Fall; or, Dodge in Hell - Neal Stephenson Page 0,200

power of his new superweapon before a handpicked delegation of his enemies. The message was obvious: Surrender now or I shall be forced to use this weapon in anger against you. Imagine how bad that would be. Sinjin had only brought two associates with him but it was to be understood that they were only the head of a queue of legal myrmidons that would stretch behind him over the horizon were they all physically here. With their carrying the supporting documents in their satchels, he was free to just be Sinjin. He pointed to squiggles on graphs and held forth about their meaning enough to convey the point that he had mastered all of the details, but just when he was getting into the weeds he would retract that accusatory finger and with a gentle wave of the hand dismiss the specifics and look someone in the eye and make an interesting point of a more general nature, not in an aggressive manner that might elicit a sharp defensive response but more with an air of Since we are all intelligent grown-ups here, and since we have subordinates who can plow through the specifics later, I thought you might find a few moments’ diversion in the following trenchant observations. And then he could be philosophical, he could be wry, he could even get everyone in the room to laugh. Not the fake forced laughter that people made when they understood someone was pooping out an attempt at humor but sharp surprising laughter followed by an afterglow of appreciating Sinjin. Even loving Sinjin. Being glad to be in his company. All, of course, with the unstated message of Imagine what this man could do in front of a jury.

He was saying that Elmo Shepherd had been a more than equal partner in all of these efforts from the very beginning—years before Richard Forthrast or Corvallis Kawasaki or any of the others had even heard of cryonics or the Singularity. Mr. Shepherd had researched and cowritten the boilerplate instructions that had gone into Dodge’s disposition of remains. He had been on the scene, talking face-to-face with C-plus, within hours of the tragic events. The immense edifice of research labs and intellectual property and human capital that had grown up around this industry in the decades since then could not have come into existence without the unstinting generosity of Mr. Shepherd. But it wasn’t just about his being a moneybags; more than any other one person, Mr. Shepherd encompassed within his colossal intellect all that was known on the connectome, how to scan it, how to store it, how to simulate it. Knowing that existing computer systems were inadequate to the task, he had almost single-handedly created the quantum computing industry from scratch. He could have made himself even more fabulously wealthy just from that, but chose instead to plow the money back into his life’s work.

The premature launching of the Process by Sophia had led to consequences that Mr. Shepherd in all frankness had not predicted, but he had adapted gracefully and supported subsequent developments with his usual generosity. This was not a commercial proposition. Anything that advanced the science had Mr. Shepherd’s wholehearted backing. He did not seek credit or applause. He did not even seek understanding. All of that would sort itself out in due course. His wealth had afforded him the privilege, given to very few, of taking the longest and most visionary possible view. The goals of the world’s great religions were indistinguishable from Mr. Shepherd’s, but he was approaching them along a different path, a hidden path up the back of the mountain that Christianity and Islam and the others had been frontally assaulting for thousands of years. It was a long path through dark woods, difficult if not impossible for most to follow, but it was in the end a more certain way to the summit. One day all of this would be seen and acknowledged. In the long meantime Mr. Shepherd was willing to shoulder the burden of being misunderstood.

Mr. Shepherd did not ask for very much in return for his steadfast generosity but he was serious in his goals, not a dupe, not an absentminded philanthropist blindly writing checks so that he could claim tax deductions or get buildings named after him. He was meticulous about his business dealings. Fairness was a two-way street. The other great institutions to which he had yoked himself—Waterhouse and Forthrast—could expect openhandedness and honesty from Mr. Shepherd.