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."

"Or kill them," Randy says.

Enoch Root takes this in stride. "That road gives way to a rather vast area in which gold might hypothetically have been hidden. Hundreds of square miles. Much of it is jungle. Much has difficult topography. Lots of volcanoes, some extinct, some vomiting up mudflows from time to time. But some is flat enough to grow tropical crops, and in those places, people have settled during the decades since the war, and put together the rudiments of an economy."

"Who owns the land?"

"You've gotten to know the Philippines well," Enoch Root says. "You go immediately to the central question."

"Around here, asking who owns the land is like complaining about the weather in the Midwest," Randy muses.

Enoch Root nods. "I could spend a long time answering your question. The answer is that patterns of ownership changed just after the war, and then changed again under Marcos, and yet again in the last few years. So we have several epochs, if you will. First epoch: before the war. Land owned by certain families."

"Of course."

"Of course. Second epoch: the war. A vast area sealed off by the Nipponese. Some of the families who owned the land prospered under the occupation. Others went bankrupt. Third epoch: postwar. The bankrupt families went away. The prosperous ones expanded their holdings. As did the church and the government."

"Why?"

"The government made part of the land-the jungle-into a national park. And after the eruptions, the church established the mission where I work."

"Eruptions?"

"In the early 1950s, just to make things interesting-you know, things are never interesting enough in the Philippines-the volcanoes acted up. A few lahars came through the area, wiped out some villages, redirected some rivers, displaced many people. The church set up the hospital to help those people."

"A hospital doesn't take up very much land," Randy observes.

"We also have farms. We are trying to help the locals become more self-reliant." Enoch Root acts like he basically does not want to talk about this. "At any rate, things then settled down into a pattern that more or less endured until the Marcos era, when various people were forced to sell some of their holdings to Ferdinand and Imelda and various of their cousins, nephews, cronies, and bootlicks."

"They were looking for Nipponese war gold."

"Certain of the locals have made a business of pretending to remember where the gold is," Enoch Root says. "Once it was understood just how remunerative this could be, it spread like a virus. Everyone claims to have hazy memories of the war now, or of tales that Dad or Granddad told them. The Marcos-era treasure-hunters did not display the cautious skepticism that might have been expected from people with more piercing intellects. Many holes were dug. No gold was found. Things settled down. Then, in the last few years, the Chinese came in."

"Filipinos of Chinese ancestry, or-"

"Chinese of Chinese ancestry," Enoch Root says. "Northern Chinese. Robust ones who like spicy food. Not the usual gracile Cantonese-speaking fish-eaters."

"These people are from where, then-Shanghai?"

Root nods. "Their company is one of these post-Maoist monstrosities. Headed up by an actual Long March veteran. Wily survivor of many purges. Name of Wing. Mr. Wing-or General Wing as he likes to be addressed when he is feeling nostalgic-handled the transition to capitalism rather deftly. Built hydroelectric projects with slave labor during the Great Leap Forward, parlayed that into control of a very large government ministry which has now become a sort of corporation. Mr. Wing has the ability to shut off the electricity to just about any home or factory or even military base in China, and by Chinese standards this makes him into a distinguished elder statesman."

"What does Mr. Wing want there?"

"Land.Land. More land."

"What sort of land?"

"Land in the jungle. Oddly enough."

"Maybe he wants to build a hydroelectric project."

"Yes, and maybe you're a heroin smuggler. Say, Randy, don't think I'm rude for saying so, but you have sauce in your beard." Enoch Root thrusts a hand through the bars, proffering a paper napkin. Randy takes it and, lifting it to his face, notes that the following letters are written on it: OSKJJ JGTMW. Randy pretends to daub sauce off his beard.

"Now I've gone and done it," says Enoch Root, "given you my whole supply of bumwad."

"Greater love hath no man," Randy says. "And I see you gave me your other deck of cards too-you are too generous."

"Not at all-I thought you might want to play solitaire, just as I did."

"Don't mind if I do," Randy says, setting his dinner tray aside and reaching for the deck.

