Chapter 18

Wednesday, January 6

Amsterdam, Holland

Scott Mason had a theory. It didn't matter than no one else

believed it, or that they thought him daffy. It worked for him.

He believed that jet lag was caused by the human body traveling

across mystical magnetic force fields called Ley lines. The

physics of his theory made common sense to anyone but a scien-

tist. It went like this: the body is electric and therefore

magnetic fields can influence it. Wherever we live we are sub-

ject to the local influence of magnetic, electrical and Ley

lines. If we move too quickly, as by plane, through Ley lines,

the balance of our system is disturbed. The more Ley lines you

traverse, the more upsetting it is to the system. Thus, jet lag.

But, Scott had a solution. Or more accurately, his mother had one

which she had convinced him of years earlier. Scott carried with

him a small box, the size of a pack of cigarettes, that had a

switch and a blinking light. It was called an Earth Resonance

Generator, or ERG. The literature said the ERG established a

negative gravity field through a magnetic Mobius loop. Inside

the box was a battery, a loop of wire, a light emitting diode and

the back side of the switch. In short, nothing of electronic

consequence or obvious function. There was no way in hell that

this collection of passive components could do anything other

than wear out batteries. All for $79.95 plus $4 shipping.

Scott first heard his mother proselytize about the magic of the

ERG when he was ten or twelve. His father, the role model for

Archie Bunker ignored her completely and said her rantings in-

creased with certain lunar phases. Since his father wouldn't

listen to her any longer, she endlessly lectured Scott about the

virtues of the ERG whenever she returned from a trip. His father

refused to travel, and had never even been on a plane.

His mother so persisted in her belief that she even tried experi-

ments. On one of her trips to Rome, she somehow talked the

stewardesses into handing out the 400 questionnaires she'd

brought with her onto the plane. It asked the passengers how

they felt after the flight, and if they do anything special to

avoid jet lag. She claims more than 200 were returned and that

they overwhelmingly indicated that no one felt jet lag on that

trip.

She attributed this immense success to the ERG effects which

purportedly spread over one acre. In other words, the ERG takes

care of an entire 747 or L-1011 or DC-10.

For years Scott successfully used the ERG to avoid jet lag. Some

people put brown paper bags in their shoes, others eat yogurt and

bean sprouts before a long flight. Maybe his solution was psy-

chosomatic, Scott admitted to anyone who asked, but, so what? It

still works, doesn't it? Scott was forever impressed that air-

port security had never, once, asked him what this little blink-

ing black box was. Scary thought.

He arrived completely refreshed via KLM at the Amsterdam Interna-

tional Airport at 9:15 A.M. While he had been to Europe many

times, he had thus far missed the Amsterdam experience. He had

heard that pot was legal in Amsterdam. In fact it was more than

legal. Every morning the marijuana prices were broadcast on the

local radio stations and Scott had every intention of sampling

the wares. After 20 years of casual pot use, he preferred it

immensely to the effects of drinking, and he was not going to

miss out on the opportunity.

In New York no one harassed pot smokers, but technically, it

still wasn't legal, while Amsterdam represented the ultimate

counterculture. This was the first time since Maggie had left

for the Coast three years ago that Scott felt an independence, a

freedom reminiscent of his rebellious teen years.

He gave the taxi driver the address of the Eureka! hotel, on the

Amstel. During the half hour fifty guilder ride into downtown,

the driver continuously chattered. "Amsterdam has more canals

than Venice. Many more. Holland is mostly land reclaimed from

the sea. We have the biggest system of dikes in Europe. Don't

forget to see our diamond centers." He spoke endlessly with deep

pride about his native land.

The Eureka! is a small four story townhouse with only 16 rooms

that overlooked the Amstel, the largest canal in Amsterdam,

similar to the Grand Canal in Venice. The Times had booked it

because it was cheap, but Scott felt instantly at home. After

settling in, Scott called the local number that Kirk had given

him.

"Hallo?" A thick Dutch accent answered the phone.

"Hello? I'm looking for Jon Gruptmann? This is Scott Mason."

"Ya, this is Jon."

"A mutual friend, Kirk, said I should call you."

"Ah, ya, ya. Repo Man, is it not?" The voice got friendly.

"That's what Kirk calls me."

"Ya, ya. He said you want to attend our meetings. Ya? Is that

so?" Jon sounded enthusiastic.

"That's why I swam the Atlantic, all three thousand miles. I

would love to!" Jon didn't sound like Scott expected a computer

hacker to sound, whatever that was.

"Huh?" Jon asked. "Ah, ya, a joke. Goot. Let me tell you where

we meet. The place is small, so it may be very crowded. I hope

you do not mind." Jon sounded concerned about Scott's comfort.

"Oh, no. I'm used to inconvenience. I'm sure it will be fine."

"Ya, ya. I expect so. The meetings don't really begin until

tomorrow at 9AM. Is that goot for you?"

"Yes, just fine, what's the address?" Scott asked as he readied

paper and pen.

"Ya. Go to the warehouse on the corner of Oude Zidjs Voorburg

Wal and Lange Niezel. It's around from the Oude Kerksplein.

Number 44."

"Hold it, I'm writing." Scott scribbled the address phonetically.

A necessary trick reporters use when someone is speaking unintel-

ligibly. "And then what?"

"Just say you're Repo Man. There's a list. And please remember,

we don't use our given names."

"No problem. Fine. Thank you."

"Ya. What do you plan for tonight?" Jon asked happily.

"I hadn't really thought about it," Scott lied.

"Ya, ya. Well, I think you should see our city. Enjoy the unique

pleasures Amsterdam has to offer."

"I might take a walk . . . or something."

