799 lines
46 KiB
Plaintext
799 lines
46 KiB
Plaintext
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Phreak Encounter
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Barringer had always been bothered by phones. Not just
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because people called as he stepped into the shower, or because
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he sometimes got trapped on hold and was forced to listen to
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Muzak, or because wrong numbers always waited until he was
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asleep. It was more than that.
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He was bothered by the whole IDEA of telephones, by the way
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they made people act, by the elaborate and unwritten rule of
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behavior and even language that had evolved to accomodate a
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collection of wires and plastic.
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He was thrown when he was told someone was "at" a certain
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number, as if they actually lived, or at least existed, at some
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locus inside a switching center, some point inside a computer
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defined by an area code, an exchange prefix, and a four-digit
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number.
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None of this would have mattered so much if Cliff Barringer
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had worked for someone beside the phone company. On the other
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hand, if Barringer had worked for someone else, or had even
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worked for another department of C&P Telephone, he probably
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wouldn't have given so much thought to the Meaning of Phones. He
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capitalized it that way in his head, the way some people
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capitalized the Meaning of Life.
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But even working for the phone company wouldn't have
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mattered so much, so long as someone at the bank had had better
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handwriting.
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A year before, Barringer had gotten a car loan. Since he
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had signed for the loan on the fourth of the month, on the fourth
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of each month thereafter he was expected to pay up. But some
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unknown person had scribbled down the "4" so it looked like a
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"1", and a much more common date for a loan payment. That
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mistake had taken root somehow, become enshrined in some file,
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and now, promptly at 10:00 on the third of each month, a
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Mr. Phillip Ramsey called Barringer from the bank to tell him
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that his car payment was forty-eight hours overdue.
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After a year of Ramsey's calls, Barringer had gotten used to
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them. They were part of the scheme of things. Just as the sun
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coming up proved it was a new day, or seeing a new episode of
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Masterpiece Theater proved it was Sunday night, Ramsey's call was
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a sure sign that March, or June, or September, or whatever month
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it was, had indeed begun.
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The call was just the start of the beginning-of-the-month
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ritual. Barringer worked out of a Bethesda office, but his job
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took him all over the Washington area and had him on the road
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practically every day. He was out of the office almost every
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time Ramsey called, and so each month Barringer had to call
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Ramsey back in late afternoon and straighten the whole thing out
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again. Ramsey would put Barringer on hold and force him to
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listen to Muzak while he checked some other file. The Ramsey
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would recall going through it all the month before, apologize,
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and forget all about it until the next month when it came time to
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harass Barringer again. There was something perfect in the
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machine-like regularity of it all.
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So it went from month to month until the late afternoon of
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the third of October, 1986, when Barringer got the message that
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Ramsey had called that morning. He returned the call, and got a
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perfectly routine recorded announcement saying that the number
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had been disconnected.
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Barringer had an overactive imagination, he tended to worry
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too much, and it was the end of a hard day. And so that
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recording gave him chills down his spine. Barringer had always
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had the idea that Ramsey WAS his phone number, that the man and
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the number were one and the same, a combined thing. Ramsey
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answered the phone that way each month when Barringer called
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back: "Phillip Ramsey 844-1754." The name didn't sound complete
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without the number. Maybe, Barringer thought, it was Ramsey
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HIMSELF who had been "disconnected," that had ceased to exist.
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Barringer had never actually SEEN Ramsey, anyway. To Barringer,
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his loan officer was but a slightly nasal voice that was
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compelled to call him each month on a fool's errand, a voice that
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did its appointed task with the same demented relentlessness of
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any automatic machine left to its own devices.
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In earlier times, disembodied voices had come with messages
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from God. Today they demanded that $213.15 be remitted promptly.
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There were certainly enough people out there who would
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delight in the idea that their loan officer had vanished in the
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hopes that records had vanished along with the man, but Cliff
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Barringer was a good guy. Also to the point, his work for C&P
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Telephone left him wide open to the idea that people and phones
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could do very strange things to each other. He worried.
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Besides, Ramsey had never actually been cruel or unfair, just
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incompetent. Barringer bore Ramsey no ill will, had no desire to
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see him disconnected. Besides, if it could happen to Ramsey, it
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could happen to anyone. Barringer himself might be next. It was
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enlightened self-interest to see what was up. The bank wasn't
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far away and it never hurt to check.
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The long and short of it was that Barringer rushed over to
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the bank, arrived just before closing, blundered his way past the
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best defense three layers of receptionists could put up, and
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found himself in the Loan Department, up against the last of the
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receptionists, a friendly-looking woman named Miss McGillicutty.
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McGillicutty listened to Barringer ask for Mr. Ramsey and
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gave him a long hard look. The Loan Department attracted its
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share of kooks, and it was McGillicutty's job to decide who were
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the dangerous ones, the types who would threaten to blow the
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place u because the bank wanted its money back. This guy looked
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pretty much okay. Bushy brown beard, and hair still there but
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thinning on top. Clever, capable, strong-looking hands that had
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done some manual labor, although not recently. Medium height, a
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little pudgy. Dressed in fairly new work clothes, with a shirt
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pocket full of pens and a phone company photo ID hung on a chain
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around his neck. Round, soft face, and eyes that looked neither
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crazed or threatening, or panicked, but concerned. The eyes
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decided her. This guy didn't want to hurt anyone. "Mr. Ramsey
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is busy, Mr., ah, Barringer, but if you could wait, perhaps he
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could talk to you in a few minutes."
