CyberView 1991 Page 2

  The formal fire-and-straw ritual soon went by the board as things began to disintegrate. Wandering from room to room, the crowd became howlingly rowdy, though without creating trouble, as the CyberView crowd had wisely taken over an entire wing of the hotel.

  “Crimson Death,” a cheerful, baby-faced young hardware expert with a pierced nose and three earrings, attempted to hack the hotel’s private phone system, but only succeeded in cutting off phone service to his own room.

  Somebody announced there was a cop guarding the next wing of the hotel. Mild panic ensued. Drunken hackers crowded to the window.

  A gentleman slipped quietly through the door of the next wing wearing a short terrycloth bathrobe and spangled silk boxer shorts.

  Spouse-swappers had taken over the neighboring wing of the hotel, and were holding a private weekend orgy. It was a St Louis swingers’ group. It turned out that the cop guarding the entrance way was an off-duty swinging cop. He’d angrily threatened to clobber Doc Holiday. Another swinger almost punched-out “Bill from RNOC,” whose prurient hacker curiosity, naturally, knew no bounds.

  It was not much of a contest. As the weekend wore on and the booze flowed freely, the hackers slowly but thoroughly infiltrated the hapless swingers, who proved surprisingly open and tolerant. At one point, they even invited a group of hackers to join in their revels, though “they had to bring their own women.”

  Despite the pulverizing effects of numerous Mexican Flags, Comsec Data Security seemed to be having very little trouble on that score. They’d vanished downtown brandishing their full-color photo in TIME magazine, and returned with an impressive depth-core sample of St Louis womanhood, one of whom, in an idle moment, broke into Doc Holiday’s room, emptied his wallet, and stole his Sony tape recorder and all his shirts.

  Events stopped dead for the season’s final episode of STAR TREK: THE NEXT GENERATION. The show passed in rapt attention — then it was back to harassing the swingers. Bill from RNOC cunningly out-waited the swinger guards, infiltrated the building, and decorated all the closed doors with globs of mustard from a pump-bottle.

  In the hungover glare of Sunday morning, a hacker proudly showed me a large handlettered placard reading PRIVATE — STOP, which he had stolen from the unlucky swingers on his way out of their wing. Somehow, he had managed to work his way into the building, and had suavely ingratiated himself into a bedroom, where he had engaged a swinging airline ticket-agent in a long and most informative conversation about the security of airport computer terminals. The ticket agent’s wife, at the time, was sprawled on the bed engaging in desultory oral sex with a third gentleman. It transpired that she herself did a lot of work on LOTUS 1-2-3. She was thrilled to hear that the program’s inventor, Mitch Kapor, had been in that very hotel, that very weekend.

  Mitch Kapor. Right over there? Here in St Louis? Wow. Isn’t life strange.

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