Cryptonomicon

Chapter 68 CARAVAN

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.

Anyway, this is all done pretty nonchalantly, and not like they are trying to test Randy's mettle or anything, and so he doesn't imagine that it qualifies as a true bonding experience. If, hypothetically, the Impala throws a rod in the desert and they have to fix it with parts stolen from a nearby junkyard guarded by rabid dogs and shotgun-packing gypsies, that would be a bonding experience. But Randy's wrong. On Day 2 the Shaftoes (the male ones anyway) open up to him a bit.

It seems (and this is abstracted from many hours of conversation) that when you are an able-bodied young male Shaftoe and you are a stranger in a strange land with a car that you have, with plenty of advice and elbow grease from your extended family, fixed up pretty nicely, the idea of parking it in favor of some other mode of conveyance is, in addition to obvious financial folly, some kind of moral failure, pure and simple. That's why they are driving to Whitman, Washington. But why (one of them finally summons the boldness to inquire) why are they taking two cars? There is plenty of room in the Impala for four. Randy has gotten the sense all along that the Shaftoes are dismayed by Randy's insistence on taking the redundant and repulsively scarred Acura, and that only their formidable politeness has prevented them from pointing out the sheer madness of it. “I do not imagine that we will stay together beyond Whitman,” Randy says (after being around these guys for a couple of days he has begun to fall out of the habit of using contractions—those tawdry shortcuts of the verbally lazy and pathologically rushed). “If we have two cars, we can split up at that point.”

“The drive is not that far, Randall,” says Robin, slapping the Impala's gas pedal against the floor to rip the transmission into passing gear, and careening around a gasoline tanker. From the initial “Sir” and “Mr. Waterhouse,” Randy has been able to talk them down into addressing him by his first name, but they have agreed to it only on the condition (apparently) that they use the full “Randall” instead of “Randy.” Early attempts to use “Randall Lawrence” as a compromise were vigorously denounced by Randy, and so “Randall” it is for now. “M.A. and I would be happy to drop you back off at the San Francisco Airport—or, uh, wherever you elected to park your Acura.”

“Where else would I park it?” Randy says, not getting this last bit.

“Well, I mean that you could probably find a place where you could park it free of charge for a few days, if you did some looking around. Assuming you wanted to keep it.” He adds encouragingly, “That Acura probably would have some decent resale value even considering all the body work it needs.”

Only at this point does Randy figure out that the Shaftoes believe him to be utterly destitute, helpless, and adrift in the wide world. A total charity case. He recalls, now, seeing them discard a whole sack of McDonald's wrappers when they arrived at his house. This whole austerity binge has been concocted to avoid putting financial pressure on Randy.

Robin and M.A. have been observing him carefully, talking about him, thinking about him. They happen to have made some faulty assumptions, and come to some wrong conclusions, but all the same, they have shown more sophistication than Randy was giving them credit for. This causes Randy to go back and review the conversations he has had with them the last couple of days, just to get some idea of what other interesting and complicated things might have been going on in their heads. M.A. is a pretty straightforward by-the-book type, the kind who'll get good grades and fit well into any kind of hierarchical organization. Robin, on the other hand, is more of a wild card. He has the makings of either a total loser or a successful entrepreneur, or maybe one of those guys who will oscillate between those two poles. Randy realizes now, in retrospect, that he has spilled a hell of a lot of information to Robin, in just a couple of days, about the Internet and electronic money and digital currency and the new global economy. Randy's mental state is such that he is prone to babbling aimlessly for hours at a time. Robin has hoovered it all up.

To Randy it's just been aimless ventilating. He hasn't even considered, until now, what effect it has been exerting on the trajectory of Robin Shaftoe's life. Randall Lawrence Waterhouse hates Star Trek and avoids people who don't hate it, but even so he has seen just about every episode of the damn thing, and he feels, at this moment, like the Federation scientist who beams down to a primitive planet and thoughtlessly teaches an opportunistic pre-Enlightenment yahoo how to construct a phaser cannon from commonly available materials.

Randy still has some money. He cannot begin to guess how he can convey this fact to these guys without committing some grievous protocol error, so the next time they stop for gas, he asks Amy to convey it to them. He thinks (based on his hazy understanding of the rotation system) that it's his turn to be alone in a car with Amy, but if Amy is going to convey this data about the money to one of the boys, she'll need to spend the next leg with him, because it must be conveyed indirectly, which will take a while, and because of that indirectness, time will then need to be allotted for it to sink in. But three hours later, then, at the gas stop after that, it naturally follows that M.A. and Robin must be placed together in the same car, so that Robin (who now knows and understands, and who gets out of the Impala with a big grin on his face and punches Randy affably on the shoulder) can pass the message on to M.A., whose recent conversational gambits vis-à-vis Randy made no sense at all until Randy figured out that they thought of him as a beggar and that M.A. was trying in a really oblique way to find out if Randy needed to share any of M.A.'s personal toiletry items. At any rate, Randy and Amy get into the Acura and they head north into Oregon, trying to keep up with the hot rod.