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"Thanks, but I don't need to talk to him. I just want to
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see him, make sure he's all right." Barringer said. Now that he
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was here, in a real-looking office, talking to a real person, the
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idea that a man could disappear because of a phone number seemed
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a little less likely, though still not impossible. On the other
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hand, maybe it would be best if he didn't try to explain his
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worries. "Is he all right?"
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"I see," McGillicutty said, although she didn't, "I can
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promise you Mr. Ramsey is fine. There is he, across the office,
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third desk from the wall."
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"That's him? The thin guy in the gray suit, sort of pale?"
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That could be practically anyone around here, McGillicutty
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thought. "That's him, fit as a fiddle. Why did you think he
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might not be all right?"
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"That's really HIM?" Somehow the bland looking man across
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the room still didn't look faceless enough, robotic enough, to
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match the nasal, monotonous nagging he had endured over the last
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year. "You're sure that's Phillip Ramsey 844-1754?"
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"That IS Mr. Ramsey," she said carefully, "right over there,
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but that's not his phone number anymore. They had to disconnect
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it this morning because of all the wrong numbers. Mr. Ramsey's
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phone was the worst, so they unplugged him altogether and he
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doesn't have a new phone yet. I see from your ID you're with the
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phone company. Are you here to work on the problem?"
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"What? Oh, no, I'm here for myself, not on business. But
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it was just wrong numbers?" he asked, feeling both relieved and
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foolish. "That's all?"
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"Not exactly all--" she was interrupted by the phone
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ringing. "Excuse me." She picked up the handset to talk. "Loan
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Depart--oh damn. Here, Mr. Barringer, listen for yourself."
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With a certain trepidation, Cliff Barringer took the handset
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and put it to his ear. There was a high pitched beeeeeEEEP,
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beeeeeEEEP that went on and on. "Ah, I see," he said, breathing
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a sigh of relief. This was suddenly familiar turf. This was
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what he spent his working days on. He hung up the phone and
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spoke. "That's a carrier signal from some computer out there.
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Somebody is trying to contact a computer over phone lines, and
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hook his own computer up to it. He's programmed his computer to
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do its own dialing, and then told it to call a wrong number. So
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it gets you."
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"But then we get other calls. As soon as anyone answers,
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the person calling just says 'sorry' and hangs up, or else
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doesn't say anything at all and hangs up."
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"That'd be people with less fancy computers who are
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misdialing manually. They're expecting to get a tone like the
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one you're getting. If they get it, they throw the switch and
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the signal goes into the computer. When they hear a person, they
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know it must be a wrong number and drop the handset."
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"That almost makes sense."
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"Mmmph. Listen, let me do a little work on this tonight.
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Just on my own. I can probably get to the computer they're all
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calling and leave a message on it for people to dial more
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carefully."
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"I wouldn't want you to--"
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"Oh, no, it's no trouble. Fooling with phones and computers
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is my hobby."
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"What do you do for the phone company?"
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"I fool with phones and computers."
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"At least you must enjoy your work."
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"Yeah, I suppose. Dr. Frankenstein probably enjoyed working
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on the Monster at first, too."
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"That's a bit extreme, isn't it?"
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"Maybe. But my job put me in touch with things that scare
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me. I track down computer-and-phone systems that are out of
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control, illegal. Computer hackers and phone phreaks. There are
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some very weird people out there. I've seen what they can do. I
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worry what they're going to do next."
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Jean McGillicutty took a long look at Barringer. She was
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starting to revise her opinion. Oh, Barringer was kind of weird,
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all right. But past that, he seemed pleasant--more than
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pleasant, kindly. And he looked harmless. She thought he looked
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like he might even be worth talking to. In her world, that
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simply meant he didn't look like a banker. But he was probably a
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shy type. She would have to do the pushing. "Hold it. It's
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quitting time, and McDonald's Raw Bar is just down the block.
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They sell draught beer cheap, it's been a rough day, I was
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planning on having one, and I hate drinking alone. Let me be
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real forward and offer to buy you one."
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Barringer blushed and then grinned. "Daddy raised me never
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to turn down free beer."
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"Oh, it's not free. In return, you have to explain what the
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hell you're talking about."
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"Sold."
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Fifteen minutes later they were perched on a pair of tired
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old bar stools in a dark, almost murky tavern that looked like it
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had nearly been torn down a dozen times. It was one of the few
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surviving single-story buildings in that part of Bethesda,
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surrounded on all sides by new construction and new roads. All
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good bars have always looked like they belonged to a previous
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age, and the Raw Bar was no exception.
