Memoirs Found in a Bathtub Part 5
If I could ask them one question, just one question, it would be: "What do you want me to do?"
And any answer would be welcome, any answer at all. . . except one. . .
The fat officer startled me with a loud snort. He blew his nose and examined the handkerchief carefully before folding it and putting it away.
The door opened and a tall, gaunt officer walked in. Something about him -- I couldn't quite put my finger on it -- gave the impression of a civilian disguised in a uniform. He took off his gla.s.ses and twirled them as he approached.
"You wanted to see me?"
"Mr. Prandtl from the Department of Codes?" I asked, getting up.
"Except that I'm a captain. Remain seated. Interested in codes, eh?"
The last syllable was aimed like a shot between my eyes.
"Yes, Captain."
"Don't call me Captain. Coffee?"
"Please."
The small black door swung open and a hand placed a tray with two cups of coffee before us. Prandtl put on his gla.s.ses and his features froze into a hard, fierce expression.
"Define code," he snapped like a hammer on metal.
"Code is a system of signs which can be translated into ordinary language with the help of a key."
"The smell of a rose -- code or not?"
"Not a code, because it is not a sign for anything; it is merely itself, a smell. Only if it were used to signify something else could we consider it a code."
I was glad of this opportunity to demonstrate my ability to think logically. The fat officer leaned over in my direction until his b.u.t.tons began to pop. I ignored him. Prandtl took off his gla.s.ses and smiled.
"The rose, does it smell just because, or for a reason?"
"It attracts bees with its smell, the bees pollinate it. . ."
He nodded.
"Precisely. Now let's generalize. The eye converts a light wave into a neural code, which the brain must decipher. And the light wave, from where does it come? A lamp? A star? That information lies in its structure; it can be read."
"But that's not a code," I interrupted. "A star or a lamp doesn't attempt to conceal information, which is the whole purpose of a code."
"Oh?"
"Obviously! It all depends on the intention of the sender."
I reached for my coffee. A fly was floating in it. Had the fat officer planted it there? I glanced at him: he was picking his nose. I fished the fly out with my spoon and let it drop on the saucer. It clinked -- metal, sure enough.
"The intention?" Prandtl put on his gla.s.ses. The fat officer (I was keeping an eye on him) began to rummage through his pockets, wheezing so violently that his face moved like a bunch of balloons. It was revolting.
"Take a light wave," Prandtl continued, "emitted by a star. What kind of star? Big or little? Hot or cold? What's its history, its future, its chemical composition? Can we or can we not tell all this from its light?"
"We can, with the proper know-how."
"And the proper know-how?"
"Yes?"
"That's the key, isn't it?"
"Still," I said carefully, "light is not code."
"It isn't?"
"The information it carries wasn't hidden there. And besides, using your argument, we'd have to conclude that everything is code."
"And so it is, absolutely everything. Code or camouflage. Yourself included."
"You're joking."
"Not at all."
"I'm a code?"
"Or a camouflage. Every code is a camouflage, not every camouflage is a code."
"Perhaps," I said, following it through, "if you are thinking about genetics, heredity, those programs of ourselves we carry around in every cell. . . In that way I am a code for my progeny, my descendants. But camouflage? What would I have to do with camouflage."
"You," Prandtl replied drily, "are not in my jurisdiction."
He went over to the small black door. A hand appeared with a piece of paper, which he turned over to me.
"THREAT OUTFLANKING MANEUVER STOP," it read, "REINFORCEMENTS SECTOR SEVEN NINE FOUR HUNDRED THIRTY-ONE STOP QUARTERMASTER SEVENTH OPERATIONAL GROUP GANZMIRST COL DIPL STOP."
I looked up -- another fly was floating in my coffee. The fat officer yawned.
"Well?" asked Prandtl. His voice seemed far away. I pulled myself together.
"A telegram, a deciphered telegram."
"No. It's in code, we have yet to crack it."
"But it looks like --"
"Camouflage," he said. "They used to camouflage codes as innocent information, private letters, poems, etc. Now each side tires to make the other believe that the message isn't coded at all. You follow?"
"I guess."
"Now here's the test run through our D.E.C. machine."
He went back to the small black door, pulled a piece of paper from the fingers there and gave it to me.
"BABIRUSANTOSITORY IMPECLANCYBILLISTIC MATOTEOSIS AIN'T CATACYPTICALLY AMBREGATORY NOR PHAROGRANTOGRAPHICALLY OSCILLUMPTUOUS BY RETROVECTACALCIPHICATION NEITHER," I read and stared at him.
