'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 treelike 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.'
