There is a bit of polite snickering as Avi skims his hand over his computer’s trackball, whacks a button with his thumb. A new image appears: the same map, with bright color lines running across the ocean, looping from one city to the next, roughly following the coastlines.
“Existing undersea cables. The fatter the line, the bigger the pipe,” Avi says. “Now, what is wrong with this picture?”
There are several fat lines running east from places like Tokyo, Hong Kong, and Australia, presumably connecting them with the United States. Across the South China Sea, which lies between the Philippines and Vietnam, another fat line angles roughly north-south, but it doesn’t connect either of those two countries: it goes straight to Hong Kong, then continues up the China coast to Shanghai, Korea, and Tokyo.
“Since the Philippines are in the center of the map,” John Cantrell says, “I predict that you are going to point out that hardly any fat lines go to the Philippines.”
“Hardly any fat lines go to the Philippines!” Avi announces briskly. He points out the one exception, which runs from Taiwan south to northern Luzon, then skips down the coast to Corregidor. “Except for this one, which Epiphyte(1) is involved with. But it’s not just that. There is a general paucity of fat lines in a north-south direction, connecting Australia with Asia. A lot of data packets going from Sydney to Tokyo have to be routed through California. There’s a market opportunity.”
Beryl breaks in. “Avi, before you get started on this,” she says, sounding cautious and regretful, “I have to say that laying long-distance, deep-sea cables is a difficult business to break into.”
“Beryl is right!” Avi says. “The only people who have the wherewithal to lay those cables are AT&T, Cable & Wireless, and Kokusai Denshin Denwa. It’s tricky. It’s expensive. It requires massive NRE.”
The abbreviation stands for “non-recoverable expenses,” meaning engineering work to complete a feasibility study that would be money down the toilet if the idea didn’t fly.
“So what are you thinking?” Beryl says.
Avi clicks up another map. This one is the same as the previous, except that new lines have been drawn in: a whole series of short island-to-island links. A bewilderingly numerous chain of short hops down the length of the Philippine archipelago.
“You want to wire the Philippines and patch them into the Net via your existing link to Taiwan,” says Tom Howard, in a heroic bid to short-circuit what he senses will be a lengthy part of Avi’s presentation.
“The Philippines are going to be hot shit informationally speaking,” Avi says. “The government has its flaws, but basically it’s a democracy modeled after Western institutions. Unlike most Asians, they do ASCII. Most of them speak English. Longstanding ties to the United States. These guys are going to be big players, sooner or later, in the information economy.”
Randy breaks in. “We’ve already established a foothold there. We know the local business environment. And we have cash flow.”
Avi clicks up another map. This one’s harder to make out. It looks like a relief map of a vast region of high mountains interrupted by occasional plateaus. Its appearance in the middle of this presentation without any labels or explanation from Avi makes it an implicit challenge to the mental acumen of the other people in the room. None of them is going to ask for help anytime soon. Randy watches them squint and tilt their heads from side to side. Eberhard Föhr, who is good at odd puzzles, gets it first.
“Southeast Asia with the oceans drained,” he says. “That high ridge on the right is New Guinea. Those bumps are the volcanoes of Borneo.”
“Pretty cool, huh?” Avi says. “It’s a radar map. U.S. military satellites gathered all this data. You can get it for next to nothing.”
On this map the Philippines can be understood, not as a chain of separate islands, but as the highest regions of a huge oblong plateau surrounded by deep gashes in the earth’s crust. To get from Luzon up to Taiwan by going across the ocean floor you would have to plunge into a deep trench, flanked by parallel mountain ranges, and follow it northwards for about three hundred miles. But south of Luzon, in the region where Avi is proposing to lay a network of inter-island cables, it’s all shallow and flat.
Avi clicks again, superimposing transparent blue over the parts that are below sea level, green on the islands. Then he zooms in on an area in the center of the map, where the Philippine plateau extends two arms southwest toward northern Borneo, embracing, and nearly enclosing, a diamond-shaped body of water, three hundred and fifty miles across. “The Sulu Sea,” he announces. “No relation to the token Asian on Star Trek.”
