Since the author also requests remuneration, we would ask these

W >> Winn Schwartau >> Since the author also requests remuneration, we would ask these

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

"D.C.?"

"Yeah," the American nodded. "And you?" He leaned over the back
of his chair to face Scott.

"Big Apple. The 'burbs."

"What brings you here?"

"To Europe?" Scott asked.

"Amsterdam. Sin City. Diamonds?"

"No, I wish," Scott laughed. "News. A story brought me here for
a couple of days."

Chris finished weighing Scott's purchase on a sensitive digital
scale that measured the goods down to the nearest hundredth of a
gram. Scott handed Chris $10 in Guilders and pocketed the pot.
"Um, where can I get some papers?" Scott asked. Chris pointed
to a glass on the bar with a complete selection of assorted
paraphernalia.

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

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

"Sure, that's what coffee shops are. The only other thing you
can buy in here is sodas. No booze." The American spoke confi-
dently as he lit up a joint and passed it to Scott.

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

"Oh, just call me Spook."

THE Spook? thought Scott. What incredible synchronicity.

Scott's body instantly tensed up and he felt the adrenaline rush
with an associated rise in pulse rate. Was this really the leg-
endary Spook?

Is it possible that he fell into a chance meeting with the hacker
that Kirk and his friends refer to as the king of hackers?
Spook? Gotta stay cool. Could he be that lucky? Was there more
than one spook? Scott momentarily daydreamed, remembering how
fifteen years before, in Athens, Greece he had opened a taxi door
right into the face a lady who turned out to be an ex-high-school
girl friend. It is a small world, Scott thought tritely.

"Spook? Are you a spy?" Scott comically asked, careful to dis-
guise his real interest.

"If I answer that I'll have to kill you," the Spook laughed out
loud in the quiet establishment. "Spy? Hardly. It's just a
handle." Spook said guardedly. "What's yours?"

"Mine? Oh, my handle. They call me Repo Man, but it's really
Scott Mason. Glad to meet you. Spook," he added handing back the
intoxicating cigarette.

BINGO! Scott Mason in hand without even a search. Landing right
in his lap. Keep your cool. Dead pan poker face. What unbe-
lievable luck. Don't blow it, let's play this for all that it's
worth. Your life just got very simple. Give both Homosoto and
Mason exactly what they want with no output of energy.

"You said you're a reporter," Spook said inhaling deeply again.
"What's the story?" At least he gets high, Spook thought. Mason
could have been a real dip-shit nerd. Thank God for small fa-
vors.

"There's a hacker conference that I was invited to," Scott said
unabashedly. "I'm trying to show the hacker's side of the story.
Why they do what they do. How they legitimize it to themselves."
Scott's mouth was rapidly drying out so he ordered a Pepsi. "I
assume you're a hacker, too," Scott broached the issue carefully.

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

"You don't care who knows?" Scott asked looking around to see if
anyone was paying attention to their conversation. Instead the
other patrons were engrossed in chess or huddled conversation.
Only Chris, the proprietor listened from behind the bar.

"The Spook is all anyone knows. I like to keep it that way,"
Spook said as he laid the roach end of the joint in the ashtray.
"Not bad, huh?" He asked Scott.

"Christ, no. Kinda hits you between the eyes." Scott rubbed them
to clear off the invading fog.

"After a couple of days it won't get you so bad," Spook said.
"You said you wanted to do a fair story on hackers, right?"

"Fair? A fair story? I can only try. If hackers act and talk
like assholes then they'll come across like assholes, no matter
what I do. However, if they make a decent case, hold a rational,
albeit arguable position, then maybe someone may listen."

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

"Honestly, and I shouldn't say this cause this is your grass,"
Scott said lighting the joint again. "No, I don't approve, but I
figure there's at least 10 sides to a story, and I'm here to find
that story and present all sides. Hopefully I can even line up a
debate or two. Convincing me is not the point; my readers make
up their own minds."

The word 'readers' momentarily jolted the Spook until he realized
Scott meant newspaper readers, not his team of Van-Ecking eaves-
droppers. Spook took the joint from Scott. "You sound like you
don't want to approve."