"Ya, ya, or something. I understand. I will see you tomorrow.

Ya?" Jon said laughing.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Do one favor?" Jon asked. "Watch your wallet. We have many

pickpockets."

"Thanks for the warning. See you tomorrow." Click. I grew up in

New York, Scott thought. Pickpockets, big deal.

* * * * *

Scott took a shower to remove the vestiges of the eleven hour

trip; an hour ride to Kennedy, an hour and a half at the airport,

a half hour on the tarmac, seven hours on the plane, and an hour

getting into town.

He dressed casually in the American's travel uniform: jeans, jean

jacket and warm sweater. He laced his new Reeboks knowing that

Amsterdam is a walking city. Driving would be pure insanity

unless the goal is sitting in two hour traffic jams. The single

lane streets straddle the miles of canals throughout the inner

city which is arranged in a large semi-circular pattern. Down-

town, or old Amsterdam, is a dense collection of charming clean,

almost pristine 4 story buildings built over a period of several

hundred years. That's the word for Amsterdam; charming. From

late medieval religious structures to townhouses that are tightly

packed on almost every street, to the various Pleins where the

young crowds congregate in the evenings, Amsterdam has something

for everyone. Anne Frank's house to the Rembrandt Museum to a

glass roofed boat trip down the canals through the diamond dis-

trict and out into the Zeider Zee. Not to mention those attrac-

tions for the more prurient.

He ran down the two flights to the hotel lobby and found the

concierge behind the Heineken bar which doubled as a registration

desk. He wanted to know where to buy some pot.

"Not to find us selling that here," the Pakistani concierge said

in broken English.

"I know. But where . . ." It was an odd feeling to ask which

store sold drugs.

"You want Coffee Shop," he helpfully said.

"Coffee Shop?" Scott asked, skeptical of the translation.

"Across bridge, make right, make left." The concierge liberally

used his hands to describe the route. "Coffee shop. Very good."

Scott thanked him profusely and made a quick exit thinking that

in parts of the U.S., Texas came to mind, such a conversation

could be construed as conspiracy. He headed out into the cool

damp late morning weather. The air was crisp, clean, a pleasure

to breathe deeply. The Amstel canal, not a ripple present,

echoed the tranquility that one feels when walking throughout the

city. There are only a half dozen or so 'main' streets or boule-

vards in Amsterdam and they provide the familiar intense interna-

tional commercialism found in any major European city. It is

when one begins to explore the back streets, the countless alleys

and small passageways; the darkened corridors that provide a

short cut to the bridge to the next islet; it is then that one

feels the essence of Amsterdam.

Scott crossed over the bridge that spans the wide Amstel con-

scious of the small high speed car and scooters that dart about

the tiny streets. He turned right as instructed and looked at the

street names on the left. While Scott spoke reasonable French,

Dutch escaped him. Bakkerstraat. Was that the name? It was just

an alley, but there a few feet down on the right was the JPL

Coffee Shop. JPL was the only retail establishment on Bakker-

straat, and it was unassuming, some might call it derelict, in

appearance. From a distance greater than 10 meters, it appeared

deserted.

Through the large dirty plate glass window Scott saw a handful of

patrons lazing on white wrought iron cafe chairs at small round

tables. The Coffee Shop was no larger than a small bedroom.

Here goes nothing, Scott thought as he opened the door to enter.

No one paid scant attention to him as he crossed over and leaned

on the edge of the bar which was reminiscent of a soda fountain.

A man in his young twenties came over and amiably introduced him-

self as Chris, the proprietor of the establishment. How could he

be of service?

"Ah . . . I heard I can buy marijuana here," Scott said.

"Ya, of course. What do you want?" Chris asked.

"Well, just enough for a couple of days, I can't take it back

with me you know," Scott laughed nervously.

"Ya. We also have cocaine, and if you need it, I can get you he-

roin." Chris gave the sales pitches verbally - there was no

printed menu in this Coffee Shop.

"No!" Scott shot back immediately, until he realized that all

drugs were legal here, not just pot. He didn't want to offend.

"Thanks anyway. Just some grass will do."

"How many grams do you want?"

Grams? How many grams? Scott mused that the metric Europeans

thought in grams and Americans still in ounces and pounds. O.K.,

28 grams to an ounce . . .

"Two grams," Scott said. "By the way, how late are you open?"

Scott pushed his rounded spectacles back up his nose.

"Ah, sometimes 8, sometimes 10, sometimes late," Chris said while

bringing a tissue box sized lock box to the top of the bar. He

opened it and inside were several bags of pot and a block of

aluminum foil the size of a candy bar. "You want hashish?" Chris

offered.

Scott shook his head, 'no,' so Chris opened one of the bags in-

stead of the candy bar.

"You American?" A voice came from one of the tables. Scott

looked around. "Here," the voice said. "Me too." The man got

up and approached Scott. "Listen, they got two types of ganja

here. Debilitating and Coma. I've made the mistake."

"Ya, we have two kinds," Chris agreed laughing. "This will only

get you a little high," he said holding up a bag. "This one," he

held up another, "will get you stoned."

"Bullshit," the American said. "Their idea of a little high is

catatonic for us. Take my word for it. The Mexican shit we

smoke? They'd give it to the dogs."

"You sold me," Scott said holding his hands up in surrender.

"Just a little high is fine by me. Two grams, please," he said

to Chris pointing at the less potent bag. "Thanks for the warn-

ing," he said to the American. "Where you from?" Scott asked.

"Oh, around. I guess you could call Washington my home."

"D.C.?"

"Yeah," the American nodded. "And you?" He leaned over the back

of his chair to face Scott.

"Big Apple. The 'burbs."

"What brings you here?"

"To Europe?" Scott asked.

