Cryptonomicon

He starts tapping out some lines in a language called Perl. Perl's a scripting language; useful for controlling your computer's functions and automating repetitive tasks. A UNIX machine like this one is rooted in a filesystem that contains tens of thousands of different files, mostly in straight ASCII text format. There are many different programs for opening these files, displaying them on the screen, and editing them. Randy intends to write a Perl script that will roam through the filesystem choosing files at random, opening each file in a randomly sized and located window, paging through it for a while, and then closing it again. If you run the script fast enough, the windows will pop open all over the place in a kind of rectangularized fireworks-burst that will go on forever. If this script is used as the screen background, in place of solid indigo, then this will go on underneath the one window on the screen where Randy's actually working. The people monitoring his work will go crazy trying to track all of this. Especially if Randy writes a script that will cause the real window to change its shape and location at random every few seconds.

It would be really stupid to open the Arethusa intercepts in a window--he's not going to do that. But he can use this technique to conceal whatever else he's doing in the way of decryption work. It occurs to him, however, when he gets a few lines into writing this Perl script, that if he pulls a stunt like that so early in his incarceration, the people surveilling him will know right away that he is on to them. And maybe it's better if he lets them believe, for a while, that he suspects nothing.

So he saves his Perl script and stops working on it for now. If he writes it in short bursts, opening it once or twice a day to type in a few lines and then closing it, it's unlikely that the surveillors will be able to follow what he is up to, even if they happen to be hackers. Just to be an asshole, he modifies his X Windows options in such a way that none of the windows on the screen will have a title bar at the top. That way the surveillance people won't be able to tell what file he is working on at any given moment, which will make it a lot harder for them to string a long series of observations together into a coherent picture of what's in his Perl script.

Too, he opens up the old message from root@eruditorum.org giving the Pontifex Transform, expressed as a few lines of Perl code. The steps that looked so unwieldy when carried out by a computer seem straight forward--easy, even--now that he construes them as manipulations of a deck of cards.

"Randy."

"Hmmm?" Randy looks up from the screen and is startled to find that he is in a jail in the Philippines.

"Dinner is served."

It is Enoch Root, looking at him through the bars. He points at the floor of Randy's cell where a new tray of food has just been slid in. "Actually, it was served an hour ago--you might want to have at it before the rats come."

"Thank you," Randy says. Making sure all the windows on his screen have been closed, he goes over and lifts his dinner up from the spatter of old rat-turds on the floor. It is rice and lechon, a simple and traditional pork dish. Enoch Root finished eating a long time ago--he sits on his bed, next to Randy, and plays an unusual game of solitaire, pausing occasionally to mark down a letter. Randy watches the manipulation of the deck carefully, growingly certain that it is the same set of operations he was just reading about in the old e-mail message.

"So what are you in for?" Randy asks.

Enoch Root finishes counting through the deck, glances at a seven of spades, closes his eyes for a few moments, and marks down a W on his napkin. Then he says, "Disorderly conduct. Trespassing. Incitement to riot. I'm probably guilty of the first two."

"Tell me about it."

"First tell me what you're in for."

"Heroin was found in my bag at the airport. I stand accused of being the world's stupidest drug smuggler."

"Is someone angry at you?"

"That would make for a much longer story," Randy says, "but I think you have the drift."

"Well, in my case, it's like this. I have been working at a mission hospital up in the mountain."

"You're a priest?"

"Not anymore. I'm a lay worker."

"Where's your hospital?"

"South of here. Out in the boondocks," Enoch Root says. "The people there cultivate pineapple, coffee, coconut, bananas, and a few other cash crops. But their land is being torn apart by treasure hunters."

Funnythat Enoch Root should suddenly be on the subject of buried treasure. And yet he has been so tight-lipped. Randy guesses he's intended to play stupid. He takes a stab at it: "Is there supposed to be some treasure down there?"

"The old-timers say that many Nipponese trucks went down a particular road during the last few weeks before MacArthur's return. Past a certain point it was not possible to know where they went, because the road was blocked, and minefields set up to discourage the curious."