Chapter 19

Thursday, January 7

Amsterdam, Holland

The following morning Scott awoke without telephone intervention

by the front desk. He felt a little on the slow side, an observa-

tion he attributed to either the time difference, not the jet

lag, or the minor after effect of copius cannabis consumption.

The concierge called a cab and Scott told the driver where he

thought he was going. Ya, no problem, it's a short ride.

To Scott's surprise he found himself passing by the same sex

emporium where he had left the Spook last evening. Scott reminded

himself to ask Spook how it went. The taxi stopped in front of

an old building that had no signs of use. It was number 44, but

just in case, Scott asked the driver to wait a moment. He walked

up the door and finding no bell, rapped on the heavy wooden door.

"Ya?" A muffled voice asked through the door.

"Is Jon there? This is Scott Mason." Scott knowingly looked at

the cab driver.

"Who?"

Scott looked at the number again and then remembered what Jon had

told him. "Sorry. This is Repo Man. Kirk said you'd expect

me."

"Ah, ya! Repo Man." The door opened and Scott happily waved off

the cab. "Welcome, please, come in." Scott entered a dark

chamber as the door closed behind him. "I am Clay, that's French

for key."

Wonderful, thought Scott. "Thanks for the invite. Is Jon here?"

"Everyone is here."

"I thought it didn't begin until eleven," Scott said looking at

his watch.

"Ah, ya, well," the Dutch accented Clay said. "It is difficult

to stop sometimes. We have been here all night."

Scott followed Clay up a darkened flight of steps. At mid land-

ing Clay opened a door and suddenly the dungeon-like atmosphere

vanished. Inside the cavernous room were perhaps 200 people,

mostly men, excitedly conversing and huddling over computers of

every imaginable model. The high ceiling was liberally dressed

with fluorescent tubing which accentuated the green hues from

many of the computer monitors. The walls were raw brick and the

sparse decorations were all computer related. Windows at the two

ends of the building added enough daylight to take some of the

edge off of the pallid green aura.

"What should I do?" Asked Scott looking around the large room

which was probably overcrowded by modern safety counts.

"The Flying Dutchman said he will see you a little later," Clay

said. "Many of our members know Repo Man is a reporter, and you

are free to look and ask anything. Please enjoy yourself." Clay

quickly disappeared into the congregation.

Scott suddenly felt abandoned and wished he could disappear.

Like those dreams where you find yourself stark naked in a public

place. He felt that his computer naivete was written all over

his face and he would be judged thus, so instead he tried to

ignore it by perusing the walls. He became amused at the selec-

tion of art, poster art, Scotch taped to the brick.

The first poster had Daffy Duck, or reasonable facsimile thereof,

prepared to bring a high speed sledgehammer in contact with a

keyboard. "Hit any key to continue," was the simple poster's

message. Another portrayed a cobweb covered skeleton sitting

behind a computer terminal with a repairman standing over him

asking a pertinent question. "System been down long?"

One of the ruder posters consisted of Ronald Reagan with a super-

imposed hand making a most obscene manual gesture. The poster was

entitled, "Compute This!"

Scott viewed the walls as if in an art gallery, not a hackers

convention. He openly laughed when he saw a poster from the

National Computer Security Center, a working division of the

National Security Agency. A red, white and blue Uncle Sam,

finger pointing, beckoned, "We want YOU! to secure your

computer." In an open white space on the poster someone wrote

in, "Please list name and date if you have already cracked into

an NSA computer." Beneath were a long list of Hacker Handles

with the dates they had entered the super secret agency's comput-

ers. Were things really that bad, Scott asked himself.

"Repo Man?"

Scott turned quickly to see a large, barrel chested, red haired

man with an untamed beard in his early forties approach him

rapidly. The man was determined in his gait. Scott answered,

"Yes . . .?

"Ya, I'm the Flying Dutchman," he said hurriedly in a large boom-

ing voice. "Welcome." He vigorously shook Scott's hand with a

wide smile hidden behind the bushy red face. "You enjoyed Am-

sterdam last night, ya?" He expected a positive answer. Sex was

no crime here.

"Well," Scott blushed. "I must say it was a unique experience,"

he said carefully so as not to offend Holland's proud hosts.

"But I think the Spook had more fun than I did."

The Flying Dutchman's hand went limp. "Spook? Did you say

Spook?" His astonishment was clear.

"Yeah, why?" Scott asked.

"The Spook? Here? No one has seen him in years."

"Yeah, well he's alive and well and screwing his brains out with

three of Amsterdam's finest," Scott said with amusement. "What's

the big deal?"

"The Spook, ya this is goot," the Flying Dutchman said clapping

his hands together with approval. "He was the greatest phreak

of his day. He retired years ago, and has only been seen once or

two times maybe. He is a legend."

"A phreak?"

"Oh, ya, ya. A phreak," he said speaking rapidly. "Before home

computers, in the 1960's and 1970's, hacking meant fighting the

phone company. In America you call it Ma Bell, I believe. Cap-

tain Crunch was the epitome of phone phreaks."

These names were a bit much, thought Scott, but might add a

sense of levity to his columns. "Captain Crunch?" Scott asked

with skepticism.

"Ya, Captain Crunch. He blew the plastic whistle from a Captain

Crunch cereal box into the phone," the Flying Dutchman held an

invisible whistle to his lips. "And it opened up an inside line

to make long distance calls. Then he built and sold Blue Boxes

which recreated the tones to make free calls."

"Phreaking and computer hacking, they're the same?"

"Ya, ya, especially for the older hackers." The Flying Dutchman

patted himself on the stomach. "You see hacking, some call it

cracking, is taking a system to its limit. Exploring it, master-

ing the machine. The phones, computers, viruses, it's all hack-

ing. You understand?"

"Spook called hacking a technique for investigating new spontane-

ously generated lifeforms. He said a network was a living being.

We got into quite an argument about it." Scott sounded mildly

derisive of the theory.

The Dutchman crossed his arms, grinned wide and rocked back and

forth on his heels. "Ya, ya. That sounds like the Spook.

Cutting to the heart of the issue. Ya, you see, we all have our

reasons why we hack, but ya, Spook is right. We forget sometimes

that the world is one giant computer, with thousands and millions

of arms, just like the brain. The neurons," he pointed at his

head, "are connected to each other with synapses. Just like a

computer network."

The Flying Dutchman's explanation was a little less ethereal than

the Spook's and Scott found himself anticipating further enlight-

enment.