"Amsterdam. Sin City. Diamonds?"

"No, I wish," Scott laughed. "News. A story brought me here for

a couple of days."

Chris finished weighing Scott's purchase on a sensitive digital

scale that measured the goods down to the nearest hundredth of a

gram. Scott handed Chris $10 in Guilders and pocketed the pot.

"Um, where can I get some papers?" Scott asked. Chris pointed

to a glass on the bar with a complete selection of assorted

paraphernalia.

"Hey, why don't you join me," the American asked. "I've been to

Amsterdam before."

"Is it all right to smoke in here?" Scott asked looking around.

"Sure, that's what coffee shops are. The only other thing you

can buy in here is sodas. No booze." The American spoke confi-

dently as he lit up a joint and passed it to Scott.

"Thanks," Scott coughed as he handed it back. "Oh, I don't think

I caught your name.

"Oh, just call me Spook."

THE Spook? thought Scott. What incredible synchronicity.

Scott's body instantly tensed up and he felt the adrenaline rush

with an associated rise in pulse rate. Was this really the leg-

endary Spook?

Is it possible that he fell into a chance meeting with the hacker

that Kirk and his friends refer to as the king of hackers?

Spook? Gotta stay cool. Could he be that lucky? Was there more

than one spook? Scott momentarily daydreamed, remembering how

fifteen years before, in Athens, Greece he had opened a taxi door

right into the face a lady who turned out to be an ex-high-school

girl friend. It is a small world, Scott thought tritely.

"Spook? Are you a spy?" Scott comically asked, careful to dis-

guise his real interest.

"If I answer that I'll have to kill you," the Spook laughed out

loud in the quiet establishment. "Spy? Hardly. It's just a

handle." Spook said guardedly. "What's yours?"

"Mine? Oh, my handle. They call me Repo Man, but it's really

Scott Mason. Glad to meet you. Spook," he added handing back the

intoxicating cigarette.

BINGO! Scott Mason in hand without even a search. Landing right

in his lap. Keep your cool. Dead pan poker face. What unbe-

lievable luck. Don't blow it, let's play this for all that it's

worth. Your life just got very simple. Give both Homosoto and

Mason exactly what they want with no output of energy.

"You said you're a reporter," Spook said inhaling deeply again.

"What's the story?" At least he gets high, Spook thought. Mason

could have been a real dip-shit nerd. Thank God for small fa-

vors.

"There's a hacker conference that I was invited to," Scott said

unabashedly. "I'm trying to show the hacker's side of the story.

Why they do what they do. How they legitimize it to themselves."

Scott's mouth was rapidly drying out so he ordered a Pepsi. "I

assume you're a hacker, too," Scott broached the issue carefully.

Spook smiled widely. "Yup. And proud of it."

"You don't care who knows?" Scott asked looking around to see if

anyone was paying attention to their conversation. Instead the

other patrons were engrossed in chess or huddled conversation.

Only Chris, the proprietor listened from behind the bar.

"The Spook is all anyone knows. I like to keep it that way,"

Spook said as he laid the roach end of the joint in the ashtray.

"Not bad, huh?" He asked Scott.

"Christ, no. Kinda hits you between the eyes." Scott rubbed them

to clear off the invading fog.

"After a couple of days it won't get you so bad," Spook said.

"You said you wanted to do a fair story on hackers, right?"

"Fair? A fair story? I can only try. If hackers act and talk

like assholes then they'll come across like assholes, no matter

what I do. However, if they make a decent case, hold a rational,

albeit arguable position, then maybe someone may listen."

"You sound like you don't approve of our activities." The Spook

grinned devilishly.

"Honestly, and I shouldn't say this cause this is your grass,"

Scott said lighting the joint again. "No, I don't approve, but I

figure there's at least 10 sides to a story, and I'm here to find

that story and present all sides. Hopefully I can even line up a

debate or two. Convincing me is not the point; my readers make

up their own minds."

The word 'readers' momentarily jolted the Spook until he realized

Scott meant newspaper readers, not his team of Van-Ecking eaves-

droppers. Spook took the joint from Scott. "You sound like you

don't want to approve."

"Having a hard time with all the crap going down with computers

these days," Scott agreed. "I guess my attitude comes through in

my articles."

"I've never read your stuff," Spook lied.

"Mainly in New York."

"That explains it. Ever been to Amsterdam?"

"No, I was going to get a map and truck around . . ."

"How about I show you around, and try to convince you about the

honor of our profession?" Spook asked.

"Great!" Scott agreed. "But what about . . ." He made a motion

to his lips as if he was holding a cigarette.

"Legal on the streets."

"You sure?"

"C'mon," Spook said rising from his chair. "Chris, see you

later," he promised. Chris reciprocated and invited his two new

friends to return any time.

Scott followed Spook up the alley named Bakkerstraat and into the

Rembrandt Plein, a huge open square with cafes and street people

and hotels. "At night," Spook said, "Rembrandt and another 4 or

5 pleins are the social hub of activity for the younger genera-

tion. Wished I had had this when I was a kid. How are your

legs?" The Spook amorously ogled the throngs of young women

twenty years his junior.

"Fine, why?"

"I'm going to show you Amsterdam."

Scott and the Spook began walking. The Spook knew his way around

and described much of the history and heritage of the city, the

country and its culture. This kind of educated hacker was not

what Scott had expected. He had thought that today's hackers

were nerds, the propeller heads of his day, but he was discover-

ing through the Spook, that he may have been wrong. Scott remem-

bered Clifford Stoll's Hanover Hacker was a well positioned and

seemingly upstanding individual who was selling stolen computer

information to the KGB. How many nerds would have the gumption

to play in that league?