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A mug of beer in one hand and the bowl of peanuts close by
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the other, McGillicutty was ready to listen. A comfortably
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ramshackle bar beat a banker's office all hollow for
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conversation. "Okay, hackers I've heard of, but what's a freak?"
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"It's spelled a little oddly, p-h-r-e-a-k, so it'll star the
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same way 'phone' does. People usually draw the 'f' sound out a
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little to make the distinction."
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"Spell it as you will, but what's a phreak?"
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"Ever hear of Captain Crunch?"
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"Kid's cereal, right?"
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"Well, that's where he got the name. Captain Crunch was one
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of the first phone phreaks, from maybe fifteen years ago. And he
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was one of the best. He got his name from a toy that came in
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boxes of the cereal. A toy whistle that just happened to have
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exactly the right tone so that if you held it up to the phone and
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blew into it, you could cut in some parts of Ma Bell that
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civilians weren't supposed to be able to reach. The whistle let
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anyone enter tone commands. That's the sort of thing a phone
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phreak does. He likes to play games with the telco--"
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"Telco?"
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"Telephone company. Phreaks learn access codes, find ways
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to bill long distance calls to, say, a number at the Pentagon.
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Mostly it's kids fooling around. Supposedly one guy used one
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public phone to call the next phone booth over--except he routed
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the call through 50 states and something like four communications
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satellites. And that was maybe twelve years ago, long before the
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first of the personal computers hit the marker. You can imagine
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what a phone phreak can do with a computer if he can pull those
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kinds of tricks WITHOUT one. They get sneakier all the time. My
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job is to keep a step or two ahead of them."
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"What happens when you get behind?
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Barringer grinned. "Never happens, at least not for long.
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I know some stuff, I've got some people. You know the old
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saying, set a thief to catch a thief?"
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"You mean you're an ex-phreak who's gone straight?"
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"Oh, no, no. I'm allergic to cliches. What I meant was,
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I'm a part-timer on the phone police phorce. About half the time
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I'm a trouble shooter, solving problems when people are having
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legit phone and computer systems installed. That's where I
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learned enough to be a phone cop. In fact, six months ago I was
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sworn in as a Montgomery County deputy sheriff. C&P Telephone
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and Atlantic Bell were involved in so many busts against people
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doing computer crime that the county decided it was less paper
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work if a few of us had some police powers. I figure if the
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regular cops can have stool pigeons, so can the phone cops. I've
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got files on twenty or thirty basically harmless kids who have
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pulled stunts they shouldn't have. If I nab kids like that and
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turn them over to the real cops, all I've done is give 'em an
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arrest sheet. That makes it tough for them later on, maybe keeps
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them out of a job, makes them mad, makes them want to get even
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with the big bad phone company. Instead, I give them a good
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scare. Then when it looks like they are in deep, I tell them I
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won't pull 'em in. I leave 'em alone and tell them to keep
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fooling around but not to go overboard. In return they get to
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play spy and let me know if any really bad stuff is happening."
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"You don't look like a cop."
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"None of the good ones do. So give me the facts, ma'am.
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Just the facts. Give me the other numbers in your office that
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got a lot of these calls. And lemme buy the next round."
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When Barringer got to work on tracking down the computer in
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question, some of his original paranoia came back to him. Things
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were a little strange. But that might have been the our. What
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with getting home and making dinner and playing with the cats and
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so forth, it was midnight before he even got started. On the
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other hand, late night was the traditional time for hackers to
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come out and play.
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Finding the computer everyone was trying to call was easy.
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There are four or five basic kinds of mistakes people made when
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dialing phone numbers--transposing certain pairs of digits,
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reading a "6" for a "9" or vice versa, a finger slipping from one
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touchtone button to another--and with a list of the numbers
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people actually got when they made mistakes, it was easy for
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Barringer to back into the number they had been trying for. In
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five minutes he had a list of the most likely numbers.
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Barringer had a few computers around the house, and he
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powered up a clunky, ugly, lovable old Kaypro for the job at
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hand. He brought up his telecommunications program, made sure
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the printer was ready to get down a hard copy of everything that
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happened, for later reference, and started trying numbers. Maybe
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he had been fighting hackers too long--it didn't even occur to
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him that the guy he reached on the first try wouldn't be too wild
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over getting a call and being hung up on at that hour. Barringer
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simply poked his finger down on the hang-up switch when he heard
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a "hello" instead of a beep. But then, Barringer had always felt
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that strangers on the phone weren't real people. On the second
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try, he raised a carrier tone. He pushed some buttons and piped
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the signal to the Kaypro.
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He had been expecting to find a business computer system, or
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a financial database service, something that would attract a lot
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of daytime calls. Instead, a sign-on message that said
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FRIENDLY NEIGHBORS
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ELECTRONIC BULLETIN BOARD SERVICE
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popped up on his screen, and that was decidedly strange. A
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Bulletin Board Service, a BBS, was usually pretty quiet during
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the day. BBSs were places where computer hobbyists fooled
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around, leaving each other messages, praising or insulting a
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piece of software, passing around gossip, jokes, and computer
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files. It was nighttime stuff: Most hobbyists had daytime jobs
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and couldn't make calls to the board during business hours.
