Snow Crash

  “You are saying,” Hiro says, remembering Da5id in the hospital, “that if I could hear someone speaking Sumerian, it would sound like a long stream of short syllables strung together.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Would it sound anything like glossolalia?”

  “Judgment call. Ask someone real,” the Librarian says.

  “Does it sound like any modern tongue?”

  “There is no provable genetic relationship between Sumerian and any tongue that came afterward.”

  “That's odd. My Mesopotamian history is rusty,” Hiro says. “What happened to the Sumerians? Genocide?”

  “No, sir. They were conquered, but there's no evidence of genocide per se.”

  “Everyone gets conquered sooner or later,” Hiro says. “But their languages don't die out. Why did Sumerian disappear?”

  “Since I am just a piece of code, I would be on very thin ice to speculate,” the Librarian says.

  “Okay. Does anyone understand Sumerian?”

  “Yes, at any given time, it appears that there are roughly ten people in the world who can read it.”

  “Where do they work?”

  “One in Israel. One at the British Museum. One in Iraq. One at the University of Chicago. One at the University of Pennsylvania. And five at Rife Bible College in Houston, Texas.”

  “Nice distribution. And have any of these people figured out what the word ‘nam-shub' means in Sumerian?”

  “Yes. A nam-shub is a speech with magical force. The closest English equivalent would be ‘incantation,' but this has a number of incorrect connotations.”

  “Did the Sumerians believe in magic?”

  The Librarian shakes his head minutely. “This is the kind of seemingly precise question that is in fact very profound, and that pieces of software, such as myself, are notoriously clumsy at. Allow me to quote from Kramer, Samuel Noah, and Maier, John R. Myths of Enki, the Crafty God. New York, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989: ‘Religion, magic, and medicine are so completely intertwined in Mesopotamia that separating them is frustrating and perhaps futile work. . . . [Sumerian incantations] demonstrate an intimate connection between the religious, the magical, and the esthetic so complete that any attempt to pull one away from the other will distort the whole.' There is more material in here that might help explain the subject.”

  “In where?”

  “In the next room,” the Librarian says, gesturing at the wall. He walks over and slides the rice-paper partition out of the way.

  A speech with magical force. Nowadays, people don't believe in these kinds of things. Except in the Metaverse, that is, where magic is possible. The Metaverse is a fictional structure made out of code. And code is just a form of speech—the form that computers understand. The Metaverse in its entirety could be considered a single vast nam-shub, enacting itself on L. Bob Rife's fiber-optic network.

  The voice phone rings. “Just a second,” Hiro says.

  “Take your time,” the Librarian says, not adding the obvious reminder that he can wait for a million years if need be.

  “Me again,” Y.T. says. “I'm still on the train. Stumps got off at Express Port 127.”

  “Hmm. That's the antipode of Downtown. I mean, it's as far away from Downtown as you can get.”

  “It is?”

  “Yeah. One-two-seven is two to the seventh power minus one—”

  “Spare me, I take your word for it. It's definitely out in the middle of fucking nowhere,” she says.

  “You didn't get off and follow him?”

  “Are you kidding? All the way out there? It's ten thousand miles from the nearest building, Hiro.”

  She has a point. The Metaverse was built with plenty of room to expand. Almost all of the development is within two or three Express Ports—five hundred kilometers or so—of Downtown. Port 127 is twenty thousand miles away.

  “What is there?”

  “A black cube exactly twenty miles on a side.”

  “Totally black?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How can you measure a black cube that big?”

  “I'm riding along looking at the stars, okay? Suddenly, I can't see them anymore on the right side of the train. I start counting local ports. I count sixteen of them. We get to Express Port 127, and Stumpy climbs off and goes toward the black thing. I count sixteen more local ports and then the stars come out. Then I take thirty-two kilometers and multiply it by point six and I get twenty miles—you asshole.”

  “That's good,” Hiro says. “That's good intel.”

  “Who do you think owns a black cube twenty miles across?”

  “Just going on pure, irrational bias, I'm guessing L. Bob Rife. Supposedly, he has a big hunk of real estate out in the middle of nowhere where he keeps all the guts of the Metaverse. Some of us used to smash into it occasionally when we were out racing motorcycles.”

  “Well, gotta go, pod.”

  28

  Hiro hangs up and walks into the new room. The Librarian follows.

  It is about fifty feet on a side. The center of the space is occupied by three large artifacts, or rather three-dimensional renderings of artifacts. In the center is a thick slab of baked clay, hanging in space, about the size of a coffee table, and about a foot thick. Hiro suspects that it is a magnified rendering of a smaller object. The broad surfaces of the slab are entirely covered with angular writing that Hiro recognizes as cuneiform. Around the edges are rounded, parallel depressions that appear to have been made by fingers as they shaped the slab.

  To the right of the slab is a wooden pole with branches on top, sort of a stylized tree. To the left of the slab is an eight-foot-high obelisk, also covered with cuneiform, with a bas-relief figure chiseled into the top.

