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               YES: This is the beginning!

This file contains the Introduction and Chapters 1-5 of "Terminal 
Compromise."

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Note to the Readers of "Terminal Compromise:"

In writing a book like this, it is often difficult to distinguish 
fact from fiction.  

That  is because the fiction is all too probable, and  the  facts 
are  unbelievable.  Maybe it doesn't matter and they're the  same 
after all.  Other than a few well known names and incidents,  the 
events in this book are fictional - to the best of my knowledge.  

As  I wrote this tale, I was endlessly coming upon  new  methods, 
new  tactics, new ways to wage computer warfare. I found that  if 
this story was to be told, I had to accept the fact that it would 
always be unfinished.  The battle of the computers is one without 
an end in sight. 

This story is an attempt to merge the facts as they are with  the 
possibilities.   The  delineation  between fact  and  fiction  is 
clouded  because the fiction of yesterday is the fact, the  news, 
of  today.  I expect that distinction to become hazier  over  the 
next few years.

It  is that incongruity that spawns a  conjectured  extrapolation 
indistinguishable from reality.  

The  construction of the model that gave birth to this  tale  was 
the culmination of many years of work, with a fictional narrative 
being  the last thing in my mind.  That was an accident  necessi-
tated by a need to reach the largest possible audience.  

In  fact, a lot of things have surprised me since "Terminal  Com-
promise"  was  first published.  It seemed that we were  able  to 
predict a number of things including Polymorphics, Clipper Chips, 
non-lethal  warfare . . . and you'll recognize a few other  prog-
nostications we didn't expect to come to pass quite yet.

The reader will soon know why.

There  were many people who have been invaluable in the  prepara-
tion  of  this  document, but I'll only mention a  few.   If  the 
reader  doesn't want to hear about my friends, please move on  to 
the next chapter.

Mary C. Bell.  Hi, Mom.  Thanks for the flashlight.

Lazarus Cuttman.  The greatest editor a writer has ever had.   He 
kept me honest.

Miles  Roban.  That's an alias.  He's the one who told  me  about 
the real NSA.  I hope he doesn't get in trouble for what he said.  
I owe him a pound of M&Ms.  2 lbs. of them.  (NOTE: For over  two 
years, according to 'high-up' sources, the NSA has been and still 
is  looking for 'Miles'.  They haven't found him yet, despite  an 
intensive internal NSA search.  We need more people like  'Miles' 
who are willing to break down the conventional barriers of  secu-
rity on issues that affect us all.)

Dad.  God rest.

Winn Schwartau, July, 1993 

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

          "Terminal Compromise" is dedicated to:

Sherra
There is no adequate way to say thank you.  You are the super-glue 
of the family.  Let's continue to break the rules. 
I Love You

Ashley
She  wrote  three books before I finished the first  chapter  and 
then became a South-Paw. 

Adam
Welcome, pilgrim. 

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

Prologue

	Friday, January 12, The Year After
	The White House, Washington D.C.

The President was furious.  In all of his professional  political 
life, not even his closest aids or his wife had ever seen him  so 
totally  out  of character.  The placid  Southern  confidence  he 
normally  exuded, part well designed media image, part real,  was 
completely shattered.  

"Are  you  telling me that we spent almost $4  trillion  dollars, 
four goddamn trillion dollars on defense, and we're not  prepared 
to  defend our computers?  You don't have a game plan?  What  the 
hell  have we been doing for the last 12 years?"   The  President 
bellowed  as loudly as anyone could remember. No one in the  room 
answered. The President  glared right through each of his  senior 
aides. 

"Damage Assessment Potential?"  The President said abruptly as he 
forced a fork full of scrambled eggs into his mouth.

"The  Federal  Reserve and most Banking transactions  come  to  a 
virtual standstill.  Airlines grounded save for emergency  opera-
tions.    Telephone  communications  running at 30%  or  less  of 
capacity.   No  Federal payments for weeks.  Do you  want  me  to 
continue?"

"No, I get the picture."

The  President  wished to God he wouldn't be  remembered  as  the 
President who allowed the United States of America to slip  back-
ward 50 years.  He waited for the steam in his collar to  subside 
before saying anything he might regret.

* * * * *
 
	Monday, August 6, 1945.  
	Japan

The classroom was coming to order.  Shinzo Ito, the 12th graders' 
instructor  was running a few minutes late and the students  were 
in a fervent discussion about the impending end to the war.   And 
of  course  it  was to be a Japanese victory  over  the  American 
Mongrels. 

Ito-san  was only 19 years old, and most of the senior class  was 
only  a year or two younger than he. The war had deeply  affected 
all  of  them. The children of Japan were  well  acquainted  with 
suffering and pain as families were wrenched apart - literally at 
the seams, and expected to hold themselves together by the  honor 
that their sacrifices represented.  They hardened, out of  neces-
sity,  in order to survive and make it through the next day,  the 
next week; and so they knew much about the war.  Since so many of 
the men had gone to war, women and children ran the country.   10 
and 11 year old students from the schools worked as phone  opera-
tors. It was an honorable cause, and everyone contributed; it was 
only  fitting.  Their fathers and loved ones were fighting  self-
lessly and winning the war.  

Many  of  the children's fathers had gone to war, valiantly,  and 
many  had not come home.  Many came home in pieces, many  others, 
unrecognizable.  And when some fathers had gone off to war,  both 
they and their families knew that would never return.  They  were 
making the Supreme Sacrifice for their country,  and more  impor-
tantly, a contribution to their honorable way of life. 

The sons and daughters of kamikazes were treated with near rever-
ence.   It  was  widely believed that their  father's  honor  was 
handed down to their offspring as soon as word had been  received 
the mission had been successful. Albeit a suicide mission.

Taki Homosoto was one 17 year old boy so revered for his father's 
sacrifice.  Taki spoke confidently about such matters, about  the 
war,  about American atrocities, and how Japan would soon  defeat 
the round faced enemy.  Taki had understood, on his 17th birthday 
that  his  father would leave . . .and assuredly die as  was  the 
goal  of the kamikaze.  He pretended to understand that  it  made 
sense to him. 

In the last 6 months since his father had left, Taki assumed,  at 
his  father's  request,  the patriarchal role  in  the  immediate 
family.  The  personal  anguish  had  been  excruciating.   While 
friends and family and officials praised Taki's father and  fami-
ly,  inside Taki did not accept that a man could willingly  leave 
his family, his children, him . . .Taki, never to return.  Didn't 
his father love him? Or his sister and brother?  Or his mother?

Taki's  mother got a good job at one of the defense  plants  that 
permeated  Hiroshima, while Taki and his brother and sister  con-
tinued  their schooling. But the praise, the respect didn't  make 
up for not having a father to talk to, to play with and to  study 
with.  He loved his mother, but she wasn't a father.

So  Taki compensated and overcompensated and pretended  that  his 
father's  sacrifice  was just, and good, and for  the  better  of 
society,  and  the war effort and his family.  Taki  spoke  as  a 
juvenile  expert on the war and the good of Japan and the bad  of 
the  United  States and the filthy Americans  with  their  unholy 
practices  and  perverted  ways of life, and  how  they  tortured 
Japanese  prisoners.  Taki was an eloquent and convincing  orator 
to his piers and instructors alike. 

At  8:15  A.M., the Hiroshima radio station, NHK,  rang  its  old 
school  bell.   The bell was part of a warning  system  that  an-
nounced impending attacks from the air, but it had been so  over-
used  that it was mostly ignored.  The tolls from the  bell  were 
barely  noticed  by the students or the teachers in  the  Honkawa 
School.   Taki  though,  looked out the window  toward  the  Aioi 
Bridge. His ears perked and his eyes scanned the clear skies over 
downtown  Hiroshima.   He was sure he heard something  .  .  .but 
no . . . 

The  first sensation of motion in the steel  reinforced  building 
came  long  seconds after the blinding light. Since  the  rolling 
earth  motions in 1923 devastated much of  Tokyo,  schoolchildren 
and  households nationwide practiced earthquake preparedness  and 
were reasonably expectant of another major tremor at any time.  

But  the combination of light from 10,000 suns and the  deafening 
roar  gave those who survived the blast reason to wish they  had-
n't.   Blindness  was instant for those who saw the  sky  ignite.  
The  classroom  was collapsing around them.  In the air  was  the 
noise of a thousand trains at once...even louder.  In seconds the 
schoolhouse was in rubble.

The  United States  of American had just dropped the Atomic  Bomb 
on Hiroshima, Japan.  This infamous event would soon be known  as 
ayamachi -  the Great Mistake.

* * * * * 

	Tuesday, August 7, 1945

Taki  Homosoto opened his  eyes.   He knew he was laying  on  his 
back,  but  all else was a clutter of confusion.  He saw  a  dark 
ceiling,  to what he didn't know and he hurt He turned  his  head 
and  saw  he was on a cot, maybe a bed, in a long  corridor  with 
many  others  around him.   The room reeked of  human  waste  and 
death. 

"Ah . . .you are awake.  It has been much time."  The voice  came 
from  behind  him.  He turned his head rapidly  and  realized  he 
shouldn't  have.  The pain speared him from his neck to the  base 
of  his spine.  Taki grimaced and made a feeble attempt at  whim-
pering.   He said nothing as he examined the figure in the  white 
coat  who spoke again. "You are a very lucky young man, not  many 
made it."

What was he talking about . . .made it?   Who?  His brain  wanted 
to speak but his mouth couldn't.  A slight gurgling noise ushered 
from  his  throat  but nothing else.  And the pain .  .  .it  was 
everywhere  at  once  . . .all over . . .he wanted  to  cry   for 
help  . . .but was unable.  The pain overtook Taki  Homosoto  and 
the vision of the doctor blackened until there was no more. 

Much later, Taki reawoke.   He assumed it was a long time  later, 
he  been  awake  earlier  . . .or had that  been  a  dream.   The 
doctor...no   he was in school and the earthquake . .  .yes,  the 
earthquake  .  . .why don't I remember?  I was knocked  out.   Of 
course.  As his eyes adjusted to the room, he saw and  remembered 
that it wasn't a dream.  He saw the other cots, so many  of them, 
stretching in every direction amidst the cries of pain and  sighs 
of death.

Taki  tried to cry out to a figure walking nearby but only a  low 
pitched   moan   ushered  forth.   Then  he   noticed   something 
odd  .  .  .and  odd smell.  One he  didn't  recognize.   It  was 
foul  . . .the stench of burned . . .burned what?  The odor  made 
him sick and he tried to breathe through his mouth but the  awful 
odor  still  penetrated his glands.  Taki knew that he  was  very 
hurt and very sick and so were a lot of others.  It took him some 
time,  and a lot of energy just to clear his thoughts.   Thinking 
hurt  -  it concentrated the aching in his head, but  the  effort   
took  away  some of his other pain, or at least  it  successfully 
distracted him focussing on it.

There  were  cries from all around.  Many  were  incomprehensible 
babblings, obviously in agony.  Screams of "Eraiyo!", ("the  pain 
is  unbearable!") were constant.  Others begged to be put out  of 
their  misery.   Taki actually felt fortunate; he  couldn't  have 
screamed if he had wanted to, but out of guilt he no longer  felt 
the need to.

Finally,  the same doctor, was it the same doctor? appeared  over 
his  bed again.  "I hope you'll stay with us for a few  minutes?"  
The  doctor  smiled.  Taki responded as best he  could.   With  a 
grunt and the raising and lowering his eyelids.  "Let me just say 
that  you  are in very good condition . . .much better  than  the 
others,"  the doctor gestured across the room.  "I don't mean  to 
sound cruel, but, we do need your bed, for those seriously hurt." 
The doctor sounded truly distraught.  What had happened?

A  terrified  look crossed Taki's face that ceded into  a  facial 
plead.    His   look   said,  "I  can't  speak   so   answer   my 
questions  .  . .you must know what they are. Where  am  I?  What 
happened? Where is my class?"

"I  understand  your name is Taki Homosoto?"  the  doctor  asked. 
"Your school identification papers . . ."

Taki blinked an affirmative as he tried to cough out a response. 

"There is no easy way to tell this.  We must all be brave. Ameri-
ca  has used a terrible weapon upon the people of Japan.  A  spe-
cial  new  bomb so terrible that Hiroshima is no  longer  even  a 
shadow of itself. A weapon where the sky turns to fire and build-
ings and our people melt . . .where the water sickens the  living 
and  those  who seem well drop in their steps from  an  invisible 
enemy. Almost half of the people of Hiroshima are dead or  dying.  
As I said, you are a lucky one."

Taki helped over the next days at the Communications Hospital  in 
what  was left of downtown Hiroshima.  When he wasn't tending  to 
the dying, he moved the dead to the exits so the bodies could  be 
cremated, the one way  to insure eternal salvation.  The city got 
much of its light from pyres for weeks after the blasts.

He  helped distribute the kanpan and cold rice balls to the  very 
few doctors and to survivors who were able to eat.  He walked the 
streets  of Hiroshima looking for food, supplies,  anything  that 
could help.  Walking through the rubble of what once was Hiroshi-
ma  fueled  his  hate and his loathing for  Americans.  They  had 
wrought  this  suffering by using their  pikadon,  or  flash-boom 
weapon, on civilians, women and children. He saw death, terrible, 
ugly death, everywhere; from Hijiyama Hill to the bridges a cross 
the wide Motoyas River.

The  Aioi  bridge spontaneously became an  impromptu  symbol  for 
vengeance  against the Americans.  Taki crossed the  remnants  of 
the old stone bridge, which was to be the hypocenter of the blast 
if  the Enola Gay hadn't missed its target by 800 feet.   A  tall 
blond  man  in an American military uniform was tied to  a  stone 
post.   He  was an American POW, one of 23 in  Hiroshima.  A  few 
dozen  people, women in bloodstained kimonos and mompei and  near 
naked  children  were hurling rocks and insults at  the  lifeless 
body.  How appropriate thought Taki.  He found himself mindlessly 
joining in.  He threw rocks at the head, the body, the legs.   He 
threw rocks and yelled.  He threw rocks and yelled at the remains 
of the dead serviceman until his arms and lungs ached.

Another 50,000 Japanese died from the effects of radiation within 
days  while Taki continued to heal physically.   On August 17,  9 
days after the atomic bombing of Nagasaki and 2 days after Emper-
or  Hirohito's broadcast announcing Japan's surrender, a  typhoon 
swamped  Hiroshima  and killed thousands more.  Taki  blamed  the 
Americans for the typhoon, too.

Taki was alone for the first time in his life.  His family  dead, 
even  his  little sister.  Taki Homosoto was now a  hibakusha,  a 
survivor  of Hiroshima, an embarrassing and dishonorable fact  he 
would desperately try to conceal for the rest of his life.

* * * * *

	Forty Years Later . . .
	January, 1985, Gaithersburg,  Maryland.

A pristine layer of thick soft snow covered the sprawling  office 
and laboratory filled campus where the National Bureau of  Stand-
ards sets standards for the country.  The NBS establishes exactly 
what  the time is, to the nearest millionth of a millionth  of  a 
second.   They make sure that we weigh things to the accuracy  of 
the weight of an individual atom.  The NBS is a veritable techno-
logical  benchmark  to  which everyone agrees, if  for  no  other 
reason than convenience.

It  was  the NBS's turn to host the  National  Computer  Security 
Conference  where the Federal government was ostensibly  supposed 
to  interface  with  academia and the business  world.   At  this 
exclusive  symposium,  only two years before, the  Department  of 
Defense  introduced a set of guidelines which  detailed  security 
specifications to be used by the Federal agencies and recommended 
for the private sector. 

A very dry group of techno-wizards and techno-managers and  tech-
no-bureaucrats  assemble for several days, twice a year, to  dis-
cuss  the latest developments in biometric identifications  tech-
niques, neural based cryptographic analysis, exponential  factor-
ing  in  public key management, the subtleties  of  discretionary 
access control and formalization of verification models. 

The National Computer Security Center is a Department of  Defense 
working group substantially managed by the super secret  National 
Security  Agency.   The NCSC's charter in life  is  to  establish 
standards and procedures for securing the US Government's comput-
ers from compromise.  

1985's high point was an award banquet with slightly ribald 
speeches.  Otherwise the conference was essentially a maze of 
highly complex presentations, meaningless to anyone not well 
versed  in computers, security and government-speak.  An  attend-
ee's competence could be well gauged by his use of acronyms.  "If 
the  IRS  had DAC across its X.25 gateways,  it  could  integrate 
X9.17  management,  DES, MAC and X9.9 could be  used  throughout. 
Save the government a bunch!"  "Yeah, but the DoD had an RFI  for 
an RFQ that became a RFP, specced by NSA and based upon TD-80-81.  
It  was  isolated, environmentally  speaking."   Boring,  thought 
Miles  Foster.   Incredibly boring, but it was his  job  to  sit, 
listen and learn.  

Miles  Foster was a security and communications analyst with  the 
National Security Agency at Fort Meade, Maryland.  It was part of 
the regimen to attend such functions to stay on top of the latest 
developments from elsewhere in the government and from university 
and private research programs.  

Out  of the 30 or so panels that Miles Foster had to attend,  pro 
forma, only one held any real interest for him.  It was a  mathe-
matical  presentation entitled, "Propagation Tendencies  in  Self 
Replicating  Software".   It was the one subject title  from  the 
conference guide about which he knew nothing.  He tried to figure 
out  what the talk was going to be about, but the answer  escaped 
him until he heard what Dr. Les Brown had to say.

Miles Foster wrote an encapsulated report of Dr. Brown's  presen-
tation with the 23 other synopses he was required to generate for 
the NSA.  Proof of Attendance.

SUBJECT:
Dr. Les Brown - Professor of Computer Science, Sheffield  Univer-
sity.  Dr. Brown presented an updated version of his PhD thesis. 

CONTENTS:
Dr. Brown spoke about unique characteristics of certain  software 
that  can  be written to be self-replicating.   He  examined  the 
properties of software code in terms of set theory and adequately 
demonstrated  that software can be written with the sole  purpose 
of  disguising  its  true intents, and then  replicate  or  clone 
itself throughout a computer system without the knowledge of  the 
computer's operators. 

He  further described classes of software that, if  designed  for 
specific  purposes, would have undetectable characteristics.   In 
the  self replicating class, some would have  crystalline  behav-
iors,  others  mutating behaviors, and others  random  behaviors.  
The set theory presentations closely paralleled biological trans-
mission characteristics and similar problems with disease  detec-
tion and immunization. 

It  became quite clear from the Dr. Brown's talk, that  surrepti-
tiously  placed software with self-replicating  properties  could 
have deleterious effects on the target computing system.

CONCLUSIONS

It appears prudent to further examine this class of software  and 
the  ramifications  of its use.  Dr. Brown  presented  convincing 
evidence  that such propagative effects can bypass existing  pro-
tective  mechanisms  in sensitive data  processing  environments.  
There  is indeed reason to believe that software of  this  nature 
might  have  certain offensive military applications.  Dr.  Brown 
used the term 'Virus' to describe such classes of software. 

Signed, Miles Foster
Senior Analyst
Y-Group/SF6-143G-1

After he completed his observations of the conference as a whole, 
and the seminars in particular, Miles Foster decided to eliminate 
Dr. Brown's findings from the final submission to his  superiors.  
He wasn't sure why he left it out, it just seemed like the  right 
thing to do.

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


                            Chapter 1
     August, 4 Years Ago. 
     National Security Agency 
     Fort George S. Meade, Maryland.

Thousands  of  disk drives spun rapidly, at over 3600  rpm.   The 
massive  computer  room, Computer Room C-12, gently  whirred  and 
droned with a life of its own.  The sublime, light blue walls and 
specially fitted blue tint light bulbs added a calming  influence 
to  the  constant urgency that drove the computer  operators  who 
pushed  buttons, changed tapes and stared at the dozens of  amber 
screens on the computers.

Racks  upon  racks of foreboding electronic  equipment  rung  the 
walls of Room C-12 with arrays of tape drives interspersed.  Rats 
nests  of wire and cable crept along the floor and in and out  of 
the  control centers for the hundreds of millions of  dollars  of 
the  most sophisticated computers in the world.  Only five  years 
ago,  computing  power of this magnitude, now fit in a  room  the 
size of an average house would have filled the Pentagon.  All  of 
this, all of this power, for one man.

Miles Foster was locked in a room without windows. It contained a 
table,  4 chairs, and he was sure a couple of cameras and  micro-
phones.  He had been held for a least six hours, maybe more; they 
had taken his watch to distort his time perception.  

Within 2 minutes of the time Miles Foster announced his  resigna-
tions  as  a  communications expert with  the  National  Security 
Agency,  S Group, his office was sealed and guarded by  an  armed 
marine.  His computer was disconnected, and he was escorted to  a 
debriefing  room  where he had  sporadically  answered  questions 
asked by several different Internal Affairs Security Officers.  

While  Miles Foster was under virtual house arrest, not the  pre-
ferred term, but an accurate one, the Agency went to work.   From 
C-12,  a  group of IAS officers began to  accumulate  information 
about  Miles Foster from a vast array of computer  memory  banks. 
They  could dial up any major computer system within  the  United 
States, and most around the world.  The  purpose, ostensibly,  of 
having  such  power  was to centralize and  make  more  efficient 
security checks on government employees, defense contractors  and 
others who might have an impact on the country's national securi-
ty.  But, it had other purposes, too.  

Computer  Room  C-12 is classified above Top  Secret,  it's  very 
existence  denied by the NSA, the National Security  Agency,  and 
unknown to all but a very few of the nation's top policy  makers.  
Congress  knows  nothing of it and the President  was  only  told 
after  it  had been completed, black funded by  a  non-line  item 
accountable   budget.   Computer  Room C-12 is one  of  only  two 
electronic doors into the National Data Base - a digital  reposi-
tory  containing the sum total knowledge and working profiles  of 
every  man,  woman  and child in the United  States.   The  other 
secret  door  that guards America's privacy is  deep  within  the 
bowels of the Pentagon.

From  C-12,  IAS  accessed every bank record in  the  country  in 
Miles'  name, social security number or in that of his  immediate 
family.   Savings,  checking, CD's.  They had  printouts,  within 
seconds, of all of their last year's credit card activity.   They 
pulled 3 years tax records from the IRS, medical records from the 
National  Medical Data Base which connects hospitals  nationwide, 
travel  records  from American carriers,  customs  checks,  video 
rental history, telephone records, stock purchases. Anything that 
any  computer  ever knew about Miles Foster was printed  and  put 
into eleven 6" thick files within 2 hours of the request from the 
DIRNSA, Director, National Security Agency.