"That's deciphered?"
He smiled tolerantly.
"The second stage," he explained. "The code was designed to yield gibberish upon any attempt to crack it. This is to convince us that the telegram wasn't coded in the first place, that the original message can be taken at face value."
"But it can't?" he nodded.
"Watch. I'll run it through again."
A piece of paper dropped from the hand in the small black door. Something red moved around inside. But Prandtl got in the way so I couldn't see. I picked up the paper -- it was still warm, either from the hand or from the machine.
"ABRUPTIVE CELERATION OF ALL DERVISHES CARRYING BIBUGGISH PYRITES VIA TURMAND HIGHLY RECOMMENDED.".
That was the text. I shook my head.
"Now what?" I asked.
"The machine has done what it can. Now we take over." And he yelled, "Kruuh!"
"Huh?" the fat officer groaned, suddenly jolted from his stupor. He turned his bleary eyes to Prandtl. Prandtl bellowed: "Abruptive celeration!"
"Therrr. . ." croaked the fat officer.
"All dervishes!"
"Weeee! Beeee!" he bleated.
"Bibuggish pyrites!"
"Naaaa! Waaaa!"
"Turmand!"
"Saa. . . serr. . ." Saliva trickled down his chin. "Waa. . . wan. . . serr. . . rrr. . . Grr! Growl! Ho ho ho! Ha ha ha!" He broke into wild laughter which ended in a fit of horrible gurgling The face turned deep purple, tears streamed down his cheeks and jowls, the ma.s.sive body was racked with sobs.
"Enough, Kruuh! Enough!!" yelled Prandtl. "An error," he said, turning to me. "False a.s.sociation. But you still heard the entire text."
"Text? What text?"
"There will be no answer." The fat officer sat back in his chair, trembling. Little by little he quieted down and, moaning softly to himself, caressed his face with both hands, as if to comfort it.
"There will be no answer?" I repeated. Hadn't I heard those words recently? But where? "Is that all it says?" I asked Prandtl. He gave a twisted smile.
"If I were to show you a text richer in meaning, we might both regret it later on. Even so. . ."
"Even so?!" I flared up, as if that careless remark somehow concerned me vitally. Prandtl shrugged.
"This was a sample of our latest code, not too complicated, in multiple camouflage."
He was clearly trying to divert my attention from that slip. I wanted to get back to it, but all I could say was: "According to you, everything is code."
"Correct."
"In that case, every text?. . ."
"Yes."
"A literary text?"
"Certainly. Come with me." He motioned me over to the small black door. There was no other room inside, only the dark surface of a machine, a small keyboard, a nickelplated slot from which a piece of printout tape curled like a reptile tongue.
"Give me a line from some literary work," Prandtl said, turning to me.
"Shakespeare?"
"Whatever you like."
"You maintain that his plays are nothing but coded messages?"
"Depends what you mean by a coded message. But let's give it a try, shall we?"
I tried to think, but nothing came to me except Oth.e.l.lo's "Excellent wretch!" That seemed a bit brief and inappropriate.
"I've got it!" I announced with sudden inspiration. "My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words of that tongue's utterance, yet I know the sound: Art thou not Romeo and a Montague?"
"Fine."
Prandtl had hardly typed this out when the tape began to move from the slot, a paper snake. He gently handed the end of it to me, and I waited patiently while the printout emerged. The vibration of the machine suddenly stopped and the rest of the tape came out blank. I read: "BAS TARD MATT HEWS VAR LET MATT HEWS Sc.u.m WOULD BASH THAT FLAP EAR a.s.s WITH PLEA SURE GREAT THAT MATT HEWS BAS".
"What's this?" I asked, perplexed. Prandtl gave a knowing nod.
"Shakespeare evidently harbored a grudge against someone by the name of Matthews and chose to put this in code when he wrote those lines."
"What? You mean, he deliberately used that beautiful scene to disguise a lot of foul language directed at some Matthews?"
"Who says he did it deliberately? A code is a code, regardless of the author's intention."
"Let's see something," I said, and typed the decoded text into the machine myself. The tape moved again, spiraling onto the floor. Prandtl smiled but said nothing.
"IF ONLY SHE'D GIVE ME TRA LA LA TRA LA LA IF ONLY TRA LA LA SHE'D GIVE ME LA LA, TRA LA LA AND GIVE ME TRA LA LA HA HA HA TRA LA LA," went the letter of the printout.
"Now what do you make of it?"