"The neuron is a computer. It can function independently, but

because it's capacity is tiny, a neuron is really quite limited

in what it can achieve alone. The synapse is like the network

wire, or phone company wiring. It connects the neurons or com-

puters together." The Dutchman spoke almost religiously as he

animatedly drew wires and computers in the air to reinforce the

concept. "Have you heard of neural networks?"

"Absolutely," Scott said. "The smart chips that can learn."

"Ya, exactly. A neural network is modeled after the brain, too.

It is a very large number of cells, just like the brain's cells,

that are only connected to each other in the most rudimentary

way."

"Like a baby's brain?" Scott offered.

"Ya, ya, just like a baby. Very good. So like the baby, the

neural net grows connections as it learns. The more connections

it makes, the smarter it gets."

"Both the baby and the network?"

"Ya," Dutchman laughed. "So as the millions of neural connec-

tions are made, some people learn skills that others don't and

some computers are better suited to certain tasks than others.

And now there's a global neural network growing. Millions more

computers are added and we connect them together, until any

computer can talk to any other computer. Ya, the Spook is very

much right. The Network is alive, and it is still learning."

Scott was entering a world where the machines, the computers,

were personified, indeed imbued with a life of their own by their

creators and their programmers. A highly complex world where

inter-relatedness is infinitely more important than the specific

function. Connections are issue. Didn't Spook remind him that

the medium is the message?

But where, questioned Scott, is the line between man and machine?

If computers are stupid, and man must program them to give them

the appearance of intelligence, then the same must be true of the

Network, the global information network. Therefore, when a piece

of the Network is programmed to learn how to plan for future

Network expansion and that piece of the Network calls another

computer on the Network to inquire as to how it is answering the

same problem for different conditions, don't man and machine

merge? Isn't the Network acting as an extension of man? But

then, a hammer is a tool as well, and no one calls a hammer a

living being.

Unto itself it is not alive, Scott reasoned. The Network merely

emulates the growth patterns and behavior of the cranial highway

system. He was ready to concede that a network was more alive

than a hammer, but he could not bring himself to carry the analo-

gy any further yet.

"That gives me a lot to think about," Scott assured the Dutchman.

"Ya, ya, it does. Do you understand quantum physics?"

What the hell would make him ask that question, thought Scott.

"I barely passed Quantum 101, the math was too far out for me,

but, yes," he laughed kindly, "I do remember the basics. Very

basic."

"Goot. In the global Network there is no way to predict where

the next information packet will be sent. Will it start here,"

the Dutchman motioned to his far left, "or here? There's no way

to know. All we can say, just as in physics, is that there is a

probability of data being transferred between any two points.

Chance. And we can also view the Network in operation as both a

wave and a particle."

"Wait," stopped Scott. "You've just gone over my head, but I get

the point, I think. You and your associates really believe that

this global Network is an entity unto itself and that it is

growing and evolving on its own as we speak?"

"Ya, exactly. You see, no one person is responsible for the

Network, its growth or its care. Like the brain, many different

regions control their own piece of the Network. And, the Network

can still function normally even if pieces of it are disconnect-

ed. The split brain studies."

"And you're the caretakers for the Network?" doubted Scott.

"No. As I said we all have our reasons. The common denominator

is that we treat the Network as an incredibly powerful organism

about which we know very, very little. That is our function - to

learn."

"What is it that you do? For a living?"

"Ah, ya. I am Professor of Technological Sociology at the Uni-

versity of Amsterdam. The original proposal for my research came

from personal beliefs and concerns; about the way the human race

has to learn to cope in the face of great technology leaps. NATO

is funding the research."

"NATO," exclaimed Scott. "They fund hacking?"

"No," laughed the Dutchman. "They know that hacking is necessary

to gather the raw data my research requires, so they pretend not

to notice or care. What we are trying to do is predict what the

Baby, the global Network will look and act like when it grows

up."

"Isn't crystal ball gazing easier?"

"Ya, it may be," the Dutchman agreed. "But now, why don't you

look around? I am sure you will find it most educational."

The Dutchman asked again about the Spook. "Is he really here in

Amsterdam?" Yup! "And he said he'd be here today?" Yup! "The

Spook, at the conference? He hasn't made an appearance in years."

Well, that's what he told me, he'd be here.

Scott profusely thanked his host and assured him that yes, he

would ask for anything he needed. Thank you. Kirk had been

vindicated, thought Scott who had expected a group of pimply

faced adolescents with nerd shirts to be bouncing around like

Spring Break in Fort Lauderdale.

Scott slowly explored the tables loaded with various types of

computer gear. IBM clones were the most common, but an assort-

ment of older machines, a CP/M or two, even a Commodore PET

proved that expensive new equipment was not needed to become a

respected hacker. Scott reminded himself that this group was the

elite of hackerdom. These were the Hacker's Hackers.

In his discussions with Kirk, Scott figured he would see some of

the tools of the trade. But he had no idea of the level of

sophistication that was openly, and perhaps, illegally, being

demonstrated. Then again, maybe that's why they hold their

Hacker Ho Downs in Amsterdam.

Scott learned something very critical early on.

"Once you let one of us inside your computer, it's all over. The

system is ours." The universal claim by hackers.

Scott no longer had any trouble accepting that. "So the securi-

ty guy's job," one short balding middle aged American hacker

said, "is to keep us out. I'm a cracker." What's that? "The

cracker is kind of like a safecracker, or lock picker. It's my

job to figure out how to get into the computers." Scott had to

stifle a giggle when he found out that this slight man's handle

was appropriately Waldo.

Waldo went on to explain that he was a henpecked CPA who needed a

hobby that would bore his wife to tears. So he locked himself in

the basement, far away from her, and got hooked on computers. He

found that rummaging through other computers was an amusing

alternative to watching Honeymooner reruns while his wife

kvetched. After a while, he said he discovered that he had a

talent for cracking through the front doors of computers. On the

professional hacker circuit that made Waldo a valuable commodity.

The way it works, he explained, was that he would trade access

codes for outlines of the contents of the computers. If he

wanted to look further, he maintained a complete indexing system

on the contents of thousands of computers world wide. He admit-

ted it was the only exciting part of his life. "The most fun a

CPA has," he said calmly, "is cutting up client's credit cards.

But me," he added proudly, "I've been in and out of the IRS

computers more times than Debbie did it in Dallas."

"The IRS computers? You've been in there?"