Internal Affairs was looking for some clue as to why a successful 
and  highly talented analyst like Miles Foster would so  abruptly 
resign  a  senior analyst position.  While Miles  was  more  than 
willing  to tell them his feelings, and the real  reasons  behind 
his  resignation, they wanted to make sure that there  weren't  a 
few  little details he wasn't telling them.  Like,  perhaps  gam-
bling  debts, women on the side, (he was single) or women on  the 
wrong side, overextended financial obligations, anything unusual.  
Had  he suddenly come into money and if he did, where did he  get 
it?  Blackmail was considered a very real possibility when  unex-
pected personnel changes occur.

The files vindicated Miles Foster of any obvious financial anoma-
lies. Not that he knew he needed vindication.  He owned a Potomac 
condominium in D.C., a 20 minutes against traffic commute to Fort 
Meade  where he had worked for years, almost his  entire  profes-
sional life.  He traveled some, Caribbean cruises, nothing osten-
tatious but in style, had a reasonable savings account, only used 
2 credit cards and he owed no one anything significant. There was 
nothing  unusual  about his file at all, unless  you  think  that 
living  within ones means is odd.  Miles Foster knew how to  make 
the most out of a dollar.  Miles Foster was clean.

The  walls  of his drab 12 foot square prison room were  a  dirty 
shade  of government gray.  There was an old map on the wall  and 
Miles  noticed  that the gray paint behind the it  was  7  shades 
lighter  than the surrounding paint. Two of the four  fluorescent 
bulbs were out, hiding some of the peeling paint on the  ceiling.  
Against one wall was a row of file cabinets with large iron  bars 
behind  the  drawer handles, insuring that no one,  no  one,  was 
getting into those file with permission.  Also prominent on  each 
file cabinet was a tissue box sized padlock. 

Miles was alone, again.  When the IAS people questioned him, they 
were  hard on him. Very hard. But most of the time he was  alone. 
Miles  paced the room during the prolonged waits. He  poked  here 
and there, under this, over that; he found the clean paint behind 
the map and smirked.  

When the IAS men returned, they found Miles stretching and  exer-
cising his svelte 5' 9" physique to help relieve the boredom.  

He  was 165 lbs. and in excellent for almost 40.  Miles wasn't  a 
fitness  nut,  but he enjoyed the results of staying in  shape  - 
women,  lots  of women.  He had a  lightly  tanned  Mediterranean 
skin, dark, almost black wavy hair on the longish side but immac-
ulately styled. His demeanor dripped elegance, even when he  wore 
torn jeans, and he knew it.  It was merely another personal asset 
that Miles had learned how to use to his best advantage.    Miles 
was  regularly  proofed. He had a face that would permit  him  to 
assume any age from 20 to 40, but given his borderline arrogance, 
he  called it aloofness, most considered him the younger.   None-
theless, women, of all ages went for it. 

One peculiar trait made women and girls find Miles  irresistible. 
He had an eerie but conscious muscular control over his  dimples.  
If he were angry, a frown could mean any number of things depend-
ing  upon how he twitched his dimples.  A frown could mean,  "I'm 
real  angry, seriously", or "I'm just giving you shit", or   "You 
bore me, go away", or more to Miles' purpose, "You're gorgeous, I 
wanna  fuck  your brains out".   His dimples could  pout  with  a 
smile, grin with a sneer, emphasize a question; they could accent 
and augment his mood at will. 

But now. he was severely bored.  Getting even more disgusted with 
the  entire process.  The IAS wasn't going to find  anything.  He 
had made sure of that.  After all, he was the computer expert.

Miles heard the sole door to the room unlock.  It was a heavy, 'I 
doubt  an ax could even get through this' door.  The  fourth  IAS 
man  to question Miles entered the room as the door was  relocked 
from the other side.  

"So,  tell  us again, why did you quit?"  The  IAS  man  abruptly 
blurted  out even before sitting in one of the old, World War  II 
vintage chairs by the wooden table.   

"I've told you a hundred times and you have it on tape a  hundred 
times."   The disgust in his voice was obvious and intended.   "I 
really don't want to go through it again." 

"Tough shit.  I want to hear it.  You haven't told me yet."  This 
guy was tougher, Miles thought.  

"What  are you looking for?  For God's sake, what do you want  me 
to say?  You want a lie that you like better?  Tell me what it is 
and  I'll give it back to you, word for word.  Is that  what  you 
want?"   Miles  gave away something.  He showed, for  the   first 
time,  real anger.  The intellect in Miles saw what  the  emotion 
was  doing,  so his brain quickly secreted a  complex  string  of 
amino  acids to call him down.  Miles decided that he  should  go 
back to the naive, 'what did I do?' image and stick to the plan.  

He put his head in his hands and leaned forward for a second.  He 
gently  shook  and looked up sideways.  He was  very  convincing.  
The IAS man thought that Miles might be weakening. 

"I want the fucking truth," the IAS man bellowed.  "And I want it 
now!"  

Miles  sighed.   He was tired and wanted a cigarette  so  bad  he 
could shit, and that pleasure, too, he was being denied.  But  he 
had prepared himself for this eventuality; serious interrogation.

"O.K.,  O.K." Miles feigned resignation.  He paused  for  another 
heavy  sigh.  "I quit 'cause I got sick of the  shit.   Pure  and 
simple.   I like my work, I don't like the bureaucracy that  goes 
with  it.  That's it.  After over 10 years here, I expected  some 
sort  of  recognition other than a cost of living  increase  like 
every other G12.  I want to go private where I'll be appreciated. 
Maybe even make some money."

The  IAS man didn't look convinced. "What single event  made  you 
quit?  Why  this morning, and not yesterday or tomorrow,  or  the 
next  day, or next week.  Why today?"  The IAS man blew smoke  at 
Miles to annoy him and exaggerate the withdrawal symptoms.  Miles 
was exhausted and edgy. 

"Like I said, I got back another  'don't call us, we'll call you' 
response  on my Public-Private key scheme.  They said,  'Not  yet 
practical'  and set it up for another review in 18 months.   That 
was  it.  Finis! The end, the proverbial straw that  you've  been 
looking for.  Is that what you want?"  Miles tried desperately to 
minimize any display of arrogance as he looked at the IAS man.

"What do you hope to do in the private sector?  Most of your work 
is classified."  The IAS man remained cool and unflustered.  

"Plenty of defense guys who do crypto and need a good comm guy. I 
think  the military call it the revolving door."  Miles'  dimpled 
smugness did not sit well with IAS.  

"Yeah,  you'll  probably  go  to work for  your  wop  friends  in 
Sicily." The IAS man sarcastically accused.

"Hey   - you already know about that!"  That royally  pissed  off 
Miles.   He  didn't appreciate any dispersion  on  his  heritage.  
"They're relatives, that's  it.  Holidays, food, turkey, ham, and 
a  bunch  of  booze.   And besides,"  Miles  paused  and  smiled, 
"there's no such thing as the Mafia."

By  early evening they let him relieve himself and  then  finally 
leave  the Fort. He was given 15 minutes to collect his  personal 
items,  under  guard, and then escorted to the front  gate.   All 
identification  was removed and his files were  transferred  into 
the  'Monitor'  section, where they would sit for  at  least  one 
year. The IAS people had finally satisfied themselves that  Miles 
Foster was a dissatisfied, underpaid government employee who  had 
had enough of the immobility and rigidity of a giant bureaucratic 
machine  that moves at a snails pace. Miles smiled at the end  of 
the  interrogation.   Just like I said, he thought, just  like  I 
said. 

There was no record in his psychological profiles, those from the 
Agency  shrinks, that suggested  Miles meant anything other  than 
what he claimed.  Let him go, they said.  Let him go.  Nowhere in 
the  records  did it show how much he hated  his  stupid,  stupid 
bosses,  the bungling bureaucratic behemoths who didn't have  the 
first  idea  of  what he and his type did.   Nowhere  did  Miles' 
frustration  and resultant build up of resentment and anger  show 
up  in  any file or on any chart or graph.   His  strong,  almost 
overbearing ego and over developed sense of worth and  importance 
were  relegated  to  a personality quirk  common  to  superbright 
ambitious engineering types.  It fit the profile.  

Nowhere,  either,  was it mentioned that in years at  NSA,  Miles 
Foster had submitted over 30 unsolicited proposals for changes in 
cryptographic and communications techniques to improve the  secu-
rity  of  the United States.  Nowhere did it say, they  were  all 
turned down, tabled, ignored. 

At  one  point or another, Miles had to snap.  The  rejection  of 
proposal  number  thirty-four gave Miles the  perfect  reason  to 
quit. 

* * * * *

Miles Foster looked 100% Italian despite the fact his father  was 
a  pure Irishman.  "Stupido, stupido" his grandmother  would  say 
while  slamming the palm of her hand into forehead.  She was  not 
exactly fond of her daughter marrying outside family. But, it was 
a good marriage, 3 great kids, or as good as kids get and  Grand-
mama  tolerated  the relationship. Miles the oldest, was  only  7 
when  his father got killed as a bystander at a supermarket  rob-
bery.  

Mario  Dante, his homosexual uncle who worked in some  undefined, 
never mentioned  capacity for a Vegas casino, assumed the  pater-
nal role in raising Miles.  With 2 sisters, a mother, an aunt and 
a  grandmother  all living under the same  roof with  Miles,  any 
male  companionship,  role  model if you  will,  was  acceptable.  
Mario  kept  the Family Honor, keeping  his  sexual  proclivities 
secret  until  Miles turned 18.  Upon hearing,  Miles  commented, 
"Yeah, so?  Everyone knows Uncle Mario's a fag.  Big deal."

Mario  was  a  big important guy, and he  did  business,  grownup 
business.   That was all Miles was supposed to know.  When  Miles 
was 13, Mario thought it would be a good idea for him  to  become 
a  man.   Only 60 miles from Las Vegas lived the  country's  only 
legal  brothels.  Very convenient.  Miles  wasn't going  to  fool 
around with any of that street  garbage.  Convention girls. Miles 
should go first class the first time. 

Pahrump, Nevada is home to the only legalized prostitution in the 
United States.  Mario drove fast, Miles figured about 130mph,  in 
his  Red Ferrari on Highway 10, heading West from  Vegas.   Mario 
was  drinking  Glen Fetitch, neat, and he steered with  only  one 
hand, hardly looking at the road.

The  inevitable  occurred.  Gaining on them, was a  Nevada  State 
Trooper.   The flashing lights and siren reminded Mario  to  slow 
down  and  pull over.   He grinned, sipped his  drink  and  Miles 
worried.   Speeding  was against the law.  So  was  drinking  and 
driving. The police officer walked over to the driver side of the 
Ferrari.  Uncle Mario lowered the window to let the officer  lean 
into  the  car.   As the trooper bent over  to  look  inside  the 
flashy  low slung import, Mario pulled out a handgun  from  under 
the seat and stuck it into the cop's face.

Mario started yelling. "Listen asshole, I wasn't speeding. Was I?   
I don't want nothing to go on my insurance.  I gotta good driving 
record, y'know?"  Mario was crazy! Miles had several strong urges 
to severely contract his sphincter muscles. 

"No  sir, I wanted to give you a good citizenship  citation,  for 
your contributions to the public good."  The cop laughed in Uncle 
Mario's face.

"Good  to see you still gotta sensa'humor."  Uncle Mario  laughed 
and  put  the gun back in his shoulder  holster.   Miles  stared, 
dumbfounded, still squeezing his butt cheeks tight.

"Eh,  Paysan! Where you going so fired up? You know  the  limit's 
110?"  They both guffawed. 

"Here!"  Mario pointed at Miles. "'Bout time the kid took a  ride 
around  the world, y'know what I mean?"  Miles wasn't sure   what 
he meant, but he was sure it had to do with where he was going to 
lose his virginity.

"Sheeeee-it!  Uptown! Hey kid, ask for Michelle and take  2  from 
Column B, then do it once for me!"  Even though they weren't,  to 
a 13 year male Italian virgin, Mario and the cop were making  fun 
of  him. "I remember my first time.  It was in a pick  up  truck, 
out  in the desert.   Went for fucking ever!  Know what  I  mean?  
The  cop winked at Miles who was humiliated.  To  Miles'  relief, 
Mario  finally  gave the cop an envelope, while  being  teasingly 
reprimanded.   "Hey, Mario, take it a little easy out here,  will 
yah? At least on my watch, huh?"

"Yeah, sure. No problem.  Ciao."

"Ciao."

They  were off again, doing over 100mph in seconds.  The rest  of 
the  evening went as planned.  Miles thanked his uncle in  a  way 
that brought tears to Mario's eyes.  Miles said, "You know, Uncle 
Mario.  When I grow up, I want to be just like you."

* * * * *

"He's  just a boy, Mario! How could you!"  Miles' mother did  not 
react favorably to the news of her son's manhood.  She was trying 
to  protect him from the influence of her relatives.   Miles  was 
gauged near genius with a pronounced aptitude for mathematics and 
she didn't want his life to go to waste.  

His mother had married outside of the family, the organized crime 
culture, the life one inherits so easily.  She loved her  family, 
knew  that  they  dealt in gambling, some  drugs,  an  occasional 
rough-up  of an opponent, but preferred to ignore it.   She  mar-
ried  a man she loved, not one picked for he, but had lost him  6 
years before. They _could not_ have her son.

Her  wishes  were respected, in the memory of Miles  father,  and 
also because it wasn't worth having a crazed Sicilian woman rant-
ing  and raving all about. But Miles was delectable bait  to  the 
Family.  His mathematical wizardry could assist greatly in gaming 
operations, figure the odds, new angles, keep the dollars in  the 
house's favor despite all advertising claims to the contrary.

But, there was respect and honor in their promise to his  mother.  
Hands  off was the rule that came all the way from the  top.   He 
was  protected. Miles was titillated with the attention,  but  he 
still  listened to his mother. She came before all others.   With 
no  father,  she became a little of both,  and  despite  anyone's 
attempts, Miles knew about Mario.

Miles  was  such a subject of adoration by his mother,  aunt  and 
grandmother,  siblings aside, that Miles came to expect the  same 
treatment from everyone, especially women.  They praised him  so, 
he  always got top honors, the best grades, that he came  to  re-
quire the attention and approval.

Living with 5 women and a gay uncle for 11 years had its  effect.  
Miles  was incredibly heterosexual. Not anti-gay at all,  not  at 
all. But he had absolutely no interest in men.  He adored  women, 
largely  because of his mother.  He put women on  pedestals,  and 
treated  them  like queens. Even on a beer budget    Miles  could 
convince  his  lady that they were sailing  the  Caribbean  while 
baking  in  the desert suburbs of Las  Vegas.   Women  succumbed, 
willingly, to Miles' slightest advance.  He craved the  approval, 
and worked long and hard to perfect his technique.  Miles  Foster 
was  soon an expert.  His mother never openly  disapproved  which 
Miles took as approval.

By the time Miles went off to college study advanced  mathematics 
and  get a degree, he had shattered half of the  teen-age  hearts 
within  50 miles of Vegas. Plus, the admiration from  his  female 
family  had allowed him to convince himself that he was going  to 
change  the world.  He was the single most important person  that 
could  have  an effect on civilization.  Invincible.  Can  do  no 
wrong.  Miles  was the end-all to be-all.  If Miles said  it,  it 
must  be so, and he bought into the program.  What his mother  or 
girl  friends  called self confidence others called  conceit  and 
arrogance.  Even obnoxious.   

His  third love, after his mother and himself,  was  mathematics.  
He  believed in mathematics as the answer to every problem.   All 
questions can be reduced to formulas and symbols.  Then, once you 
have  them on a piece of paper, or in a computer . . .the  answer 
will appear. 

His  master thesis was on that very subject.  It was a  brilliant 
soliloquy on the reducibility of any multi-dimensional  condition 
to a defined set of measured properties.  He postulated that  all 
phenomenon  was  discrete  in nature and  none  were  continuous.  
Given  that  arguable position, he was able to develop a  set  of 
mathematical tools that would permit dissection of a problem into 
much smaller pieces.  Once in manageable sizes, the problem would 
be worked out piece by piece until the pieces were reassembled as 
the  answer.   It was a tool that had very definite uses  in  the 
government.

He  was recruited by the Government in 1976.  They wanted him  to 
put his ingenious techniques to good use.  The National  Security 
Agency  painted  an  idyllic picture of the ultimate  job  for  a 
mathematician  - the biggest, fastest and best computers  in  the 
world at your fingertips.  Always the newest and the best.  What-
ever  you  need,  it'll be there.  And that's  a  promise.  Super 
secret important work - oh how his mother would be proud.   Miles 
accepted,  but they never told him the complete truth.  Not  that 
they lied, of course.  However, they never bothered to tell  him, 
that  because of his family background, guilt by  association  if 
you wish, his career would be severely limited.  

Miles  made  it to senior analyst, and his family was proud,  but 
he  never told them that over 40% of the staff in his  area  were 
senior  analysts.  It was a high tech desk job that required  his 
particular skills as a mathematician. The NSA got from Miles what 
they wanted; his mathematical tools modified to work for  govern-
ment  security  projects.  For a couple of years,  Miles  happily 
complied  - then he got itchy to work on other  projects.   After 
all, he had come up with the idea in the first place, it was time 
he came up with another.  Time to move on.

In typical bureaucratic manner, the only way to get something new 
done  is to write a proposal; enlist support and try to  push  it 
through committee.  Everyone made proposals. You not only  needed 
a good idea for a good project, good enough to justify the use of 
8 billion dollars worth of computers, but you needed the  connec-
tions  and assistance of others.  You scratch mine, I'll  scratch 
yours.

During  his tenure at NSA, Miles attempted to  institute  various 
programs,  procedures, new mathematical modes that might be  use-
ful.   While  technically his concepts were superior,  his  arro-
gance,  his better-than-everyone, my shit doesn't stink  attitude 
proved to be an insurmountable political obstacle.  He was unable 
to ever garner much support for his proposals.  Thus, not one  of 
them was ever taken seriously.  Which compounded the problem  and 
reinforced Miles' increasingly sour attitude towards his  employ-
er.  However, with dimples in command, Miles successfully  masked 
his disdain.  To all appearance he acceded to the demands of  the 
job,  but  off the job, Miles Foster was a  completely  different 
person.

* * * * *

The  telephone warbled on the desk of the IAS  Department  Chief. 
The digital readout on the phone told him that it was an internal 
call, not from outside the building, but he didn't recognize  the 
number.

"Investigations,"  The chief answered.

"This is Jacobs.  We're checking up on Foster."

"Yessir?"  DIRNSA?  Calling here?

"Is he gone?"

"Yessir."

"Anything?"

"No sir."

"Good. Close the file."

"Sir?"

"Close it.  Forever."

* * * * *

     September, 4 Years Ago
     Georgetown, Washington, D.C.

Miles  Foster set up shop in Washington D.C. as a  communications 
security  consultant.   He  and half of those  who  lived  within 
driving distance of the Capitol were known as Beltway Bandits,  a 
simultaneously  endearing  and self-deprecating  title  given  to 
those  who make their living selling products or services to  the 
Federal Government.  Miles was ex-NSA and that was always impres-
sive to potential clients.  He let it be known that his  services 
would now be available to the private sector, at the going rates.  

As  part  of  the revolving door, from  Government  to  industry, 
Miles' value would decrease with time, so he needed to get a  few 
clients  quickly.  The day you leave public service all  of  your 
knowledge  is  current,  and therefore  valuable,  especially  to 
companies  who want to sell widgets to the government.    As  the 
days  and months wear on, new policies, new people, new  arrange-
ments  and  confederacies are in place.   Washington's  transient 
nature  is  probably no more evident than through  the  political 
circle  where  everyone is aware of whom is talking to  whom  and 
about  what.  This Miles knew, so he stuck out his  tentacles  to 
maximize his salability.

He  restructured  his dating habits.  Normally Miles  would  date 
women  whom he knew he could fuck.  He kept track of  their  men-
strual  cycles to make sure they wouldn't waste his time.  If  he 
thought a particular female had extraordinary oral sex skills, he 
would make sure to seduce when she had her period. Increased  the 
odds of good blow job.

Now  though, Miles restricted his dating, temporarily,  to  those 
who could help start his career in the private sector.  "Fuck the 
secretary to get to the boss!" he bragged unabashedly.  

Miles dragged himself to many of the social functions that grease 
the  wheels  of motion in Washington.   The  elaborate   affairs, 
often  at  the expense of government contractors  and  lobbyists, 
were a highly visible, yet totally legal way to shmooze and booze 
with the influentia in the nation's capital.  The better parties, 
the  ones  for generals, for movers and for shakers,  for  digni-
taries  and  others of immediate importance, are  graced  with  a 
generous sprinkling of strikingly beautiful women.  They are paid 
for  by  the hosts, for the pleasure of the  their  guests.   The 
Washington  culture  requires that such services  are  discreetly 
handled.  Expense reports and billings of that  nature  therefore 
cite  French Caterers, C.T. Temps, Formal Rentals  and  countless 
other  harmless,  inoffensive  and  misleading  sounding  company 
names.  

Missile  Defense Systems, Inc. held one of the better parties  in 
an elegant old 2 story brick Georgetown home.  The building was a 
former  embassy, which had been discarded long ago by its  owners 
in  favor of a neo-modern structure on Reservoir Road. The  house 
was  appointed with a strikingly southern ante-bellum flair,  but 
tastefully done, not overly decorated.  The furniture was modern, 
comfortable, meant to be and used enjoyed, yet well suited to the 
classic formality.  

The hot September night was punctuated with an occasional breeze.  
The breaths of relief from Washington's muggy, swamp-like  summer 
air  were  welcomed by those braving the heat  in  the  manicured 
gardens  outside,  rather than the refreshing luxury of  the  air 
conditioned indoors. 

It  was  a  straight cocktail party, a stand-up  affair,  with  a 
hundred  or so Pentagon types attending. It began at  seven,  and 
unless tradition was broken, it  would be over by 10 as the  last 
of  the girls finds her way into a waiting black  limousine  with 
her partner for the night.  Straight politics, Miles thought.  

9:30  neared, and Miles felt he had accomplished most of what  he 
had  set out to do  - meet people, sell himself, play  the  game, 
talk  the line, do the schtick.   He hadn't, though, yet  figured 
out how he was going to get laid tonight.  

As  he sipped his third Glen Fetitch on the rocks, he  spotted  a 
woman  whom  he  hadn't seen that evening.  Maybe  she  had  just 
arrived, maybe she was leftovers.  Well, it was getting late, and 
he shouldn't let a woman go to waste, so let's see what she looks 
like  from  the front.  She looked aimlessly through  the  French 
doors at the backyard flora.  