No one laughs. They are not really here to be entertained—they are concentrating on the map. All of the different archipelagos and seas are confusing, even for smart people with good spatial relations. The Philippines form the upper right boundary of the Sulu Sea, north Borneo (part of Malaysia) the lower left, the Sulu Archipelago (part of the Philippines) the lower right, and the upper left boundary is one extremely long skinny Philippine island called Palawan.
“This reminds us that national boundaries are artificial and silly,” Avi says. “The Sulu Sea is a basin in the middle of a larger plateau shared by the Philippines and Borneo. So if you’re wiring up the Philippines, you can just as easily wire Borneo up to that network at the same time, just by outlining the Sulu Sea with shallow, short-hop cables. Like this.”
Avi clicks again and the computer draws in more colored lines.
“Avi, why are we here?” Eberhard asks.
“That is a very profound question,” Avi says.
“We know the economics of these startups,” Eb says. “We begin with nothing but the idea. That’s what the NDA is for—to protect your idea. We work on the idea together—put our brainpower into it—and get stock in return. The result of this work is software. The software is copyrightable, trademarkable, perhaps patentable. It is intellectual property. It is worth some money. We all own it in common, through our shares. Then we sell some more shares to an investor. We use the money to hire more people and turn it into a product, to market it, and so on. That’s how the system works, but I’m beginning to think you don’t understand it.”
“Why do you say that?”
Eb looks confused. “How can we contribute to this? How can we turn our brainpower into equity that an investor will want to own a part of?”
Everyone looks at Beryl. Beryl’s nodding agreement with Eb. Tom Howard says, “Avi. Look. I can engineer big computer installations. John wrote Ordo—he knows everything about crypto. Randy does Internet, Eb does weird stuff, Beryl does money. But as far as I know, none of us knows diddly about undersea cable engineering. What good will our resumes do you when you go up in front of some venture capitalists?”
Avi’s nodding. “Everything you say is true,” he concedes smoothly. “We would have to be crazy to get involved in running cables through the Philippines. That is a job for Fili-Tel, with whom Epiphyte(1) has been joint-venturing.”
“Even if we were crazy,” Beryl says, “we wouldn’t have the opportunity, because no one would give us the money.”
“Fortunately we don’t need to worry about that,” Avi says, “because it’s being done for us.” He turns to the whiteboard, picks up a red magic marker, and draws a fat line between Taiwan and Luzon, his hands picking up a leprous, mottled look from the shaded relief of the ocean floor that is being projected against his skin. “KDD, which is anticipating major growth in the Philippines, is already laying another big cable here.” He moves down and begins to draw smaller, shorter links between islands in the archipelago. “And FiliTel, which is funded by AVCLA—Asia Venture Capital Los Angeles—is wiring the Philippines.”
“What does Epiphyte(1) have to do with that?” Tom Howard asks.
“To the extent they want to use that network for Internet Protocol traffic, they need routers and network savvy,” Randy explains.
“So, to repeat my question: why are we here?” Eberha
rd says, patiently but firmly.
Avi works with his pen for a while. He circles an island at one corner of the Sulu Sea, centered in the gap between North Borneo and the long skinny Philippine island called Palawan. He labels it in block letters: SULTANATE OF KINAKUTA.
“Kinakuta was run by white sultans for a while. It’s a long story. Then it was a German colony,” Avi says. “Back then, Borneo was part of the Dutch East Indies, and Palawan—like the rest of the Philippines—was first Spanish and then American. So this was the Germans’ foothold in the area.”
“Germans always ended up holding the shittiest colonies,” Eb says ruefully.
