Chapter 4
Thursday, September 10
Houston, Texas.
Angela Steinem dialed extension 4343, Network Administration for
MIS at the Treadline Oil Company in Houston, Texas. It rang
three times before Joan Appleby answered. Joan was the daytime
network administrator for Building 4. Hundreds of IBM personal
computers were connected together so they could share information
over a Novell local area network.
"Joan, I don't bug you much, right?" Angela said hesitantly.
"Angela, how about a good morning girl?" They were good friends
outside of work but had very little business contact.
"Sorry, mornin'. Joan, I gotta problem."
"What's troubling ya hon." Joan Texas spoke with a distinct
Texas twang.
"A little bird just ate my computer."
"Well, then I guess I'd be lookin' out for Big Bird's data dump."
Joan laughed in appreciation of the comedy.
"No really. A little bird flew all over my computer and ate up
all the letters and words on the screen. Seriously."
"Y'all are putting me on, right?" Maggie's voice lilted.
"No. No, I'm serious. It was like a simple video game, Pac-Man
or something, ate up the screen. I couldn't get it to come back
so I turned my computer off and now it won't do anything. All it
says is COMMAND.COM cannot be found. Now, what the hell does that
mean."
Joan Appleby now took Angela seriously. "It may mean that we
have some mighty sick computers. I'll be right there."
By the end of work, the Treadline Oil Company was essentially at
a standstill. Over 4,000 of their internal microcomputers,
mainly IBM and Compaq's were out of commission. The virus had
successfully struck.
Angela Steinem and her technicians shut down the more than 50
local area networks and gateways that connected the various
business units. They contacted the National Computer Virus
Association in San Mateo, California, NIST's National Computer
Center Laboratories and a dozen or so other watchdog groups who
monitor computer viruses.
This was a new virus. No one had seen it before. Sorry, they
said. If you can send us you hard disk, we may be able find out
what's going on . . .otherwise, your best bet is to dismantle the
entire computer system, all 4,000 plus of them, and start from
scratch.
Angela informed the Vice President of Information Systems that it
would be at least a week, maybe ten days before Treadline would
be fully operational again.
Mary Wallstone, secretary to Larry Gompers, Junior democratic
representative from South Carolina was stymied.
Every morning between 7:30 and 8:00 AM she opened her boss's
office and made coffee. Most mornings she brought in Dunkin'
Donuts. It was the only way she knew to insure that her weight
would never ebb below 200 pounds. Her pleasant silken skin did
not match the plumpness below. At 28 she should have known that
meeting Washington's best and brightest required a more slender
physique.
This morning she jovially sat down at her Apple Macintosh comput-
er with 3 creme filled donuts and a mug of black coffee with 4
sugars. She turned on the power switch and waited as the hour-
glass icon indicated that the computer was booting. It was going
through its self diagnostics as it did every time power was
applied.
Normally, after a few seconds, the Mac would come alive and the
screen would display a wide range of options from which she could
select. Mary would watch the procedure carefully each time - she
was an efficient secretary.
This time, however, the screen displayed a new message, one she
had not seen in the nine months she had worked as Congressman
Gompers' front line.
RAM OPTIMIZER TEST PROCEDURE....
INITIALIZING...
THIS PROGRAM IS DESIGNED TO TAKE MAXIMUM ADVANTAGE OF SYSTEM
STORAGE CAPABILITIES. THE TEST WILL ONLY TAKE A FEW SECONDS...
WAITING....
WARNING: DO NOT TURN OFF COMPUTER DURING SELF TEST!
As she was trained, she heeded her computer's instructions. She
watched and waited as the computer's hard disk whirred and
buzzed. She wasn't familiar with the message, but it sounded
quite official, and after all, the computer is always right.
And she waited. Some few seconds, she thought, as she dove into
her second donut. And she waited through the third donut and
another mug of too sweet coffee.
She waited nearly a half an hour, trying to oblige the instruc-
tions from the technocratic box on her desk. The Mac continued
to work, so she thought, but the screen didn't budge from it's
warning message.
What the hell, this has taken long enough. What harm can it
cause if . . .
She turned the power switch off and then back on. Nothing.
The computer did absolutely nothing. The power light was on, the
disk light was on, but the screen was as blank as a dead televi-
sion set.
Mary called Violet Beecham, a co worker in another office down
the hall.
"'Morning Vi. Mary."
Violet sounded agitated. "Yeah, Mare, what is it?"
"I'm being a dumb bunny and need a hand with my computer. Got a
sec?" Mary's sweetness oozed over the phone.
"You, too? You're having trouble? My computer's as dead as a
doornail. Won't do anything. I mean nothing." Violet was
frustrated as all get out and the concern communicated to Mary.
"Dead? Vi, mine is dead too. What happened to yours?"
"Damned if I know. It was doing some self check or something,
seemed to take forever and then . . .nothing. What about yours?"
"Same thing. Have you called MIS yet?"
"Not yet, but I'm getting ready to. I never did trust these
things. Give me a typewriter any day."
"Sure Vi. I'll call you right back."
Mary looked up the number for MIS Services, the technical magi-
cians in the basement who keep the 3100 Congressional computers
alive.
"Dave here, can I help you?" The voice spoke quickly and indif-
ferently.
"Mary Wallstone, in Gompers office. My computer seems to be
having a little problem . . ." Mary tried to treat the problem
lightly.
