The Egg Code (21 page)

Listings for the Second
Week of September, 1995

Big Dipper Township, caretaker’s house, waterfront access, ten-minute
walk to downtown shopping district.
“Interesting little town.”

Quaint stores, chamber of commerce, winter ice festival.

“My daughter lives right around here. I own a good deal of this property.”

Large lot, hidden from road.

“Do these outlets work?”

All the latest conveniences.

“I really don’t know, Olden.”

“Well, it’s definitely a fixer-upper.”

Foundation partially damaged. Needs new front door. Wood frame
prone to swelling in the summer.

“Besides, you’re a young man.”

“Borderline. Still, I like the privacy.”

Fifty miles from downtown Crane City.

“Very quiet.”

“The middle of nowhere.”

Bus service to schools and activity centers.

“A nice community, though. A few hundred people.”

Get to know your neighbors.

“That beam is rotten. These panels—not insulated, hunh?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

Extra fiberglass available on request.

“Gets cold in the wintertime.”

“The trees keep the wind down.”

Imagine yourself on an exotic island.

“You should
pay
me to live here.”

You’ve got to see it to believe it!

“Olden, listen. You and I have something in common.”

“I know, Mr. Hasse.”

“Martin’s a good man. He doesn’t belong in prison.”

Intimate. Cozy.

“There’s a lot of good men in—”

“Well, we all know that.”

“Almost a badge of honor, I’d—”

“No, of course it’s not. Listen . . . your father is innocent. And I believe he’ll have his sentence reduced. Not before I die. I’m very old. Just coming out here today—I’m exhausted.”

Get away from those pesky solicitors!

“Mr. Hasse, I appreciate all of this. But this is a big change for me. I mean—look! It’s wilderness!”

Just picture it.

“It’s hardly wilderness.”

“Well, no, it’s not
wilderness
.”

“This land is actually quite valuable. I won’t tell you how many offers I’ve had just in the last few weeks. From some pretty strange sources, too. But I don’t need the money. I like owning things.”

Tired of landlords? This is your golden opportunity!

“I’ll have to set up a generator. Those wires are useless.”

“Send the bill to my secretary. Don’t spend a dime. I made a promise to your father. He wants you to be happy.”

Because if you’re not happy . . .

“You want me to fix this place up, is that it?”

“I want you to live here. I want you to keep your eyes open.”

“What am I supposed to see?”

“Maybe nothing. I don’t know. I don’t want people taking advantage of me when I’m gone.”

“But your daughter lives—”

“My daughter and I don’t have a very satisfactory relationship. Donna . . . is not right for this job. It’s her upbringing, I feel. My fault entirely. Wealth spoils, sometimes. It doesn’t have to. Personally, I find it very reassuring.”

“What?”

“Money. Poverty bores me.”

“Not much of a socialist, are you?”

Credit check. Must meet certain minimum requirements.

“Ah, but this is the nature of systems. Have you ever seen my house?”

“No, I . . .”

By the Balls

1993

Now we’re both criminals.” Bartholomew Hasse stood in front of the living room window, nursing a gin and tonic. It was a hot afternoon in Hedgemont Heights. Outside, the backyard resembled an empty playroom, the carpet brown and tattered. He spoke without looking at the other man. “I am prepared to make a series of phone calls. Have you any idea how easy this is for me?”

“My wife is very far away,” Martin said. Both men spoke in clipped tones; the words seemed transcribed, almost re-enacted. “She will be nearly impossible to reach.”

“Surely you don’t believe that.” Tipping his glass, Bartholomew filled his mouth with cold gin, then swallowed. Standing still, he could feel his liver—a hard, glass bulb. “Isn’t that the point of this wonderful technology? Easy access, everywhere. And all thanks to you.”

“You really have a strange impression of who I am,” Martin muttered over the back of the sofa. The room was big and dark. The light from the windows seemed to go nowhere. “I’m a simple mathematician. An on-again, off-again academic.”