Miles  sauntered  over to her and introduced himself.   "Hi,  I'm 
Miles  Foster." He grinned wide, dimples in force, as she  turned 
toward  him.  She was gorgeous.  Stunning even.   About  an  inch 
taller  than Miles, she wore her shimmering auburn hair  shoulder 
length.   Angelic,  he thought.  Perfectly formed full  lips  and 
statuesque  cheek  bones underscored her  sweetly  intense  brown 
eyes. Miles went to work, and by 10P.M., he and Stephanie Perkins 
were on their way to Deja Vu on 22nd. and M Street for drinks and 
dance.   By 10:30 he had nicknamed her Perky because her  breasts 
stood  at constant attention. By 11:30 they were on their way  to 
Miles' apartment.

At 2:00 AM Miles was quite satisfied with himself. So was  Perky.  
His  technique was perfect. Never a complaint.  Growing up  in  a 
houseful without men taught Miles what women wanted.  He  learned 
how to give it to them, just the way they liked it.  The  weekend 
together  was  heaven  in bed; playing,  making  love,  giggling, 
ordering in Chinese and pizza. Playing more, watching I Love Lucy 
reruns,  drinking  champagne,  and making  love.   Miles  bounced 
quarters on her taut stomach and cracked eggs on her  exquisitely 
tight  derriere. By Sunday morning, Miles found that he  actually 
liked Stephanie.  It wasn't that he didn't like his other  women, 
he  did.  It was just, well this one was different.  He  'really' 
liked her.  A very strange feeling for Miles Foster.

"Miles?" Stephanie asked during another period of blissful after-
glow.  She snuggled up against him closer.

"Yeah?"  He responded by squeezing her buttocks.  His  eyes  were 
still closed. 

"In  a  minute  stud, yes." She looked up  reassuringly  at  him. 
"Miles, would you work for anyone?"  She kissed his chest. 

"What  do you mean?" he asked in return.  He wasn't in  the  mood 
for shop talk.

"Like, say, a foreigner, not an American company.  Would you work 
for them?"

"Huh?"  Miles looked down inquisitively. "Foreigner? I guess  so.  
Why do you ask?"  He sounded a tad concerned.

"Oh, no reason." She rubbed him between his legs. "Just  curious.  
I thought you were a consultant, and consultants work for  anyone 
who can pay.  That's all."

"I am, and I will, but so what?"  He relaxed as Stephanie's hands 
got the desired result.

"Well,"  she stroked him rhythmically. "I know some  people  that 
could  use you. They're not American, that's all.  I didn't  know 
if you cared."

"No, I don't care," he sighed.  "It's all the same to me.  Unless 
they're  commies.  My former employer would definitely  frown  on 
that."

"Would  you  mind  if I called them, and maybe you  two  can  get 
together?" She didn't miss a beat.

"No go ahead, call them, anything you want, but can we talk about 
this later?"  Miles begged. 

* * * * * 

Miles  felt  very  much uninformed on his way  to  the  Baltimore 
Washington  Airport.   He knew that he was being flown  to  Tokyo 
Japan, first class, by a mystery man who had prepaid him  $10,000 
for a 1 hour meeting.  Not a bad start, he thought.  His  reputa-
tion obviously preceded him.  Stephanie was hired to recruit him, 
that  was obvious.  And that bothered Miles. He was  being  used. 
Wasn't  he?  Or had he seduced her and the trip was a bonus?   He 
still  liked  Stephanie, just not as much as  before.   It  never 
occurred  to  Miles, not for a second, that Stephanie  might  not 
have liked him. 

At  JFK  in New York, Miles connected to the 20  hour  flight  to 
Tokyo  through  Anchorage, Alaska.  He had a brief  concern  that 
this  was  the same route that KAL Flight 007 had taken  in  1983 
before  it  was shot down by the Soviets, but he  was  flying  an 
American  carrier  with a four digit flight number.   He  allowed 
that thought to remove any traces of worry. 

The flight was a couple of hours out of New York when one of  the 
flight attendants came up to him.  "Mr. Foster?"

"Yes?"  He looked up from the New York City Times he was reading.

"I  believe you dropped this?"  She handed Miles a  large  sealed 
envelope. His name had been written across the front with a large 
black marker.

"Thank you," said Miles. He took it gratefully.

When  she left, he opened the strange envelope.  It  wasn't  his.  
Inside there was a single sheet of paper.  Miles read it.

MR. FOSTER
WELCOME TO JAPAN.

YOU WILL BE MET AT THE NARITA AIRPORT BY MY DRIVER AND CAR.  THEY 
ARE AT YOUR DISPOSAL.   

WE  WILL MEET IN MY OFFICE AT 8:00 AM, WEDNESDAY,  SEPTEMBER  23. 
ALL ARRANGEMENTS HAVE BEEN MADE FOR YOUR PLEASURES.

RESPECTFULLY

TAKI HOMOSOTO

The name meant nothing to him so he forgot about it.  He had more 
important things to do.  His membership in the Mile High Club was 
in jeopardy.  He had not yet made it with a female flight attend-
ant.

They landed, 18 hours and 1 day later in Tokyo.   Miles was now a 
member in good standing.

* * * * *

     Thursday, September 3
     Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport

"DFW, this is American 1137, heading 125 at 3500."

"Roger American 1137, got you loud and green.  Maintain 125, full 
circle 40 miles then 215 for 40."

"Traffic Dallas?"

"Heavy.   Weather's been strong.  On again off again.   Piled  up 
pretty good."

"Sheers?"

"None so far.  Ah, you're a '37, you carry a sheer monitor.   You 
got   it  made.  Have to baby sit some 0's and '27's.  May  be  a 
while."

"Roger Dallas.  125 40, 215 40. Maintaining 12 point 5."

"Roger 1137."

The  control  tower at DFW airport was busier than  normal.   The 
dozen or so large green radar screens glowed eerily and made  the 
air  traffic controllers appear pallid under the  haunting  light 
emitted  from  around  the consoles.   Severe  weather  patterns, 
afternoon  Texas  thunderstorms  had  intermittently  closed  the 
airport  forcing  a  planes to hold in a 120  mile  pattern  over 
Dallas and Fort Worth.

Many  of  the tower crew had been at their stations for  2  hours 
past their normal quitting time due to street traffic delays  and 
highway pileups that had kept shift replacements from arriving on 
time.    Planes were late coming in, late departing,  connections 
were  being missed.  Tensions were high on the ground and in  the 
air by both the airline personnel and travelers alike.  It was  a 
chaotic day at Dallas Fort Worth International Airport.

"Chad?  Cm'ere," said Paul Gatwick, the newest and youngest,  and 
least burnt out of the day shift flight controllers.  

Shift supervisor Chad Phillips came right over.  "What you  got?"  
He asked looking at the radar screen.

"See  these three bogies?"  Paul pointed at three spots with  his 
finger.

"Bogies?  What are those symbols?"

"They  just  appeared,  out of nowhere.  I  don't  think  they're 
there.   And over here," he pointed, "that was Delta  210.   It's 
gone."   Paul  spoke calmly, in the professional  manner  he  was 
trained. He looked up at Chad, awaiting instructions.

"Mike," Chad said to the controller seated next to Paul.  "Switch 
and  copy 14, please.  Fast."  Chad looked over to Mike's  screen 
and saw the same pattern.  "Paul, run a level 2 diagnostic.  What 
was the Delta pattern?"

"Same as the others, circle.  He's at 45 doing a 90 round."

"Tell him to hold, and verify on board transponder."  Chad  spoke 
rapidly and his authority wasn't questioned.  

"Mike,  see if we can get any visuals on the bogies.  They  might 
be a bounce."

Chad  took charge and, especially in this weather, was  concerned 
with  safety first and schedules last.  In less than a minute  he 
had  verified that Delta 210 was not on any screen,  three  other 
ghost  planes  meandered  through the airspace,  and  that  their 
equipment was functioning properly.  

"Dallas,"  the calm pilot voice said, "American 1137,  requesting 
update.  It's getting a little tight up here."

"Roger,  1137,"  Gatwick  said  nervously.   "Give  me  a  second 
here . . ."

"Dallas, what's the problem?"

"Just a check . . ."

Chad immediately told the operator of the ETMS computer to notify 
the FAA and Department of Transportation that a potential  situa-
tion     was developing.  The Enhanced Traffic Management  System 
was  designed  to  create a complete picture  of  every  airplane 
flying within domestic air space. 

All  status  information, on every known flight in  progress  and 
every commercial plane on the ground,  is transmitted from the 22 
ARTCC's, (Air Route Traffic Control Centers) to an FAA  Technical 
Center in Atlantic City and then sent by land and satellite to  a 
DoT  Systems Center.  There, an array of DEC VAX super mini  com-
puters  process the constant influx of raw data and send back  an 
updated map across the ETMS every five minutes.

Chad  zoomed  in on the picture of the country into the  DFW  ap-
proach area and confirmed that the airplanes in question were not 
appearing  on  the National Airspace System data fields  or  dis-
plays.  Something was drastically wrong.

"Chad, take a look here!" Another controller urgently called out. 

His radar monitor had more bogies than Paul's.  "I lost a  Delta, 
too, 1258."

"What is it?"

"37."

"Shit,"  said Chad.  "We gotta get these guys wide, they have  to 
know  what's happening."  He called over to  another  controller.  
"Get  on  the wire, divert all traffic.  Call  the  boss.   We're 
closing  it  down."  The controllers had the power to  close  the 
airport,  and direct all flight operations from the tower.   Air-
port  management  wasn't always fond of their autonomy,  but  the 
tower's concern was safety at all costs.

"Another one's gone," said Paul.  "That's three 37's gone.   Have 
they had a recall lately?"

The ETMS operator asked the computer for a status on 737's  else-
where.   "Chad, we're not the only ones," she said.  "O'Hare  and 
LAX have problems, too."

"OK, everybody, listen up," Chad said.  "Stack 'em, pack 'em  and 
rack 'em.  Use those outer markers, people.  Tell them to believe 
their eyes.  Find the 37's.  Let 'em know their transponders  are 
going.  Then, bring 'em down one by one."

The  emergency  speaker  suddenly rang out.  "Shit!  Dive!"   The 
captain of American 1137 ordered his plane to accelerate  ground-
ward  for 10 seconds, descending 2500 feet, to avoid  hitting  an 
oncoming, and lost, DC-9.   

"Dallas,  Mayday, Mayday.  What the fuck's going on  down  there?  
This is worse than the freeway . . ."

The emergency procedure was one they had practiced over and over, 
but  rarely was it necessary for a full scale test.  The FAA  was 
going to be all over DFW and a dozen other airports within hours, 
and Chad wanted to be prepared.  He ordered a formal notification 
to Boeing that they had identified a potentially serious malfunc-
tion.  Please make your emergency technical support crews  avail-
able immediately.

Of  the 100 plus flights under DFW control all 17 of  the  Boeing 
737's  disappeared from the radar screen,  replaced by dozens  of 
bogies with meaningless signatures.

"Dallas,  American 1137 requests emergency landing . .  .we  have 
several injured passengers who require immediate medical  assist-
ance."

"Roger, 1137," Gatwick blurted back.  "Copy, EP.  Radar status?"

"Nominal," said the shaken American pilot.

"Good.  Runway 21B.  We'll be waiting."

* * * * *

By 5:00 PM, Pacific time, Boeing was notified by airports  across 
the country that their 737's were having catastrophic transponder 
failure.  Takeoffs were ordered stopped at major airports and the 
FAA  directed  that  every 737 be  immediately  grounded.   Chaos 
reigned in the airline terminals as delays of several hours to  a 
day were announced for most flights.  Police were needed to quell 
angry crowds who were stuck thousands of miles from home and were 
going  to miss critical business liaisons.  There is  nothing  we 
can do, every airline explained to no avail.

Slowly, the planes were brought down, pilots relying on VFR since 
they  couldn't  count on any help from the ground.   At  airports 
where weather prohibited VFR landings, and the planes had  enough 
fuel,  they were redirected to nearby airports.  Nearly  a  dozen 
emergency landings in a two hours period set new records that the 
FAA  preferred  didn't exist.  A field day for the media,  and  a 
certain  decrease  in future passenger activity until  the  shock 
wore off.

The  National  Transportation Safety  Board  had  representatives 
monitoring the situation within an hour of the first reports from 
Dallas,  San Francisco, Atlanta, and Tampa.  When all 737's  were 
accounted for,  the individual airports and the FAA lifted flight 
restrictions  and left it to the airlines to straighten  out  the 
scheduling  mess.  One hundred thousand stranded  passengers  and 
almost 30% of the domestic civilian air fleet was grounded. 

It was a good thing their reservation computers hadn't gone down.  
Damn good thing.

* * * * *

DISASTER IN AIR CREATES PANIC ON GROUND
by Scott Mason

"A  national  tragedy was avoided today by the  quick  and  brave 
actions of hundreds of air traffic controllers and pilots working 
in harmony," a spokesperson for The Department of  Transportation 
said,  commenting  on  yesterday's failure  of  the  computerized 
transponder systems in Boeing 737 airplanes.

"In  the interest of safety for all concerned, 737's will not  be 
permitted  to  fly commercially until a  full  investigation  has 
taken  place." the spokesperson continued.  "That process  should 
be complete within 30 days."

In  all, 114 people were sent to hospitals, 29 in serious  condi-
tion,   as a result of injuries sustained while pilots  performed 
dangerous gut wrenching maneuvers to avoid mid-air collisions.  

Neither Boeing nor the Transportation Safety Board would  comment 
on how computer errors could suddenly affect so many airplanes at 
once, but some  computer experts have pointed out the possibility 
of sabotage.  According to Harold Greenwood, an aeronautic  elec-
tronics  specialist with Air Systems Design in Alpharetta,  Geor-
gia,  "there  is a real and definite possibility that  there  has 
been  a  specific attack on the airline  computers.  Probably  by 
hackers.   Either that or the most devastating computer  program-
ming error in history."

Government  officials  discounted Greenwood's theories  and  said 
there is no place for wild speculation that could create panic in 
the  minds of the public.   None the less,  flight  cancellations 
busied the phones at most airlines and travel agencies, while the 
gargantuan  task  of rescheduling thousands of flights  with  30% 
less  planes  began.   Airline officials who didn't  want  to  be  
quoted estimated that it would take at least a week to bring  the 
system back together,

Airline  fares will increase next Monday by at least 10%  and  as 
much as 40% on some routes that will not be restored fully.

The tone of the press conference held at the DoT was one of  both 
bitterness and shock as was that of sampled public opinion. 

"I think I'll take the train."

"Computers?   They always blame the computers.  Who's  really  at 
fault?"


"They're  just  as bad as the oil companies.   Something  goes  a 
little wrong and they jack up the prices."

The  National  Transportation  Safety Board said  it  would  also 
institute  a  series of preventative maintenance steps  on  other 
airplanes' computer systems to insure that such a global  failure 
is never repeated.   

Major  domestic airlines announced they would try to lease  addi-
tional planes from other countries, but could not guarantee prior 
service  performance  for 3 to 6 months.   Preliminary  estimates 
place  the  cost of this debacle at between $800 Million  and  $2 
Billion if the entire 737 fleet is grounded for only 2 weeks.

The  Stock Market reacted poorly to the news, and  transportation 
stocks dove an average of 27% in heavy trading.

The  White  House  issued a brief  statement  congratulating  the 
airline industry for its handling of the situation and wished its 
best to all inconvenienced and injured travelers.

Class  action suits will be filed next week against the  airlines 
and Boeing as a result of the computer malfunction. This is Scott 
Mason, riding the train.

* * * * *

"Doug,"  pleaded 39 year old veteran reporter Scott Mason.   "Not 
another  computer virus story . . ."   Scott childishly  shrugged 
his shoulders in mock defeat.  

"Stop your whining," Doug ordered in fun.  "You are the  special-
ist," he chided.

When the story first came across the wire, Scott was the  logical 
choice.   In only seven years as a reporter Scott Mason  had  de-
veloped quite a reputation for himself, and for the New York City 
Times.   Doug  had had to eat his words from years  earlier  more 
times than he cared to remember, but Scott's head had not swelled 
to  the size of his fan club, which was the bane of so many  suc-
cessful writers. He knew he was good, just like he had told Doug

"There is nothing sexy about viruses anymore," said Scott  trying 
to politely ignore his boss to the point he would just leave.  

"Christ  Almighty," the chubby balding sixtyish editor  exploded.  
Doug's  periodic exclamatory outbursts at Scott's nonchalance  on 
critical issues were legendary.  "The man who puts Cold Fusion on 
the  front  page of every paper in the country  doesn't  think  a 
virus is sexy enough for the public.  Good night!"

"That's not what I'm saying."  Scott had to defend this one.   "I 
finally  got someone to go on the record about the  solar  payoff 
scandals between Oil and Congress . . ."

"Then the virus story will give you a little break," kidded Doug.  
"You've been working too hard."

"Damn  it, Doug," Scott defied.  "Viruses are a dime a dozen  and 
worse,  there's no one behind it, there's nobody there.   There's 
no story  . . ."

"Then  find one.  That's what we pay you for."  Doug loudly  mut-
tered  a few choice words that his paper wouldn't be caught  dead 
printing.   "Besides, you're the only one left."  As he  left  he 
patted Scott on the back saying, "thanks.  Really."

"God, I hate this job."  

Scott  Mason loved his job, after all it was his invention  seven 
years  ago  when he first pitched it to Doug.   Scott's  original 
idea had worked.  Scott Mason alone, under the banner of the  New 
York  City Times, virtually pioneered Scientific Journalism as  a 
media form in its own right.

Scott  Mason was still its most vocal proponent, just as  he  was 
when  he connived his way into a job with the Times, and  without 
any journalistic experience.  It was a childhood fantasy.  

Doug remembered the day clearly.  "That's a new one on me,"  Doug 
had said with amusement when the mildly arrogant but very likable 
Mason  had  gotten  cornered him,  somehow  bypassing  personnel.  
Points  for aggressiveness, points for creativity and points  for 
brass balls.  "What is Scientific Journalism?"

"Scientific Journalism is stripping away all of the long  techni-
cal  terms that science hides behind, and bringing the  facts  to 
the people at home."

"We   have   a  quite  adequate  Science  Section,   a   computer 
column  . . .and we pick up the big stories."  Doug had tried  to 
be polite.

"That's  not what I mean," Scott explained.  "Everybody  and  his 
dead  brother can write about the machines and the computers  and 
the software.  I'm talking about finding the people, the meaning, 
the impact behind the technology."

"No one would be interested," objected Doug.

Doug was wrong.  

Scott  Mason immediately acclimated to the modus operandi of  the 
news  business  and actually locked onto the collapse  of  Kaypro 
Computers and the odd founding family who rode serendipity  until 
competence  was  required for survival.   The antics of  the  Kay 
family  earned Mason a respectable following in his articles  and 
contributions as well as several libel and slander suits from the 
Kays.   Trouble was, it's not against the law to print the  truth  
or a third party speculations, as long as they're not  malicious.  
Scott instinctively knew how to ride the fine edge between  false 
accusations and impersonal objectivity.  

Cold  Fusion, the brief prayer for immediate, cheap energy  inde-
pendence made headlines, but Scott Mason dug deep and found  that 
some  of  the advocates of Cold Fusion had  vested  interests  in 
palladium  and iridium mining concerns.  He also  discovered  how 
the experiments had been staged well enough to fool most experts.  
Scott  had located one expert who wasn't fooled and  could  prove 
it.   Scott  Mason rode the crest of the Cold  Fusion  story  for 
months before it became old news and the Hubble Telescope  fiasco 
took its place.

The  fiasco  of  the Hubble Telescope was nothing  new  to  Scott 
Mason's readers.  He had published months before its launch  that 
the  mirrors were defective, but the government didn't  heed  the 
whistle blower's advice.  The optical measurement computers which 
grind  the mirrors of the telescope had a software  program  that 
was  never tested before being used on the Hubble.  The  GSA  had 
been  tricked by the contractor's test results and Scott  discov-
ered the discrepencies.  

When  Gene-Tech  covered  up the accidental  release  of  mutated 
spores  into the atmosphere from their genetic engineering  labs,   
Scott Mason was the one reporter who had established enough of  a 
reputation as both a fair reporter, and also one that  understood 
the technology.  Thanks to Mason's early diagnosis and the Times' 
responsible publishing, a potentially cataclysmic genetic  disas-
ter was averted.

The  software problems with Star Wars and Brilliant Pebbles,  the 
payoffs that allowed defective X-Ray lasers to be shipped to  the 
testing ground outside of Las Vegas - Scott Mason was there.   He 
traced  the  Libyan chemical weapons plant back to  West  Germany 
which triggered the subsequent destruction of the plant.

Scott's  outlook was simple.  "It's a matter of  recognizing  the 
possibilities  and then the probabilities.  Therefore,  if  some-
thing  is possible, someone, somewhere will do  it.   Guaranteed.  
Since someone's doing it, then it's only a matter of catching him 
in the act."

"Besides," he would tell anyone who would listen, "computers  and 
technology and electronics represent  trillions of dollars  annu-
ally.   To believe that there isn't interesting,  human  interest 
and  profound news to be found, is pure blindness.  The  fear  of 
the  unknown, the ignorance of what happens on the other side  of 
the buttons we push, is an enemy wrapped in the shrouds of  time, 
well disguised and easily avoided." 

Scott  successfully opened the wounds of ignorance and  technical 
apathy and made he and the Times the de facto standard in  Scien-
tific Journalism.

His reputation as a expert in anything technical endeared him  to 
fellow Times' reporters.  Scott often became the technical  back-
bone of articles that did not carry his name.  But that was good.  
The journalists' barter system.  Scott Mason was not considered a 
competitor to the other reporters because of his areas of  inter-
est  and  the skills he brought with him to the paper.   And,  he 
didn't flaunt his knowledge.  To Scott's way of thinking, techni-
cal  fluency  should be as required as are the ABC's, so  it  was 
with the dedication of a teacher and the experience of  simplifi-
cation  that Scott undertook it to openly help anyone who  wanted 
to learn.  His efforts were deeply appreciated. 

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

                            Chapter 2
     Friday, September 4
     San Francisco, California

Mr. Henson?"

"Yes, Maggie?"  Henson responded over the hands free phone on his 
highly  polished black marble desk.  He never looked up from  the 
papers he was perusing.

"There's a John Fullmaster for you."

"Who?" he asked absent mindedly.

"Ah, John Fullmaster."

"I don't know a Fullman do I?  Who is he?"  

"That's Fullmaster, sir, and he says its personal."

Robert  Henson, chairman and CEO of Perris, Miller and  Stevenson 
leaned  back in the plush leather chair.  A brief perplexed  look 
covered  his  face and then a sigh of resignation.   "Very  well, 
tell him I'll take it in a minute."

