Terminal Compromise, Winn Schwartau [sight word books txt] 📗

his

keyboard, the computer would take over. His video screen would

fill up with the word ‘YOU’, repeating itself hundreds and thou-

sands of times. Bill’s computer would become useless.

That was called a practical joke to computer programmers. Joe

and Bill both got a laugh out of it, and no harm was done. Then

Bill decided to get back at Joe. He put a small program into

Joe’s big computer. Every day at precisely 3:00 P.M., a message

appeared: ‘Do Not Pass GO!’.

It was all good fun and became a personal challenge to Joe and

Bill to see how they could annoy each other.

Word spread about the new game. Other graduate students at the

university got involved and soon computer folks at Cal Tech, MIT,

Carnegie Mellon, Stanford and elsewhere got onto the bandwagon.

Thus was born the world’s first computer disease, the virus.

This is Scott Mason. Using a typewriter.

November, 3 Years Ago Sunnyvale, California.

When Data Graphics Inc. went public in 1987, President and found-

er Pierre Troubleaux, a nationalized American born in Paris

momentarily forgot that he had sold his soul to achieve his

success. The company, to the financial community known as DGI,

was on the road to being in as much favor as Lotus or Microsoft.

Annual sales of $300 Million with a pre-tax bottom line of over

$55 Million were cause celebre on Wall Street. The first public

issues raised over $200 Million for less than 20% of the common

stock. With a book value in excess of $1 Billion, preparation

for a second offering began immediately after the first sold out

in 2 hours.

The offering made Pierre Troubleaux, at 29, a rich man; a very

rich man. He netted almost $20 Million in cash and another $100

Million in options over 5 years. No one objected. He had earned

it. DGI was the pearl of the computer industry in a time of

shake ups and shake outs. Raging profits, unbridled growth,

phenomenal market penetration and superb management.

Perhaps the most unique feature of DGI, other than its Presi-

dent’s deal with the devil, was that it was a one product compa-

ny. DGI was somewhat like Microsoft in that they both got rich

and famous on one product. While Microsoft branched out from DOS

into other product areas, DGI elected to remain a 1 product

company and merely make flavors of its products available for

other companies which then private labeled them under their own

names.

Their software product was dubbed dGraph, a marketing abbreviated

term for data-Graphics. Simply put, dGraph let users, especially

novices, run their computers with pictures and icons instead of

complex commands that must be remembered and typed. dGraph

theoretically made IBM computers as easy to use as a Macintosh.

Or, the computer could be trained to follow instructions in plain

English. It was a significant breakthrough for the industry.

DGraph was so easy to use, and so powerful in its abilities that

it was virtually an instant success. Almost every computer

manufacturer offered dGraph as part of its standard fare. Just

as a computer needed DOS to function, it was viewed that you

needed dGraph before you even loaded the first program. Operat-

ing without dGraph was considered archaic. “You don’t have

dGraph?” “How can you use your computer without dGraph?” “I

couldn’t live without dGraph.” “I’d be lost without dGraph.”

The ubiquitous non-technical secretaries especially loved dGraph.

DGraph was taught at schools such as Katherine Gibbs and Secre-

Temps who insisted that all its girls were fluent in its ad-

vanced uses. You just can’t run a office without it!

As much as anything in the computer industry is, dGraph was a

standard. Pierre Troubleaux was unfortunately under the misim-

pression that the success for DGI was his and his alone and that

he too was a standard . . .a fixture. The press and computers

experts portrayed to the public that he was the company’s singu-

lar genius, with remarkable technical aptitude to see “beyond the

problem to the solution . . .”.

The official DGI biography of Pierre Troubleaux, upon close

examination, reads like that of an inflated resume by a person

applying for a position totally outside his field of expertise.

Completely unsuited for the job. But the media hype had rele-

gated that minor inconsistency to old news.

In reality Troubleaux was a musician. He was an accomplished

pianist who also played another twenty instruments, very, very

well. By the age of ten he was considered something of a prodigy

and his parents decided that they would move from Paris to New

York, the United States, for proper schooling. Pierre’s scholar-

ships at Julliard made the decision even easier.

Over the years Pierre excelled in performances and was critically

acclaimed as having a magnificent future where he could call the

shots. As a performer or composer. But Pierre had other ideas.

He was rapt in the study of the theory of music. How notes

related to each other. How scales related to each other. What

made certain atonalities subjectively pleasing yet others com-

pletely offensive. He explored the relationships between Eastern

polyphonic scales and the Western twelve note scale. Discord,

harmony, melody, emotional responses; these were the true loves

of Pierre Troubleaux.

Upon graduation from Julliard he announced, that contrary to

his family’s belief and desire, he would not seek advanced train-

ing. Rather, he would continue his study of musical relationships

which by now had become an obsession. There was little expertise

in this specific area, so he pursued it alone. He wrote and

arranged music only to provide him with enough funds to exist in

his pallid Soho loft in downtown Manhattan.

He believed that there was an inherent underlying Natural Law

that guided music and musical appreciation. If he could find

that Law, he would have the formula for making perfect music

every time. With the Law at the crux of all music, and with

control over the Law, he ruminated, one could write a musical

piece to suit the specific goals of the writer and create the

desired effect on the listener. By formula.

In 1980 Pierre struggled to organize the unwieldy amount of data

he had accumulated. His collections of interpretive musical

analysis filled file cabinets and countless shelves. He relied

on his memory to find anything in the reams of paper, and the

situation was getting out of control. He needed a solution.

Max Jones was a casual acquaintance that Pierre had met at the

Lone Star Cafe on the corner of 13th and 5th Avenue. The Lone

Star was a New York fixture, capped with a 60 foot iguana on the

roof. They both enjoyed the live country acts that played there.

Max played the roll of an Urban Cowboy who had temporarily given

up Acid Rock in favor of shit kickin’ Southern Rock. Pierre

found the musical phenomenon of Country Crossover Music intrigu-

ing, so he rationalized that drinking and partying at the Lone

Star was a worthwhile endeavor which contributed to his work.

That may have been partially true.

Max was a computer jock who worked for one of the Big Eight

accounting firms in midtown Manhattan. A complex mixture of com-

puter junkie, rock’n’roll aficionado and recreational drug user,

Max maintained the integrity of large and small computer systems

to pay the bills.

“That means they pretend to pay me and I pretend to work. I

don’t really do anything productive.”

Max was an “ex-hippie who put on shoes to make a living” and a

social anarchist at heart. At 27, Max had the rugged look that

John Travolta popularized in the 70’s but on a rock solid trim

six foot five 240 pound frame. He dwarfed Pierre’s mere five feet

ten inches.

Pierre’s classic European good looks and tailored appearance,

even in jeans and a T-shirt were a strong contrast to Max’s

ruddiness. Pierre’s jet black hair was side parted and covered

most of his ears as it gracefully tickled his shoulders.

Piercing black eyes stared over a prominent Roman nose and thin

cheeks which tapered in an almost feminine chin. There was never

any confusion, though; no one in their right mind would ever view

Pierre as anything but a confirmed and practiced heterosexual.

His years of romantic achievements proved it. The remnants of

his French rearing created an unidentifiable formal and educated

accent; one which held incredible sex appeal to American women.

Max and Pierre sipped at their beers while Max rambled on about

how wonderful computers were. They were going to change the

world.

“In a few years every one on the planet will have his own comput-

er and it will be connected to everyone else’s computer. All

information will be free and the planet will be a better place to

live and so on . . .” Max’s technical sermons bordered on reli-