"Having a hard time with all the crap going down with computers
these days," Scott agreed. "I guess my attitude comes through in
my articles."

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

"Mainly in New York."

"That explains it. Ever been to Amsterdam?"

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

"How about I show you around, and try to convince you about the
honor of our profession?" Spook asked.

"Great!" Scott agreed. "But what about . . ." He made a motion
to his lips as if he was holding a cigarette.

"Legal on the streets."

"You sure?"

"C'mon," Spook said rising from his chair. "Chris, see you
later," he promised. Chris reciprocated and invited his two new
friends to return any time.

Scott followed Spook up the alley named Bakkerstraat and into the
Rembrandt Plein, a huge open square with cafes and street people
and hotels. "At night," Spook said, "Rembrandt and another 4 or
5 pleins are the social hub of activity for the younger genera-
tion. Wished I had had this when I was a kid. How are your
legs?" The Spook amorously ogled the throngs of young women
twenty years his junior.

"Fine, why?"

"I'm going to show you Amsterdam."

Scott and the Spook began walking. The Spook knew his way around
and described much of the history and heritage of the city, the
country and its culture. This kind of educated hacker was not
what Scott had expected. He had thought that today's hackers
were nerds, the propeller heads of his day, but he was discover-
ing through the Spook, that he may have been wrong. Scott remem-
bered Clifford Stoll's Hanover Hacker was a well positioned and
seemingly upstanding individual who was selling stolen computer
information to the KGB. How many nerds would have the gumption
to play in that league?

They walked to the outer edge of Old Amsterdam, on the Singel-
gracht at the Leidseplein. Without a map or the Spook, Scott
would have been totally lost. The streets and canals were all so
similar that, as the old phrase goes, you can't tell the players
without a scorecard. Scott followed the Spook onto an electric
street car. It headed down the Leidsestraat, one of the few
heavily commercial streets and across the Amstel again.

The street car proceeded up the Nieuwezuds Voorburgwal, a wide
boulevard with masses of activities on both sides. This was
tourist madness, thought Scott.

"This is freedom," said the Spook.

"Freedom?" The word instantly conjured his memory of the Freedom
League, the BBS he suspected was up to no-good. The Spook and
Freedom?

"At the end of this street is the Train Station. Thousands of
people come through this plaza every day to experience Amsterdam.
Get whatever it is out of their system. The drugs, the women,
the anarchy of a country that relies upon the integrity of its
population to work. Can't you feel it?" The Spook positively
glowed as he basked in the aura of the city.

Scott had indeed felt it during their several hours together. An
intense sense of independence that came from a generation of
democratic socialism. Government regulated drugs, a welfare
system that permitted the idle to live nearly as well as the
working. Class structures blurred by taxes so extraordinarily
high that most everyone lived in similarly comfortable condi-
tions. Poverty is almost non-existent.

Yet, as the Spook explained to Scott, "This is not the world for
an entrepreneur. That distinction still belongs to the ol' Red,
White and Blue. It's almost impossible to make any real money
here."

The sun was setting behind the western part of the city, over the
church steeples and endless rows of townhouses.

"Hungry yet?" Spook grinned at Scott.

"Hungry? I got a case of the munchies that won't quit. Let's
eat." Scott's taste buds were entering panic mode.

"Good," the Spook said as he lit up another joint on the street
car. "Let's eat." He hastily leapt off the slow moving vehicle.
Scott followed him across the boulevard and dodged cars, busses
and bicycles. They stopped in front of a small Indonesian res-
taurant, Sarang Mas, ably disguised with a red and white striped
awning and darkened windows.

"Ever had Indonesian food?"

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

Miles dragged Scott into the unassuming restaurant and the calm-
ing strains of Eastern music replaced the city noises on the
street outside. The red and white plastic checkered tablecloths
severely clashed with the gilt of the pagoda shaped decorations
throughout. But only by American tastes. Sarang Mas was a much
touted and reputable restaurant with very fine native Indonesian
chefs doing the preparations.