As the young highly visible leader of one of the most  successful 
Wall  Street investment banking firms during the merger mania  of 
the 1980's, he had grown accustomed to cold calls from aggressive 
young  brokers  who wanted a chance to pitch him  on  sure  bets.  
Most  often he simply ignored the calls, or referred them to  his 
capable and copious staff.  Upon occasion, though, he would amuse 
himself with such calls by putting the caller through  salesmen's 
hell;  he would permit them to give their pitch,  actually  sound 
interested, permit the naive to believe that their call to Robert 
Henson would lead them to a pot of gold, then only to bring  them 
down  as harshly as he could.  It was the only seeming  diversion 
Robert Henson had from the daily grueling regimen of earning  fat 
fees  in the most somber of Wall Street activities.  He needed  a 
break anyway.  

"Robert  Henson.  May I help you?"  He said into the  phone.   It 
was  as  much a command as a question.  From the 46th.  floor  SW 
corner  office, Henson stared out over Lower New York  Bay  where 
the Statue of Liberty reigned.

"Thank  you for taking my call Mr. Henson."  The caller's  proper 
Central  London  accent was engaging and conveyed  assurance  and 
propriety. "I am calling in reference to the proposed merger  you 
are  arranging between Second Boston Financial and Winston  Ellis 
Services.   I don't believe that the SEC will be  impressed  with 
the  falsified figures you have generated to drive up your  fees.  
Don't you agree."  

Henson  bolted  upright in his chair and glared into  the  phone. 
"Who the hell is this?" he demanded.

"Merely a concerned citizen, sir."  The cheeky caller paused.  "I 
asked, sir, don't you agree?"

"Listen,"  Henson shouted into the phone.  I don't know  who  the 
hell  you are, nor what you want, but all filings made  with  the 
SEC  are public and available to anyone.  Even the press  whom  I 
assume you represent . . ."

"I am not with the press Mr. Henson," the voice calmly interrupt-
ed.  "All  the same, I am sure that they would be quite interest-
ed  in  what I have to say.  Or, more precisely, what I  have  to 
show them."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Henson screamed.

"Specifically,  you inflated the earnings of Winston  Ellis  over  
40%  by burying certain write downs and deferred losses.   I  be-
lieve  you are familiar with the numbers.  Didn't you  have  them 
altered yourself?"

Henson  paled  as the caller spoke to him matter of  factly.  His 
eyes  darted  around his spacious and opulent  office  as  though 
someone  might be listening.  He shifted uneasily  in his  chair, 
leaned into the phone and spoke quietly.

"I don't know what you're taking about."

"I think you do, Mr. Henson."

"What do you want?"  Henson asked cautiously.

"Merely  your acknowledgment, to me, right now, that the  figures 
were falsified, at your suggestion, and . . ."

"I admit nothing.  Nothing."  Henson hung up the phone.

Shaken,  he dialed the phone, twice.  In his haste  he  misdialed 
the first time.  "Get me Brocker. Now. This is Henson."

"Brocker," the other end of the phone responded nonchalantly.

"Bill, Bob here.  We got troubles."

* * * * * 

"Senator  Rickfield?   I think you better take this  call."   Ken 
Boyers was earnest in his suggestion.  The aged Senator looked up 
and  recognized a certain urgency.  The youthful 50 year old  Ken 
Boyers  had  been with Senator Merrill Rickfield  since  the  mid 
1960's  as an aide de campe, a permanent fixture  in  Rickfield's 
national  success.  Ken preferred the number two spot, to be  the 
man  in  the background rather the one in the public  light.   He 
felt he could more effectively wield power  without the  constant 
surveillance  of  the  press.  Only when events  and  deals  were 
completely  orchestrated were they made public, and then  Merrill 
could take the  credit. The arrangement suited them both.

Rickfield  indicated that his secretary and the two  junior  aids 
should leave the room.  "What is it Ken?"

"Just take the call, listen carefully, and then we'll talk."

"Who is  it, Ken. I don't talk to every. . ."

"Merrill  .  . .pick up the phone." It was an  order.   They  had 
worked together long enough to afford Ken the luxury of  ordering 
a U.S. Senator around.  

"This  is  Senator Rickfield, may I help  you?"   The  solicitous 
campaign voice, smiling and inviting,  disguised the puzzled look 
he  gave  his senior aide.  Within a few seconds  the  puzzlement 
gave  way  to open mouthed silent shock and  then,  only  moments 
later  to  overt fear.  He stared with disbelief at  Ken  Boyers.  
Aghast, he gently put the phone back in its cradle.

"Ken," Rickfield haltingly spoke. "Who the hell was that and  how 
in  blazes did he know about the deal with Credite Suisse?   Only 
you, me and General Young knew."  He rose slowly rose and  looked 
accusingly at Ken.

"C'mon Merrill, I have as much to lose as you."

"The  hell  you do."  He was growling. "I'm  a  respected  United 
States  Senator.  They can string me up from the highest  yardarm 
just  like they did Nixon and I'm not playing to lose.   Besides, 
I'm the one the public knows while you're invisible. It's my  ass 
and  you know it.  Now, and I mean now, tell me what the hell  is 
going on?  There were only three of us . . ."

"And  the bank," Ken quickly interjected to deflect   the  verbal 
onslaught. 

"Screw the bank.  They use numbers.  Numbers, Ken.  That was  the 
plan.   But this son  of a bitch knew the numbers.  Damn  it,  he 
knew the numbers Ken!"

"Merrill, calm down."

"Calm down?  You have some nerve to tell me to calm down.  Do you 
know  what  would happen if anyone, and I mean anyone  finds  out 
about  .  .  ."  Rickfield looked around and  thought  better  of 
finishing the sentence.

"Yes I know.  As well as you do.  Jesus Christ, I helped set  the 
whole thing up.  Remember?"  He approached Merrill Rickfield  and 
touched  the Senator's shoulder. "Maybe it's a hoax?   Just  some 
lucky guess by some scum bag who . . ."

"Bullshit." The senator turned abruptly.  "I want a tee off  time 
as  soon  as  possible.  Even sooner.  And make  damn  sure  that 
bastard Young is there.  Alone.  It's a threesome."

* * * * *

John  Faulkner was lazing at his estate  in the eminently  exclu-
sive, obscenely expensive Bell Canyon, twenty miles north of  Los 
Angeles.   Even though it was Monday, he just wasn't up to  going 
into   the  office.  As Executive Vice  President  of  California 
National Bank, with over twenty billion in assets, he could  pick 
and choose his hours.  This Tuesday he chose  to read by the pool 
and  enjoy the warm and clear September California  morning.  The 
view  of  the San Gabriel mountains was so distracting  that  his 
normal thirty minute scan of the Wall Street Journal took  nearly 
two hours.  

His estate was the one place where Faulkner was guaranteed priva-
cy  and anonymity.  High profile Los Angeles banking  required  a 
social  presence and his face, along with his wife's, graced  the 
social  pages  every  time an event of any  gossip-magnitude  oc-
curred.  He craved his private time.

Faulkner's  standing instruction with his secretary was never  to 
call  him  at home unless "the bank is nuked, or  I  die"   which 
when translated meant, "Don't call me, I'll call you."  His  wife 
was  the  only  other person with the  private  phone  number  he 
changed every month to insure his solitude.

The  phone rang.  It never rang.  At least not in recent  memory.  
He  used it to dial out; but it was never used to receive  calls.  
The  warble  surprised him so, that he let it  ring  three  times 
before suspiciously picking it up.  Damn  it, he thought.  I just 
got a new number last week. I'll have to  have it changed again. 

"Hello?" he asked suspiciously.

"Good  morning Mr. Faulkner. I just called to let you  know  that 
your  secret is safe with me."  Faulkner itched to  identify  the 
voice behind the well educated British accent, but that  fleeting 
thought dissipated at the import of the words being spoken.

"Who  is this? What secret?"

"Oh,  dear me. I am sorry, where are my manners.  I am  referring 
to  the millions you have embezzled from your own bank  to  cover  
your  gambling  losses last  year.  Don't worry. I won't  tell  a 
soul."  The line went dead.

Sir George dialed the next number on his list after scanning  the 
profile.   The phone was answered by a timid sounding  gentleman. 
Sir George began his fourth pitch of the day.  "Mr. Hugh Sidneys?  
I would like to talk to you about a small banking problem I think 
you have . . ."

Sir  George  Sterling made another thirty four  calls  that  day.  
Each  one alarmingly similar to the first three.  Not  that  they 
alarmed him.  They merely alarmed, often severely, the recipients 
of his calls.  In most cases he had never heard of the persons he 
was calling, and the contents of his messages were often  cryptic 
to  him.  But it didn't take him long to realize that every  call 
was  some form of veiled, or not so veiled threat.  But  his  in-
structions  had been clear.  Do not threaten.  Just pass  on  the 
contents of the messages on his list to their designees.  Do  not 
leave  any  message unless he had confirmed, to the best  of  his 
ability  that he was actually speaking to the party in  question.  
If  he received any trouble in reaching his intended targets,  by 
secretaries  or aides, he was only to pass on a preliminary  mes-
sage.   These were especially cryptic, but in all cases,  perhaps 
with a little prod, his call was put through. 

At  the end of the first day of his assignment, Sir George  Ster-
ling  walked onto his balcony overlooking San Francisco  Bay  and 
reflected on his good fortune.  If he hadn't been stuck in Athens 
last  year, wondering where his next score would come from.   How 
strange the world works, he thought.  Damn lucky he became a Sir, 
and at the tender age of twenty nine at that.

His  title,  actually purchased from The  Royal  Title  Assurance 
Company,  Ltd. in London in 1987 for a mere 5000 pounds had  per-
mitted George Toft to leave the perennial industrial smog of  the 
eternally drizzly commonness of Manchester, England and assume  a 
new  identity.   It  was one of the few ways out  of  the  dismal 
existence that generations before him had tolerated with a  stiff 
upper  lip.    As a petty thief he had done  'awright',  but  one 
score had left him with more money than he had ever seen. That is 
when he became a Sir, albeit one purchased.  

He spent several months impressing mostly himself as he  traveled 
Europe.  With the help of Eliza Doolittle,  Sir George  perfected 
his  adapted upper crust London accent.  His natural  speech  was 
that  of  a Liverpuddlian with a bag of marbles in  his  mouth  - 
totally unintelligible when drunk.  But his royal speech was  now 
that  of a Gentleman from the House of Lords.  Slow  and  precise 
when  appropriate  or a practiced articulateness   when  speaking 
rapidly.  It initially took some effort, but he could now correct 
his  slips instantly. No one noticed anymore.  Second  nature  it 
became for George Sterling, n<130> Toft.

Athens was the end of his tour and where he had spent the last of 
his  money.  George, Sir George, sat sipping Metaxa  in  Sintigma 
Square  next to the Royal Gardens and the imposing  Hotel  Grande 
Britagne  styled  in nineteenth century rococo  elegance.  As  he 
enjoyed the balmy spring Athens evening pondering his next  move, 
as  either  George Toft of Sir George Sterling,  a  well  dressed 
gentleman sat down at his tiny wrought iron table. 

"Sir George?"  The visitor offered his hand.

George  extended  his hand, not yet aware that his guest  had  no 
reason whatsoever to know who he was. 

"Sir  George?  Do I have the Sir George Sterling  of  Briarshire, 
Essex?"   The accent was trans European.  Internationally  cosmo-
politan.   German? Dutch? It didn't matter, Sir George  had  been 
recognized.

George  rose  slightly.  "Yes, yes. Of course. Excuse me,  I  was 
lost  in  thought, you know.  Sir George  Sterling.   Of  course. 
Please do be seated."

The  stranger said, "Sir George, would you be offended if  I  of-
fered  you another drink, and perhaps took a few minutes of  your 
valuable time?"  The man smiled genuinely and sat himself  across 
from George before any reply.  He knew what the answer would be.

"Please  be seated.  Metaxa would it be for you, sir?"   The  man 
nodded  yes.  "Garcon?"  George waved two fingers at one  of  the 
white-jacketed waiters who worked in the outdoor cafe.   "Metaxa, 
parakalo!"   Greek waiters are not known for their  graciousness, 
so  a  brief grunt and nod was an  acceptable  response.   George 
returned his attention to his nocturnal visitor. "I don't believe 
I've had the pleasure . . ." he said in his most formal voice. 

"Sir George, please just call me Alex.  Last names, are so, well, 
so unnecessary among men like us. Don't you agree?"  

George nodded assent.  "Yes, quite. Alex then, it is.  How may  I 
assist you?"

"Oh  no,  Sir George, it is I who may be able to assist  you.   I 
understand  that you would like to continue your, shall  we  say, 
extended  sabbatical.   Would  that be a  fair  appraisal?"   The 
Metaxas arrived and Alex excused the waiter with two 1000 Drachma 
notes.  The overtipping guaranteed privacy.

George looked closely at Alex. Very well dressed.  A Saville  was 
it? Perhaps.  Maybe Lubenstrasse.  He didn't care. This  stranger 
had either keen insight into George's current plight or had heard 
of  his escapades across the Southern Mediterranean.  Royalty  on 
Sabbatical was an unaccostable lie that regularly passed critical 
scrutiny. 

"Fair.  Yes sir, quite fair.  What exactly can you do for me,  or 
can we do for each other?"

"An  even  more accurate portrayal my friend, yes,  do  for  each 
other."  Alex paused for effect and to sip his  Metaxa.   "Simply 
put  Sir George, I have the need for a well spoken  gentleman  to 
represent me for a period of perhaps, three months, perhaps  more 
if all goes well.  Would that fit into your schedule?"

"I  see no reason that  I mightn't be able to, take a  sabbatical 
from  my  sabbatical  if  .  .  .well  now,  how  should   I  put 
this . . ."

" . . .that you are adequately compensated to take time away from 
your valuable projects?"

"Yes,  yes  quite  so.  Not that I am ordinarily  for  hire,  you 
understand,   it's  just  that . . .".  Alex  detected  a  slight 
stutter as Sir George spoke.

Alex held up both hands in a gesture of understanding.   "No need 
to  continue my dear Sir George.  I do thoroughly  recognize  the 
exorbitant  costs  associated  with your studies  and  would  not 
expect your efforts, on my behalf of course, to go unrewarded."

George  Toft was negotiating with a man he had never met,  for  a 
task as yet unstated.  The only reason he didn't feel the discom-
fort  that  one  should in such a situation is that  he  was   in 
desperate need of money.  And, this stranger did seem to know who 
he was, and did need his particular type  of expertise,  whatever 
that was.

"What exactly do you require of me, Alex.  That is, what form  of 
representation have you in mind?"  He might as well find out what 
he was  supposed to do before naming a price.

Alex  laughed. "Merely to be my voice.  It is so simple,  really.  
In  exchange for that, and some travel, first class and  all  ex-
penses to which you are accustomed, you will be handsomely paid."   
Alex  looked for Sir George's reaction to the proposed  fees.  He 
was pleased with what he saw in George's face. 

  Crikey, this is too good to be true.  What's the  catch<D>.  
As George ruminated his good fortune and the Metaxa, Alex contin-
ued.

"The  job  is  quite simple, really, but  requires  a  particular 
delicacy  with which you are well acquainted. Each day  you  will 
receive  a list of names.  There will be instructions  with  each 
name.  Call them at the numbers provided. Say only what is  writ-
ten.   Keep  notes of each call you make and I will  provide  you 
with the means to transmit them to me in the strictest of  confi-
dence. You and I will have no further personal contact, either if 
you  accept or do not accept my proposition.  If we are  able  to 
reach  mutually agreeable terms, monies will be wired to  a  bank 
account in your name."  Alex opened his jacket and handed  George 
an  envelop.   "This is an advance if you accept. It  is  $25,000 
American.  There is a phone number to call when you arrive in San 
Francisco.  Follow  the instructions explicitly.  If you do  not, 
there  will be no lists for you, no additional monies and I  will 
want  this  money  back.  Any questions Sir  George?"   Alex  was 
smiling warmly but as serious as a heart attack.

Alex  scanned  the contents of the envelope.   America.   He  had 
always wanted to see the States.  

"Yes,  Alex,  I do have one question.  Is  this  legal?"   George 
peered at Alex for a clue.

"Do you really care?"

"No."

"Off you go then.  And good luck."

* * * * * 

Sir George Sterling arrived in San Francisco airport the  follow-
ing evening.  He flew first class and impressed returning  Ameri-
can tourists with his invented pedigree and his construed  impor-
tance.  What fun.  After the virtually nonexistent customs check, 
he  called  the number inside the envelop.  It rang  three  times 
before answering.  Damn, it was a machine, he thought.

"Welcome to the United States, Sir George.  I hope you had a good 
flight."  The  voice was American, female, and  flight  attendant 
friendly.   "Please check into the San Francisco Airport  Hilton.  
You will receive a call at 11 AM tomorrow.  Good night."   A dial 
tone replaced the lovely voice.  He dialed the number again.

A mechanical voice responded instead. "The number you have called 
in  no  longer in service. Please check the number  or  call  the 
operator for assistance.  The number you have called is no longer 
in service..."

George dialed the number twice more before he gave up in frustra-
tion. He had over $20,000 in cash, knew no one in America and for 
the  first time in years, he felt abandoned.  What kind  of  joke 
was  this?  Fly half way around the world and be greeted with  an 
out  of service number.  But the first voice had known his  name. 
The Hilton.  Why not? 

At precisely 11AM, the phone in Sir George Sterling's suite rang.  
He was still somewhat jet lagged from his 18 hours of flying  and 
the span of 10 time zones.  The Eggs Benedict was exquisite,  but 
Americans could learn something about tea.  The phone rang again.  
He casually picked it up.

"Good  morning, Sir George.  Please get a pencil and paper.   You 
have fifteen seconds and then I will continue."  It was the  same 
alluring voice from yesterday. The paper and pen were right there 
at  the phone so he waited through 14 seconds of  silence.  "Very 
good. Please check out of the hotel and pay cash.  Proceed to the 
San Francisco airport and from a pay phone, call 5-5-5-3-4-5-6 at 
1 P.M.  Have a note book and two pens  with you.  Good Bye. "  

The annoying dial tone returned.   What a bloody waste  of time. 

At  1P.M. he called the number as he was instructed.  He  figured 
that  since he was to have a notebook and pens he might  need  to 
write for  a while, so he used one of the phone booths that  pro-
vides a seat and large writing surface.

"Good  afternoon Sir George.  In ten seconds,  your  instructions 
will  begin."   Again, that same voice, but  it  almost  appeared 
condescending  to  him now.  Isn't that the way  when  you  can't 
respond.   The  voice continued.  "Catch the next flight  to  New 
York  City.  Stay at the Grand Hyatt Hotel at Grand Central  Sta-
tion on 42nd. Street and Park Avenue.  Not a suite this time, Sir 
George, just a regular room."   Sir George was startled at Alex's 
attention to detail.

"You  will  stay there for fourteen days.  On  56th.  street  and 
Madison  avenue is a school called CTI, Computer Training  Insti-
tute.  You are to go to CTI and enroll in the following  classes: 
DOS,  that's D-O-S for beginners, Intermediate DOS  and  Advanced 
DOS.  You will also take WordPerfect I and II.  Lastly, and  most 
importantly  you will take all three classes  on  Tele-Communica-
tions.  They call it TC-I,  TC-II and TC-III.  These eight class-
es will  take you ten days to complete.  Do not forget to pay  in 
cash. I will now pause for ten seconds."  Alex was writing  furi-
ously.  Computers?  He was scared silly of them.  Not that he had 
ever  had the opportunity or the need or the desire to use  them, 
just  from lack of exposure and the corresponding ignorance.  But 
if this meant he could keep the $25,000 he would do it.  What the 
hell.

"After  you enroll, go to 45 West 47th street to a  store  called 
Discount Computer Shoppe.  Buy the following equipment with cash. 
One Pro-Start 486-80 computer with 8 Meg  RAM.  That's 8 M-E-G R-
A-M and ask for a high resolution color monitor.  Also  purchase, 
and  have them install a high speed modem, M-O-D-E-M.  Do not,  I 
repeat,  do not purchase a printer of any type.  No printers  Sir 
George.   You are never to use a printer. Ever. Lastly, you  will 
purchase  a copy of Word Perfect and Crosstalk.  If you wish  any 
games  for  your  amusement, that is up to you.   When  you  have 
completed  your studies you will call 212-555-6091.  Do not  call 
that  number  before  you have completed your  studies.  This  is 
imperative."

Sir  George  was just writing, not comprehending a thing. It  was 
all gibberish to him.  Pure gibberish.

"Sir George."  The female voice got serious, very serious for the 
first time in their relationship. "You are to speak to no one,  I 
repeat,  no  one, of the nature of your business, the  manner  in 
which  you receive instructions,  or why computers have a  sudden 
interest for you. Otherwise our deal is off and your advance will 
be expected to be returned. Am I clear?"

George  responded  quickly, "Yes!" before seeing  the  lunacy  of 
answering a machine.

"Good,"  the voice was friendly again.  "Learn your lessons  well 
for you will need the knowledge to perform your tasks.   Until we 
speak  again, I thank  you, Sir George Sterling."  The line  went 
dead.

George Toft took his computer classes very seriously.  He had  in 
fact  bought  a few games to amuse himself and he  found  himself 
really  enjoying  the work.  It was new, and exciting.  His  only 
social  distractions  were the sex shops on  Times  Square.   Red 
Light  Amsterdam or the Hamburg they weren't, so midnight  antics 
with the Mario Brothers prevailed most evenings.  Besides,  there 
was  a massive amount of homework.  Bloody hell, back to  school.  
He excelled in his studies which pleased George a great deal.  In 
fact  most of the students in Sir George's computer  classes  ex-
celled.   The teachers were very pleased to have a group of  stu-
dents  that actually progressed more rapidly than the  curriculum 
called  for. Pleasant change from the E Train Bimbos from Queens. 

The  computer  teachers didn't know that a vast majority  of  the 
class  members had good reason to study hard.  Most of  them  had 
received their own $25,000 scholarships.

* * * * *

     Sunday, September 6
     SDSU Campus, San Diego, California.

WTFO

the computer screen displayed.  That was hackerese, borrowed from 
the military for What The Fuck? Over! It was a friendly  greeting 
that offended no one. 

Back on.  Summer finals are over.  Everyone still there?

BOOM'S  STILL AT UCLA, I JUST TALKED TO CRACKER, MAD MAX,  ALPHA, 
SCROLLER,  MR.  MAGIC . . .WE MISSED YOU.  LOOKING FORWARD  TO  A 
GOOD VACATE? 

Yeah, 4 days before next term starts . . .Has anyone got the  key 
to the NPPS NASA node?

THEY  CLOSED  IT AGAIN.  WE'RE STILL LOOKING. WE WERE  BACK  INTO 
AMEX,  THOUGH.   CLEANED  UP A FEW DEBTS  FOR  UNSUSPECTING  CARD 
MEMBERS.  HAPPY LABOR DAY TO THEM.  GOOD FUN. 

And CHAOS?  Anyone?