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Barringer had a personal rule of thumb--for every hundred
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correctly dialed numbers, there was one wrongo. For the number
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of wrongos that had been bugging Ramsey and his coworkers, there
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had to be an enormous number of calls made to this number, way
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too many for the average BBS from 9:00 to 5:00. This was one
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popular board.
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WHAT IS YOUR FIRST AND LAST NAME?
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the computer on the other end of the phone asked. Barringer
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typed in
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>WILLIAM HELLER
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one of the many real-sounding fake names he used in his work.
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ARE YOU A FIRST TIME USER?
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>YES
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PLEASE ENTER A PASSWORD. YOU WILL NEED TO ENTER THIS PASSWORD TO
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GET ACCESS TO FRIENDLY NEIGHBORS, SO PLEASE REMEMBER IT.
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Barringer smiled to himself and typed in
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>RAMSEY
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After all, Ramsey had started this.
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YOUR FRIENDLY NEIGHBORS BID YOU WELCOME. FOLLOWING IS A LIST OF
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SERVICES AND PROGRAMS AVAILABLE ON THIS BOARD. THE RULES OF THIS
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BOARD ARE SIMPLE. FOR EVERY USE OF A FRIENDLY NEIGHBORS SERVICE,
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YOU MUST FIRST TELL US A NEW AND INTERESTING FACT. ONE SERVICE,
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ONE FACT. WE HAVE PLENTY OF PHONE LINES--NO TIME LIMIT ON USE.
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ENJOY!!!
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THE FRIENDLY SYSOP
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It was a "menu-driven" system, where you were presented with
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a numbered list of things to do, each only a general description.
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You entered the number of your choice, and a sub-menu came up,
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with a more detailed list of possibilities. You choose from one
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of those, and a sub-sub-menu came up, each item on it a detailed
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description of more goodies. Only at the fourth level did you
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get down to work. Menus were a good way to run a system with a
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lot of things on it, and there sure was a lot here. A hell of a
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lot.
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Barringer decided the system operator, the sysop, was one
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real nice guy. The options offered on the menus made his mouth
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water. If ten percent of it was true, this was the happy hunting
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ground for every hacker and hobbyist, every wirehead and computer
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nerd and phone phreak in the world.
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There were working programs and games for every computer he
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had ever heard of, some of them legal public domain stuff, but a
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lot of obviously bootlegs of copyrighted progs. There were patch
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lines into practically every college and university computer
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system in the country. There was a service that allowed a user
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to call any phone-equipped computer anywhere in the world without
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charge by calling up the Friendly Neighbors board and letting it
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route the call. There was a search program patched into a
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database with a nationwide phone directory, including long
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distance and unlisted numbers. You could look up the numbers by
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name, or name by number, or either by address. You could get the
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zip code or local equivalent for any place in the world. The
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ENCYCLOPAEDIA BRITTANICA and AMERICANA were available, not just
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abstracts but the whole shooting works, there on-line to browse
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through, along with LAROUSSE and the GREAT SOVIET ENCYCLOPEDIA
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and a dozen Barringer had never heard of.
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There was a complete legal services library search service,
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and a patch into the MEDFAX medical research database. The A.P.,
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U.P.I., Reuters, Agence France, Pravda, P.A.P., the Dow-Jones
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News service--every wire and news service in the world was there.
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The electronic card catalog of the Library of Congress was
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online.
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And that just scratched the surface. It took a half-hour
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for Barringer to get through the various menus. All free. Just
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give the Friendly Neighbors Sysop an interesting fact.
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CARE TO GIVE US A TRY?
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Barringer had to see if it was for real. The temptation was
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too great.
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>YES
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THEN TELL ME AN INTERESTING FACT.
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Well, what would a sysop who had instant access to all that
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find interesting? Barringer shrugged.
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>THE BATTLE OF BUNKER HILL REALLY TOOK PLACE ON BREED'S HILL.
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THAT IS CORRECT. THANK YOU. WHAT'S YOUR PLEASURE?
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He did something he could have done in person, something that he
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could easily do at work. He got Jean McGillicutty's phone number
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and address. WANT MORE? TELL ME ANOTHER INTERESTING FACT.
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>TED WILLIAMS WAS THE GREATEST PLAYER IN BASEBALL HISTORY.
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AN INTERESTING OPINION, BUT I NEED FACTS.
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Could it catch a fib?
