Terminal Compromise Part 92

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 s.h.i.+t 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. d.a.m.ned 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 s.h.i.+tload 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 pa.s.sionate 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 bypa.s.ses 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 ca.n.a.ls to the Oude Zijds Voorbugwal. Was the Spook spouting off a lot of rationalized bulls.h.i.+t 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? s.h.i.+t, Spook made some sense.

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

"Poontang," the Spook said lasciviously.

"Say wha?" Scott asked

"This is h.o.r.n.y Heaven, Ode to o.r.g.a.s.m, 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 pa.s.sionately describing the specific acts and services available within the 10 square block hotbed of s.e.x, 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 ca.n.a.l.

"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 wh.o.r.ehouse in Amsterdam," said Spook exuberantly.

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