The card on top is an eight of spades. Skimming it and a few more cards out of the way, he finds a joker, with small stars in the corners; according to hints that Enoch has already dropped, this is the A joker. It's the work of a moment to slip it beneath the card below, which happens to be a Jack of clubs. About two-thirds of the way down into the pack he finds a big-star joker, and B stands for Big, so he knows that is Joker B; he moves it down two cards, below the six of clubs and the nine of diamonds. Straightening up the pack and then smearing though it once more, he sticks various fingers in as he re-finds those jacks, and ends up with a good half of the pack-the full inter-Joker span, plus the two Jokers themselves-trapped between his index and forefingers. The thinner stacks above and below he pulls out and swaps with each other. Enoch watches all of this and seems to approve.

Randy pushes out the bottom-most card, now, and it turns out to be a jack of clubs. On second thought he pulls that jack out and leaves it on his knee for the time being, so he won't mess the next part up. According to the mnemonic symbols he's marked on his fingernails, the numerical value of this jack of clubs is simply 11. So, starting from the top of the deck, he counts down to the eleventh card, cuts the deck below it, then swaps the two halves, and finally takes the jack of clubs off his knee and puts it on the bottom of the deck again.

The card on the top of the deck is now a joker. "What's the numerical value for a joker?" he asks, and Enoch Root says, "it's fifty-three, for either one of them." So Randy gets a free ride this time; he knows that if he begins counting down from the top of the deck, when he reaches 53 he'll be staring at the last card. And that card happens to be the Jack of Clubs, with a value of 11. Eleven, then is the first number in the keystream.

Now, the first letter in the ciphertext that Enoch Root wrote on the napkin is O, and (setting the deck of cards down, now, so that he can count through the alphabet on his fingers) O is letter fifteen. If he subtracts eleven from that, he gets four, and he doesn't even have to count on his fingers to know that letter number four is D. He has one letter deciphered.

Randy remarks, "We still haven't gotten to your being arrested."

"Yes! Well, it's like this," says Enoch Root. "Mr. Wing has been digging some holes of his own up in the jungle lately. A lot of trucks have been going through. Ruining the roads. Running over stray dogs, which as you know are an important food source for these people. A boy was hit by one of these trucks and has been in our hospital ever since. The runoff from Mr. Wing's operations has been fouling the river that many people rely on for fresh water. And there are questions of ownership too-some feel that Mr. Wing is encroaching on land that is properly owned by the government. Which in some extremely attenuated sense, means it is owned by the people."

"Does he have a permit?"

"Ah! Once again your knowledge of local politics is evident. As you know, the normal procedure is for local officials to approach people who are digging large holes in the ground, or undertaking any kind of productive or destructive activity whatsoever, and demand that they obtain a permit, which simply means that they want a bribe or else they'll raise a stink about it. Mr. Wing's company has not obtained a permit."

"Has a stink been raised?"

"Yes. But Mr. Wing has forged a very strong relationship with certain Filipinos of Chinese ancestry who are well placed in the government, and so the stink has been unavailing."

The second time through, the joker-moving part went quickly since one of the jokers started out on top. The King of Hearts ends up on the bottom, and hence on Randy's knee. That son of a bitch has a numerical index of 39, and so Randy has to count most of the way through the deck to reach the card in the thirty-ninth position, which is a ten of diamonds. He splits and swaps the deck, then puts the King of Hearts back on the bottom. Top card is now a four of diamonds, which translates to an index of seventeen. Counting the seventeen top cards into his hand he stops and looks at the eighteenth, which is a four of hearts. That works out to a value of 26 + 4 = 30. But everything here is modulo 26, so adding the 26 was a waste of time, because now he has to subtract it right off again. The result is four. The second letter in Enoch's ciphertext is S, which is the nineteenth letter in the alphabet, and subtracting four from that gives him O. So the plaintext, so far, is "DO."

"I get the picture."

"I was sure that you would, Randy."

Randy doesn't know what to make of the Wing business. It puts him in mind of Doug Shaftoe's yarns. Maybe Wing is looking for the Primary, and maybe Enoch Root is too, and maybe the Primary is what Old Man Comstock was trying to find by decrypting the Arethusa messages. Maybe, in other words, the location of the Primary is sitting on Randy's hard drive right now, and Root's worried that Randy, like an idiot, is going to give it away.

