NEAL STEPHENSON

poirit-haw haw haw. Come on, girl, we’re wasting jet fuel over there-that ain’t good for the goddamn environment.”

She follows him to the chopper, climbs on board. It’s warm and light inside here, with nice seats. Like coming in off a hard February day of thrashing the grittier highways and settling into a padded easy chair.

“Had the interior redone,” Rife says. “This is a big old Soy

gunship and it wasn’t made for comfort. But that’s the price you

pay for all that armor plating.”

There’s two other guys in here. One is about fifty, sort of gaunt, big pores, wire-rimmed bifocals, carrying a laptop. A techie. The other is a bulky African-American with a gun. “Y.T.,” says the always polite L. Bob Rife, “meet Frank Frost, my tech director, and Tony Michaels, my security chief.”

“Ma’am,” says Tony.

“Howdy,” says Frank.

“Suck my toes,” says Y.T.

“Don’t step on that, please,” Frank says.

Y.T. looks down. Climbing into the empty seat nearest the door, she has stepped on a package resting on the floor. It’s about the dimensions of a phone book, but irregular, very heavy, swaddled in bubble pack and clear plastic. She can see glimpses of what’s inside. Light reddish brown in color. Covered with chicken scratches. Hard as a rock.

“What’s that?” Y.T. says. “Homemade bread from Mom?”

“It’s an ancient artifact,” Frank says, all pissed off. Rife chuckles, pleased and relieved that Y.T. is now insulting someone else.

Another man duck-walks across the flight deck, in mortal fear of the whirling rotor blades, and climbs in. He’s about sixty, with a dirigible of white hair that was not ruffled in any way by the downdraft.

“Hello, everyone,” he says cheerfully. “I don’t think I’ve met

all of you. Just got here this morning and now I’m on my way

back again!”

“Who are you?” Tony says.

The new guy looks crestfallen. “Greg Ritchie,” he says.

Then, when no one seems to react, he jogs their memory. “President of the United States.”

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