This was a meeting Max requested several weeks ago. He said that Hermes, under the aegis of Synchronic, had a business proposal, which he refused to discuss by phone. Initially I said no to the meeting; it was right around the time you and he broke up. I had no interest in doing any business with him. But the chair of our board made it clear that I had no choice.
Soon after that, I began receiving odd emails with muddled clots of letters, some in Cyrillic, a few words I thought were Russian and Chinese transliterations. You may recall that it had me worried. Like you, I hoped, of course, that I was blowing things out of proportion. But it reminded me of something I’ve never shared with you.
In 2016 I was hired by the U.S. government after the cyberattack on Taiwan that devastated the country’s infrastructure. It was the summer of Operation Rising Dragon, when U.S.-Sino relations were especially fraught. (Do you remember when I went fishing with Hedstrom in Alaska? Well, I did see Ferg on that trip. But in Seoul, where I flew after Taipei, not on Prince of Wales Island.) The Taiwanese project was top-secret because of the Chinese nuclear threat. It was widely believed that Beijing was behind the attack, and there was a fear of escalation or reprisal if the Chinese government found out that the U.S. was aiding Taiwan.
A computer virus that appeared pervasively during the assaults and that caused a great deal of harm—erasing and scrambling scores of documents, destroying whole archives—was eventually traced back to computers outside Beijing. Likewise, a number of so-called word flu cases that appeared in Taiwan at the same time, causing several deaths, seemed to have originated on the mainland.
I was brought in as an expert archivist. Government agencies, researchers, and banks had decided to add hard texts to their backup practices, and very few people know anymore what that necessitates: which types of data should be kept, which thrown away; which glues to use; what storage temperatures to maintain. I arrived only after the computer virus and word flu were contained. The flu vector hadn’t been identified, but by then it had been discovered that most victims given antivirals survived. Just in case, I received several courses of treatment—as did we all—which I was instructed to take if I developed any of the symptoms (symptoms like those I described to you last week: headache, fever, nausea, aphasia). I didn’t need them then, but I kept them; I was worried that it could happen again.
Shortly after I arrived, I spoke to an analyst who’d been there from the beginning, and she told me that a barrage of nonsense emails had been an early warning sign. So a few weeks ago, when those bizarre messages began to surface, it got my hackles up. It could have been nothing, or just a phishing scam, as you proposed. But a few emails contained the letters YNS and SYN. I had a feeling that Max might know something, and I decided to raise the issue at the meeting. I also wanted to know why he’d been paying strange visits to a few Society members.
The only other thing that seems relevant to mention is that last week, in the days leading up to our appointment, the pneumatic tube system became unusually slow and erratic. I called down Thursday to the subbasement and was told that the regular operator was unwell. That sounded strange. But with the launch, I didn’t have time to investigate.
All of that is to say, I was apprehensive. But I was also expected to report back to the board—or lose my job. Nonetheless, when Friday night rolled around, I knew right away that something was wrong. I could hear it in Rodney’s voice, for one thing, when a person who I later learned was Steve Brock called from the lobby and put Rodney on the line. Rodney also said that my guests wouldn’t sign the visitors’ log. I found that odd, but I assumed it was just a misunderstanding. In hindsight, though, I’ve come to wonder if it wasn’t a calculated ploy—to make it seem like they were never there that night.
As I’ve mentioned, they want our corpus. That I expected. What I never guessed—what I never even dreamed—was how much they were willing to pay. Their opening offer was $129 million. (As a frame of reference, we’re projected to recoup $7.1 million in sales.) They also promised me $8 million personally if I’d leave the Dictionary to join their “team,” as chief lexicographer and a VP. And I’ll confess that I spent several long, dark minutes weighing what that money would mean for the Dictionary, especially now, so close to the end of our funding. But also for you and me. I thought of getting you out of that awful apartment. I thought, fleetingly, of a boat. And, I’m ashamed to admit, I even allowed myself to wonder if your mother might come home.
