NEAL STEPHENSON

111

sends out movies and TV programs, over my networks, images of wealth and exotic things beyond their wildest dreams, back to those people, and it gives them something to dream about, something to aspire to. And that is the function of the Raft. It’s just a big old krill carrier.”

Finally the journalist gives up on being a journalist, just starts to slag L. Bob Rife openly. He’s had it with this guy. “That’s disgusting. I can’t believe you can think about people that way.”

“Shit, boy, get down off your high horse. Nobody really gets eaten. It’s just a figure of speech. They come here, they get decent jobs, find Christ, buy a Weber grill, and live happily ever aftet What’s wrong with that?”

Rife is pissed. He’s yelling. Behind him, the Bangladeshis are picking up on his emotional vibes and becoming upset themselves. Suddenly, one of them, an incredibly gaunt man with a long drooping mustache, runs in front of the camera and begins to shout: “a ma la ge zen ba dam gal nun ka aria su su na an da… “The sounds spread from him to his neighbors, spreading across the flight deck like a wave.

“Cut,” the journalist says, turning into the camera. “Just cut. The Babble Brigade has started up again.”

The soundtrack now consists of a thousand people speaking in tongues under the high-pitched, shit-eating chuckles of L. Bob Rife~

“This is the miracle of tongues,” Rife shouts above the tumult. “I can understand every word these people are saying. Can you, brother?”

___________ “Yol Snap out of it, podi”

Hiro looks up from the card. No one is in his office except for the Librarian.

The image loses focus and veers upward and out of his field of view. Hiro is looking out the windshield of the Vanagon. Someone has just yanked his goggles off his face-not Vitaly.

“I’m out here, gogajeheadi”

Him looks out the window. It’s Y.T., hanging onto the side of the van with one hand, holding his goggles in the other.