands, realizes that he is sitting on it, and shifts heavily to and fro until it flops loose. He gets his eyes all the way open, providing a really good, clear view of that coffee mug. He yawns, stretches, and farts.

“The Nipponese cryptosystem that we call Azure is the same thing as the German system that we call Pufferfish,” he announces. “Both of them are also related somehow to another, newer cryptosystem I have dubbed Arethusa. All of these have something to do with gold. Probably gold mining operations of some sort. In the Philippines.”

Whammo! The stenographers go into action. The photographer fires off his strobes, even though there's nothing to take pictures of—just nerves. Comstock glances beadily at his wire recorders, makes sure those reels are spinning. He is a little unnerved by how rapidly Waterhouse is coming up to speed. But one of the responsibilities of leadership is to mask one's own fears, to project confidence at all times. Comstock grins and says, “You sound awfully sure of yourself, Waterhouse! I wonder if you can get me to feel that same level of confidence.”

Waterhouse frowns at the coffee mug. “Well, it's all math,” he says. “If the math works, why then you should be sure of yourself. That's the whole point of math.”

“So you have a mathematical basis for making this assertion?”

“Assertions,” Waterhouse says. “Assertion number one is that Pufferfish and Azure are different names for the same cryptosystem. Assertion number two is that Pufferfish/Azure is a cousin of Arethusa. Three: all of these cryptosystems are related to gold. Four: mining. Five: Philippines.”

“Maybe you could just chalk those up on the blackboard as you go along,” Comstock says edgily.

“Glad to,” Waterhouse says. He stands up and turns toward the blackboard, freezes for a couple of seconds, then turns back around, lunges for the coffee mug, and drains it before Comstock or any of his aides can rip it from his grasp. Tactical error! Then Waterhouse chalks up his assertions. The photographer records it. The privates massage their chamois cloths and glance nervously in Comstock's direction.

“Now, you have some sort of, er, mathematical proof for each one of these assertions?” Comstock asks. Math isn't his bag, but running meetings is, and what Waterhouse has just chalked up on that board looks, to him, like the rudiments of an agenda. And Comstock feels a lot better when he has an agenda. Without an agenda, he's like a grunt running around in the jungle without a map or a weapon.

“Well, sir, that's one way to look at it,” Waterhouse says after some thought. “But it is much more elegant to view all of these as corollaries stemming from the same underlying theorem.”

“Are you telling me that you have succeeded in breaking Azure? Because if so, congratulations are in order!” Comstock says.

“No. It is still unbroken. But I can extract information from it.”

This is the moment where the joystick snaps off in Comstock's hand. Still, he can pound haplessly on the control panel. “Well, would you mind taking them one at a time, at least?”