"Where else does a CPA go, but to the scene of the crime." Waldo

laughed at his joke. "At first it was a game, but once I got

into the IRS backplane, which connects the various IRS districts

together, the things I found scared me. No one is in control

over there. No one. They abuse taxpayers, basically honest

taxpayers who are genuinely in trouble and need some understand-

ing by their government. Instead they are on the receiving end of

a vicious attack by a low level government paper slave who gets

his thrills by seizing property. The IRS is immune from due

process." Scott immediately thought of Tyrone and his constitu-

tional ravings the other night.

"The IRS's motto is, 'guilty until we cash the check'. And IRS

management ignores it. Auditors are on a quota basis, and if

they don't recover their allotted amounts of back taxes, they can

kiss their jobs goodbye." The innocent looking Waldo, too, had

found a cause, a raison d'

tre, for hacking away at government

computers.

"You know that for a fact?" Asked Scott. This alone was a major

story. Such a policy was against everything the Constitution

stood for. Waldo nodded and claimed to have seen the internal

policy memoranda. Who was in charge? Essentially, said Waldo,

no one. It was anarchy.

"They have the worst security of any agency that should by all

rights have the best. It's a crime against American citizens.

Our rights and our privacy have shriveled to nothing." Waldo,

the small CPA, extolled the virtues of fighting the system from

within. From within he could battle the computers that had

become the system.

"Have you ever, shall I say, fixed files in the IRS computers?"

"Many times," Waldo said proudly. "For my clients who were being

screwed, sometimes I am asked to help. It's all part of the

job," he said of his beloved avocation.

"How many systems have you cracked?" Asked Scott, visibly im-

pressed.

"I am," Waldo said modestly, "the best. I have cracked 1187

systems in 3 years. 1040 was my personal goal for a while, then

1099, but it's kind of open ended now."

"That's almost one a day?"

"You could look at it like that, but sometimes you can get into

10 or twenty in one day. You gotta remember," Waldo said with

pride, "a lot of homework goes into this. You just don't decide

one day to crack a system. You have to plan it."

"So how do you do it?"

"O.K., it's really pretty simple. D'you speak software?"

"Listen, you make it real simple, and I won't interrupt. OK?"

"Interrupt. Hah! That's a good one. Here, let me show you on the

computer," Waldo said as he leaned over to peck at the keyboard.

"The first step to getting into computers is to find where they

are located, electronically speaking, O.K.?" Scott agreed that

you needed the address of the bank before you could rob it.

"So what we do is search for computers by running a program, like

an exchange autodialer. Here, look here," Waldo said pointing at

the computer screen. "We select the area code here, let's say

203, that's Connecticut. Then we pick the prefix, the first

three numbers, that's the local exchange. So let's choose 968,"

he entered the numbers carefully. "That's Stamford. By the way,

I wrote this software myself." Waldo spoke of his software as a

proud father would of his first born son. Scott patted him on

the back, urging him to continue.

"So we ask the computer to call every number in the 203-968 area

sequentially. When the number is answered, my computer records

whether a voice, a live person answered, or a computer answered

or if it was a fax machine." Scott never had imagined that

hacking was so systematic.

"Then, the computer records its findings and we have a complete

list of every computer in that area," Waldo concluded.

"That's 10,000 phone calls," Scott realized. "It must cost a

fortune and take forever?"

"Nah, not a dime. The phone company has a hole. It takes my

program less than a second to record the response and we're off

to the next call. It's all free, courtesy of TPC," Waldo

bragged.

"TPC?" Questioned Scott.

"The Phone Company," Waldo chuckled.

"I don't see how you can do the entire country that way, 10,000

calls at a shot. In New York there must be ten million phones."

"Yes," agreed Waldo, "it is a never ending job. Phone numbers

change, computers come and go, security gets better. But you

have to remember, there are a lot of other people out there doing

the same thing, and we all pool our information. You could ask

for the number to almost any computer in the world, and someone

in our group, somewhere, will have the number and likely the

passwords."

"Jesus . . ."

"I run my program at night, every night, when I sleep. On a good

night, if the calls are connected quickly enough, I can go

through about a thousand phone numbers. I figure roughly a month

per prefix."

"I am amazed, simply amazed. Truly impressed," said Scott. "You

know, you always kind of imagine these things are possible, but

until it stares you in the face it's black magic."

"You wanna know the best part?" Waldo said teasingly. "I get

paid for it, too." Waldo crouched over and spoke to Scott secre-

tively. "Not everyone here approves, but, I sell lists to junk

fax mail-order houses. They want the fax lists. On a good night

I can clear a couple hundred while my modem does the dialing."

The underground culture of Scott's day, demonstrating against the

war, getting gassed while marching by George Washington Universi-

ty, getting thrown out of a Nixon rally at Madison Square Garden

seemed so innocent in comparison. He continued to be in awe of

the possible applications for a technology not as benign as its

creators had intended.

Scott met other hackers; they were proud of the term even with

the current negative connotations it carried. He saw how system-

ic attacks against the front door to computers were the single

biggest challenge to hackers; the proverbial chase before the

catch, the romance to many.

At another tabletop laden with computers Scott learned that there

are programs designed to try passwords according to certain

rules. Some try every possible combination of letters and num-

bers, although that is considered an antique method of brute

force. More sophisticated hackers use advanced algorithms which

try to open the computer with 'likely' passwords. <MI>It was all

very scientific, the approach to the problem<D>, thought Scott.

He met communications gurus who knew more about the switching

networks inside the phone company than AT&T engineers. They had

complete diagrams and function calls and source code for even the

latest software revisions on the 4ESS and the new 5ESS switches.

"Once you're into the phone computers," one phone phreak ex-

tolled, "you have an immense amount of power at your fingertips.

Incredible. Let me give you an example."

The speaker was another American, one that Scott would have

classified as an ex-Berkeley-hippie still living in the past.

His dirty shoulder length hair capped a skinny frame which held

his jeans up so poorly that there was no question where the sun

didn't shine.

"You know that the phone company is part of the Tri-Lateral

Commission, working with Kissinger and the Queen of England to

control the world. Right?" His frazzled speech was matched by

an annoying habit of sweeping his stringy hair off his face every

few words. "It's up to us to stop them."

Scott listened politely as Janis, (who adopted the moniker from

his favorite singer) rewrote history with tortured explanations

of how the phone company is the hidden seat of the American

government, and how they have been lying to the public for dec-

ades. And the Rockefellers are involved too, he assured Scott.