How'd he arrange to get into a cell next to Randy's? Presumably the Church's internal lines of communication are first-rate. Root could have known for a few days that Randy was in the clink. Time enough to hatch a plan.

"How'd you end up here, then?" Randy asks.

"We decided to raise a bit of a stink ourselves."

"We being the Church?"

"What do you mean by the Church? If you are asking me whether the Pontifex Maximus and the College of Cardinals put on their pointy bifurcated hats and sat down together in Rome and drew up plans for a stink, the answer is no. If by 'church' you mean the local community in my neighborhood, almost all of whom happen to be devout Catholics, then yes."

"So the community protested, or something, and you were the ring leader."

"I was an example."

"An example?"

"It frequently does not occur to these people to challenge the powers that be. When someone actually does, they always find it incredibly novel, and derive much entertainment from it. That was my role. I had been making a stink about Mr. Wing for quite some time."

Randy can almost guess what the next two letters are going to be, but he has to keep working through the algorithm or the deck will get out of whack. He generates a 23 and then a 47 which, modulo 26, is 21, and subtracting the 23 and the 21 from the next two ciphertext letters K and J (again, modulo 26) gives him N and O as expected. So he has "DONO" deciphered. And continuing to work through it, one letter at a time, the cards getting a little sweaty in his hands now, he eventually gets DONOTUSEP and finally loses his place while trying to generate the last keystream letter. So now the deck is out of whack and completely unrecoverable, reminding him that he'd better be careful next time. But he can guess that this message must be: DO NOT USE PC. Enoch is worried that Randy did not anticipate Van Eck phreaking.

"So. There was a demonstration. You blocked a road or something?"

"We blocked roads, we lay down in front of bulldozers. Some people slashed a few tires. The locals put their ingenuity to work, and things got a bit out of hand. Mr. Wing's dear friends in the government took offense and called out the Army. Seventeen people were arrested. Unreasonably high bail was set for them as a punitive measure-if these people can't get out of jail they can't make money and their families suffer terribly. I could get bailed out if I wanted to, but have elected to stay behind bars as a gesture of solidarity."

It all seems like a plausible enough cover story to Randy. "But I'm guessing that a lot of people in the government are appalled by the fact that they have thrown a saint into jail," he says, "and so they have moved you here, to the high-prestige luxury jail with private cells."

"Once again your understanding of the local culture is conspicuous," Enoch Root says. He shifts position on the bed and his crucifix swings back and forth ponderously. He also has a medallion around his neck with something startling written on it.

"Do you have some occult symbol there?" Randy asks, squinting.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I can make out the word 'occult' on your medallion there."

"It says ignoti et quasi occulti,which means 'unknown and partly hidden' or words to that effect," says Enoch Root. "It is the motto of a society to which I belong. You must know that the word 'occult' does not intrinsically have anything to do with Satanic rituals and drinking blood and all of that. It-"

"I was trained as an astronomer," Randy says. "So I learned all about occultation-the concealment of one body behind another, as during an eclipse."

"Oh. Well, then, I'll shut up."

"In fact, I know more than you might think about occultation," Randy says. It might seem like he's beating a dead horse, except that he catches the eye of Enoch Root while he's saying it, and gives a significant sidelong glance at his computer. Root processes this for a moment and then nods.

"Who's the lady in the middle? The Virgin Mary?" Randy asks.

Root fingers the medallion without looking at it, and says, "Reasonable guess. But wrong. It's Athena."

"The Greek goddess?"

"Yes."

"How do you square that with Christianity?"

"When I phoned you the other day, how did you know it was me?"

"I don't know. I just recognized you."

"Recognized me? What does that mean? You didn't recognize my voice."

"Is this some roundabout way of answering my question about Athena worship v. Christianity?"

"Doesn't it strike you as remarkable that you can look at a stream of characters on the screen of your computer-e-mail from someone you've never seen-and later 'recognize' the same person on the phone? How does that work, Randy?"