"You and half of Congress. Listen . . .is it Mary? This morning
is going to be a slow one. My best guess is that over 2500 com-
puters died a quick death. And you know what that mean."
"No, I don't..." Mary said hesitantly.
"It means a Big Mac Attack."
"A what?"
"Big Mac, it's a computer virus. We thought that Virus-Stop
software would stop it, but I guess there's a new strain out
there. Congress is going to be ordering a lot of typewriters and
legal pads for a while."
"You mean you can't fix it? This virus?"
"Listen, it's like getting the flu. Once you got it, you got it.
You can't pretend you aren't sick. Somebody took a good shot at
Congress and well . . .they won. We're gonna be down for a
while. Couple of weeks at least. Look, good luck, but I gotta
go." Dave hung up.
Mary ate the other three donuts intended for her boss as she sat
idle at her desk wondering if she would have a job now that there
were no more computers on Capitol Hill.
* * * * *
CONGRESS CATCHES FLU - LOSES FAT IN PROCESS
by Scott Mason, New York City Times
The Congressional Budget Office announced late yesterday that it
was requesting over $1 Million in emergency funding to counter a
devastating failure of Congress's computers.
Most of the computers used by both Senators and Representatives
are Apple Macintosh, but Apple Computer issued a quick statement
denying any connection between the massive failures and any
production problems in their machines.
The CBO said that until the problems were corrected, estimates to
take up to four weeks, that certain normal Congressional activi-
ties would be halted or severely curtailed. Electronic mail, E-
Mail that has saved taxpayers millions, will be unavailable for
communications until October at a minimum. Inter-office communi-
cations, those that address legislative issues, proposed bills,
and amendments have been destroyed and will require ". . .weeks
and weeks and weeks of data entry just to get back where we
started. This is a disaster."
The culprit is, of course, a computer virus. The question on
everyone's mind is, was this virus directed at Congress, or were
they merely an anonymous and unfortunate victim?
I have an IBM PC clone at home. Technically it's an AT with a
hard disk, so I'm not sure if that's an XT, and AXT, an XAT, an
ATX or . . .well whatever. I use it to write a lot of my stories
and then I can send the story to the computer at work for an
overdiligent editor to make it fit within my allotted space.
It never occurred to me that a computer could get sick.
I am, as we all are, used to our 'TV going on the Fritz', or
'Blowing a Fuse'. It seems like a lot of things blow: a gasket
blows, a light bulb blows, a tire blows or blows out, the wind
blows. I am sure that Thomas W. Crapper, the 19th century inven-
tor of the flush toilet would not be pleased that in 1988 man has
toasters and other cooking devices that 'crap out'. The Phone
Company 'screws up', the stock market 'goes to hell in a handbas-
ket' and VCR's 'work for s__t'.
It never occurred to me that a computer could get sick.
Computers are supposed to 'crash'. That means that either Aunt
Tillie can't find the ON switch or her cat knocked it on the
floor. Computers have 'fatal errors' which obviously means that
they died and deserve a proper burial.
It never occurred to me that a computer could get sick.
In the last few weeks there have been a lot of stories about
computers across the country getting ill. Sick, having the flu,
breathing difficulty, getting rashes, itching, scratching them-
selves . . .otherwise having a miserable time.
Let's look at the medical analogy to the dreaded computer virus
that indiscriminately attacks and destroys any computer with
which it comes in contact.
Somewhere in the depths of the countryside of the People's
Republic of China, a naturally mutated submicroscopic microbe has
the nerve to be aerodynamically transferred to the smoggy air of
Taiwan. Upon landing in Taipei, the microbe attaches itself to
an impoverished octogenarian who lives in an overpopulated 1 room
apartment over a fish store.
The microbe works its way into this guy's blood stream, unbek-
nownst to him, and in a few days, he's sicker than a dog. But
this microbe is smart, real smart. It has heard of antibiotics,
and in the spirit of true Darwinism, it replicates itself before
being killed off with a strengthened immunity. So, the microbe
copies itself and when Kimmy Chen shakes hands with his custom-
ers, some of them are lucky enough to receive an exact duplicate,
clone if you will, of his microbe. Then they too, get ill.
The microbe thus propagates its species until the entire East
Coast of the US has billions and trillions of identical microbes
costing our fragile economy untold millions of dollars in sick
pay.
However, the microbe is only so smart. After a while, the mi-
crobe mutates itself into a benign chemical compound that no
longer can copy itself and the influenza epidemic is over. Until
next year when Asian Flu B shows up and the process begins all
over again. (The same group of extremists who believe that the
Tri-Lateral commission runs the world and Queen Elizabeth and
Henry Kissinger are partners in the heroine trade think the AMA
is behind all modern flu epidemics. No comment.)
The point of all of this diatribe is that computers can get sick
too. With a virus.
Don't worry, mom. Your computer can't give you the flu anymore
than your fish can get feline leukemia.
It all started years ago, before Wozniak and Apple and the PC.
Before personal computers there were mainframes; huge room sized
computers to crunch on numbers. One day, years ago, Joe, (that's
not a real name, it's changed to protect him) decided it would be
great fun to play a prank on Bill, another programmer who worked
at a big university. Joe wrote a little program that he put into
Bill's big computer. Every time Bill typed the word 'ME' on his
keyboard, the computer would take over. His video screen would
fill up with the word 'YOU', repeating itself hundreds and thou-
sands of times. Bill's computer would become useless.
