“They built a tower to Heaven and God knocked it down.”
“This is an anthology of common misconceptions. God did not do anything to the Tower itself. ‘And the LORD said, “Behold, they are one people, and they have all one language; and this is only the beginning of what they will do; and nothing that they propose to do will now be impossible for them. Come, let us go down, and there confuse their language, that they may not understand one another’s speech.” So the LORD scattered them abroad from there over the face of all the earth, and they left off building the city. Therefore its name was called Babel, because there the LORD confused the language of all the earth.’ Genesis 11:6–9, Revised Standard Version.”
“So the tower wasn’t knocked down. It just went on hiatus.”
“Correct. It was not knocked down.”
“But that’s bogus.”
“Bogus?”
“Provably false. Juanita believes that nothing is provably true or provably false in the Bible. Because of it’s provably false, then the Bible is a lie, and if it’s provably true, then the existence of God is proven and there’s no room for faith. The Babel story is provably false, because if they built a tower to Heaven and God didn’t knock it down, then it would still be around somewhere, or at least a visible remnant of it.”
“In assuming that it was very tall, you are relying on an obsolete reading. The tower is described, literally, as ‘its top with the heavens.’ For many centuries, this was interpreted to mean that its top was so high that it was in the heavens. But in the last century or so, as actual Babylonian ziggurats have been excavated, astrological diagrams—pictures of the heavens—have been found inscribed into their tops.”
“Oh. Okay, so the real story is that a tower was built with heavenly diagrams carved into its top. Which is far more plausible than a tower that reaches to the heavens.”
“More than plausible,” the Librarian reminds him. “Such structures have actually been found.”
“Anyway, you’re saying that when God got angry and came down on them, the tower itself wasn’t affected. But they had to stop building the tower because of an informational disaster—they couldn’t talk to each other.”
“‘Disaster’ is an astrological term meaning ‘bad star,’” the Librarian points out. “Sorry—but due to my internal structure, I’m a sucker for non sequiturs.”
“That’s okay, really,” Hiro says. “You’re a pretty decent piece of ware. Who wrote you, anyway?”
“For the most part I write myself,” the Librarian says. “That is, I have the innate ability to learn from experience. But this ability was originally coded into me by my creator.”
“Who wrote you? Maybe I know him,” Hiro says. “I know a lot of hackers.”
“I was not coded by a professional hacker, per se, but by a researcher at the Library of Congress who taught himself how to code,” the Librarian says. “He devoted himself to the common problem of sifting through vast amounts of irrelevant detail in order to find significant gems of information. His name was Dr. Emanuel Lagos.”
“I’ve heard the name,” Hiro says. “So he was kind of a meta-librarian. That’s funny, I guessed he was one of those old CIA spooks who hangs around in the CIC.”
“He never worked with the CIA.”
“Okay. Let’s get some work done. Look up every piece of free information in the Library that contains L. Bob Rife and arrange it in chronological order. The emphasis here is on free.”
“Television and newspapers, yes, sir. One moment, sir,” the Librarian says. He turns around and exits on crepe soles. Hiro turns his attention to Earth.
The level of detail is fantastic. The resolution, the clarity, just the look of it, tells Hiro, or anyone else who knows computers, that this piece of software is some heavy shit.
It’s not just continents and oceans. It looks exactly like the earth would look from a point in geosynchronous orbit directly above L.A., complete with weather systems—vast spinning galaxies of clouds, hovering just above the surface of the globe, casting gray shadows on the oceans—and polar ice caps, fading and fragmenting into the sea. Half of the globe is illuminated by sunlight, and half is dark. The terminator—the line between night and day—has just swept across L.A. and is now creeping across the Pacific, off to the west.
Everything is going in slow motion. Hiro can see the clouds change shape if he watches them long enough. Looks like a clear night on the East Coast.
Something catches his attention, moving rapidly over the surface of the globe. He thinks it must be a gnat. But there are no gnats in the Metaverse. He tries to focus on it. The computer, bouncing low-powered lasers off his cornea, senses this change in emphasis, and then Hiro gasps as he seems to plunge downward toward the globe, like a space-walking astronaut who has just fallen out of his orbital groove. When he finally gets it under control, he’s just a few hundred miles above the earth, looking down at a solid bank of clouds, and he can see the gnat gliding along below him. It’s a low-flying CIC satellite, swinging north to south in a polar orbit.
“Your information, sir,” the Librarian says.
Hiro startles and glances up. Earth swings down and out of his field of view and there is the Librarian, standing in front of the desk, holding out a hypercard. Like any librarian in Reality, this daemon can move around without audible footfalls.
“Can you make a little more noise when you walk? I’m easily startled,” Hiro says.
“It is done, sir. My apologies.”
Hiro reaches out for the hypercard. The Librarian takes half a step forward and leans toward him. This time, his foot makes a soft noise on the tatami mat, and Hiro can hear the white noise of his trousers sliding over his leg.
Hiro takes the hypercard and looks at it. The front is labeled