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