sk.everythingseventual-第53节

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I　went　right　to　it；　and　all　my　symbols　were　there…circles；　triangles；　japps；　mirks；　rhomboids；　bews；　smims；　fouders；　hundreds　more。　Thousands　more。　Maybe　millions　more。　It's　sort　of　like　Mr。　Sharpton　said：　a　new　world；　and　I'm　on　the　coastline　of　the　first　continent。
　　All　I　know　is　that　all　at　once　it　was　there　for　me；　I　had　a　great　big　Macintosh　puter　to　work　with　instead　of　a　little　piece　of　pink　chalk；　and　all　I　had　to　do　was　type　the　words　for　the　symbols　and　the　symbols　would　appear。　I　was　jacked　to　the　max。　I　mean　my　God。　It　was　like　a　river　of　fire　burning　in　the　middle　of　my　head。　I　wrote；　I　called　up　symbols；　I　used　the　mouse　to　drag　everything　where　it　was　supposed　to　be。　And　when　it　was　done；　I　had　a　letter。　One　of　the　special　letters。
　　But　a　letter　to　who？
　　A　letter　to　where？
　　Then　I　realized　it　didn't　matter。　Make　a　few　minor　customizing　touches；　and　there　were　many　people　the　letter　could　go　to　although　this　one　had　been　written　for　a　man　rather　than　a　woman。　I　don't　know　how　I　knew　that；　I　just　did。　I　decided　to　start　with　Cincinnati；　only　because　Cincinnati　was　the　first　city　to　e　into　my　mind。　It　could　as　easily　have　been　Zurich；　Switzerland；　or　Waterville；　Maine。
　　I　tried　to　open　a　TOOLS　program　titled　DINKYMAIL。　Before　the　puter　would　let　me　in　there；　it　prompted　me　to　wake　up　my　modem。　Once　the　modem　was　running；　the　puter　wanted　a　312　area　code。　312's　Chicago；　and　I　imagine　that；　as　far　as　the　phone　pany　is　concerned；　my　pu…calls　all　e　from　TransCorp's　headquarters。　I　didn't　care　one　way　or　another；　that　was　their　business。　I　had　found　my　business　and　was　taking　care　of　it。
　　With　the　modem　awake　and　linked　to　Chicago；　the　puter　flashed
　　
　　DINKYMAIL　READY。
　　
　　I　clicked　on　LOCALE。　I'd　been　in　the　study　almost　three　hours　by　then；　with　only　one　break　to　take　a　quick　piss；　and　I　could　smell　myself；　sweating　and　stinking　like　a　monkey　in　a　greenhouse。　I　didn't　mind。　I　liked　the　smell。　I　was　having　the　time　of　my　life。　I　was　fucking　delirious。
　　I　typed　CINCINNATI　and　hit　EXECUTE。
　　
　　NO　LISTINGS　CINCINNATI
　　
　　the　puter　said。　Okay；　not　a　problem。　Try　Columbus…closer　to　home；　anyway。　And　yes；　folks！　We　have　a　Bingo。
　　
　　TWO　LISTINGS　COLUMBUS
　　
　　There　were　two　telephone　numbers。　I　clicked　on　the　top　one；　curious　and　a　little　afraid　of　what　might　pop　out。　But　it　wasn't　a　dossier；　a　profile；　or…God　forbid…a　photograph。　There　was　one　single　word：
　　
　　MUFFIN。
　　
　　Say　what？
　　But　then　I　knew。　Muffin　was　Mr。　Columbus's　pet。　Very　likely　a　cat。　I　called　up　my　special　letter　again；　transposed　two　symbols　and　deleted　a　third。　Then　I　added　MUFFIN　to　the　top；　with　an　arrow　pointing　down。　There。　Perfect。
　　Did　I　wonder　who　Muffin's　owner　was；　or　what　he　had　done　to　warrant　TransCorp's　attention；　or　exactly　what　was　going　to　happen　to　him？　I　did　not。　The　idea　that　my　conditioning　at　Peoria　might　have　been　partially　responsible　for　this　disinterest　never　crossed　my　mind；　either。　I　was　doing　my　thing；　that　was　all。　Just　doing　my　thing；　and　as　happy　as　a　clam　at　high　tide。
