The Word Exchange (46 page)

I asked Brock how he planned to send 26 years up in smoke, destroy
thousands of copies of a 40-volume work. Not to mention the electronic corpus, all our archived dead material—

“Funny you should say that,” Laird interrupted. As if to prove the point, he laughed. Something about the sound turned my stomach. “They’ve already started, actually. Right here. Though I can’t disagree that getting rid of bound copies seems to have proven more of a challenge than hacking into your corpus, from what I’ve heard. And I’m sorry to burst your bubble, Urs, but we happen to know that fewer than a thousand copies have gone to print.”

A small flame ignited in my brain. I finally understood what the spike in Synchronic sales numbers that I mentioned to you means: it’s been
Synchronic
pushing up our rank (#153 as of this morning). They’re the ones who’ve been buying up the
NADEL
.

“You … That’s—that’s more than four million dollars,” I tried to protest, quickly doing the math. “All those copies. Shipping
alone
. That’s—”

“That’s nothing,” said Laird, the corners of his mouth creeping up. “The price of doing business,” added Brock, lip bulging as he licked his teeth.

And that’s when it happened. I couldn’t contain myself anymore. For a moment I stayed silent, inoculated by shock. But then the bile bubbled over, and I exploded at Laird. “So, what—Vera’s not enough?” I shouted, saliva flying, tinnitus fizzing in my ears. “You feel compelled to ruin the rest of my life?” And that was just the beginning of a humiliating litany, the words not mine but a trite clot of cultural flotsam, picked up God knows where. Once the firehose had started, though, I couldn’t seem to turn it off, and soon I turned it on Max as well. (I think it’s probably best if I refrain from repeating what I said.)

Yet a certain point came, even as I was shouting, when I noticed a slight tremor near the door. It was Dmitri, reaching for something under his arm. And the thought I had was,
Gun
. No less hysterical, perhaps, than the unfamiliar script I found myself reciting to Laird and your ex. But the sight was more potent than smelling salts. I instantly trailed off.

Brock was scowling at me over his coffee. “No need for that,” he scolded.

“We’re not trying to ruin anything,” added Laird, voice dripping with condescension. “We’re trying to offer you an opportunity. This is
going to change everything, whether or not you approve. Be realistic for once, Douglas.” Frowning, he added, “Think of Anana.”

That vaulted me back to a plane of pure, purblind rage. I worked to check my urge to choke him. Then I took a breath, and I
did
think of you. I realized, with a sense of clarity so sharp it nearly shone, that having heard all of this—about their virus, and all the rest—I wasn’t safe: I needed to get out of that room. And if there was any hope I might preserve the Dictionary, I had to do more than that and make my way to Oxford before Monday morning. Because if the
OED
really does sign on with Synchronic—if every English word winds up on the Exchange—it’s just a matter of time before our language is in danger of becoming extinct. These are not romantic ravings, I’m afraid. And English will be just the start. If they expand into other markets, their virus will soon spread to all but the most remote corners on earth. Ironically, endangered languages may be the only ones spared.

There was only one possible way through that door, I realized. Kowtowing. Not my best skill, I’ll admit, but I bluffed my way through a five-star apology. Told them how deeply I appreciated their offer, and that I’d like to take them up on it. “I don’t know what came over me,” I lied, one eye on Dmitri. “I’m not feeling myself.”

That’s when I was seized with a fit of inspiration. “Actually,” I said, doubling over, “I’m not … Christ. I’m not feeling well at all.” I gripped my stomach. Real sweat dripped from the tip of my nose. “I think I might … Oh, God—” I said, rising from my chair with such force that it fell over. “I think I have to go, too.”

Dmitri glared at me and didn’t budge from the door. But as I coughed and gagged, my bogus nausea turned real. My eyes watered. Acid burned the back of my throat. Laird wrinkled his nose and Brock motioned to Dmitri to let me go. I didn’t even wait for him to move; I pushed past him into the hall.