"I haven't the faintest idea. The brain can do some weird-"

"Some complain that e-mail is impersonal-that your contact with me, during the e-mail phase of our relationship, was mediated by wires and screens and cables. Some would say that's not as good as conversing face-to-face. And yet our seeing of things is always mediated by corneas, retinas, optic nerves, and some neural machinery that takes the information from the optic nerve and propagates it into our minds. So, is looking at words on a screen so very much inferior? I think not; at least then you are conscious of the distortions. Whereas, when you see someone with your eyes, you forget about the distortions and imagine you are experiencing them purely and immediately."

"So what's your explanation of how I recognized you?"

"I would argue that inside your mind was some pattern of neurological activity that was not there before you exchanged e-mail with me. The Root Representation. It is not me. I'mthis big slug of carbon and oxygen and some other stuff on this cot right next to you. The Root Rep, by contrast, is the thing that you'll carry around in your brain for the rest of your life, barring some kind of major neurological insult, that your mind uses to represent me. When you think about me, in other words, you're not thinking about me qua this big slug of carbon, you are thinking about the Root Rep. Indeed, some day you might get released from jail and run into someone who would say, 'You know, I was in the Philippines once, running around in the boondocks, and I ran into this old fart who started talking to me about Root Reps.' And by exchanging notes (as it were) with this fellow you would be able to establish beyond a reasonable doubt that the Root Rep in your brain and the Root Rep in his brain were generated by the same actual slug of carbon and oxygen and so on: me.

"And this has something to do, again, with Athena?"

"If you think of the Greek gods as real supernatural beings who lived on Mount Olympus, no. But if you think of them as being in the same class of entities as the Root Rep, which is to say, patterns of neurological activity that the mind uses to represent things that it sees, or thinks it sees, in the outside world, then yes. Suddenly, Greek gods can be just as interesting and relevant as real people. Why? Because, in the same way as you might one day encounter another person with his own Root Rep so, if you were to have a conversation with an ancient Greek person, and he started talking about Zeus, you might-once you got over your initial feelings of superiority-discover that you had some mental representations inside your own mind that, though you didn't name them Zeus and didn't think of them as a big hairy thunderbolt-hurling son of a Titan, nonetheless had been generated as a result of interactions with entities in the outside world that are the same as the ones that cause the Zeus Representation to appear in the Greek's mind. And here we could talk about the Plato's Cave thing for a while-the Veg-O-Matic of metaphors-it slices! it dices!"

"In which," Randy says, "the actual entities in the real world are the three-dimensional, real things that are casting the shadows, this Greek dude and I are the wretches chained up looking at the shadows of those things on the walls, and it's just that the shape of the wall in front of me is different from the shape of the wall in front of the Grecian-"

"-so that given a shadow projected on yourwall is going to adopt a different shape from the same shadow projected on his wall, where the different wall-shapes here correspond to let's say your modern scientific worldview versus his ancient pagan worldview."

"Yeah. That Plato's Cave metaphor."

At this very moment some wag of a prison guard, out in the corridor, throws a switch and shuts off all of the lights. The only illumination now is from the screensaver on Randy's laptop, which is running animations of colliding galaxies.

"I think we can stipulate that the wall in front of you, Randy, is considerably flatter and smoother, i.e., it generally gives you a much more accurate shadow than his wall, and yet it's clear that he's still capable of seeing the same shadows and probably drawing some useful conclusions about the shapes of the things that cast them."

"Okay. So the Athena that you honor on your medallion isn't a supernatural being-"

"-who lives on a mountain in Greece, et cetera, but rather whatever entity, pattern, trend, or what-have-you that, when perceived by ancient Greek people, and filtered through their perceptual machinery and their pagan worldview, produced the internal mental representation that they dubbed Athena. The distinction being quite important because Athena the-supernatural-chick-with-the-helmet is of course nonexistent, but 'Athena' the external-generator-of-the-internal-representation-dubbed-Athena-by-the-ancient-Greeks musthave existed back then, or else the internal representation never would have been generated, and if she existed back then, the chances are excellent that she exists now, and if all that is the case, then whatever ideas the ancient Greeks (who, though utter shitheads in many ways, were terrifyingly intelligent people) had about her are probably still quite valid."