BEST I'VE EVER HEARD.  4 NEW VIRUSES SET TO GO OFF. HIGHLY POTENT 
VARIATIONS OF JERUSALEM-B.  THEN SOME RUMORS ABOUT COLUMBUS  DAY, 
BUT NOTHING HARD.   

When you get the code send me a copy, OK?

SURE.  HEY, REMEMBER SPOOK? STILL ASKING TO JOIN NEMO.  SEEMS  HE 
BEEN UP TO A LOT OF SUCCESSFUL NO GOOD.  WE'RE ABOUT READY TO LET 
HIM IN.  HE BROUGHT A LOT TO THE PARTY. 

Careful!  Remember 401

YEAH,  I KNOW.  HE'S CLEAN.  GOOD GOVT STUFF . HE BROUGHT US  THE 
NEWEST  IRS X.25 SIGN-ONS, 2 MILNET SUPERUSER PASSWORDS AND,  DIG 
THIS,  VETERAN'S BENEFIT AND ADMINISTRATION, OFFICE OF POLICY  AT 
THE VA.

What you gonna do, boy?  In them thar computers?

I FIGURE I'D GIVE A FEW EXTRA BENEFITS TO SOME NEEDY GI'S  WHO'VE 
BEEN ON THE SHORT END.

Excellent! Hey, Lori's on the line. gotta go.

TA

     <<<<<< CONNECTION TERMINATED >>>>>>

The  screen of his communications program returned to a  list  of 
names and phone numbers.  Lori said she'd be over in an hour  and 
Steven  Billings  was tempted to dial another couple  of  numbers 
before his date with Lori. But if he found something  interesting 
it might force him to be late, and Lori could not tolerate  play-
ing second fiddle to a computer. 

Steven  Billings, known as "KIRK, where no man has gone  before", 
by  fellow hackers, had finished his midterms at San Diego  State 
University. The ritual labors were over and he looked forward  to 
some relax time. Serious relax time.  

The one recreation he craved, but downplayed to Lori, was  spend-
ing time with his computer.  She was jealous in some respects, in 
that  it received as much attention from Steve as she  did.  Yet, 
she also understood that computers were his first love, and  they 
were part of his life long before she was. So, they came with the 
territory.   Steve attended, upon occasion, classes at  SDSU,  La 
Jolla. For a 21 year old transplant from Darien, Connecticut,  he 
lived in paradise.  

Steve's  single largest expense in life was his phone  bill,  and 
instead  of working a regular job to earn spending  money,  Steve 
tutored  other  students in their computer courses.  Rather  than 
flaunt his skills to his teachers and risk extra assignments,  he 
was more technically qualified than they were, he kept his  mouth 
shut,  sailed through classes, rarely studied and became  a  full 
time  computer hacker.  He translated his every wish into a  com-
mand that the computer obeyed.  

Steve  Billings did not fill the picture of a computer nerd.   He 
was almost dashing with a firm golden tanned 175 pound body,  and 
dark  blond hair that caused the girls to turn their  heads.   He 
loved  the outdoors, the hot warmth of the summer to  the  cooler 
warmth of the winter, surfing at the Cardiff Reef and betting  on 
fixed jai-alai games in Tijuana.  He played soccer and OTL, a San 
Diego  specific  version  of gloveless and  topless  co-ed  beach 
softball.  In short, he was a guy. A regular guy.

The  spotlessly groomed image of Steve Billings in  white  tennis 
shorts  and a "Save the Whales" tank-top eclectically  co-existed 
with  the  sterile  surroundings of the  mammoth  super  computer 
center.   The  Cray Y-MP is about as big and bad  a  computer  as 
money can buy, and despite Steve's well known skills, the head of 
the  Super  Computing Department couldn't help  but  cringe  when 
Steve  leaned  his surf board against the  helium  cooled  memory 
banks of the twelve million dollar computer.

He  ran his shift at the computer lab so efficiently and  effort-
lessly  that over time he spent more and more of his hours  there 
perusing through other people's computers. Now there was a  feel-
ing.   Hacking  through somebody else's  computer  without  their 
knowledge. The ultimate challenge, an infinity of  possibilities, 
an infinity of answers.

The  San Diego Union was an awful paper, Steve thought,  and  the 
evening  paper was even worse.  So he got copies of the New  York 
City  Times when possible, either at a newsstand,  borrowed  from 
yesterday's Times reader or from the library.  Nice to get a real 
perspective on the world.  This Sunday he spent the $4.00 to  get 
his own new, uncrumpled and unread copy of his revered paper, all 
thirty four pounds of it.  Alone.  Peace.  

Reading  by  the  condo pool an article caught  his  eye.   Steve 
remembered  a story he had heard about a hacker who  had  invaded 
and  single  handedly stopped INTERNET, a computer  network  that 
connected  together  tens of thousands of  computers  around  the 
country.  


* * * * * 

     Government Defense Network Halted by Hacker
     by Scott Mason, New York City Times

Vaughn  Chase, a 17 year old high school student  Galbraith  High 
School in Ann Arbor, Michigan was indicted today on charges  that 
he  infected  the  nationwide INTERNET network  with  a  computer 
virus.   This  latest attack upon INTERNET is  reminiscent  of  a 
similar incident launched by Robert Morris of Cornell  University 
in November, 1988. 

According to the Computer Emergency Response Team, a DARPA  spon-
sored  group,  if Mr. Chase had not left his name in  the  source 
code of his virus, there would have been no way to track down the 
culprit.

A computer virus is a small software program that is secretly put 
into  a  computer, generally designed to cause  damage.  A  virus 
attaches  itself to other computer programs secretively. At  some 
time after the parasite virus program is 'glued' into the comput-
er,  it is reawakened on a specific date or by a  particular  se-
quence of events.

Chase, though, actually infected INTERNET with a Worm.  A Worm is 
a  program  that copies itself, over and over  and  over,  either 
filling  the  computer's memory to capacity or slowing  down  its 
operation  to  a snail's pace.  In either case, the  results  are 
devastating - effectively, the computer stops working.

Chase,  a  math wizard according to his  high  school  officials, 
released the Worm into Internet in early August with a detonation 
date  of September 1, which brought thousands of computers  to  a 
grinding halt.

INTERNET  ties together tens of thousands of computers  from  the 
Government,  private industry, universities and defense  contrac-
tors  all over the country.  Chase said he learned how to  access 
the  unclassified computer network from passwords and  keys  dis-
tributed on computer Bulletin Boards. 

Computer security experts worked for 3 days hours to first deter-
mine  the cause of the network slowdown and then to  restore  the 
network  to normal operation.  It has been estimated that  almost 
$100 Million in damage was caused by Mr. Chase's Worm.  Mr. Chase 
said  the  Worm was experimental, and was  accidentally  released 
into  INTERNET when a piece of software he had  written  malfunc-
tioned.  He apologized for any inconvenience he caused.

The  Attorney General of the State of Michigan is  examining  the 
legal aspects of the case and it is expected that Mr. Chase  will 
be  tried within in a year.  Mr. Chase was released  on  his  own 
recognizance.

This  is  Scott Mason wondering why the  Pentagon  doesn't  shoot 
worms instead of bombs at enemy computers.

* * * * *

The  next day Steve Billings signed on to the SDSU/BBS  from  his 
small Mission Beach apartment. It was a local university Bulletin 
Board  Service or BBS.  A BBS is like a library.  There  are  li-
braries of software which are free, and as a user you are  recip-
rocally expected to donate software into the Public Domain.  Con-
ference  Halls or Conversation Pits on the BBS  are  free-for-all 
discussions where people at their keyboards can all have a 'live' 
conversation.  Anyone, using any computer, anywhere in the  world 
can call up any BBS using regular phone lines.   No one cared  or 
knew  if  you  were skinny, fat, pimpled,  blind,  a  double  for 
Christy Brinkley or too chicken shit to talk to girls in  person.  
Here, everyone was equal.

     Billings 234

     XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

There was a brief pause.

WELCOME TO THE SDSU/BBS.  STEVE BILLINGS, YOU ARE USER #109

Steve Chose (12) for SERVICES:

The menu changed to a list of further options.  Each option would 
permit  the  user  to gain access to other  networks  around  the 
country.   From  one single entry point with  a  small  computer, 
anyone  could  'dial  up'  as it's called,  almost  any  of  over 
20,000,000 computers in the country tied into any of ten thousand 
different networks. 

     SDSU/BBS WINDOW ON THE WORLD 

     NETWORK SERVICES MENU

Steve  selected  CALNET, a network at Cal Tech  in  Los  Angeles.  
Many of the Universities have permanent connections between their 
computers.

     LOGON: Billings014

     PASSWORD: XXXXKIRKXXXX

Again,  there was a pause, this time a little longer.  Now,  from 
his room, he was talking to a computer in Los Angeles.  There was 
another  menu  of options, and a list of other  widely  dispersed 
computer  networks. He requested the SUNYNET computer, the  State 
University of New York Network.  From there, he asked the comput-
er  for a local phone line so he could dial into a very  private, 
very secret computer called NEMO.

It  took Steve a grand total of 45 seconds to access NEMO in  New 
York, all at the price of a local phone call.

NEMO  was  a  private BBS that was restricted to  an  elite  few.  
Those who qualifications and reputations allowed them entry  into 
the  exclusive domain of hacking.  NEMO was born into this  world 
by Steve and a few of his friends while they were in high  school 
in Darien.  NEMO was a private club, for a few close friends  who 
enjoyed their new hobby, computers.  

NEMO's Menu was designed for the professional hacker. 

     1. PASSWORDS
     2. NEW NETS
     3. DANGER ZONES
     4. CRACKING TOOLS
     5. WHO'S NEW?
     6. PHREAKING
     7. CRYPTO
     8. WHO ELSE?
     9. U.S. NETWORKS
     10. INTERNATIONAL NETWORKS
     11. FOR TRADE
     12. FORTUNE 500 DOORKEYS

He selected (8), WHO ELSE?  Steve wanted to see who else was 'on-
line' now.  He wanted to talk about this Chase guy who was giving 
hackers a bad name. The computer responded:

CONVERSATION PIT: LA CREME,  RAMBO.   DO YOU WANT TO JOIN IN?

That  was  great! Two of the half dozen of NEMO's  founders  were 
there.  La Creme de la Creme was KIRK's college roommate, but  he 
had  not  yet returned to San Diego for the  fall  term.   RAMBO, 
'I'll  get through any door' was the same age as Kirk and  Creme, 
but  chose  to study at Columbia in New York's  Harlem.   Hackers 
picked  alter-  ego monikers as CB'ers on the  highways  did;  to 
project  the  desired image. Steve and his cohorts  picked  their 
aliases when they were only fifteen, and kept them ever since. 

Steve typed in a 'Y' and the ENTER key.

     WHO ARE YOU?

NEMO was asking for an additional password.

Kirk

Steve  typed.   A brief pause, and the computer  screen  came  to 
life.

WELCOME TO THE CONVERSATION PIT, KIRK.  HOW HAVE YOU BEEN?

That  was  his  invitation  to  interrupt  any  conversation   in 
progress. Steve typed in,

Dudes!

HOW'D EXAMS GO? <<LA CREME>>

Greased'em.  Ready to come back? 

FAST  AS  THE PLANE WILL GO.  PICK ME UP?  7:20  ON  AMERICAN?<LA 
CREME>

Sure.  Hey, what's with the Morris copy cat?  Some phreak blowing 
it for the rest of us. 

SO YOU HEARD.  CHASE IS REALLY GONNA SCREW THINGS UP. <<RAMBO>>

What  the hell really happened?  I read the Times.  Said that  he 
claimed it was accident.  

ACCIDENTAL ON PURPOSE MAYBE  <<LA CREME>>

HOW  MANY WAYS ARE THERE INFECT A NATIONAL DEFENSE NETWORK?   ONE 
THAT I KNOW OF.  YOU PUT THE VIRUS IN THERE.  THAT'S NO ACCIDENT. 
<<RAMBO>>

Ten-Four.   Seems like he don't wanna live by the code.  Must  be 
some spoiled little brat getting too big for his britches . . .

BEST GUESS IS THAT HE DID IT TO IMPRESS HIS OLD MAN.  HE  SUPPOS-
EDLY  CREATED AN ANTIDOTE, TOO. HE WANTED TO SET OFF A BIG  VIRUS 
SCARE  AND  THEN  LOOK LIKE A HERO WITH A FAST  FIX.   THE  VIRUS 
WORKED ALL TOO WELL.  THE ANTIDOTE, IF THERE WAS ONE, SUCKED.  SO 
INTERNET HAD GAS SO BAD, COMPUTING CAME TO A HALT FOR A COUPLE OF 
DAYS TILL THEY CLEANED  OUT THE PROVERBIAL SEWERS.  <<LA CREME>>

SURE SOUNDS LIKE A PUBLICITY GAG TO ME <<RAMBO>>

Jeez.  Anyone else been hit yet?  

NO, BUT WE'VE BEEN EXTRA CAREFUL SINCE.  A LOT OF DOORS HAVE BEEN 
CLOSED SO  IT'S BACK TO SQUARE ONE ON A BUNCH, BUT WE DIDN'T LOSE 
EVERYTHING.  THE DOORKEY DOWNLOAD WILL UPDATE YOU.  <<RAMBO>>

OK, I'll be supersleuth.  Any word on CHAOS? Legion of Doom,  The 
Crusaders?

IT'S  ONE BIG DEAL IN THE E-MAIL:  NEW CHAOS VIRUSES, EVERY  DICK 
AND JANE IS WRITING THEIR OWN VIRUSES.  COMPUTING WITH AIDS.

Funny.  Why don't you put a rubber on your big 640K RAM?  Or your 
mouse?

GOT  SOMETHING AGAINST SAFE COMPUTING?  IF HALF OF WHAT THEY  SAY 
IS TRUE, WE'RE ALL IN TROUBLE.  TAKE A LOOK AT THE PUBLIC  BBS'S. 
QUITE A CHAT.  <<LA CREME>>

Will  do.  Any word on the new Central Census Data Base?   Every-
thing about every American stored in one computer.  All of  their 
personal  data,  ripe for the picking.  Sounds like the  kind  of 
library that would do the bad guys a lot of good. 

CAN'T  FIND A DOOR FROM THE INTERNET GATE. THE JUSTICE  LINK  WAS 
STILL GOOD YESTERDAY AND THE FBI STILL HASN'T CHANGED A PASSWORD, 
SO  THAT  SHOULD  BE AN EASY OPEN ONCE WE FIND  THE  FRONT  DOOR.  
GIMME A COUPLE OF DAYS AND WE SHOULD KNOW DAN QUAYLES' JOCK SIZE.  
<<RAMBO>>

Zero! Ha! Keep me in mind. 

* * * * *

Steve copied several pages of names, phone numbers and  passwords 
from  NEMO's  data base into his computer 3000 miles  across  the 
country.  These were the most valuable and revered types of files 
in  the underground world of hackerdom.  They include all of  the 
information needed to enter and play havoc inside of hundreds  of 
secret and private computers.

          National Institute of Health		301-555-6761
     USER: Fillstein 	        PASSWORD: Daddy1
     USER: Miller9	        PASSWORD: Secret
               VMS 1.01  
               SUPERUSER: B645_DICKY

          VTEK NAS, Pensacola, Fla			904-555-2113
     USER: Major101		PASSWORD: Secret
     USER: General22		PASSWORD: Secret1
     USER: Forestall		PASSWORD: PDQS

          IBM, Armonk, Advanced Research		914-555-0965
     USER: Port1		PASSWORD: Scientist
     USER: Port2		PASSWORD: Scientist
     USER: Port3  		PASSWORD: Scientist

There were seventeen pages of updated and illegal access codes to 
computer  systems across the country. Another reason NEMO was  so 
secret.   Didn't  want just anybody climbing the walls  of  their 
private playground.  Can't trust everyone to live by the Code.

Steve  finished  downloading the files from NEMO's  distant  data 
base and proceeded to print them out for a hardcopy reference. He 
laughed  to himself.  Big business and government  never  wizened 
up.   Predictable passwords, like 'secret' were about as  kinder-
garten as you could get.  And everyone wonders why folks like  us 
parade  around  their computers.  He had in his hand  a  list  of 
over 250 updated and verified private, government and educational 
institutions  who had left the keys to the front doors  of  their 
computers wide open.  And those were just the ones that NEMO knew 
about today.

There is no accurate way to determine how many groups  of hackers 
like  NEMO  existed.  But, even if only 1/100 of 1%  of  computer 
users classified themselves as hackers, that's well over  100,000 
people breaking into computers.  Enough reason to give Big  Busi-
ness cause for concern. Yet, no one did anything serious to  lock 
the doors. 

Steve  spent the next several hours walking right  into  computer 
systems all over the country.  Through the Bank of California  in 
San Francisco, (Steve's first long distance call) he could  reach 
the  computers of several corresponding banks.  He  read  through 
the new loan files, saw that various developers had defaulted  on 
their  loans  and were in serious trouble.  Rates were  going  to 
start rising.  Good enough for a warm up.  

Steve still wanted back into the NASA launch computers.  On  line 
launch information, results of analysis going back twenty  years, 
and  he  had  had a taste of it, once.  Then,  one  day,  someone 
inside  of NASA got smart and properly locked the front door.  He 
and  NEMO  were  ever on the search for a key  back  into  NASA's 
computers.

He figured that Livermore was still a good bet to get into  NASA.  
That  only meant a local call, through the SDSU/BBS to Cal   Tech 
then into Livermore.  From San Diego, to LA, to San Francisco for 
a mere 25 cents.

Livermore  researchers  kept the front doors of  their  computers 
almost  completely open.  Most of the workers, the graduate  stu-
dents,  preferred  a  free exchange of  information  between  all 
scientists,  so their computer security was extraordinarily  lax.  
For  a weapons research laboratory, funded by the  Department  of 
Energy, it was a most incongruous situation.  

Much of the information in the Livermore computers was considered 
sensitive  but unclassified, whatever that meant  in  government- 
speak, but for an undergraduate engineering major cum hacker,  it 
was great reading.  The leading thinkers from the most technical-
ly  demanding areas in science today put down their thoughts  for 
the  everyone  to  read.  The Livermore  scientists  believed  in 
freedom of information, so nearly everyone who wanted in, got in.  
To the obvious consternation and dismay of Livermore  management. 
And its funding agency. 

Steve  poked  around  the Livermore computers  for  a  while  and 
learned  that SDI funding was in more serious jeopardy than  pub-
licly  acknowledged.  He discovered that the last  3  underground 
nuclear test explosions outside of Las Vegas were underyield, and 
no  one knew why.  Then he found some  super-technical  proposals 
that sounded like pure science fiction:

Moving  small asteroids from between Mars and Jupiter into  orbit 
around  the Earth would make lovely weapons to drop on your  ene-
mies.  War mongers. 

All  of this fascinating information, available to anyone with  a 
computer and a little chutzbah.

* * * * *

Alexander  Spiradon had picked Sir George and his other  subjects 
carefully, as he had been trained to do.

He  had  spent the better part of twenty years working  for  West 
German   Military  Intelligence,  Reichenbunnestrad   Dunnernecht 
Deutchelande,  making less money than he required to live in  the 
style  he  desired.  To supplement his  income,  he  occasionally 
performed extracurricular activities for special interest  groups 
throughout  Europe.  A little information to the IRA in  Northern 
Ireland,  a warning to the Red Brigade about an  impending  raid.  
Even the Hizballah, the Party of God for Lebanese terrorists  had 
occasion  to use Alex's Services.  Nothing that would  compromise 
his  country, he rationalized, just a little help to the  various 
political factions that have become an annoyance to their respec-
tive governments.

Alex  suddenly  resigned  in 1984 when he  had  collected  enough 
freelance fees to support his habits, but he was unaware that his 
own agency had had him under surveillance for years, waiting  for 
him  to slip up.  He hadn't, and with predictable German  Govern-
ment  efficiency, upon his departure from the RDD, his  file  was 
promptly retired and his subsequent activities ignored. 

Alex  began  his full time free-lance  career as a  'Provider  of 
Information'.  With fees of no less than 250,000 DM, Alex  didn't 
need  to work much.  He could pick and choose his clients  as  he 
weighed  the  risks and benefits of  each  potential  assignment.  
With his network of intelligence contacts from Scotland Yard,  Le 
Surite, and the Mossad, he had access to the kind of  information 
that terrorists pay for dearly .

It was a good living.  No guns, no danger, just information.

His latest client guaranteed Alex three years of work for a  flat 
fee  in  the millions of Deutch Marks.  It was  the  intelligence 
assignment  of a lifetime, one that insured a peaceful and  pros-
perous retirement for Alex.  He wasn't the perennial spy, politi-
cally or dogmatically motivated.  Alex wanted the money.

After  he  had completed his computer classes and  purchased  the 
equipment from the list, Sir George dialed the number he had been 
given.  He half expected a live person  to congratulate him,  but 
also realized that that was a foolish wish.  There was no  reason 
to  expect  anything  other than the same  sexy  voice  dictating 
orders to him.

"Ah, Sir George.  How good of you to call.  How were your  class-
es?"   George nearly answered the alluring telephone  personality 
again, but he caught himself. 

"Very good," the voice came back in anticipated response. "Please 
get a pencil and paper. I have a message for you in 15  seconds."  
That damned infernal patronization.  Of course I have a  bleeding 
pen.  Not a pencil.  Idiot.

"Are  you ready?"  she asked.  George made an obscene gesture  at 
the phone. 

"Catch a flight to San Francisco tonight.  Bring all of  the com-
puter equipment you have purchased. Take a taxi to 14  Sutherland 
Place on Knob Hill.  Under the mat to Apartment 12G you will find 
two keys.  They will let you into your new living quarters.  Make 
yourself  at home. It is yours, and the rent is taken care of  as 
is the phone bill.  Your new phone number is 4-1-5-5-5-5-6-3-6-1.  
When you get settled, dial the following number from your comput-
er.   You should be well acquainted with how to do that  by  now.  
The number is  4-1-5-5-5-5-0-0-1-5.  Your password is  A-G-O-R-A.  
Under  the  mattress in the bedroom is a PRG,  Password  Response 
Generator.   It looks like a credit card, but has an eight  digit 
display.  Whenever you call Alex, he will ask you for a  response 
to  your password.  Quickly enter whatever the PRG says.  If  you 
lose  the PRG, you will be terminated."  The voice paused  for  a 
few seconds to George's relief.

"You will receive full instructions at that point.  Good Bye."  A 
dial  tone replaced the voice he had come to both love and  hate.  
Bloody hell, he thought.  I'm down to less than $5000 and now I'm 
going back to San Francisco? What kind of bleedin' game is this?  