That was called a practical joke to computer programmers. Joe
and Bill both got a laugh out of it, and no harm was done. Then
Bill decided to get back at Joe. He put a small program into
Joe's big computer. Every day at precisely 3:00 P.M., a message
appeared: 'Do Not Pass GO!'.
It was all good fun and became a personal challenge to Joe and
Bill to see how they could annoy each other.
Word spread about the new game. Other graduate students at the
university got involved and soon computer folks at Cal Tech, MIT,
Carnegie Mellon, Stanford and elsewhere got onto the bandwagon.
Thus was born the world's first computer disease, the virus.
This is Scott Mason. Using a typewriter.
* * * * *
November, 3 Years Ago
Sunnyvale, California.
When Data Graphics Inc. went public in 1987, President and found-
er Pierre Troubleaux, a nationalized American born in Paris
momentarily forgot that he had sold his soul to achieve his
success. The company, to the financial community known as DGI,
was on the road to being in as much favor as Lotus or Microsoft.
Annual sales of $300 Million with a pre-tax bottom line of over
$55 Million were cause celebre on Wall Street. The first public
issues raised over $200 Million for less than 20% of the common
stock. With a book value in excess of $1 Billion, preparation
for a second offering began immediately after the first sold out
in 2 hours.
The offering made Pierre Troubleaux, at 29, a rich man; a very
rich man. He netted almost $20 Million in cash and another $100
Million in options over 5 years. No one objected. He had earned
it. DGI was the pearl of the computer industry in a time of
shake ups and shake outs. Raging profits, unbridled growth,
phenomenal market penetration and superb management.
Perhaps the most unique feature of DGI, other than its Presi-
dent's deal with the devil, was that it was a one product compa-
ny. DGI was somewhat like Microsoft in that they both got rich
and famous on one product. While Microsoft branched out from DOS
into other product areas, DGI elected to remain a 1 product
company and merely make flavors of its products available for
other companies which then private labeled them under their own
names.
Their software product was dubbed dGraph, a marketing abbreviated
term for data-Graphics. Simply put, dGraph let users, especially
novices, run their computers with pictures and icons instead of
complex commands that must be remembered and typed. dGraph
theoretically made IBM computers as easy to use as a Macintosh.
Or, the computer could be trained to follow instructions in plain
English. It was a significant breakthrough for the industry.
DGraph was so easy to use, and so powerful in its abilities that
it was virtually an instant success. Almost every computer
manufacturer offered dGraph as part of its standard fare. Just
as a computer needed DOS to function, it was viewed that you
needed dGraph before you even loaded the first program. Operat-
ing without dGraph was considered archaic. "You don't have
dGraph?" "How can you use your computer without dGraph?" "I
couldn't live without dGraph." "I'd be lost without dGraph."
The ubiquitous non-technical secretaries especially loved dGraph.
DGraph was taught at schools such as Katherine Gibbs and Secre-
Temps who insisted that all its girls were fluent in its ad-
vanced uses. You just can't run a office without it!
As much as anything in the computer industry is, dGraph was a
standard. Pierre Troubleaux was unfortunately under the misim-
pression that the success for DGI was his and his alone and that
he too was a standard . . .a fixture. The press and computers
experts portrayed to the public that he was the company's singu-
lar genius, with remarkable technical aptitude to see "beyond the
problem to the solution . . .".
The official DGI biography of Pierre Troubleaux, upon close
examination, reads like that of an inflated resume by a person
applying for a position totally outside his field of expertise.
Completely unsuited for the job. But the media hype had rele-
gated that minor inconsistency to old news.
In reality Troubleaux was a musician. He was an accomplished
pianist who also played another twenty instruments, very, very
well. By the age of ten he was considered something of a prodigy
and his parents decided that they would move from Paris to New
York, the United States, for proper schooling. Pierre's scholar-
ships at Julliard made the decision even easier.
Over the years Pierre excelled in performances and was critically
acclaimed as having a magnificent future where he could call the
shots. As a performer or composer. But Pierre had other ideas.
He was rapt in the study of the theory of music. How notes
related to each other. How scales related to each other. What
made certain atonalities subjectively pleasing yet others com-
pletely offensive. He explored the relationships between Eastern
polyphonic scales and the Western twelve note scale. Discord,
harmony, melody, emotional responses; these were the true loves
of Pierre Troubleaux.
Upon graduation from Julliard he announced, that contrary to
his family's belief and desire, he would not seek advanced train-
ing. Rather, he would continue his study of musical relationships
which by now had become an obsession. There was little expertise
in this specific area, so he pursued it alone. He wrote and
arranged music only to provide him with enough funds to exist in
his pallid Soho loft in downtown Manhattan.
He believed that there was an inherent underlying Natural Law
that guided music and musical appreciation. If he could find
that Law, he would have the formula for making perfect music
every time. With the Law at the crux of all music, and with
control over the Law, he ruminated, one could write a musical
piece to suit the specific goals of the writer and create the
desired effect on the listener. By formula.
In 1980 Pierre struggled to organize the unwieldy amount of data
he had accumulated. His collections of interpretive musical
analysis filled file cabinets and countless shelves. He relied
on his memory to find anything in the reams of paper, and the
situation was getting out of control. He needed a solution.
Max Jones was a casual acquaintance that Pierre had met at the
Lone Star Cafe on the corner of 13th and 5th Avenue. The Lone
Star was a New York fixture, capped with a 60 foot iguana on the
roof. They both enjoyed the live country acts that played there.