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>THE POTOMAC IS THE LONGEST RIVER IN THE WORLD.
|
|
|
|
THAT IS INCORRECT. TELL ME A CORRECT AND INTERESTING FACT.
|
|
|
|
>2 AND 2 IS 4.
|
|
|
|
THAT IS NOT INTERESTING. YOU HAVE ONE MORE CHANCE, OR I WILL
|
|
HAVE TO SIGN YOU OFF.
|
|
|
|
>THE AIRCRAFT CARRIER THE USS THEODORE ROOSEVELT IS THE LARGEST
|
|
VEHICLE EVER BUILT BY MAN.
|
|
|
|
THAT IS CORRECT. THANK YOU. WHAT'S YOUR PLEASURE?
|
|
|
|
He checked the latest betting line for the World Series and
|
|
signed off.
|
|
|
|
Barringer sat there staring at the Kaypro's screen for ten
|
|
minutes, motionless. This had to be the biggest, most blatant,
|
|
most thorough-going data-theft he had ever seen. The Friendly
|
|
Neighbors system operator was good at what he did, obviously,
|
|
incredibly good, but three-quarters of the stuff on that board
|
|
had to be stolen. There had to be a lot of gossip out there
|
|
about Friendly Neighbors, the sort of thing most pholks wouldn't
|
|
tell a phone cop for fear he'd spoil all the phun. Barringer
|
|
decided he had to do some talking with a certain friend, press
|
|
for some information. He used the Kaypro to call another board,
|
|
the Baker Street Irregulars BBS. Barringer got in on the first
|
|
try, something he had never managed before. The BSI Board was
|
|
nearly always tied up. Well, who'd call anything else with the
|
|
Friendly Neighbors around? All the regular boards would fall on
|
|
hard times in the face of such competition. Too bad, too. The
|
|
BSI BBS was a good board, full of fun things to do and try, all
|
|
of then legal.
|
|
It was run by Sidney Zamoiski, one of Barringer's rephormed
|
|
phreaks, one of his sources of information. Barringer signed in,
|
|
went to the message section, and left a brief note, garbled in
|
|
its historical and literary roots but clear to sender and
|
|
receiver.
|
|
|
|
>DOCTOR WATSON. COME HERE, I NEED YOU. THE GAME'S AFOOT.
|
|
|
|
He didn't leave his name.
|
|
Zamoiski would be in Barringer's office no later than noon
|
|
the next day. Barringer shoved the cats to one side of the bed
|
|
and tried to get some sleep.
|
|
The next day was Saturday, but it wasn't at all unusual to
|
|
see Barringer in the office on weekends. It gave him the chance
|
|
to catch up on things, to clear his decks for the new eek. It
|
|
was easier for him to concentrate without the usual bustle of
|
|
people around. For that matter, Barringer spent more time out of
|
|
the office, away from the weekday crowds, than was really
|
|
expected of him. He was nervous around too many people.
|
|
That didn't matter now. It was a bright, clear morning, the
|
|
place was deserted, he had a fresh hot thermos of coffee along,
|
|
and he could track down Friendly Neighbors.
|
|
The first thing to try was the lazy way. He called a
|
|
private C&C line.
|
|
"Internal Services Operator."
|
|
"Yes, this is employee Clifford Barringer."
|
|
"Hey, Cliff! Joe Walker here. How are you?"
|
|
"Oh, all right." Walker was another person Cliff had never
|
|
actually seen, and therefore didn't quite believe in.
|
|
"Got some business to do?"
|
|
"Sure do."
|
|
"Okay, let's go by the book. Punch up your access authority
|
|
code."
|
|
Cliff used his phone's touch-tone buttons to enter an eight-
|
|
digit number.
|
|
"Thanks, Cliff. You're you, all right. What do you need?"
|
|
"Gimme a customer name and address on this number." He
|
|
punched in the Friendly Neighbors number.
|
|
"That Maryland? Area code 301?"
|
|
"Sure is."
|
|
"Cliff, where you been? That exchange isn't even hooked
|
|
up!"
|
|
"Get serious, I reached that number last night."
|
|
"I'll run the CNL, but I'm telling you that ain't a live
|
|
exchange."
|
|
Barringer waited as Walker ran the query.
|
|
"Not in service, Cliff."
|
|
"Run it again. I swear I called that number last night."
|
|
"Okay." There was another slight pause. "Nothing. Zip.
|
|
It's not there. Check your own books, man, that's not a live
|
|
exchange."
|
|
"I'll do that. Thanks, Joe." Barringer was beginning to get
|
|
a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He checked the
|
|
telco's handbooks. It WAS a deader. But that was impossible.
|
|
People had very occasionally managed to tap a bandit phone line
|
|
into the system, though few even bothered to try. It was just
|
|
too tough, too hard to hide, too expensive. But one bandit phone
|
|
line would be child's play up against creating a bandit EXCHANGE.
|
|
And why do it? To have access to lots of lines? But there were
|
|
up to 10,000 phone numbers on an exchange. Who could possibly
|
|
need that many?
|
|
Walker's computer and the handbook must be dated. Billing.
|
|
He'd talk to Billing. They were always up to date. He picked up
|
|
the phone.
|
|
Ten minutes later he hung it up again, in a cold sweat.
|
|
Billing had never charged a dime to that number. It didn't
|
|
exist. And Billing confirmed that the whole exchange had never
|
|
been hooked up.
|
|
In desperation, he tried the Criss-Cross directory, which
|
|
listed phone numbers in order against the customers. Nothing, of
|
|
course.
|
|
He nearly jumped a foot when his own phone rang. He picked
|
|
it up as if it were possessed. This morning he was starting to
|
|
get confirmation of his most secret fear--that ALL telephones
|
|
everywhere were and always HAD BEEN possessed.