Then I gave up those thoughts. The money wouldn’t save the Dictionary; it would kill it, in fact. And if the NADEL’s going to die, I won’t be the one to swing the ax.
But I also truly didn’t understand the deal. It was explained by Steve Brock, who disquieted me with very odd behavior: he kept turning his head to look all around the room, and he had the distracting habit of interrupting himself midsentence to take what I finally realized were incoming calls. I grasped very little of what he said. And I couldn’t tell if his lack of direction was a tactic or if he simply didn’t make sense. I don’t mean that he had aphasia—I don’t think; I’ve been listening for it with hypervigilance. But I never actually heard word flu manifested in 2016. Needless to say, though, it made me even more uneasy.
What I thought I understood was this: Synchronic plans to corner the market on word resources—a market whose necessity they’ve gradually guaranteed with the Meme. The ESL money alone would be a “game changer,” to quote Laird. Brock averred that once Synchronic was bolstered by the NADEL name—and mine—any last word-industry holdouts would clamber aboard the Exchange. This would include the OED, with which they were allegedly in final negotiations. (“That deal’ll be inked Monday,” Brock claimed.) Then, once all meanings had been “consolidated” in one place, it would also be possible to push up prices—which would be justified, interrupted Laird, because of the “superior grade of content.” (I know this was meant as a compliment, if obliquely.)
In a certain sense, I was impressed. Even today, with deregulation, cornering a market is illegal. But I was mostly intrigued by how they hoped to recover nearly $130 million. To find out more, I did something slightly crazy, and possibly unethical. Something that wound up forcing me, in fact, to escape the building, unbelievable as that sounds. What I did was feign interest, with a finesse I haven’t managed since my undergrad days on Loeb stage.
Initially, however, when I asked how they planned to turn a profit, the room just filled with tense silence. Then they all exchanged a look. Brock bared his teeth in a kind of smile, and Max nodded at the programmer, John, who said, “We know it’ll work now. We’ve beta-tested it. Not like with the first trials overseas.”
That wasn’t what I’d asked, of course. But when he said that, my first thought was of Taiwan. And I knew I’d made a grave mistake. I wondered if they’d found out somehow about my government contract. Even if not, just like that, I was in very deep. I felt Dmitri Sokolov’s formidable gaze fall on me.
John started to extrapolate, explaining something I had a little trouble following, about words identified with algorithms. [AJ note: I’ve redacted this and several other sections of my father’s letter, for the sake of not repeating things I’ve explained earlier. (I learned many details from this missive, of course.)]
“Money words,” Max interjected slyly, tenting his fingers under his chin. A cynical designation, to be sure.
“Five, six years ago,” John continued, “it was things like ‘ubiquitous,’ ‘intemperate,’ ‘vendetta,’ ‘monotony.’ ” He started biting his cuticles. “But when they checked again, a year after the Meme, it became more common stuff: ‘pandemic,’ ‘rogue,’ ‘foster,’ ‘magnitude.’ ” (I’m sorry to say that I thought of our recent conversation on the 1 train, when I saw you check the Exchange on your Meme.) “This year, it’s … it’s kind of hard to believe, honestly.” He hunched forward in his seat. “It’s ‘lever,’ ‘volley,’ ‘pock.’ ‘Rotten.’ Rotten,” he repeated, wispy eyebrows raised. “And the list gets lon
ger every day.”
Except that that’s not what he said. It’s what I assumed he meant. But I could’ve sworn he said, “The hilt gets longer jayga day.” Thinking that he’d just mumbled, I dismissed it at first.
But I was also diverted right then by Brock, who chose that moment to tug back his sleeve. On the inside of his wrist was a bizarre device about the size of an old watchface.
“With this,” Brock said, raising his arm. “Once they have this—”
“The latest model of the Meme,” offered Laird.
“—we won’t need any of that stuff,” said Brock, readjusting his sleeve.
“Who won’t?” I asked, confused. “What stuff?”
“Words, meanings. It’ll all be right here.” Brock again lifted his arm.