I knew Dmitri would stand guard while I was gone. Monitor the elevators. I didn’t have much time—five minutes, seven at most, if I managed to avoid John in the hall on his way back from the bathroom. That’s what I was thinking as I rounded the corner—and saw John. He was pale and drawn, tie to one side, shirttails hanging. We both stood still. Then he took a deep breath, and I waited for him to yell.
Steeled myself and prepared to run. But to my surprise, he only sighed. Blinked his bloodshot eyes. Opened and closed his mouth. Finally, shaking his head, he managed, “I’ll cover for you,” sounding very tired and sad.

I studied him for a long moment, trying to assess his motives. It was hard to believe he’d lie for me. But in his eyes I saw a flash of bravery. I don’t know why, but that gave me a chill. And still I chose to put my faith in him. What else could I do?

“Thank you,” I said, gripping his thin arm. “You’re a good man, John.”

He shook his head a little. Looked away. I can’t say that that didn’t make me nervous. As I hurried off, I glanced over my shoulder. And he wasn’t looking back at me.

By then it was well past 7:30. The whole Dictionary floor was dark. Even Bart’s light was off. When I reached my office, I worked very fast, hands numb. I transferred my satchel’s contents to the pockets of my coat. Then, trying to buy myself time, I propped the bag in my chair, to make them think I was still around. And I set about trying to warn you about what was happening in case I didn’t find you still at the diner as I hoped.

I didn’t want to phone your Meme; I was afraid they might be able to intercept the call and listen in. I also don’t want you using it, especially now, if it’s possible that word flu is circulating. So I left a few arcane clues that I imagined, in my maddened state, you might find this week. (I don’t know why, but I didn’t think you’d go looking for me at the Dictionary that night. If I had, I would have waited near the building and steered you away. I’m sorrier than I can ever say that I put you in harm’s way. I wasn’t thinking, truly.)

Finally I threw on my coat and, leaving the light on in my office, hurried for the stairs. Not until I’d made it halfway down was I stopped by an unnerving thought. An image arrived in my mind unbidden, as if beamed in from outside: my Aleph. I probably wouldn’t have even thought of it—I really hadn’t used it in years—if not for the fact that I’d recently secreted details in it about the new safe-deposit box I’d gotten. (I thought at the time that storing them in the Aleph was so clever and discreet.) Anyone who switched it on would also be able to see my old notes, contacts, passwords, codes. Maybe other things.

Those devices are like elephants: they have very long memories. Unless scrubbed clean by specialists, they’ll retain what they’re given. I didn’t even know what it knew about me—or you, or Vera, or members of the Society. And I was also afraid that it might know how to find me. That in this brave new world of ours, there’s no such thing as escape. No quiet place to be alone, even in your own mind.

I pictured it starkly, upstairs in my desk. Bracing myself in the stairwell, trying to catch my breath, I wondered if they knew I had it. Would Brock’s assistant have checked her records before the meeting and seen that they’d sent me one years ago? If so, and if they guessed it was in my office, it wouldn’t be hard to find. The thought made my chest contract. I had to sit. Feeling jangled, vulnerable, and a little crazy, I decided to go back up for it.

And yet I couldn’t move from the stairs, where cold was leaching up through my slacks. My heart was pounding. I was soaked through with sweat. It must have been some kind of mild attack. And thank God. At least eight or nine minutes had passed since I’d seen John in the hall. I’m sure that if I’d turned back, I would have been caught.

By the time the panic had faded enough for me to stand, I’d made the decision to keep going down. Only a fool favors imagined threats over those right in front of him. (Though I’m very relieved, I must say, that you were the one to find my Aleph.)

Once I reached the subbasement, I tried visiting the routing terminal, to send messages to you and Phineas. But I couldn’t get in. The door was locked. It was also scalding hot. I had a terrible feeling. Alice, I think they’re burning books in there.

Some other day I’ll explain how I made my way out of the building. For now, I’ll just say it involved a detour that landed me near the old Mercantile Library.

I realized with a start that it was past eight o’clock and you’d probably left the diner. But I asked the car I hailed for Newark airport to stop there just the same.

When Marla saw me, she pursed her lips.
“You,”
she said, wagging a thick finger. “She waited a long time before she went home.”

“She went home?” I asked. “Are you sure?”

