Zodiac by Neal Stephenson Page A

came up with pages of measurements and diagrams.
    We hung out on the island for an hour, savored a couple of beers, and talked it over.
    â€œThe holes are all the same size,” he said. “Spaced a little over fifty feet apart. That tape measure is just an eighteen-footer, so I had to be kind of crude.”
    â€œAll on the same side of the pipe?”
    â€œAlternating sides.”
    â€œSo if the thing is about a mile long … that works out to something like a hundred three-inch holes we have to plug up.”
    â€œIt’s a big job, man. Why did they build it that way, anyhow? Why not have your basic huge pipe, just barfing the stuff out?”
    â€œThey used to think this was the answer. Diffusion. There’s a strong current up the shore here.”
    â€œI noticed.”
    â€œThe same current that created this island we’re on, and all the barrier beaches. They figured if they could spread their pollution outacross a mile of that current, it would more or less disappear. Besides, a big barfing pipe is mediapathic.”
    â€œAnd you’re sure it’s illegal?”
    â€œIn about six different ways. That’s why I want to close it down.”
    â€œThink you can bluff them?”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œCall them up, say, ‘This is GEE, we’re going to shut off your diffuser, better close down the plant.’”
    â€œAnywhere else I could, but they wouldn’t go for it here. They know how hard this thing would be to plug up. Besides, I want more than a bluff. I want to stop pollution.”
    He grinned. So did I. It was a catch phrase we repeated when frustrated by a hopeless task: “I want to stop pollution, man!”
    â€œSo what do we do? Postpone it?”
    â€œNaah.” I started to rewind the tape for the third time. “Necessity is the mother.”

8
    He dumped his gear into the Zode and we headed up the shore to rendezvous with the
Blowfish
. It was easy to find, as it turned out, since they’d set off some huge military surplus smoke bombs near the dump. Gluttons for attention, I guess.
    I had Tom drop me off. It was time to do some ruminating, and that wouldn’t be possible in the groovy chaos of the
Blowfish
. They’d all be exhilarated by the gig, they’d want to talk too much, and I wanted to think. So we brought the Zodiac right up on the public beach. I waded to shore in my underwear, the only bather present who was smoking a cigar, and put my clothes on once I reached the beach. Normally guys in their underwear attract a lot of attention, but none of the kids and oldsters who were here noticed. They were all gathered in a clump a hundred feet down the beach, staring at something on the ground. I figured someone had stroked out while swimming. It was ghoulish, but I walked down there anyway to have a look.
    But it wasn’t a dead person they were looking at. It was a dead dolphin.
    â€œHey, S.T., come to help this poor guy out?”
    A geezer had snuck up on me. No one I knew. He’d probably seen me at the civic association meeting I’d attended the month before. A lot of these retirees keep an eye on the tube, read the papers every day, go to the meetings.
    It seemed an odd thing for him to say, so I moved forward to the front row and took a closer look. The dolphin wasn’t dead, just close to it. Its tail was oscillating weakly against the sand.
    â€œI wish I knew the first thing about it,” I mumbled.
    A couple of young muscleheads decided they did know about it. One of them grabbed the dolphin’s tail, hoping to drag it back to the water. Instead, its skin peeled back like the wrapper on a tray of meat. I turned around and walked as fast as I could in the other direction. People were screaming and vomiting behind me.
    â€œLooks like another victim of you-know-what,” the old guy was saying. I looked over to see him matching me stride for stride. There wasn’t