They walked to the outer edge of Old Amsterdam, on the Singel-

gracht at the Leidseplein. Without a map or the Spook, Scott

would have been totally lost. The streets and canals were all so

similar that, as the old phrase goes, you can't tell the players

without a scorecard. Scott followed the Spook onto an electric

street car. It headed down the Leidsestraat, one of the few

heavily commercial streets and across the Amstel again.

The street car proceeded up the Nieuwezuds Voorburgwal, a wide

boulevard with masses of activities on both sides. This was

tourist madness, thought Scott.

"This is freedom," said the Spook.

"Freedom?" The word instantly conjured his memory of the Freedom

League, the BBS he suspected was up to no-good. The Spook and

Freedom?

"At the end of this street is the Train Station. Thousands of

people come through this plaza every day to experience Amsterdam.

Get whatever it is out of their system. The drugs, the women,

the anarchy of a country that relies upon the integrity of its

population to work. Can't you feel it?" The Spook positively

glowed as he basked in the aura of the city.

Scott had indeed felt it during their several hours together. An

intense sense of independence that came from a generation of

democratic socialism. Government regulated drugs, a welfare

system that permitted the idle to live nearly as well as the

working. Class structures blurred by taxes so extraordinarily

high that most everyone lived in similarly comfortable condi-

tions. Poverty is almost non-existent.

Yet, as the Spook explained to Scott, "This is not the world for

an entrepreneur. That distinction still belongs to the ol' Red,

White and Blue. It's almost impossible to make any real money

here."

The sun was setting behind the western part of the city, over the

church steeples and endless rows of townhouses.

"Hungry yet?" Spook grinned at Scott.

"Hungry? I got a case of the munchies that won't quit. Let's

eat." Scott's taste buds were entering panic mode.

"Good," the Spook said as he lit up another joint on the street

car. "Let's eat." He hastily leapt off the slow moving vehicle.

Scott followed him across the boulevard and dodged cars, busses

and bicycles. They stopped in front of a small Indonesian res-

taurant, Sarang Mas, ably disguised with a red and white striped

awning and darkened windows.

"Ever had Indonesian food?"

"No, well maybe, in New York I guess . . ."

Miles dragged Scott into the unassuming restaurant and the calm-

ing strains of Eastern music replaced the city noises on the

street outside. The red and white plastic checkered tablecloths

severely clashed with the gilt of the pagoda shaped decorations

throughout. But only by American tastes. Sarang Mas was a much

touted and reputable restaurant with very fine native Indonesian

chefs doing the preparations.

"Let me tell you something," the Spook said. "This food is the

absolute finest food available, anywhere in the world, bar no

idyllic island location, better than a trip to Hershey, Pennsyl-

vania to cure a case of the munchies. It's delicate, it's sweet,

it's taste bud heaven, it's a thousand points of flavor you've

never tried before." The Spook sounded like a hawker on the Home

Shopping Network.

"Shut up," Scott joked. "You're just making it worse."

"Think of the oral orgasm that's coming. Anticipation." The

waiter had appeared and waited patiently. It was still early and

the first seating crowd was two hours away. "Do you mind if I

order?"

"No, be my guest. Just make it fast food. Super fast food,"

Scott begged.

"Ah, let's have a couple of Sate Kambings to start, ah, and we'll

share some Daguig Goreng, and some Kodok Goreng and ah, the Guila

Kambing. And," Spook looked at Scott, "a couple of Heinekens?"

Scott nodded. "And, if there's any way you could put that order

into warp drive, my friend here," he pointed at Scott, "would

appreciate it muchly."

"Very good," the dark skinned Indonesian waiter replied as he

scurried back to the kitchen.

It still took half an hour for the appetizers to arrive. Scott

chewed up three straws and tore two napkins into shreds while

waiting.

"What is this," asked Scott as he voraciously dove into the food.

"Does it matter?"

"No," Scott bit into it. "Mmmmmmm . . .Holy shit, that's good,

what is it?"

"Goat parts," the Spook said with a straight face.

Scott stopped chewing. "Which goat parts?" he mumbled staring

over the top of his round glasses.

"The good parts," said the Spook taking two big bites. "Only the

good parts."

"It's nothing like, eyeballs, or lips or . . ." Scott was gross-

ing himself out.

"No, no, paysan, eat up. It's safe." The Spook made the Italian

gesture for eating. "Most of the time." The Spook chuckled as

he ravaged the unidentifiable goat parts on his plate.

Scott looked suspiciously at the Spook, who seemed to be surviv-

ing. How bad could it be? It tasted great, phenomenal, but what

is it? Fuck it. Scott wolfed down his goat parts in total ecsta-

sy. The Spook was right. This was the best tasting food he had

had, ever.

The rest of the meal was as sensorally exquisite as the appetiz-

er. Scott felt relieved once the waiter had promised that the

goat parts were from a goat roast, just like a rib roast or a

pork roast. Nothing disgusting like ear lobes. Ecch!

"So you want to know why we do it," said the Spook in between

nibbles of Indonesian frog legs. Scott had to think hard to

realize that the Spook had shifted the conversation to hacking.

"It had occurred to me," responded Scott. "Why do you do it?"

"I've always liked biology, so hacking became the obvious

choice," Spook said laughing. Scott looked perplexed but that

didn't interrupt his voracious attack on the indescribably deli-

cious foods on his plate.

"How old are you?" Asked the Spook.

"The Big four-oh is in range."

"Good, me too. Remember Marshall McCluhan?"

"The medium is the message guru." Scott had admired him and made

considerable effort to attend a few of his highly motivating

lectures.

"Exactly. He predicted it 20 years early. The Networked Socie-

ty." The Spook paused to toss more food into his mouth. "How

much do you know about computers?"