"They could declare martial law, today, and take over the coun-

try. Those who control the communications control the power," he

oracled. "Did you know," he took Scott into his confidence,

"that phones are always on and they have computers recording

everything you say and do in your own home. That's illegal!"

Janis bellowed. Not to mention crazy, thought Scott.

One of Janis' associates came over to rescue Scott. "Sorry, he's

a little enthusiastic and has some trouble communicating on the

Earthly plane." Alva, as he called himself, explained coherent-

ly that with some of the newer security systems in place, it is

necessary to manipulate the phone company switches to learn

system passwords.

"For example, when we broke into a Bell computer that used CI-

CIMS, it was tough to crack. But now they've added new security

that, in itself, is flawless, albeit crackable," Alva explained.

"Once you get past the passwords, which is trivial, the system

asks you three unique questions about yourself for final identi-

fication. Pretty smart, huh?" Scott agreed with Alva, a voice

of apparent moderation. "However, we were already in the phone

switch computer, so we programmed in forwarding instructions for

all calls that dialed that particular computer. We then inter-

cepted the call and connected it to our computer, where we emu-

late the security system, and watched the questions and answers

go back and forth. After a few hours, you have a hundred differ-

ent passwords to use. There are a dozen other ways to do it, of

course."

"Of course," Scott said sarcastically. Is nothing sacred? Not

in this world it's not. All's fair in love, war and hacking.

The time flew as Scott learned what a tightly knitted clique the

hackers were. The ethos 'honor among thieves' held true here as

it did in many adolescent societies, most recently the American

Old West. As a group, perhaps even a subculture, they were

arduously taming new territory, each with their own vision of a

private digital homestead. Each one taking on the system in

their own way, they still needed each other, thus they looked

aside if another's techno-social behavior was personally dis-

tasteful. The Network was big enough for everyone. A working

anarchy that heralded the standard of John Paul Jones as their

sole commandment: Don't Tread On Me.

He saw tapping devices that allowed the interception of computer

data which traveled over phone lines. Line Monitors and Sniffers

were commercially available, and legal; equipment that was nomi-

nally designed to troubleshoot networks. In the hands of a hack-

er, though, it graduated from being a tool of repair to an

offensive weapon.

Small hand held radios were capable of listening in to the in-

creasingly popular remote RF networks which do not require wires.

Cellular phone eavesdropping devices permitted the owner to scan

and focus on the conversation of his choice. Scott examined the

electronic gear to find a manufacturer's identification.

"Don't bother, my friend," said a long haired German youth of

about twenty.

"Excuse me?"

"I see you are looking for marks, yes?"

"Well, yes. I wanted to see who made these . . ."

"I make them, he makes them, we all make them," he said almost

giddily. "This is not available from Radio Shack," he giggled.

"Who needs them from the establishment when they are so easy to

build."

Scott knew that electronics was indeed a garage operation and

that many high tech initiatives had begun in entrepreneur's

basements. The thought of home hobbyists building equipment

which the military defends against was anathema to Scott. He

merely shook his head and moved on, thanking the makers of the

eavesdropping machines for their demonstrations.

Over in a dimly lit corner, dimmer than elsewhere, Scott saw a

number of people fiddling with an array of computers and equip-

ment that looked surprisingly familiar. As he approached he

experienced an immediate rush of d

ja vu. This was the same

type of equipment that he had seen on the van before it was blown

up a couple of months ago. Tempest busting, he thought.

The group was speaking in German, but they were more than glad to

switch to English for Scott's benefit. They sensed his interest

as he poked around the assorted monitors and antennas and test

equipment.

"Ah, you are interested in Van Eck?" asked one of the German

hackers. They maintained a clean cut appearance, and through

discussion Scott learned that they were funded as part of a

university research project in Frankfurt.

Scott watched and listened as they set up a compelling demonstra-

tion. First, one computer screen displayed a complex graphic

picture. Several yards away another computer displayed a foggy

image that cleared as one of the students adjusted the antenna

attached to the computer.

"Aha! Lock!" one of them said, announcing that the second comput-

er would now display everything that the first computer did. The

group played with color and black and white graphics, word proc-

essing screens and spreadsheets. Each time, in a matter of

seconds, they 'locked' into the other computer successfully.

Scott was duly impressed and asked them why they were putting

effort into such research. "Very simple," the apparent leader of

the Frankfurt group said. "This work is classified in both your

country and mine, so we do not have access to the answers we

need. So, we build our own and now it's no more classified. You

see?"

"Why do you need it?"

"To protect against it," they said in near unison. "The next

step is to build efficient methods to fight the Van Eck."

"Doesn't Tempest do that?"

"Tempest?" the senior student said. "Ha! It makes the computer

weigh a thousand pounds and the monitor hard to read. There are

better ways to defend. To defend we must first know how to

attack. That's basic."

"Let me ask you something," Scott said to the group after their

lengthy demonstration. "Do you know anything about electromag-

netic pulses? Strong ones?"

"Ya. You mean like from a nuclear bomb?"

"Yes, but smaller and designed to only hurt computers."

"Oh, ya. We have wanted to build one, but it is beyond our

means."

"Well," Scott said smugly, "someone is building them and setting

them off."

"Your stock exchange. We thought that the American government

did it to prove they could."

An hour of ensuing discussion taught Scott that the technology

that the DoD and the NSA so desperately spent billions to keep

secret and proprietary was in common use. To most engineers, and

Scott could easily relate, every problem has an answer. The

challenge is to accomplish the so-called impossible. The engi-

neer's pride.

Jon, the Flying Dutchman finally rescued Scott's stomach from

implosion. "How about lunch? A few of the guys want to meet

you. Give you a heavy dose of propaganda," he threatened.

"Thank God! I'm famished and haven't touched the stuff all day.

Love to, it's on me," Scott offered. He could see Doug having a

cow. How could he explain a thousand dollar dinner for a hundred

hungry hackers?

"Say that too loud," cautioned the bearded Dutchman, "and you'll

have to buy the restaurant. Hacking isn't very high on the pay

scale."

"Be easy on me, I gotta justify lunch for an army to my boss, or

worse yet, the beancounters." Dutchman didn't catch the idiom.

"Never mind, let's keep it to a small regiment, all right?"

He never figured out how it landed on his shoulders, but Scott

ended up with the responsibility of picking a restaurant and

successfully guiding the group there. And Dutchman had skipped

out without notifying anyone. Damned awkward, thought Scott. He

assumed control, limited though it was, and led them to the only

restaurant he knew, the Sarang Mas. The group blindly and happi-

ly followed. They even let him order the food, so he did his

very best to impress them by ordering without looking at the

menu. He succeeded, with his savant phonetic memory, to order

exactly what he had the night prior, but this time he asked for

vastly greater portions.