“After the First World War, they handed it over to the Japanese, along with a lot of other islands much farther to the east. All of these islands, collectively, were called the Mandates because Japan controlled them under a League of Nations Mandate. During the Second World War the Japanese used Kinakuta as a base for attacks on the Dutch East Indies and the Philippines. They retained a naval base and airfield there. After the war, Kinakuta became independent, as it had been before the Germans. The population is Muslim or ethnic Chinese around the edges, animist in the center, and it’s always been ruled by a sultan—even while occupied by the Germans and the Japanese, who both co-opted the sultans but kept them in place as figureheads. Kinakuta had oil reserves, but they were unreachable until the technology got better and prices went up, around the time of the Arab oil embargo, which was also when the current sultan came into power. That sultan is now a very rich man—not as rich as the Sultan of Brunei, who happens to be his second cousin, but rich.”
“The sultan is backing your company?” Beryl asks.
“Not in the way you mean,” Avi says.
“What way do you mean?” Tom Howard asks, impatient.
“Let me put it this way,” Avi says. “Kinakuta is a member of the United Nations. It is every bit as much an independent country and member of the community of nations as France or England. As a matter of fact, it is exceptionally independent because of its oil wealth. It is basically a monarchy—the sultan makes the laws, but only after extensive consultation with his ministers, who set policy and draft legislation. And I’ve been spending a lot of time, recently, with the Minister of Posts and Telecommunications. I have been helping the minister draft a new law that will govern all telecommunications passing through Kinakutan territory.”
“Oh, my god!” John Cantrell says. He is awestruck.
“One free share of stock to the man in the black hat!” Avi says. “John has figured out Avi’s secret plan. John, would you like to explain to the other contestants?”
John takes his hat off and runs his hand back through his long hair. He puts his hat back on and heaves a sigh. “Avi is proposing to start a data haven,” he says.
A little murmur of admiration runs through the room. Avi waits for it to subside and says, “Slight correction: the sultan’s starting the data haven. I’m proposing to make money off it.”
ULTRA
* * *
LAWRENCE PRITCHARD WATERHOUSE GOES INTO battle armed with one-third of a sheet of British typing paper on which has been typed some words that identify it as a pass to Bletchley Park. His name and some other things have been scribbled on it in some upper-class officer’s Mont Blanc blue-black, the words ALL SECTIONS circled, and a stamp smashed across it, blurred into a red whore’s kiss, with sheer carelessness conveying greater Authority and Power than the specious clarity of a forger.
He finds his way round the mansion to the narrow lane that runs between it and its row of red-brick garages (or stables, as his grandparents would be likely to peg them). He finds it a very pleasant place for a cigarette. The lane is lined with trees, a densely planted hedge of them. The sun is just setting now. It is still high enough to snipe through any small defects that it finds in the defensive perimeter of the horizon, so narrow red beams strike him surprisingly in the eye as he ambles back and forth. He knows one is shining invisibly through the clear air several feet above him, because it is betraying an aerial: a strand of copper wire stretched from the wall of the mansion to a nearby cypress. It catches the light in precisely the same way as the strand of the spiderweb that Waterhouse was playing with earlier.
The sun will be down soon; it is already down in Berlin, as in most of the hellish empire that Hitler has built from Calais to the Volga. Time for the radio operators to begin their work. Radio does not, in general, go around corners. This can be a real pain when you are conquering the world, which is inconveniently round, placing all of your most active military units over the horizon. But if you use shortwave, then you can bounce the information off the ionosphere. This works a good deal better when the sun is not in the sky, sluicing the atmosphere with wideband noise. So radio telegraphers, and the people who eavesdrop on them (what the Brits call the Y Service) are, alike, nocturnal beings.
As Waterhouse has just observed, the mansion has an aerial or two. But Bletchley Park is a huge and ravenous spider that requires a web the size of a nation to feed it. He has seen enough evidence, from the black cables climbing the mansion’s walls and the smell and hiss of the massed teletypes, to know that the web is at least partly made of copper wires. Another piece of the web is made of rude stuff like concrete and asphalt.