"Okay, but why Athena and not Demeter or someone?"

"Well, it's a truism that you can't understand a person without knowing something about her family background, and so we have to do kind of a quick Cliff's Notes number on the ancient Greek Theogony here. We start out with Chaos, which is where all theogonies start, and which I like to think of as a sea of white noise-totally random broadband static. And for reasons that we don't really understand, certain polarities begin to coalesce from this-Day, Night, Darkness, Light, Earth, Sea. Personally, I like to think of these as crystals-not in the hippy-dippy Californian sense, but in the hardass technical sense of resonators, that received certain channels buried in the static of Chaos. At some point, out of certain incestuous couplings among such entities, you get Titans. And it's arguably kind of interesting to note that the Titans provide really the full complement of basic gods-you've got the sun god, Hyperion, and an ocean god, Oceanus, and so on. But they all get overthrown in a power struggle called the Titanomachia and replaced with new gods like Apollo and Poseidon, who end up filling the same slots in the organizational chart, as it were. Which is kind of interesting in that it seems to tie in with what I was saying about the same entities or patterns persisting through time, but casting slightly different shaped shadows for different people. Anyway, so now we have the Gods of Olympus as we normally think of them: Zeus, Hera, and so on.

"A couple of basic observations about these: first, they all, with one exception I'll get to soon, were produced by some kind of sexual coupling, either Titan-Titaness or God-Goddess or God-Nymph or God-Woman or basically Zeus and whom— or whatever Zeus was fucking on any particular day. Which brings me to the second basic observation, which is that the Gods of Olympus are the most squalid and dysfunctional family imaginable. And yet there is something about the motley asymmetry of this pantheon that makes it more credible. Like the Periodic Table of the Elements or the family tree of the elementary particles, or just about any anatomical structure that you might pull up out of a cadaver, it has enough of a pattern to give our minds something to work on and yet an irregularity that indicates some kind of organic provenance-you have a sun god and a moon goddess, for example, which is all clean and symmetrical, and yet over here is Hera, who has no role whatsoever except to be a literal bitch goddess, and then there is Dionysus who isn't even fully a god-he's half human-but gets to be in the Pantheon anyway and sit on Olympus with the Gods, as if you went to the Supreme Court and found Bozo the Clown planted among the justices.

"Now what I'm getting to here is that Athena was exceptional in every way. To begin with she wasn't created through sexual reproduction in any kind of normal sense; she sprang fully-formed from the head of Zeus. According to some versions of the story, this happened after Zeus fucked Metis, about whom we'll hear more in due course. Then he was warned that Metis would later give birth to a son who would dethrone him, and so he ate her, and later Athena came out of his head. Whether you buy into the Metis story or not, I think we can still agree that something a little peculiar was going on with the nativity of Athena. She was also exceptional in that she did not participate in the moral squalor of Olympus; she was a virgin."

"Aha! I knew that was a picture of a virgin on your medallion."

"Yes, Randy, you do have a keen eye for virgins. Hephaestus leg fucked her once but did not achieve penetration. She's quite important in the Odyssey,but there are really very few myths, in the usual sense of that term, that involve her. The one exception really proves the rule: the story of Arachne. Arachne was a superb weaver who became arrogant and began taking credit herself, instead of attributing her talent to the gods. Arachne went so far as to issue an open challenge to Athena, who was the goddess of weaving, among other things.

"Now keep in mind that the typical Greek myth goes something like this: innocent shepherd boy is minding his own business, an overflying god spies him and gets a hard-on, swoops down and rapes him silly; while the victim is still staggering around in a daze, that god's wife or lover, in a jealous rage, turns him-the helpless, innocent victim,that is-into let's say an immortal turtle and e.g. power-staples him to a sheet of plywood with a dish of turtle food just out of his reach and leaves him out in the sun forever to be repeatedly disemboweled by army ants and stung by hornets or something. So if Arachne had dissed anyone else in the Pantheon, she would have been just a smoking hole in the ground before she knew what hit her.