|
|
But it was only Security downstairs, asking if Sid Zamoiski
|
|
could be escorted up. Barringer said yes, and five minutes later
|
|
one of the uniforms from downstairs delivered Zamoiski. "Doctor
|
|
Watson, I presume," Barringer said as he stood to shake
|
|
Zamoiski's hand.
|
|
"Hey, Cliff," Zamoiski said. "I've been waiting for your
|
|
call for a while now." Zamoiski sat himself down in the visitors
|
|
chair and grinned. He didn't look like a hacker. He looked more
|
|
like a surfer, or a lumberjack. A big, dark-haired, burly young
|
|
man with a handle-bar moustache; it was hard to imagine him
|
|
hunched over a computer fooling with disk drives and monitors.
|
|
"Thought you might be. Friendly Neighbors?" Barringer said.
|
|
"Uh-huh. What name did you get in under?"
|
|
"William Heller. Why?"
|
|
"Thought so. Try it now, under your own name."
|
|
Barringer looked oddly at Zamoiski and turned to the IBM PC
|
|
on his desk. Thirty seconds later he was on-line to Friendly
|
|
Neighbors.
|
|
|
|
WHAT IS YOUR FIRST AND LAST NAME?
|
|
|
|
>CLIFF BARRINGER
|
|
|
|
YOU'LL NEVER TAKE ME ALIVE, COPPER! AND NEXT TIME DON'T BOTHER
|
|
CALLING FROM A TELCO OFFICE NUMBER.
|
|
|
|
The PC's screen filled with gibberish as Friendly Neighbors
|
|
cut the connection.
|
|
"My God," Zamoiski said. "I didn't know it could trace the
|
|
line."
|
|
"It knows who I AM?" Barringer thought he might faint.
|
|
"Doctor Devious--you know, the pet shop owner in Takoma Park
|
|
who runs a board--told me that he had told Friendly Neighbors who
|
|
all the phone cops were. That was an Interesting Fact. But if
|
|
it can trace calls, I'm surprised it allowed a call from your
|
|
home phone."
|
|
"Listen, with all you wireheads out there ready to do me in,
|
|
I've got the most unlisted number on Earth. The telco switching
|
|
system thinks my phone is across the county line, in Prince
|
|
George's County. I've got three lines cross-connected through
|
|
legal cheese-boxes to keep phreaks from finding my home. C&P
|
|
okayed it."
|
|
"Mmmph."
|
|
"And if you breathe a word of that you've had your last
|
|
Chinese dinner on me. How long has Friendly Neighbors been in
|
|
business?"
|
|
"Not long. Somebody left the message on my BBS about a
|
|
month ago that there was a great new board to try."
|
|
"Has it grown since, or did it start out with all that
|
|
stuff?"
|
|
"A few goodies around the edges, but mostly the sysop had it
|
|
ready to go when he started."
|
|
"What the hell is this interesting fact routine?"
|
|
"Got me. And don't ask me why it asks for facts and then
|
|
tells you 'that is correct.' If it knows, why ask? And here's
|
|
another weird thing. It's programmed so it won't let me repeat a
|
|
fact I'VE already given, but up to a point it'll let me tell it
|
|
something I know it's heard from one of the other guys. But if I
|
|
over do it, it tells me I'm being lazy and demands fresh facts."
|
|
"I tried to fib to it, and it caught me," Barringer said.
|
|
"How could a program be that smart? Think this guy actually
|
|
licked the artificial intelligence problem?"
|
|
"You know my theory, Holmes. We won't get anywhere on
|
|
artificial intelligence unless we perfect artificial stupidity
|
|
first. I dunno. Maybe this sysop HAS done it. And get this:
|
|
Devious said he tried reading it cards from Trivial Pursuit.
|
|
Friendly Neighbors caught him and told him to knock it off."
|
|
"Jesus. This is getting me more and more worried.
|
|
Especially since I can't find them." Barringer quickly ran
|
|
through his attempt to get an address for the board.
|
|
"That's creepy." Zamoiski thought for a moment, and suddenly
|
|
laughed out loud. "Wait a second. I think I know how we can
|
|
find them. But not from here. We'll go to my place."
|
|
|
|
Zamoiski lived in a blank-faced high rise apartment building
|
|
in Silver Spring. The place was strangely neat and spare for a
|
|
bachelor's home. It looked almost barren, as if Zamoiski camped
|
|
there instead of living there. Only one part of the place looked
|
|
truly occupied: a mammoth desk covered with hardware and manuals
|
|
and tools and carry-out food containers. Zamoiski used a Sanyo
|
|
for most of his hacking. He went straight to it and signed on to
|
|
Friendly Neighbors. Because he was an experienced user, the
|
|
system skipped the rules and the catalog of services and went
|
|
straight to
|
|
|
|
TELL ME SOMETHING MORE ABOUT THE BATTLE OF MIDWAY.
|
|
|
|
"Uh-oh," Zamoiski said. "Every once in a while it gets
|
|
interested in a topic you've told it something about and does
|
|
this. Let's see."