"Let me tell you something," the Spook said. "This food is the
absolute finest food available, anywhere in the world, bar no
idyllic island location, better than a trip to Hershey, Pennsyl-
vania to cure a case of the munchies. It's delicate, it's sweet,
it's taste bud heaven, it's a thousand points of flavor you've
never tried before." The Spook sounded like a hawker on the Home
Shopping Network.

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

"Think of the oral orgasm that's coming. Anticipation." The
waiter had appeared and waited patiently. It was still early and
the first seating crowd was two hours away. "Do you mind if I
order?"

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

"Ah, let's have a couple of Sate Kambings to start, ah, and we'll
share some Daguig Goreng, and some Kodok Goreng and ah, the Guila
Kambing. And," Spook looked at Scott, "a couple of Heinekens?"
Scott nodded. "And, if there's any way you could put that order
into warp drive, my friend here," he pointed at Scott, "would
appreciate it muchly."

"Very good," the dark skinned Indonesian waiter replied as he
scurried back to the kitchen.

It still took half an hour for the appetizers to arrive. Scott
chewed up three straws and tore two napkins into shreds while
waiting.

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

"Does it matter?"

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

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

Scott stopped chewing. "Which goat parts?" he mumbled staring
over the top of his round glasses.

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

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

"No, no, paysan, eat up. It's safe." The Spook made the Italian
gesture for eating. "Most of the time." The Spook chuckled as
he ravaged the unidentifiable goat parts on his plate.

Scott looked suspiciously at the Spook, who seemed to be surviv-
ing. How bad could it be? It tasted great, phenomenal, but what
is it? Fuck it. Scott wolfed down his goat parts in total ecsta-
sy. The Spook was right. This was the best tasting food he had
had, ever.

The rest of the meal was as sensorally exquisite as the appetiz-
er. Scott felt relieved once the waiter had promised that the
goat parts were from a goat roast, just like a rib roast or a
pork roast. Nothing disgusting like ear lobes. Ecch!

"So you want to know why we do it," said the Spook in between
nibbles of Indonesian frog legs. Scott had to think hard to
realize that the Spook had shifted the conversation to hacking.

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

"I've always liked biology, so hacking became the obvious
choice," Spook said laughing. Scott looked perplexed but that
didn't interrupt his voracious attack on the indescribably deli-
cious foods on his plate.

"How old are you?" Asked the Spook.

"The Big four-oh is in range."

"Good, me too. Remember Marshall McCluhan?"

"The medium is the message guru." Scott had admired him and made
considerable effort to attend a few of his highly motivating
lectures.

"Exactly. He predicted it 20 years early. The Networked Socie-
ty." The Spook paused to toss more food into his mouth. "How
much do you know about computers?"

"I'm learning," Scott said modestly. Whenever asked that ques-
tion he assumed that he was truly ignorant on the subject despite
his engineering degree. It was just that computers had never
held the fascination for him that they did for others.

"O.K., let me give you the low down." The Spook sucked down the
last of the Heineken and motioned to the waiter for two more. He
wiped his lips and placed his napkin beside the well cleaned
plate. "At what point does something become alive?"

"Alive?" Scott mused. "When some carbon based molecules get the
right combination of gases in the proper proportions of tempera-
ture and pressure . . ."

"C'mon, guy. Use your imagination," the Spook scoffed with his
eyes twinkling. "Biologically, you're right, but philosophically
that's pretty fucking lame. Bart Simpson could come up with
better than that." The Spook could be most insulting without
even trying. "Let me ask you, is the traffic light system in New
York alive?"

"No way!" Retorted Scott. "It's dead as a doornail, programmed
for grid lock." They both laughed at the ironic choice for
analogy.

"Seriously, in many ways it can be considered alive," the Spook
said. "It uses electricity as its source of power or food.
Therefore it eats, has a digestive system and has waste product;
heat. Agreed?"

Scott nodded. That was a familiar personification for engineer-
ing students.

"And, if you turn off the power, it stops functioning. A tempo-
rary starvation if you will. It interacts with its environment;
in this case with sensors and switches that react to the condi-
tions at any particular moment. And lastly, and most important-
ly, it has purpose." Scott raised his eyebrows skeptically.
"The program, the rules, those are its purpose. It is coinciden-
tally the same purpose that its designers had, but nonetheless it
has purpose."

