towpath—first with Tenebrium behind him, then with Lunatic, and lastly with John the Baptist. He drives slowly, and he watches the stretch of the river which becomes more and more familiar, as if, on each trip, he was crossing it like a ferryman.
I ncomprehensible loudspeaker announcements about departures and arrivals and the siphoning noise of a large railway station. In the main hall of the Hlavná Stanica in Bratislava I search for Zdena. She is not there. I go outside to where the taxis are waiting and there I hear a man’s voice. I don’t know whose it is.
Spotted it not too late, grey Mercedes 500 SL nosing in on far side of hot dog stand. I see Vlady recuperated another trolley. His third this afternoon. One hundred dinar—unless he flogs it for two hundred to passenger arriving late with luggage. Must catch eye of grey Mercedes 500 SL.Catch it with authority. Without authority I am dog-shit. I am trying, friend, with my head, my neck, my shoulders, my right hand, my look, to catch the Mercedes 500 SL with authority—as if I had space, as if I had a uniform with peaked cap, as if I had polished boots, and not a torn anorak, not a hat-sock and not gaping sneakers without laces. I have to catch the driver’s eye. If I catch it, the vacant parking spot is mine to offer. He may have already spotted it, yet if I catch his eye, it becomes mine before it becomes his. It was the spot I was keeping for him. Vacated one minute ago. I’ll come over like a flash. He’ll reach into his pocket, and he’ll slip me one hundred or, with luck, two. Can of Pilsner. Keep an eye on the SL, Sir. One of us here all the while, Sir, no worry. Four hundred. Could be five. I don’t catch the driver’s eye. He won’t look at me. At least I can open the door, grasp the door handle. He swings door out of my reach. He locks car with press-stud and strides off. Haven’t space any more to lay out my name. No name. I’m That Fucker There. In anorak-pocket, have, had, used to have, jackknife. Could jag it into tyres of SL. Can’t find it. Black Russian ZIL arriving. Limousine, with curtains drawn across rear windows. Driver a Caucasian. He’d run me down if he could. He’s trying to …
Y ou stay the night, says Lunatic to the signalman, we’ve got mattresses and we’ll make a risotto.
Do you want to tell me who Captain Crunch was?
Is. He’s still alive, he’s in hiding.
Have you heard of the 2600-cycle tone? asks Tenebrium.
The signalman shakes his head.
It’s a high A note used on the Bell telephone system to announce the completion of a phone call. Now the guy who called himself Captain Crunch discovered that a toy plastic whistle given away by Quaker Oats in each packet of their cereal called Cap’n Crunch, reproduced this A note perfectly if you added a minute spot of glue to its outlet hole.
Do you follow? asks John the Baptist.
Why not?
So, by blowing the toy whistle into a telephone, Captain Crunch could make an entry into the cyberspace of the telephone system and like this he could prevent any long-distance call being charged to the account he was phoning from. He could talk his way round the world for free! He could listen to talk from anywhere! This was more than twenty years ago. Later he moved on to computers and became the world’s Master Hacker.
Nearly everything we know, says John the Baptist, first came from him. It was he who demonstrated it was possible to break into the systems.
It was he, says Tenebrium, who invented the term Silicon Brotherhood, and across the planet today we’re a couple of thousand—including this other genius we’ve found in Gdansk. We’ve got access to his Bulletin Board System so we know.
We invented a virus too.
It’s not our principal activity.
We hack to live! says Lunatic, we hack to stay on the planet.
And to show them they can’t keep us out and never will. We can download anything.
Paradise is not for living in, says John the Baptist, it’s for
I ncomprehensible loudspeaker announcements about departures and arrivals and the siphoning noise of a large railway station. In the main hall of the Hlavná Stanica in Bratislava I search for Zdena. She is not there. I go outside to where the taxis are waiting and there I hear a man’s voice. I don’t know whose it is.
Spotted it not too late, grey Mercedes 500 SL nosing in on far side of hot dog stand. I see Vlady recuperated another trolley. His third this afternoon. One hundred dinar—unless he flogs it for two hundred to passenger arriving late with luggage. Must catch eye of grey Mercedes 500 SL.Catch it with authority. Without authority I am dog-shit. I am trying, friend, with my head, my neck, my shoulders, my right hand, my look, to catch the Mercedes 500 SL with authority—as if I had space, as if I had a uniform with peaked cap, as if I had polished boots, and not a torn anorak, not a hat-sock and not gaping sneakers without laces. I have to catch the driver’s eye. If I catch it, the vacant parking spot is mine to offer. He may have already spotted it, yet if I catch his eye, it becomes mine before it becomes his. It was the spot I was keeping for him. Vacated one minute ago. I’ll come over like a flash. He’ll reach into his pocket, and he’ll slip me one hundred or, with luck, two. Can of Pilsner. Keep an eye on the SL, Sir. One of us here all the while, Sir, no worry. Four hundred. Could be five. I don’t catch the driver’s eye. He won’t look at me. At least I can open the door, grasp the door handle. He swings door out of my reach. He locks car with press-stud and strides off. Haven’t space any more to lay out my name. No name. I’m That Fucker There. In anorak-pocket, have, had, used to have, jackknife. Could jag it into tyres of SL. Can’t find it. Black Russian ZIL arriving. Limousine, with curtains drawn across rear windows. Driver a Caucasian. He’d run me down if he could. He’s trying to …
Y ou stay the night, says Lunatic to the signalman, we’ve got mattresses and we’ll make a risotto.
Do you want to tell me who Captain Crunch was?
Is. He’s still alive, he’s in hiding.
Have you heard of the 2600-cycle tone? asks Tenebrium.
The signalman shakes his head.
It’s a high A note used on the Bell telephone system to announce the completion of a phone call. Now the guy who called himself Captain Crunch discovered that a toy plastic whistle given away by Quaker Oats in each packet of their cereal called Cap’n Crunch, reproduced this A note perfectly if you added a minute spot of glue to its outlet hole.
Do you follow? asks John the Baptist.
Why not?
So, by blowing the toy whistle into a telephone, Captain Crunch could make an entry into the cyberspace of the telephone system and like this he could prevent any long-distance call being charged to the account he was phoning from. He could talk his way round the world for free! He could listen to talk from anywhere! This was more than twenty years ago. Later he moved on to computers and became the world’s Master Hacker.
Nearly everything we know, says John the Baptist, first came from him. It was he who demonstrated it was possible to break into the systems.
It was he, says Tenebrium, who invented the term Silicon Brotherhood, and across the planet today we’re a couple of thousand—including this other genius we’ve found in Gdansk. We’ve got access to his Bulletin Board System so we know.
We invented a virus too.
It’s not our principal activity.
We hack to live! says Lunatic, we hack to stay on the planet.
And to show them they can’t keep us out and never will. We can download anything.
Paradise is not for living in, says John the Baptist, it’s for
Similar Books
