Neal Stephenson - Interface

"Why not?"

"Sure, a lot of people have brain damage. But there are a million diseases. Cancer, muscular dystrophy, car crashes. Now, there's a good example - car crashes. For decades, a ridiculous number of people died in car crashes. Still do. But even simple things like seat belts took a long time to develop. The car makers had to be dragged kicking and screaming into air bags. The Invisible Hand didn't work then."

"What other possible reason could there be?"

"That this therapy was developed specifically for one patient - William A. Cozzano."

But you're talking about a vast expenditure," Mary Catherine said. "Billions of dollars."

"Right," Mel said, "which means two things: first of all, the people who did this are loaded. In fact, it can't be a single entity. It has to be a group of separate entities working in tight formation - like that flock of birds. And secondly, they expect to get a huge return on their investment."

"What could possibly be worth that much money?"

"Only one thing I can think of. The presidency of the United States," Mel said.

At the intellectual level, Mary Catherine thought this whole conversation was ridiculous. But at some deeper level she was coming down with a severe case of the creeps. She had cooled off from her running now and the sweat on her limbs was suddenly replaced by goosebumps. She said, "And you think that this explanation is actually more believable than the Invisible Hand theory?"

"I have insufficient data to answer that," Mel said, "but as long as it's a possibility, I have to consider it. Maybe you can help gather more information for me, so that I can rule out this ridiculous theory and buy into a more respectable explanation."

"What should I do?" Mary Catherine said.

"First of all, assume it could be true," Mel said. "Assume that you might be enmeshed in a very large conspiracy. Assume that you are being listened to and watched, all the time. I already found a bug in my car, and I just found one on you," Mel said.

Mary Catherine was stunned. "Are you sure?"

Mel clenched his jaw and actually looked a little peeved. "Don't ask me if I'm sure when I say something like this. Of course I'm fucking sure. I have connections you don't know about, kid. My whole life is not this fucking corncob business."

"Sorry."

"I went out of town for a couple of days. Came back. Got in my car. Pushed the button for WGN and got some Jesus station from DeKalb. All my station presets were screwed up. So I took it to a friend of a friend who used to work in the Agency, and he found a bug. Then we did a full sweep and found bugs in my house too."

"My god," Mary Catherine said. If Mel was telling the truth, then there really was some heavy shit going on. If he wasn't, he was demented. Either way, this was starting to get serious.

"They weren't Radio Shack special either," Mel said, "they were very good bugs. KGB-level technology."

"Okay, I'll assume I'm bugged. Then what?"

Mel sighed. "Hell, I don't know. The problem with you down-staters is that everything has to be spelled out."

"Sorry."

"Just keep your eyes open. Is that too general? You want a specific question from me? I can't provide you with a specific question."

"I'll keep my eyes peeled for signs of the military-industrial complex," Mary Catherine said.

"It's not that. It's something else," Mel said. He turned to look at the flock of birds, which was still careening across the fields, turning this way and that according to some plan that Mel and Mary Catherine couldn't puzzle out, vanished and then snapping back into full view, each bird somehow knowing what all the other birds were doing. "Let's call it the Network."

This discussion was crystallizing a number of vague ideas and perceptions that had been floating around in Mary Catherine's mind for a few months. The outlines of an idea were beginning to emerge, much as Mel and his car had materialized from the fog.

"There is something going on, now that you mention it," she said.

"What can you tell me about it?" Mel asked. He had suddenly relaxed and softened.

"I don't know. It's just that the same few names keep coming up. Gale Aerospace, Pacific Netware, GODS, Genomics, Ogle Data Research, MacIntyre Engineering. They're independent, yet they act in a coordinated fashion."

"Can you give me names of any people who work for the Network?"

Mary Catherine leaned her forearms on the roof of the car, watching the birds, trying to bring things into focus. "A lot of people work for the Network. Including me, I guess, in a way. Cy Ogle, Dr. Radhakrishnan, Pete Zeldovich, are all in that category. But I've only seen one person who seems to be of the Network. Does that make any sense?"

"Sure. Who is this person?"

"He is called Mr. Salvador," Mary Catherine said. "He stops in from time to time. Like he's on an inspection tour or something. From the way people act around him, I'd say he's definitely the one in charge."

"Of the whole Network?"

"No."

"How do you know?"

"Just a feeling. He acts like a guy who has a boss. I think he's in charge of everything pertaining to Dad."

"So Salvador is an ops man," Mel said. "He manages one of the Network's projects - Willy. Who is this boss of Salvador's?"

"I don't know," Mary Catherine said. "I've had a bare minimum of contact with Salvador. His boss doesn't even enter the picture."

"Can you give me any clues at all? Does he make phone calls when he's there?"

"Yeah. But he uses the phone in his car."

"Does he get phone calls, or letters, at the house?"

Mary Catherine suddenly remembered something. She stood up straight and stared intently at nothing in particular, her eyes jumping back and forth as she tried to reconstruct the memory. "Yesterday morning when I was coming back from my run, a GODS van pulled up in front of the house. The driver had an envelope for Mr. Salvador. But he wasn't in; he was due to show up a few hours later. So I signed for the envelope. Salvador showed up later and ripped it open. And threw it away."

"You're saying that the envelope is still in the garbage?" "They're too security-conscious to throw things in the garbage. They only throw away things like McDonald's wrappers. Every­thing else goes into a burn bag, or straight to a shredder."

"My god, it's just like the Agency," Mel said.

"I think that they shred the contents of envelopes. But the envelopes themselves go into the burn bag - and those only get collected once or twice a week. So I may be able to dig it out."

"I need that envelope. It has tracking codes and stuff on it," Mel said.

"I'll do some looking around later," Mary Catherine said.

Mel looked ever so slightly crestfallen. Apparently she had not shown enough enthusiasm for this cloak-and-dagger assignment.

He had a Bruckner symphony going on the CD player in the trunk of the Mercedes. He climbed back into the driver's seat and turned it up. Mary Catherine climbed in too. They sat in the car and listened to it for a few minutes.

"Listen to me," Mel said, turning it down again, "I'm way behind the curve in dealing with this thing."

"How's that?"

Mel laughed. In another man it would have been a laugh devoid of humor. But Mel had a talent for finding humor in strange places and he seemed genuinely amused, though he was not exactly happy. "I'm supposed to be Willy's trusted adviser. I'm supposed to tell him whether it's a good idea to run for president. And now look. He's announcing in a few hours. And I'm still trying to figure out what the hell's going on."

Mary Catherine had nothing to say to that. She waited for Mel to continue.

"I take my job very seriously and right now I'm failing at it," Mel said. "I have to get my ass in gear. I have to do stuff. To take steps. Some of what I do may not make me very popular with the Network. So let me ask you something: do you want to work with me? Or not? Either way is fine."