Apartment 12G was a lavish 2 bedroom condominium with a drop dead 
view of San Francisco and bodies of water water in 3  directions.  
Furnished in high tech modern, it offered every possible amenity; 
bar,  jacuzzi, telephone in the bathroom and full channel  cable.  
Some job.  But, he kept wondering to himself, when does the  free 
ride end?  Maybe he's been strung along so far that he can't  let 
go.  One more call, just to see how the next chapter begins. 

George  installed his computer in the second bedroom on  a  table 
that fit his equipment like a glove.

          C:\cd XTALK 
          C:\XTALK\xtalk

His  hard  disk  whirred for a few seconds.  He  chose  the  Dial 
option  and entered the phone number from the keyboard  and  then 
asked the computer to remember it for future use.  He omitted the 
area code.  Why had he been given an area code  if he was dialing 
from the same one?  George didn't pursue the question; if he  had 
he would have realized he wasn't alone.

The modem dialed the number for him.  His screen went momentarily 
blank and then suddenly came to life again.

     <<<<<<CONNECT 2400 BAUD>>>>>>
     DO YOU WANT TO SPEAK TO ALEX? (Y/N?)

George entered a "Y"

     PASSWORD:  

George  entered AGORA.   The letters did not echo to the  screen.  
He hoped he had typed then correctly.  Apparently he did, for the 
screen then prompted him for his RESPONSE. 

He copied the 8 characters from the PRG into the computer.  There 
was a pause and then the screen filled. 

SIR GEORGE,

WELCOME TO ALEX. IT IS SO GOOD TO SPEAK  TO YOU AGAIN.

OVER THE NEXT SEVERAL MONTHS YOU WILL BE GIVEN NAMES AND  NUMBERS 
TO CALL.  THERE ARE VERY SPECIFIC QUESTIONS AND STATEMENTS TO  BE 
MADE TO EACH PERSON YOU CALL.  THERE IS TO BE NO DEVIATION  WHAT-
SOEVER.  I  REPEAT, NO DEVIATION WHATSOEVER.  IF THERE  IS,  YOUR 
SERVICES WILL BE IMMEDIATELY TERMINATED. WE HOPE THAT WILL NOT BE 
NECESSARY.

EACH  MORNING  YOU ARE TO DIAL ALEX AND REQUEST THE  FILE  CALLED 
SG.DAT.   DO NOT, I REPEAT, DO NOT ATTEMPT TO ACCESS OR  DOWNLOAD 
ANY OTHER FILES, OR YOU WILL BE TERMINATED AT ONCE.

FOLLOW THE INSTRUCTIONS IN EACH FILE, EXACTLY.  KEEP AN EXACT LOG 
OF THE EVENTS AS THEY TRANSPIRE  ON EACH CALL.

          <<PUSH SPACE BAR FOR MORE>>

George pushed the space bar.  The screen was again filled.

ALEX REQUIRES PRECISE INFORMATION.  WHATEVER YOU ARE TOLD BY  THE 
PEOPLE YOU CALL MUST BE RELAYED , TO THE LETTER.

AT  THE  END  OF EACH DAY, YOU ARE TO UPLOAD  YOUR  FILE,  CALLED 
SG.TOD.   YOUR  COMPUTER WILL AUTOMATICALLY PUT A DATE  AND  TIME 
STAMP ON IT.

THEN, USING NORTON UTILITY, ERASE THE SG.DAT FILE FROM THAT  DAY.  
IF  YOU  ARE UNABLE TO REACH ANYONE ON THE LISTS,  JUST  INDICATE 
THAT  IN YOUR DAILY REPORTS. DO NOT, REPEAT, DO NOT  TRY TO  CALL 
THE SAME PERSON THE NEXT DAY. IS THAT CLEAR?

The screen was awaiting a response.  George typed in "Y".

GOOD.  THIS IS QUITE SIMPLE, IS IT NOT?

Y

DO YOU THINK YOU CAN HANDLE THE JOB?

Y

WHAT KIND OF PRINTER DO YOU HAVE?

None 

ARE YOU SURE?

Y

WILL YOU BUY ONE?

N 

GOOD.  ARE YOU INTERESTED IN MONEY?

Finally, thought Sir George, the reason for my existence.

Y 

AN  ACCOUNT HAS BEEN OPENED IN YOUR NAME AT THE BANK OF  AMERICA, 
REDMOND BRANCH 3 BLOCKS FROM YOU. THERE IS  $25,000 IN IT.   EACH 
MONTH  OF SUCCESSFUL WORK FOR ALEX WILL BE REWARDED WITH  ANOTHER 
PAYMENT.  U.S. TAXES ARE YOUR RESPONSIBILITY.  IS THAT A PROBLEM?

N

WILL  YOU DISCUSS YOUR JOB OR ITS NATURE WITH ANYONE?  ANYONE  AT 
ALL?

N

EVEN UNDER FORCE?

Force,  what the hell does that mean?  I guess the answer is  No, 
thought George.

N

I  HOPE  SO,  FOR YOUR SAKE.  GOOD LUCK SIR  GEORGE.   YOU  START 
MONDAY.  

          <<<<<<CONNECTION TERMINATED>>>>>>

Sir  George was a little confused, maybe a lot confused.  He  was  
the proud owner of a remote control job, a cushy one as far as he 
could tell, but the tone of the conversation he just had with the 
computer  was worrisome. Was he being threatened?  What  was  the 
difference between 'Services Terminated' and 'Terminated' anyway.  
Maybe he shouldn't ask.  Keep his mouth shut and do a good job. 

Hey, he thought, dismissing the possible unpleasant  consequences 
of  failure.  This is San Francisco, and I have a three days  off 
in  a  new city.  Might as well find my way around the  town  to-
night.  According to the guide books I should start at Pier 39.


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

                         Chapter 3
     
     Tuesday, September 8,
     New York City

But they told me they wouldn't tell! They promised." Hugh Sidneys 
pleaded into his side of the phone.  "How did you find out?"   At 
first, Scott thought the cartoon voice was a joke perpetrated  by 
one  of  his friends, or more probably, his ex-wife.   Even  she, 
though,  coudn't possibly think crank a phone call was a  twisted 
form of art.  No, it had to be real.

"I'm  sorry Mr. Sidneys.  We can't give out our sources.   That's 
confidential.   But  are you saying that you confirm  the  story?  
That it is true?"

"Yes, no.  Well ," the pleading slid into near sobbing.  "If this 
gets  out, I'm ruined.  Ruined.  Everything, my family .  .  .how 
could  you have found out?  They promised!"  The noise  from  the 
busy  metro room at the New York City Times made it difficult  to 
hear Sidneys. 

"Can  I  quote you, sir?  Are you confirming  the  story?"  Scott 
pressed  on for that last requisite piece of  every  journalistic 
puzzle  confirmation  of  a story that stood to  wreck  havoc  in 
portions  of the financial community.  And Washington. It  was  a 
story  with  meat,  but Scott Mason needed  the  confirmation  to 
complete it.

"I don't know. . .if I tell what I know now, then maybe . . .that 
would  mean  I  was  being helpful . .  .maybe  I  should  get  a 
lawyer  . . ."  The call from Scott Mason to First State  Savings 
and Loan on Madison Avenue had been devastating. Hugh Sidneys was 
just doing what he was told to do.  Following orders.

"Maybe,  Hugh.  Maybe."  Scott softened toward Sidneys,  thinking 
the first name approach might work.  "But, is it true, Hugh?   Is 
the story true?" 

"It  doesn't  matter anymore.  Do what you want."   Hugh  Sidneys 
hung up on Mason.  It was as close to a confirmation as he  need-
ed.  He wrote the story.

* * * * * 

At  39,  Scott Byron Mason was already into  his  second  career. 
Despite the objections of his overbearing father, he had  avoided 
the  family  destiny of becoming a longshoreman.  "If  it's  good 
enough for me, it's good enough for my kids."  Scott was an  only 
child,  but his father had wanted more despite his mother's  ina-
bility to carry another baby to full term.

Scott caught the resentment of his father and the doting  protec-
tion of his mother.  Marie Elizabeth Mason wanted her son to have 
more  of a future than to merely live another generation  in  the 
lower  middle  class doldrums of Sheepshead Bay,  Brooklyn.   Not 
that Scott was aware of his predicament; he was a dreamer.

Her son showed aptitude.  By the age of six Scott knew two  words 
his father never learned - how and why.  His childhood  curiosity 
led to more than a few mishaps and spankings by the hot  tempered 
Louis Horace Mason.  Scott took apart everything in the house  in 
an  attempt  to  see what made it  tick.   Sometimes,  not  often 
enough, Scott could reassemble what he broken down to its  small-
est  components.  Despite his failings and bruised  bottom  Scott 
wasn't satisfied with, "that's just the way it is," as an  answer 
to anything.

Behind  his  father's  back, Marie had Scott take  tests  and  be 
accepted to the elite Bronx High School of Science, an hour and a 
half train ride from Brooklyn.  To Scott it wasn't an escape from 
Brooklyn, it was a chance to learn why and how machines worked.

Horace  gave Marie and Scott a three day silent  treatment  until 
his  mother  finally put an end to it.  "Horace  Stipton  Mason,"  
Evelyn  Mason said with maternal command.  "Our son has  a  gift, 
and  you  will  not, I repeat, you will not  interfere  with  his 
happiness."

"Yes dear."

"The  boy  is thirteen and he has plenty of time to  decide  what 
he's going to do with himself.  Is that clear?"

"Yes dear."

"Good." She would say as she finished setting the table.  "Dinner 
is ready.  Wash your hands boys."  And the subject was closed.  

But throughout his four years at the best damn high school in the 
country,  Horace found ample opportunity to pressure Scott  about 
how it was the right thing to follow in the family tradition, and 
work at the docks, like the three generations before him. 

The  issue  was never settled during Scott's  rebellious  teenage 
years.   The War, demonstrating on the White House lawn,  getting 
gassed at George Washington, writing for the New York Free Press, 
Scott was even arrested once or twice or three times for peaceful 
civil  disobedience.  Scott Mason was seeing the world in  a  new 
way.   He  was rapidly growing up, as did much of  the  class  of 
1970. 

Scott's grades weren't good enough for scholorships, but adequate 
to be accepted at several reasonable schools.  

"I already paid for his education," screamed Horace upon  hearing 
that  Scott chose City College to keep costs down. He would  live 
at home.  "He broke every damn thing I ever bought, radios, TV's, 
washers. He can go to work like a man."

With his mother's blessing and understanding, Scott moved out  of 
the  house  and in with three roommates who  also  attended  City 
College,  where all New Yorkers can get a free education.   Scott 
played very hard, studied very little and let his left of  center 
politics  guide  his  social life.   His  engineering  professors 
remarked  that  he was underutilizing his God-given  talents  and 
that  he  spent more time protesting and  objecting  that  paying 
attention.   It  was an unpredictable piece of  luck  that  Scott 
Mason would never have to make a living as an engineer.  He would 
be able to remain the itinerate tinkerer; designing and  building 
the most inane creations that regularly had little purpose beyond 
satisfying technical creativity.

"Can we go with it?" Scott asked City Editor Douglas McQuire  and 
John Higgins, the City Times' staff attorney whose job it was  to 
answer just such questions.  McQuire and Mason had been asked  to 
join Higgins and publisher Anne Manchester to review the  paper's 
position on running Mason's story.  Scott was being lawyered, the 
relatively  impersonal cross examination by a so-called  friendly 
in-house attorney.  It was the single biggest pain in the ass  of 
Scott's job, and since he had a knack for finding sensitive  sub-
jects,  he was lawyered fairly frequently.  Not that it made  him 
feel  any less like being called to the principal's office  every 
time.

Scott's boyish enthusiasm for his work, and his youthful  appear-
ance  allowed some to underestimate his ability.  He looked  much 
younger than his years, measuring a slender 6  foot tall and  shy 
of  160  pounds. His longish thin sandy hair and a  timeless  all 
about  Beach Boy face made him a good catch on his  better  days-  
he  was back in circulation at almost 40.  The round wire  rimmed 
glasses  he donned for an extreme case of myopia were  a  visible 
stylized reminder of his early rebel days, conveying a  sophisti-
cated air of radicalism. Basically clean cut, he preferred  shav-
ing every two or three, or occasionally four days. He blamed  his 
poor  shaving habits on his transparent and sensitive skin  'just 
like Dick Nixon's'.   

The four sat in Higgins' comfortable dark paneled office. With  2 
walls full of books and generous seating, the ample office resem-
bled  an  elegant and subdued law library.  Higgins  chaired  the 
meeting  from behind his leather trimmed desk.  Scott  brought  a 
tall  stack  of  files and put them on the  glass  topped  coffee 
table. 

"We need to go over every bit, from the beginning.  OK?"  Higgins 
made  it sound more like and order than responsible  journalistic 
double checking.  Higgins didn't interfere in the news end of the 
business; he kept his opinions to himself. But it was his respon-
sibility to insure that the City Times' was  kept out of the  re-
ceiving  end  of any litigation.   That meant that as long  as  a 
story  was properly researched, sourced, and confirmed, the  con-
tents were immaterial  to him.  That was  the Publisher's choice, 
not his.

Mason had come to trust Higgins in his role as aggravating media-
tor  between news and business. Scott might not like what he  had 
to  say, but he respected his opinion and didn't argue too  much.  
Higgins was never purposefully adversarial.  He merely wanted  to 
know that both the writers and the newspaper had all  their ducks 
in  a  row.  Just in case.  Libel suits can be such a  pain,  and 
expensive.

"Why don't you tell me, again, about how you found out about  the 
McMillan  scams."  Higgins turned on a small  micro-cassette  re-
corder.  "I hope you don't mind," he said as he tested it. "Keeps 
better  notes than I do," he offhandedly said.  Nobody  objected. 
There would have been no point in objecting even if anyone cared. 
It  was an unspoken truism that Higgins and other good  attorneys 
taped many of their unofficial depositions to protect  themselves 
in  case anything went terribly wrong.  With a newspaper as  your 
sole client, the First Amendment was always at stake.

"OK,"  Scott began.  His reporter's notebook sat atop files  full 
of computer printouts.   "A few days ago, on September 4,  that's 
a Friday, I got an anonymous call.  The guy said, 'You want  some 
dirt on McMillan and First State S&L?'  I said sure, what do  you 
have and who  is this?"  

"So  then you knew who Francis McMillan was?" Higgins  looked  up 
surprised.

"Of  course," Mason said. "He's the squeaky clean bank  President 
from  White Plains.  Says he knows how to clean up the S&L  mess, 
gets  lots  of air time. Probably making a play  for  Washington.  
Big time political ambitions. Pretty well connected at  Treasury.  
I guess they listen to him."

"In a nutshell."  Higgins agreed. "And . . .then?"

Mason sped through a couple of pages of scribbled notes from  his 
pad.  "My  notes start here.  'Who I am don't matter but  what  I 
gotta  say does. You interested'.  Heavy Brooklyn accent,  docks, 
Italian,  who knows.  I said something like, 'I'm listening'  and 
he  says  that McMillan is the dirtiest of them all.   He's  been 
socking more money away than the rest and he's been doing it real 
smart.   So  I go, 'so?' and he says he can prove it  and  I  say 
'how'  and  he  says 'read your morning  mail'."   Mason  stopped 
abruptly.

"That's it?" Higgins asked.

"He hung up.  So  I forgot about it till the next morning."

"And  that's  when you got these?" Higgins said pointing  at  the 
stack  of  computer printouts in front of Mason. "How  were  they 
delivered?"  

"By  messenger.  No receipt, nothing.  Just my name and  the  pa-
per's." Mason showed Higgins the envelop in which the files came.

"Then you read them?"

"Well not all of them, but enough." Scott glanced at his  editor. 
"That's when I let Doug know what I had."

"And what did he say?"  Higgins was keeping furious notes to back 
up the tape recording.

"'Holy  shit', as I remember."  Everyone laughed.  Ice  breakers, 
good  for  the  soul, thought Mason.   People  are  too  uptight.  
Higgins indicated that Scott should continue. 

"Then  he said 'we gotta go slow on this one,' then  he  whistled 
and Holy Shat some more."  Once the giggles died down, Mason  got 
serious.  "I borrowed a bean counter from the basement, told  him 
I'd  put  his  name in the paper if anything came of  it,  and  I 
picked his brain.  Ran through the numbers on the printouts,  and 
ran  through  them  again.  I really worked that  poor  guy,  but 
that's the price of fame.  By the next morning we knew that there 
were  two sets of books on First State."  Mason turned  a  couple 
pages in his files.

"It  appears,"  Scott said remembering that he  was  selling  the 
importance  of  the  story to legal and the  publisher,  "that  a 
substantial portion of the bank's assets are located in  numbered 
bank accounts all over the world."  Scott said with finality.

Higgins interrupted here.  "So what's wrong with that?" he  chal-
lenged.

"They've effectively stolen a sandbagged and inflated reserve ac-
count  with over $750 Million it.  Almost 10% of  stated  assets.   
It  appears from these papers," Scott waved his hand  over  them, 
"that the total of the reserve accounts will be taken, as a loss, 
in  their next SEC reporting."  Mason stopped and looked at  Hig-
gins as though Higgins would understand everything.

Higgins snorted as he made more notes.

"That  next  morning," Mason politely ignored Higgins, "I  got  a 
call again, from what sounded like the same guy."

"Why do you say that? How did you know?"  Higgins inquired.

Mason sighed.  "Cause he said, 'it's me remember?' and spoke like 
Archie  Bunker.  Good enough for you?" Mason grinned wide.  Mason 
had  the accent down to a tee.  Higgins gave in to another  round 
of snickers.

"He  said, 'you like, eh?'" Mason spoke with an  exaggerated  New 
York  accent and  used the appropriate Italian hand  gesture  for 
'eh!'.   "I  said, 'I like, but so what?'  I still  wasn't   sure 
what he wanted.  He said, 'they never took a loss, yet.  Look for 
Friday.  This Friday. They're gonna lose a bunch.' I  said,  'how 
much' and he said, 'youse already know.'"  Mason's imitation of a 
Brooklyn accent was good enough for a laugh. 

"He  then  said, 'enjoy the next installment', and that  was  the 
last  time  I spoke to him.  At any rate, the next  package  con-
tained  a history of financial transactions, primarily  overseas; 
Luxembourg,  Lietchenstein,  Switzerland,  Austria,  Hong   Kong, 
Sidney,  Macao,  Caymans and such.  They show a  history  of  bad 
loans and write downs on First State revenues.

"Well,  I grabbed the Beanie from the Basement and  said, help me 
with  these now, and I got research to come up with the 10K's  on 
First State since 1980  when McMillan took over.  And the results 
were  incredible."  Mason held out a couple of charts  and   some 
graphs.

"We  compared both sets of books.  The bottom lines on  both  are 
the  same.  First State has been doing very well.   McMillan  has 
grown  the  company from $1 Billion to $12 Billion in  8   years. 
Quite  a  job, and the envy of hundreds of every other  S&L  knee 
deep  in their own shit."  Higgins cringed. He thought  Ms.  Man-
chester  should be shielded from such language.  "The problem  is 
that, according to one set of books, First State is losing  money 
on some investments merely by wishing them away.  They  disappear 
altogether from one report to the next.  Not a lot of money,  but 
a few million here and there."

"What have you got then?" Higgins pressed.

"Nobody notices cause the losses are all within the limits of the 
loss  projections and reserve accounts. Sweet and  neat!  Million 
dollar embezzlement scam with the SEC's approval."

"How  much follow up did you do?"  Higgins asked as his  pen  fly 
across the legal pad.

"Due to superior reporting ability," Scott puffed up his chest in 
jest,  "I  found that a good many account numbers listed  in  the 
package  I received are non-existent.  But, with a  little  prod-
ding,  I did get someone to admit that one of them  was  recently 
closed and the funds moved elsewhere. 

"Then,  this  is the clincher, as the caller promised,  today,  I 
looked for the First State SEC reports, and damned if the numbers 
didn't  jive.  The books with the overseas accounts are the  ones 
with  the  real losses and where they occur.   The  'real'  books 
don't."

"The bottom line, please."

"Someone  has been embezzling from First State, and when  they're 
through it'll be $3 Billion worth."  Scott was proud of  himself.  
In only a few days he had penetrated a huge scam in the works. 

 "You can't prove it!" Higgins declared.  "Where's the proof? All 
you have is some unsolicited papers where someone has been  play-
ing a very unusual and admittedly questionable game of 'what if'.   
You have a voice on the end of a phone with no name, no  nothing, 
and  a so-called confirmation from some mid-level  accountant  at 
the bank who dribbles on about 'having to do it' but never saying 
what 'it' is.  So what does that prove?"

"It  proves that McMillan is a fraud, a rip-off," Scott  retorted 
confidently.

"It does not!"

"But  I have the papers to prove it," Scott shuffled through  the 
folders.

"Let  me explain something, Scott." Higgins put down his pen  and 
adapted a friendlier tone.  "There's a little legal issue  called 
right  to  privacy.  Let me ask you this.  If I came to  you  and 
said that Doug here was a crook, what would you do?"

"Ask you to prove it," Scott said.

"Exactly.  It's the same here."

"But I have the papers to prove it,  it's in black and white." 

"No Scott, you don't.  What you have is some papers with  accusa-
tions.   They're  unsubstantiated.  They could have  easily  been 
phonied.  You know what computers can do better than I  do.   Now 
here's the key point.  Everybody in this country is due  privacy.  
You don't know where these came from, or how they were  obtained, 
do you?"

"No," Scott hesitantly admitted.

"So, someone's privacy has been compromised, in this case  McMil-
lan's.    If, and I'm saying, if, these reports are  accurate,  I 
would take the position that they are stolen, obtained illegally.  
If  we publish with what we  have now, the paper could be on  the 
receiving  end of a slander and libel suit that could put us  out 
of  business.   We even could be named as a co-conspirator  in  a 
criminal suit.  I can't let that happen.  It's our obligation  to 
guarantee responsible journalism."

"I see." Scott didn't agree.  

"Scott,  you're good, real good, but you have to see it from  the 
paper's  perspective." Higgins' tone was now conciliatory.  "This 
is  hard stuff, and there's just not enough here, not to go  with 
it  yet.  Maybe in a few days when you can get a little  more  to 
tie it up.  Not now.  I'm sorry." 

Case closed.

Shit, shit shit, thought Scott.  Back to square one.

Hugh Sidneys was nondescript, not quite a nebbish, but close.  At 
five  foot  five with wisps of brown scattered over  his  balding 
pate,  he only lacked horn rimmed glasses to complete the  image. 
His bargain basement suits almost fit him, and he scurried rather 
than  walked down the hallways at First  State Savings  and  Loan 
where  he  had been employed since graduating from  SUNY  with  a 
degree in accounting twenty four years ago. 

His  large ears accentuated the oddish look, not entirely out  of 
place on the subways at New York rush hour.  His loyalty to First 
State  was  known throughout the financial  departments;  he  was 
almost  a fixture.  His accounting skills were extremely  strong, 
even remarkable if you will, but his personality and  appearance, 
and that preposterous cartoon voice, held him back from advancing 
up the official corporate ladder. 