Max played the roll of an Urban Cowboy who had temporarily given
up Acid Rock in favor of shit kickin' Southern Rock. Pierre
found the musical phenomenon of Country Crossover Music intrigu-
ing, so he rationalized that drinking and partying at the Lone
Star was a worthwhile endeavor which contributed to his work.
That may have been partially true.
Max was a computer jock who worked for one of the Big Eight
accounting firms in midtown Manhattan. A complex mixture of com-
puter junkie, rock'n'roll aficionado and recreational drug user,
Max maintained the integrity of large and small computer systems
to pay the bills.
"That means they pretend to pay me and I pretend to work. I
don't really do anything productive."
Max was an "ex-hippie who put on shoes to make a living" and a
social anarchist at heart. At 27, Max had the rugged look that
John Travolta popularized in the 70's but on a rock solid trim
six foot five 240 pound frame. He dwarfed Pierre's mere five feet
ten inches.
Pierre's classic European good looks and tailored appearance,
even in jeans and a T-shirt were a strong contrast to Max's
ruddiness. Pierre's jet black hair was side parted and covered
most of his ears as it gracefully tickled his shoulders.
Piercing black eyes stared over a prominent Roman nose and thin
cheeks which tapered in an almost feminine chin. There was never
any confusion, though; no one in their right mind would ever view
Pierre as anything but a confirmed and practiced heterosexual.
His years of romantic achievements proved it. The remnants of
his French rearing created an unidentifiable formal and educated
accent; one which held incredible sex appeal to American women.
Max and Pierre sipped at their beers while Max rambled on about
how wonderful computers were. They were going to change the
world.
"In a few years every one on the planet will have his own comput-
er and it will be connected to everyone else's computer. All
information will be free and the planet will be a better place to
live and so on . . ." Max's technical sermons bordered on reli-
gious preaching. He had bought into the beliefs of Steven Jobs,
the young charismatic founder and spiritual guiding force behind
Apple Computer.
Pierre had heard it before, especially after Max had had a few.
His view of a future world with everyone sitting in front of a
picture tube playing with numbers and more numbers . . .and then
a thought hit him.
"Max . . .Max . . ." Pierre was trying to break into another one
of Max's Apple pitches.
"Yeah . . .oh yeah, sorry Amigo. What's that you say?" Max
sipped deeply on a long neck Long Star beer.
"These computers you play with . . ."
"Not play, work with. Work with!" He pointed emphatically at
nothing in particular.
"OK, work with. Can these computers play, er, work with music?"
Max looked quizzically at Pierre. "Music, sure. You just program
it in and out it comes. In fact, the Apple II is the ideal
computer to play music. You can add a synthesizer chip
and . . ."
"What if I don't know anything about computers?"
"Well, that makes it a little harder, but why doncha let me
show you what I mean." Max smiled wide. This was what he loved,
playing with computers and talking to people about them. The
subject was still a mystery to the majority of people in 1980.
Pierre winced. He realized that if he took up Max on his offer he
would be subjected to endless hours of computer war stories and
technical esoterica he couldn't care less about. That may be the
price though, he thought. I can always stop.
Over the following months they became fast friends as Pierre
tutored under Max's guiding hand. Pierre found that the Apple
had the ability to handle large amounts of data. With the new
program called Visi-Calc, he made large charts of his music and
their numbers and examined their relationships.
As Pierre learned more about applying computers to his studies in
musical theory, his questions of Max and demands of the Apple
became increasingly complex. One night after several beers and a
couple of joints Pierre asked Max what he thought was a simple
question.
"How can we program the Apple so that it knows what each piece of
data means?" he inquired innocently.
"You can't do that, man." Max snorted. "Computers, yes even
Apples are stupid. They're just a tool. A shovel doesn't know
what kind of dirt it's digging, just that it's digging." He
laughed out loud at the thought of a smart shovel.
Pierre found the analogy worth a prolonged fit of giggles through
which he managed to ask, "but what if you told the computer what
it meant and it learned from there. On its own. Can't a com-
puter learn?"
Max was seriously stoned. "Sure I guess so. Sure. In theory it
could learn to do your job or mine. I remember a story I read by
John Garth. It was called Giles Goat Boy. Yeah, Giles Goat Boy,
what a title. Essentially it's about this Goat, musta been a
real smart goat cause he talked and thunk and acted like a kid."
They both roared at the double entendre of kid. That was worth
another joint.
"At any rate," Max tried to control his spasmodic chuckles.
"At any rate, there were these two computers who competed for
control of the world and this kid, I mean," laughing too hard to
breath, "I mean this goat named Giles went on search of these
computers to tell them they weren't doing a very good job."
"So, what has that got to do with an Apple learning," Pierre said
wiping the tears from his eyes.
"Not a damn thing!" They entered another spasm of laughter. "No
really. Most people either think, or like to think that a com-
puter can think. But they can't, at least not like you and me. "
Max had calmed down.
"So?" Pierre thought there might still be a point to this conver-
sation.
"So, in theory, yeah, but probably not for a while. 10 years or
so."
"In theory, what?" Pierre asked. He was lost.
"In theory a machine could think."
"Oh." Pierre was disappointed.
"But, you might be able to emulate thinking. H'mmmm." Max re-
treated into mental oblivion as Abbey Road played in the back-
ground. Anything from Apple records was required listening by
Max.
"Emulate. Emulate? What's that? Hey, Max. What's emulate?
Hey Max, c'mon back to Earth. Emulate what?"
