NEAL STEPHENSON

“You’re asking too many questions. Look. You’re a cute kid. I mean, you’re a hell of a chick. You’re a knockout. But don’t go thinking you’re too important at this stage.”

At this stage. Hmm.

24

Him is in his 20-by-30 at the U-Stor-It. He is spending a little time in Reality, as per the suggestion of his partner. The door is open so that ocean breezes and jet exhaust can blow through. All the furniture-the futons, the cargo pallet, the experimental cinderblock furniture-has been pushed up against the walls. He is holding a one-meter-long piece of heavy rebar with tape wrapped around one end to make a handle. The rebar approximates a kataria, but it is very much heavier. He calls it the redneck katana.

He is in the kendo stance, barefoot. He should be wearing voluminous ankle-length culottes and a heavy indigo tunic, which is the traditional uniform, but instead he is wearing jockey shorts. Sweat is running down his smoothly muscled cappuccino back and exploring his cleavage. Blisters the size of green grapes are forming on the ball of his left foot. Hiro’s heart and lungs are well developed, and he has been blessed with unusually quick reflexes, but he is not intrinsically strong, the way his father was. Even if he were intrinsically strong, working with the redneck katana would be very difficult.

He is full of adrenaline, his nerves are shot, and his mind is cluttered up with free-floating anxiety-floating around on an ocean of generalized terror.

He is shuffling back and forth down the thirty.foot axis of the room. From time to time he wifi accelerate, raise the redneck katana up over his head until it is pointed backward, then bring it swiftly down, snapping his wrists at the last moment so that it comes to a stop in midair. Then he says, “Next!”

Theoretically. In fact, the redneck katana is difficult to stop once it gets moving. But it’s good exercise. His forearms look like bundles of steel cables. Almost. Well, they will soon, anyway.