As they were sating their pallets, and commenting on what a

wonderful choice this restaurant was, Scott popped the same

question to which he had previously been unable to receive a

concise answer. Now that he had met this bunch, he would ask

again, and if lucky, someone might respond and actually be com-

prehensible.

"I've been asking the same question since I got into this whole

hacking business," Scott said savoring goat parts and sounding

quite nonchalant. "And I've never gotten a straight answer. Why

do you hack?" He asked. "Other than the philosophical credo of

Network is Life, why do you hack?" Scott looked into their eyes.

"Or are you just plain nosy?"

"I bloody well am!" said the one called Pinball who spoke with a

thick Liverpudlian accent. His jeans were in tatters, in no

better shape than his sneakers. The short pudgy man was mid-

twenty-ish and his tall crewcut was in immediate need of reshap-

ing.

"Nosy? That's why you hack?" Asked Scott in disbelief.

"Yeah, that's it, mate. It's great fun. A game the size of

life." Pinball looked at Scott as if to say, that's it. No

hidden meaning, it's just fun. He swallowed more of the exqui-

site food.

"Sounds like whoever dies with the most hacks wins," Scott said

facetiously.

"Right. You got it, mate." Pinball never looked up from his food

while talking.

Scott scanned his luncheon companions for reaction. A couple of

grunts, no objection. What an odd assortment, Scott thought. At

least the Flying Dutchman had been kind enough to assemble an

English speaking group for Scott's benefit.

"We each have our reasons to hack," said the one who called

himself Che2. By all appearance Che2 seemed more suited to a BMW

than a revolutionary cabal. He was a well bred American, dressed

casually but expensively. "We may not agree with each other, or

anyone, but we have an underlying understanding that permits us

to cooperate."

"I can tell you why I hack," said the sole German representative

at the table who spoke impeccable English with a thick accent "I

am a professional ethicist. It is people like me who help gov-

ernments formulate rules that decide who lives and who dies in

emergency situations. The right or wrong of weapons of mass

destruction. Ethics is a social moving target that must con-

stantly be re-examined as we as a civilized people grow and

strive to maintain our innate humanity."

"So you equate hacking and ethics, in the same breath?" Scott

asked.

"I certainly do," said the middle aged German hacker known as

Solon. "I am part of a group that promotes the Hacker Ethic. It

is really quite simple, if you would be interested." Scott urged

him to continue. "We have before us, as a world, a marvelous

opportunity, to create a set of rules, behavior and attitudes

towards this magnificent technology that blossoms before our

eyes. That law is the Ethic, some call it the Code." Kirk had

called it the Code, too.

"The Code is quite a crock," interrupted a tall slender man with

disheveled white hair who spoke with an upper crust, ever so

proper British accent. "Unless everybody follows it, from A to

Zed, it simply won't work. There can be no exceptions. Other-

wise my friends, we will find ourselves in a technological Lord

of the Flies."

"Ah, but that is already happening," said a gentleman in his mid-

fifties, who also sported a full beard, bushy mustache and long

well kept salt and pepper hair to his shoulders. "We are already

well on the road to a date with Silicon Armageddon. We didn't do

it with the Bomb, but it looks like we're sure as hell gonna do

it with technology for the masses. In this case computers."

Going only by 'Dave', he was a Philosophy Professor at Stanford.

In many ways he spoke like the early Timothy Leary, using tech-

nology instead of drugs as a mental catalyst. Scott though of

Dave as the futurist in the group.

"He's right. It is happening, right now. Long Live the Revolu-

tion," shouted Che2. "Hacking keeps our personal freedoms alive.

I know I'd much prefer everyone knowing my most intimate secrets

than have the government and TRW and the FBI and the CIA control

it and use only pieces of it for their greed-sucking reasons. No

way. I want everyone to have the tools to get into the Govern-

ment's Big Brother computer system and make the changes they see

fit."

Scott listened as his one comment spawned a heated and animated

discussion. He wouldn't break in unless they went too far

afield, wherever that was, or he simply wanted to join in on the

conversation.

"How can you support freedom without responsibility? You contra-

dict yourself by ignoring the Code." Solon made his comment with

Teutonic matter of factness in between mouthfuls.

"It is the most responsible thing we can do," retorted Che2. "It

is our moral duty, our responsibility to the world to protect our

privacy, our rights, before they are stripped away as they have

been since the Republicans bounced in, but not out, over a decade

ago." He turned in his chair and glared at Scott. Maybe thirty

years old, Che2 was mostly bald with great bushes of curly dark

brown hair encircling his head. The lack of hair emphasized his

large forehead which stood over his deeply inset eyes. Che2

called the Boston area his home but his cosmopolitan accent

belied his background.

The proper British man known as Doctor Doctor, DRDR on the BBS's,

was over six foot five with an unruly frock of thick white hair

which framed his ruddy pale face. "I do beg your pardon, but

this so violates the tenets of civilized behavior. What this

gentleman proposes is the philosophical antithesis of common

sense and rationality. I suggest we consider the position that

each of us in actual fact is working for the establishment, if I

may use such a politically pass

descriptor." DRDR's comment

hushed the table. He continued. "Is it not true that security

is being installed as a result of many of our activities?"

Several nods of agreement preceded a small voice coming from the

far end of the table. "If you want to call it security." A

small pre-adolescent spoke in a high pitched whine.

"What do you mean . . .I'm sorry, I don't know what to call you,"

asked Scott.

"GWhiz. The security is a toy."

GWhiz spoke unpretentiously about how incredibly simple it is to

crack any security system. He maintained that there are theoret-

ical methods to crack into any, and he emphasized any, computer.

"It's impossible to protect a computer 100%. Can't be done. So

that means that every computer is crackable." He offered to

explain the math to Scott who politely feigned ignorance of

decimal points. "In short, I, or anyone, can get into any

computer they want. There is always a way."

"Isn't that a scary thought?" Scott asked to no one in particu-

lar.