Max jolted back to reality. "Oh, copy. You know, act like.
Emulate. Don't they teach you emulation during sex education in
France?" They both thought that that was the funniest thing
ever said, in any language for all of written and pre-history.
The substance of the evening's conversation went downhill from
there.
A few days later Max came by Pierre's loft. "I been thinking."
"Scary thought. About what?" Pierre didn't look up from his
Apple.
"About emulating thought. You know what we were talking about
the other night."
"I can't remember this morning much less getting shit faced with
you the other night."
"You were going on and on about machines thinking. Remember?"
"Yes," Pierre lied.
"Well, I've been thinking about it." Max had a remarkable ability
to recover from an evening of illicit recreation. He could
actually grasp the germ of a stoned idea and let a straight mind
deal with it the following day. "And, I maybe got a way to do
what you want."
"What do I want?" Pierre tried to remember.
"You want to be able to label all of your music so that to all
appearances each piece of music knows about every other piece of
music. Right?"
"Kinda, yeah, but you said that was impossible . . ." Pierre
trailed off.
"In the true sense, yes. Remember emulation though? Naw, you
were too stoned. Here's the basic idea." Max ran over to the
fridge, grabbed a beer and leapt into a bean bag chair. "We
assign a value to every piece of music. For example, in music
we might assign a value to each note. Like, what note it is, the
length of the note, the attack and decay are the raw data.
That's just a number. But the groupings of the notes are what's
important. The groupings. Get it?"
Pierre was intrigued. He nodded. Maybe Max did understand after
all. Pierre leaned forward with anticipation and listened intent-
ly, unlike in one ear out the other treatment he normally gave
Max's sermons.
"So what we do is program the Apple to recognize patterns of
notes; groupings, in any size. We do it in pictures instead of
words. Maybe a bar, maybe a scale, maybe even an entire symphony
orchestra. All 80 pieces at once!" Max's enthusiasm was conta-
gious. "As the data is put in the computer, you decide what you
want to call each grouping. You name it anything you want. Then
we could have the computer look for similar groupings and label
them. They could all be put on a curve, some graphic of some
kind, and then show how they differ and by how much. Over time,
the computer could learn to recognize rock'n'roll from Opera
from radio jingles to Elevator Music. It's all in the patterns.
Isn't that what you want?" Max beamed while speaking excitedly.
He knew he had something here.
Max and Pierre worked together and decided to switch from the
Apple II computer to the new IBM PC for technical reasons beyond
Pierre's understanding. As they labored, Max realized that if he
got his "engine" to run, then it would be useful for hundreds of
other people who needed to relate data to each other but who
didn't know much about computers.
In late 1982 Max's engine came to life on its own. Pierre was
programming in pictures and in pure English. He was getting back
some incredible results. He was finding that many of the popu-
lar rock guitarists were playing lead riffs that had a genealogy
which sprang from Indian polyphonic sitar strains.
He found curious relationships between American Indian rhythms
and Baltic sea farer's music. All the while, as Pierre searched
the reaches of the musical unknown, Max convinced himself that
everyone else in the world would want his graphical engine, too.
Through a series of contacts within his Big Eight company, Max
was put in touch with Hambrecht Quist, the famed Venture Capital
firm that assisted such high tech startups as Apple, Lotus and
other shining stars in the early days of the computer industry.
Max was looking for an investor to finance the marketing of his
engine that would change the world. His didactic and circumlocu-
tous preaching didn't get him far. While everyone was polite at
his presentations, afterwards they had little idea of what he was
talking about.
"The Smart Engine permits anyone to cross-relate individual or
matrices of data with an underlying attribute structure that is
defined by the user. It's like creating a third dimension. Data
is conventionally viewed in a two dimensional viewing field, yet
is really a one dimension stream. In either source dimensional
view, the addition of a three dimensional attribute structure
yields interrelationships that are not inherently obvious. Thus
we use graphical representations to simplify the entire process."
After several weeks of pounding the high risk financial community
of the San Francisco Bay area, Max was despondent. Damn it, he
thought. Why don't they understand. I outline the entire
theory and they don't get it. Jeez, it's so easy to use. So
easy to use. Then the light bulb lit in his mind. Call Pierre.
I need Pierre. Call Pierre in New York.
"Pierre, it's Max." Max sounded quite excited.
"How's the Coast."
"Fine, Fine. You'll find out tomorrow. You're booked on American
#435 tomorrow."
"Max, I can't go to California. I have so much work to do."
"Bullshit. You owe me. Or have I forgotten to bill you for the
engine?" He was calling in a favor.
"Hey, it was my idea. You didn't even understand what I was
talking about until . . ."
"That's the whole point, Pierre. I can't explain the engine to
these Harvard MBA asswipes. It was your idea and you got me to
understand. I just need you to get some of these investors to
understand and then we can have a company and make some money
selling engines." Max's persistence was annoying, but Pierre knew
that he had to give in. He owed it to Max.
The new presentations Max and Pierre put on went so well that
they had three offers for start up financing within a week. And,
it was all due to Pierre. His genial personality and ability to
convey the subtleties of a complex piece of software using actual
demonstrations from his music were the touchy-feely the investors
wanted. It wasn't that he was technical; he really wasn't. But
Pierre had an innate ability to recognize a problem, theoretical-
ly, and reduce it to its most basic components. And the Engine
was so easy to use. All you had to do was . . .
It worked. The brainy unintelligible technical wizard and char-
ismatic front man. And the device, whatever it was, it seemed to
work.
