Neal stephenson cryptonomicon epub


/keybase/public/ffffslop/Cryptonomicon - Neal Cryptonomicon - Neal Download Raw. This file was signed by. Cryptonomicon by Neal Stephenson Prologue Two tires fly. Two wail. A bamboo grove, all chopped down From it, warring songs.,,,is the best. Cryptonomicon. byStephenson, Neal. Publication date For print-disabled users. Borrow this book to access EPUB and PDF files.

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Neal Stephenson Cryptonomicon Epub

Cryptonomicon · Neal, epub, , English, , [Download]. Neal Stephenson Cryptonomicon · Neal, pdf, , French, , [Download]. 3 days ago xx. Cryptonomicon by Neal Stephenson EPUB Neal Stephenson hacks into the secret histories of nations and the private obsessions of men. Home>; FICTION>; Science Fiction>; Cryptonomicon - EPUB. Share This . See Neal Stephenson at UNIVERSITY BOOKSTORE at Town Hall Seattle. Jun. 4.

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A bamboo grove, all chopped down From it, warring songs. Is "tires" one syllable or two? How about "wail? The wail-and the moment-are lost. Bobby can still hear the coolies singing, though, and now too there's the gunlike snicking of the truck's clutch linkage as Private Wiley downshifts.

Could Wiley be losing his nerve? And, in the back, under the tarps, a ton and a half of file cabinets clanking, code books slaloming, fuel spanking the tanks of Station Alpha's electrical generator. The modern world's hell on haiku writers: You couldn't even fit that onto the second line!

A Sikh policeman hurdles a night soil cart. Shaftoe's gut reaction is: Sure, what're they going to do, declare war on us? He takes stock of the situation: Shanghai, hours, Friday, the 28th of November Bobby Shaftoe, and the other half-dozen Marines on his truck, are staring down the length of Kiukiang Road, onto which they've just made this careening high-speed turn. Cathedral's going by to the right, so that means they are, what? A Yangtze River Patrol gunboat is tied up there, waiting for the stuff they've got in the back of this truck.

The only real problem is that those particular two blocks are inhabited by about five million Chinese people.


Now these Chinese are sophisticated urbanites, not suntanned yokels who've never seen cars before-they'll get out of your way if you drive fast and honk your horn. And indeed many of them flee to one side of the street or the other, producing the illusion that the truck is moving faster than the forty-three miles an hour shown on its speedometer.

But the bamboo grove in Bobby Shaftoe's haiku has not been added just to put a little Oriental flavor into the poem and wow the folks back home in Oconomowoc. There is a lot of heavy bamboo in front of this truck, dozens of makeshift turnpikes blocking their path to the river, for the officers of the U. Navy's Asiatic Fleet, and of the Fourth Marines, who dreamed up this little operation forgot to take the Friday Afternoon factor into account.

As Bobby Shaftoe could've explained to them, if only they'd bothered to ask a poor dumb jarhead, their route took them through the heart of the banking district.

It must be a cutthroat business because they slash costs by printing it on old newspapers, and if you know how to read Chinese, you can see last year's news stories and polo scores peeking through the colored numbers and pictures that transform these pieces of paper into legal tender.

As every chicken-peddler and rickshaw operator in Shanghai knows, the money-printing contracts stipulate that all of the bills these banks print have to be backed by such-and-such an amount of silver; i. Now if China weren't right in the middle of getting systematically drawn and quartered by the Empire of Nippon, it would probably send official bean counters around to keep tabs on how much silver was actually present in these banks' vaults, and it would all be quiet and orderly.

But as it stands, the only thing keeping these banks honest is the other banks. Here's how they do it: They'll take it into a back room and sort it, throwing into money boxes a couple of feet square and a yard deep, with ropes on the four corners all of the bills that were printed by say Bank of America in one, all of the City Bank bills into another.

Then, on Friday afternoon they will bring in coolies. Each coolie, or pair of coolies, will of course have his great big long bamboo pole with him-a coolie without his pole is like a China Marine without his nickel-plated bayonet-and will poke their pole through the ropes on the corners of the box.

Then one coolie will get underneath each end of the pole, hoisting the box into the air. They have to move in unison or else the box begins flailing around and everything gets out of whack. So as they head towards their destination-whatever bank whose name is printed on the bills in their box-they sing to each other, and plant their feet on the pavement in time to the music. The pole's pretty long, so they are that far apart, and they have to sing loud to hear each other, and of course each pair of coolies in the street is singing their own particular song, trying to drown out all of the others so that they don't get out of step.

So ten minutes before closing time on Friday afternoon, the doors of many banks burst open and numerous pairs of coolies march in singing, like the curtain-raiser on a fucking Broadway musical, slam their huge boxes of tattered currency down, and demand silver in exchange. All of the banks do this to each other.