Scott learned from the others that GWhiz was a 16 year old high

school junior from Phoenix, Arizona. He measured on the high-end

of the genius scale, joined Mensa at 4 and already had in hand

scholarships from Westinghouse, Mellon, CalTech, MIT, Stanford

to name a few. At the tender age of 7 he started programming and

was now fluent in eleven computer languages. GWhiz was regarded

with an intellectual awe from hackers for his theoretical analy-

ses that he had turned into hacking tools. He was a walking

encyclopedia of methods and techniques to both protect and attack

computers. To GWhiz, straddling the political fence by arming

both sides with the same weapons was a logical choice. Scott

viewed it as a high tech MAD - Mutual Assured Destruction, com-

puter wise.

"Don't you see," said the British DRDR, continuing as if there

had been no interruption. "The media portrays us as security

breaking phreaks, and that's exactly what we are. And that works

for the establishment as well. We keep the designers and securi-

ty people honest by testing their systems for free. What a great

deal, don't you think? We, the hackers of the world, are the

Good Housekeeping Seal of security systems by virtue of the fact

that either we can or we cannot penetrate them. If that's not

working for the system, I don't know what is."

"DRDR's heading down the right path," Dave the futurist spoke

up. "Even though he does work for GCHQ."

"GCHQ?" Scott asked quickly.

"The English version of your NSA," said Pinball, still engrossed

in his food.

"I do not!" protested DRDR. "Besides, what difference would it

make if I did?" He asked more defensively.

"None, none at all," agreed Dave. "The effect is the same.

However, if you are an MI-5 or MI-6 or whatever, that would show

a great deal of unanticipated foresight on the part of your

government. I wish ours would think farther ahead than today's

headlines. I have found that people everywhere in the world see

the problem as one of hackers, rather than the fundamental issues

that are at stake. We hackers are manifestations of the problems

that technology has bequeathed us. If any of our governments

were actually responsive enough to listen, they would have a

great deal of concern for the emerging infrastructure that

doesn't have a leader. Now, I'm not taking a side on this one,

but I am saying that if I were the government, I would sure as

all hell want to know what was going on in the trenches. The U.S.

especially."

Everyone seemed to agree with that.

"But they're too caught up in their own meaningless self-sustain-

ing parasitic lives to realize that a new world is shaping around

them." When Che2 spoke, he spoke his mind, leaving no doubt as

to how he felt. "They don't have the smarts to get involved and

see it first hand. Which is fine by me, because, as you said,"

he said pointing at DRDR, "it doesn't matter. They wouldn't

listen to him anyway. It gives us more time to build in de-

fenses."

"Defenses against what?" asked Scott.

"Against them, of course," responded Che2. "The fascist military

industrial establishment keeps us under a microscope. They're

scared of us. They have spent tens of billions of dollars to

construct huge computers, built into the insides of mountains,

protected from nuclear attack. In them are data bases about you,

and me, and him and hundreds of millions of others. There are a

lot of these systems, IRS, the Census Department has one, the

FBI, the DIA, the CIA, the NSA, the OBM, I can go on." Che2's

voice crescendo'd and he got more demonstrative as the importance

he attributed to each subject increased. "These computers con-

tain the most private information about us all. I for one, want

to prevent them from ever using that information against me or

letting others get at it either. Unlike those who feel that the

Bill of Rights should be re-interpreted and re-shaped and re-

packaged to feed their power frenzy, I say it's worked for 200

years and I don't want to fix something if it ain't broke."

"One needs to weigh the consequences of breaking and entering a

computer, assay the purpose, evaluate the goal against the possi-

ble negatives before wildly embarking through a foreign computer.

That is what we mean by the Code." Solon spoke English with

Teutonic precision and a mild lilt that gave his accented words

additional credibility. He sounded like an expert. "I believe,

quite strongly, that it is not so complicated to have a major

portion of the hacker community live by the Code. Unless you are

intent on damage, no one should have any trouble with the simple

Credo, 'leave things as you found them'. You see, there is

nothing wrong with breaking security as long as you're accom-

plishing something useful."

"Hold on," interrupted Scott. "Am I hearing this right? You're

saying that it's all right to break into a computer as long as

you don't do any damage, and put everything right before you

leave?"

"That's about it. It is so simple, yet so blanketing in its

ramifications. The beauty of the Code, if everyone lived by it,

would be a maximization of computer resources. Now, that is

good for everyone."

"Wait, I can't stand this, wait," said Scott holding his hands

over his head in surrender. He elicited a laugh from everyone

but Che2. "That's like saying, it's O.K. for you to come into my

house when I'm not there, use the house, wash the dishes, do the

laundry, sweep up and split. I have a real problem with that.

That's an invasion of my privacy and I would personally resent

the shit out of it." Scott tried this line of reasoning again as

he had with Kirk.

"Just the point," said DRDR. "When someone breaks into a house

it's a civil case. But this new bloody Computer Misuse Act makes

it a felony to enter a computer. Parliament isn't 100% perfect,"

he added comically. DRDR referred to the recent British attempts

at legislative guidelines to criminalize certain computer activi-

ties.

"As you should resent it." Dave jumped in speaking to Scott.

"But there's a higher purpose here. You resent your house being

used by an uninvited guest in your absence. Right?" Scott a-

greed. "Well, let's say that you are going to Hawaii for a

couple of weeks, and someone discovers that your house is going

to be robbed while you're gone. So instead of bothering you, he

house sits. Your house doesn't get robbed, you return, find

nothing amiss, totally unaware of your visitor. Would you rather

get robbed instead?"

"Well, I certainly don't want to get robbed, but . . . I know

what it is. I'm out of control and my privacy is still being

violated. I don't know if I have a quick answer." Scott looked

and sounded perplexed.

"Goot! You should not have a quick answer, for that answer is

the core, the essence of the ultimate problem that we all inves-

tigate every day." Solon gestured to their table of seven. "That

question is security versus freedom. Within the world of acade-

mia there is a strong tendency to share everything. Your ideas,

your thoughts, your successes and failures, the germs of an idea

thrown away and the migration of a brainstorm into the tangible.

They therefore desire complete freedom of information exchange,

they do not wish any restrictions on their freedom to interact.

However, the Governments of the world want to isolate and re-

strict access to information; right or wrong, we acknowledge

their concern. That is the other side, security with minimal

freedom. The banks also prefer security to freedom, although

they do it very poorly and give it a lot, how do you say, a lot

of lip service?"

Everyone agreed that describing a bank's security as lip service

was entirely too complimentary, but for the sake of brevity they

let it go uncontested.

"Then again, business hasn't made up its mind as to whether they

should bother protecting information assets or not. So, there

are now four groups with different needs and desires which vary

the ratio of freedom to security. In reality, of course, there

will be hundreds of opinions," Solon added for accuracy's sake.