"I'm learning," Scott said modestly. Whenever asked that ques-

tion he assumed that he was truly ignorant on the subject despite

his engineering degree. It was just that computers had never

held the fascination for him that they did for others.

"O.K., let me give you the low down." The Spook sucked down the

last of the Heineken and motioned to the waiter for two more. He

wiped his lips and placed his napkin beside the well cleaned

plate. "At what point does something become alive?"

"Alive?" Scott mused. "When some carbon based molecules get the

right combination of gases in the proper proportions of tempera-

ture and pressure . . ."

"C'mon, guy. Use your imagination," the Spook scoffed with his

eyes twinkling. "Biologically, you're right, but philosophically

that's pretty fucking lame. Bart Simpson could come up with

better than that." The Spook could be most insulting without

even trying. "Let me ask you, is the traffic light system in New

York alive?"

"No way!" Retorted Scott. "It's dead as a doornail, programmed

for grid lock." They both laughed at the ironic choice for

analogy.

"Seriously, in many ways it can be considered alive," the Spook

said. "It uses electricity as its source of power or food.

Therefore it eats, has a digestive system and has waste product;

heat. Agreed?"

Scott nodded. That was a familiar personification for engineer-

ing students.

"And, if you turn off the power, it stops functioning. A tempo-

rary starvation if you will. It interacts with its environment;

in this case with sensors and switches that react to the condi-

tions at any particular moment. And lastly, and most important-

ly, it has purpose." Scott raised his eyebrows skeptically.

"The program, the rules, those are its purpose. It is coinciden-

tally the same purpose that its designers had, but nonetheless it

has purpose."

"That doesn't make it alive. It can't think, as we do, and there

is no ego or personality," Scott said smugly.

"So what? Since when does plankton or slime mold join Mensa?

That's sentience." Spook walked right over Scott's comment.

"O.K.," Scott acquiesced. "I'm here to play Devil's Advocate,

not make a continent of enemies."

"Listen, you better learn something early on," Spook leaned in

over the table. His seriousness caught Scott's attention. "You

can disagree with us all you want, that's not a problem, most

everyone does. But, we do expect fairness, personal and profes-

sional."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning," the dimples in Spook's smiling cheeks radiated cama-

raderie. "Don't give up on an argument so early if you believe

in it. That's a chicken shit way out of taking a position. Real

kindergarten." The Spook finished off his Heineken in two gulps.

Scott's tension eased realizing the Spook wanted the debate, the

confrontation. This week could be a lot more fun than he had

thought.

"At any rate, can you buy into that, that the traffic systems are

alive?" The Spook asked again.

"I'll hold my final judgment in abeyance, but for sake of discus-

sion, let's continue," acquiesced Scott.

"Fair enough. In 1947, I think that was the year, some guy said

that he doubted there would be world wide market for more than

three computers."

Scott choked on his beer. "Three? Ha! What mental moron came up

with that?"

"Watson. Thomas Watson, founder of IBM," the Spook said dead

pan.

"You're kidding."

"And what about Phil Estridge?"

"Who's that?"

"Another IBM'er," said the Spook. "He was kind of a renegade,

worked outside of the mainstream corporate IBM mold. His bosses

told him, 'hey, we need a small cheap computer to tie to our

bigger computers. This little company Apple is selling too many

for us not to get involved. By the way, Corporate Headquarters

thinks this project is a total waste of money; they've been

against it from the outset. So, you have 8 months.' They gave

him 8 months to build a computer that would set standards for

generations of machines. And, he pulled it off. Damned shame he

died.

"So, here we have IBM miss-call two of the greatest events in

their history yet they still found ways to earn tens of billions

of dollars. Today we have, oh, around a hundred million comput-

ers in the world. That's a shitload of computers. And we're

cranking out twelve million more each year.

"Then we tied over fifty million of these computers together. We

used local area networks, wide area networks, dedicated phone

lines, gate ways, transmission backbones all in an effort to

allow more and more computers to talk to each other. With the

phone company as the fabric of the interconnection of our comput-

ers we have truly become a networked society. Satellites further

tighten the weave on the fabric of the Network. With a modem

and telephone you have the world at your fingertips." The Spook

raised his voice during his passionate monologue.

"Now we can use computers in our cars or boats and use cellular

phone links to create absolute networkability. In essence we

have a new life form to deal with, the world wide information

Network."

"Here's where we definitely diverge," objected Scott, hands in

the air. "Arriving at the conclusion that a computer network is

a life form, requires a giant leap of faith that I have trouble

with."

"Not faith, just understanding," the Spook said with sustained

vigor. "We can compare networks to the veins and blood vessels

in our bodies. The heart pumps the blood, the lungs replenish

it, the other organs feed off of it. The veins serve as the

thoroughfares for blood just as networks serve as highways for

information. However, the Network is not static, where a fixed

road map describes its operation. The Network is in a constant

state of flux, in all likelihood never to repeat the same pattern

of connections again.

"So you admit," accused Scott, "that a network is just a conduit,

one made of copper and silicon just as the vein in a conduit?"

"Yes, a smart conduit," the Spook insisted. "Some conduits are

much smarter than others. The Network itself is a set of rules

by which information is transmitted over a conductive material.

You can't touch a network. Sure, you can touch the computer, the

network wire, you can touch the bits and pieces that make up the

Network, but you cannot touch the Network. The Network exists as

a synergistic byproduct of many dissimilar and physically isolat-

ed devices."

"I must admit Spook . . ."

"That's Mister Spook to you earth man," joked the Spook. "Sorry,

continue."

