By Christian Viveros-Fauné
By Miriam Felton-Dansky
By Tom Sellar
By Tom Sellar
By Jessica Dawson
By Tom Sellar
By R. C. Baker
By Tom Sellar
Now, another lifetime later, Stephenson has published a book that communicates that excitement more convincinglyand more thoughtfullythan anything he's written yet. Snow Crash fans, be advised: unlike The Diamond Age, a fine but somewhat inscrutable 1995 follow-up, about a future shaped by nanotechnology and the full-scale revival of Victorian culture, Cryptonomicon is Stephenson 2.0, a critical upgrade.
Like a lot of upgrades, it's on the hefty side928 pages, to be precise, and crammed with dense technical details of the sort that fascinate its wonky characters and drive their stories. But pound for pound, it's every bit as unrelenting an entertainment as Snow Crash was, and just as deftly timed to the latest turning point in fin de millennium technological historywhich, in this case, is the moment when the dazzle of our increasingly wired present starts wearing off, and we begin to realize that it has a past as well as a future. What cyberculture needs right now is not another science-fiction novel but its first great historical novel, and Cryptonomicon is it: an intimate genealogical portrait of the 20th century's computer geeks, great and small, and of the technosocial landscape they have more and less knowingly shaped.
For Stephenson, as for most people interested in the history of the information age, the past that matters is World War II, through which approximately one half of Cryptonomicon's labyrinthine plot runs. His war hero is one Lawrence Pritchard Waterhouse, a young navy officer and mathematical genius who gets drafted into the Allied code-breaking effort, headquartered at the famous Bletchley Park, England, where his old Princeton bicycling pal Alan Turing is at work on various top-secret projects, among them the construction of a massive calculating machine programmed to crack the German Enigma cypher. There, Waterhouse catches a preview of the world order soon to emerge from this colossal conflict, a state of things in which control of informationand of the technology that processes itis the prize around which increasingly complex power struggles revolve.
Waterhouse spends the rest of the war in a crazy orbit around Bletchley Park. Assigned to the ultra-hush-hush Detachment 2072, he moves around the globe playing a long-distance game of cryptographic cat-and-mouse with his other old Princeton bicycling pal, math wiz Rudolf von Hacklheber, now Germany's master crypto guy. Concocting elaborate feints to hide the fact that the Allies have cracked Enigma, Waterhouse sends the men of Detachment 2072, led by insanely gung-ho marine sergeant Bobby Shaftoe, out to stage his dangerous ruses. Hilarious consequences ensue, as do mayhem, loss of life, and, eventually, a complicated international conspiracy loosely linked to the invention of the computer.
Meanwhile, back in the late 1990s (or a reasonable facsimile thereof), Waterhouse's thirtysomething grandson Randy, a professional programmer and computer-industry lifer, is grappling with the novel demands of his third dubious start-up venture: an attempt to establish a cryptographically secured offshore e-bank in a small Southeast Asian island-nation. Jetting back and forth between California and the Philippines, Randy Waterhouse leads us on a backstage tour of contemporary Pacific Rim technoculture, as rich in tellingly precise observations as the World War II sections are in vivid historical detail.
Indeed, while it's the swashbuckling Detachment 2072 scenes that give the book its most powerful bursts of narrative, the funniest and most memorable flights of prose tend to emerge from Randy's hackerly ruminations on the wayward trajectory of his life and the curious workings of his desire. In one instance Randy muses at length on the similarities of his love life to a long-ago search for an oral surgeon willing to remove his monstrously impacted wisdom teeth (the man who finally did the operation walked away from it "weighed down, Randy thought, not so much by the stress of his job as by the knowledge that no one was ever going to give him a Nobel prize for what he had just accomplished").
Though infected here and there by some of Stephenson's more annoying attitudinal tics (he apparently never met a combat veteran he didn't want to swaddle in quiet Spielbergian hero worship, or a cultural academic he didn't want to squash like a bug), his study of Randy as a likable sort of American everygeek is an affecting one, rendered in small but brilliantly elaborated moments: Randy with a bowl of Cap'n Crunch in a lonely Philippine hotel room, his meticulously engineered procedure for eating the stuff laid out in a two-and-a-half-page fugue ("The gold nuggets... pelt the bottom of the bowl with a sound like glass rods being snapped in half. Tiny fragments spall away from their corners and ricochet around on the white porcelain surface. World-class cereal-eating is a dance of fine compromises"); Randy briefly visiting his clan of science-professor relatives, who are divvying up Grandma's furniture by distributing it on a complexly valued Cartesian coordinate plane mapped onto a university parking lot.