The investors installed their own marketing person to get sales
going and Pierre was asked to be President. At first he said he
didn't want to. He didn't know how to run a company. That
doesn't matter, the investors said. You are a salable item. A
person whom the press and future investors can relate to. We
want you to be the image of the company. Elegance, suave, upper
class. All that European crap packaged for the media. Steve Jobs
all over again.
Pierre relented, as long as he could continue his music.
Max's engine was renamed dGraph by the marketing folks and the
company was popularly known as DGI. Using Byte, Personal Comput-
ing, Popular Computing and the myriad computer magazines of the
early 1980's, dGraph was made famous and used by all serious
computer users.
DGraph could interface with the data from other programs, dBase
II, 123, Wordstar and then relate it in ways never fathomed.
Automatically. Users could assign their own language of, at that
time, several hundred words, to describe the third dimension of
data. Or, they could do it in pictures. While the data on the
screen was being manipulated, the computer, unbeknownst to the
operator, was constantly forming and updating relationships
between the data. Ready to be called upon at any time.
As the ads said, "dGraph for dData."
As success reigned, the demand upon Pierre's time increased so
that he had little time for his music. By 1986 he lived a virtu-
al fantasy. He was on the road, speaking, meeting with writers,
having press conferences every time a new use for dGraph was
announced. He was adored by the media. He swam in the glory of
the attention by the women who found his fame and image an
irresistible adjunct to his now almost legendary French accent
and captivating eyes.
Pierre and Max were the hottest young entrepreneurs in Silicon
Valley; the darlings of the VC community. And the company spar-
kled too. It was being run by professionals and Max headed up
the engineering group. As new computers appeared on the market,
like the IBM AT, additional power could be effectively put into
the Engine and Voila! a new version of dGraph would hit the
market to the resounding ring of an Instant Hit on Softsel's Top
40.
Max, too, liked his position. He was making a great deal of
money, ran his own show with the casualness of his former hippie
days, yet could get on the road with Pierre any time he needed a
break. Pierre got into the act hook, line and sinker and Max
acted the role of genius behind 'The Man'. That gave Max the
freedom to avoid the microscope of the press yet take a twirl in
the fast lane whenever he felt the urge.
The third round of funding for DGI came from an unexpected
place. Normally when a company is as successful as DGI, the
original investors go along for the ride. That's how the VC's
who worked with Lotus, Compaq, Apple and other were getting
filthy stinking rich. The first two rounds went as they had
planned, the third didn't.
"Mr. Troubleaux," Martin Fisk, Chairman of Underwood Investments
said to Pierre in DGI's opulent offices. "Pierre, there is only
one way to say this. Our organization will no longer be involved
with DGI. We have sold our interest to a Japanese firm who has
been trying to get into the American computer field."
"What will that change? Anything?" Pierre was nonplused by the
announcement.
"Not as far as you're concerned. Oh, they will bring in a few of
their own people, satisfy their egos and protect their invest-
ment, that's entirely normal. But, they especially want you to
continue on as President of DGI. No, no real changes."
"What about Max?" Pierre had true concern for his friend.
"He'll remain, in his present capacity. Essentially the finan-
cial people will be reporting to new owners that's all."
"Are we still going to go public? That's the only way I'm gonna
make any real money."
Martin was flabbergasted. Pierre wasn't in the least interested
as to why the company changed hands. He only wanted to know
about the money, how much money he would make and when. Pierre
never bothered to ask, nor was it offered, that Underwood would
profit over 400 percent on their original investment. The Japa-
nese buyer was paying more than the company was worth now. They
had come in offering an amount of money way beyond what an open-
ing offer should have been. Underwood did a search on the Japa-
nese company and its American subsidiary, Data Tech. They were
real, like $30 Billion real and did were expanding into the
information processing field through acquisitions, primarily in
the United States.
Underwood sold it's 17% stake in DGI for $350 Million, more than
twice its true value. They sold quickly and quietly. Even though
Pierre and Max should have had some say in the transfer, Under-
wood controlled the board of directors and technically didn't
need the founder's consensus. Not that it overtly appeared to
mattered to Pierre. Max gave the paper transfer a cursory exami-
nation, at least asked the questions that were meaningless to the
transformed Pierre, and gave the deal his irrelevant blessings.
After the meeting with the emissaries from DGI's new owner, OSO
Industries, Pierre and Max were confident that nothing would
change for them. They would each continue in their respective
roles. The day to day interference was expected to be minimal,
but the planned public offering would be accelerated. That
suited Pierre just fine; he would make out like a bandit.
Several days before the date of issue, Pierre received a call
from Tokyo.
"Mr. Troubleaux?" The thick Japanese accent mangled his name so
badly Pierre cringed.
"Yes, this is Pierre Troubleaux," he said exaggerating his French
accent. The Japanese spoke French as well as a hair-lipped
stutterer could recite "Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled
peppers."
"I wish to inform you, sir, that the Chairman of OSO is to visit
your city tomorrow and participate in your new successes. Would
this be convenient?"
Pierre had only one possible response to the command performance
he was being 'invited' to. Since OSO had bought into DGI,
Pierre was constantly mystified by the ritualism associated with
Japanese business. They could say "Yes!" a hundred times in a
meeting, yet everyone present understood that the speakers really
meant "No Way, Jose!" There of course was the need for a quality
gift for any visitor from Japan. Johnny Walker Black was the
expected gift over which each recipient would feign total sur-
prise. Pierre had received more pearl jewelry from the Japanese
than he could use for ten wives. But the ritual was preserved.