"I could probably nickel and dime you into death by boredom on

several points, but I will concede that they are arguable and

better relegated for a long evening of total disagreement. For

the sake of world peace I will not press the issue now."

"How very kind," mocked the Spook. "Let's get out of here, take

a walk, and I'll continue your education."

If anyone else spoke to Scott so derogatorily, there would be

instant conflict. The Spook, though, didn't raise the defense

mechanism in Scott. Spook was actually a likable fellow, if

somewhat arrogant.

They walked back down Nieuwezuds Voorburgwal and Beursplein very

slowly. The Spook lit up another joint.

"What's this," said Scott appreciatively, "an endless supply?"

"When in Rome!" replied Spook. The brightly lit grand boulevard

was a sample of the energy that permeates the Amsterdam night

life. The train station was still a hub of activity in the

winter darkness of early evening.

"So look at the Network. You can cut off its tentacles, that's

better than legs and feet in this case, and they will reappear,

reconnect somewhere else. Alternate routing bypasses trouble

spots, self diagnostics help the Network doctors, priority and

preferences are handled according to a clear set of rules."

Spook waved his hands to reinforce his case.

"That's, ah, quite, ah, a theory. What do the experts say about

this?" Scott was teetering on the edge of partial acceptance.

"Experts? We're the experts. That's why we hack, don't you

see?" The answer was so obvious it didn't deserve a question.

"Now, I can only speak for myself, but I find that the Network

organism itself is what's interesting. The network, the sponta-

neously grown information organism that covers most of the planet

Earth. I believe that is why all hackers start hacking. Innate

curiosity about the way things work. Then, before our eyes, and

behind the back of the world, the planet gets connected, totally

connected to each other, and we haven't examined the ramifica-

tions of that closeness, computer-wise that is. That's what we

do." The Spook sounded satisfied with his explanation.

Scott thought about it as they crossed Kerksplein and over canals

to the Oude Zijds Voorbugwal. Was the Spook spouting off a lot

of rationalized bullshit or were he and the likes of him actually

performing valuable services, acting as technological sociolo-

gists to five billion clients? If a network was alive, thought

Scott, it was alive in the sense that a town or village is alive,

as the sum of its parts. As a society is alive. If the computer

terminal and its operator are members of a global village, as are

thousands of other computer users, might that not be considered a

society? Communications are indeed different, but Scott remem-

bered that Flatland was considered a valid society with a unique

perspective on the universe. Is it any different than the tele-

phone, which connects everyone on the planet? Shit, Spook made

some sense.

They paused on a bridge by the Voorsbugwal, and a few blocks down

the canal Scott saw a concentration of bright lights. "What's

that?" He asked.

"Poontang," the Spook said lasciviously.

"Say wha?" Scott asked

"This is Horny Heaven, Ode to Orgasm, Pick a Perversion." The

Spook proudly held his arms out.

"Aha, the Red Light District," Scott added dryly.

"Don't take the romance out of it, this is sleaze at it's best.

Believe me I know." Somehow Scott had no doubts. With the way

Spook was passionately describing the specific acts and services

available within the 10 square block hotbed of sex, Scott knew

that the Spook was no novice. They grabbed a couple of Heinekens

from a bar and slowly strolled down one side of the carnal canal.

"I was going to go to the Yab Yub tonight, but since you've never

been here before, I figured I owed you a tour."

"Yab Yub? Am I supposed to know . . ."

"The biggest bestest baddest whorehouse in Amsterdam," said Spook

exuberantly.

"O.K., fine, and this is . . ."

"The slums."

"Thanks a lot," Scott said sarcastically.

"No, this is for middle class tourist sex. Yab Yub is first

class but this'll do me just fine. How about you? Ready for some

serious debauching?" The Spook queried.

"Huh?" Scott laughed anxiously. "Oh, I don't know, I've never

been terribly fond of hookers."

"First time when I was 13. My uncle took me to a whorehouse for

my birthday. Shit," the Spook fondly grinned at the memory.

"I'll never forget the look on my mom's face when he told her.

She lectured him for a week. Christ," he paused. "It's so funny,

you know. My uncle's gay."

Scott was enjoying the conversation and the company of the Spook.

Americans meeting up with kindred Americans in a foreign land is

a breath of fresh air and the Spook provided that.

Scott window shopped as they walked, sidestepping the very few

venturesome cars which attempted to penetrate the horny humanity

on the crowded cobblestone streets. The variety of sexual mate-

rials was beyond comprehension. Spook seemed to be avidly fluent

in their description and application. In one window, a spiked

dildo of emmense girth and length dominated the display. Scott

grimaced at the weapon while the Spook commented on it's possible

uses at an adult sit'n'spin party.

"Here's the live sex show," the Spook said invitingly. "Pretty

wild. Look at the pictures." Scott leaned over to view a set of

graphic photographs that would have caused the Meese Commission

on Pornography to double dose on its Geritol.

"Damn, they show this stuff on the street, huh?" Asked the sur-

prised Scott. He wasn't naive, it was just quite a shock to see

such graphic sexuality in such a concentration and in such an

open manner. On Sundays when the Red Light District is closed

until 6 P.M., many Dutch families use the window dressings as the

textbook for their children's' sex education. "No, let's keep

going," Scott said unconvinced he would partake of the pleasures.

"Isn't this great?" The Spook blurted out as Scott was looking

in the window of one of the hundred plus sex shops. "I just love

it. Remember I was telling you about freedom in Amsterdam? It's

kind of like the hacker's ethic."

Spook was going to equate sex and hacking? "Is that 'cause all

hacker's are hard up?" Scott laughed.

