Содержание → Neal Stephenson The Great Simoleon Caper → Часть 4
Глава 1
Часть 4
"For that, " I say, "we'll have to go someplace that isn't under surveillance. "
"Surveillance! ? What the. . . " he begins. But then I nod at the TV in the corner of his office, with its beady glass eye staring out at us from the set-top box.
We end up walking along the lakeshore, which, in Chicago in January, http://softaround.ru is madness.
But we hail from North Dakota, and we have all the cold-weather gear it takes to do this. I tell him about Raster and the cable company.
"Oh, Jesus! " he says. "You mean those numbers aren't secret? "
"Not even close. They've been put in the hands of 27 stooges hired by the the government. The stooges have already FedEx'd their entry forms with the correct numbers. So, as of now, all of your Simoleons -- $27 million worth -- are going straight into the hands of the stooges on Super Bowl Sunday. And they will turn out to be your worst public-relations nightmare. They will cash in their Simoleons for comic books and baseball cards and claim it's safer. They will intentionally go bankrupt and blame it on you. They will show up in twos and threes on tawdry talk shows to report mysterious disappearances of their Simoleons during Metaverse transactions. They will, in short, destroy the image - and the business -- of your client. The result: victory for the government, which hates and fears private currencies. And bankruptcy for you, and for Mom and Dad. "
"How do you figure? "
"Your agency is responsible for screwing up this sweepstakes. Soon as the debacle hits, your stock plummets. Mom and Dad lose millions in paper profits they've never had a chance to enjoy. Then your big shareholders will sue your ass, my brother, and you will lose. You gambled the value of the company on the faulty data-security built into your set-top box, and you as a corporate officer are personally responsible for the losses. "
At this point, big brother Joe feels the need to slam himself down on a park bench, which must feel roughly like sitting on a block of dry ice. But he doesn't care. He's beyond physical pain. I sort of expected to feel triumphant at this point, but I don't.
So I let him off the hook. "I just came from your accounting firm, " I say. "I told them I had discovered an error in my calculations -- that my set-top box had a faulty chip. I supplied them with 27 new numbers, which I worked out by hand, with pencil and paper, in a conference room in their offices, far from the prying eye of the cable company. I personally sealed them in an envelope and placed them in their vault. "
"So the sweepstakes will come off as planned, " he exhales. "Thank God! "
"Yeah -- and while you're at it, thank me and the panarchists, " I shoot back. "I also called Mom and Dad, and told them that they should sell their stock -- just in case the government finds some new way to sabotage your contest. "
"That's probably wise, " he says sourly, "but they're going to get hammered on taxes. They'll lose 40% of their net worth to the government, just like that. "
"No, they won't, " I say. "They aren't paying any taxes. "
"Say what? " He lifts his chin off his mittens for the first time in a while, reinvigorated by the chance to tell me how wrong I am. "Their cash basis is only $10, 000 -- you think the IRS won't notice $20 million in capital gains? " "We didn't invite the IRS, " I tell him. "It's none of the IRS's damn business. "
"They have ways to make it their business. "
"Not any more. Mom and Dad aren't selling their stock for dollars, Joe. "
"Simoleons? It's the same deal with Simoleons -- everything gets reported to the government. "
"Forget Simoleons. Think CryptoCredits. "
"CryptoCredits? What the hell is a CryptoCredit? " He stands up and starts pacing back and forth. Now he's convinced I've traded the family cow for a handful of magic beans.
"It's what Simoleons ought to be: E-money that is totally private from the eyes of government. "
"How do you know? Isn't any code crackable? "
"Any kind of E-money consists of numbers moving around on wires, " I say. "If you know how to keep your numbers secret, your currency is safe. If you don't, it's not. Keeping numbers secret is a problem of cryptography -- a branch of mathematics. Well, Joe, the crypto-anarchists showed me their math. And it's good math. It's better than the math the government uses. Better than Simoleons' math too. No one can mess with CryptoCredits. "
He heaves a big sigh. "O. K. , O. K. -- you want me to say it? I'll say it. You were right. I was wrong. You studied the right thing in college after all. "
"I'm not worthless scum? "
"Not worthless scum. So. What do these crypto-anarchists want, anyway? "
For some reason I can't lie to my parents, but Joe's easy. "Nothing, " I say.
"They just wanted to do us a favor, as a way of gaining some goodwill with us. "
"And furthering the righteous cause of World Panarchy? "
"Something like that. "
Which brings us to Super Bowl Sunday. We are sitting in a skybox high up in the Superdome, complete with wet bar, kitchen, waiters and big TV screens to watch the instant replays of what we've just seen with our own naked, pitiful, nondigital eyes.
The corporate officers of Simoleons are there. I start sounding them out on their cryptographic protocols, and it becomes clear that these people can't calculate their gas mileage without consulting Raster, much less navigate the subtle and dangerous currents of cutting-edge cryptography.
A Superdome security man comes in, looking uneasy. "Some, uh, gentlemen here, " he says. "They have tickets that appear to be authentic. "
It's three guys. The first one is a 300 pounder with hair down to his waist and a beard down to his navel. He must be a Bears fan because he has painted his face and bare torso blue and orange. The second one isn't quite as introverted as the first, and the third isn't quite the button-down conformist the other two are. Mr. Big is carrying an old milk crate. What's inside must be heavy, because it looks like it's about to pull his arms out of their sockets.
"Mr. and Mrs. De Groot? " he says, as he staggers into the room. Heads turn towards my mom and dad, who, alarmed by the appearance of these three, have declined to identify themselves. The guy makes for them and slams the crate down in front of my dad.
"I'm the guy you've known as Codex, " he says. "Thanks for naming us as your broker. "