|
|
|
|
>THE SHIPS OF THE OPPOSING FLEETS NEVER SAW EACH OTHER.
|
|
|
|
THAT IS CORRECT. WHAT'S YOUR PLEASURE?
|
|
|
|
Zamoiski called up the criss-crossing section of the
|
|
phonebook service. "Let's just see how dumb this genius computer
|
|
is." He asked for the home address matching Friendly Neighbor's
|
|
phone number.
|
|
Friendly Neighbors obediently betrayed its own location.
|
|
"Stratford Land, Bethesda," Barringer read. "Zamoiski,
|
|
you're a genius."
|
|
"Not really. But I'm glad to prove my theory about
|
|
artificial stupidity. Never seen a machine that wasn't dumb if
|
|
you asked it the right question. Now what?"
|
|
"Well," Barringer said, "I could act police and wait until
|
|
Monday and get a warrant and go in there with some regular cops
|
|
and so on--but dammit, I gotta MEET this guy!"
|
|
"We go over now?"
|
|
"Yeah. Who could resist?"
|
|
|
|
Stratford Lane was one block long, a quiet little suburban
|
|
road cut into the side of a gentle hill, full of sixty-year-old
|
|
brick houses. Children played in the yards and ran back and
|
|
forth across the quiet street. All the lawns were neatly kept,
|
|
all the houses were well cared for. Except one, toward the
|
|
Wilson Lane end of the block.
|
|
Barringer checked the address again. It matched, but it
|
|
couldn't be right. The house, set back a bit from the road, and
|
|
on the uphill side of the street, was barely visible from the
|
|
road, hidden behind bramble and high trees and a tangle of
|
|
undergrowth that seemed not just to have grown, but EVOLVED from
|
|
a lawn left unmowed for a quarter-century. What could be seen of
|
|
the house itself did not inspire confidence. It had been painted
|
|
brick many years before, but the paint had faded and flaked off
|
|
until it required more imagination that honesty to call the
|
|
exterior walls white. The shutters were closed, but looked
|
|
rotted and about to fall off. The slate roof seemed ready to
|
|
slide off in one piece. Worn, broken, half-collapsed stone steps
|
|
led up to an overgrown path through the front-yard forest to the
|
|
front door. An ancient and decrepit blue and white Anglia two-
|
|
door resting on four flat tires blocked the way up the stairs.
|
|
The two friends pushed the bramble far enough out of the way
|
|
to squeeze around the car, and headed for the front door of the
|
|
house. Barringer happened to glance up as they made their way
|
|
along the short path. He stopped short and grabbed Zamoiski's
|
|
sleeve. "Sid. Look up at the utility pole."
|
|
"What the hell--?"
|
|
Hanging from the pole and running into the second floor of
|
|
the house was a cable as thick as a man's arm. It was dark
|
|
green, and it didn't look so much connected to the junction box
|
|
on the pole as MELTED to it.
|
|
Barringer shook his head and headed for the front door.
|
|
Zamoiski was impressed with Barringer for having the nerve to
|
|
knock, not at all surprised when nothing happened, taken aback
|
|
when Barringer tried the knob and astonished when he was able to
|
|
open the door. It hadn't been locked.
|
|
Barringer stepped inside the door, turned, and called to
|
|
Zamoiski. "You got a flashlight in your car?"
|
|
"Yeah, I'll get it." Zamoiski was glad of a reason to get
|
|
away from the house, but not at all happy about having to go
|
|
back. The door was wide open and Barringer stood in it, waiting
|
|
impatiently. Zamoiski stepped inside and handed his friend the
|
|
light.
|
|
Barringer flicked on the flashlight and looked around.
|
|
The entire interior of the house had been removed, down to
|
|
the lath. The floor was a slab of pinkish concrete, and
|
|
Barringer had the feeling the concrete filled the house's
|
|
foundation from the cellar to ground level in one solid block.
|
|
That melted green cable came through the wall over the door, and
|
|
led to a--thing. Barringer didn't know what to call it. It was
|
|
a boxy shape, about four feet square, of the same dark green
|
|
color as the cable. It looked half-melted, too, its shape
|
|
softened, rounded, droopy.
|
|
Another green cable led to a device Barringer and Zamoiski
|
|
both recognized instantly.
|
|
There are certain machines that must be certain shapes if
|
|
they are to work. A square wheel cannot roll, a lever must be
|
|
long and thin to do any good, a knife must have a cutting edge.
|
|
Zamoiski gasped as Barringer shone the light on a twelve-
|
|
foot diameter, bright-green, well-polished, very handsome
|
|
parabolic dish antenna. They'd have to do some measurements, and
|
|
get some tracking done, but to Zamoiski that would merely be
|
|
confirmation. Somewhere in deep space, the system operator of
|
|
the Friendly Neighbor Bulletin Board was hard at work. "I always
|
|
said hackers and phreaks were weird enough to get along with
|
|
anyone," Zamoiski said.
|
|
"Try weird enough to talk to aliens without noticing,"
|
|
Barringer said. He was surprised because he WASN'T surprised.