"No, dig it." The Spook suddenly stopped to face Scott. "Free-

dom, total freedom implies and requires responsibility. Without

that, the system would collapse into chaotic anarchy. Hacking is

a manifestation of freedom. Once we have cracked a system, and

are in it, we have the freedom to do anything we want. But that

freedom brings responsibility too, and, just like with sex so

freely available, legally, it must be handled with care." Spook

was sermonizing again, but was making more sense. His parallels

were concise and poignant.

They walked further into the heart of the District and the Spook

was constantly distracted by the quantity of red lights over the

basement and first floor windows. He wanted to closely examine

the contents of every one. In each window was a girl, sometimes

two, clad in either a dental floss bathing suit or a see through

penoire. Scott enjoyed the views, but thought that the Spook was

acting somewhat obsessively. The calm, professional, knowledge-

able hacker had reverted into a base creature, driven by hormonal

compulsion. Or then again, maybe they were just stoned.

"I gotta pick the right one, just the right one," the Spook said.

"Let's see what else is available. Got to find you a good one,

too."

Scott shook his head. "I don't know . . ."

"What, you don't wanna get laid? What's the matter with you?"

The Spook couldn't believe his ears.

The sheer intensity of the omnipresent sexual stimulation gave

Scott the urge to pause and ask himself why. The desire was

physically manifest, but the psychology of hookers; it wasn't his

style. In the three years since he and Maggie had split, Scott

occassioned to spend time with many ladies. He had kept himself

in reasonable shape without doing becoming fanatic about it, and

his high metabolism helped keep the body from degenerating ahead

of schedule. So he had had his share of companionship and oppor-

tunity, but right now he was enjoying the freedom of his work and

the pleasures that that offered. If a woman was in the cards, so

be it, but it was not essential at the moment.

"Nothing, it's just that, well, I prefer to know the lady, if you

know what I mean."

"Oh, no problem!" The Spook had an answer. "That's an all night-

er and will cost you 1000 guilders."

"No, no," Scott said quickly. "That's not it. I just don't get

a charge from hookers. Now, if some friends set it up to like a

real pick-up, at the beach, a bar, whatever, as long as I didn't

know. That could prove interesting. Hmmmm." He smiled to

himself. "But honestly? I been a couple of times, just for

giggles. And boy was it giggles."

Scott laughed out loud at the memory. "The first time it was a

friend's birthday and a bunch of us put up enough to get him laid

at the Chicken Ranch." That was the evening Scott had lost

almost two hours of his life on the drive back to Vegas. He

speculated to himself, in private, that he may been abducted by

alien creatures from a UFO. Right.

"I know the place," added the Spook.

"I was designated drunk driver so I drove him over to the high

desert in the company van, about an hour's drive. Before we went

in I insisted on a couple of beers. He was getting laid and I

was nervous. Go figure. At any rate, the security cameras let

us in and two very attractive ladies in slinky gowns lead us over

to the couch. They immediately assumed that we were both there

for, well, the services. I was too embarrassed to say no, that I

wasn't interested, but then out came a line of 20 of the most

gorgeous girls you could imagine. The madam, I forget her name,

stepped in and begged our indulgence for the interruption. It

seems, she said, that the BBC was filming a documentary on broth-

els, and they had a camera crew in the next room, and would we

mind too terribly much if they filmed us?" Scott feigned extreme

shock.

"Filmed you? For TV? Even I won't go that far," the Spook said

impressed with Scott's story. "My movies are all first run

private. Alphabetical from Adelle to Zelda."

"Not film that, pervert!" He had pegged the Spook. "They only

filmed the selection process, the initial meetings and then the

walk down the hallways to the bedrooms."

"So what'd you do?" The Spook asked with interest.

"We did the camera bit, Jim got laid and I take the fifth."

"You chicken shit asshole," hollered the laughing Spook.

Scott took that as a compliment from the male slut to whom he was

speaking. "Listen, that was a long time ago, before I was mar-

ried, and I don't want it to screw up our divorce. Three years of

bliss."

The Spook kept laughing. "You really are a home boy, huh?" He

gasped for air. They continued down a side street and back up

the Oude Zijds Achterburgwal, the other main canal in the Dis-

trict, so Spook could check out more windows. Those with the

curtain drawn indicated that either services were being rendered

or that it was lunch hour. Hard to tell.

As they passed the Guys and Gals Sex Shop, the Spook abruptly

stopped and stepped back toward the canal. He whistled to him-

self in appreciation of the sex goddesses that had captured his

attention. In the basement window was a stunning buxom brunette,

wearing an invisible g-string and bra. She oozed sexuality with

her beckoning lips and fingers when she spotted the Spook's

interest. In the first floor window above the brunette were two

perfectly voluptuous poster blondes, in matching transparent

peignoirs. They too, saw the Spook, and attempted to seduce him

to their doorway. Scott was impressed that the ladies were so

attractive.

"Some sweet meat, huh?" Said the Spook ogling his choices. "Well

are you or aren't you?" He asked with finality. "I'm all systems

go. You get first choice: 2 from window A or 1 from window B.

What'll it be?"

Scott responded immediately. "I got a safer way. There are five

billion people on the planet, and at any given time at least a

million have to be having sex. So all I have to do is tune into

the Planetary Consciousness, the ultimate archetype, and have an

orgasm anytime I want."

"You're a sick mother," laughed the Spook. "Transcendental group

sex. At least I can tell the difference between pussy and pray-

ing." He asked Scott again to pick a girl.

"I have to pass. It's just not my thing." Spook glared at him

askance. "No really, go ahead. I'm a bit tired, I just arrived

this morning." He had forgotten to take his 3 hour afternoon nap

and it was close to 6 in the morning body time. "I'll see you at

the conference tomorrow. All right?"