That’s when they outlined the rest of their plan, the last facet of which I understand even less well: they’re seeking third-party investors—optioning off word futures, in a sense. When I asked who would possibly have an interest in buying not words themselves but information about word sales, John started to say, “Actually, a few of our partners abroad, who’ve helped us out with some of our workers—” but the CFO, a lugubrious man nearly as chinless as a snake, put a long, lily-white hand on John’s arm. “We’ve had interest,” he hissed.
If their initial trial in the U.S. continued to go well, Brock added, they’d soon expand, starting in markets that already sell Memes: first China and Russia, apparently, then India, Korea, Brazil, and so on.
Once I’d heard them out, I tried to get John talking again; I’d developed an alarming hypothesis. But Max kept cutting in. For instance, I asked John what he’d meant by “workers,” and Max said he meant software engineers. Finally, though, I tried a technical question, about scripts and configuration files. And this time, when John replied, there could be no mistake: at several points his speech was marred with odd slips. Even Max asked if he was all right.
He didn’t look all right; he looked sick. Then, in mid-explanation, he suddenly fell silent. Gripping his head and then quickly turning very green, he said, “I think I need to go,” and abruptly bolted for the door.
An uneasy glance caromed around the room. After a long pause, Max joked, “Mea culpa. Must’ve bought him too many shots at lunch.” But his laugh was hollow, and the CFO’s pale smile was very tight. Brock wasn’t smiling at all. It seemed an opportune moment to draw things to a close. When I proposed ending the meeting, however, and picking things up at a later time, the mood in the room very quickly darkened.
Laird turned to me, his face long, marked by the brow crease he reserves for reporting grim news headlines. “So, Douglas,” he said, “are you ready to make an agreement with these gentlemen?”
“I have a contract right here,” the CFO said, sneering and reaching into his jacket pocket. (I know it shouldn’t have, but it surprised me when he took out a Meme instead of paper and pen.)
I began to stall, explaining that the lawyers would have to look it over. And everything got very still.
In a strangely vigorous voice, sounding almost ebullient, Laird said, “You do realize, don’t you, that you have no choice.”
Cordially, I disagreed. Citing my dinner plans, I excused myself to leave—and Brock nodded to Dmitri, who stood and moved to the door.
The CFO then offered to “enlighten” me. It was hard to argue with his reasoning: if I didn’t sign on with Synchronic, he claimed, my position would be terminated. Your position would be terminated. Bart’s, too. In fact, the whole Dictionary would close: they’d buy us out and shut us down before the end of the year. And not just our big glass building on Broadway—he said the book itself would disappear. That was the word he used: disappear.
I tried to stay calm. To reassure myself that his threats were empty, impossible. But they aren’t at all. The world has changed, Alice. So much.
I asked Brock how he planned to send 26 years up in smoke, destroy thousands of copies of a 40-volume work. Not to mention the electronic corpus, all our archived dead material—
“Funny you should say that,” Laird interrupted. As if to prove the point, he laughed. Something about the sound turned my stomach. “They’ve already started, actually. Right here. Though I can’t disagree that getting rid of bound copies seems to have proven more of a challenge than hacking into your corpus, from what I’ve heard. And I’m sorry to burst your bubble, Urs, but we happen to know that fewer than a thousand copies have gone to print.”
A small flame ignited in my brain. I finally understood what the spike in Synchronic sales numbers that I mentioned to you means: it’s been Synchronic pushing up our rank (#153 as of this morning). They’re the ones who’ve been buying up the NADEL.
“You … That’s—that’s more than four million dollars,” I tried to protest, quickly doing the math. “All those copies. Shipping alone. That’s—”
“That’s nothing,” said Laird, the corners of his mouth creeping up. “The price of doing business,” added Brock, lip bulging as he licked his teeth.
