SNOW CRASH

The small Asian man has now come into the room. Hiro finally recognizes him. It is the photo that is on the wall of every Mr. Lee’s Greater Hong Kong in the world.

Introductions and bows all around. Suddenly, a number of extra chairs have materialized in the office, so everyone pulls one up. Ng comes out from behind his desk, and they sit in a circle.

“Let us cut to the chase, since I assume that your situation, Hiro, may be more precarious than ours,” Uncle Enzo says.

“You got that right, sir.”

“We would all like to know what the hell is going on,” Mr. Lee says. His English is almost devoid of a Chinese accent; clearly his cute, daffy public image is just a front.

“How much of this have you guys figured out so far?”

“Bits and pieces,” Uncle Enzo says. “How much have you figured out?”

“Almost all of it,” Hiro says. “Once I talk to Juanita, I’ll have the rest.”

“In that case, you are in possession of some very valuable intel,” Uncle Enzo says. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a hypercard and hands it toward Hiro. It says

TWENTY-FIVE