  The room is filled with a three-dimensional constellation of hypercards, hanging weightlessly in the air. It looks like a high-speed photograph of a blizzard in progress. In some places, the hypercards are placed in precise geometric patterns, like atoms in a crystal. In other places, whole stacks of them are clumped together. Drifts of them have accumulated in the corners, as though Lagos tossed them away when he was finished. Hiro finds that his avatar can walk right through the hypercards without disturbing the arrangement. It is, in fact, the three-dimensional counterpart of a messy desktop, all the trash still remaining wherever Lagos left it. The cloud of hypercards extends to every corner of the 50-by-50-foot space, and from floor level all the way up to about eight feet, which is about as high as Lagos's avatar could reach.

  “How many hypercards in here?”

  “Ten thousand, four hundred and sixty-three,” the Librarian says.

  “I don't really have time to go through them,” Hiro says. “Can you give me some idea of what Lagos was working on here?”

  “Well, I can read back the names of all the cards if you'd like. Lagos grouped them into four broad categories: Biblical studies, Sumerian studies, neurolinguistic studies, and intel gathered on L. Bob Rife.”

  “Without going into that kind of detail—what did Lagos have on his mind? What was he getting at?”

  “What do I look like, a psychologist?” the Librarian says. “I can't answer those kinds of questions.”

  “Let me try it again. How does this stuff connect, if at all, to the subject of viruses?”

  “The connections are elaborate. Summarizing them would require both creativity and discretion. As a mechanical entity, I have neither.”

  “How old is this stuff?” Hiro says, gesturing to the three artifacts.

  “The clay envelope is Sumerian. It is from the third millennium B.C. It was dug up from the city of Eridu in southern Iraq. The black stele or obelisk is the Code of Hammurabi, which dates from about 1750 B.C. The tree-like structure is a Yahwistic cult totem from Palestine. It's called an asherah. It's from about 900 B.C.”

  “Did you call that slab an envelope?”

  “Yes. It has a smaller clay slab wrapped up inside of it. This was how the Sumerians made
tamper-proof documents.”

  “All these things are in a museum somewhere, I take it?”

  “The asherah and the Code of Hammurabi are in museums. The clay envelope is in the personal collection of L. Bob Rife.”

  “L. Bob Rife is obviously interested in this stuff.”

  “Rife Bible College, which he founded, has the richest archaeology department in the world. They have been conducting a dig in Eridu, which was the cult center of a Sumerian god named Enki.”

  “How are these things related to each other?”

  The Librarian raises his eyebrows. “I'm sorry?”

  “Well, let's try process of elimination. Do you know why Lagos found Sumerian writings interesting as opposed to, say, Greek or Egyptian?”

  “Egypt was a civilization of stone. They made their art and architecture of stone, so it lasts forever. But you can't write on stone. So they invented papyrus and wrote on that. But papyrus is perishable. So even though their art and architecture have survived, their written records—their data—have largely disappeared.”

  “What about all those hieroglyphic inscriptions?”

  “Bumper stickers, Lagos called them. Corrupt political speech. They had an unfortunate tendency to write inscriptions praising their own military victories before the battles had actually taken place.”

  “And Sumer is different?”

  “Sumer was a civilization of clay. They made their buildings of it and wrote on it, too. Their statues were of gypsum, which dissolves in water. So the buildings and statues have since fallen apart under the elements. But the clay tablets were either baked or else buried in jars. So all the data of the Sumerians have survived. Egypt left a legacy of art and architecture; Sumer's legacy is its megabytes.”

  “How many megabytes?”

  “As many as archaeologists bother to dig up. The Sumerians wrote on everything. When they built a building, they would write in cuneiform on every brick. When the buildings fell down, these bricks would remain, scattered across the desert. In the Koran, the angels who are sent to destroy Sodom and Gomorrah say, ‘We are sent forth to a wicked nation, so that we may bring down on them a shower of clay-stones marked by your Lord for the destruction of the sinful.' Lagos found this interesting—this promiscuous dispersal of information, written on a medium that lasts forever. He spoke of pollen blowing in the wind—I gather that this was some kind of analogy.”

  “It was. Tell me—has the inscription on this clay envelope been translated?”

  “Yes. It is a warning. It says, ‘This envelope contains the nam-shub of Enki.' ”

  “I know what a nam-shub is. What is the nam-shub of Enki?”

  The Librarian stares off into the distance and clears his throat dramatically.

  “Once upon a time, there was no snake, there was no scorpion,

  There was no hyena, there was no lion,

  There was no wild dog, no wolf,

  There was no fear, no terror,

  Man had no rival.

  In those days, the land Shubur-Hamazi,

  Harmony-tongued Sumer, the great land of the me of princeship,

  Uri, the land having all that is appropriate,

  The land Martu, resting in security,

  The whole universe, the people well cared for,

  To Enlil in one tongue gave speech.

  Then the lord defiant, the prince defiant, the king defiant,

  Enki, the lord of abundance, whose commands are trustworthy,

  The lord of wisdom, who scans the land,

  The leader of the gods,

  The lord of Eridu, endowed with wisdom,

  Changed the speech in their mouths, put contention into it,

  Into the speech of man that had been one.

  That is Kramer's translation.”

  “That's a story,” Hiro says. “I thought a nam-shub was an incantation.”