“Well, it's nice to have a chance to spend some time with you,” Randy says. His back is still a bit sore from where Amy struck him whilst asserting, the other morning, that expressing one's feelings was “the name of the game.” So he figures he will express those aspects of his feelings least likely to get him in serious trouble.

“Ah figgered you 'n' ah'ud have plenny a tahm to chew the rag,” Amy says, having reverted utterly to the tongue of her ancestors in the last couple of days. “But it has been ages and ages since I saw those two boys, and you've never seen 'em at all.”

“Ages and ages? Really?”

“Yeah.”

“How long?”

“Well, last time I saw Robin he was just starting kindergarten. And I saw M.A. more recently—he was probably eight or ten.”

“And you are related to them how, one more time?”

“I think Robin is my second cousin. And I could explain M.A.'s relationship to me, but you'd start shifting around and heaving great big sighs before I got more'n halfway through it.”

“So, to these guys, you are a shirttail relative they glimpsed once or twice when they were tiny little boys.”

Amy shrugs. “Yeah.”

“So, like what possessed them to come out here?”

Amy looks blank.

“I mean,” Randy says, “from the general attitude they copped, when they fishtailed to a stop in the middle of my front yard and leapt out of their red-hot, bug-encrusted vehicle, fresh from Tennessee, obviously the number one mission objective was to ensure that the flower of Shaftoe womanhood was being treated with all of the respect, decency, worshipfulness, et cetera, properly owed it.”

“Oh. That's not really the vibe that I got.”

“Oh, it wasn't? Really?”

“No. Randy, my family sticks together. Just 'cause we haven't seen each other for a while doesn't mean our obligations have lapsed.”

“Well, you are making an implied comparison to my family here which I'm not that crazy about and maybe we should talk about later. But as far as those family obligations go, I do certainly think that one of those obligations is to preserve your notional virginity.”

“Who says it's notional?”

“It's got to be notional to them because they haven't seen you for most of your life. That's all I mean.”

“I think you are blowing the perceived sexual aspect of this thing way out of proportion,” Amy says. “Which is perfectly normal, for a guy, and I don't think less of you for it.”

“Amy, Amy. Have you done the math on this thing?”

“Math?”

“Counting the trip through Manila traffic to NAIA, the check-in procedure, and formalities at SFO, my entire journey from Manila to San Francisco took me something like eighteen hours. Twenty for you. Another four hours to get down to my house. Then eight hours after we got to my house, in the middle of the night, Robin and Marcus Aurelius showed up. Now, if we assume that the Shaftoe family grapevine functions at the speed of light, it means that these guys, shooting hoops in front of their trailer in Tennessee, received a news flash that a female Shaftoe was in some kind of guy-related personal distress at about the time you jumped off of Glory IV and hopped in a taxi in Manila.”

“I sent e-mail from Glory,” Amy says.

“To whom?”

“The Shaftoe mailing list.”

“God!” Randy says, slapping himself in the face. “What did this e-mail say?”

“Can't remember,” Amy says. “That I was headed for California. I might have made some kind of backhanded remark about a young man I wanted to talk to. I was kinda upset at the time and I can't remember exactly what I have said.”

“I think you said something like 'I am going to California where Randall Lawrence Waterhouse, who has AIDS, is going to forcibly sodomize me upon arrival.' ”

“No, it was nothing of the kind.”

“Well, I think that someone read it between the lines. So, anyway, Ma or Auntie Em or someone emerges from the side door, shaking flour out of her gingham apron—I'm imagining this.”

“I can tell.”

“And she says, 'Boys, your umpteenth cousin thrice removed America Shaftoe has sent us e-mail from Uncle Doug's boat in the South China Sea stating that she is having some kind of dispute with a young man and it's not out of the question that she might need someone around to lend her a hand. In California. Would you swing by and look in on her?' And they put away their basketball and say, 'Yes ma'am, what city and address?' and she says, 'Never you mind, just get on Interstate 40 and drive west not failing to maintain an average speed of between one hundred and a hundred and twenty percent of the legal speed limit and call me collect from a Texaco somewhere and I will supply you with specific target coordinates later,' and they say, 'Yes ma'am' and thirty seconds later they are laying a patch in the driveway as they pull five gees backing out of the garage and thirty hours subsequently they are in my front yard, shining their twenty-five-D-cell flashlights into my eyes and asking me a lot of pointed questions. Do you have any idea how far the drive is?”

