Neal Stephenson - Cryptonomicon

It's all Comstock can do not to drop to his knees; he has his hands over his ears, of course, but the sound's not really coming in through his ears, it is entering his torso directly, like X-rays. Hot sonic tongs are rummaging through his viscera, beads of sweat being vibrated loose from his scalp, his nuts are hopping around like Mexican jumping beans. The crescents of mercury in all those U-tubes are shifting up and down, opening and closing the contacts, but systematically: it is not turbulent sloshing around, but a coherent progression of discrete controlled shiftings, informed by some program.

Comstock would draw his sidearm and put a bullet through Waterhouse's head, but he'd have to take one hand off one ear. Finally it stops.

“The machine just calculated the first hundred numbers in the Fibonacci sequence,” Waterhouse says.

“As I understand it, this RAM is just the part where you bury and disinter the data,” Comstock says, trying to master the higher harmonics in his own voice, trying to sound and act as if he saw this kind of thing daily. “If you had to give a name to the whole apparatus, what would you call it?”

“Hmmm,” Waterhouse says. “Well, its basic job is to perform mathematical calculations—like a computer.”

Comstock snorts. “A computer is a human being.”

“Well… this machine uses binary digits to do its computing. I suppose you could call it a digital computer.”

Comstock writes it out in block letters on his legal pad: DIGITAL COMPUTER.

“Is this going to go into your report?” Waterhouse asks brightly.

Comstock almost blurts report? This is my report! Then a foggy memory comes back to him. Something about Azure. Something about gold mines. “Oh, yeah,” he murmurs. Oh, yeah, there's a war on. He considers it. “Nah. Now that you mention it, this isn't even a footnote.” He looks significantly at his pair of hand-picked math whizzes, who are gazing at the RAM like a couple of provincial Judean sheep-shearers getting their first look at the Ark of the Covenant. “We'll probably just keep these photos for the archives. You know how the military is with its archives.”

Waterhouse goes into that dreadful laugh again.

“Do you have anything else to report before we adjourn?” Comstock says, desperate to silence him.

“Well, this work has given me some new ideas on information theory which you might find interesting—”

“Write them down. Send them to me.”

“There's one other thing. I don't know if it is really germane here, but—”

“What is it, Waterhouse?”

“Uh, well… it seems that I'm engaged to be married!”

Randy has lost all he owned, but gained an entourage. Amy has decided that she might as well come north with him, as long as she happens to be on this side of the Pacific Ocean.

This makes him happy. The Shaftoe boys, Robin and Marcus Aurelius, consider themselves invited along—like much else that in other families would be the subject of extended debate, this goes without saying, apparently.

This makes it imperative that they drive the thousand or so miles to Whitman, Washington, because the Shaftoe boys are not really the sort who are in position to simply drop the hot-rod off at the Park 'n' Ride, run into the airport, and demand tickets on the next flight to Spokane. Marcus Aurelius is a college sophomore on an ROTC scholarship and Robin's attending some kind of military prep school. But even if they did have that kind of money rattling around in their pockets, actually spending it would offend their native frugality. Or so Randy assumes, for the first couple of days. It's the obvious assumption to make, given that the Cash Flow Issue seems always to be on their mind. For example the boys made Herculean efforts to consume every spoonful of the gut-busting vat of oatmeal cooked by Amy the morning after the quake, and finding it beyond their endurance they carefully decanted the remainder into a Ziploc bag while fretting at length about the high cost of Ziploc bags and didn't Randy have any old glass jelly jars or something, somewhere in the basement, that might be unbroken and usable for this purpose.

Randy has had plenty of time to disabuse himself of this fallacy (namely that their airplane-avoidance is dictated by financial constraints) and to draw the real reason out of them after they have dropped Amy's U-Haul off near SFO and begun to caravan northwards in the Acura and the jacked-up, thundering Impala. People are rotated from car to car whenever they stop, according to some system that no one is divulging to Randy, but that always situates him alone in a car with either Robin or Marcus Aurelius. Both of them are too dignified to spill their guts on light pretexts, and too polite to assume that Randy gives a shit about anything they think, and perhaps too basically suspicious of Randy to share a whole lot with him. Some kind of bonding is required first. The ice doesn't start to break up until Day 2 of the drive, after they have all slept in an Interstate 5 rest area near Redding in the reclined seats of the vehicles (each of the Shaftoe boys solemnly and separately informs him that the chain of lodgings known as Motel 6 is one giant con game, that if those rooms ever did cost six dollars a night, which is doubtful, they certainly don't now, and many are the innocent young travelers who have been drawn in by the siren calls of those fraudulent signs rising above interstate cloverleaves; they try to sound impartial and wise about it, but the way their faces flush and their eyes glance aside and their voices rise makes Randy suspect he is actually listening to some thinly veiled personal and recent history). Again without anyone saying anything, it is taken to be obvious that Amy, as the female, will require her own car to sleep in, which puts Randy in the hot-rod with Robin and Marcus Aurelius; As the guest, Randy gets the reclining passenger seat, the best bed in the house, and M.A. curls up on the back seat while Robin, the youngest, sleeps behind the steering wheel. For about the first thirty seconds after the dome light has gone off and the Shaftoes have finished saying their prayers out loud, Randy lies there feeling the Impala rock on its suspension from the wake-blasts of passing long-haul semis and feels considerably more alienated than he did while trying to sleep in the jeepney in the jungle town in northern Luzon. Then he opens his eyes and it's morning, and Robin's out there doing one-handed pushups in the dust.

“When we get there,” Robin pants, after he's finished, “do you s'pose you could show me that video-on-the-Internet thing you were telling me about?” He asks it with all due boyishness. Then suddenly he looks abashed and adds, “Unless it's like real expensive or something.”

“It's free. I'll show it to you,” Randy says. “Let's get some breakfast.” It goes without saying that McDonald's and their ilk charge scandalously more for, e.g., a dish of hash browns than one would pay for the equivalent mass of potatoes in raw form at (if you think money grows on trees) Safeway or (if you have any kind of decent regard for the value of a buck) farmer's markets situated at lonely interchanges in the boon docks. So for breakfast they must drive to a small town (grocery stores in big places like Redding being a tipoff) and find an actual grocery store (convenience stores being etc., etc., etc.) and purchase breakfast in the most elemental form conceivable (deeply discounted well-past-their prime bananas that are not even in a bunch but swept up from the floor, or something, and gathered together in a gaily printed paper sack, and generic Cheerio-knockoffs in a tubular bag, and a box of generic powdered milk) and eat it from tin military-surplus messkits that the Shaftoes produce with admirable coolness from the hot rod's trunk, a ferrous, oily chasm all a-bang with tire chains, battered ammo boxes, and, unless Randy's eyes are playing tricks on him, a pair of samurai swords.