“I’m not impressed.” Bartholomew fingered a grand piano, building a melody from fragments. “How long have you been working for the Gloria Corporation?”

“I’ve never worked for the Gloria Corporation.” The music continued, slower now. Martin corrected himself, “Not directly. Gloria is an independent contractor. One of those outside agencies that seems to turn up everywhere. I have no idea who I was working for. DARPA, maybe. The NSF. It’s all quite harmless, really.”

“I don’t accept that.” Bartholomew closed the piano lid with a bang. “This isn’t an action movie, Mr. Field. No chase scenes, no explosions. It’s much subtler than that. Come next year, the RA will be in place and that will be the end of your First Amendment rights.”

“I don’t see the connection.” Martin shrugged and looked away. This was an old argument: technology and the end of the world. Sighing, he added, “The Routing Arbiter is no big deal. The Gloria Corporation has nothing to hide.”

Ah! thought Bartholomew. A loyal bureaucrat! He’d seen enough of those in his time. He crossed the room and stared at the man. Martin sat with his knees pressed together, hands folded, eyes trained on the coffee table. Bartholomew wanted to close him like a briefcase, hinges folding into halves, quarters, eighths.

“This device. It exists?”

Martin removed his sports jacket and loosened his collar. “It’s possible. The routing tables offer only snapshots of a moment in time. The patterns change every tenth of a second.” Rising, he walked toward the window, keeping his back straight as he passed the old man. “But there are other questions as well. The parties, the people involved. Who benefits? One man, maybe. Maybe the machine itself.”

Bartholomew smiled. His eyes looked sick, overbright, like pale organs balded for dissection. “And you told me you weren’t interested.”

“I’m not interested.”

“Yes, you are. And that’s perfectly natural.” He sipped his drink; the gin burned on the way down. His voice returned, upbeat now, more American. “Look—you’re a scientist. Scientists explore. They test theories. That’s what you did. And now—twenty years later—you’re thinking: what?”

“I’m thinking nothing. Thank God it’s over. Thank you for the extra incentive, a few years of high living, my little piece. But now—I have a wife, I have a son.”

Bartholomew frowned and shook his head. “Your son is a grown man, so don’t worry about that; and as for your wife, well, think about it, because that’s something else entirely.”

Martin stepped away from the window. “Meaning you’ll do it, right?”

“That’s right.” Bartholomew pointed at spots in the air—the characters, the dots to connect. “I tell Derek, I tell your wife, I tell your family. And then this whole thing goes to hell, because some famous people are involved.”

Martin blinked, trying to match his opponent’s mood. “Okay, I get it. You’re a cold man. You want your way. I don’t have a problem with that. But your daughter. That seems a little unnecessary.”

Bartholomew laughed. “Well, I hadn’t thought of it like that before. Two marriages for the price of one. That would call for a celebration of some kind, wouldn’t you say? Of course, you’d all have to attend— Derek and Donna, you and your darling Celeste.”

Martin snapped, “Oh, you’re reckless, aren’t you?”

“I’m entirely out of control, Mr. Field. Old age is a wonderful thing.” Martin turned away and covered his eyes. He couldn’t believe this— people who acted this way. “So. Your daughter’s marriage. Her reputation. Her self-respect. These things mean nothing to you?”

“Let me tell you something, son. Donna makes her own decisions. She even gets a kick out of it. Not necessarily out of sleeping with you, for I’m sure she found it repulsive. But the whole idea of cheating on her husband. It evens the score, you know. The ego of Derek Skye is a fearsome thing.”

The name settled between the two men. Remembering that night in Sparta—the sounds Donna made, the way her nipple felt between his teeth—Martin wanted another chance. He wanted to fuck her right now, to watch her having an orgasm. Even a fake one—good enough. “I’ve been misled,” he said. “I don’t deserve this.” Defeated, he went back to the sofa and pulled a sheaf of papers from his briefcase. He sighed, handing over the stack. “Right now, this is the best I can do. Sixty sites, most of them privately owned. Some are more suspicious than others.”