"That doesn't make it alive. It can't think, as we do, and there
is no ego or personality," Scott said smugly.

"So what? Since when does plankton or slime mold join Mensa?
That's sentience." Spook walked right over Scott's comment.

"O.K.," Scott acquiesced. "I'm here to play Devil's Advocate,
not make a continent of enemies."

"Listen, you better learn something early on," Spook leaned in
over the table. His seriousness caught Scott's attention. "You
can disagree with us all you want, that's not a problem, most
everyone does. But, we do expect fairness, personal and profes-
sional."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning," the dimples in Spook's smiling cheeks radiated cama-
raderie. "Don't give up on an argument so early if you believe
in it. That's a chicken shit way out of taking a position. Real
kindergarten." The Spook finished off his Heineken in two gulps.

Scott's tension eased realizing the Spook wanted the debate, the
confrontation. This week could be a lot more fun than he had
thought.

"At any rate, can you buy into that, that the traffic systems are
alive?" The Spook asked again.

"I'll hold my final judgment in abeyance, but for sake of discus-
sion, let's continue," acquiesced Scott.

"Fair enough. In 1947, I think that was the year, some guy said
that he doubted there would be world wide market for more than
three computers."

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

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

"You're kidding."

"And what about Phil Estridge?"

"Who's that?"

"Another IBM'er," said the Spook. "He was kind of a renegade,
worked outside of the mainstream corporate IBM mold. His bosses
told him, 'hey, we need a small cheap computer to tie to our
bigger computers. This little company Apple is selling too many
for us not to get involved. By the way, Corporate Headquarters
thinks this project is a total waste of money; they've been
against it from the outset. So, you have 8 months.' They gave
him 8 months to build a computer that would set standards for
generations of machines. And, he pulled it off. Damned shame he
died.

"So, here we have IBM miss-call two of the greatest events in
their history yet they still found ways to earn tens of billions
of dollars. Today we have, oh, around a hundred million comput-
ers in the world. That's a shitload of computers. And we're
cranking out twelve million more each year.

"Then we tied over fifty million of these computers together. We
used local area networks, wide area networks, dedicated phone
lines, gate ways, transmission backbones all in an effort to
allow more and more computers to talk to each other. With the
phone company as the fabric of the interconnection of our comput-
ers we have truly become a networked society. Satellites further
tighten the weave on the fabric of the Network. With a modem
and telephone you have the world at your fingertips." The Spook
raised his voice during his passionate monologue.

"Now we can use computers in our cars or boats and use cellular
phone links to create absolute networkability. In essence we
have a new life form to deal with, the world wide information
Network."

"Here's where we definitely diverge," objected Scott, hands in
the air. "Arriving at the conclusion that a computer network is
a life form, requires a giant leap of faith that I have trouble
with."

"Not faith, just understanding," the Spook said with sustained
vigor. "We can compare networks to the veins and blood vessels
in our bodies. The heart pumps the blood, the lungs replenish
it, the other organs feed off of it. The veins serve as the
thoroughfares for blood just as networks serve as highways for
information. However, the Network is not static, where a fixed
road map describes its operation. The Network is in a constant
state of flux, in all likelihood never to repeat the same pattern
of connections again.

"So you admit," accused Scott, "that a network is just a conduit,
one made of copper and silicon just as the vein in a conduit?"

"Yes, a smart conduit," the Spook insisted. "Some conduits are
much smarter than others. The Network itself is a set of rules
by which information is transmitted over a conductive material.
You can't touch a network. Sure, you can touch the computer, the
network wire, you can touch the bits and pieces that make up the
Network, but you cannot touch the Network. The Network exists as
a synergistic byproduct of many dissimilar and physically isolat-
ed devices."

"I must admit Spook . . ."

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

"I could probably nickel and dime you into death by boredom on
several points, but I will concede that they are arguable and
better relegated for a long evening of total disagreement. For
the sake of world peace I will not press the issue now."

"How very kind," mocked the Spook. "Let's get out of here, take
a walk, and I'll continue your education."