Now, though, Hugh Sidneys was scared.   

He needed to do something . . .and having never been in this kind 
of    predicament   before   .   .   .he   thought   about    the 
lawyer . . .hiring one like he told that reporter . . .but  could 
he afford that . . .and he wasn't sure what to do . . .was he  in 
trouble?  Yes, he was . . .he knew that.  That reporter .  .  .he 
sounded  like he understood . . .maybe he could help . . .he  was 
just asking questions . . .what was his name . . .?

"Ah,  Mr. Mason?" Scott heard the timid man's Road  Runner  voice 
spoke gently over the phone. Scott had just returned to his  desk 
from  Higgins'  office.  It was after 6P.M. and time to  catch  a 
train back home to Westchester.

"This is Scott Mason." 

"Do you remember me?"  

Scott recognized the voice immediately but said nothing.  

"We     spoke    earlier    about    First    State,    and     I 
just  . . .ah . . .wanted to . . .ah . . .apologize . . .for  the 
way I acted."

Scott's confirmation.  Hugh Sidneys, the Pee Wee Herman  sounding 
beancounter from First State. What did he want?  

"Yes,  of course, Mr. Sidneys.  How can I help you?"   He  opened 
his notebook. He had just had his story nixed and he was ready to 
go home.  But Sidneys . . .maybe . . .

"It's just that, well, I'm nervous about this . . ."

"No  need  to apologize, Hugh." Scott smiled into  the  phone  to 
convey  sincerity. "I understand, it happens all the time.   What 
can I do for you tonight?"

"Well,  I,  ah, thought that we might, maybe you  could,  well  I 
don't  know  about help, help, it's so much and I  didn't  really 
know, no I shouldn't have called . . .I'm sorry . . ." The  pitch 
of Sidneys' voice rose as rambled on. 

"Wait! Don't hang up.  Mr. Sidneys.  Mr. Sidneys?"

"Yes," the whisper came over the earpiece.

"Is there something wrong . . .are you all right?"  The fear, the 
sound  of fear that every good reporter is attuned to  came  over 
loud and clear.  This man was terrified.

"Yes, I'm OK, so far."

"Good.   Now,  tell me, what's wrong.  Slowly  and  calmly."   He 
eased Sidneys off his panic perch.

Scott  heard Sidneys compose himself and gather up the  nerve  to 
speak. 

"Isn't there some sorta rule," he stuttered, "a law, that says if 
I talk to you, you're a reporter, and if I say that I don't  want 
you  to tell anybody, then you can't?"  Sidneys was  scared,  but 
wanted to talk to someone.  Maybe this was the time for Scott  to 
back off a little.   He stretched out and put his feet up on  his 
desk,  making  him feel and sound more relaxed,  less  pressured.  
According  to Scott, he generated more Alpha waves in  his  brain 
and  if  wanted  to convey calm on the phone, he  merely  had  to 
assume the position.

"That's called off the record, Hugh.  And it's not a law."  Scott 
was  amused  at the naivete that Hugh Sidneys  showed.   "It's  a 
gentleman's  agreement, a code of ethics in journalism.  You  can 
be  off  the record, on the record, or for  background,  not  for 
attribution,  for  confirmation, there's a whole bunch  of  'em."  
Scott  realized  that  Hugh knew nothing about the  press  so  he 
explained the options slowly.  "Which one would you like?"  Scott 
wanted  it  to seem that Sidneys was in control  and  making  the 
rules.

"How  about  we  just  talk,  and  you  tell  me  what  I  should 
do . . .what you think . . .and . . .I don't want anything in the 
paper.   You have one for that?"  Hugh was feeling easier on  the 
phone with  Scott.

"Sure do.  We'll just call it off the record for now.  Everything 
you  tell  me, I promise not to use it without  your  permission.  
Will that do?" Scott smiled broadly.  If you speak loudly with  a 
big  smile  on your face, people on the other end  of  the  phone 
think  you're honest and that you mean what you say.  That's  how 
game show hosts do it.

"OK."   Scott heard Sidneys inhale deeply. "Those papers you  say 
you have?  Remember?" 

"Sure  do.  Got them right here." Scott patted them on his  clut-
tered desk.  

"Well, you can't have them.  Or you shouldn't have them.  I  mean 
it's  impossible."   Hugh was getting nervous again.   His  voice 
nearly squeaked.

"Hugh,  I  do have them, and you all but confirmed  that  for  me 
yesterday.   A weak confirmation, but I think you know more  than 
you let on . . ."

"Mr. Mason . . ."

"Please, call me Scott!"

"OK . . .Scott.  What I'm trying to say is that what you say  you 
have, you can't have cause it never existed." 

"What  do you mean never existed?"  Scott was confused,  terribly 
confused  all  of sudden.  He raised his voice. "Listen,  I  have 
reams  of  paper here that say someone at First State  is  a  big 
crook.  Then you say, 'sure it's real' and now you don't.  What's 
your  game, Mister?"  Playing good-cop bad-cop alone  was  diffi-
cult, but a little pressure may bring this guy down to reality.

"Obviously you have them, that's not the point."  Sidneys reacted 
submissively  to  Scott's ersatz domineering  personality.   "The 
only place that those figures ever existed was in my mind and  in 
my  computer.  I never made a printout.  They were never  put  on 
paper."  Hugh said resolutely. 

Scott's mind whirred.  Something is wrong with this picture.   He 
has  papers that were never printed, or so says a guy whose  sta-
bility  is  currently in question.  The contents would  have  far 
reaching  effects on the S&L issue.  A highly visible tip of  the 
iceberg.   McMillan, involved in that kind of thing?  Never,  not 
Mr. Clean.  What was Sidneys getting at?

"Mr.  Sidneys . . .Hugh . . .do you have time to have a  cup   of 
coffee  somewhere.   It might be easier if we sat face  to  face.  
Get to know each other."

Rosie's Diner was one of the better Greasy Spoons near the Hudson 
River  docks on Manhattan's West Side.  The silver  interior  and 
exterior  was not a cliche when this diner was built. Rosie,  all 
280  pounds  of her, kept the UPS truckers coming back  for  over 
thirty  years.   A lot of the staff at the paper ate  here,  too.  
For  the  best tasting cholesterol in New York,  saturated  fats, 
bacon  and  sausage  grease flavored starches,  Rosie's  was  the 
place.  Once a month at Rosie's would guarantee a reading of over 
300.

Scott  recognized  Hugh from a distance.  No one  came  in  there 
dressed.   Had  to be an accountant.  Hugh hugged  his  briefcase 
while nervously looking around the diner. Scott called the  short 
pale  man over to the faded white formica and dull chrome  booth.  
Hugh ordered a glass of water, while Scott tried to make a  light 
dinner of it.

"So, Hugh,  please continue with what you were telling me on  the 
phone."  Scott tried to sound empathetic. 

"It's  like I said, I don't know how you got them or  they  found 
out.   It's  impossible."  The voice was uncannily  like  Pebbles 
Flintstone in person.

"Who found out?  Does someone else know . . .?"

"OK," Hugh sighed.  "I work for First State, right? I work  right 
with McMillan although nobody except a few people know it.   They 
think  I do market analysis and research.  What I'm really  doing  
is helping shelter money in offshore investment accounts.   There 
are  some tax benefits, I'm not a tax accountant so I don't  know 
the reasons, but I manage the offshore investments."

"Did you think that was illegal?"

"Only a little.  Until recently that is."

"Sorry, continue."  Scott nibbled from the sandwich on his plate.

"Well  there  was  only one set of books to  track  the  offshore 
investments.   They  wanted them to be kept  secret  for  various 
reasons.  McMillan and the others made the deals, not me. I  just 
moved the money for them." Again Hugh was feeling paranoid.

"Hugh,   you moved some money around illegally, maybe.  So  what?  
What's  the  big deal?"  Scott gulped some hot  black  coffee  to 
chase the pastrami that almost went down the wrong pipe.

Sidneys  continued after sipping his water and wetting his  lips. 
"Four  days  ago I got this call, from some  Englishman  who  I'd 
never spoken to before.  He said he has all the same figures  and 
facts  you said you have.  He starts reading enough to me  and  I 
know  he's got what he says he got.  Then he says he wants me  to 
cooperate  or he'll go public with everything and blow  it  right 
out of the water."  Hugh was perspiring with tension.  His  fists 
were clenched and knuckles white.

"And then, I called you and you came unglued. Right?"  Scott  was 
trying to emotionally console Hugh, at least enough to get  some-
thing  more.  "Do you think you were being blackmailed?  Did  he, 
the  English guy, demand  anything? Money? Bribes?  Sex?"   Scott 
grinned.  Hugh obviously did not appreciate the attempt at  levi-
ty.

"No,  nothing.  He just said that I would hear from him  shortly.  
That  was it. Then, nothing, until you called.  Then I figured  I 
missed his call."  Hugh was working himself into another  nervous 
frenzy.

"Did he threaten you?"

"No. Not directly.  Just said  that it would be in my best inter-
est to  cooperate."

"What did you say?"

"What could I say?  I mumbled something about doing nothing wrong 
but  he said that didn't matter and I would be blamed for  every-
thing and that he could prove it."

"Could  he prove it?" Hugh was scribbling furiously in his  note-
book.

"If  he had the files in my computer I guess I would look  pretty 
guilty,   but there's no way anyone could get in there.  I'm  the 
only  one, other than McMillan who can get at that  stuff.   It's 
always  been a big secret.  We don't even make any  printouts  of 
it.   It's never on paper, just in the computer." Hugh fell  back 
in  the thinly stuffed torn red Naugahyde bench seat  and  gulped 
from his water glass.  

Scott shook his head as he scanned the notes he had been  making. 
This  didn't make any sense at all.  Here was this  little  nerdy 
man,  with a convoluted tale of embezzlement and  blackmail,  off 
shore money and he was scared.  "Hugh," Scott began slowly.  "Let 
me  see  if I've got this right.  You were part of  a  scheme  to 
shift investments overseas, falsify reports, yet the  investments 
always  made a reasonable return in investment."  Hugh nodded  in 
agreement silently.

"Then,  after  how many, eight years of this, creating  a  secret 
little world that only you and McMillan know about . . ."

"A few others knew, I have the names, but only McMillan could get 
the  information from the computer. No one else could.  I set  it 
up that way on purpose." Hugh interrupted. 

"OK,  then you receive a call from some Englishman who says  he's 
got  the numbers you say are so safe and then I get a copy.   And 
the numbers agree with the results that First State reported.  Is 
that about it?" Scott asked, almost mocking the apparent  absurd-
ity.

"Yeah,  that's   it.  That's  what happened."  Hugh  Sidneys  was 
such a meek man.

"That  leaves me with a couple of possible conclusions. One,  you  
got  yourself  in  over your head, finally decided  to  cut  your 
losses  and  make up this incredible story.   Maybe make  a  deal 
with  the cops or the Feds and try to be hero.  Maybe you're  the 
embezzler  and want out before  it's too late.  Born again  bean-
counter.  It's  a real possibility."  Hugh's face  grimaced;  no, 
that's not what happened, it's just as I told you. 
"Or,  two, McMillan is behind the disclosures and is  now  effec-
tively sabotaging his own plans.  For what reasons I could hardly 
venture a guess now.  But,  if what you are saying is true,  it's 
either you or McMillan."  Scott liked the analysis. It was  sound 
and  took  into account all available information,  omitting  any 
speculation.

"Then why would someone want to threaten me? 

"Either you never got the call," the implication was obvious, "or 
McMillan is trying, quite effectively to spook you." Scott put  a 
few dollars on the table next to the check.

"That's  it?   You won't say anything, will you?  You  promised!" 
Hugh leaned into Scott, very close.

Scott consoled Hugh with a pat on his wrinkled suit sleeve.  "Not 
without  speaking  to you first. No, that  wouldn't  be  cricket.  
Don't worry, I'll call you in a couple of days."

His  editor,  Doug McGuire agreed that Scott should keep  on  it. 
There might be a story there, somewhere.  Go find it.  But  don't 
forget about the viruses.

* * * * * 

The  headline  of the National Expos<1B>, a  weekly  tabloid  caught 
Scott's  attention on his way home that evening in Grand  Central 
Station.  

          EXCLUSIVE!  S&L RIP OFF EXPOSED!

Scott's  entire story, the one he wasn't permitted to  print  was 
being  read  by  millions of  mid-American  supermarket  shopping 
housewives.  In its typically sensationalistic manner, the  arti-
cle  claimed   that  the Expose was in  exclusive  possession  of 
documents that proved McMillan was stealing 10's of millions from 
First  State  S&L.  It even printed a fuzzy picture of  the  same 
papers that Scott had received.  How the hell?

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

                         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>>>>>>

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

                         Chapter 5

     Monday, September 14
     New York City

Doug!  Doug!"  Scott hollered across the city room.  As  in  most 
newspaper  offices,  the constant scurry of people  bumping  into 
each other while reading and walking gave the impression of  more 
activity than there really was.  Desks were not in any particular 
pattern, but it wasn't totally chaotic either.  Every desk had at 
least one computer on it.  Some two  or three.  Scott pushed back 
into  place  those that he dislodged while running  to  McGuire's 
desk.

Doug  McGuire noticed the early  hour, 8:39 A.M. on the one  wall 
clock  that gave Daylight Savings Time for the East  Coast.   The 
other dozen or so clocks spanned the time zones of the globe.  It 
wasn't like Scott to be his energetic youthful self before noon.

"Doug, I need you." Scott shouted from 3 desks away. "It'll  just 
take a minute."  

Scott nearly dragged the balding, overweight, sometimes harsh  60 
year old Doug McGuire across the newsroom.  They abruptly  halted 
in front of Scott's desk.  Boxes full of files everywhere; on the 
floor,  piled 3 or 4 high, on his desk. "Will you look  at  this.  
Just  look at this!" He stuck a single sheet of paper  too  close 
into Doug's face.  Doug pushed it away  to read it out loud.

McGuire read from the page. "A Message from a Fan.  Thanks." Doug 
looked perplexed.  He motioned at the paper hurricane on  Scott's 
desk. "So, what is this mess?  Where did it come from?"

Scott  spoke  excitedly. "I got another delivery, about  an  hour 
ago.   I  think  it's from the same guy  who  sent  the  McMillan 
stuff."  He perused the boxes.

"Why do you say that?" Doug asked curiously.

"Because  of what's in here.  I haven't been able to  go  through 
much of it, obviously, but I scanned through a few of the  boxes.  
There's dirt on almost every company in the Fortune 1000.  Copies 
of  memoranda, false figures, confidential  position  statements, 
the  truth  behind  a  lot of PR scandals, it  goes  on  and  on.  
There's  even a copy of some of the shredded Ollie North  papers.  
Or so they say they are.  Who knows.  But, God!  There are  notes 
about  behind the scene plays on mergers, who's screwing  who  to 
get  deals done . . .it's all here.  A hundred years  of  stories 
right here . . .".

"Let's see what we've got here."  Doug was immediately hooked  by 
the  treasure  trove of potential in from of  them  coupled  with 
Scott's enthusiasm.  The best stories come from the least  likely 
places.   No reporter ever forgets the 3rd rate burglary  at  the 
Watergate that brought down a President.

By  late afternoon, Scott and several of the paper's  researchers 
had  set  up a preliminary filing system.  They  categorized  the 
hundred of files and documents and computer printouts by company, 
alphabetically.  The contents were amazing.  Over 150 of the  top 
American corporations were represented directly, and thousands of 
other by reference.  In every case, there was a revelation of one 
or  more particularly embarrassing or illegal  activities.   Some 
were documented accounts and histories of past events and  others 
that  were in progress. Many of the papers were  prognostications 
of future events of questionable ethics or legality.  It reminded 
Scott of Jeanne Dixon style predictions. 

From  Wall  Street's ivory tower deals where payoffs  are  called 
consulting fees, and in banking circles where delaying  transfers 
of  funds can yield millions of dollars in interest  daily,  from 
industrial  secrets  stolen  or purchased from such  and  such  a 
source, the laundry list was long.  Plans to effect such a  busi-
ness plan and how to disguise its true purposes from the ITC  and 
SEC.   Internal, very upper level policies which never reach  the 
company's  Employee Handbook; policies of  discrimination,  atti-
tude,  and protective corporate culture which not  only transcend 
the  law but in many cases, morality.  The false books, the  jim-
mied numbers . . .they were in the boxes too, but that was almost 
accepted  accounting practice as long as you didn't  get  caught.  
But  the depth of some of the figures was amazing.  Like how  one 
computer  company brought in Toshiba parts and sold them  to  the 
government despite the ban on Toshiba components because of their 
sale of precision lathes to the Soviets.

"Jesus,"  said Scott after a lengthy silence of  intent  reading. 
"This  nails everyone, even the Government."

There  were well documented dossiers on how the EPA  made  unique 
exclusions hundred of times over based upon the financial  lobby-
ing  clout  of the particular offender.  Or how  certain  elected 
officials in Washington had pocketed funds from their PAC  monies 
or  how defense contractors were advised in advance of  the  con-
tents of an upcoming billion dollar RFP. 

The  cartons of files were absolute political dynamite.  And,  if 
released, could have massive repercussions in the world financial 
community.  

There  was  a fundamental problem, though.  Scott  Mason  was  in 
possession of unsupported, but not unreasonable accusations, they 
were certainly believable.  All he really had was leads, a  thou-
sand leads in ten thousand different directions, with no apparent 
coherency or theme, received from an anonymous and dubious donor.  
And there was no way of immediately gauging the veracity of their 
contents.  He clearly remembered what is was like to be lawyered.  
That held no appeal at the moment. 

The  next  obvious question was, who would have  the  ability  to 
gather  this amount of information, most of which  was  obviously 
meant to be kept very, very private.  Papers meant not for anyone 
but only for a select group of insiders.  

Lastly,  and just as important to the reporter; why?  What  would 
someone  gain  from  telling all the nasty goings  on  inside  of 
Corporate  America.   There have been so many  stories  over  the 
years  about this company or that screwing over the  little  guy.  
How the IRS and the government operated substantially outside  of 
legal  channels.  The kinds of things that the Secretary  of  the 
Treasury  would prefer were kept under wraps.  Sometimes  stories 
of this type made the news, maybe a trial or two, but not exactly 
noteworthy in the big picture.  White collar crime wasn't as good 
as the Simpsons or Roseanne, so it went largely  ignored.

Scott Mason needed to figure out what to do with his powder  keg.  
So,  as any good investigative reporter would do, he  decided  to 
pick  a few key pieces and see if the old axiom was true.   Where 
there's smoke, there's fire.

* * * * * 

Fire.  That's exactly what Franklin Dobbs didn't want that Monday 
morning.   He  and 50 other Corporate CEO's  across  the  country 
received  their  own unsolicited packages by courier.   Each  CEO 
received  a  dossier on his own company. A very  private  dossier 
containing  information that technically didn't, or wasn't  offi-
cially supposed to exist.  Each one read their personalized  file 
cover to cover in absolute privacy.  And shock set in.

Only  a few of the CEO's in the New York area had ever  heard  of 
Scott  Mason  before, and little did they know that  he  had  the 
complete collection of dossiers in his possession at the New York 
City  Times.  Regardless, boardrooms shook to  their  very  core.  
Wall  Street trading was untypically low for a Monday, less  than 
50,000,000  shares.  But CNN and other financial   observers  at-
tributed the anomaly to random factors unconnected to the  secret 
panic that was spreading through Corporate America.

By  6 P.M., CEO's and key aides from 7 major  corporations  head-
quartered  in the metropolitan New York area had agreed to  meet. 
Throughout  the  day,  CEO's routinely talk  to  other  corporate 
leaders  as  friends, acquaintances, for brain  picking  and  G2, 
market  probing  in the course of business.  Today,  though,  the 
scurry of inter-Ivory-Tower calls was beyond routine.  

Through  a  complicated ritual dance  of  non-committal  consent, 
questions  never asked and answers never given, with a good  dose 
of  Zieglerisms, a few  of the CEO's communicated  to each  other 
during the day that they were not happy with the morning mail.  A  
few agreed to talk together.  Unofficially of course, just for  a 
couple  of  drinks with friends, and there's  nothing  wrong,  we 
admit nothing, of course not. 

These  are  the rules strictly obeyed for  a  non-encounter  that 
isn't  happening.   So they didn't meet in a very  private  room, 
upstairs  at the Executive Club, where sensitive  meetings  often 
never  took  place.  One's presence in that room is  as  good  as 
being on in a black hole. You just weren't there, no matter what.  
Perfect.

The  room that wasn't there was heavily furnished and dark.   The 
mustiness  lent to the feeling of intrigue and incredulity the  7 
CEO's felt. Massive brown leather couches and matching  oversized 
chairs  surrounded by stout mahogany tables were dimly lit by the 
assortment of low wattage lamp fixtures.  There was a huge  round 
dining  table  large  enough for all of  Camelot,  surrounded  by 
mammoth  chairs  in  a large ante-room.    The  brocade  curtains 
covered  long  windows that stretched from the  floor  to  ornate 
corner moldings of the 16 foot ceilings.

One tired old black waiter with short cropped white hair appeared 
and  disappeared skillfully and invisibly.  He was so  accustomed 
to working with such distinguished gentlemen, and knew how impor-
tant  their conversations were, that he took great pride  in  re-
filling  a drink without being noticed. With his little game,  he 
made sure that drinks for everyone were always full.  They  spoke 
openly around Lambert.  Lambert had worked the room since he  was 
16 during World War II and he saw no reason to trade occupations; 
he  was  treated decently, and he doubled as a  bookie  for  some 
members which added to his income.  There was mutual trust.

"I don't know about you gentlemen," said Porter Henry, the  ener-
getic  and feisty leader of Morse Technologies,  defense  subcon-
tractor.  "I personally call this blackmail."  A few nods.

"I'm  not about to admit to anything, but have you  been  threat-
ened?" demanded Ogden Roberts, Chairman of National First  Inter-
state.

"No,  I don't believe any of us have, in so many words.  And  no, 
none  of  us have done anything wrong.  We are merely  trying  to 
keep  sensitive corporate strategies private. That's all. But,  I 
do  take  the position that we are being  intimidated.   I  think 
Porter's right. This is tantamount to blackmail. Or the precursor 
at a minimum."

They discussed, in the most circumlocutous manner, possibilities.  
The why, how, and who's.  Who would know so much, about so  many, 
supposedly sacrosanct secrets.  Therefore there must have been  a 
lot  of  whos,  mustn't there?  They figured about  50  of  their 
kindred CEO's had received similar packages, so that meant a  lot 
of whos were behind the current crisis in privacy.  Or maybe just 
one big who.  OK, that's narrowed down real far; either a lot  of 
whos, one big who, or somewhere in between.

