NEAL STEPHENSON

41

Five-O that was ever filmed, or the complete recordings of Jimi Hendrix, or the 1950 Census.

Or-rnore likely-a wide variety of nasty computer viruses. If Hiro reaches .out and takes the hypercard, then the data it represents will be transferred from this guy’s system into Hiro’s computer. Hiro, naturally, wouldn’t touch it under any circum stances, any more than you would take a free syringe from a stranger in Times Square and jab it into your neck.

And it doesn’t make sense anyway. “That’s a hypercard. I thought you said Snow Crash was a drug,” Hiro says, now totally nonplussed.

“It is,” the guy says. “Try it.”

“Does it fuck up your brain?” Hiro says. “Or your computer?”

“Both. Neither. What’s the difference?”

Hiro finally realizes that he has just wasted sixty seconds of his life having a meaningless conversation with a paranoid schizophrenic. He turns around and goes into The Black Sun.

At the exit of White Columns sits a black car, curled up like a panther, a burnished steel lens reflecting the loglo of Oahu Road. It is a Unit. It is a Mobile Unit of MetaCops Unlimited. A silvery badge is embossed on its door, a chrome-plated cop badge the size of a dinner plate, bearing the name of said private peace organization and emblazoned

DIAL 1-800-THE COPS