If anyone else spoke to Scott so derogatorily, there would be
instant conflict. The Spook, though, didn't raise the defense
mechanism in Scott. Spook was actually a likable fellow, if
somewhat arrogant.

They walked back down Nieuwezuds Voorburgwal and Beursplein very
slowly. The Spook lit up another joint.

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

"When in Rome!" replied Spook. The brightly lit grand boulevard
was a sample of the energy that permeates the Amsterdam night
life. The train station was still a hub of activity in the
winter darkness of early evening.

"So look at the Network. You can cut off its tentacles, that's
better than legs and feet in this case, and they will reappear,
reconnect somewhere else. Alternate routing bypasses trouble
spots, self diagnostics help the Network doctors, priority and
preferences are handled according to a clear set of rules."
Spook waved his hands to reinforce his case.

"That's, ah, quite, ah, a theory. What do the experts say about
this?" Scott was teetering on the edge of partial acceptance.

"Experts? We're the experts. That's why we hack, don't you
see?" The answer was so obvious it didn't deserve a question.
"Now, I can only speak for myself, but I find that the Network
organism itself is what's interesting. The network, the sponta-
neously grown information organism that covers most of the planet
Earth. I believe that is why all hackers start hacking. Innate
curiosity about the way things work. Then, before our eyes, and
behind the back of the world, the planet gets connected, totally
connected to each other, and we haven't examined the ramifica-
tions of that closeness, computer-wise that is. That's what we
do." The Spook sounded satisfied with his explanation.

Scott thought about it as they crossed Kerksplein and over canals
to the Oude Zijds Voorbugwal. Was the Spook spouting off a lot
of rationalized bullshit or were he and the likes of him actually
performing valuable services, acting as technological sociolo-
gists to five billion clients? If a network was alive, thought
Scott, it was alive in the sense that a town or village is alive,
as the sum of its parts. As a society is alive. If the computer
terminal and its operator are members of a global village, as are
thousands of other computer users, might that not be considered a
society? Communications are indeed different, but Scott remem-
bered that Flatland was considered a valid society with a unique
perspective on the universe. Is it any different than the tele-
phone, which connects everyone on the planet? Shit, Spook made
some sense.

They paused on a bridge by the Voorsbugwal, and a few blocks down
the canal Scott saw a concentration of bright lights. "What's
that?" He asked.

"Poontang," the Spook said lasciviously.

"Say wha?" Scott asked

"This is Horny Heaven, Ode to Orgasm, Pick a Perversion." The
Spook proudly held his arms out.

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

"Don't take the romance out of it, this is sleaze at it's best.
Believe me I know." Somehow Scott had no doubts. With the way
Spook was passionately describing the specific acts and services
available within the 10 square block hotbed of sex, Scott knew
that the Spook was no novice. They grabbed a couple of Heinekens
from a bar and slowly strolled down one side of the carnal canal.

"I was going to go to the Yab Yub tonight, but since you've never
been here before, I figured I owed you a tour."

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

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

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

"The slums."

"Thanks a lot," Scott said sarcastically.

"No, this is for middle class tourist sex. Yab Yub is first
class but this'll do me just fine. How about you? Ready for some
serious debauching?" The Spook queried.

"Huh?" Scott laughed anxiously. "Oh, I don't know, I've never
been terribly fond of hookers."

"First time when I was 13. My uncle took me to a whorehouse for
my birthday. Shit," the Spook fondly grinned at the memory.
"I'll never forget the look on my mom's face when he told her.
She lectured him for a week. Christ," he paused. "It's so funny,
you know. My uncle's gay."

Scott was enjoying the conversation and the company of the Spook.
Americans meeting up with kindred Americans in a foreign land is
a breath of fresh air and the Spook provided that.

Scott window shopped as they walked, sidestepping the very few
venturesome cars which attempted to penetrate the horny humanity
on the crowded cobblestone streets. The variety of sexual mate-
rials was beyond comprehension. Spook seemed to be avidly fluent
in their description and application. In one window, a spiked
dildo of emmense girth and length dominated the display. Scott
grimaced at the weapon while the Spook commented on it's possible
uses at an adult sit'n'spin party.