“That’s what she said,” Marla reported, shaking her head and muttering something under her breath. I know how it must sound, to blame
Marla, but that’s why I never guessed you’d gone to the Dictionary. And I thought home was the best place for you, until I could be in touch from Oxford. I called Phin as soon as I got here. It just took longer than I’d planned. But that’s a story for another day, too.

Maybe it was naive, but I believed the lexicographic life would be relatively calm. I know, though, that I’ve taken a great risk in writing all this down. Not just a risk for myself, but for you and Phineas and the Diachronic Society as a whole. Writing things down is always dangerous. But even now I think it’s a risk worth taking.

I don’t want to live in a world where we destroy words—where meanings have no meaning anymore. Of course linguistic devaluation started before the Meme and the Word Exchange, before “Meaning Master” and this new virus that the game is supposed to spread. For years, decades, our memories have slowly been replaced by the memories of machines. I know you’ve heard all this before, but now more than ever it bears repeating.

Some say history is a forward march—a line advancing toward a target. Maybe this view was just a mirror of its time: the 19th century saw the rise of what we came to call linear thought, a way of processing the world that was made possible only by the medium of books. By accident, the bound codex taught us sustained focus, abstract thinking, logic. Our natural tendency is to be distracted—to scan the horizon constantly for predators and prospects. Books made us turn that attention inward, to build higher and higher castles within the quiet kingdoms of our minds. Through that process of reflection and deep thinking, we evolved. There was no going back—only ever forward.

Others say that history isn’t straight but curved, a circle, constantly repeating; ouroboros, the eternal return. But ouroboros isn’t just a circle; it’s a serpent eating its own tail. What if, right now, as we’re immolating language, we’re doing away with ourselves? Maybe we’ve regressed. The skills we once used for survival—scattered attention, diffuse concentration—have been adapted to finding glowing dots on screens, skimming pop-ups, beams, emails, video streams. Our thinking has been flattened; our progress ceded to machines. It’s happening faster and faster. Accelerated obsolescence accelerating.

It’s very late here. I’ve spent all night writing—not just this letter but an editorial for Tuesday’s paper on the dangers of the Meme.
Tomorrow I’ll be in meetings with colleagues at the
OED
. I’m also working to contact our warehouses, retailers, and printers, to prevent any more sales of the
NADEL
. (The irony, I assure you, is not lost on me.) And I’m trying to reach IT and find a new security service to fortify our firewall and implement other strategies—our corpus is filling up with holes. But I know all that can be reversed.

I’ve also tried reaching out to agents at Homeland Security, to encourage them to be on the alert for possible new cyberviruses and attacks. So far I’ve had no luck getting through, nor have I been able to communicate my concerns about Nautiluses and Memes to anyone at the FDA. But I’ve had some initial discussions with the World Health Organization and Centers for Disease Control. (Apparently there may already have been a few word flu cases in New York. Please keep those pills I gave you close.) One WHO official with whom I worked in Taipei has been especially helpful, and I’m feeling hopeful that we can beat this thing. I plan to stay here for at least the next several days. But I have every intention of being back by Friday—for the
NADEL
launch.

Until then, Alice, please be safe. Check in with Phineas. I’ll be in touch.

All my love,
Doug

I arrived in London late. Spent hours passing through customs, health inspections, security. After I managed to make it through, shaking a little with relief, I tried to chalk up my trouble in New York to exhaustion and anxiety. I’d slept some on the plane. But I couldn’t quite erase the fear that I’d been reinfected.

The city was cold and rainy and smelled faintly sewery. I had a cab take me straight to Paddington and just barely caught the 23:20 train. I’d had a hard time getting a car. When the first driver asked if I was American, I was too slow to say no, and he sped off. I tried to complain to the man assigning taxis, but he shrugged, unsympathetic. “Just come from the U.S., in’t it? Where they’ve got that disease and all running rampant.” When the next driver asked where I’d arrived from, I used the hackneyed backpackers’ trick and said Canada. But he eyed me suspiciously and drove away, too. The taxi-stand man cut me a funny look, then; people in line behind me backed away. Finally, with the third driver, I tried a terrible New Zealand accent. Fortunately, he’d never met a Kiwi. He spent the ride sharing his opinion of Americans and their virus. “I hope they all catch it,” he said. “Serves them right, hey?” I tried not to speak.