And that’s when it happened. I couldn’t contain myself anymore. For a moment I stayed silent, inoculated by shock. But then the bile bubbled over, and I exploded at Laird. “So, what—Vera’s not enough?” I shouted, saliva flying, tinnitus fizzing in my ears. “You feel compelled to ruin the rest of my life?” And that was just the beginning of a humiliating litany, the words not mine but a trite clot of cultural flotsam, picked up God knows where. Once the firehose had started, though, I couldn’t seem to turn it off, and soon I turned it on Max as well. (I think it’s probably best if I refrain from repeating what I said.)
Yet a certain point came, even as I was shouting, when I noticed a slight tremor near the door. It was Dmitri, reaching for something under his arm. And the thought I had was, Gun. No less hysterical, perhaps, than the unfamiliar script I found myself reciting to Laird and your ex. But the sight was more potent than smelling salts. I instantly trailed off.
Brock was scowling at me over his coffee. “No need for that,” he scolded.
“We’re not trying to ruin anything,” added Laird, voice dripping with condescension. “We’re trying to offer you an opportunity. This is going to change everything, whether or not you approve. Be realistic for once, Douglas.” Frowning, he added, “Think of Anana.”
That vaulted me back to a plane of pure, purblind rage. I worked to check my urge to choke him. Then I took a breath, and I did think of you. I realized, with a sense of clarity so sharp it nearly shone, that having heard all of this—about their virus, and all the rest—I wasn’t safe: I needed to get out of that room. And if there was any hope I might preserve the Dictionary, I had to do more than that and make my way to Oxford before Monday morning. Because if the OED really does sign on with Synchronic—if every English word winds up on the Exchange—it’s just a matter of time before our language is in danger of becoming extinct. These are not romantic ravings, I’m afraid. And English will be just the start. If they expand into other markets, their virus will soon spread to all but the most remote corners on earth. Ironically, endangered languages may be the only ones spared.
There was only one possible way through that door, I realized. Kowtowing. Not my best skill, I’ll admit, but I bluffed my way through a five-star apology. Told them how deeply I appreciated their offer, and that I’d like to take them up on it. “I don’t know what came over me,” I lied, one eye on Dmitri. “I’m not feeling myself.”
That’s when I was seized with a fit of inspiration. “Actually,” I said, doubling over, “I’m not … Christ. I’m not feeling well at all.” I gripped my stomach. Real sweat dripped from the tip of my nose. “I think I might … Oh, God—” I said, rising from my chair with such force that it fell over. “I think I have to go, too.”
Dmitri glared at me and didn’t budge from the door. But as I coughed and gagged, my bogus nausea turned real. My eyes watered. Acid burned the back of my throat. Laird wrinkled his nose and Brock motioned to Dmitri to
let me go. I didn’t even wait for him to move; I pushed past him into the hall.
I knew Dmitri would stand guard while I was gone. Monitor the elevators. I didn’t have much time—five minutes, seven at most, if I managed to avoid John in the hall on his way back from the bathroom. That’s what I was thinking as I rounded the corner—and saw John. He was pale and drawn, tie to one side, shirttails hanging. We both stood still. Then he took a deep breath, and I waited for him to yell. Steeled myself and prepared to run. But to my surprise, he only sighed. Blinked his bloodshot eyes. Opened and closed his mouth. Finally, shaking his head, he managed, “I’ll cover for you,” sounding very tired and sad.
I studied him for a long moment, trying to assess his motives. It was hard to believe he’d lie for me. But in his eyes I saw a flash of bravery. I don’t know why, but that gave me a chill. And still I chose to put my faith in him. What else could I do?
“Thank you,” I said, gripping his thin arm. “You’re a good man, John.”
He shook his head a little. Looked away. I can’t say that that didn’t make me nervous. As I hurried off, I glanced over my shoulder. And he wasn’t looking back at me.
By then it was well past 7:30. The whole Dictionary floor was dark. Even Bart’s light was off. When I reached my office, I worked very fast, hands numb. I transferred my satchel’s contents to the pockets of my coat. Then, trying to buy myself time, I propped the bag in my chair, to make them think I was still around. And I set about trying to warn you about what was happening in case I didn’t find you still at the diner as I hoped.
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