|
|
Somehow, he had always been expecting this. "I suddenly
|
|
understand the interesting fact rule. Our Friendly Neighbors tap
|
|
into all the great data sources somehow--but they have no idea
|
|
what's what. Which is the junk no one cares about, garbage
|
|
that's just accumulated and clogged up the world's databases?
|
|
Which is the good stuff the people really care about? We tell
|
|
them what we find interesting. And they don't mind two people
|
|
telling the same fact because that just tells them it's
|
|
interesting to more than one person."
|
|
"I shudder to think they're getting their view of mankind
|
|
from hackers," Zamoiski said. "I gave the poor guys some really
|
|
dumb stuff. Very few civilians would care about how to do
|
|
automatic baud-rate shifting for a Sanyo MBC. I dunno. What do
|
|
we do now?"
|
|
Barringer looked at the half-melted green box. "We talk to
|
|
them. Their mainframe here doesn't have a local terminal. I
|
|
guess we get to a phone and sign on. Let's go to my place. It's
|
|
closer."
|
|
|
|
|
|
TELL ME AN INTERESTING FACT.
|
|
|
|
Barringer looked at his friend. "Well, what do we say? How
|
|
do you politely say we caught you spying on our planet?"
|
|
"They aren't spying. Just looking around. And that door
|
|
wasn't locked. They must be expecting us. Lemme get their
|
|
attention."
|
|
|
|
>THE SYSOP OF THIS BOARD IS AN EXTRATERRESTRIAL.
|
|
|
|
he typed.
|
|
For the first time, there was a pause before the program
|
|
responded. Then, finally, a message came up on the screen.
|
|
|
|
HELLO NEIGHBOR. YOU ARE NO LONGER LIMITED TO THE SMALLER
|
|
BEGINNER'S BOARD. YOU HAVE JUST QUALIFIED FOR PROVISIONAL
|
|
MEMBERSHIP IN THE MAIN BULLETIN BOARD SYSTEM. DO YOU WISH TO
|
|
JOIN?
|
|
|
|
"Damn straight I do," Zamoiski said.
|
|
|
|
>YES
|
|
|
|
he typed.
|
|
|
|
THE RULES OF THE BOARD ARE SIMPLE. TELL US ABOUT YOU, AND WE'LL
|
|
TELL YOU ABOUT US. ANSWER ONE OF OUR QUESTIONS, AND GAIN ACCESS
|
|
TO ONE SERVICE.
|
|
|
|
MAKE SURE YOUR PRINTER IS ENGAGED AND SAVING A HARD COPY. THEN
|
|
ENTER "READY." WE WILL DISPLAY AN OVERVIEW LISTING OF SERVICES
|
|
AND INFORMATION AVAILABLE.
|
|
|
|
Zamoiski switched on the printer and typed
|
|
|
|
>READY
|
|
|
|
The choices scrolled past the screen. None of them made
|
|
sense at first, but a lot of them seemed like fun. What looked
|
|
like databases on a hundred planetary systems, instructions on
|
|
how to build some extremely entertaining gadgets, telecomputer
|
|
courses on any number of subjects, games that he just had to try.
|
|
Zamoiski suddenly felt worried about losing it all before he had
|
|
a chance to play. If the local authorities or the Feds, or even
|
|
worse, the phone company, found out, they might shut it down, for
|
|
failure to pay one hell of a long distance bill. Zamoiski had an
|
|
oddly parochial world view. "Cliff." he asked, "we don't have to
|
|
tell anyone else about this, do we? I mean, Earth people, like
|
|
the Air Force?"
|
|
"Sid. This isn't something little like the time you busted
|
|
into the bank and 'corrected' your balance. This is big, this is
|
|
for real. The history of humanity and all that. We GOTTA tell.
|
|
The Feds have to get started and find out some stuff. Who are
|
|
these guys? Just alien hackers fooling around? An invasion?
|
|
And what kind of information are they going to want from us?
|
|
Anthropology? Missile secrets? We still don't know if they're
|
|
really friendly."
|
|
The listing finally ended.
|
|
|
|
NOW THEN, OUR FIRST REQUEST.
|
|
|
|
Again, a pause. Barringer held his breath and debated
|
|
yanking the keyboard back from his friend. But Zamoiski could
|
|
simply go to any computer in the world and call on his own. The
|
|
cat was out of the bag, the can of worms was opened. And
|
|
Zamoiski was just crazy enough to show the Neighbors how he had
|
|
patched into the Lawrence Livermore Lab computer that time, in
|
|
exchange for an hour of gaming. What would they want to know?
|
|
The screen cleared. Another pause. And then, on the
|
|
screen--
|
|
|
|
TELL US MORE ABOUT TED WILLIAMS.
|
|
|
|
Barringer sighed in relief. "I think," he said, "it's going
|
|
to be all right."
|
|
|
|
|
|
Roger MacBride Allen
|
|
Analog Science Fiction/Science Fact
|
|
Vol. CVI, No. 5, May 1986.
|
|
Pirated without permission by Jolly Roger
|
|
(but with hopes of increasing their sales!)
|
|
|