　　I　called　the　number　on　the　screen。　I　had　the　puter's　speaker　on；　but　there　was　no　hello；　only　the　screechy　mating…call　of　another　puter。　Just　as　well；　really。　Life's　easier　when　you　subtract　the　human　element。　Then　it's　like　that　movie；　Twelve　O'Clock　High；　cruising　over　Berlin　in　your　trusty　B…25；　looking　through　your　trusty　Norden　bombsight　and　waiting　for　just　the　right　moment　to　push　your　trusty　button。　You　might　see　smokestacks；　or　factory　roofs；　but　no　people。　The　guys　who　dropped　the　bombs　from　their　B…25s　didn't　have　to　hear　the　screams　of　mothers　whose　children　had　just　been　reduced　to　guts；　and　I　didn't　even　have　to　hear　anyone　say　hello。　A　very　good　deal。
　　After　a　little　bit；　I　turned　off　the　speaker　anyway。　I　found　it　distracting。
　　
　　MODEM　FOUND；
　　
　　the　puter　flashed；　and　then
　　
　　SEARCH　FOR　E…MAIL　ADDRESS　Y/N。
　　
　　I　typed　Y　and　waited。　This　time　the　wait　was　longer。　I　think　the　puter　was　going　back　to　Chicago　again；　and　getting　what　it　needed　to　unlock　the　e…mail　address　of　Mr。　Columbus。　Still；　it　was　less　than　thirty　seconds　before　the　puter　was　right　back　at　me　with
　　
　　E…MAIL　ADDRESS　FOUND　SEND　DINKYMAIL　Y/N。
　　
　　I　typed　Y　with　absolutely　no　hesitation。　The　puter　flashed
　　
　　SENDING　DINKYMAIL
　　
　　and　then
　　
　　DINKYMAIL　SENT。
　　
　　That　was　all。　No　fireworks。
　　I　wonder　what　happened　to　Muffin；　though。
　　You　know。　After。
　　
　　XVI
　　
　　That　night　I　called　Mr。　Sharpton　and　said；　'I'm　working。'
　　'That's　good；　Dink。　Great　news。　Feel　better？'　Calm　as　ever。　Mr。　Sharpton　is　like　the　weather　in　Tahiti。
　　'Yeah；'　I　said。　The　fact　was；　I　felt　blissful。　It　was　the　best　day　of　my　life。　Doubts　or　no　doubts；　worries　or　no　worries；　I　still　say　that。　The　most　eventual　day　of　my　life。　It　was　like　a　river　of　fire　in　my　head；　a　fucking　river　of　fire；　can　you　get　that？　'Do　you　feel　better；　Mr。　Sharpton？　Relieved？'
　　'I'm　happy　for　you；　but　I　can't　say　I'm　relieved；　because…'
　　'…you　were　never　worried　in　the　first　place。'
　　'Got　it　in　one；'　he　said。
　　'Everything's　eventual；　in　other　words。'
　　He　laughed　at　that。　He　always　laughs　when　I　say　that。　'That's　right；　Dink。　Everything's　eventual。'
　　'Mr。　Sharpton？'
　　'Yes？'
　　'E…mail's　not　exactly　private；　you　know。　Anybody　who's　really　dedicated　can　hack　into　it。'
　　'Part　of　what　you　send　is　a　suggestion　that　the　recipient　delete　the　message　from　all　files；　is　it　not？'
　　'Yes；　but　I　can't　absolutely　guarantee　that　he'll　do　it。　Or　she。'
　　'Even　if　they　don't；　nothing　can　happen　to　someone　else　who　chances　on　such　a　message；　am　I　correct？　Because　it's　。　。　。　personalized。'
　　'Well；　it　might　give　someone　a　headache；　but　that　would　be　about　all。'
　　'And　the　munication　itself　would　look　like　so　much　gibberish。'
　　'Or　a　code。'
　　He　laughed　heartily　at　that。　'Let　them　try　to　break　it；　Dinky；　eh？　Just　let　them　try！'
　　I　sighed。　'I　suppose。'
　　'Let's　discuss　something　more　important；　Dink　。　。　。　how　did　it　feel？'
　　'Fucking　wonderful。'
　　'Good。　Don't　question　wonder；　Dink。　Don't　ever　question　wonder。'