Why?   They  all  agreed that demands would be  coming,  so  they 
looked  for synergy between their firms, any sort of  connections 
that spanned at first the seven of those present, to predict what 
kinds  of  demands.  But it is difficult to  find  hard  business 
connections  between  an  insurance company, a  bank,  2  defense 
contractors, a conglomerate of every drug store product known  to 
man and a fast food company.  The thread wasn't there.

How?   That was the hardest.  They certainly hadn't come up  with 
any  answers on the other two questions, so this was  asking  the 
impossible.  CEO's are notorious for not knowing how their compa-
nies  work  on  a day to day basis. Thus, after 4  or  5  drinks, 
spurious and arcane ideas were seriously considered.  UFO's  were 
responsible,  I once saw one . . .my secretary,  I  never  really 
trusted   her   at   all    .  .   .the   Feds!   Must   be   the 
IRS  .  .  .(my/his/your)  competitor  is  doing  it  to  all  of 
us . . .the Moonies, maybe the Moonies . . .

"Why don't we just go to the Feds?" asked Franklin Dobbs who  did 
not participate in the conjecturing stream of consciousness  free 
for all.  Silence cut through the room instantly.  Lambert looked 
up from his corner to make  sure they were all still alive.  

"I'm  serious.  The FBI is perfect.  We all  operate  interstate, 
and internationally.  Would you prefer the NYPD?"  he said  dero-
gatorally waiting any voices of dissent. 

"C'mon  Frank.  What are we going to tell them?"   Ogden  Roberts 
the banker asked belligerently.  The liquor was having an effect.  
"Certainly  not the truth . . ." he cut himself short,  realizing 
that  he  came dangerously close to  admitting  some  indefinable 
wrong  he  had  committed.  "You know what I  mean,"  he  quickly 
added.

"We  don't go into all of the detail. An abbreviated form of  the 
truth,   all  true, but maybe not everything.  I am sure  we  all 
agree  that  we  want to keep this, ah, situation,  as  quiet  as 
possible."  Rapid assent came from all around.

"All we need to say is that we have been contacted,  in a threat-
ening  manner.  That no demands have been made  yet, but  we  are 
willing  to cooperate with the authorities.  That would give   us 
all a little time, to re-organize our priorities, if you see what 
I mean?"  Dobbs added. The seven CEO's were thoughtful. 

"Now  this  doesn't  mean that we all have  to  agree  on  this,"  
Franklin  Dobbs said.  "But as for me, I have gone over this,  in 
limited  detail,  with  my attorney, and he agrees with it  on  a 
strategic level.  If someone's after you,  and you can't see 'em, 
get  the  guys with the White Hats on your side.   Then  do  some 
housekeeping.  I am going to the FBI.  Anybody care to join me?"

It was going to be a lonesome trip. 

* * * * *

     September, 4 Years Ago
     Tokyo, Japan. 

OSO Industries maintained its world headquarters in the OSO World 
Bank Building which towered 71 stories over downtown Tokyo.  From 
the executive offices on the 66th floor, on a clear day, the view 
reached  as far as the Pacific. It was from these  lofty  reaches 
that Taki Homosoto commanded his $30 Billion empire which  spread 
across 5 continents, 112 countries, and employed almost a quarter 
million people.

OSO  Industries had diversified since it humble beginnings  as  a 
used tire junkstore.  

The Korean conflict had been a windfall.   Taki Homosoto  started 
a  tire  retreading business in 1946, during  the  occupation  of 
Japan.  The Americans were so smart, he thought.  Bring over  all 
of  your men, tanks, jeeps and doctors not telling us  the  truth 
about radiation, and you forget spare tires.  Good move, Yankee. 

Taki  gouged the Military on pricing so badly, and the  Americans 
didn't  seem  care, that the Pentagon didn't  think  twice  about  
paying  $700 for toilet seats decades later. Taki did give  great 
service  -  after all his profits were so  staggeringly  high  he 
could afford it.  Keep the American's happy, feed their ego,  and 
they'll come back for more. No sense of pride.  Suckers.

When  the Americans moved in for Korea, Tokyo was both a  command 
post  for the war effort and the first choice of R&R by  service-
men.  OSO Industries was in a perfect position to take  advantage 
of  the US Government's tire needs throughout the conflict.   OSO 
was  already  in place, doing a good job; Taki  had  bought  some 
friends  in the US military, and a few arrangements were made  to 
keep business coming his way.  

Taki accumulated millions quickly.  Now he needed to diversify.

Realizing  that the war would come to an end some  day,  Homosoto 
begin making plans. OSO Radio sets appeared on the market  before 
the end of the Korean Police Action.  Then, with the  application 
of  the  transistor,  the portable radio  market  exploded.   OSO 
Industries  made more transistor radios than all  other  Japanese 
electronics  firms combined.  Then came black and  white  televi-
sions.  The  invention  of the single beam color  TV  tube  again 
brought OSO billions in revenues every year.

Now,  OSO was the model of a true global corporation.  OSO  owned 
banks and investment companies. Their semiconductor and electron-
ics products were household words. They controlled a vast network 
of companies; electronic game manufacturers, microwave and appli-
ance  manufacturers,  and notably, acres and acres  of  Manhattan 
Island, California and Hawaii.  They owned and operated  communi-
cations companies, including their own geosynchronous  satellite. 
OSO  positioned  itself  as a holding company  with  hundreds  of 
subsidiaries,  each  with their own  specialty,  operating  under 
thousands of names.  Taki Homosoto wove an incredibly complex web 
of corporate influence and intrigue. 

OSO was one of the 10 largest corporations in the world.   Reaga-
nomics  had already assisted in making OSO and  Homosoto  himself 
politically  important  to both Japan and the  US.   Exactly  how 
Homosoto  wanted  it.  American leaders,  Senators,  Congressmen, 
appointees,  lobbyists, in fact much of Washington coddled up  to 
Homosoto.   His empire planned years in advance.  The US  Govern-
ment,  unofficially  craved his insights, and  in  characteristic 
Washington style, wanted to be near someone important.   Homosoto 
relished  it.   Ate  it up.  He was a  most  cordial,  unassuming 
humble guest.  He played the game magnificently. 

Almost  the entire 66th floor of the OSO Bank Building was  dedi-
cated to Homosoto and his immediate staff.  Only a handful of the 
more then 200,000 people that OSO Industries employed had  access 
to the pinnacle of the OSO tower which graced the Tokyo skyline.

The building was designed by Pei, and received international  ac-
claim  as  an architectural statement. The atrium  in  the  lobby 
vaulted  almost  700  feet skyward  precursoring  American  hotel 
design in the next decade.  Plants, trees over 100 feet tall  and 
waterfalls graced the atria and the overhanging skylobbies.   The 
first floor lobby was designed around a miniature replica of  the 
Ging  Sha forest, fashioned with thousands of Bonzai trees.   The 
mini  forest was built to be viewed from various  heights  within 
the atrium to simulate a flight above the earth at distances from 
2 to 150 miles.

The lobby of OSO Industries was a veritable museum.  The Van Gogh 
collection was not only the largest private or public  assemblage 
in  the  world, but also represented over $100 Million  spent  in 
Sothby and Christies auctions worldwide since 1975.

To  get to the elevator to the 66th floor, a security  check  was 
performed,  including a complete but unobtrusive electronic  scan 
of the entire person and his belongings.  To all appearances, the 
procedure  was  no  more than airport security.  However  to  the 
initiate  or the suspect, it was evident from the  accuracy  with 
which  the guards targeted specific contraband on a person or  in 
his  belongings that they knew more than they were telling.   The 
OSO guards had the girth of Sumo wrestlers, and considering their 
sheer  mass,  they received little hassle.  Very  few  deemed  it 
prudent to cross them.

The lobby for all of its grandeur, ceilings of nearly 700   feet, 
was  a fairly austere experience.  But, the elevator to the  66th 
floor  altered  that  image at once.  It was  this  glass  walled 
elevator, the size of a small office, with appropriately comfort-
able  furnishings, that Miles Foster rode.  From the  comfort  of 
the living room setting in the elevator, he enjoyed a panorama of 
the  atrium  as  it disappeared beneath him.  He  looked  at  the 
forest and imagined what astronauts saw when they catapulted into 
orbit.   The executive elevator was much slower than the  others.  
Either  the residents in the penthouse relished the solitude  and 
view  or  they  had motion sickness.  Nonetheless,  it  was  most 
impressive. 

"Ah,  Mister Foster! Welcome to OSO.  Please to step  this  way." 
Miles  Foster  was  expected at the terminus of  the  lift  which 
opened  into  an obscenely large waiting room  that  contained  a 
variety  of  severe and obviously uncomfortable  furniture.  Aha! 
Miles,  thought.  That's exactly what this is.  Another art  gal-
lery,  albeit a private one for the eyes of his host and  no  one 
else. White walls, white ceilings, polished parquet floors, track 
lighting,  recessed lights, indirect lights.  Miles noticed  that 
the room as pure as the driven snow didn't have any windows.   He 
didn't  recognize  much of the art, but given his host,  it  must 
have represented a sizable investment.

Miles  was ushered across the vast floor to  a set of  handsomely 
carved,  too tall wooden doors with almost garish gold  hardware.  
His slight Japanese host barely tapped on the door, almost  inau-
dibly. He paused and stood at attention as he blurted an obedient 
"Hai!" 

The  aide opened both doors from the middle, and in deference  to 
Mr.  Foster,  moved to one side to let the  visitor  be  suitably 
impressed.    Homosoto's office was a total contrast to his  gal-
lery.   Miles first reaction was astonishment.  It  was  slightly 
dizzying.  The ceiling slanted to a height of over 25 feet at the 
outer walls, which were floor to ceiling glass. The immense  room 
provided  not only a spectacular view of Tokyo and 50  miles  be-
yond, but lent one the feeling of being outside.  

Coming  from the U.S. Government, such private opulence  was  not 
common. It was to be expected in his family's places of business, 
the  gaming parlors of Las Vegas, but not in normal commerce.  He 
had been to Trump Tower in New York, but that was a public build-
ing, a place for tourists.  This office, he used the word  liber-
ally, was palatial.

It  was  decorated  in spartan fashion with  cherry  wood  walls. 
Artwork, statues, figurines, all Japanese in style, sat  wherever 
there was an open surface.  A few gilt shelves and marble display 
tables  were randomly scattered around the room.  Not  chaoticly; 
just  the  opposite.   The scattering  was  exquisitely  planned.  
There was a dining alcove, privatized by lavish rice paper panels 
for  eating  in  <MI>suhutahksi<D>. Eating on the  floor  was  an 
honored ritual.  There was a small pit under the table for  curl-
ing one's legs on the floor. 

A   conference  table with 12 elegant wooden chairs  sat  at  the 
opposite end of the cavernous office. In the center of the  room, 
at  the  corner  of the building, was Homosoto's  desk,  or  work 
surface if you prefer.  It was large enough for four, yet Homoso-
to,  as he stood to greet Foster, appeared to dwarf his  environ-
ment  and desk.  Not in size, but in confidence.   His  personage 
was in total command. The desk and its equipment were on a  plat-
form some 6" above the rest of the room. The intended effect  was 
not lost on Foster.

The sides of the glossy cherrywood desk were slightly elevated to 
make  room for a range of video monitors, communications  facili-
ties,  and  computers which accessed Homosoto's empire.   A  vast 
telephone  console  provided  tele-conferencing  to  OSO  offices 
worldwide.  Dow Jones, CNN, Nippon TV were constantly  displayed, 
visible only to Homosoto.  This was Homosoto's Command Central as 
he liked to call it.

Foster  gawked  at the magnificent surroundings as  he  stood  in 
front  of his assigned seat. A comfortable, plush, black  leather 
chair.  It was one of several arranged in a  sunken  conversation 
pit.

Homosoto acknowledged Foster's presence with the briefest of nods 
as  he  stepped down off of his aerie.  Homosoto  wore  expensive 
clothes.  A dark brown suit, matching solid tie and the omnipres-
ent  solid white starched shirt.  It didn't fit, like most  Japa-
nese business uniforms.

He  was short, no more than five foot six, Miles  noticed,  after 
Homosoto got down to the same level as the rest of the room.   On 
the heavy side, he walked slowly and deliberately.  Eyes  forward 
after  the  obligatory nod. His large head was  sparsely  covered 
with  little wisps of hair in nature's futile attempt  to  clothe 
the  top of his freckled skull.  Even at 59 Homosoto's  hair  was 
still  pitch  black.  Miles wasn't sure if  Grecian  Formula  was 
available  in Japan.  The short crop accentuated  the  pronounced 
ears.

A rounded face was peppered with spots, dark freckles perhaps, or 
maybe  carcinoma.   His deep set black eyes  stared  through  the 
object  of  his attention.  Homosoto was not the  friendly  type, 
thought Miles. 

Homosoto stood in front of Miles, extended his hand and bowed the 
most  perfunctory  of  bows.  Miles took his  hand,  expecting  a 
strong  grip.  Instead he was greeted with a wet  fish  handshake 
which wriggled quickly from his grasp.  Homosoto didn't give  the 
slightest indication of a smile.  The crow's feet around his eyes 
were  caused  by pudginess, not happiness. When he  sat  opposite 
Foster in a matching chair, he began without any pleasantries. 

"I hear you are the best."  Homosoto stared at Foster.  It was  a 
statement that required a response. 

Foster  shifted his weight a little in the chair.  What a way  to 
start.   This guy must think he's hot shit.  Well, maybe  he  is.  
First  class, all expense paid trip to Tokyo,  plus  consultation 
fees.  In  advance.  Just for one conversation, he was  told,  we 
just  want some advice.  Then, last night, and the night  before, 
he  was honored with sampling the finest Oriental women. His  hot 
button.   All expenses paid, of course.  Miles knew he was  being 
buttered up, for what he didn't know, but he took advantage of it 
all.

"That's what's your people tell you."  

Foster took the challenge and glared, albeit with a smirk dimpled 
smile, politely, right back at Homosoto.  Homosoto continued  his 
stare.  He didn't relax his intensity.  

"Mr.  Foster,"  Homosoto continued, his face  still  emotionless.  
"Are you as good as they say?"  he demanded.

Miles Foster defiantly spat out the one word response. "Better."  

Homosoto's  eyes squinted.  "Mr. Foster, if that is true, we  can 
do  business.  But first, I must be convinced.  I can assure  you 
we know quite a bit about you already, otherwise you wouldn't  be 
here."   Miles  noticed that Homosoto  spoke  excellent  English, 
clipped  in style, but Americanized.  He  occasionally  stretched 
his vowels, to the brink of a drawl.

"Yeah,  so  what do you know.  Pulled up a few  data  bases?  Big 
Deal." Miles cocked his head at Homosoto's desk.  "I would assume 
that  with  that  equipment, you can probably  get  whatever  you 
want." 

Homosoto let a shimmer of a smile appear at the corners  off  his 
mouth.   "You are most perceptive, Mr. Foster."  Homosoto  paused  
and leaned back in the well stuffed chair.  "Mr. Foster, tell  me 
about your family."

Miles  neck reddened. "Listen! You called me, I didn't call  you.  
All I ever knew about OSO was that you made ghetto blasters, TV's 
and  vibrators.  So therefore, you wanted me, not my family.   If 
you  had  wanted  them you would have called  them."  Miles  said 
loudly.  "So, keep my family the fuck out of it."

"I do not mean to offend," Homosoto said offensively. "I just  am 
most  curious  why you didn't go to work for your  family.   They 
have money, power.  You would have been a very important man, and 
a  very  rich  one." Homosoto said matter of  factly.   "So,  the 
prudent man must wonder why you went to work for your Government?  
Aren't  your  family  and your government, how shall  I  say,  on 
opposite sides?"

"My  family's got nothing to do with this or you. Clear?"   Miles 
was  adamant.  "But,  out of courtesy for getting  me  laid  last 
night,  I might as well tell you.  I went to the feds cause  they 
have  the  best  computers, the biggest equipment  and  the  most 
interesting  work.   Not much money, but I have a backup  when  I 
need it.  If I went to work for my family, as you put it, I would 
have been a glorified beancounter. And that's not what I do.   It 
would  have  been no challenge. Boring, boring,  boring!"   Miles 
smiled sarcastically at Homosoto. "Happy now?"

Homosoto didn't flinch. "Does that mean you do not disapprove  of 
your family's activities?  How they make money?"

"I don't give a fuck!" Miles yelled.  "How does that grab you?  I 
don't give a flying fuck.  They were real good to me, paid a  lot 
of  my way.  I love my mother and she's not a hit man.  My  uncle 
does I don't know what or care.  They're family, that's it.   How 
much clearer do you want it?" Miles continued shouting.

Homosoto grinned and held up his hands. "My apologies Mr. Foster.  
I mean no disrespect.  I just like to know who works for me."

"Hey, I don't work for you yet."

"Of course, a simple slip of the tongue."

"Right."  Miles snapped sarcastically.

Homosoto ignored this last comment.  The insincere smile left his 
face,  replaced  with a more serious countenance.  "Why  did  you 
leave your post with the National Security Agency, Mr. Foster?"

Another inquisition, thought Miles.  What a crock.  Make it  good 
for the gook.

"'Cause I was working for a bunch of bungling idiots who  insured 
their  longevity  by creating an invincible  bureaucracy."  Miles 
decided  that a calm beginning might be more appropriate.   "They 
had  no real idea of what was going on.  Their heads were so  far 
up  their ass they had a tan line across their chests.   Whenever 
we  had  a good idea, it was either too novel, too  expensive  or 
needed additional study. Or, it was relegated to a committee that 
might  react  in 2 years.  What a pile of bullshit,  a  waste  of 
time.   We could have achieved a lot more without all the  inter-
ference."

"Mr.  Foster, you say, 'we'.  Who is 'we'?"   Homosoto  pointedly 
asked Miles.

"The  analysts,  the people who did the real  work.   There  were 
hundreds of us on the front lines. The guys who sweated  weekends 
and  nights  to make our country safe from  the  Communists.  The 
managers just never got with the program."

"Mr. Foster, how many of the other analysts, in your opinion, are 
good?"

Miles stepped back in his mind to think about this.  "Oh, I guess 
I  knew  a half dozen guys, and one girl, who were  pretty  good.  
She  was  probably the best, other than me,"  he  bragged.  "Some 
chicken."

"Excuse me? Chicken?"

"Oh, sorry." Miles looked up in thought. "Ah, chicks, fox,  look-
er, sweet meat, gash, you know?"

"Do you mean she's very pretty?"

Miles  suppressed an audible chuckle. "Yeah, that's  right.  Real 
pretty,  but  real smart, too.  Odd combination,  isn't  it?"  he 
smiled a wicked smile. 

Homosoto  ignored  the crudeness.  "What are your  politics,  Mr. 
Foster?"

"Huh?   My politics?  What the hell has that got to do with  any-
thing?"  Miles demanded.

"Just answer the question, please, Mr. Foster?"  Homosoto quietly 
ordered.

Miles was getting incensed.  "Republican, Democrat?  What do  you 
mean?  I vote who the fuck I want to vote for.  Other than  that, 
I don't play."

"Don't  play?"   Homosoto briefly pondered the  idiom.  "Ah,  so. 
Don't play.  Don't get involved.  Is that so?"

"Right.   They're all fucked.  I vote for the stupidest  assholes 
running  for  office.  Any office.  With any luck he'll  win  and 
really screw things up."  Homosoto hit one of Miles hot  buttons.  
Politics.  He listened attentively to Miles as he carried on. 

"That's  about  the only way to fix anything. First fuck  it  up.  
Real bad.  Create a crisis.  Since the Government ignores whoever 
or whatever isn't squeaking that's the only way to get any atten-
tion.  Make noise.  Once you create a crisis, Jeez, just look  at 
Granada  and Panama and Iraq to justify Star Wars, you get a  lot 
of  people  on  for the ride. Just look at  the  national  energy 
debate.  Great  idea,  30  years and  $5  trillion  late.   Then, 
'ooooh!',  they say.  'We got a big problem.  We better fix  it.' 
Then they all want to be heroes and every podunk politico  shoots 
off his mouth about the latest threat to humanity. "

"That's your politics?"

"Sure.   If you want to get something fixed, first fuck it up  so 
bad  that everyone notices and then they'll be crawling  up  your 
ass trying to help you fix it."

"Very novel, Mr. Foster.  Very novel and very cynical."  Homosoto 
looked mildly amused.

"Not meant to be.  Just true."

"It  seems  to me that you hold no particular  allegiance.  Would 
that  be a fair observation?"  Homosoto pressed the same line  of 
questioning.

"To  me.  That's my allegiance.  And not much of anything  else."  
Miles sounded defensive. 

"Then,  Mr. Foster, what does it take to make you a job offer.  I 
am  sure  money  isn't everything to a man  like  you."  Homosoto 
leaned  back. All 10 of his fingers met in mirror  image  fashion 
and performed push ups on each other.

Foster  returned  Homosoto's dare with a  devastating  stare-down 
that  looked  beyond  Homosoto's face. It looked right  into  his 
mind.   Foster used the knuckles from both hands for supports  as 
he leaned on the table between them.  He began speaking  deliber-
ately and coherently.

"My greatest pleasure?  A challenge. A great challenge. Yes,  the 
money  is nice, don't get me wrong,  but the thrill is the  chal-
lenge.  I spent years with people ignoring my advice, refusing to 
listen  to  me.   And I was right so many times  when  they  were 
wrong.   Then they would start blaming everyone else and  another 
committee  is set up to find out what went wrong. Ecch!  I  would 
love to teach them a lesson." 

"How  unfortunate  for them that they failed  to  recognize  your 
abilities  and  let  your skills serve them.   Yes,  indeed,  how 
unfortunate."  Homosoto said somberly.

"So,"  Miles  said arrogantly as he retreated back to  his  seat, 
"you  seem to be asking a lot of questions, and getting a lot  of 
answers.   It  is your dime, so I owe you  something.   But,  Mr. 
Homosoto, I would like to know what you're looking for."

Homosoto  stood up erect. "You, Mr. Foster. You. You are  what  I 
have  been  looking  for.  And, if you do your job  right,  I  am 
making the assumption you will accept, you will become  wealthier 
than you ever hoped.  Ever dreamed.  Mr. Foster, your  reputation 
precedes  you." He sincerely extended his hand to Foster.  "I  do 
believe  we can do business." Homosoto was beaming at Miles  Fos-
ter.

"OK,  ok, so if I accept, what do I do?" said Miles as  he  again 
shook Homosoto's weak hand.

"You,  Mr.  Foster, are going to lead an invasion of  the  United 
States of America."

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

This is the end of Chapter 5.

Chapter 6 begins in the file TERMCOMP.2 

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