“I have no idea.”

“Well, according to M.A.'s Rand McNally Road Atlas, it is an even twenty-one hundred miles.”

“So?”

“So that means that they maintained an average speed of seventy miles an hour for a day and a half”

“A day and a quarter,” Amy says.

“Do you have any idea how difficult that is to do?”

“Randy, you push on the gas pedal and keep it between the lines. How hard is that?”

“I'm not saying it's an intellectual challenge. I'm saying that this willingness to, e.g., urinate into empty McDonald's cups rather than stop the car, suggests a kind of urgency. Passion, even. And being a guy, and having had the experience of being a guy of the age of M.A. and Robin, I can tell you that one of the few things that gets your blood boiling to that extent is this notion of some female you love being done wrong by a strange male.”

“Well, what if they did?” Amy says. “Now they think you're okay.”

“They do? Really?”

“Yeah. The financial disaster aspect makes you more human. More approachable. And it excuses a lot.”

“Do I need an excuse for something?”

“Not in my book.”

“But to the extent they thought I was a rapist, it kind of palliates my image problems.”

A brief lull in the conversation ensues. Then Amy pipes up.

“So tell me about your family, Randy.”

“In the next couple of days, you're going to learn a great deal more than I would like you to about my family. And so am I. So let's talk about something else.”

“Okay. Let's talk about business.”

“Okay. You go first.”

“We got a German television producer coming out next week to have a look at the U-boat. They might do a documentary about it. We have already hosted several German print journalists.”

“You have?”

“It has caused a sensation in Germany.”

“Why?”

“Because no one can figure out how it got there. Now, your turn.”

“We are going to launch our own currency.” By saying this, Randy is divulging proprietary information to someone not authorized to hear it. But he does it anyway, because opening himself up to Amy in this way, making himself vulnerable to her, gives him a hard-on.

“How do you go about that? Don't you have to be a government?”

“No. You have to be a bank. Why do you think they're called bank notes?” Randy is fully aware of the insanity of divulging secret business information to a woman solely for purposes of sexual self-titillation but it is in the nature of things, right now, that he doesn't especially care.

“Okay but still, usually it's done by government banks, right?”

“Only because people tend to respect the government banks. But government banks in Southeast Asia have a huge image problem right now. That image problem translates directly into crashing exchange rates.”

“So, how do you do it?”

“Get a big pile of gold. Issue certificates saying 'this certificate can be redeemed for such-and-such an amount of gold.' That's all there is to it.”

“What's wrong with dollars and yen and stuff?”

“The certificates—the banknotes—are printed on paper. We're going to issue electronic banknotes.”

“No paper at all?”

“No paper at all.”

“So you can only spend it on the Net.”

“Correct.”

“What if you want to buy a sack of bananas?”

“Find a banana merchant on the Net.”

“Seems like paper money'd be just as good.”

“Paper money is traceable and perishable and has other drawbacks. Electronic banknotes are fast and anonymous.”

“What's an electronic banknote look like, Randy?”

“Like any other digital thing: a bunch of bits.”

“Doesn't that make it kind of easy to counterfeit?”

“Not if you have good crypto,” Randy says. “Which we do.”

“How did you get it?”

“By hanging out with maniacs.”

“What kind of maniacs?”

“Maniacs who think that having good crypto is of near-apocalyptic importance.”

“How'd they get around to thinking any such thing?”

“By reading about people like Yamamoto who died because they had bad crypto, and then projecting that kind of thing into the future.”

“Do you agree with them?” Amy asks. It might be one of those pivotal-moment-in-the-relationship questions.

“At two in the morning, when I'm lying awake in bed, I do,” Randy says. “In the light of day, it all seems like paranoia.” He glances over at Amy, who's looking at him appraisingly, because he hasn't actually answered the question yet. He's got to pick one thing or the other. “Better safe than sorry, I guess. Having good crypto can't hurt, and it might help.”

“And it might make you a lot of money along the way,” Amy reminds him.

Randy laughs. “At this point, it's not even about trying to make money,” he says. “I just don't want to be totally humiliated.”

Amy smiles cryptically.

“What?” Randy demands.

“You sounded just like a Shaftoe when you said that,” Amy says.

Randy drives the car in silence for about half an hour after that. He was right, he suspects: it was a pivotal moment in the relationship. All he can do now is totally screw it up. So he shuts up and drives.