The gate swings open and a man on a green motorcycle banks steeply into the lane, the two cylinders of his machine blatting away, the noise stinging Waterhouse’s nose as he rides by. Waterhouse strides after him for some distance, but loses his trail after a hundred yards or so. That is acceptable; more of them will be along soon, as the Wehrmacht’s nervous system awakens and its signals are picked up by the Y Service.
The motorcyclist went through a quaint little gate that joins two old buildings. The gate is topped by a tiny cupola with a weathervane and a clock. Waterhouse goes through it and finds himself in a little square that evidently dates back to when Bletchley Park was a precious Buckinghamshire farmstead. To the left, the line of stables continues. Small gables have been set into the roof, which is stained with bird shit. The building is quivering with pigeons. Directly in front of him is a nice little red-brick Tudor farmhouse, the only thing he has seen so far that is not architecturally offensive. Off to his right is a one-story building. Strange information is coming out of this building: the hot-oil smell of teletypes, but no typing noises, just a high mechanical whine.
A door opens on the stable building and a man emerges carrying a large but evidently lightweight box with a handle on the top. Cooing noises come from the box and Waterhouse realizes that it contains pigeons. Those birds living up in the gables are not feral; they are homing pigeons. Carriers of information, strands of Bletchley Park’s web.
He homes in on the building that smells of hot oil and gazes into a window. As evening falls, light has begun to leak out of it, betraying information to black German reconnaissance planes, so a porter is strutting about the courtyard slamming the black shutters closed.
Some information comes into Waterhouse’s eyes at least: on the other side of that window, men are gathered around a machine. Most of them are wearing civilian clothes, and they have been too busy, for too long, to trifle much with combs and razors and shoe polish. The men are intensely focused upon their work, which all has to do with this large machine. The machine consists of a large framework of square steel tubing, like a bedstead set up on one end. Metal drums with the diameter of dinner plates, an inch or so thick, are mounted at several locations on this framework. Paper tape has been threaded in a bewilderingly loopy trajectory from drum to drum. It looks as if a dozen yards of tape are required to thread the machine.
One of the men has been working on a rubber drive belt that goes around one of the drums. He steps back from it and makes a gesture with his hand. Another man flips a switch and the drums all begin to spin at once. The tape begins to fly through the system. Holes punched in the tape carry data; it all blurs into a grey streak now, the speed creating an illusion in wh
ich the tape appears to dissolve into a ribbon of smoke.
No, it is not an illusion. Real smoke is curling up from the spinning drums. The tape is running through the machine so fast that it is catching fire before the eyes of Waterhouse and the men inside, who watch it calmly, as if it were smoking in an entirely new and interesting way.
If there is a machine in the world capable of reading data from a tape that fast, Waterhouse has never heard of it.
The black shutter slams home. Just as it does, Waterhouse gets one fragmentary glimpse of another object standing in the corner of the room: a steel rack in which a large number of grey cylindrical objects are stored in neat rows.
Two motorcyclists come through the courtyard at once, running in the darkness with their headlights off. Waterhouse jogs after them for a bit, leaving the picturesque old courtyard behind and entering into the world of the huts, the new structures thrown up in the last year or two. “Hut” makes him think of a tiny thing, but these huts, taken together, are more like that new Pentagon thing that the War Department has been putting up across the river from D.C. They embody a blunt need for space unfiltered through any aesthetic or even human considerations.
Waterhouse walks to an intersection of roads where he thought he heard the motorcycles making a turn, and stops, hemmed in by blast walls. On an impulse, he clambers to the top of a wall and takes a seat. The view from here is no better. He knows that thousands of people are at work all around him in these huts, but he sees none of them, there are no signposts.
He is still trying to work out that business that he saw through the window.
The tape was running so fast that it smoked. There is no point of driving it that fast unless the machine can read the information that fast—transforming the pattern of holes in the tape into electrical impulses.
But why bother, if those impulses had nowhere to go? No human mind could deal with a stream of characters coming in at that speed. No teletype that Waterhouse knew of could even print them out.