Sometimes, they'll all do it on the same Friday, particularly at times like 28 November , when even a grunt like Bobby Shaftoe can understand that it's better to be holding silver than piles of old cut-up newspaper. And that is why, once the normal pedestrians and food-cart operators and furious Sikh cops have scurried out of the way, and plastered themselves up against the clubs and shops and bordellos on Kiukiang Road, Bobby Shaftoe and the other Marines on the truck still cannot even see the gunboat that is their destination, because of this horizontal forest of mighty bamboo poles.

They cannot even hear the honking of their own truck horn because of the wild throbbing pentatonic cacophony of coolies singing. This ain't just your regular Friday P.

Shanghai bank-district money-rush. This is an ultimate settling of accounts before the whole Eastern Hemisphere catches fire.

The millions of promises printed on those slips of bumwad will all be kept or broken in the next ten minutes; actual pieces of silver and gold will move, or they won't. It is some kind of fiduciary Judgment Day. He's not telling Wiley to run over the coolies, he's reminding Wiley that if he refrains from running over them, they will have some explaining to do-which will be complicated by the fact that the captain's right behind them in a car stuffed with Tommy Gun-toting China Marines.

And from the way the captain's been acting about this Station Alpha thing, it's pretty clear that he already has a few preliminary strap marks on his ass, courtesy of some admiral in Pearl Harbor or even drumroll Marine Barracks, Eight and Eye Streets Southeast, Washington, D.

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Shaftoe and the other Marines have always known Station Alpha as a mysterious claque of pencil-necked swabbies who hung out on the roof of a building in the International Settlement in a shack of knot-pocked cargo pallet planks with antennas sticking out of it every which way.

If you stood there long enough you could see some of those antennas moving, zeroing in on something out to sea. Shaftoe even wrote a haiku about it: Antenna searches Retriever's nose in the wind Ether's far secrets This was only his second haiku ever-clearly not up to November standards-and he cringes to remember it.

But in no way did any of the Marines comprehend what a big deal Station Alpha was until today. Their job had turned out to involve wrapping a ton of equipment and several tons of paper in tarps and moving it out of doors. Then they spent Thursday tearing the shack apart, making it into a bonfire, and burning certain books and papers.


Only a few of the coolies have gotten out of the way, or even seen them. But then there is this fantastic boom from the river, like the sound of a mile-thick bamboo pole being snapped over God's knee.

Half a second later there're no coolies in the street anymore-just a lot of boxes with unmanned bamboo poles teeter-tottering on them, bonging into the streets like wind-chimes.

Above, a furry mushroom of grey smoke rises from the gunboat. Wiley shifts up to high gear and floors it. Shaftoe cringes against the truck's door and lowers his head, hoping that his campy Great War doughboy helmet will be good for something. Then money-boxes start to rupture and explode as the truck rams through them. Shaftoe peers up through a blizzard of notes and sees giant bamboo poles soaring and bounding and windmilling toward the waterfront. The leaves of Shanghai: Pale doorways in a steel sky.

Winter has begun. Chapter One Barrens Let's set the existence-of-God issue aside for a later volume, and just stipulate that in some way, self-replicating organisms came into existence on this planet and immediately began trying to get rid of each other, either by spamming their environments with rough copies of themselves, or by more direct means which hardly need to be belabored. Most of them failed, and their genetic legacy was erased from the universe forever, but a few found some way to survive and to propagate.

After about three billion years of this sometimes zany, frequently tedious fugue of carnality and carnage, Godfrey Waterhouse IV was born, in Murdo, South Dakota, to Blanche, the wife of a Congregational preacher named Bunyan Waterhouse. Like every other creature on the face of the earth, Godfrey was, by birthright, a stupendous badass, albeit in the somewhat narrow technical sense that he could trace his ancestry back up a long line of slightly less highly evolved stupendous badasses to that first self-replicating gizmo-which, given the number and variety of its descendants, might justifiably be described as the most stupendous badass of all time.

Everyone and everything that wasn't a stupendous badass was dead. As nightmarishly lethal, memetically programmed death-machines went, these were the nicest you could ever hope to meet.

Cryptonomicon Item Preview. EMBED for wordpress. Want more? Advanced embedding details, examples, and help! Publication date Publisher New York: Avon Press.

Collection inlibrary ; printdisabled ; internetarchivebooks ; delawarecountydistrictlibrary ; china ; americana.

Digitizing sponsor Internet Archive. Contributor Internet Archive. Language English. An American computer hacker operating in Southeast Asia attempts to break a World War II cypher to find the location of a missing shipment of gold. The gold was stolen by the Japanese during the war. By the author of The Diamond Age. Boxid IA City New York. Donor friendsofthesanfranciscopubliclibrary.

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Edition 1. Avon Books paperback printing. External-identifier urn: Extramarc The Indiana University Catalog. Identifier cryptonomicon00neal.

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