  “The nam-shub of Enki is both a story and an incantation,” the Librarian says. “A self-fulfilling fiction. Lagos believed that in its original form, which this translation only hints at, it actually did what it describes.”

  “You mean, changed the speech in men's mouths.”

  “Yes,” the Librarian says.

  “This is a Babel story, isn't it?” Hiro says. “Everyone was speaking the same language, and then Enki changed their speech so that they could no longer understand each other. This must be the basis for the Tower of Babel stuff in the Bible.”

  “This room contains a number of cards tracing that connection,” the Librarian says.

  “You mentioned before that at one point, everyone spoke Sumerian. Then, nobody did. It just vanished, like the dinosaurs. And there's no genocide to explain how that happened. Which is consistent with the Tower of Babel story, and the nam-shub of Enki. Did Lagos think that Babel really happened?”

  “He was sure of it. He was quite concerned about the vast number of human languages. He felt there were simply too many of them.”

  “How many?”

  “Tens of thousands. In many parts of the world, you will find people of the same ethnic group, living a few miles apart in similar valleys under similar conditions, speaking languages that have absolutely nothing in common with each other. This sort of thing is not an oddity—it is ubiquitous. Many linguists have tried to understand Babel, the question of why human language tends to fragment, rather than converging on a common tongue.”

  “Has anyone come up with an answer yet?”

  “The question is difficult and profound,” the Librarian says. “Lagos had a theory.”

  “Yes?”

  “He believed that Babel was an actual historical event. That it happened in a particular time and place, coinciding with the disappearance of the Sumerian language. That prior to Babel/Infocalypse, languages tended to converge. And that afterward, languages have always had an innate tendency to diverge and become mutually incomprehensible—that this tendency is, as he put it, coiled like a serpent around the human brainstem.”

  “The only thing that could explain that is—”

  Hiro stops, not wanting to say it.

  “Yes?” the Librarian says.

  “If there was some phenomenon that moved through the population, altering their minds in such a way that they couldn't process the Sumerian language anymore. Kind of in the same way that a virus moves from one computer to another, damaging each computer in the same way. Coiling around the brainstem.”

  “Lagos devoted much time and effort to this idea,” the Librarian says. “He felt that the nam-shub of Enki was a neurolinguistic virus.”

  “And that this Enki character was a real personage?”

  “Possibly.”

  “And that Enki invented this virus and spread it throughout Sumer, using tablets like this one?”

  “Yes. A tablet has been discovered containing a letter to Enki, in which the writer complains about it.”

  “A letter to a god?”

  “Yes. It is from Sin-samuh, the Scribe. He begins by praising Enki and emphasizing his devotion to him. Then he complains:

  ‘Like a young . . . (line broken)

  I am paralyzed at the wrist.

  Like a wagon on the road when its yoke has split,

  I stand immobile on the road.

  I lay on a bed called “O! and O No!”

  I let out a wail.

  My graceful figure is stretched neck to ground,

  I am paralyzed of foot.

  My . . . has been carried off into the earth.

  My frame has changed.

  At night I cannot sleep,

  my strength has been struck down,

  my life is ebbing away.

  The bright day is made a dark day for me.

  I have slipped into my own grave.

  I, a writer who knows many things, am made a fool.

  My hand has stopped writing

  There is no talk in my mouth.'

  “After more description of his woes, the scribe ends with,

/>   ‘My god, it is you I fear.

  I have written you a letter.

  Take pity on me.

  The heart of my god: have it given back to me.' ”

  29

  Y.T. is maxing at a Mom's Truck Stop on 405, waiting for her ride. Not that she would ever be caught dead at a Mom's Truck Stop. If, like, a semi ran her over with all eighteen of its wheels in front of a Mom's Truck Stop, she would drag herself down the shoulder of the highway using her eyelid muscles until she reached a Snooze 'n' Cruise full of horny derelicts rather than go into a Mom's Truck Stop. But sometimes when you're a professional, they give you a job that you don't like, and you just have to be very cool and put up with it.

  For purposes of this evening's job, the man with the glass eye has already supplied her with a “driver and security person,” as he put it. A totally unknown quantity. Y.T. isn't sure she likes putting up with some mystery guy. She has this image in her mind that he's going to be like the wrestling coach at the high school. That would be so grotendous. Anyway, this is where she's supposed to meet him.

  Y.T. orders a coffee and a slice of cherry pie à la mode. She carries them over to the public Street terminal back in the corner. It is sort of a wraparound stainless steel booth stuck between a phone booth, which has a homesick truck driver poured into it, and a pinball machine, which features a chick with big boobs that light up when you shoot the ball up the magic Fallopians.

  She's not that good at the Metaverse, but she knows her way around, and she's got an address. And finding an address in the Metaverse shouldn't be any more difficult than doing it in Reality, at least if you're not a totally retarded ped.

  As soon as she steps out into the Street, people start giving her these looks. The same kind of looks that people give her when she walks through the worsted-wool desolation of the Westlake Corporate Park in her dynamic blue-and-orange Kourier gear. She knows that the people in the Street are giving her dirty looks because she's just coming in from a shitty public terminal. She's a trashy black-and-white person.