　　And　he　hung　up。
　　
　　XVII
　　
　　Sometimes　I　have　to　send　actual　letters…print　out　the　stuff　I　whomp　up　in　DINKY'S　NOTEBOOK；　stick　it　in　an　envelope；　lick　stamps；　and　mail　it　off　to　somebody　somewhere。　Professor　Ann　Tevitch；　University　of　New　Mexico　at　Las　Cruces。　Mr。　Andrew　Neff；　c/o　The　New　York　Post；　New　York；　New　York。　Billy　Unger；　General　Delivery；　Stovington；　Vermont。　Only　names；　but　they　were　still　more　upsetting　than　the　phone　numbers。　More　personal　than　the　phone　numbers。　It　was　like　seeing　faces　swim　up　at　you　for　a　second　inside　your　Norden　bomb…sight。　I　mean；　what　a　freak…out；　right？　You're　up　there　at　twenty…five　thousand　feet；　no　faces　allowed　up　there；　but　sometimes　one　shows　up　for　a　second　or　two；　just　the　same。
　　I　wondered　how　a　University　Professor　could　get　along　without　a　modem　（or　a　guy　whose　address　was　a　fucking　New　York　newspaper；　for　that　matter）；　but　I　never　wondered　too　much。　I　didn't　have　to。　We　live　in　a　modern　world；　but　letters　don't　have　to　be　sent　by　puter；　after　all。　There's　still　snail…mail。　And　the　stuff　I　really　needed　was　always　in　the　database。　The　fact　that　Unger　had　a　1957　Thunderbird；　for　instance。　Or　that　Ann　Tevitch　had　a　loved　one…perhaps　her　husband；　perhaps　her　son；　perhaps　her　father…named　Simon。
　　
　　And　people　like　Tevitch　and　Unger　were　exceptions。　Most　of　the　folks　I　reach　out　and　touch　are　like　that　first　one　in　Columbus…fully　equipped　for　the　twenty…first　century。　SENDING　DINKYMAIL；　DINKYMAIL　SENT；　velly　good；　so　long；　Cholly。
　　I　could　have　gone　on　like　that　for　a　long　time；　maybe　forever…browsing　the　database　（there's　no　schedule　to　follow；　no　list　of　primary　cities　and　targets；　I'm　pletely　on　my　own　。　。　。　unless　all　that　shit　is　also　in　my　subconscious；　down　there　on　the　hard　disk）；　going　to　afternoon　movies；　enjoying　the　Ma…less　silence　of　my　little　house；　and　dreaming　of　my　next　step　up　the　ladder；　except　I　woke　up　feeling　horny　one　day。　I　worked　for　an　hour　or　so；　browsing　around　in　Australia；　but　it　was　no　good…my　dick　kept　trespassing　on　my　brain；　so　to　speak。　I　shut　off　the　puter　and　went　down　to　News　Plus　to　see　if　I　could　find　a　magazine　featuring　pretty　ladies　in　frothy　lingerie。
　　As　I　got　there；　a　guy　was　ing　out；　reading　the　Columbus　Dispatch。　I　never　read　the　paper　myself。　Why　bother？　It's　the　same　old　shit　day　in　and　day　out；　dictators　beating　the　ching…chong　out　of　people　weaker　than　they　are；　men　in　uniforms　beating　the　ching…chong　out　of　soccer　balls　or　footballs；　politicians　kissing　babies　and　kissing　ass。　Mostly　stories　about　the　Skipper　Brannigans　of　the　world；　in　other　words。　And　I　wouldn't　have　seen　this　story　even　if　I'd　happened　to　look　at　the　newspaper　display　rack　once　I　got　inside；　because　it　was　on　the　bottom　half　of　the　front　page；　below　the　fold。　But　this　fucking　dimbulb　es　out　with　the　paper　hanging　open　and　his　face　buried　inside　it。
　　In　the　lower　right　corner　was　a　picture　of　a　white…haired　guy　smoking　a　pipe　and　smiling。　He　looked　like　a　good…humored　fuck；　probably　Irish；　ey