"Mathematically, if there is no security, dividing by 0 results

in infinite freedom. Any security at all and some freedom is

curtailed. So, therein the problem to be solved. At what cost

freedom? It is an age old question that every generation must

ask, weigh and decide for itself. This generation will do the

same for information and freedom. They are inseparable."

Scott soaked in the words and wanted to think about them later,

at his leisure. The erudite positions taken by hackers was

astonishing compared to what he had expected. Yes, some of the

goals and convictions were radical to say the least, but the

arguments were persuasive.

"Let me ask you," Scott said to the group. "What happens when

computers are secure? What will you do then?"

"They won't get secure," GWhiz said. "As soon as they come up

with a defense, we will find a way around it."

"Won't that cycle ever end?"

"Technology is in the hands of the people," commented Che2.

"This is the first time in history when the power is not concen-

trated with a select few. The ancients kept the secrets of

writing with their religious leaders; traveling by ship in the

open sea was a hard learned and noble skill. Today, weapons of

mass destruction are controlled by a few mad men who are no

better than you or I. But now, computers, access to information,

that power will never be taken away. Never!"

"It doesn't matter." Dave was viewing the future in his own

mind. "I doubt that computers will ever be secure, but instead,

the barrier, the wall, the time and energy it takes to crack into

them will become prohibitive for all but the most determined.

Anyway, there'll be new technology to explore."

"Like what?" Asked Scott.

"Satellites are pretty interesting. They are a natural extension

of the computer network, and cracking them will be lots easier in

a couple of years." DRDR saw understanding any new technology as

apersonal challenge.

"How do you crack a satellite? What's there to crack?"

"How about beaming your own broadcasts to millions of people

using someone else's satellite?" DRDR speculated. "It's been

done before, and as the equipment gets cheaper, I can assure you

that we'll be seeing many more political statements illegally

being made over the public airwaves. The BBC and NBC will have

their hands full. In the near future, I see virtual realities

as an ideal milieu for next generation hackers."

"I agree," said Solon. "And with virtual realities, the ethical

issues are even more profound than with the Global Network."

Scott held up his hands. "I know what _I_ think it is, but

before you go on, I need to know how you define a virtual reali-

ty." The hackers looked at each until Dave took the ball.

"A virtual reality is fooling the mind and body into believing

something is real that isn't real." Scott's face was blank.

"Ever been to Disneyland?" Dave asked. Scott nodded. "And

you've ridden Star Tours?" Scott nodded again. "Well, that's a

simple virtual reality. Star Tours fools your body into thinking

that you are in a space ship careening through an asteroid belt,

but in reality, you are suspended on a few guy wires. The

projected image reinforces the sensory hallucination."

"Now imagine a visual field, currently it's done with goggles,

that creates real life pictures, in real time and interacts with

your movements."

Scott's light bulb went off. "That's like the Holo-Deck on Star

Trek!"

"That is the ultimate in virtual reality, yes. But before we can

achieve that, imagine sitting in a virtual cockpit of a virtual

car, and seeing exactly what you would see from a race car at the

Indy 500. The crowds, the noises, and just as importantly, the

feel of the car you are driving. As you drive, you shift and the

car reacts, you feel the car react. You actually follow the

track in the path that you steer. The combination of sight,

sound and hearing, even smell, creates a total illusion. In

short, there is no way to distinguish between reality and delu-

sion."

"Flight simulators for the people," chimed in Che2.

"I see the day when every Mall in America will have Virtual

Reality Parlors where you can live out your fantasies. No more

than 5 years," Dave confidently prognosticated.

Scott imagined the Spook's interpretation of virtual realities.

He immediately conjured up the memory of Woody Allen's Orgasma-

tron in the movie Sleeper. The hackers claimed that computer

generated sex was less than ten years away.

"And that will be an ideal terrain for hackers. That kind of

power over the mind can be used for terrible things, and it will

be up to us to make sure it's not abused." Che2 maintained his

position of guardian of world freedom.

As they finished their lunch and Scott paid the check, they

thanked him vigorously for the treat. They might be nuts, but

they were polite, and genuine.

"I'm confused about one thing," Scott said as they left the

restaurant and walked the wide boulevard. "You all advocate an

independence, an anarchy where the individual is paramount, and

the Government is worse than a necessary evil. Yet I detect

disorganization, no plan; more like a leaf in a lake, not knowing

where it will go next." There were no disagreements with his

summary assessment.

"Don't any of you work together? As a group, a kind of a gang?

It seems to me that if there was an agenda, a program, that you

might achieve your aims more quickly." Scott was trying to avoid

being critical by his inquisitiveness.

"Then we would be a government, too, and that's not what we want.

This is about individual power, responsibility. At any rate, I

don't think you could find two of us in enough agreement on

anything to build a platform." As usual, Solon maintained a

pragmatic approach.

"Well," Scott mused out loud. "What would happen if a group, like

you, got together and followed a game plan. Built a hacker's

guide book and stuck to it, all for a common cause, which I

realize is impossible. But for argument's sake, what would

happen?"

"That would be immense power," said Che2. "If there were enough,

they could do pretty much what they wanted. Very political."

"I would see it as dangerous, potentially very dangerous," com-

mented DRDR. He pondered the question. "The effects of synergy

in any endeavor are unpredictable. If they worked as group, a

unit, it is possible that they would be a force to be reckoned

with."

"There would be only one word for it," Dave said with finality.

"They could easily become a strong and deadly opponent if their

aims are not benevolent. Personally, I would have to call such a

group, terrorists."

"Sounds like the Freedom League," Pinball said off handedly.

Scott's head jerked toward Pinball. "What about the Freedom

League?" he asked pointedly.

"All I said is that this political hacking sounds like the Free-

dom League," Pinball said innocently. "They bloody well go on

for a fortnight and a day about how software should be free to

anyone that needs it, and that only those that can afford it

should pay. Like big corporations."

"I've heard of Freedom before," piped Scott.

"The Freedom League is a huge BBS, mate. They have hundreds of

local BBS's around the States, and even a few across the pond in

God's country. Quite an operation, if I say."

Pinball had Scott's full attention. "They run the BBS's, and

have an incredible shareware library. Thousands of programs, and

they give them all away."

"It's very impressive," Dave said giving credit where credit was

due. "They prove that software can be socially responsible.

We've been saying that for years."

"What does anybody know about this Freedom League?" Scott asked

suspiciously.

"What's to know? They've been around for years, have a great

service, fabulous BBS's, and reliable software."