"Of course it will. I would be most honored. If you could
provide me with details of his flight I will see to it that he
receives appropriate treatment."
"Very good Mr. Troubleaux." Pierre stifled a smirk at the mispro-
nunciation. "Your trouble will not go unrewarded."
"Mr. Homosoto, it is so good of you to visit at this time. Very
auspicious, sir." Pierre was kissing some ass.
"Troubleaux-San," Homosoto's English had a touch of Boston
snobbery in it, "you have performed admirably, and we all look to
continued successes in the future. I expect, as I am sure you
do, that the revenues raised from your public stock offering will
provide your company with the resources to grow ten fold." It
was a statement that demanded an answer. Another Japanese quirk.
"Yessir, of course. As you know, Mr. Homosoto, I am not involved
in the day to day operations and the forecasting. My function is
more to inspire the troops and carry the standard, so to speak.
I will have to rely upon the expertise of others to give you the
exact answers you seek."
"That is not necessary, I have all I need to know about your
business and its needs. Your offer is most kind."
"Why do you call DGI my business? Aren't we in this together?
Partners?" Pierre clarified the idiom for the rotund bespecta-
cled Chairman of OSO Industries.
"Hai! Of course, my friend, we are partners, and you will be
very wealthy in a few days." That statement had the air of an
accusation more than good wishes. "There is one little thing,
though. It is so small that I don't wish to mention it."
Well then don't, thought Pierre. "Nothing is so small it should-
n't be mentioned. Please, proceed Homosoto-San. How may I
help?"
"That's it exactly!" Homosoto beamed. "I do need your help. Not
today, but in the future, perhaps a small favor."
"Anytime at all, sir. Whatever I can I will." Pierre was re-
lieved. Just some more Japanese business practices that escaped
him.
Homosoto leaned in towards Pierre. His demeanor had shifted to
one of a very serious man. "Mr. Troubleaux, how can I be sure
that you won't disappoint me? How can I be sure?"
The question threw Pierre for a loop. How can he be sure? I
don't know. Maybe this was only an Oriental game of mumbley peg
or chicken. "Sir, what would I need to do to convince you of my
willingness to comply?" When in doubt, ask.
Homosoto relaxed again, leaned back in the plush office chair and
smiled. "In my country, Mr., Troubleaux, honor is everything.
You have nothing, nothing without your honor. Every child, man
and woman in Japan knows that. We are raised with the focus of
growth being honor. During the war between our countries, so
many years ago, many found honor by making the supreme sacrifice.
Kamikaze pilots are of whom I am speaking of, Mr. Troubleaux."
Pierre's face must have given away the panic that instantly
struck him. Suicide? This guy is truly nuts.
"Do not worry, Mr. Troubleaux, I can see what you are thinking.
No. I only speak of kamikaze pilots to serve as example of
honor. The kind that brought honor to Japan in the face of
defeat. That is something Americans will never understand. But
then again you're not American are you?"
"I was born a Frenchman, but I naturalized over twenty years ago,
at the same time my parents did."
"Ah yes. I remember. Then honor does mean more to you than to
most Americans. That will be quite good. Now, for the future
favor. I require nothing of you today, other than the guarantee
of you honor. Is that agreeable to you, Mr. Troubleaux?" Homoso-
to was pushing with the facade of friendliness. Pierre's concern
was not alleviated. All the same, he reluctantly nodded his
assent.
"Very good. Now for the favor." Homosoto stood up and reached
inside his size 48, ill fitting suit. Pierre was amazed at how
much money the Japanese had, yet were apparently unable to ever
wear clothes that fit properly.
Homosoto handed a 5 1/4" floppy disk to Pierre. Pierre took it
carefully from Homosoto and looked at the label. The diskette
was marked only with:
FILE1.EXE to FILE93.EXE
He looked inquisitively at Homosoto, his eyes asking, Yeah, so?
What's this got to do with anything?
"I see now you are confused. It is so simple, really. Sometime
in the future, you will be instructed to add one of the files on
this disk onto the dGraph programs you sell. That's it. So sim-
ple. So I have your word Mr. Troubleaux? Honor among men."
Pierre's mind was racing. Put a file onto a program? What does
that do? What's on it? Does it help dGraph? No that can't be
it. What is it? Why so secret. What's with the honor bit?
From the Chairman of OSO, not a technician? One floppy disk?
Pierre smelled a fox in the chicken coup.
"Mr. Homosoto, sir. I mean no disrespect. But, I hardly know
what to think. I don't even know what this disk is. You are
asking me to promise something I don't understand. What if I
don't agree. At least until I know what I'm doing? I need to
know what's going on here." he said holding the disk up promi-
nently.
"I prefer to think, Mr. Troubleaux of what occurs as long as you
do agree to maintain the honor between us. It is so much more
pleasant." Homosoto edged towards the doors of Troubleaux's
office as he spoke.
"When you agree to act honorably, perform for me this small,
insignificant favor, Mr. Troubleaux, you will get to keep the $20
Million you make this Friday and you will be permitted to contin-
ue living. Good Afternoon." Homosoto closed the door behind him.
* * * * *
Alexander Spiradon was pleased. His students were doing well.
The other students from the New York computer school had already
checked in; they didn't have as far to travel as Sir George.