Hasse frowned at the top page. “How so?”

Annoyed, Martin explained, “Anytime you have more than one network coming together, it’s a security hazard. They’re called peering points. One of the biggest ones is in New Jersey.”

“Where in New Jersey?”

“In Pennsauken.” Reaching into his pocket, he spread a stack of color snapshots across the coffee table. “Right here, in this parking garage.”

Hasse glanced down at the pictures. “This isn’t good enough, Mr. Field. I want you to narrow it down.”

Martin laughed, helpless in the face of the old man’s single-minded stupidity. “Why?” he demanded. “Those machines were designed to recover on their own. If the idea is to reconfigure the routing tables—”

“That’s
not
the idea.” Hasse moved closer, waving the pages. “Listen—give me an address. A place on the map. Point it out for me.”

“What for?”

“You know what for.” He glared out the window. Some gardeners were working outside—red hats and polo shirts, a slogan on the back. “Somewhere out there, there’s a machine, a little box. And that little box controls all the other little boxes. Wasn’t supposed to happen that way, but it did. Hitler wasn’t supposed to happen, either.”

Martin spoke calmly, sliding into lecture mode. “No, Mr. Hasse, you’re wrong. We’re talking about statistics. Yes, there is an anomaly. Yes, it’s on this list. No, dynamite won’t destroy it. You want to destroy the Internet, then destroy the planet. Because nothing short of that is going to do it.”

“Maybe it just takes a lot of dynamite.”

Hearing this, Martin fetched his things and hurried away. “Leave me out of it. I’m not a thug.”

“You have the easy job, Mr. Field. I pay someone else to do the dirty work.”

“
This
is the dirty work.” Halfway to the door, he stopped to fix the latch on his briefcase; it had swung open in his hands, but there was nothing inside, so it didn’t matter. “I’m not supposed to have this information. I could go to jail for this.”

The old man stared. “Yes, you could.”

Martin’s face turned red. Not for the first time, a feeling of injustice—of being punished for more than just his crime—weighed heavy upon his head. “What the hell,” he snapped. “So could you! Why not? Let’s all go.”

“Highly unlikely, Mr. Field. You, on the other hand . . . maybe you need to think about it for a while.” Neither man moved; unreleased tension, like fingers pinched around a balloon, grew inside the room. Bartholomew studied the pages, searching for the most likely candidate. Each location suggested a new motive—sixty different ways of concealing the obvious. All across the country, high-speed routers lurked inside office towers, military bases, bomb shelters, shopping centers. No hidden pattern, no secret design. The names themselves made no sense. Idaho Falls, Wendover, Corsicana, Montevideo.
Some are more suspicious than others
. Yes, Mr. Field, Bartholomew thought—but
why
? The list was too inclusive, the terms too vague. For now, he would suspend the search. He’d already seen enough random destruction—Germans and Italians, guns raging over Europe. Things would be different this time. One bomb, one target. A simple victory. In the end, he had to respect Mr. Field. It wasn’t easy, killing your own child, even a child born of wires, algorithms, page-long equations scratched in pencil. Martin Field was a stubborn man, determined to do the right thing. But prison would change all that.

Listings for the Third
Week of September, 1995

Hedgemont Heights. Lovely Tudor estate with modern flourishes.
Exclusive address, Oakmund Avenue. Forty-seven rooms, three-car
garage. In-ground pool. New to market.

“Not bad for an immigrant, eh?”

“Very impressive, sir.”

Serving kitchen. Wet bar in basement. Receiving entrance. Split-level
terrace. Circular drive.

“I don’t need this much space, of course.”

“You’re here by yourself?”

Eight bedrooms, ten baths. Huge yard. Room to run. Attention: large
families!