"It just sounds too good to be true," Scott mused as they made

it back to the warehouse for more hours of education.

* * * * *

Until late that night, Scott continued to elicit viewpoints and

opinions and political positions from the radical underground

elements of the 1990's he had traveled 3000 miles to meet. Each

encounter, each discussion, each conversation yielded yet another

perspective on the social rational for hacking and the invasion

of privacy. Most everyone at the InterGalactic Hackers Confer-

ence had heard about Scott, the Repo Man, and knew why he was

there. He was accepted as a fair and impartial observer, thus

many of them made a concerted effort to preach their particular

case to him. By midnight, overload had consumed Scott and he made

a polite exit, promising to return the following day.

Still, no one had heard from or seen the Spook.

Scott walked back to his hotel through the Red Light District and

stopped to purchase a souvenir or two. The sexually explicit T-

Shirts would have both made Larry Flynt blush and be banned on

Florida beaches, but the counterfeit $1 bills, with George Wash-

ington and the pyramid replaced by closeups of impossible oral

sexual acts was a compelling gift. They were so well made, that

without a close inspection, the pornographic money could easily

find itself in the till at a church bake sale.

There was a message waiting for Scott when he arrived at the

Eureka! It was from Tyrone and marked urgent. New York was 6

hours behind, so hopefully Ty was at home. Scott dialed USA

Connect, the service that allows travelers to get to an AT&T

operator rather than fight the local phone system.

"Make it good." Tyrone answered his home phone.

"Hey, guy. You rang?" Scott said cheerily.

"Shit, it's about time. Where the hell have you been?" Tyrone

whispered as loud as he could. It was obvious he didn't want

anyone on his end hearing. "You can thank your secretary for

telling me where you were staying." Tyrone spoke quickly.

"I'll give her a raise," lied Scott. He didn't have a secretary.

The paper used a pool for all the reporters. "What's the panic?"

"Then you don't know." Tyrone caught himself. "Of course you

didn't hear, how could you?"

"How could I hear what?"

"The shit has done hit the fan," Tyrone said drawling his words.

"Two more EMP-T bombs. The Atlanta regional IRS office and a

payroll service in New Jersey. A quarter million folks aren't

getting paid tomorrow. And I'll tell you, these folks is mighty

pissed off."

"Christ," Scott said, mentally chastising himself for not having

been where the action was.

What lousy timing.

"So dig this. Did you know that the Senate was having open

subcommittee hearings on Privacy and Technology Protection?"

"No."

"Neither do a lot of people. It's been a completely underplayed

and underpromoted effort. Until yesterday that is. Now the eyes

of millions are watching. Starting tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Scott yelled across the Atlantic. "That's the eighth.

Congress doesn't usually convene until late January . . ."

"Used to," Ty said. "The Constitution says that Congress shall

meet on January third, after the holidays. Since the Gulf War

Congress has returned in the first week. 'Bout time they did

something for their paychecks."

"Damn," Scott thought out loud.

"I knew that would excite you," Tyrone said sarcastically. "And

there's more. Congressman Rickfield, you know who he is?" asked

Tyrone.

"Yeah, sure. Long timer on the Hill. Got as many enemies as he

does friends. Wields an immense amount of power," Scott re-

called.

"Right, exactly. And that little weasel is the chair."

"I guess you're not on his Christmas list," Scott observed.

"I really doubt it," Tyrone said. "But that's off the record.

He's been a Southern racist from day one, a real Hoover man.

During the riots, in the early '60's, he was not exactly a propo-

nent of civil rights. In fact that slime ball made Wallace look

like Martin Luther King." Tyrone sounded bitter and derisive in

his description of Rickfield. "He has no concept what civil

rights are. He makes it a black white issue instead of one of

constitutional law. Stupid bigots are the worst kind." The

derision in Ty's voice was unmistakable.

"Sounds like you're a big fan."

"I'll be a fan when he hangs high. Besides my personal and

racial beliefs about Rickfield, he really is a low life. He, and

a few of his cronies are one on the biggest threats to personal

freedom the country faces. He thinks that the Bill of Rights

should be edited from time to time and now's the time. He scares

me. Especially since there's more like him."

It was eminently clear that Tyrone Duncan had no place in this

life for Merrill Rickfield.

"I know enough about him to dislike him, but on a crowded subway

he'd just be another ugly face. Excuse my ignorance . . ." Then

it hit him. Rickfield. His name had been in those papers he had

received so long ago. What had he done, or what was he accused

of doing? Damn, damn, what is it? There were so many. Yes, it

was Rickfield, but what was the tie-in?

"I think you should be there, at the hearings," Tyrone suggested.

"Tomorrow? Are you out of your mind? No way," Scott loudly

protested. "I'm 3000 miles and 8 hours away and it's the middle

of the night here," Scott bitched and moaned. "Besides, I only

have to work one more day and then I get the weekend to

myself . . . aw, shit."

Tyrone ignored Scott's infantile objections. He attributed them

to jet lag and an understandable urge to stay in Sin City for a

couple more days. "Hollister and Adams will be there, and a

whole bunch of white shirts in black hats, and Troubleaux . . ."

"Troubleaux did you say?"

"Yeah, that's what it says here . . ."

"If he's there, then it becomes my concern, too."

"Good, glad you thought of it," joked Tyrone. "If you catch an

early flight, you could be in D.C. by noon." He was right,

thought Scott. The time difference works in your favor in that

direction.

"You know," said Scott, "with what I've found out here, today

alone, maybe. "Jeeeeeesus," Scott said cringing in indecision.

"Hey! Get your ass back here, boy. Pronto." Tyrone's friendly

authority was persuasive. "You know you don't have any choice."

The guilt trip.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah."

Scott called his office and asked for Doug. He got the voice

mail instead, and debated about calling him at home. Nah, He

thought, I'll just leave a message. This way I'll just get

yelled at once.

"Hi, Doug? Scott here. Change in plans. Heard about EMP-T. I'm

headed to Washington tomorrow. The story here is better than I

thought and dovetails right into why I'm coming back early. I

expect to be in D.C. until next Tuesday, maybe Wednesday. I'll

call when I have a place. Oh, yeah, I learned a limerick here you

might like. The Spook says the kids around here say it all the

time. 'Mary had a little lamb, its fleece was white as snow.

And everywhere that Mary went, the lamb was sure to go. It

followed her to school one day and a big black dog fucked it.'

That's Amsterdam. Bye."

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