"Fuckin' A!" The Spook beamed. "I get 'em all." He motioned to

the girls that he would like to hire all three of them, at once.

They indicated that that would be a fine idea. "Listen, I don't

mean to be rude, but . . ." the Spook said to Scott as he pro-

ceeded up the stairs to meet the female triumvirate. He turned

briefly in the open doorway with two of the girls tugging at his

clothes. "Scott! What happens if the medium or the message gets

sick? Think about it." The door closed behind the Spook as the

girls shed their clothes.

"Medium? Jeez you are really fucked," laughed Scott. "Pervert!"

He called out as the window curtains closed.

Scott got directions to the Eureka! from a live sex show sales-

man. For all the walking he and the Spook had done, miles and

miles, it was odd that they had ended up only a few blocks away

from the hotel. Ah, but that would figure, thought Scott. The

Sex Starved Spook was staying at the Europa around the corner

from Sin Street. Scott rolled a joint of his own to enjoy for

the pleasant evening promenade home along the canals. Spook,

what a character. In one breath, perfectly rational, but then

the Jekyll and Hyde hormone hurricane. Wow.

What Scott Mason could never have imagined, indeed quite the

opposite, was that the Spook was unable to respond to the three

very attentive ladies he had hired for that very purpose. Noth-

ing. No matter what stimuli they effected, the Spook's brain

could not command his body to respond. His confusion alternated

with embarrassment which made the problem only worse. Never

before had the Spook had such a problem. Never. One of the

ladies spoke to him kindly. "Hey, it happens to everyone once in

a while." At hearing that he jumped up, removed the loose condom

and zipped his pants while screaming, "Not to me. It doesn't

happen to me!"

Scott did not know that the Spook bolted into the street and

started running, in panic, away from the scene of his most pri-

vate of failures. He ran all the way, in fact beating Scott to

his hotel. He was driven by the terror of the first sexual

failure in his life. The Spook felt emasculated as he sought a

rationalization that would allow him to retain a shred of digni-

ty.

He was used to commanding women, not being humiliated by them.

What was wrong? Women fell all over him, but why this? This of

all things? The Spook fell asleep on the top of his bed with his

clothes on.

Scott did not know that he would not be seeing the Spook tomor-

row.

* * * * *

Wednesday, January 6

Washington, D.C.

"Eight more!" exclaimed Charlie Sorenson into Martin Templer's

face. "What the hell is going on?" The private office on twenti-

eth and "L" Street was well guarded by an efficient receptionist

who believed she worked for an international import export firm.

Consulting offices were often easier for senior intelligence

officials to use for clandestine, unrecorded meetings than one's

own office. In the interest of privacy, naturally.

The two NSA and CIA agents from "P" Street held their clandestine

meeting in a plain, windowless office meagerly furnished with a

desk, a couple of chairs and a file cabinet.

Charlie turned his back on Templer and sighed. "I'm sorry,

Marty. It's not you." He paced to the other side of the small

confining room. "I'm getting pressure from all sides. That

damned FBI guy is making a nuisance of himself. Asking too many

questions. The media smells a conspiracy and the Director is

telling me to ignore it." Sorenson stood in front of Templer.

"And, now, no, it's not bad enough, but 8 more of the mothers go

off. Shit!" He slammed his fist onto the desk.

"We can explain one to the Pentagon, but nine?" Martin asked

skeptically.

"See what I mean?" Sorenson pointed.

Sorenson and Templer attended the ECCO and CERT roundups twice a

week since they began after the first EMP-T explosion.

"These are the Sats?" Templer leaned over to the desk. Corners

of several high resolution satellite photographs sneaked out from

a partially open folder. Sorenson opened the folder and spread

the photos across the surface. They weren't optical photographs,

but the familiar map shapes of the central United States were

visible behind swirls and patterns of a spectrum of colors. The

cameras and computer had been instructed to look at selected

bandwidths, just as infrared vision lets one see at night. In

this case, though, the filters excluded everything but frequen-

cies of the electromagentic spectrum of interest.

"Yeah," Sorenson said, pointing at one of the photos. "This is

where we found the first one." On one of the photos, where an

outline of the United States was visible, a dot of fuzzy light

was visible in the Memphis, Tennessee area.

"That's an EMP-T bomb?" asked Templer.

"The electromagnetic signature, in certain bandwidths is the same

as from a nuclear detonation." Sorenson pulled another photo

out. It was a computer enhanced blowup of the first satellite

photo. The bridges across the Mississippi were clearly visible.

The small fuzzy dot from the other photograph became a larger

fuzzy cloud of white light.

"I didn't know we had geosyncs over us, too," Templer said light-

ly.

"Officially we don't," Sorenson said seriously. Then he showed

his teeth and said, "unofficially we have them everywhere."

"So who was hit?"

"Here?" He pointed at Memphis. "Federal Express. A few hours

ago. They're down. Can't say when they'll be back in business.

Thank God no one was killed. They weren't so lucky in Texas."

Sorenson pulled a couple more photographs and a fuzzy dot and

it's fuzzy cloud mate were clearly visible in the Houston area.

"EDS Computers," said Sorenson. "Six dead, 15 injured. They do

central processing for hundreds of companies. Every one, gone.

And then here." He scattered more photos with the now recogniz-

able fuzzy white dots.

"Mid-State Farm Insurance, Immigration and Naturalization, Na-

tional Bank, General Inter-Dynamics, CitiBank, and the Sears mail

order computers." Sorenson spoke excitedly as he listed the

latest victims of the magnetic cardiac arrest that their computer

systems, and indeed, their entire organization suffered.

"Press?"

"Like stink on shit."

"What do they know?"

"Too much."

"What can we do?"

"Get to the bottom of this before Mason does."

****************************************************************