Everything was in place, not quite a year to the day since he and
Taki Homosoto had set their plans in action. Alex hadn't spoken
to Homosoto in a couple of months. It was now time to report to
Homosoto in Tokyo. It was 17 hours earlier there - Homosoto
would probably be at his desk. The modem dialed a local Brookline
number. The phone in Brookline subsequently dialed a number in
Dallas, Texas, which dialed another phone in Tacoma, Washington.
The Tacoma phone had the luxury of dialing the international
number for Homosoto's private computer.
Call forwarding services offered the ultimate in protection. Any
telephone tracing would take weeks, requiring the cooperation of
courts from every state where a forwarded phone was located.
Then, the State Department would have to coordinate with the
Japanese Embassy. An almost impossible task, if anyone had the
resources. It took about 45 seconds for the call to be complet-
ed.
<<<<<<CONNECTION>>>>>>
PASSWORD:
Alex entered his password, GESUNDHEIT and his forced response
from his own PRG card. His computer terminal paused. If he was
on satellite to Japan, or to Dallas or anywhere else, his signal
could travel a hundred thousand miles or more each time he sent a
character from his keyboard.
CRYPT KEY:
Alex Spiradon chose 43. Each communication he had with Homosoto
was also protected with full encryption. If someone was able to
isolate their conversations, all they would get would be sheer
garbage, a screen full of unintelligible symbols and random
characters. By choosing 43, Alex told his computer and Homosoto's
computer to use Crypt Key 43, one of over 100 secret keys that
both computers held in their memory. This cryptographic scheme,
using the U.S.'s Data Encryption Standard, DES, and ANSI standard
X9.17 was the same one that the Treasury Department and Federal
Reserve used to protect the transmission of over $1 trillion of
funds transfers daily.
<<<<<<TRANSMISSION ENCODED>>>>>>
That was the signal for Alex to send the first words to Homosoto.
Good Morning, Homosoto-San.
AND TO YOU MY ESTEEMED PARTNER. YOU HAVE SOMETHING TO REPORT.
Yes. All is in place.
PLEASE CLARIFY . . .MY MEMORY IS NOT WHAT IT WAS.
Of course. The last of the Operators are in place. We call him
Sir George. That makes 8 altogether. San Francisco, (SF), New
York, (NY), Los Angeles, (LA), Boston, (BM), Atlanta, (AG) Chica-
go, (CI), Washington, (DC) and Dallas, (DT).
AND THEY CAN BE TRUSTED?
They are aware of the penalty. If not, we have others that will
replace them. Besides, you are rewarding them most handsomely for
their efforts.
SO I AM. I EXPECT RESULTS. AND THE OTHERS?
The Mail Men are waiting as well. Four of them in NY, DC, LA and
DT.
YOU SAY MAIL MEN. WHAT IS THAT TERM?
They will deliver our messages in writing to those who need
additional proof of our sincerity. They know nothing other than
they get paid, very well, to make sure that the addressees are in
receipt of their packages.
VERY GOOD. AND THEY TOO ARE RESPONSIBLE?
Yes. Elimination is a strong motivation. Besides, they know
nothing.
WHAT IF THEY READ THE CONTENTS?
That can only help. They do not know where the money comes from.
Most need the money more than their lives. My contacts make my
choices ideal. Death is . . .so permanent.
I AGREE. IT MAKES MEN HONORABLE, DOES IT NOT?
Most of the time, yes. There are always exceptions, and we are
prepared for that, too.
THE SEKIGUN-HA ARE AT YOUR DISPOSAL.
Thank you. The Ground Hogs, the first are in place.
HOW MANY AND WHERE.
Over 50 so far. I will keep recruiting. We have 11 in the long
distance phone companies and at AT&T, 3 at IBM, 14 in government
positions, 12 in major banks, a couple of insurance companies, 3
Hospitals are compromised . . .and a list of others. We will
keep the channels full, I promise.
HOW WILL THEY FUNCTION?
They will gain access to the information we need, and when we
call, they will perform. I will add more as we proceed. It
amazes me, these Americans. Anything for a buck.
DO NOT DISAPPOINT ME.
I will not. That is my promise. When will the information be
ready?
SOON. TOMORROW THE FIRST READER INFORMATION WILL BE SENT TO YOU.
CALLS MAY BEGIN IN DAYS. YOU ORGANIZE IT. THE GROUND HOGS ARE
NOT TO BE ACTIVATED FOR SEVERAL WEEKS. THEY ARE TO PERFORM THEIR
JOBS AS IF NOTHING IS WRONG. DO THEY UNDERSTAND?
Ground Hogs receive 2 paychecks. They understand their obliga-
tions. We pay 10 times their salary for their allegiance. The
Operators and Mail Men will start soon.
THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS ALLEGIANCE. DON'T YOU KNOW THAT YET?
Americans pay homage to the almighty dollar, and nothing else.
They will be loyal.
AS YOU ARE MOTIVATED MY FRIEND, I DO NOT FORGET THAT. BUT OTHERS
CAN OFFER MORE DOLLARS AND WE CAN BE FOUND. I CANNOT RISK THAT,
UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES. DO YOU UNDERSTAND THE RISK?
Completely. I am responsible for my people.
AND THEY ARE PREPARED FOR THEIR JOBS?
Yes. That is my responsibility, to insure the security of our
task. No one must know. I know my job.
DO IT WELL. I WILL LEAVE YOU.
<<<<< CONNECTION TERMINATED>>>>>>
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