“My staff and I. We just had an elevator put in. Would you like to ride it?”

“Sure.”

“This is a great thing, having an elevator in your home. Look at all the buttons!”

“It’s just like a real one.”

“It
is
a real one! Like in an office building. But it’s mine, and it’s here.”

“Cool.”

“The whole rig—guess how much?”

“I have no idea.”

Less than you’d expect. A smart investment.

“If you were to guess.”

“Thirty—”

“Eighty-seven thousand dollars. But I don’t care, because it makes me happy.”

Can you say: splurge?

“Who put it in?”

“A professional company from Cincinnati, Ohio. This is all they do.”

“Elevators.”

“Not just elevators. Private elevators. Let’s go up to the top floor.”

Call for a guided tour.

“Okay.”

“That way you’ll get a sense of the whole thing. See? How the doors close. Very slowly.”

Act now!

“It gives you enough time—”

“Exactly. And then look. See how the numbers go. One. Then two. Then three. And now we can either go back down or we else stay on this floor.”

“I think my ears just popped.”

You’ll hit the ceiling!

“So this is Hedgemont Heights. Fifty years, I’ve been here.”

Very special community. Private schools. Well patrolled. The eighth
most desirable place to live in the United States (call for the complete
list).

“In this one house?”

“Just about. My wife and I came over right before the end of the war.”

“This was World War—”

“World War II, of course, what other war—the only war. We couldn’t stay in London. England was so dependent on the United States in those days. So I liquidated. I ran a stencil company—you know what those are, don’t you?”

“Sure. They still make stencils.”

“Of course they do. What am I thinking? I should’ve stayed with stencils. Instead I got into publishing and everything was fine until these goddamn gadgets came along.”

Online? Check out our Web site at
www.openhouse.com
. Fully interactive! Links to related sites!

“You’ll be all right.”

“You really think so? You’re intelligent, I trust your opinion.”

“These things happen. Look at the printing press. The first fifty years. Cultures died, whole languages wiped out. But as some languages died, other languages grew. The Renaissance, the Protestant movement, the rise of the working class.”

“But what did that get us? More literacy, of course. But what’s literacy? Does literacy imply judgment? I don’t think so. Literacy equals class consciousness. Take a look at the Westernized nations. What’s the first thing they teach you? How to pay your taxes.”

We also have plenty of inexpensive models available. Ask about our
E-Z finance plan!

“One way or another, there’s always money to be made. They encroach on your territory, you encroach on theirs.”

We’ll meet you halfway!

“Permanent things, Olden. This is what I love. Permanent things. Quite natural for a man of my age.”

Retired? How about a condo in the Everglades? You’re not getting any
younger!

“Nothing’s permanent, Mr. Hasse. Even the Gutenberg Bible will eventually fall apart, if it hasn’t already.”

“Then
tangible.
Americans are obsessed with ghosts. Even their government’s imaginary. We have invisible money, invisible universities, invisible shopping centers. But invisible words? Invisible words are the worst. Invisible words hide empty thoughts. Give me ink. Give me paper. Fuck technology.”

“Hear, hear.”

“I want a drink. How does that sound?”

“I’ll go along with it.”

“Will you take the house?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I’ll give it a shot.”

“Good kid. You need some time away. You’ve been through a lot.”

Relax! We’ll do the paperwork for you.

“What if the woods start to get to me?”

“The woods you don’t have to worry about. It’s the ghosts.”

“Hunh?”

“Come on. Let’s go back down to One.”

Terms of contract may vary. Subject to owner’s approval. Open House
Realty is an equal opportunity employer. Ask for Sheri. Ask for Sheila. Ask
for Sharonne. WE ARE NOT THE SAME “OPEN HOUSE REALTY”
PROFILED ON THE NBC “BETTER BUSINESS” REPORT. Ask for
Clint. Ben Donaldson no longer works at this address.